Estancia Refugio Seguro, Argentina
Dickie Davis held on to his Heckler & Koch G36 as the four-wheel-drive vehicle careered through another pothole. Its headlights carved a cone of white in the inky darkness of the winding jungle road.
“Can’t you drive any faster?” he said.
“Not unless you want me to leave an axle on the road, Dickie,” the driver replied through clenched teeth. “Keep your pants on. The team’s in place and we have the target under surveillance.”
Davis gripped the armrest even tighter. “Just drive faster.”
Hiring a few freelancers to pick up a North Korean diplomat in Hong Kong was about to pay off handsomely. It was the perfect crime. Baxter hadn’t thought to put any coverage in Hong Kong, and that place was crawling with North Koreans. One phone call to a few ex–air force buddies was all it took to rattle Rafiq Roshed’s cage.
He chuckled to himself. And Mr. Stick-up-his-ass Baxter would be none the wiser.
The fact that he’d only had to pay his Hong Kong team twenty thousand dollars and he was about to get a ten-million-dollar payday made it all the sweeter.
All they had to do was kill Roshed and get the DNA evidence. Then Dickie Davis was on permanent vacation.
Davis had been on his way to a weekend in Buenos Aires when the tip arrived from one of their informants. Someone claiming to be Rafiq had contacted the local Hezbollah cell. When he’d first arrived, Davis had been surprised to find how active the Iranian-backed terrorist group was in the tri-border area of Brazil, Argentina, and Uruguay. There were dozens of cells and thousands of Hezbollah fighters and supporters in the region.
Davis wasn’t above using terrorists as informants. Everyone—even the terrorists—spoke the language of dollars, and he let it be known he’d pay well for any information about Rafiq Roshed. At the same time, his men set up a listening post near Estancia Refugio Seguro, where Rafiq’s children still lived.
Consuela and Javier. Children of the most wanted man in the world, living free on their old man’s money. And now their old man was coming home.
The truck skidded to a halt at the end of the dirt road. Davis energized his headlamp, swung to the ground, and jogged into the dense foliage. Their listening post was a few hundred yards into the jungle.
Four men looked up as he burst into the tent. “What’ve we got?” he demanded.
They were hunched over a map on the table. His crew chief, Finn, stabbed his finger at a thin line about five miles away. “The suspect took a bus to here and is heading this way on foot.” He tossed a phone to Davis. “We got pictures. Doesn’t look like Roshed, boss.”
Davis studied the screen, blowing up the image to study it more closely. A dark-haired man, with vaguely Middle Eastern features, and a salt-and-pepper scruff. He was the right age range, and the right build for their target. It had to be him.
“Probably had cosmetic surgery,” Davis said, tossing the phone back.
“Maybe, but we can’t be sure,” Finn said. “Should we pick him up?”
Davis studied the map. “You said he got off the bus and he’s headed this way?”
Finn nodded.
“Show me the live feed from the Puma.”
Finn spun the ruggedized laptop around and hit a few buttons. The IR video feed from the unmanned aerial vehicle came in clearly, showing a man walking on the familiar dirt road. He zoomed in on the IR image, looking for a cool spot at the small of the man’s back indicating a handgun.
“Bingo,” Finn said.
“Welcome home, Rafiq,” Davis said. “Set the Puma on autonomous flight and have it orbit over … here.” He tapped on the detailed topographical map at a sharp bend in the road that led to the ranch house.
“Tell the boys to set up for a chat with our visitor.”
Rafiq listened to the sounds of the jungle around him. He breathed in the earthy scent of rotting vegetation and dampness. He missed this place, these smells, this life.
Estancia Refugio Seguro—“refugio seguro” literally meant “safe haven”—was the one place on earth where he’d been truly happy. It had been a sanctuary for him, a place far from the endless fighting and the petty factions of his native Middle East. In that part of the world, who you were was decided before you were even born.
In Argentina, he’d found a new world, a place where a man was defined by the sweat of his brow and the people around him. He’d married Nadine, had two beautiful children with her, inherited a vast estancia … and he had believed—if only for a short time—that his life was changed.
It wasn’t.
His Iranian half brother Hashem had called him back into action. Rafiq and the small nuclear device he had shepherded across the ocean and secreted in the wine cellar of the estancia were called back to the fight. He was the fail-safe. When his brother’s attack failed, Rafiq was assigned to attack the United States.
Hashem died in the sands of Iran. Rafiq could have disobeyed the call to action … but he didn’t. He left his wife and young family to undertake one last mission for a cause that no longer seemed to be his.
Even now, the moment when he’d said goodbye—his last goodbye—to Nadine still made his eyes sting. What if he had refused the order from Hashem? His beautiful Dean would still be alive, his children would know their father, this dirt he was burrowed into would still be his.… What if?
A cracking branch shattered the stillness, snapping Rafiq back to reality. Twenty meters away, the shadows shifted, and he caught a glimpse of a man’s silhouette. He smiled to himself. The time for what if was over. He might be an absent father, but no one would threaten his family and get away with it.
Rafiq turned on his night-vision goggles, and the forest took on a ghostly green clarity. He studied the terrain. This bend in the road, affording a clear line of fire from both directions and ample cover, was the natural spot for an ambush.
The man to his left was one. A second figure crept forward from Rafiq’s right. Two. A movement in the brush where the road turned. Three.
Rafiq angled his wrist to see his watch. Any minute now the man he’d hired would come walking down the dirt road from the main highway toward the ranch house. The man’s only crime was that he was the same height and build as Rafiq. He never even asked the man his name.
Two men appeared on the road coming from the direction of the ranch house. They hugged the edge of the woods, their weapons at the ready. Four and five.
A figure, walking in the center of the dirt road, appeared from the direction of the highway. The bait was in place, but Rafiq needed to find one more player in the game. He squinted at the foliage behind the unsuspecting victim. The last man would be there to make sure their quarry didn’t slip away and wasn’t being followed.
A branch moved in the distance. Six.
Rafiq bit his lip with anticipation. The table was set. Now for the main course.
The target walked with quick steps, like a man with someplace to be. Rafiq had hired him to pick up a package at the ranch house and bring it back to Buenos Aires. He might have hinted that the package was full of money. He’d even given the man a handgun for protection.
The man reached the bend in the road, where the two mercenaries intercepted him.
“Hola,” one of the armed men said.
The fighters on either side of Rafiq crept forward until they were a few meters from the edge of the road. The man in trail stepped onto the road. Their target was surrounded.
Except for the man hidden in the brush on the far side of the road, Rafiq had a clear shot of all the players.
“Where are you going, my friend?” the lead man called, stepping closer. The muzzle of his weapon hung midway between the ground and the man. “It’s late—or early, depending on your point of view.”
“I’m here to pick up a package,” the bait said. His hand inched toward the pistol at the small of his back.
“A package? At this hour, you must know the family very well to just show up, yes?”
The bait went for his weapon.
“Gun!” the man in trail shouted. His weapon snapped up and he ripped off a three-round burst. The target went down.
“Stop!” the lead man called. He ran forward and rolled the body over. “Goddammit, Lem. There’s six of us and one of him. Couldn’t you have just wounded him?”
“Sorry, Dickie. Is it Roshed?”
Rafiq smiled from his hiding place. No.
The lead man spoke into a throat mic. “All stations, report status.”
The two men in Rafiq’s sight reported the area was clear. They made their way to the road.
The brightness of a flashlight cut through the dark.
“Is it him? Is it Roshed?”
The man called Dickie, the leader, grunted. “Can’t tell.” He touched his throat mic again. “Nestor, bring up the biokit. On the double.”
The brush on the opposite side of the road moved, and another mercenary stepped out into the open, lugging a bulky suitcase.
Rafiq let out a sigh of relief and hefted his sniper rifle.
Six.