Rogue Commander, page 6
part #3 of Titus Black Series
Black chuckled as he stared out across the water and watched the yacht’s lights twinkle off the rolling waves. “Just give me a heads up if you see anything suspicious. I don’t care what Al-Nasser says, I will hold everyone suspect until this night is over and Abu Talib is still alive.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve got your back.”
Once they arrived at the ship, the crew sprang into action, attaching a ramp to the ferry and ushering guests on board. Black was the last passenger to exit the boat and join the party. He resisted the urge to soak in the decadence of the king’s yacht. Instead, he scoped out the interior and then quickly scanned the guests.
“According to the ship’s communications, only two more ferry loads of partygoers left before everyone expected to be there will have arrived,” Shields said over the coms.
“How are you getting along with Al-Nasser’s men?” Black asked.
“Other than being shoved in the corner and generally ignored, I guess I’m doing great.”
“That good, huh?”
“It’s like I have the plague or something.”
“Thanks for the update.”
Black strolled around the room and passed the time by speaking with several attendees. After a half hour passed, Al-Nasser introduced Black to Talib.
The jovial CEO smiled as he offered his hand to Black. “So you’re the man concerned about my well-being?”
“Probably not as much as these guys,” Black said, gesturing in a wide sweeping motion to the bodyguards around him.
“Yeah, but they’re paid to care. You, on the other hand, you’re here on your own volition.”
Black shrugged. “For full disclosure, sir, I wish I could say that my motives were purely altruistic. While I’m keenly interested in you avoiding an early demise tonight, my primary mission is to capture The Ghost to insure he stops murdering people all across the Middle East.”
“He has become somewhat of a nuisance, particularly toward those in the West. Let’s hope you fulfill your mission before I encounter him, though I doubt that’s going to happen. This might be the most secure place on the planet tonight.”
“I hope you’re right, for your sake especially.”
“This place is literally covered with some of the most loyal and well-trained guards in the world. I’d relax if I were you,” Talib said before putting his hand up to his mouth and continuing in a hushed tone. “Perhaps even have a drink. I won’t tell, if you won’t.”
Black grinned at the sheikh’s cheeky comment. “You focus on having fun. I’ll keep an eye out for The Ghost.”
“If you can even see him,” Talib said as he winked and playfully slapped Black on his arm.
“Enjoy your evening, sir.”
Black searched around the floor, looking for any possible entry points for the assassin. In the space used for the banquet, Black estimated that around a hundred and fifty people could fit comfortably in the room along with the entertainment and catering personnel. Since the glass windows surrounding the banquet hall were secured, access was restricted to doorways on opposite ends along with a discreet entry point to the kitchen in the deck below. A pair of guards stood outside, monitoring guests as they entered and exited.
“What’s it looking like to you?” Shields asked.
“This place is tighter than a clam with lockjaw,” Black said.
"Ah, nice one. In the south we say, 'Tighter than bark on a log,' but I wholeheartedly agree. I don't see a way in or out for The Ghost."
“I’m not getting too comfortable, lest we forget how our assassin justifiably earned his nickname.”
Black hung near the back during the ceremony, which lasted nearly an hour. When it concluded, he kept a keen eye on Talib.
“For being a recluse, he sure seems to be enjoying himself tonight,” Black remarked over his coms.
“Maybe he’s an outgoing introvert,” Shields said.
“A what?”
“You know, someone who likes being alone but can become the life of the party when forced into public.”
“Such people exist?”
“You need to get out more,” she said.
“I prefer small groups of people, if any at all. That concept sounds bizarre and foreign to me.”
Shields chuckled. “He might be a recluse but only because he fears for his life.”
“He’s certainly not acting as if he’s afraid of anyone, despite what I’ve told him.”
“Maybe he doesn’t believe us.”
“That just might be the case,” he said as he peered across the room. “Gotta run.”
Black wove through the guests conversing while the chairs were being removed to create more room. Talib appeared to be headed toward the restroom.
“Excuse me, sir,” Black called as he ducked and bobbed between several couples. “Excuse me, Mr. Talib.”
His efforts were thwarted when one of the king’s bodyguards impeded Black’s progress. The man held up his hand, gesturing for Black to stop.
“I need to get in there and sweep the restroom,” Black said.
“It’s already been done,” the man said. “The king is inside.”
“But you don’t understand. I—”
“I’m aware of who you are and why you’re here. But there’s no need to panic. There’s no way in or out of this restroom except through this door, and the only people who have entered since we cleared it were the king and Mr. Talib. Just relax. You Americans always get so uptight about everything when you aren’t in control.”
Black nodded and took a few steps back. After about a minute, the door swung open and the king exited. He glanced at Black and gave him a warm smile. The guard walked with the king, but another man slid in front of Black.
“Just give the sheikh another moment of privacy, please,” the agent said.
Black slunk back to his position a few feet away, anxiously awaiting. However, another minute passed and Talib still hadn’t emerged.
“Shouldn’t you check on him?” Black asked as he approached one of Al-Nasser’s men.
“He’s fine,” the man said. “Sometimes he can take a while.”
Black sighed and returned to his spot. He checked his watch and after five minutes, he inquired once more.
“Can I at least go inside and see if he’s okay?” Black asked. “I’m starting to get worried.”
“There’s no need to—”
Black didn’t stick around for the reply, pushing his way past the man, who hurried after the American operative.
When Black entered, he gasped as he stared at the scene in front of him.
Talib laid sprawled out, face down, lying in a pool of blood. One shot to the back. One shot to the head.
Black searched all the stalls and tapped the walls in a desperate attempt to find any hiding place or a way in or out of the room. There wasn’t one.
“What is it, Black?” Shields asked. “I don’t have eyes on the bathroom.”
“Talib’s dead. And it was The Ghost.”
CHAPTER 9
White River National Forest
Meredith, Colorado
J.D. BLUNT NAVIGATED his rental car up the steep dirt road, wondering if he’d misread the map. He’d only been stateside just over twenty-four hours since returning from Morocco and was now zipping through the Colorado hinterlands, enjoying the late morning mountain air. More than thirty miles back, his GPS stopped working, leaving him to navigate the old fashioned way along State Highway 4, also known as Frying Pan Road. When he reached the turnoff to General Harold Walker’s remote cabin, Blunt chuckled.
“Fire Road,” he said aloud.
I’d bet half of all I own that Walker named this street.
Everything in the SUV clattered as Blunt continued the climb up the washboard road. When he reached the top, he saw Walker sitting on his porch steps, rifle across his lap, a tumbler half full of liquor in his hand.
Blunt removed his sunglasses after exiting his vehicle and lumbered up to the house.
“You’re lucky that open season on Washington bureaucrats doesn’t start until tomorrow,” Walker said.
“Why do I have a hunch that wouldn’t stop you?” Blunt replied.
A wry grin spread across Walker’s face as he stood. He leaned his gun against the railing and walked up to Blunt before giving him a short embrace.
“J.D. Blunt, how the hell are you, my friend?”
Blunt shrugged. “I know it’s early, but I’d be doing much better if I could get one of those rum and Cokes you’re drinking.”
“Come on inside,” Walker said, gesturing toward the cabin. “I can make that happen.”
The two men entered the house and spent a few minutes catching up before they both sat down on the front porch with their drinks.
“So, I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to figure out why you would need to come see me,” Walker said. “It’s not like I left bags of Taliban money buried in the mountains outside of Kabul or anything.”
“Or bodies either, I presume.”
Walker cocked his head to one side. “Bodies are a different matter.”
“Well, you can rest easy because I’m not here to talk about any of your Ranger battalion kills. But I am here to talk about some news regarding the Rangers.”
“What is it?”
“There’s something I want to show you,” Blunt said before getting up and walking back to his SUV, where he fetched a folder. He returned quickly and handed it to Walker.
Walker opened the files and started flipping through them. “What exactly am I looking at here?”
“Reports about the deaths of Army Rangers, all in the last two months.”
Walker nodded. “Any connection between them?”
“Other than those tattoos, nothing I’ve been able to find.”
Walker continued to flip through the documents. “Who else have you asked about this?”
“I talked to Col. Clyde Underhill.”
“Underhill,” Walker said with a huff. “I’m sure he was really helpful.”
“He told me to leave this alone and not worry about it.”
Walker closed the folder and handed it back to Blunt. “Nobody else is looking into this, are they?”
Blunt shook his head. “I’m looking into it as a favor for one of my friends on the Hill. He seemed bothered by it. And it certainly seems like this is more than just mere coincidence.”
“It’s probably not, but surprisingly enough, I agree with Underhill. I’ve heard about a secret group some retired Rangers enter, but I always dismissed it, thinking it was some legend born out of boredom in the barracks.”
“What else do you know about it?”
“Not much, to be honest, other than the name.”
“Which was?”
“It was called Smoke, which doesn’t even appear in the tattoo. Bewildering, but that’s all I can recall.”
“Did you know any of the men in those photos?" Blunt asked.
Walker shook his head. “Not a one. Most of the guys I fought with chose a life like me, building a house in the middle of nowhere and daring anyone to visit.”
“I’m just glad you didn’t shoot me today,” Blunt said with a grin.
Walker shrugged. “That’s because you called me to warn me that you were coming; otherwise, it might have been a different story.”
“I appreciate your restraint.”
“If this is all you came out here for, why couldn’t you just ask me about this over the phone?”
“This is the kind of case that the FBI would pick up right away, but there must be a reason they aren’t. And based on my conversation with Underhill, I decided that if I’m going to stir up a hornet’s nest, I want to make sure I have the element of surprise on my side. I don’t want whoever’s behind this to see me coming. And since this isn’t in the public yet, I’m convinced that whoever’s protecting this from getting out is well-placed and likely powerful.”
“But more powerful than the great J.D. Blunt?”
Blunt laughed. “There are days when I wonder if half of Washington wouldn’t mind seeing my dead body floating in the middle of the Potomac.”
“Well, be careful because if someone can systematically eliminate Rangers, you’re talking about an outfit with some high-level skill. And if they have the position within a government agency to squelch an investigation into this type of activity, treading lightly is of the utmost importance.”
“It’s somewhat surreal because I’m chasing an assassin overseas and one here at home—and neither case is public.”
“Better you than me,” Walker said. “The only things I enjoyed during my service to this country were missions where I hunted and killed hostiles. Maybe I would’ve enjoyed Washington a little more if I could’ve operated under the same parameters there.”
Blunt grinned. “You didn’t enjoy getting badgered by Wellington all the time?”
“Don’t get me started on Wellington,” Walker said, wagging his finger. “That guy knows where all the bodies are buried. And mostly because he put them there himself.”
Blunt sat up in his chair, eyes widening. “You know something about Wellington?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you some other time, but I have to lead an expedition this afternoon and need to get ready. I’m taking some jackwads from New York City on an elk hunt. Gotta pay the bills somehow.”
“Well, I appreciate your time,” Blunt said. “Hopefully I’ll be able to find out more about what’s going on with these Rangers and put a stop to this.”
“Good luck, and I hope this isn’t the last time I see you.”
Blunt returned to his SUV and stopped to wave one final time before climbing inside and heading down the hill.
As he drove toward Frying Pan Road, his mind raced as he considered all the possibilities emerging from his conversation with Walker. Blunt wondered if this was more than just some conspiracy or wild coincidence.
He turned on the radio and listened as a newscaster recounted how the Qatari emir’s son had been murdered execution style.
That has to be The Ghost.
Blunt was still mystified by the Ranger murders, but switched his attention to Black and Shields. A call to the operatives went straight to voicemail, thanks to the towering peaks surrounding him.
All these damn mountains. I hope they’re all right.
CHAPTER 10
King Abdulaziz International Airport
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
THE GHOST LOOKED inside his bag and sifted through the dozen or so passports he used. There were three that matched his current hairstyle, one that included a neatly cropped beard. He couldn’t wait to shave it off, but he didn’t have time given that he’d just come straight from the king’s yacht where he posed as the king himself. The elaborate scheme had been weeks in the making, but he’d pulled it off without a hitch, changing into a tux and catching one of the ferries back to shore before anyone realized the king was missing.
He selected one of the passports and smiled. He’d studied the psychology of names and how some were more suspicious than others. Consequently, his alternate identities were of the disarming variety.
“Calvin Rose,” he read softly to himself before slipping the passport into his coat pocket.
He’s one helluva good looking guy.
The Ghost plunged his hand into his pack and retrieved a passport with a red cover. He glanced around the airport, which was full of sleepy passengers preparing to embark on their red-eye flight. But before he could join them, there was still something he needed to do.
He took one final scan of the area before dropping the passport onto the floor. As The Ghost stood to move to another seat, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find a security guard pointing at the ground.
“Oh, my passport,” The Ghost said as he picked up his travel document. “Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure,” the man mustered in a clipped version of English.
He could work at Chick-fil-A if this security guard thing doesn’t work out.
Then The Ghost made his second attempt, but only after he was certain the security team was focused elsewhere. As soon as the documents dropped, he slung his bag over his shoulder and strolled toward Gate 17.
After a few minutes of waiting, he heard the voice boom over the public address system, first in Arabic and then in English: “Julian Rutherford, Julian Rutherford. Please report to an airport courtesy phone.”
He adjusted his green baseball cap and pulled out his tablet. He scrolled mindlessly on a news site until a woman in a burqa sat down next to him. After a couple minutes, she got up, leaving behind a cell phone. He pocketed it and then stood up, lugging his bag with him.
When the phone rang, he hustled over to a quiet corner. “It’s done,” The Ghost said as he answered.
“Excellent. There’s just one more assignment before you can come back home. I’m transmitting the information right now.”
“Consider the target eliminated.”
“I’ll look forward to your confirmation when we speak again at the rendezvous point. Good luck.”
The Ghost glanced up at the television, which didn’t even have the news about Abu Talib’s murder aboard the king’s yacht. While the assassin wanted to stick around and admire people describing his handiwork that would baffle pundits on how such a security breach occurred, he had another assignment looming.
A man’s voice crackled over the intercom, calling The Ghost’s flight.
He smiled wryly as he studied his boarding pass and headed toward the gate.
Another one bites the dust.
CHAPTER 11
U.S. Consulate
Jeddah, Saudi Arabia
BLACK AND SHIELDS WASTED no time taking a ferry off the king’s yacht following the assassination of Abu Talib. Between the royal body guards and the Talib International security team swarming around the crime scene, Black realized they weren’t going to be granted access to any of the evidence. Not that it mattered. The Ghost had struck right beneath their noses, and Black was left scratching his head as to how it happened.
