Page 32 of Asher

One by one the others arrived. When at last Cord sank into the last empty chair, late as usual, Alex lifted to his feet and made quick introductions. “TEAM, this is Sergeant Calhoun, 3rdBattalion, 7thMarine Regiment. The rifles he procured for this mission are already aboard the plane that’ll take us into the desert. Once we drop, we’ll head to these coordinates.” He stabbed a finger at a black X on the map, southwest of Damascus. “This is Jamah’s last known location. We don’t know if he’s still there. If he is, we will end him with extreme prejudice. If not, we’ll burn whatever’s there to the ground and regroup.”

“How far? How long?” Mark asked.

“Approximately one-hundred-fifty miles northeast of this station,” Calhoun replied. “Less than an hour by air.”

“What kind of rifles?” That was Cord.

“Nothing but the best,” Calhoun answered caustically. Yup. Marine.

“M27-IARs then?” Cord, also a Marine, shot back. The M27 Infantry Automatic Rifle was a gas-operated, short-stroke piston, rotating bolt action, select-fire assault rifle, designed by Heckler & Koch. USMC standard issue. “Thought you guys got rid of scout snipers.”

“Us guyswill never get rid of snipers,” Calhoun snapped. “But the Corps did scrap the current scout sniper program. Snipers are now part of reconnaissance, where they should’ve been all along.”

“Amen, brother,” Mark muttered. “Anything else, Boss?”

“Yes. Once on the ground, we meet here.” Here being the smaller red X marking a much closer spot, maybe a klick, from Jamah’s alleged location. “Asher, you brought them?”

“They’re in my gear bag, ready to go.”

“Good. Wyatt?”

Wyatt patted the compact backpack hanging off his shoulder. “As requested. Everything we need to get the job done is right here.”

Alex nodded. “Good. Once we touch down, Asher and Wyatt, you’re with me. Tripp and Cord, take out the guards at the rear entrance. Mark and Heston, grab an elevated position andneutralize any guards roaming the area. Report when you locate Jamah, understood?”

Everyone nodded, and that was that. The flight from al-Tanf to a predesignated location just south of Jamah’s hideaway was short, the drop from twenty-thousand feet, shorter. Asher hit the ground with his knees bent before he rolled to lessen the effects of impact, holding his newly acquired M27 close to his chest. Rough landings were murder on a guy’s body and equipment. Easy going if a guy knew what he was doing, and Asher did. Every TEAM agent certified for HALO and LALO drops bi-annually. Just part of the job.

Wrapping his chute into a tidy ball, Asher weighted it down with a handful of sand and enough rocks to keep it stationary till the mission was over. The chute wasn’t a keeper and he wasn’t coming back for it, but he didn’t need it blowing around, alerting passing Bedouin caravans that Americans were in the area. Wyatt, Mark, and Alex landed close by. Tripp, Heston, and Cord landed half a klick east. Already masked with the face paint they’d applied prior to liftoff, they prepared to assault forward. Alex set the pace with Wyatt at his six. No doubt the backpack high on Wyatt’s shoulders was full of explosives.

Asher hadn’t worked an active mission with his older boss before. It was eye-opening to watch the savvy owner of a company as prestigious as The TEAM, race across the sand like a much younger Marine. With urgency and enough speed that Asher’s hamstrings were burning as he matched paces.

One klick from the mansion, Alex raised his right fist and everyone froze. Some idiot near the southeast wall of the mansion had just lit a cigarette. The flare from that match or lighter could be seen for miles.

“The better to see you, dumb ass,” Tripp growled wolfishly.

“Eyes up, Asher,” Alex ordered.

Wordlessly, Asher dropped to one knee, pulled his midnight black mechanical baby out of his pack, removed the belt from around its thin canvas case, and unwrapped it from its protective cotton swaddling. Spreading the thick padding over his thighs, he lay the small machine on the blanket, stood it upright and adjusted its propellers. Gizmo was the latest prototype out of McCormack Labs and one of the smallest experimental drones ever created.

Equipped with thermal imaging optics, it would provide the exact locations of all nearby heat signatures, as well as 3-D imaging if needed. Maneuvering its touch-sensitive control was the same as playing video games. The high-tech screen on Asher’s controller was chemically shielded, so no light reflected off it to his camo-painted face.

Previously charged, he turned the tiny spy on, and it was up and away, sniffing out trouble, sending back vivid images within seconds, all without the whirring sounds most other drones made.

The mansion itself was a square, two-story masterpiece of white stone, with minarets of the same stone at each corner. Window grills lined the ground level, some inset with decorative stucco artwork, others with glass. No lights illuminated any windows on the ground level. There was no outside lighting, either. The only light on the second level came from the expansive balcony facing Mecca. Lined on three sides with carved white stone balustrades, the soft glow came from inside. Looking at it, one might think the balcony led to a romantic bedroom and a bed draped with silken scarves, possibly with rose petals strewn allover the lavishly carpeted floor. Not so. Jamah’s tastes in women were vile, base, and bloody. Considering how quickly the self-appointed caliph went through them, Asher could only imagine how many unwilling victims were imprisoned in lower-level cells, waiting for their turn to‘please’him.

Gizmo floated around, up, and over the building, calculating depths of window ledges, distances from corner to corner, even inconsequential data like the weight of each stone block, piece of lumber, and changes in temperature.

“Three guards at east entry, Boss. One’s asleep. The others are smoking,” Asher reported as the drone scouted the massive east-facing entry. “None on the roof or balcony. No helos in sight. Three more guards at the west exit, sitting and smoking. One might be drunk. Wait. Shit. Acres of camouflaged netting surround the entire building.” How had he not seen that earlier? Ah. Because at its edges, the netting was dyed to match the color of sand. But closer to the mansion, it faded to white to match the stones. Damned clever thinking.

“So? Go under it.” Alex ordered.

Humbled at his temporary lapse, Asher dropped Gizmo to ground level, searching for access beneath the net and between the labyrinth of short, stubby stakes supporting it. The tiny craft was noiseless and swift as it searched, then ducked undercover. If Jamah was smart—and he was—vehicles and ordnance would be hidden beneath the net. Possibly an army.

Not so. Jamah was just another a friggin’ narcissist. The only thing Gizmo detected beneath the net was sand and more sand. No 6x6 MRAPs. No Humvees, jeeps, or tanks.

“Boss, the net’s a decoy. There’s nothing under it but hot air.”

“Want to bet?” Alex snapped. “Deploy Scorpion.”

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