Page 4 of Out of Control

“I’ll try. I can’t make any promises. He’s the single best operator I’ve ever worked with. Might even be better than me.”

Chapter Three

Al-Hamad Waste, southeastern Syria

DRAGO CAUTIOUSLYeyed a deathstalker scorpion, fully as dangerous as its name, as it scuttled to within a few inches of his face. Probably drawn to the shade under his camo net. He suppressed an urge to reach up and flick it away. Such a movement could reveal his presence in a faint indentation on the flat, broad floor of the wadi, in plain sight of the terrorists gathering at the compound in front of him.

Southeast of Palmyra, Syria, lay a stretch of barren desert, the Badiyat al-Sham, that even ISIS in its heyday hadn’t bothered to claim. Formed by ancient lava, its red rock outcroppings and the red-beige dust they’d been ground into over the millennia stretched for hundreds of square miles of utter desolation.

If there was a more isolated and godforsaken place on Earth, he had surely not seen it. The current temperature hovered at 127 degrees Fahrenheit, the humidity steady at 6 percent. Supposedly it rained a few inches annually, but the only sign of it he’d seen had been a few taunting gray threads of rain high in the sky that evaporated long before touching the thirsty desert.

The scorpion, nearly the size of his palm, arched its tail threateningly as if sensing his presence. It was a distraction he couldn’t afford right now. Not when nearly a week of miserable, grueling surveillance in this hide was finally coming to an end. He hoped.

Speaking of which, a plume of dust formed in the distance. He shifted his military-grade Zeiss long-range optical scope toward the north and zoomed in on three SUVs speeding along the valley floor toward the cluster of flat-roofed, stone-walled dwellings.

His contact’s intel had been good: today’s meeting was turning into a who’s who of regional rebel groups. Not only were the usual suspects already here—Islamic State, Haqqani, Hezbollah—but a few other local players had shown up as well. Notably, Quds Force, an arm of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard.

Since when did all these traditional rivals for control of this chunk of the Middle East share their toys and play nicely with the other little terrorists in the sandbox? It was tempting to wax them all, but he was here for only one guy today.

A guy who called himself Kurbaj, which translated tothe lashorthe whip. Cheery moniker. Very BDSM vibe.

Kurbaj wasn’t here yet, but Drago’s source had been positive the man would show up. Given who all had already arrived for this United Nations of genocide, he believed his source.

The latest caravan of SUVs pulled up in front of the compound, and he tensed instinctively. He consciously went through his preshooting routine, relaxing his entire body muscle by muscle, melting into the dirt, ignoring the scorpion, which was now wandering perilously near his trigger hand. He slowed his breathing, and his pulse obediently wound down like a watch whose battery was dying.

Lub-dub. Lub. Dub. Lub… dub.

The middle SUV’s door opened, and three bulky men in dark suits piled out. Security guards in bad suits. AK-47s over the shoulders. Tobacco-stained teeth. Jowls going to flab. He spotted a tattoo on the back of one guy’s hand and mentally blinked in surprise. That was a Bratya tattoo. So this guy was a Russian mobster. They didn’t work for non-Russians, let alone play bodyguard for outsiders.

A young man wearing a perfectly tailored business suit climbed out of the SUV. He had to be the primary. He looked no more than thirty. Average height. Lean physique. Light brown hair, darkly tanned skin. He looked around briefly before putting on a pair of dark sunglasses.

Drago pegged the guy quickly: Nouveau Russian mobster. Rich, Westernized, tech savvy, and psychopathic.

The kid’s glance at the surrounding desert was short, but it was enough. Using the camera built into his scope, Drago got a clean picture of his face.

Huh. He knew most of the usual suspects in this part of the world but didn’t recognize this guy. Hitting the Send button on the side of the camera, he fired the image up to a satellite that would relay it to Charles Favian at the Middle East desk back at Langley.

After all, if he didn’t earn his keep out here, the agency would call him home. And then he’d have to wait for another assignment to bring him out this way so he could pursue his personal vendetta.

“You get that?” he breathed into the tiny microphone perched at the corner of his mouth.

Charles Favian, arguably the top imaging and targeting analyst at Langley, murmured, “I’m running facial rec now, but it’ll take a while, assuming the NSA has him on record. Hold your position in case any more rock stars show up.”

Drago clicked his tongue once to acknowledge the order.

Over the next few minutes, the scorpion finally meandered beyond the shade of his camouflage cloth, and no more human visitors arrived.C’mon, Kurbaj. Where are you?

The sun slid into the west, blinding him for several painful minutes. But eventually it winked out of sight behind a rocky ridge. Blessedly, the worst of the heat broke. Soon it would start the nightly rush toward freezing cold.

What on earth were so many disparate factions doing meeting like this? The idea of them all coordinating some grand attack made his skin crawl. Gods, the carnage they could wreak—

A movement between the buildings caught his attention, and he pointed his Zeiss at it.

Children. Perhaps a dozen of them. Little boys wearing thoabs, the loose white tunics of Bedouins, and little girls wearing long black madragas, miniature versions of the robes worn by the women who also stepped outside in the crimson light of sunset.

A soccer ball appeared, and the children kicked it around. Faint sounds of laughter and shouting carried to him. Adults filtered out of the hovels. Men. Women. The elderly. It looked as if an entire tribe of the local Bedouins called this place home.

“Pull back, Dray.”

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