Page 47 of Agency
“What about this guy?” I asked. “The one in the photo? Why not send him?”
“Eduardo Ortega. Former lover, and right hand man. And she can’t send Mr. Ortega, because he’s dead. Killed a month ago in a drive-by targeted at her.”
“Well, that would make it harder,” I said with a nod, flipped back through to the penthouse layout. “Security?”
“Half dozen former special forces on eight hour rotation, twenty-four hours a day. Always two with her in her penthouse, and the rest on active react one floor down.”
Shit. Ex-special forces? They’d definitely present more of a problem than just some security guard or ex-cop who got licensed and decided to contract him and his buddies out to the highest bidder. But, now I knew why she’d already found me a .22 Ruger. With a react team on site, I’d have to be quick and silent. And the .22 was hardly louder than a pellet gun, even when indoors.
“They work for a company named Trinity Security,” Valerie continued. “The people paying for your client visit have encountered them before, and they seem to think they’re quite capable.”
“Noted,” I said, nodding to myself. I was already formulating a plan. Sure, this would be a more difficult take-down than Smolensky, but I almost preferred a traditional approach after the song and dance that it had taken to get close to the Russian. At least, this time, I might not have to look my client in the eyes when they died.
“By the end of this weekend, right? I need schematics for the building, particularly electrical. Can the agency deliver?”
“IT is already working on it,” she replied. “Look for them on the secure site after noon today. And, yes, before Monday morning.”
That gave me nearly ninety-six hours to pull this off. “Then that’s what you’ll get…” I trailed off as I opened the briefcase to slide the dossier away. Eyeing the Ruger, I considered pulling out and tucking away the weapon just so I’d have the piece in case I needed something close at hand. I hadn’t exactly been planning on carrying, though, and my dress left me… Well, not dressed for the part.
Leaving the pistol in the briefcase, I went to stand.
“And I’ll speak to Management,” my aunt Valerie said, risking a glance back to me. “You have my word.”
“Soon?” I asked, catching her eye for the briefest of moments.
“Soon as we’re done here. I promise.”
Then I was gone and heading for the valet, and skipping past the front desk just as I’d originally planned. After all, they had my card on file.
I’d just send the bill to the Agency.
Chapter Thirteen
Jericho
Gutierrez is on point just ahead of me as we make our way down the clay and brick alley, the sides tighter than I remember as we splash through the waste water of the open sewer running down the center. Shuffle-stepping forward, he progresses down the path in his battle rattle, carbine raised as we approach where our alley intersects with another.
It was a trap. We didn’t know it was a trap. But it was a trap.
Goddamn this alley is cramped. So tight, I can easily stretched my arms wide and touch the buildings on both sides. The air doesn’t help, either. Even here in the shade, the heat is like we’re double-timing through an Iraqi-built oven.
Maybe they had spotters outside our base. Maybe we got bad intel from our informant.
“Gutierrez,” I whisper. “Slow down, eyes up, stay frosty.”
“Roger, Sarge.”
Guti slices the pie ahead, drops to a knee to cover as I momentarily expose myself and go past him. Fluid, part of a disciplined, well-oiled machine, I take up position in partial cover opposite of him at the intersection, raise my hand for the rest of our squad to pass through as I keep watch on the bustling street ahead.
Cars, people, vendors, children.
Honking, shouting, hawking, playing. The smells of exhaust, food, and refuse fills my nostrils.
All of them going by, going about what their daily lives had amounted to for nearly the last decade since the invasion, just trying to build and maintain a sense of normalcy that is far too tenuous despite our best efforts. Normally, we’d have shut down the neighborhood for a daytime operation like this: brought in air support for overwatch, rolled in ten deep with Humvees and maybe even an MRAP on point, locked this whole bitch up tighter than Morgan’s mom when she was pissed at me.
But not today. No, today we need the element of surprise. And, as surprising as having the whole might of the United States Army SOF showing up outside your front door is, that surprise still isn’t going to be enough for the regional head of the Mujahideen Army. No, we need to go in quiet, or else he’ll be rabbiting before we can even hit the door.
Maybe we werefedbad intel by our informant. Maybe the MA leader was never even there.
