Locked On

10

Jack Ryan Jr. held an ice pack to his face. He’d just taken an elbow to the upper lip. It was followed with a “Sorry, old boy” by James Buck, a not-quite-apology that did nothing to improve the mood in the spartan training room. Jack knew the “accidental” elbow had been delivered purposefully.

Buck was playing a one-man version of the good cop/bad cop routine. This was some strategy to keep Jack Junior on his toes; Jack himself recognized this. And it worked. One minute Buck was telling Ryan how great he was doing; the next he was choking him out from behind.

Jesus, Jack thought. This sucks. But he realized how amazing this training was from a standpoint of imparting information and teaching his mind and body to react to unpredictable threats. He was smart enough to realize that someday, some much later date after the bruises healed, he would appreciate the hell out of James Buck and his split personality.

Buck’s philosophy of teaching pushed mind-set as much as it stressed his tactics. “No such thing as a fair fight, lad. If one of the fighters is fighting ‘fair,’ then the fight won’t last long. The dirtier bastard will always win.”

Ryan began to find himself transforming under the weight of the ex — SAS man’s “dirty” tactics. A few weeks back he’d grappled and thrown straight punches and hooks. Now as often as not, he used his opponent’s clothing against him, twisted him in excruciating arm bars, and even jabbed at Adam’s apples.

Ryan’s body was covered in bruises from head to toe, his joints had been twisted and wrenched, and scratches crisscrossed his face and torso.

He could not say he’d won more than a few of the hundred or so encounters he’d had against Buck, but he recognized his incredible improvement over the past month.

Ryan was mature enough and smart enough to recognize what was happening. Buck had nothing personal against him at all. He was just doing his job, and his job consisted of first breaking Ryan down.

And he was doing a hell of a job at that, Jack confessed.

“Again!” shouted Buck, and he began crossing the teak floor, approaching his student. Ryan quickly put the ice pack down on a table and prepared himself for another encounter.

Someone called from the dojo’s office. “James? Phone call for Ryan.”

Buck’s eyes had narrowed in concentration for the impending attack. Upon hearing the distraction he stopped, turned toward the man in the office. “What did I bloody tell you about calls whilst we’re in training?”

Jack’s body tensed. His trainer was ten feet away; two quick steps and he’d be in arm’s reach. Ryan thought about launching himself toward his trainer at this moment, when his eyes were diverted. It would be a dirty shot, but Buck encouraged just exactly that.

“It’s Hendley,” came the voice from the office.

The Welshman sighed. “Right. Off you go, Ryan,” he said as he turned back to the young American.

Ryan’s amped-up body relaxed. Damn. He could have totally waylaid Buck, and, from the look Buck was giving him now, the hand-to-hand and edged-weapons instructor knew it, too. His surprised eyes realized he’d come a half-second from getting his ass handed to him by his young student.

James Buck smiled appreciatively.

Ryan recovered, wiped a little blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He walked toward the office and the telephone, careful to hide the fact that Buck’s last kick to the inside of his knee had left residual pain there, lest Buck see Jack’s injury and exploit it in their next melee.

“Ryan.”

“Jack, it’s Gerry.”

“Hi, Gerry.”

“Situation in Paris. The Gulfstream is fueling up at BWI as we speak. There will be gear bags on board, a folder on the table with your documents, some credit cards and cash, and further instructions. Get there as quick as you can.”

Ryan kept his face impassive, though he felt like a school kid who’d just been let out for summer vacation in February. “Right.”

“Chavez will call you on the way and have you go through some equipment that he’s ordered that will be on board.”

“Got it.” Paris, Jack thought. How great is that?

“And Jack?”

“Yeah, Gerry?”

“This one could get rough. You will not be going to provide analysis. Clark will use you as he sees fit.”

Jack quickly admonished himself for thinking about beautiful girls and outdoor cafés. Get your head in the game.

“I understand,” he said. He handed the phone to Buck. The Brit took it and listened. Jack thought the older man looked like a lion watching a gazelle escape.

“I’ll be back,” Ryan said as he turned toward the locker room.

“And I’ll be waiting, laddie. Might want to get that dodgy knee sorted whilst you’re on holiday, because my boot will be hunting for that weak spot upon your return.”

“Great,” Jack mumbled as he disappeared through the door.

Dom Caruso and Sam Driscoll sat on a pair of cots they’d stationed by the window of their studio apartment in Cairo’s Zamalek neighborhood. They sipped Turkish coffee that Sam had made in a metal pot on the stove, and watched the property on an adjacent hillside a few blocks away.

Throughout the evening, el Daboussi had received only one visitor. Caruso had taken a few pictures of the car, an S-class Mercedes, and he’d caught the tag. He’d e-mailed the images to the analysts at The Campus, and they’d reported back in minutes that the vehicle was registered to a high-level Egyptian parliamentarian who, until just nine months ago, was a member of the Muslim Brotherhood living in exile in Saudi Arabia. Now he was back home and helping to run the country. This was all well and good, Dom thought, unless and until he began cavorting with a known former URC trainer with experience in the Al-Qaeda camps of Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen, and Somalia.

Shit, Caruso said to himself, and then, aloud, “Hey, Sam. I watch American TV. They say the Muslim Brotherhood only want democracy and equal rights for women. What gives with their midnight meetings with jihadists?” He was being facetious, of course.

“Yeah,” said Sam, picking up on the false naiveté. “I thought the Mo-Bros were the good guys.”

“Right,” said Dom. “I saw some nutjob on MSNBC say that the Muslim Brotherhood used to be terrorists, but now they are as benign as the Salvation Army in the U.S. Just another religious-based organization that only wants to do good.”

Sam didn’t say anything.

“No opinion?”

“I tuned you out when you said MSNBC.”

Dom laughed.

Caruso’s Thuraya Hughes satellite phone chirped, and he checked his watch as he answered it. “Yeah?”

“Dom, it’s Gerry. We’re going to have to pull you out. Clark and Chavez need some help in Paris right away.”

Caruso was surprised. He knew Clark and Chavez were working an op in Europe, but last he’d heard, their target had jetted back to Islamabad.

“What about Sam?” Dom asked. Driscoll eyed him from the cot on the other side of the tiny darkened room.

“Sam, too. The situation in Paris is the kind that is going to need the type of help you and Driscoll can provide. Ryan is on the way there in the jet. He’s got everything you will need.”

Caruso hated to leave this op, the guy they’d seen in the market meeting with MED, the one Driscoll pegged for a Pakistani general, had not yet been ID’d. He’d love to hang around until the intel nerds at The Campus got a hit on the man’s face. But despite his high hopes for this mission, he said nothing. If John Clark and Ding Chavez needed help, then, Dom knew, there was definitely something serious brewing over in Europe.

“We’re on the way.”