On Scope

18

Fate. Karma. Luck. However he sliced it, Ryan Powell had enjoyed a very good day from start to finish. He returned to his suite at the Hilton Riverside on North Water Street with a bounce in his step and a smile on his face. Done with the Marines at Lejeune, he looked forward to a week in New York to edit the new episode and trek along the meet-and-greet circuit looking for sponsors, then back to L.A. and prep for another segment of The Elite. All of that, plus Mandie the night before. The whipped cream on top was this unexpected chance to hand Kyle Swanson and his entire team to the Washington wolves. Whether they were guilty of anything was beside the point. Ryan was still in his TV outfit, sweaty and dirty from playing war, intentionally attracting attention as he casually walked through the lobby.

Powell had developed bad habits since leaving the SEALs, such as dropping his shields when they were no longer needed. While it was true that he was not working on dangerous assignments, the changes had come quickly and without his even realizing it. The stealthy operator who had once been among the best in the business no longer automatically searched the shadows for places where death might lurk, forgot all the protocols for personal security, and abandoned conducting a surveillance detection route, or SDR, to see if he was being followed. He was a civilian now. So although the two men in the black Crown Victoria parked in the first row of the hotel lot stood out as conspicuously as roses in a weed patch, Powell completely missed them.

Kyle Swanson crashed into the door with his shoulder as Powell opened it, powering through the move with linebacker strength, coming from behind when Powell was only halfway through. The heavy slab of wood rammed back so hard against Powell that the doorknob cracked a rib, and then Kyle slammed Powell’s left wrist against the sill and broke it with an audible crack. Before the stunned man could respond, Swanson grabbed his shirt, swatted him twice with a collapsible steel baton, and threw him stumbling into the room. Powell collapsed with a moan.

The room was illuminated by fuzzy, fading sunlight coming through sheer drapes when he regained his senses a few minutes later. He was in a soft chair facing that window, with no restraints, and a bag of ice was wrapped in a towel around the broken arm. A figure in the other chair was almost invisible in the glare, the digital camo pattern of his BDUs defying definition, but he knew who it was. “Swanson,” grunted Powell, rubbing his damaged arm, then touching the swelling above his left eye and breathing in sharply as the broken rib made its presence known. “What the fuck?”

“I wanted your full attention, Powell, so let’s get this over with. On your feet and walk to the window. Now!”

Powell grimaced when he moved, but his senses were returning. “I’ll kick your ass,” he said as he stood up.

Swanson faced him, then slapped Powell hard across the face, spinning him back across the chair. “You weren’t good enough back in the day, and you sure as hell aren’t good enough now. Get your ass over to the window, bitch.” The open-handed palm slap was an intentional insult, but the bravado already had drained out of Powell, and Kyle knew it. “Look down in the parking lot.”

The beaten man moved to the window and pushed aside the curtain. Two men in dark suits and sunglasses were staring back up at him. He turned back to Swanson.

“Those are NCIS agents, and if I give the word, they are going to arrest you. For some stupid reason, you have forgotten that you signed secrecy oaths that are to follow you all of your life. We are here to either make you remember that or put you in a dark hole.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m a civilian now and have freedom of speech. I’m going to have my lawyers all over your butt. Fuck you and the NCIS.”

“OK. The third option is that I just shoot you where you stand.” Kyle pulled a .45 ACP caliber pistol from his belt and picked a pillow from the chair.

Powell knew the pillow would be an effective silencer, but also knew that Swanson would not hesitate to pull the trigger. Killing an American citizen was a big no-no in the law, but the body would never be found. Special operators have to live by different rules.

“What do you want?”

“You were running your mouth about Task Force Trident in the club last night. That stops right now because it is putting operators at risk. You knew better than that, but you had to show off.”

Powell staggered to the bed and sat down, relieved that he wasn’t going to be shot. “I didn’t mean anything, Swanson. I would never break my oath.”

“Bullshit. You did it on purpose. Those NCIS guys are ready to haul your ass away and file charges. I’m ready to put you down for good. To get clear, you swear to shut the hell up, and never again mention Trident to anybody, and forget all about me. We never met. Ever! Is that clear?”

The big man nodded in understanding. “I got it.”

“Explain the arm and the bruises.”

“Training accident during the show. Shit happens.” He shrugged.

“Then I’m gone. You be a good boy and I won’t come back.”

“I said I got it.” Powell waited until Swanson walked out of the door and it clicked to lock behind him, then fell back on the mattress and began to giggle, putting his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. The spook was a day late and a dollar short. The damage was already done.

Swanson drove back to Washington, hoping the moron would remember this little tune-up so they would not have to go through it again. If there was a next time, Kyle would have no choice but to kill Powell. Some people never learn.

The real strength in having women warriors as members of Task Force Trident was that they possessed an advantage that men would never have, no matter what their training. Their gender alone made them seem less of a threat than a bulky male with a bald head and a Fu Manchu mustache. When eyes roamed over Sybelle Summers or Beth Ledford, the first thing that registered was that they were attractive women, not that they might be a pair of gunslingers.

Sybelle’s normally elegant and quiet dark beauty and black hair were disguised on this night beneath a wig of long auburn hair and green contact lenses. She was flashy in a purple knee-length dress that was gathered at the waist and flared from the hips, and she walked with total confidence in medium heels, head high, chin out, a woman used to the model’s runway. Any onlooker’s first guess would have been that she was in the fashion business.

Coastie’s chirpy blue-eyed blonde persona was buried tonight in a brunette hairstyle that matched the dark contacts in her eyes, and she was draped in a pale lemon low-cut creation that clung to her curves. When she smiled, dimples appeared.

The maître d’ of the restaurant in the upscale Sixteenth Arrondissement had been alerted that the women were celebrity models, and a private corner table awaited them. Stuffy and officious in his tux and starched shirt, he personally escorted them to their seats through the arched entrance to the dining area, and across the mosaic floor in a roundabout fashion to show them off, then effusively wished them a happy meal while stealing an admiring glance at Beth’s chest. Both women put their purses in their laps and adjusted them so their weapons were readily available.

Instead of a surly character with a stained apron, a courteous, middle-aged waiter helped them negotiate the monster menu. He knew that with the average meal running about two hundred euros here, and fashionistas having little regard for prices, the bill for the evening would be large, and his kindness should reap a bounteous tip. One famous designer had signed his Visa bill after adding a gratuity of five thousand dollars. For that kind of money, François worked hard at being nice. He was followed not by a wine steward but by a tea steward, who suggested specific teas for each course. Sybelle and Coastie decided to spare no expense, since they weren’t going to be around to pay for it anyway. They spoke accented English with British overtones, but said little that could be heard beyond their table. He couldn’t guess their nationalities because models come from everywhere.

“Snails? Is it too late to have the waiter run out and bring us a couple of Happy Meals?” Coastie checked out the dining room guests, then the staff members and anyone in the area. Lowering her voice even more, she said, “Second guy behind the bar is security. He isn’t helping the bartender at all.”

Sybelle also kept her head on a swivel. Big smile. “I don’t see any others. Maybe one will come with her. And look pleasant while you eat your little Escargots à la Bourguignonne. Remember, as they slime down your throat, that François promised they were raised carefully on radishes and spinach, and are delicious in the chef’s special garlic and herb butter.”

They kept up a quiet conversation about photo shoots and magazines. As mission prep, they had read some gossip and celebrity news. Then they switched to reading and working with their cell phones, almost ignoring each other.

François frowned at that practice as not being worthy of a gourmet meal. Admiration of their beauty was mixed with distaste for their public manners. Beautiful women in that special supermodel world often believed they were entitled to do as they wished, because they were idolized. The cover was perfect for the two striking women, whose eyes reflected the light from the chandelier overhead. He would later recall that the two actually had said very little.

Mercedes Sarra Bourihane arrived quietly in the company of three fellow conference attendees, all older men in rumpled suits who seemed exhausted from their long day of wrangling over global economics. In contrast, Bourihane looked as if she had been at a spa rather than attending a tiresome conference. Her sandy brown hair was in place, and the slight smile was genuine above the understated black designer outfit. They were shown to a table near the middle of the room, not because of their obvious lack of importance but because of its proximity to the protective agent at the bar.

Within minutes, she had settled back in her chair, showing some of her weariness. She had spent a long day trying to convince fellow money experts that a substantial Islamic transfusion of funds to prop up the Spanish economy would benefit everyone involved. It was a hard sell because everyone knew that more than money was on the table. Politics, power, and control were in play, which meant a lot of opponents wanted to stop the Islamic gambit.

“She’s alone,” Sybelle said. “Maybe one guard was left outside, but the assistant bartender is the only one in with her. You ready?”

“Better than sitting here eating a snail,” Coastie replied. She rose from the cushioned banquette and wasted a few moments adjusting the light yellow dress and slinging her beige Gucci bag over a shoulder. Even Bourihane gave the beautiful young brunette an approving look when the girl moved past on her way to the toilet. Beth knew the bar agent had given her a quick once-over, then dismissed her from his thoughts as representing no threat.

The ladies’ bathroom was a beautiful place, with long mirrors on one side above a sparkling marble vanity and sinks, and four private compartments with full-length doors on the other. A stand of purple flowers occupied one corner. Beth locked herself into the far stall, removed the little Ruger SR22 pistol from her purse, and screwed a sound suppressor on the end. Putting the pistol on the closed toilet lid, she lifted her skirt and jerked away the tape that secured a spring knife to her inner thigh. Duct tape was marvelous stuff, she thought, and peeling it away didn’t hurt nearly as much as a bikini wax. Coastie texted Sybelle that she was ready, then gathered her tools and sat down to wait.

Seven minutes later, Mercedes Bourihane finished her second glass of tea and decided to freshen up before the meal was served. She tapped her lips with a linen napkin, excused herself, and headed for the arched doorway to the restroom. The protecting agent watched but did not leave his post, for he could see that entrance from where he stood, and no one was around her.

Sybelle pushed the SEND button on the cell phone, and a prepared text message lit up on Coastie’s screen in the bathroom stall. Summers got up from her table, pausing to brace herself a bit; then she, too, headed for the toilet, bag over her shoulder.

The agent behind the bar thought the redhead might have had too much to drink. He watched her in the mirror. No threat.

Bourihane had opened a door into a little foyer that provided privacy, then pushed through a double inner door just as the brown-haired young woman in the yellow dress was exiting the far stall. The economist decided to use the foremost facility, but as she reached for the knob, she realized the other woman had not gone to the sink and mirror as a normal woman would have done. Instead, she was right beside her.

Sybelle came through the outer door and put her back against it as Coastie raised the pistol, pressed the long silencer against the right side of the target’s head, and pulled the trigger three times.

The noise was no louder than a series of coughs as the little .22 caliber bullets bored into the skull and tumbled around in the brain cavity. Bourihane jerked sideways, then slumped down to the floor, leaving a spray of blood on the rich fabric of the compartment door.

The agent had finally realized something was wrong. There were two women in there with the important lady he was guarding, and the redhead that he thought was tipsy actually had not ordered any alcohol, just tea. He jumped over the bar and ran to the arch, drawing his pistol and crashing through the outer door.

Sybelle took a step away from inner double doors, and when the bodyguard surged through, she met his forward momentum with an elbow strike to the bridge of his nose, bone on bone, and he went down hard. “Let’s go!”

Coastie paused only long enough to put a bullet in the inattentive guard’s head, then stepped over him and followed Summers out. Instead of returning to their table, they went left and through the swinging doors into the kitchen, Busy chefs and workers began to shout as the women headed for the rear entrance. Trailed by shouts, they broke free into the night as fast as they could run in high heels.

A black Land Rover with a CIA driver at the wheel was double-parked beside a line of cars. Primary, secondary, and tertiary escape routes had been planned for them to reach the next vehicle. A shooter was supposed to be in the passenger’s seat, but that place was empty. Sybelle yanked open the rear door and jumped inside, using her own pistol to try to cover Coastie, who was climbing in behind her.

The guard posted outside the front door had run inside the restaurant when the shouting started, then chased the two fleeing women through the kitchen. He screamed in French for everybody to stop them, and held his own pistol pointed up until he cleared the back portal. He was in time to see the woman in the yellow dress getting into a big vehicle. He stopped, took a firing stance, and aimed at her back.

Another figure stepped from the shadows thrown by the light coming through the open kitchen door, and the gunman was grabbed by the chin, his head jerked backward as a big knife came in over the shoulder. The unprotected throat was opened almost to the point of decapitation.

Coastie was in the SUV, the door closed behind her, when the unexpected attacker left the new corpse bleeding on the cobbles and calmly got into the front seat. “Hey,” said Kyle Swanson. “What’s up?”