Time to Kill: A Sniper Novel

26

Swanson made it back to the safe house, locked the door, went to the bedroom and fell backward onto the mattress, fully clothed. He fell asleep with his hand on the Colt .45 that rested on his stomach, and the nightmare snatched him so hard that his body shuddered in physical response. An endless ghostly line of dead men shuffled toward the small pier at the jet ski marina and were being packed into a narrow black boat that could only seat perhaps a maximum of ten, but somehow there was always room for one more. Leaning on the steering oar at the stern was the Boatman, who grinned with stumps of rotten teeth in oozing black gums.

“You are doing well. I knew you would. I told you this would be your largest harvest ever. I can always count on you, Gunny Swanson,” said the spectral image, spreading an arm to help another zombielike passenger lurch aboard.

“Go away,” Kyle replied in his dream.

“I cannot. You are killing too many to ignore. Hundreds.”

“They are not men. They are my enemies. If I don’t kill them, they could kill my fellow Marines.”

The Boatman hissed a cackle of amused laughter. “A dissembling response. They posed no threat to your fellow Marines, who were not even here, and you killed them anyway. Fellow humans are dead or dying by your hand. Men who happen to wear a different uniform, that’s all.”

“Each is my enemy, you evil bastard. You know that. Quit busting my balls.”

Behind the fluttering sheer silhouette of the Boatman was an entire sea of licking, low fire. “I think this is enough for me to transport for one load now. You keep up your good work, and we will visit again later.” There was the cackle of a bodiless laugh, and the long, low craft nosed away into the flames.

Swanson cried out at the departing figure. “I didn’t want to kill any of them! They were my country’s enemies. And I don’t want to kill any more…”

The final answer echoed back from a hole in the fire. “But you will. You have to, for more are coming.”

Swanson jerked awake to a full sitting position, the .45 locked in a two-handed firing grip, as he heard the scratch of a key in the lock of the safe house’s front door. He swung his feet to the floor and slipped prone at the bedroom doorway, with a clear firing lane to the front.

A light triple-rap knock, and the door opened about two inches and stopped. “Swanson? It’s me. Omar. I’m alone.”

“Step in backward and slow, keep your hands where I can see them, and close the door.” Swanson’s pistol did not waver from its line, and his eyes were intense and on the target.

Omar did as instructed, keeping his hands high, which pulled up his shirt high enough in back for Kyle to see the butt of a pistol in the back of his belt. “Pull out the weapon with two fingers, left hand, drop it, and kick it beneath the sofa.” Omar did as he was told.

“Keep moving back toward my voice.” Kyle got up and took a few silent steps. “Turn around, slow.”

Omar did so and found the big hole at the end of the .45’s barrel pointing right between his eyes. “Hurry up with your search or inspection or whatever this is, Kyle. We don’t have much time. They’re coming.”

Tianha Bialy was at a big mirror in the bedroom of her suite, carefully applying the final touches to her makeup, deciding to pass on the lip gloss. A girl had to be careful around Muslim men, she thought. They would appreciate beauty in a woman and then just as easily treat her like a dog. Love, she had found over the years, had little to do with such a relationship. Anyway, she was not here to please anyone, for she already had a fiancé back in London as well as a lover, Omar, in Egypt. Satisfied with her understated look, she gave her clothes a final adjustment, then took a chair in the living room and calmed herself to await the knock on the door. It was almost ten o’clock.

Major Shakuri had been extremely busy all morning, imposing his version of logic and order on the situation that seemed to change every few minutes. He studied the updated damage reports from the overnight attacks and had a brief, unpleasant telephone conversation with General Khasrodad out at the airport. The man had no fighting spirit and very reluctantly gave Shakuri the soldiers needed for the evening’s executions.

The major had approved the final list of the latest examples, but the overnight casualties to the Iranians had been high, and Shakuri had to keep his retaliation formula in some sort of perspective. Even at one-for-one, it would mean several hundred executions, which was an impossible number. The lesson, not the executions, was the important thing. So he would do twenty today, then declare the lesson learned before it turned into a general massacre. With the extra soldiers, he would then use martial law to restore calm in the beachfront city. The bodies this time would be left to rot in the park for a few days before being taken away by grieving relatives. Examples.

With those arrangements in place, he sifted through the news reports. The Muslim Brotherhood had promised to spark a spontaneous uprising of the people across the land, but that had not yet happened. Since winning political power through elections, the Brotherhood had to deal with all of the problems of any government, both in its own country and abroad. They had wanted power, and found it an uncomfortable fit. There were problems in Gaza, where militants wanted to secede from Egypt and form an Islamic emirate on the Israeli border. The Bedouins would not cooperate because they never cooperated with anybody. The old players in Hamas would not bow to the wishes of the new government, and al Qaeda despised the elected officials for not being radical enough. There were dozens of serious fracture lines within the Brotherhood, and powerful rival political parties. So when it came to stitching together a unified front with a separate rebel army, everyone wanted a slice of the pie. The idea that the Brotherhood would launch demonstrations against itself defied logic. That left the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces still intact, and the last thing the generals would allow was a competing army on Egyptian soil. The major wondered why the colonel could possibly have believed any differently.

While Brotherhood spokesmen on the streets were still forecasting victory, they had not come close to marching south to relieve the Iranians in Sharm. At best, it might be viewed as stalemate; at worst, it was the quiet before a storm, for the Egyptian military had not yet truly intervened.

Shakuri enjoyed this new ability to overwatch the entire situation, the feeling of control. It had a sweet taste, and he was reluctant to return that magic bottle of power to his boss when Naqdi arrived this afternoon. Shakuri was now absolutely confident that he could replace the general at the airport, for sheer incompetence if nothing else. Then he could turn his full attention to ousting his superior officer. To think that only a week ago, he had trembled in fear of the influential, magical Naqdi. Things change quickly.

First, he had to deal with these spies among them. He slid a pistol into the polished leather holster on his belt and stepped into the chill and pure morning light. Two uniformed soldiers, each with an AK-47, stood at attention beside his car. Major Shakuri believed that at that moment he was the most important man in Sharm el-Sheikh, if not in all of Egypt.

The ride up Hotel Row from the Blue Neptune to the Four Seasons was short, and he and the two escorts marched inside as knots of people parted before them. Scars of the fighting from the first night were still plentiful but were rapidly disappearing beneath the reconstruction by work crews. The smell of fresh paint was strong, and drills, saws, and hammers were busy.

They went up on the elevator to one of the higher floors and found the room number. He knocked with short, impatient raps, then importantly went to a rigid parade rest position, chin up, hands behind his back, pistol on his hip.

Tianha Bialy opened the door and gave him a quick once-over, thinking he looked somewhat silly with the military posturing. She stepped aside as the men entered, with the guards walking through the suite in a brief search. Shakuri sat down, uninvited. Showing who is boss, like a little dog peeing on a lamppost, she thought.

“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Bialy,” he said as his eyes roamed over her. The soldier who had searched the bedroom returned, nodded to the major, and joined his partner at the door.

“Since this is a business meeting, Major, let’s get right to it. Are you the Pharaoh?”

“Yes, I am,” he lied, turning up his palms in a gesture of innocence.

“Can you prove that?”

“Give me Kyle Swanson, and I will give you everything you want.”

“This was to be a fair and mutual exchange, Major Shakuri. My orders are not to proceed without proof of identity. A substantial sum of money is to be delivered to the Pharaoh, and we must be sure of the person with whom we are dealing.”

“I do not carry an identification card bearing that name. I am sure you can understand.” His eyes gleamed with quiet excitement.

“Then answer a question for me,” she said, pushing the conversation. “Why should I, or anyone in British intelligence, trust what you say?”

“Because it is very dangerous for you not to do so.” In a lightning move, the major reached forward and backhanded Tianha across the face, knocking her from the chair. “I did not come here to bargain with a British spy. I came because you have something I want.” He lunged across and wrapped her hair tight around his fist, then slapped her again, and blood spilled from her lower lip. “Do you know where Swanson is?”

She wiped away the blood with her fingers, feeling the sting of the cut. She did not scream and did not seem frightened, which puzzled him. Instead, she watched him with her dark eyes. She had known the ruse she was running was dangerous, but she would stick to the plan. “I want the real Pharaoh! It is obviously not you. You’re just an errand boy.”

It was Shakuri’s turn to be shocked. His word was not to be insulted and challenged by a woman. “And I plan to deliver you to him later today. First, I ask again, do you know the location of this CIA spy?” He gave the hair a vicious jerk and was pleased to see her wince in pain. “Do you?”

Tianha coughed, then gave a sarcastic smile. “Better than that, Major. I can take you to him.” They should be ready by now.

He pushed her away and bent over with his hands on knees, his face close to hers. “Then let’s go. My car is waiting.”

Swanson patiently waited in an apartment two doors down the hallway from the entrance to the safe house, his eye pressed against the peephole, again feeling the familiar warmth of his blood flowing through him before a fight, his heart thumping in a steady beat to make the machine that was his body ready for sudden, maximum performance.

A woman and her child lived in the place, but they had been paid well by Omar after a brief negotiation to leave for the rest of the afternoon to avoid some possible trouble. After the previous night of flames and fire, it did not take much persuasion for the handsome Omar to convince them to vacate for a few hours.

When it was clear, Kyle walked quickly down the hall from the safe house and into the apartment, where Omar was already clearing the area around the door of toys and furniture to allow more freedom of movement. Neither man spoke, for the time was past for talking. Omar hurried back to the safe house rooms but did not lock the door. Kyle also left his unlocked, with a small piece of duct tape over the latch to keep it from engaging. It would open with a simple pull. The big pistol carrying the sound suppressor was in his right hand. It shouldn’t be long now. Why had Bialy put herself in harm’s way? She had hatched this risky plan and was now firmly snared in the hunter’s net.

The door to the safe house was at the top end of a T of bisecting hallways, and Kyle was two doors down on the right side of the T stem, with the elevator at the far end. To get to the safe house, anyone would have to pass his position, and the only variable would be the positioning of the Iranians and where Tianha was placed among them. It almost did not matter how many guards there were, for they would be bunched together, and he planned to kill them all.

The cell phone vibrated silently in his pocket, and Omar spoke quietly. “I just saw them pull in downstairs. One officer, plus two bodyguards with AKs. Tianha is in front. On the way up.” Kyle snapped down the lid and put it back in his pocket, then let his body settle into the alert mode with every sense tingling. He rested his left hand on the doorknob and watched the hallway through the fish-eye peephole.

There was no warning bell on the elevator, but Swanson heard movement at the far end of the hall, and a woman’s voice echoing in the stillness. “This way. It’s that door right down there at the end.” Tianha was announcing obvious directions to make useless noise that served as a warning. Her comment was followed by the heavy fall of boots in the hallway. Swanson sucked in his breath and exhaled slowly.

One bodyguard led the way, and the major steered Tianha by the elbow to keep her in front of him. The second guard brought up the rear. They stopped at the entry to the safe house, and the guards took positions a few feet away from the door, one on each side, flat against the wall, and brought up their AK-47s.

Swanson gently opened his own door a half inch and saw that they were about fifteen feet away, with all of their attention on the safe house entrance.

Shakuri pushed Tianha forward. If any bullets came out of the apartment, she would be the first to be hit. “Call him,” the major ordered in a whisper, pulling his own pistol and standing out of sight to the side.

She knocked. “Kyle? It’s me, Tianha. Let me in.”

There was a pause and a shuffle of feet behind the door, as if someone were looking cautiously through the spy hole. Then there was a rattle of a chain as if the door were being unlocked. The two guards stepped back into the hallway, rifles pointed at the door, and Shakuri held Tianha tightly as a shield.

Kyle Swanson had silently opened his own door and was already in the hall behind them. His pistol was extended, a part of him, and he went for the soldier on his right with the first shot, which sounded like a cannon in the tight quarters. Swanson felt the kick of the recoil and saw the bullet strike the man just behind the ear. Kyle was already turning to the next target. The pistol crossed over the major and Tianha and steadied on the second guard, whose head also exploded before he could turn around. Bright red blood and pink and gray brain matter showered the walls, and Kyle moved in hard and fast.

In three steps, he was at top speed and hurtled into the major, whose face was covered in gore and who still did not realize what was happening. Swanson hit with a body tackle that slammed the Iranian officer against the wall as the door opened and Omar reached out and snatched Tianha inside to safety. Kyle pistol-whipped the officer, back and forth across the face, three times, letting the front sight gouge and tear at the flesh, then banged down hard on the skull with the butt of his gun and knocked Shakuri cold. Two kill shots and a takedown in less than ten seconds. His marksmanship and mixed martial arts coaches would have been proud.

He shoved the weapon into his belt and helped Omar drag the three bodies inside and dump them in the living room. They had no time to wipe down the walls and mop the hall, but at least the corpses were out of sight.

Tianha emerged from the bathroom with a stack of wet and dry towels and gave Shakuri a quick cleanup, pouring water into his face. “Wake up,” she said. “You’re going on a trip.” The major was hoisted into a chair and cuffed with plastic strips, then gagged with duct tape. His eyes blinked madly when he started understanding what had happened, and he stared at the slim man standing before him with arms crossed. It had to be the American.

“So you are the famous Major Mansoor Shakuri, and I hear you have been looking for me,” Swanson said. “Too bad you found me.”

Kyle seized the man’s right hand and with a hard pull and a sharp twist broke the little finger. Shakuri jerked away in pain and tried to kick out, but Swanson just slapped him. “That was for ordering the assassination of an American citizen on American soil — an accountant who had done no one any harm, but was a threat to your efforts in Egypt.”

Shakuri shook his head in denial, only to get slapped again with an open-hand strike that made him see stars. The bleeding on his face had resumed, and Tianha stepped in to towel him clean again.

“We’ve got to go,” she said.

“Almost there,” said Kyle. He took the left hand, stared into the major’s terrified eyes, and broke the pinkie finger on that one, too, watching as Shakuri recoiled with the new slash of pain. “And that is for sending a team out to kidnap Lady Patricia Cornwell in London.” He gave Shakuri the look of a wolf checking out a rabbit. “This next one is going to hurt,” he said and tore away the duct tape gag. “I want to hear you scream on this one.”

“But…” the major sputtered, as Kyle flipped the pistol around, and the excuse turned into earsplitting screams when Swanson hammered Shakuri in the stomach, breaking a couple of ribs, then once more in the balls, and threw a final punch that broke two upper front teeth. The screams came with every breath for a few seconds, then lapsed into moans of despair and pain.

“Pat’s my mother, you asshole,” Swanson snarled.

Omar put a hand gently on Kyle’s shoulder and was surprised to discover that Swanson’s muscles were not even tense. “That’s enough of the torture. Save something for the intelligence types.”

Kyle stepped back. “That wasn’t torture, Omar. It was just plain old ass-kicking payback. I’m done with this piece of shit.”