Howard Johnson Hotel
Newark International
“Team Two, are you in position?”
“Yes Sir, we have eyes on the rear of the building.”
“Go, go, go!” repeated the commander firmly.
The four-man hit squad would attack their target from both sides. The proximity to the airport was perfect. Three hours earlier, they had been relaxing in Bermuda when the call had come through. They had been on standby and being paid $100,000 to just sit and enjoy the late summer sunshine was not a bad gig. However, the pay packet had just jumped to a cool million. They were needed in Newark as a matter of urgency. Luckily, the call had come in at 6pm and they managed to secure seats on the Cargojet scheduled service out of Bermuda bound for Newark just an hour later. Having been cleared through US customs in Bermuda, the flight was classed as domestic and as such, they would simply land and walk out of the airport without further checks. Of course, the CIA boss had ensured that their passage to Bermuda was not recorded in official records.
As the ageing Boeing 727 came in to land, the four additional loads of cargo readied themselves for disembarkation. As far as the crew of the Canadian Cargojet company were concerned, the four men were stranded Americans hitching a lift home. Little did they know that it was very convenient not to have to file a separate flight plan between Bermuda and Newark for a military jet. After the rendition flights, CIA flight-plans were under much greater scrutiny.
The plane taxied directly to the cargo area and the four passengers disembarked without so much as a thank you. The Pilot looked on as one of the four bent down at the rear wheel of a Suburban parked next to the plane’s arrival gate. Shortly after, the hazard lights blinked, the men jumped into the vehicle and sped off into the night. The pilot didn’t see the massive arsenal of weapons or the Sat Nav system pre-programmed to take the men to the Howard Johnson Hotel.
The leader of the group would be taking the lion’s share of the money for the hit and he was no stranger to CIA wet work. Jens, South African by birth, had earned his name as a ruthless mercenary willing to work for anyone as long as the money was right. When it came to the CIA, the money was always right. The Americans knew how to pay. For the last few years, they had been his team’s only paymaster. Usual haunts included Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan. Their main job was to take out targets too sensitive to ever be linked to the Americans. Although he had no proof that it was the CIA that was paying his way, there really was no other agency which gained as much from his work. However, this was his first job on American soil and he was determined it went without a hitch. The pay for that one target was double the normal rate and the location was certainly a lot more inviting.
“Remember the target is Tim Wilkinson, Room 216 and watch out for the woman he’s with. She may be armed.” He reminded his team of the instructions he had received on the voicemail.
Normally, the four would have gone in, weapons up, shooting. But this was America not a third world war zone, so they exchanged fatigues for slacks and sports jackets which, truth be told, were far better camouflage than they had ever worn. Amongst the thousands of businessmen travelling through New York, they quite literally disappeared. The clothes were not the only change in operational procedure for these men. Their weapons were rather more discreet. They were silenced, concealed and, thanks to whoever had arranged the mission, South African in origin. Each man had a BXP silenced sub machine gun, a South African version of the Uzi and a Vektor SP2 silenced pistol. It seemed no stone was left unturned to ensure that the mercenaries would not be confused for Americans.
“We’re in!” Jen’s ear piece alerted him to Team Two’s progress.
“Excellent, take the back stairs and come up from the emergency exit. We’re just coming into the lobby and will come in from the opposite end of the corridor,” said Jens as though he were talking to the man next to him. As they entered the lobby, both laughed quietly and headed casually to the elevators, just two businessmen returning to their room after a meal.
***
“Sir, you’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” said Clark taking the Chairman’s arm and guiding him back to the small sofa in the corner of their king-sized room. The Senator had objected vehemently to the hotel’s view of what constituted a King-Sized room. Even the TV was small. However, there was nothing small about the impact the screen was having on the Senator as the news network continued to play the footage of a tanker exploding in Maine.
“It’s him, I know it is,” he said to himself, transfixed by the burning forest in the background.
“Come on, whatever’s happening doesn’t involve tankers in the middle of a highway.”
“You have no idea,” he said shaking his head.
Their train journey had passed off without incident and a quick cab ride had taken them to the Howard Johnson where, as directed, Senator Baker had checked in as Tim Wilkinson. He used the driver’s license that Sam had given him six years earlier as ID. He had offered to take two rooms but Clark had refused. She made it very clear that she would not leave his side until they could get help. It had been four hours since they had arrived and over seven hours since Sam had warned his brother.
“Something has happened to him. I’m telling you, there is no way he would take this long to get to New York. We need to reach out to someone we can trust.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.” But Clark’s protestations were wearing thin. “I think we should give him another hour.” She checked her watch. “If we’ve not heard anything by 10pm, we’ll make a move.”
Senator Baker was unconvinced. If there were a person in the world you could rely on, it was Sam Baker and if he were coming, he’d have been there by then.