Victor threw some water over his captive’s face. The American awoke suddenly, eyes snapping open, grimacing through the pain in the back of his head but evaluating the situation at the same time. He was sitting with his back against a mossy tree, arms stretched backwards around the trunk, wrists tied together on the other side. He pulled against the restraints.
‘Don’t bother,’ Victor said. ‘I used to be a Boy Scout.’
The guy stopped struggling. He’d been stripped of his headset, weapons and tactical harness. Victor had found nothing useful except some hard candy. He’d taken the green ones and left everything else. The American seemed groggy but without lasting damage, which was good because the brainstem was the most vulnerable part of the skull and a four-pound gun smashing against it wasn’t conducive to coherency.
Victor squatted down and sat on his haunches. His captive looked at him with contempt, but Victor could sense the fear that lay just beyond the bravado. The guy looked to be around the forty mark, brown hair and eyes, muscular and athletic. His hair was very short, his face tanned, crow’s feet etched deeply into his skin. He hadn’t shaved or washed for a few days. He smelled pretty bad, but Victor guessed he smelled no better himself.
The air was hot even in the shade. Victor poured some water over his face and head. The water was lukewarm but still refreshing. He said, ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you there is an easy way to do this and a hard way.’
The American glared at him.
‘I can see you’re a tough guy,’ Victor said. ‘You’re well trained. The tattoo on your arm says De oppresso liber: “To liberate the oppressed”.’ Victor sipped some water. ‘That’s the motto of the United States Army Special Forces.’
The American didn’t respond.
‘No point trying to deny it. It doesn’t matter either way. I’ll bet if I looked I’d find similar tats on the other two. They’re both dead, by the way.’
The American was silent.
Victor said, ‘I’m guessing you were all part of the same A-team back in SF. Must have been a real tight group to be doing this now. I can tell by the lines around your eyes you’ve spent a lot of time squinting in the sun. So you’re an Iraq and Afghanistan veteran. Haven’t long been out, maybe two or three years tops. Likely did some work as a private security contractor back in Baghdad or Kabul. Paid a lot better than it did in SF, but your talents were wasted guarding diplomats and news crews. It’s frustrating to feel the skills you spent a lifetime honing being eroded through disuse, isn’t it?’
The American didn’t answer.
‘But then someone you knew from the Army,’ Victor continued, ‘who got out before you did, offers you a different kind of private-sector job. Kind of like what you used to do for Uncle Sam, only it paid better than even babysitting reporters. Given its nature, you were hesitant, maybe even said no to start with, but your friend convinced you this was a bad guy so you would actually be doing some good. And it worked out great. So great, you ended up doing another, and another, and before long that’s all you’re doing. Each time the money goes up and the voice in the back of your head gets quieter and quieter until you can’t even remember what it used to say.’ Victor paused. ‘Before you know it, you’re a contract killer.’
The guy stared at him, confused and more than a little uneasy. ‘What’s your point?’
‘Bet you still think of yourself as a merc, though,’ Victor added. ‘Take it from me, another year and you wouldn’t have bothered trying to lie to yourself. And, to answer your question, my point is that now your teammates are dead, I know you better than anyone. Because I used to be you. And I also know it’s only your job to be my enemy. There’s nothing personal between us.’
The American’s eyes hardened. ‘Except you killed my two buddies.’
Victor nodded. ‘In self-defence. You’ve lost guys before. You got over it. This is no different. You’ll get over it. But I can’t wait that long. You need to decide right now if I’m just a job to you or if I’m your enemy.’
‘Why?’
Victor stared at him. ‘You know why.’
The American’s head dropped forward and he took a heavy breath. When he looked back up he said, ‘It’s how you just put it. This is a job. Nothing more. If things were reversed, I’d have done the same as you. No hard feelings.’
Victor motioned to the water bottle and the American nodded. Victor held the bottle so the American could use the straw. He took several swallows. Victor placed the bottle down.
‘Who you are working for?’
The American frowned. ‘Come on, man, you know I can’t tell you that.’
Victor gave an understanding nod and took the combat knife from his tactical harness. ‘I’m not a fan of torture,’ he explained. ‘Which isn’t because I’m squeamish. You know as well as I do, the more blood you see, the less of an effect it has.’ He touched a finger to the sharp point. ‘The problem I have with torture is that I’m usually a very clean person and it can be such a messy business. I don’t like making a mess, but sometimes it’s simply unavoidable.’
The American’s gaze was locked on the knife. ‘We don’t have to go there.’
‘Then try again at answering my original question.’
The American shook his head. ‘I don’t know exactly.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘Wait, Shane always dealt with the clients. No one else did. It was his job. I’m just a shooter. He was the boss.’
Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Your call sign was Cowboy Daddy.’
‘Okay,’ the guy said after a pause, ‘okay.’
‘You ran things, on and off the op. How did you do it? Dead drops, phone calls, online?’
‘Did everything on computer. Safest that way. Different email account for each job. Half the money up front, other half after the job was done. How I always do it. Less chance of clients fucking with you like that.’
Victor nodded. ‘Which is why I do it the same way.’
He took a smartphone from his tactical harness and powered it on. He opened up a browser. The reception was perfect. Sochi’s elite demanded it.
‘Give me the details for the operational email account.’
‘Won’t work,’ the American said. ‘Can only access the job spec from my computer back home.’
‘How would your buddies get paid the second half of the fee if you got killed?’
The American hesitated. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes you do. You guys served and killed together in the military. You saved each other’s lives. Nothing else creates a bond of friendship that strong. They were your buddies, like you said. And friends who watch each other’s backs in combat never stop looking out for each other. You wouldn’t leave them dangling if you took a bullet. If you used a safe, they’d know the combination; if you kept everything in a deposit box, they would have keys. A computer that only you could access would be no good to them. So, I’m asking you for the last time, before I start carving the truth from you: what are the details?’
The American looked away, finally defeated. ‘Before we’d go on an op I’d give everyone the login info for the account I used. Just in case.’
‘Like a good buddy.’
The American gave Victor the details and he logged into the account. There were five emails in the inbox from the anonymous client or broker. Victor read them in order. The first email was the offer of the job with the fee and window of opportunity. The next email included Victor’s dossier. The following three were clarifications. He opened the attachment and read through the file.
Seven months back he’d read a similar document, but that had only contained a single sheet of paper — an estimation of his physical attributes and a photofit of his face. This dossier was considerably more extensive. It included accurate details on his height, weight, hair and eye colour. There was a list, though far from all-inclusive, of languages he spoke. A page described his combat capabilities and skills. Some of his identities were listed. The most telling inclusion was the photographs of his face, close-ups from the front and each profile. His hair was a clipped quarter-inch. There was dried blood on his forehead and other evidence of injuries. The photographs had been taken without his knowledge while he lay injured in hospital prior to his recruitment by the CIA. A substantial insurance policy for his employer. It was bad enough knowing his employer had betrayed him, without discovering that betrayal had been planned well in advance.
There was only one course of action to take in response.
The dossier went on to explain Victor’s own contract for Kasakov and the requirements for Victor’s demise. He was to be killed only after he had murdered the arms dealer. His body was then to be disposed of somewhere it would never be found. Provide immediate confirmation upon elimination of target.
The muscles in Victor’s jaw flexed. ‘How many other contracts have you performed for this client?’
The American shrugged as much as his position would allow. ‘Just one.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Couple of weeks ago. In Beirut. Had to kidnap some Egyptian arms dealer and his wife and kids.’
A groove appeared between Victor’s eyebrows. ‘Egyptian arms dealer?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Name?’
‘I don’t know, man. Some rag name. You know how it is.’
‘Baraa Ariff,’ Victor said.
The American nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s it. How did you know?’
‘Who did you deliver Ariff and his family to?’
‘We didn’t.’
‘Then what did you do with them?’
The American looked awkward. ‘What do you think? We killed ’em.’
‘Why kidnap them if you were just going to kill them?’
‘Client wanted them tortured and the whole thing filmed.’
Victor frowned. He tried not to imagine what that consisted of. ‘What are the account details for the email address used for that job?’
‘The account’s been deactivated. After each job I-’
‘I believe you,’ Victor said with a nod. ‘I do the same.’
He read through the emails again to get a feel for the American’s word choice and tone before composing a confirmation of the kill. There was no point getting the American to choose the wording himself — either he would deliberately try and sabotage the message or his current stress level would unintentionally show through. Victor sent the confirmation.
His things were already packed and he had sterilised the area as much as he could. He powered off the phone, hoisted his rucksack on to his shoulders, and drew the MK23 from his thigh holster.
‘ Whoa,’ the American said with wide eyes. ‘What’s that for?’
‘I wasn’t lying when I said there was nothing personal between us. But that was before I knew you’d killed children.’ Victor released the safety catch and aimed the handgun between the American’s eyes. ‘Even people like us need limits.’
Clack. Clack.