Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Asher didn't go home that night. Instead, he took Marlowe to her room and made sure she was comfortable and asleep. He suspected whatever Dr. Houston injected into her IV helped him make a clean getaway. He was in the hall outside her room when his cell phone rang.

"Asher," he answered.

"The mission is a go. Be in the lobby in thirty," Murphy ordered. "We'll pick up CamelBaks in Incirlik, so don't bring yours."

The USAF maintained a complement of several thousand airmen at the Incirlik Air Base in Turkey. They provided F-16 combat training to Turkish pilots, humanitarian aid as needed, as well as maintaining a show of NATO forces in the region.

"Copy that." The phone went dead. Asher stuck it in the duffel he'd brought with him when he'd come to the clinic that morning, then pulled out a change of clothes and headed for the showers in the gym down the hall. Everyone was on high alert at the very real possibility that Jamah might be smart enough to outfox his boss. He'd already proven that by still being alive and capable of leading ISIL, when Alex, Mark, and Harley had all believed he was dead. But he'd made a fatal mistake threatening Alex's children.

Asher dropped his duffel on the floor outside the nearest shower, undressed, stuffed his dirty clothes into one of the many plastic bags in his duffel, and stepped into the stall. As he hurriedly scrubbed, he recalled how Alex had recently taken on the Irish mafia. Asher still didn't know all the particulars of that showdown, only knew one minute the Mafia was nosing around, creating mayhem, and had nearly killed Kelsey, Alex's wife. But the next, they were gone—or had been disappeared was more like it.

Asher hoped this showdown ended as quickly. He turned a full circle and rinsed. Nobody talked about what happened the day Heston ‘found' London, his girlfriend, battered and bleeding in the forest near Turkey Run, Virginia. Not even Heston shared what happened. It was an interesting end to an off-the-books mission, since several Irish mafia thugs also vanished.

Turning the shower spigot off, he towel-dried and dressed in the TEAM uniform for extreme black ops—black cotton briefs and t-shirt under midnight-dark cammies. His dirty clothes went into his locker. On the run now, he paused at Marlowe's door for one last quick look on his way upstairs. Her oxygen cannula and IV were still in place, the room was dark, and he could hear her breathing. That she'd stood up to Alex had been a rare sight, and Asher was proud of her. The one quality this stubborn woman had in spades was nerve. She'd all but spit in Alex's face when he'd bullied her. She'd be furious when she woke up tomorrow morning, but it was better this way.

Asher ran for the elevator. Like it or not, Marlowe needed time to heal. She wouldn't get that by traveling the globe, in the middle of the night, on whatever military aircraft Alex had procured for the flight over the Atlantic. Marlowe could barely walk. Parachuting, even a tandem jump, was out of the question.

Mother, The TEAM's fierce and extremely short-tempered technical expert had already provided Jamah's location late last night. She had overheard footage that could only have come from one of many privately-owned geosynchronous satellites in Earth's orbit. The clarity of those images was stellar. No doubt about it, The TEAM's latest HVT was holed up inside an old mansion east of Damascus. How Jamah built a terrorist network the size of ISIL mystified the Western World, but why any intelligent person followed him was mind-boggling.

Asher was up top and in the lobby in record time. Tension mixed with excitement tinged the air. Each agent had a duffel, complete with their choice of handguns, ammo, knives, earpieces, NVG, good luck charm, whatever they needed to come back alive, stowed at their feet. They'd been told to forgo bringing any rifles, which was odd. Standard protocol for eliminating a high-value target like Jamah required one or two snipers perched far from and above the HVT to control the area. A good sniper could take out any number of assassins without being seen or heard. Good snipers saved lives. There was no sign of Harley or Judy, though. Another interesting development. They'd both vehemently declared they were going. Where were they?

"About time," Heston called out, waving Asher over to where he, Mark Houston, and Cord Shepherd huddled over one of many high-top tables scattered alongside the plate-glass windows. "Last minute change. We're flying into al-Tanf, then infiltrating north to Damascus."

"No rest for the wicked," Asher murmured.

"And the righteous don't need it," Murphy cut in. "You boys fly safe, got it?"

"Always," Asher answered. "Why aren't you in midnight black like the rest of us, Boss?"

"Because I'm too damned old for that shit."

"And Doc Fitz wouldn't clear him for the flight," Heston added with a wink.

"Or jumping out of a perfectly good plane," Cord stage-whispered.

"Knock it off, you ill-mannered bozos, talking about me like I'm already dead and buried," Murphy grumbled. "I've got high blood pressure, that's why, and that's all there is to it, so keep your traps shut. If you whippersnappers are lucky enough to live as long as me, you'll get it, too. Just you wait."

"Hold the fort while we're gone," Mark said.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Murphy chuffed.

Flying into al-Tanf made good sense. The controversial US military base, located just inside Syria's southern border, provided training for local Syrian opposition forces, as well as conducted counter-ISIS operations throughout the fifty-five-kilometer de-confliction zone. Flying there would mask their ultimate mission. By then, they'd look like just another supply drop in the desert, not the deadly operators they were.

"Where's Harley?" Asher asked after Murphy stepped away.

"Not going with us," Mark replied. "Alex gave him a last-minute assignment."

Asher would have asked what assignment if Alex hadn't ordered, "Listen up," as he exited the hall leading from his office with long determined strides. Also geared up in midnight-dark cammies, he was accompanied by two more TEAM agents: Tripp McClane and a new hire, the youngest guy on Murphy's team, Wyatt Browning. Asher hadn't worked with Wyatt yet, but word was he was a Marine and a damned good EOD expert. Blond-haired and dark-eyed, he carried himself with the arrogance of men who'd regularly defied death and lived to talk about it.

"We've got State Department approval. This infil is now classified. We're to execute with extreme prejudice. Any questions?" Alex barked.

He had the rare skillset most leaders, military or civilian, seldom achieved. He didn't sit behind a big comfy desk while ordering his men and women into harm's way. He led from the front, not from the rear. Alex knew when to get out of his TEAM's way and let the experts he'd hired do their jobs. There was no one better at flying cover and defending his men and women. Most five stars threw their military members under the bus when higher-ups came calling with baseless accusations and slanderous lies. Alex fended them off like a bear, which was why The TEAM was the number one security company on the Eastern Seaboard. He took the jobs others refused.

Asher lifted a finger. "No rifles?"

"We'll get them when we need them. Next?"

"Air support?" Mark asked. "I assume you've got people on stand-by if things go sideways."

"Always." Alex lifted three fingers. "Two teams within a hundred miles of Al Tanf if needed. Another on standby in Damascus."

"Damascus? Really? Who the hell's crazy enough to be deep inside Syria?" Cord asked.

"My business, my call. Anything else?"

Had to be Decker Edison, Asher guessed.

"Copy that's" all around answered.

"Good. We're late. Move out."

The mood was somber as Alex led the way to the helicopter pad, where Decker Edison, also sporting midnight TEAM cammies, sat behind the stick in one of three sleek, black birds. He shot Alex a two-fingered salute from the open cockpit window. Alex gave him a thumbs-up. The window closed and the rotors started spinning.

Asher boarded the other helicopter. Alex literally had friends in every corner of the world, and a few others who were invaluable when it came to acquiring this type of specialized equipment. Much like the stealth technology behind the USAF F-22 Raptor and F-35 Lightning II combat jets, these custom-made helos were designed to reduce thermal infra-red emissions and prevent radar detection. Which was probably why Secretary of State Jed McCormack authorized the mission. Like Alex, he was banking on no one being seen or caught.

Unfortunately, tonight this helo was only taking them to Joint Base Andrews in Maryland, where a USAF Globemaster loaded with equipment headed for Incirlik, Turkey, waited. Overall it would be a thirty-six-hour flight, counting the refueling pitstop in Germany. Either TEAM agents would grab whatever combat naps they could, while they could, in the transport's cold, noisy, and uncomfortable cargo hold, or they'd be dead on their feet by the time they deplaned, and that'd make them worthless.

Asher worried. Alex was known for his one-hundred percent kill rate as a USMC sniper, but that was years ago. He was older now, and the man wore readers, for hell's sake. There was no way he could be as accurate a shot today as he'd been back then. So why was he coming along? Why not get out of his agents' way, let them do the dirty work, and wait on them to report back, like he usually did? Was this a revenge mission because of Jamah's threat, or was something else going on? Mark Houston was another hold-over from the previous generation of USMC scout snipers' record holders. Sure, those guys' kill shots were impressive, but they were yesterday's news. They'd both been bested, more than once, by long-shot records achieved during the last war.

Damn it. Asher needed this mission to end with Jamah's head on a spike, and to do that, he didn't need to worry about anyone, especially his boss, slowing him down. At Andrews, he was the last to climb into the Globemaster. Strapping into the nearest webbed seat, he clamped a pair of noise-cancelling earphones on, leaned back, and enjoyed the comfort of what would be a less than smooth ride across the Atlantic.

Closing his eyes, Asher ordered his stubborn brain to shut up and let sleep come. This was Alex's TEAM, not his, and like it or not, he had to trust his boss. If only that foreboding sense of doom would shut up.