Chapter 34

34

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

“That’s gotta be him,” McGuire muttered as he angled for the curb, pounding the horn on his Daihatsu van with the flat of his big hand.

The traffic around Kuala Lumpur’s international airport was always crowded with colorful taxis, ride shares, buses, and passenger vehicles, but today was a real logjam. He laughed at the cursing faces screaming at him from behind their windshields in God knows what languages as he bulled his way over to the curb.

McGuire hit the button to open the sliding door of the unmarked white van. The former SAS operator was bearded and his arms covered in sleeve tats—standard operator chic. But the Black man standing at the curb was dressed in business casual and gripping a well-worn, deep-pocket leather duffel. His bald head was smooth as a trailer hitch, and his eyes were covered by a pair of wraparound sunglasses. With his massive physique straining the fabric of his shirt and slacks he looked more like a professional bodybuilder than a stone-cold killer.

But McGuire, a former operator himself, easily recognized a fellow apex predator just by the way he stood.

“Davis?”

“You got it.”

“McGuire.”

McGuire stuck out his hand. Davis’s long fingers wrapped around McGuire’s like a child taking hold of a doll’s hand.

“Thanks for the ride, brother.” Davis tossed his leather duffel onto the bench seat, then climbed in after it.

McGuire pulled open a silvered Faraday bag, designed to keep signal radiation out—and in. “OPSEC, my boyo. Need your phone.”

Davis grunted with the effort and annoyance of fishing his phone out of his pocket and tossing it into the bag.

“You’ll get it back after the mission.” McGuire punched the button to close the sliding door as he glanced into his side-view mirror.

“You’re the last one to arrive. Where’d you fly in from?”

“Started in Benghazi,” Davis said. “Routed through Cairo, then Saudi. A couple of overnight layovers. Could’ve walked here faster.” His deep basso profundo voice rumbled like an idling Chevy small-block V8 engine.

“Yeah, well, sorry about that, mate. I didn’t make the travel arrangements.” McGuire punched the gas and leaped out into the river of honking cars.

“No worries, man. Just sayin’.”

“I get it. Might as well settle in. We’ve got a wee bit of a ride.”

As soon as McGuire cleared the airport’s bumper car traffic, he hit the hands-free call button on his steering wheel. A heavily accented voice picked up on the other end.

“You have him?”

“On our way. Don’t start without us.”

The phone clicked off. McGuire glanced at Davis in the rearview mirror.

“I read your jacket. CIA paramilitary.”

“Eight years, six months, twenty-four days.”

“I’m surprised we never met. You and I were in theater together about the same time.”

“We had a saying in special ops. If you knew I was there, I wasn’t doing my job.”

McGuire chuckled. “You must’ve been good at your job, then. You stick out pretty good. You’re built like the Michelin Man.”

“Like I’ve never heard that one before.”

“I hear Libya is crazy.”

“Heart of darkness, man. But good money.” Davis turned his gaze toward the window, ending the conversation. McGuire was being too nosy, and the truth was that Davis’s story was a bit thin because he didn’t exist.

Unlike Cabrillo, Franklin “Linc” Lincoln didn’t live and breathe this kind of undercover work. Linc was a special warfare operator. His job was to hurt people and break things, not playact, and his expertise was the business end of any sniper rifle he could wrap his big hands around. Unable to speak any other languages or push into the deep psychology of undercover personality changes, Linc had to basically be himself.

But because of the Vendor’s technical prowess, Linc needed some kind of cover lest he be discovered—which would not only have led to the rejection of his application but also would have alerted the Vendor they were on to him. The easiest thing to do was to put Linc in a completely different and utterly covert service branch. No need for language skills, and the likelihood of another CIA special ops fighter in the mix was practically nil.

The dark web ad specifically stated it preferred non-Americans but also needed a sniper. They gambled on Linc’s incredible sniper “legend,” which was actually based on his real service record. Apparently, the gamble paid off. With any luck, they were one step closer to finding the Vendor.

If this really is a Vendor op, Linc reminded himself. There was still a fifty-fifty chance it wasn’t.

---

★Two hours later, McGuire turned off the two-lane asphalt road and onto a rutted dirt track, splattering the white Daihatsu van with a thin coat of mud. Fifteen minutes after that, he pulled to a stop beside a large lean-to that stood on the edge of a wide jungle airstrip.

The covered lean-to featured several picnic benches, where a dozen operators from multiple nationalities sat or stood, all drinking Tiger Lager beer. Tats, beards, scars—and lots of attitude. Some were telling war stories, while others told jokes for men who laughed too loud.

It looked chummier than it was, Linc knew. Like the first day of football camp, or enlistment day at the intake center. Everybody yaks it up because they’re nervous, but also because they’re sizing each other up, trying to establish dominance hierarchies. Linc laughed to himself.

If they were dogs, they’d all be sniffing each other’s butts.

On the far end of the structure was a massive camp kitchen. A couple of Malaysian women were tending a roaring charcoal grill, turning slabs of beef and cut-up chickens. The meat spit sizzling fat into the flames and filled the air with tangy smoke. Pots bubbled with noodles, rice, and vegetable curries.

“End of the road, brother. We’re just in time for some chow.”

McGuire tumbled out of the van and made a beeline to a tall man sporting a bushy beard and a ball cap, and whispered something to him.

Linc pulled his leather duffel and climbed out of the van.

Several heads turned toward Linc. The ones who didn’t were still watching him in their peripheral vision. It wasn’t the first time Linc had intimidated a collection of violent men. Two clean-shaven young towheaded blonds—identical twins—smiled at him, but their raging blue eyes bore into his.

Linc shrugged off the attention, and made a show of sniffing the air, savoring the sweet aroma of roasting meat and the smoky tang of charcoal. He dropped his gear in the stack of luggage already piled up against the wall and headed for the ice chest crammed with cold beers. A dark-headed merc stood nearby. Linc pulled a lager and cracked the cap.

“That’s not a real beer,” the man said with a smile and a clear Spanish accent. He stuck out his hand. “Mendoza.”

They shook.

“Davis.” Linc held up his Tiger Lager bottle. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Only two percent alcohol. But it is adequate. A local favorite, I’m told. Now, Negra Modelo? That, mi amigo, is a real beer. A man’s beer. A Mexican beer.”

“I’ve had Modelo before. Never been to Mexico.”

“It is the land of my ancestors. You should come down sometime to my rancho.” The Mexican mercenary stood six foot one and was powerfully built. His hair was close cut and jet-black. But his eyes were blue.

Linc knew without a shadow of a doubt he was talking to Juan Cabrillo, but somehow, he felt as if he really was engaging with Mendoza. It wasn’t Juan’s dyed hair, the authentic accent, or even the puckering star-shaped scar in his thick bicep that made the deception work. It was him totally inhabiting his character—actually believing he was the former Mexican special operator and sicario Mendoza.

Linc nodded. “Soon as we finish this gig, I just might take you up on that.”

“I hope that you will.”

“By the way, you speak English better than me.”

“My mother taught it at the University of Guadalajara.” Mendoza lifted his beer. “Salud!”

They clinked bottles and swigged their beers.

“Have you met all of the other guys?” Linc asked, pointing at the crowd with his bottle.

“Oh, yes. Quite a collection of talent from all over. Irish, English, Syrian, Nigerian—”

“Who are the psycho Matrix twins that were staring me down?”

“Polish special forces. A couple of real caballeros. Apparently they got a little too rough with the Russian prisoners they captured. So they recently brought their butchering skills to the marketplace.”

“What about you? What’s your background?” He knew other ears were listening in on their conversation.

“Fuerzas Especiales.” Cabrillo took another pull of his beer.

“The Mexican Navy SEALs. Impressive. Early retirement?”

“Promotion. I became the primero comandante for La Hermandad de las Almas Perdidas—the Brotherhood of Lost Souls.”

“A cartel death squad, if I recall correctly.”

“You do.”

The tall bearded man in the ball cap strode over to the two operators. Linc recognized his quiet authority and the cunning intelligence behind his eyes. No need to play schoolyard games with this one.

“Glad you made it, Davis. Name is Drăguș.” He offered his hand to Linc.

“Glad to be here, finally. Interesting name.”

“Romanian. Sergeant major with the 1st Special Operations Battalion.”

“The ‘Eagles,’ ” Linc said.

“You heard of us?”

Linc grinned ear to ear. “You guys kicked a lot of tail and took a lot a names in the ’Stan.” Linc high-fived the Romanian, who was obviously proud of his service.

“Any problems on the trip here?” Drăguș asked.

“None. Traveled light, just as instructed. My weapon is ready?”

“Everyone will be kitted out when we reach the training camp.”

McGuire dashed over to Drăguș. “Chow’s ready.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Drăguș climbed up onto the nearest table.

“Gentlemen! Once again, I welcome each of you to our little adventure together. Food is about to be served. Eat hearty. And while you’re eating, take a look at the man sitting next to you and across from you. These are your teammates. Chances are, nothing exciting will happen and you’ll make a ton of money doing nothing but standing around and holding your pulă.

“But if it does all go sideways, that man on your left and the man on your right are the guys who will be covering your back. So take the time to get to know each other. Training starts tomorrow morning. Until then, enjoy the food, drink some more beer, and relax.”

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★An hour later, the Beechcraft King Air 360ER touched down on the grassy airstrip with ease and taxied closer to the shelter. A small fuel truck raced over.

Drăguș and McGuire stood at the stairs and did a head count as the men climbed up. The Beechcraft’s tanks were getting topped off and the air stank of aviation gas.

Linc and Juan fell into a pair of plush leather aisle seats across from each other and settled in. The air clacked with the noise of belt buckle mechanisms locking into place. The air-conditioning kicked on just as Drăguș stood up at the front of the plane.

Juan noticed the Nigerian trying to open his window shade, but it wouldn’t budge. The Polish twins behind him cursed in their native tongue. The guy at the end of Juan’s row jiggled his shade, but gave up.

“Listen up!” Drăguș said. “First, if any of you are expecting a safety demonstration from me, forget it. If you’re not smart enough to figure out how to buckle your belt, you’re on the wrong flight.” He made exaggerated hand gestures like someone who couldn’t figure out how to fasten their seat belts.

The cabin rippled with laughter.

Someone from the back shouted, “What are we having for in-flight snacks?”

Everybody cracked up.

Drăguș grabbed his crotch and grinned. “I can serve you some of this.”

That made the plane laugh even louder.

Juan and Linc exchanged a glance.

Boys will be boys, even if they are hired killers.

“We will hit it hard starting tomorrow morning. It’s a long flight. The windows are shut to keep the light out. So sit back and get some shut-eye.” As if on cue, the cabin lights shut off, throwing the cabin into relative darkness.

Moments later, the plane took off, smooth as silk.

Unbeknownst to the passengers settling into their flight, the copilot flipped a switch in the cockpit, activating a jammer.

From an electromagnetic perspective, everybody aboard the Beechcraft suddenly ceased to exist.