Kill on Command (54 page)

Sean was not the least bit surprised by O’Conner’s reply.  He was now certain the man knew the date of his first kiss and the type of deodorant he used.

“Why are you giving me this?  To shut me up?”

O’Connor laughed again.

“Sean, do you think anyone would really believe you if you did start running your mouth?  Besides, you’re much smarter than that.”

“Then, why?”

“You cleaned house.  We had some internal issues and you took care of them.  Plus, we owe you a little bit for the other work you did for us.  Like it or not, in this envelope, there is a number to a bank account located in the Cayman Islands. Funds were wired to the account this morning.  What you choose to do with it is up to you.”  He finished the beer and looked kindly at Sean.

“I really wanted to talk with you again, Sean.  I think we might be able to work together,” he said.

“Not a chance,” Sean answered, abruptly.   “Again?”  Sean thought.  He was really confused and racking his brain to figure out who this guy was and where he had seen him before.  How did he know him?

“We’ll see.”  O’Connor paused.  “Oh, I nearly forgot.  I have something else for you.  I had him sign it for you.”  He took out a copy of
Theodore Rex
by Edmond Morris and pushed it across the table.  

“You sat next to me on the plane,” Sean said, finally putting it together and remembering the conversation.

“Yes.  Ana convinced her father and he convinced me that you were worth saving.  I wanted to see for myself before committing.  Obviously, I agree with them.”

Sean wanted to scratch the scar on his neck but was afraid he might get shot in the process.

“How did it go with Jennifer, by the way?” he asked, as he stood up.

“Nowhere, Ana beat her up.”

“That sounds about right.” He turned to leave.

“I’ll take care of McFarland,” Sean blurted out.  He felt that he needed to finish this.  Director O’Conner turned around.

“Oh?  I thought you didn’t want to work with me?”

“I need a favor first,” Sean said.  The director stood where he was.  Jack looked over at the O’Conner, slightly surprised.    Only the President makes demands on the director – nobody else.  

“I just handed you an envelope.  That should cover it.”

“My friend has been trying to get into the FBI.  He’s a good cop.  If you . . . .”

“Ippolito.  I know who he is.  I am CIA . . . .”

“Come on.  It’s not like you work in the mailroom.  You can at least make a call,” Sean pleaded.

“I will take care of it.  We’ll be in touch,” he said, turned and walked away. 

Sean left his hands on the table.  All of the men, except Jack accompanied the director.  Jack stood looking at Sean.  He kind of felt sorry for him.  Jack tucked the gun into his waistband, took the pitcher off the table behind Sean, brought it over and sat down.

“I’m Jack Taggert.  I think we are going to be seeing a lot of each other,” he said extending his hand.  Jack was a couple inches shorter and about twenty pounds lighter than Sean.  He had a stubbly beard and blonde hair that was about a month overdue for a cut.  Coupled with the orange t-shirt, he looked like a regular guy.  Of course, he was far from regular.  Sean now recognized him as one of the men that met O’Connor at the airport.

“Can I move?”

“Yeah, you can move.”

Sean shook his hand.

“Where’s your gun?”  Sean asked.

“We’re friends here.  I put it away,” Jack answered, holding up his hands.

“I guess.”  Sean said, exhaling.

“So you met Sergei?”  Jack asked, taking a fry off of Sean’s plate.

“Yeah.  Help yourself, by the way,” Sean said sarcastically.

“Thanks!  I have not really eaten today.  They never let me eat,” he said, grabbing another fry.

“He’s hard core.  We trained with him.  I thought he was going to kill us all,” Jack added.

“Probably would, if given the chance,” Sean replied.

Jack stood, looked down at Sean and snatched another couple of fries.

“You’re a good guy, Sean.  Enjoy the beer today.  It’s on Delta.”  He turned and started to walk away and quickly spun around.

“Oh, Mike says bye.”

Sean looked up to his left and saw a man with a smile on his face, rifle in his hand, waving from the rooftop across the street.  Sean kind half-heartedly returned the wave.  When he looked back, Jack was gone.

Jack moved through the bar and stopped to talk to Flynn. 

“How many pitchers will $100 get my buddy?”

“With the shit he drinks, about fifteen.”

“Good beer?”

“Six,” the bartender responded.

“Perfect.  Here you go.  The good stuff,” Jack said, handing him the cash and leaving the bar.

A couple minutes later Brian walked into the bar.  Flynn saw him and poured him a pitcher of Harp – the good stuff.  Brian turned and watched the two Suburbans pull away.

“Here.  Sean’s buddy is paying for the beer today.”

“What buddy?”

“No idea.  I wouldn’t fuck with him though,” Flynn replied.  Bartenders are wise folk.

Brian shook his head, took the pitcher and a glass and walked upstairs.  Sean was leaning on the edge of the roof, watching people moving up and down Walnut Street.

“Hey dummy!  Free beer!  The day is looking up!”  Brian yelled.

“It’s the only direction it can go,” Sean said.

THE END

Epilogue

Closing the loop

North Africa - Libya

Saturday – 6 P
.M. Local Time

The sniper was dropped out of the chopper the night before and hiked ten miles to an enormous dune overlooking a poorly organized camp.  He figured the camp was mostly Al Qaeda, or wannabes.  His pack contained water, meal bars and not much else.  He dug himself into the dune and was nearly invisible.  He endured the blazing sun for over twelve hours.  His hiding spot in the sand insulated him somewhat, but he was still roasting.  He kept his eyes on the camp.  There had been a flurry of activity over the last fifteen minutes.  He watched through a high-powered scope attached to a British made, AS-50 rifle.  A favorite of the SEALs, accurate to 1,500 meters, it was the right choice for the job.  Its high rate of fire and low recoil made it perfect for quick target acquisition, which was going to be needed today.  The downside was it weighed thirty-one pounds and did not get any lighter the farther a sniper carried it.  He really preferred his old Dragunov SVD, but it was not as accurate from this distance as the AS-50. 

He heard the beating blades of a helicopter and seconds later it flew overhead, blowing sand around in its wake.  It circled and touched down in the middle of the camp.

The sniper flipped off the safety, focusing on the chopper.  It was over 1000 meters away.  There was a slight breeze moving left to right and the temperature was over 110°. He adjusted his shot accordingly.  The chopper powered down and three men emerged.  The first man was huge.  He had on fatigues.  He was the sniper’s new contact.  He walked a few yards from the chopper and waved to the men still inside.  Two much smaller men exited and were met by the early evening dessert air.  One was wearing traditional Saudi dress.  The second had on slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt.  He was carrying a tablet in his left hand.

The sniper lined up his shot.  He was completely relaxed.  He exhaled and squeezed the trigger.  The shot was true and the 12.7x99mm NATO round blew Prince Saeed’s head off of his shoulders.  The second Arab stood motionless, in shock.  Another shot followed a fraction of a second later that left his assistant, Ahmed, without his head as well.  Both of their bodies collapsed. The sand all around them was covered in a fine red mist.  The sniper quickly retreated into his hiding place in the dunes.  He was once again invisible.  Men in the camp began firing random shots into the dunes.  None came close to hitting him.  He was over 1000 meters away.  He didn’t move for eight hours.  When he left his hiding place, the desert temperature had dropped by 55°.  The cool air felt good.  He put his pack and rifle over his shoulder and began jogging north.  He ran for two hours until he saw a vehicle on the horizon.  He kept his pace.  The vehicle was not moving.  He slowed to a walk when he was within ten meters.  The Land Rover started up.  He removed his pack and rifle, tossed them in the back and climbed into the passenger seat.  The driver handed him a cold bottle of water.

“This have air conditioning?”

“No Sergei, it doesn’t,” Pavel said, laughing as he made a wide turn and drove north.

“Wheels up in three hours?”

“Three hours.”

“Wake me when we get there,” Sergei said and closed his eyes.

In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing and the worst th
ing you can do is nothing.

-Theodore Roosevelt

Sean Garrison will return in 2014

Acknowledgements

I owe a big thank you to my wife, Holly and my mother, Jane, for all of their support in putting this book together.  They
spent countless hours reading, suggesting and editing four hundred pages of incorrect comma usage and ambiguous references.  I love you both and appreciate all of your time.

My brother Chris designed the cover and endured my nitpicky feedback.  Chris, thank you for your time and infinite patience.

About the Author

Slaton Smith is a marketing executive, living in
Dallas, Texas with his wife, four children and two dogs, a Boxer and a Boston Terrier.  He is a graduate of West Virginia University and a fan of all things Pittsburgh.