Extraordinary Retribution: INTEL 1, #2

Part I

The Wraith

Revenge is the act of passion, vengeance is an act of justice. —Samuel Johnson

1

The Last Shall Be First

By the time he reached the razor-wire, the Syrian landscape had shrugged off the delusion of the irrigated greenery around Damascus. Here, the Old Man, the desert, could not be hidden and refused to be banished. Cold even in the oppressive heat, crueler than the scalped links fencing out trespassers, the sands smiled sadistically, remembering centuries of slaughter and dreaming of future screams of anguish .

For the man in the truck, gazing across the landscape, the screams returned to him now. Howling, gasped, panicked. His own and many around him. Images of dank stone, blood and waste-soiled cells. Eyes. Faces. Tormentors and their hideous tools. The weeping of grown men echoed inside his mind as the winds stirred the dry sands around his vehicle. He squeezed the steering wheel tightly, refusing their summons, determined more than ever to rise above their damage and demons. He had come too far to be defeated now.

He stepped out of the dusty pickup truck and slammed the door. Glancing over the barren land, he followed the fence line to the horizon. The entrance was at a large distance around the perimeter of the compound, hidden in part by an outcropping of desert rocks. His well-paid sources had been accurate: an entrance from the rear would likely go unnoticed. And what madman would ever break into this place? He did not expect vigilance.

He moved around to the back of the truck and untied a dusty canvas covering the bed. Underneath were several heavy crates. He opened each, removing weapons and explosives, strapping them to his body, and moved to the passenger side of the vehicle. From the glove compartment, he removed a map, glanced at it fleetingly, and pocketed the ruffled pages. It was memorized.

Night fell quickly in the deserts of Syria. In the darkness and desolation, short metallic clips sounded and fell mute on the empty sands. As a shadow, he passed through an opening cut into the gray outlines of the fence and vanished into the blackness.

Through the sandy winds sweeping across the compound, lights twinkled from a handful of incandescent bulbs. Near the gated entrance, he left a guard inside a small shed, seeming to doze peacefully, the unnatural angle of his neck observable only at close range. Before him, a desolate stone structure was dimly outlined by the band of the Milky Way, a single window of light visible in the darkness. Voices could be heard, at times loud and rude, spilling clumsily from the room. Harsh, staccato bursts of laughter confirmed the presence of the prison guards inside. He darted past the window and pressed himself flat against the compound walls. He slid along the rough surface toward the door, arm raised, his hand ending in an extended, metallic cylinder. He made no sound until he spun and kicked in the flimsy wooden door.

He saw four men around a small table, cigarettes in their mouths, pornography and cards strewn haphazardly across the stained wood. As the door swung madly on its hinges and smashed into the wall, they jumped, confused, turning toward him. Even that small pause meant death.

He fired several shots in the confined space. The explosions were amplified and echoed throughout the stone chamber, spilling down the poorly lit hallway opposite to the gunman. Two of the men arched, their heads snapping backward as the bullets blew open their skulls. The whitewashed walls were sprayed red. As the other two men lurched upward and towards him, he spun, his right foot arcing like a sledgehammer coming down, whipping the nearest man backward onto the table. Glasses shattered, and cards dispersed as the guard rolled roughly and fell hard on the stone floor. The intruder channeled the momentum of the spinning motion, and his gun hand came whirling around toward the second man, who now stood unprepared, barely having obtained a fighting stance. His attempted blow was smashed aside, and his jaw shattered as the man's gun arm brought the metal crashing downward. All four guards now lay still around the table, two dead, two unconscious.

The assailant aimed his weapon at the guard near his feet, firing directly into his head. He then turned and aimed at the other prone figure, rendering a similar judgment. He studied the faces carefully. "At night, five remain once the others leave for the day. And Mahjub works late." He didn't need to be told this by his informant. Yes, he knew Mahjub worked late. He would never forget. Nor would he forget his face. Mahjub was not in this room. He must be....below. He had been busy, perhaps.But not now. By now, he would have heard the shots. He would be afraid.

The assassin smiled.

Two floors below, buried deeply in the Syrian sands, a long hallway with numerous cells ran its soiled course. Broken men were locked behind stone-walled enclosures with iron doors. The cells were like graves: shallow pits scraped into the rock, devoid of light or even the space to stand. At the far end of the hallway, opposite the stairs, was a small room without a door. Inside Mahjub Samhan clutched a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. Both hands shook as he cowered behind an upturned table in the middle of the room. He cried out in a high-pitched voice.

Kamil? Saif? There was only silence. Bassam? Nadeem! He wiped the dripping sweat from his eyebrows and tried to focus toward the stairs. A solitary bulb dangled limply from exposed wires in the middle of the hallway. His left leg began to shake. "Answer me! Who is there? What is happening?"

Before he could focus, a shadow sprang, an explosion slapped his ears, and the bulb burst. Shards of glass rained on the stone floor like small bells. A terrible darkness blotted out his vision. In panic, Mahjub screamed, firing shots wildly into the blackness.

A bright light leapt from across the darkness, blinding him. A sizzling rod landed only a foot away from the table. Momentarily confused and distracted by the fire, Mahjub stared down at the stick burning beside him. Explosive? Too late, he turned his weapon toward the sound of rushing footsteps from the hallway, the searing afterimage of the flame obscuring his sight.

A gunshot rang. His right shoulder exploded in agony. His knees buckled, and he fell backward against the wall, releasing a howl of pain as he slid to the floor. He dropped the knife from his left hand and reached over to hold his injured shoulder, grimacing as he felt the warm blood coat his arm and fingers.

He squinted against the light as it was raised above his head. He saw a tall, dark shape behind the flare, a gun in one hand aimed at him. In a swift motion, the table was righted and the flare violently wedged into the rotting boards like a candlestick. The figure crouched beside him.

You always were a coward, Mahjub, spoke the voice in accented Arabic. Trying to block the pain, Mahjub strained to place the origin. Saudi? Pakistani? He stared at the face partially concealed in shadow. He had never seen it before. Light hair, blue eyes...American? Nothing made sense. Had the Americans turned on them after all this time? Did they need to bury this operation so completely? With all the chaos in the nation, did they care so much now?

You don't recognize me, do you, Mahjub? the figure asked, almost with amusement. How fitting, to lie here in pain, your death awaiting you, and not know the first thing about your tormenter.

Mahjub felt the panic well within him again. Sir, please, don't kill me. Whatever we have done wrong, we can fix. We will not speak. We will disappear. Please, not like this.

Mahjub's eyes widened at the sound he heard. The man with the gun laughed. Laughed at him! Mahjub, how do you live outside this place? The Syrian only looked at the gunman in distress.

I mean, when you buy fruit at the market, mixing with decent people, or entertain your mother-in-law, do you think about breaking men's fingers? Sodomizing them? Do you think of blood and vomit when you stir her coffee? Do their screams, their pleas for mercy keep you awake at night?

Sir, no, please, I don't know...

You know, said the man, his blue eyes seemingly glazed over, frosted, utterly cold. The shadowed form whispered ominously, "See, I know what you do, what you are." Mahjub felt his blood run cold.

These poor men here, said the pale man, gesturing toward the hallway, "they don't know who you are, but they know what you are. The man spoke with such venom, a snake's hiss. It took some time to track you down."

Mahjub began to cry, clutching his blasted shoulder, grime and blood on his hands and face. A man with such power over others, now powerless, weeping like a child. Please....

There was no pity in the cold blue eyes before him. Consider me more merciful than you ever were.

The man stood up and aimed the weapon.

No! Mahjub began to scream, but a final gunshot ripped through his throat, silencing his cry as he fell against the wall. He gasped vainly for breath, his healthy arm at the gurgling wound, his eyes swimming, his feet kicking madly as he drowned in his own blood. It was over in less than a minute.

The assassin spat on the dead man, turned, and carried a set of keys from the room. One by one, he unlocked the doors along the hallway as he walked toward the stairs. He spoke loudly. They're all dead! Leave now, if you can. God soon brings fire to this place!

Soft sounds of bodies stirring could be heard within the cells. The hinges of one door ground behind him. When he reached the first step, he dropped the large keychain and ascended to the upper floors.

The truck made a startling sound in the desert night as he turned the key. Twenty minutes. That was enough. If they had not escaped yet, they were as good as dead anyway. He stared down at a small radio transmitter on the seat next to him. A red light blinked at the upper-right corner. He pressed the button underneath, and a bright orange glow flashed before him in the darkness. Several seconds later, the sound arrived, the rumbling blast from an explosion as the compound was blown into the sky, rubble and embers raining down on the dark sands.

The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.

He doubted Jesus had meant it that way. He shifted gears and raced away from the inferno.

It had begun.

2

Stay Alive

A re we online?

The voice was impatient, clipped, and embedded in the background white noise escaping from the small speaker. A young, athletic man was hunched over a monitor, the screen showing as much visual static as emanated from the incorporeal voice. He was seated in the cramped interior of a van, the windows covered with thick, polarized glass that rendered the stale space as dark as early evening.

I want to have visuals on this, came an impatient voice over the speakers.

The young man suppressed a sigh and glanced to his right at the woman seated in front of the other monitor. She shook her head and gestured to her shadowed clothes.

Almost there, Nexus. Mantis getting dressed and the camera's on her broach.

The old bastard's not done yet? Didn't know he could keep it up that long. Mantis should get overtime for this job.

A status window appeared on the monitor, a blue bar marching across the screen. She's activated the camera. Connection's coming up.

Lights and numbers flashed across the monitor, and a poor color image appeared of the inside of an expensive-looking hotel room. Centered on the screen was a tall, thin man with a crown of full, white hair like a lamp atop his dark business attire. He was straightening his red tie in front of a mirror, his words just discernible through the transmission.

I'm sorry I can't stay longer, darling, he said, turning towards the camera, smiling. This is an important meeting and then I'm off to LA.

The camera approached the figure, and two slender, tanned arms reached outward and hung around his neck. A feminine voice lilted coyly.

Yes, George, first an important meeting, and then your other mistress in LA. I think we're competing more with each other than with Mrs. Sapos.

At the mention of his wife, the man's face tensed. That wouldn't be a lie, he said, stepping backward, running a hand through his hair. His hand shook slightly. I need a cigarette. Where are those damn patches the bitch makes me wear?

I'll get them, came the warm voice. The camera turned abruptly away from the figure and entered the bathroom. The hourglass figure of a long-haired brunette appeared in the mirror, a ruby broach affixed to her tight black dress. Her hand reached up to a box labeled NicoDerm and pulled out a packet, somewhat larger in size than the others.

Nexus spoke over the transmission. She has the right one?

Yes, that's it, said the woman in the van. It's as close in appearance to the real thing as we could manage, but it had to be modified for the desired dosage, which—

Yes! Quiet! barked Nexus over their speakers. Let it play.

The camera view had by now re-entered the room, and the white-haired man opened the plastic around the dermal patch, his eyes hungry. Couldn't find the stupid box last night. He yanked his shirt over his upper arm and applied the white circle. Seconds later, he had rolled down the sleeve, slipped on his coat, and was at the door with his briefcase. He paused in the frame. I've got to run. Think about Paris next month, Roberta. I know some special hotels. There's no one quite like you. The door closed behind him.

The young man at the terminal spoke. The meeting is on the third floor of the hotel. He's late already. We'll switch to the monitors we have set up.

This crazy idea better work. I told you I want to see this.

The young man wiped beads of sweat from his brow. "Yes, sir. It should work. It's a modified version of FLAME with the surveillance modules installed. We infected his laptop as well as the smartphone of the lawyer from the ACLU."

What damn good will the phone do?

We can at least get audio if we can't commandeer the laptop. But the laptop should be ours. FLAME reported back; it's there. The hardware is nothing weird, so we should be able to control the camera and microphone. Should be easier than what they were able to do in the Iranian enrichment plants.

Should, should, should is all I hear! This bastard has done nothing but work to ruin everything we've struggled for. There are too many variables in this operation!

Lophius wanted it that way!

There was a short period of static over the speakers. The woman gazed straight ahead with a shocked expression. Nexus finally spoke. "Careful using that name at any time, Sentry. He gets it his way, of course. He wanted this to be an accident, so it will be. Nothing to trace back to us. Especially not with what we've been hearing about recently."

The young man swallowed. So, it was true. We're being hunted.

The woman waved her arm. FLAME signal! We've got the laptop. Feeding the video stream. Now!

The screen lit up with the familiar image of the older executive, the hotel trimmings replaced with a well-equipped conference room. A smart screen was embedded in the wall behind him, and it displayed an image of a prisoner in orange clothing surrounded by armed soldiers. He stood with his back to the image, staring down at the laptop, a perplexed look on his face. Odd, the camera light's activated. He smiled with an embarrassed expression, looking past the camera. Sorry, gentlemen. And gentlewoman! Damn technology isn't my forte. You can be assured I'm not recording you, and the camera will be on me the entire time.

The executive paused a moment, putting his fingers up to his neck, as if checking his pulse. He looked almost seasick.

He's showing signs of poisoning, came the woman's voice.

Explain, said Nexus.

As if forgetting that she interacted with someone located elsewhere, she leaned forward and gestured to the monitor, tapping places as she spoke. Discoloration around the fingers, his breathing is labored, and he is sweating. There is a beginning of pallor. Disorientation will set in next.

"Will it be enough?"

Without a doubt, she said clinically. Nicotine is one of the most poisonous pharmacological substances known. It's ten times more toxic per unit mass than arsenic. We've given him a dose of two hundred milligrams of the modified compound. One hundred cigarettes worth. It will enter his bloodstream very quickly with the transdermal penetrants we've spiked it with.

Does the modification reduce toxicity?

No, as long as it's fresh. It severely decreases the half-life in the blood. But Mantis would have prepared it this morning. She was well briefed. The compound is maximally active right now, entering his system. In four hours, it will have broken down into smaller compounds, none of which are tested for. He'll be dead way before that. There will be an elevated nicotine score in the lab results from what hasn't hydrolyzed, but nothing high enough to cause suspicion.

On the screen, Sapos resumed speaking, sounding as if he had just come up a flight of stairs. As you know, we've been working to use our money for some good in this country. I personally have had enough of these rights violations in the name of national security. He paused, wiping his brow and catching his breath. He swayed slightly in place. Invasion of privacy, indefinite detention, enhanced interrogation—they are practices for North Korea, not the United States of America.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, dragging it across his wet brow. A voice from behind the camera came through. Mr. Sapos, are you feeling OK?

Sapos smiled wanly. Must be coming down with something. Feeling a little under the weather all of a sudden.

He's still standing! clipped Nexus. It's not going to be enough!

Wait! said the woman. It takes a few minutes for the levels to reach the lethal dose. He's panting. His respiratory functions are severely compromised.

The executive continued, his words beginning to sound slurred. So, I have gathered you here—representatives of the ACLU, Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch—to make an announcement. A generous gift.

He stumbled, steadying himself on the chair in front of him, his eyes beginning to swim in their sockets. A gift for you....to continue.... the fight. Dear God, what's wrong with me?

The figure disappeared from the screen, a dark blur plummeting to the floor. A loud thud sounded, along with gasps and anxious chatter erupting from others in the room. Several figures swarmed the region in front of the camera, bending down to the floor.

He's going into convulsions! yelled one.

Damn it! Someone get paramedics here right now!

One set of eyes focused in on the camera, the head cocked to one side. The face drew in closer.

We might be blown, Nexus! said the man in the van.

I see it. Trigger the FLAME erasure module. Burn it from the hard drive and the smartphone!

There was a flurry of keys clacking and an emphatic smack as Sentry struck the enter key. Command sent! Protocol engaged.

The screen flickered and went dark. All the commotion and sound from the conference room ceased. The interior of the van fell still and silent.

You're sure he's dead? asked the voice over the speakers, the static pops jarring in the new quiet.

The woman nodded. Very high probability. We'll know for sure soon. He's too important for this not to get out quickly.

Not important anymore, said Nexus triumphantly. Top-flight work, both of you.

And Mantis, said the woman. She played him like an artist.

Nexus laughed. And she'll be well paid. As will the chemists.

A cell phone buzzed, and the young man pulled it out of his suit pocket. He scanned the number and then stared at it, horror-stricken. "Jesus. He's calling." His voice quavered.

Who? hissed Nexus. The woman in the room looked over confused.

"Him, whispered the man, as if the unanswered phone could hear. Lophius."

Answer it! cried the woman, her eyes large.

The young man pressed the touch screen and entered a code. He cleared his throat. Sentry speaking.

A faint mumbling sound could be heard from the phone, and the woman leaned slightly forward, her body tense as a rod.

The man looked up and spoke to the microphone. Nexus, he wants to know why you aren't picking up.

The secure connection doesn't allow it from this device! Tell him that, and tell him the mission was a success.

He says he hears you. The man's eyes widened. He also says to break everything down. Immediately.

"Everything?" came a surprised voice over the speakers.

The young man looked terrified as he recited. "Yes, everything! All queued missions are aborted. All assets to go underground. Maximal threat. He's says you'll know what to do. He stared at the phone and put it on the desk in front of him. He pulled his hand back like the device might burn him. He hung up."

What else did he say? asked Nexus.

That it's the worst. More confirmed kills. And...and that the program may be terminated.

There was a long silence in the van broken only by the tense breathing of the occupants. The woman leaned over to the microphone. Nexus?

Lophius is the boss. We're no longer on offense, people. Time to circle the wagons and hope to God we weather this storm. Neither person in the van spoke. Do as he says! Break it down and disappear. You're on your own until we contact you again.

What do we do until then? asked the man, a bewildered look in his eyes.

See if you can manage to stay alive.

Static broke out over the speakers. The voice did not speak again.

3

Bringing Guns

Miguel Lopez tossed clothes and other items into a duffle bag almost violently, tearing shirts and pants out of the closet, ignoring his wife's pleading .

Miguel, please! she shouted, following behind him as he darted to the drawers, continuing to throw things into the two bags open on the bed.

What's going on? Dear God, Miguel, talk to me!

He bent over and zipped one of the bags, his athletic frame moving in a fluid motion. He paused and turned his head toward her, speaking softly. There isn't time, Maria.

Isn't time? she asked incredulously. He resumed his frenzied packing. Isn't time to tell me why you've suddenly gone crazy on me? Packing up like you're leaving me? Is that it, Miguel? Are you leaving me? Is there someone else? Tears flowed over her cheeks as she began to cry.

I wish it were that simple.

She stared at him, half crazed. "Simple as leaving me for another woman? What on Earth are you talking about, Miguel? You can't do this!"

Yes! he shouted, silencing her with a look of such intensity that she felt estranged from him, as if another, far more threatening man than her husband occupied the same flesh. "Yes, Maria, I can. I must. I'm sorry. God knows, I'm sorry for so much."

Shaking her head slowly, she backed out of the room. Crossing the threshold of the doorway, she turned and ran down the hall. She's flooded, thought Lopez as he multitasked, zipping shut the second bag, turning, and closing his bedroom door. Quickly, he stepped into the closet, reached above the upper shelf, and removed a wooden panel in the wall. Reaching into the open space, he pulled out an unusually wide briefcase, rotated it, and dropped it on the bed.

Kneeling down, he entered a combination and popped the case open. Inside, metallic surfaces glinted, reflecting the lights of the room. Two weapons occupied the lower portion of the briefcase, gleaming in the black velvet. On the right was a standard government-issue Glock .40 caliber: a lightweight, polymer-framed, workhorse firearm. On the left, occupying fully two-thirds of the case, was an MP5K submachine gun, less than five pounds, able to fire fifteen rounds a second up to twenty-five yards. Ammunition magazines were embedded in the upper side of the briefcase. He pulled out each weapon, checked them over quickly, and returned them to the case. They would have to do until he reached the safe house, until he was better equipped.

He stood up and turned back to the closet, reached again into the recessed hole in the wall, and removed a black shoulder holster. Behind it, sheathed in leather scabbards, were several large hunting knives. One would be enough.

Oh, my God.

His wife stood in the doorframe, her tear-stained face frozen as she stared at the open briefcase. Her lower lip trembled, and she sought his gaze. Their eyes locked, but he said nothing. Slinging the holster on, he fastened it tightly, removed the Glock, slapped a magazine into place, and holstered the weapon.

Miguel, who were those men? Her voice was flat, emotionless.

He turned back toward the briefcase and closed it. He picked up a light jacket from the bed and slipped it on, concealing his firearm.

"Those men you were reading about yesterday, Miguel. In the paper! Her voice jumped in pitch and tone. I saw you reading the article. You just froze on the photograph. And then–this! Who were they, Miguel? Oh God! Why are you taking guns?"

He slung one bag over his shoulder, grabbed the other in his right hand, and took the briefcase in his left. Moving toward the door, she stood in front of him, blocking the way.

Not like this, Miguel. You can't just leave like this. Again tears were forming in her eyes. "What will I tell the girls? Please! They'll be back from school in an hour!"

I love you, Maria, he said, his eyes toward the ground. Tell the girls I love them, too.

Grimacing, he brushed her aside and moved quickly down the hallway.

"Miguel!" came her low and agonizing cry. The primitive call dragged on as he walked out of the house, scratching into his mind as he approached a black four-wheel drive SUV.

The door squeaked open and then slammed shut, and Maria Lopez sank slowly to the floor against the wall, weeping uncontrollably. Outside, the SUV coughed, the engine turned, and her husband screeched out of their driveway and down the road.

4

Black Ops

Father Francisco Lopez placed the chalk down by the blackboard and dusted off his hands. Diagrams of regular three-dimensional solids decorated the board, along with several neatly written equations. He placed his hands on the back of the desk chair and looked out toward the students in his class .

Make sure that you have the right limits on these – remember, the idea is that the volume of the solid will be swept out by the two-dimensional surface that runs through its length. In this example, of course, it's a circle running through the length of the cylinder. Some of the other shapes might be a little more tricky.

Students shifted restlessly in their seats. Few eyes were turned toward him.

Any questions? He scanned the young faces of his classroom. There was only silence. Fine. No questions either meant he was a rare genius lecturer or they were tuned out. With a suppressed sigh, he assumed the latter—surfing the net on