LOST AND LETHAL Read online

  Exiting the bathroom, she walked to a small black gear bag atop the bureau. She unzipped it, removed a Beretta 96A1 semi-automatic pistol, released the 12-round magazine loaded with .40 caliber hollow points, inspected it, reinserted it, made sure the weapon was safe and then set it aside.

  Next, she removed a little Glock 26—aka “Baby Glock”—semi-automatic pistol, released the 10-round magazine loaded with 9mm cartridges, inspected it, reinserted it, made sure the weapon was safe and set it aside.

  Next, she removed two spare loaded magazines for the Berretta and one for the Glock. She inspected all three and set them aside.

  Lastly, she removed a black carbon fiber SOB—small of the back—holster for the Beretta, placed the weapon in the holster, and placed the holster back into the bag. She laid the Glock back in the bag next, followed by all the spare mags, zipped up the bag, slung it over her left shoulder, and moved toward the bedroom door.

  She paused in the doorway, turned, and moved back over to her phone on the nightstand. As per instructions, it would not be going with her. She picked it up and swiped to the photo of a pretty 11-year-old girl wearing a white dress with pink flowers on it. The girl also wore a pink bow in her hair. And her big smile revealed braces on her teeth. A caption on the photo read:

  First day at my new school!

  Molka held the phone screen to her heart.

  This is all for you, my little Janetta.

  Molka exited the mansion’s large rear glass door, crossed the pool deck, and stepped out onto the darkened, manicured emerald grass behind the estate.

  Morning dew wetted her boot’s toes. About 100 meters ahead, the Cessna 350 aircraft waited, illuminated by a large LED light bank mounted on a white pickup truck parked beside it. Both gull-wing doors on the aircraft were open, and the engine cover had been removed. Uri—dressed casually in a light blue windbreaker over a red polo shirt, jeans, and white sneakers—stood beside a green coveralls wearing man observing the engine.

  Molka arrived at the aircraft, ignored. Uri and the coveralls man conversed in Hebrew: something about aspiration and derated power.

  Fifty meters beyond the aircraft, two other green coveralls wearing men worked to place small lit LED lanterns in the grass at intervals. Runway lights?

  A larger, white gear bag laid beside the aircraft’s right fixed, underwing landing gear. Molka unslung her bag, laid it on the grass, crouched beside the white gear bag, unzipped it, and inventoried the contents: a black satellite phone, a spare battery for the phone, black military-grade Steiner binoculars with an attached neck strap, a military-style entrenching tool folded into its black nylon carrying case, a first-aid kit in a red zippered case, 24 bottled waters, two 12-count boxes of protein bars, two boxes of wet wipes, and a thick sealed envelope she knew from her briefing tablet contained 2000 Turkish Lira in task expense cash.

  Uri turned away from his conversation and addressed her. “That’s our joint gear bag. It will be stored in the baggage compartment here.” He opened a small hatch behind the left-side door to expose a compartment behind the rear seats. “Our individual gear bags go in there too. I taped a zippered case containing our passports under the right-side seat.”

  Molka nodded. “Alright.”

  “If you need to take a final pee or whatever, you still have time. But when you hear me start the engine, that’s the five minutes until departure warning.”

  She nodded. “Ok.”

  Uri resumed his conversation with the green coveralls man.

  Molka picked up her gear bag, moved to the baggage compartment hatch, and placed her bag inside next to another black gear bag identical to hers—probably Uri’s.

  She walked around behind the right wing and used a retractable footstep to climb onto it and into the cockpit for a look of where she would sit.

  Tight fit. Upfront were two high-back gray vinyl seats—split by a console—with a flight control joystick mounted next to each. And besides three gauges on the pilot’s side, the instrument panel was all digital avionics.

  The rear cabin featured two high-back gray vinyl seats side-by-side.

  With nothing else to see—including a bag holding a watertight case with four-million Turkish Lira—Molka climbed back out of the aircraft and down onto the grass.

  The white pickup truck with the light bank also carried a portable black fuel bladder in the rear, and the coveralls man attached a hose to it presumably to top off the aircraft’s tanks.

  Molka observed.

  Uri zipped up the white gear bag and placed it in the baggage compartment.

  Molka checked her watch: 3:46AM. They should be able to leave right on time.

  She glanced at movement behind her. Azzur approached wearing his fashionable brown leather jacket. He carried a box-shaped, dark-colored duffle bag in his right hand. The orange glow from a lit cigarette fronted his face.

  Molka bolted and ran toward him.

  Azzur halted 50 meters away, placed the duffle bag on the grass, and watched Molka’s fast approach.

  Molka pulled up her run and stopped before Azzur.

  Azzur frowned at her. “I suggest you skip your morning cardio regimen and conserve your energy for the long day you have ahead of you.”

  “I wasn’t doing cardio. I was running to warn you not to bring a lit cigarette anywhere near aviation fuel fumes.”

  Azzur blew smoke. “You studied and committed your instructions to memory?”

  “Yes.”

  He pointed down at the dark blue duffle bag. “I now place the money into your custody.”

  Molka grinned. “You say that as though you’re nervous about it. But like I said, no worries, I’m not going to steal it. Or let Uri steal it, either.”

  “I am not concerned about that.” Azzur looked past Molka and viewed the aircraft. The coveralls man had finished fueling and worked to replace the engine cover, and Uri sat in the pilot’s seat.

  Azzur’s eyes moved back to Molka. “I am concerned you still may have doubts about Uri. Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then understand Uri has his instructions too, and he understands his main job is to get you in and get you out. I have every confidence in his abilities to do so. And you should too.”

  Molka shrugged. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  The Cessna’s engine started, growled, and idled at a smooth purr.

  Azzur consulted his watch and raised his voice above the noise. “A final word. I do not anticipate any significant problems with this task. However, every operation will incur at least some minor difficulties, and Uri will undoubtedly offer you a myriad of solutions for them. Listen to him respectfully, but do not commit yourself, or the task, to his suggestions. Instead, I want you to consult with Tariq and defer to Tariq’s judgment. Consider him in charge of the ground operation in Turkey. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Molka said.

  “I will see you back here tomorrow with Ibis.”

  “Alright. I’ll do my best.”

  Molka waited for wishes of good luck or a final encouraging word that she would do fine on her first task.

  But Azzur just turned and headed back toward the mansion.

  Molka lifted the somewhat weighty duffle bag, slung it over her right shoulder, and jogged toward the aircraft.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Military Base

  Four Kilometers South of Turkey’s Southeastern Border

  Wednesday, 4:11AM

  Jäger—still dressed in his classy dark blue restaurant owner suit—entered the base’s briefing room.

  The space featured pale green walls, a wall-mounted monitor, and a large wall-mounted regional map at the room’s front, rows of chairs in the room’s center, and an occupied couch against the room’s back wall.

  The couch’s occupier was a very tall, late-30s, white male snoring on his back. He wore only white undershorts on a body builder-like frame and possessed a legitimate full red beard and legitimate short red h
air.

  Jäger moved across the room, stood over the man, and yelled in German: “On your feet, Sergeant Fuchs!”

  Fuchs startled awake and sprung up in his seat. “Yes, sir!” His shiny reddish-brown eyes focused on Jäger. He smiled and spoke in German. “Hello, captain.”

  Jäger smiled. “Hello, Ernst.”

  Fuchs rose and towered a full head over Jäger.

  The men engaged in an Alpha male embrace with lots of solid back slapping.

  Fuchs pushed Jäger away and inspected his suit. “So it’s tailored suits now?”

  Jäger stroked his lapels. “Custom made, actually?”

  Fuchs made an exaggerated bow. “Oh, I beg your pardon, your lordship.”

  “Why are you sleeping in here? They didn’t offer you a bed?”

  “They cleared a bed for me in the barracks. But I declined, of course.”

  Jäger nodded. “Of course.”

  Fuchs sat on the couch’s edge, reached under it, and pulled out a dark green, purse-sized zippered case. He unzipped the case and removed a wooden tobacco pipe—with the bowl hand carved into a fox head—a leather tobacco pouch, and a small, silver metal, butane lighter.

  Jäger grimaced. “You’re not still smoking that malodorous thing?”

  Fuchs opened the pouch and began packing the pipe. “Better this than your vile chewing tobacco.”

  Jäger spun one of the room’s audience chairs to face Fuchs and sat. “I gave that up last year.”

  “Then you have fully transformed into a proper civilized gentleman.” Fuchs put the pipe in his lips. “You have my sympathies.” He lit the pipe, puffed, and viewed Jäger. “I was very surprised when they told me you were coming. You vehemently swore off this life, as I recall. Bored with the restaurant business already, are you?”

  “Let me just say they gave me no choice.”

  “Care to elaborate on that?”

  Jäger smiled. “Not at this time. But I am surprised to see you here too. You told me you were living extra-large in the Netherlands.”

  “I was. The pay was great, the food good, and Amsterdam is not the worst place in the world to live for many reasons.” Fuchs puffed his pipe again.

  “However?” Jäger said.

  “However, when I was approached about this job, it occurred to me that babysitting a bunch of rich spoiled brat princesses and princes was unworthy of my talents and training.” Fuchs’ face hardened on Jäger. “And that I left the special forces much too soon.”

  “Have you been briefed?” Jäger said.

  “Only who the target is and how much they will pay me. They said you will fill in the details. And the first thing I want to know is what did that cagy old bastard do to get us after him?”

  “He had a falling out with the regime and decided it was time to take his leave. He slipped across the border into Turkey last night. They want us to bring him back.”

  “He slipped across the border near here?” Fuchs said.

  “Very near. We will actually use the same remote crossing point he did.”

  “I was wondering why we’re staging from in the middle of nowhere. Do we have any idea where he’s at now?”

  “We do.” Jäger stood and walked to the room’s front and the wall-mounted map of Turkey.

  Fuchs rose and followed him.

  Jäger viewed the map. “The target is under the protection of a local warlord named Zoran the Great based in the town of Mucize.” He pointed to Mucize on the map. “Less than 25 kilometers from here.”

  “Zoran the Great.” Fuchs puffed his pipe. “I’ve heard of him. He and his men kicked some serious ass in the terrorist war.”

  “Yes. And now he rules over a semi-autonomous region with his fighters. The target will remain with Zoran the Great until he can arrange to leave Turkey without the Turks knowing.”

  “And why can’t the Turks know?”

  “Our employers do not want the world to know about the target’s embarrassing defection.”

  “Understood,” Fuchs said. “What’s the target’s departure plan?”

  “That has not been confirmed yet, but they believe he will contact the Americans and then be extracted to the US airbase in Izmir, Turkey before being spirited out of the country without the Turks knowing about that either.”

  “Makes sense.” Fuchs used his pipe to point to Izmir on the map. “I’m sure that installation is also home to a significant US intelligence presence. But it’s, what…over 1,500 kilometers away from Mucize? One hell of a covert extraction, even for the Americans.”

  “True. It could be done though.”

  “How much time do we have before they do?”

  “Not enough,” Jäger said. “But be where your enemy is not, as we will have the advantage of already being on the ground where the target is located and access to some intel the Americans will not have just yet.”

  “If we’re going to take him away from Zoran the Great, I hope we have some help.”

  “We will. Our employers have secured us local assistance in the form of Rivin and his men.”

  “Who’s Rivin?” Fuchs said.

  “He leads what our American PMC colleagues would call a cowboy outfit. About 100 well-equipped, well-armed men. He’s based here.” Jäger pointed to another spot on the map. “Just outside of Zoran the Great’s domain in a 1300-year-old fortress he calls ‘The Red Lion’s Den.’”

  Jäger removed his phone from his jacket and scrolled to the photo of a large, thick-walled, reddish colored, ancient-looking fortress atop a rocky hill.

  Fuchs viewed the image. “Definitely a very formidable looking fortification. Why does he call it ‘The Red Lion’s Den?’”

  “Because he calls himself ‘The Red Lion.’”

  “And what does Rivin ‘The Red Lion’ and his men do from that fortress?”

  “A little smuggling, a little stealing from smugglers, and a lot of stealing anything else of value they find. But what Rivin really loves to do—which makes him even more useful to us—is fuck with Zoran the Great.”

  Fuchs puffed his pipe. “I don’t think Zoran the Great is a man to be fucked with in his own domain.”

  “I agree,” Jäger said.

  “Then what’s our plan?”

  “I will explain our options when I wake up. First, I would like to borrow your couch for a nap. We will be escorted to the border crossing point just after sunrise. How rested are you?”

  Fuchs shrugged. “Pretty much been sleeping since I got here.”

  “They have the gear I requested and a vehicle for us waiting here. Go now and inspect everything and wake and report to me in two hours.”

  “Yes, captain. I’ll get dressed and get right on it.” Fuchs moved back toward the couch.

  Jäger called after him. “Ernst.”

  Fuchs stopped and turned. “Yes, captain?”

  Jäger smiled. “It is good to be back on the hunt with you.”

  PROJECT MOLKA: TASK 1

  WEDNESDAY

  5:00AM

  CHAPTER 10

  For the flight’s first 60 minutes, Uri did not speak a word into his headset microphone in the darkened cockpit as he monitored instruments and flew a low, circuitous, easterly route over the Mediterranean north of the Cypriot coastline.

  Without being told, Molka understood he worked to evade the air traffic control radar and air traffic on an officially non-existent flight.

  She kept quiet on her headset microphone as he did his job.

  But when Cyprus faded into the predawn behind them, and the lights on the coasts of Turkey and Syria appeared before them, Uri engaged the autopilot, relaxed his shoulders, and smiled over at Molka. “I did it. The hardest part is over.”

  “Ok,” Molka said. “Sounds good.”

  “So…what did you think of Cyprus?”

  She shrugged. “What little I saw of it seemed nice.”

  “First visit?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not a big fan
of the place. I was there once before on vacation with my ex-wife. Maybe that’s what put me off. It’s a divided country. In the 70s, the Turks invaded and occupied the northern section and created the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. Of course, the Turks are the only ones who recognize the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus as legitimate. They closed off the border, too, for decades. But now—”

  Molka interrupted. “But in recent years, they’ve opened the border back up to the point where you can go back and forth fairly easily with a passport. I learned all about that in high school.”

  “Oh. And did you get a chance to attend university too?”

  “Yes. And I graduated. I also went back and graduated from veterinary medicine school.”

  “Really?” Uri said. “I thought that veterinarian cover story was just part of your legend to enter Cyprus. I guess we’ve entered the get-to-know-each-other portion of the task.”

  “We have?”

  “I’ll start. My grandfather, father, and uncle were all pilots who saw combat in the wars.”

  “Did they?” Molka said. “Interesting, because my Uncle Eli flew combat missions in the wars too. Helicopters.”

  “But my family members were all top ace fighter pilots. Our family name is famous in the air force, and ever since I was born, all I wanted to do is follow in the family footsteps. My father taught me to fly when I was seven years old. I got my Private Pilot License as soon as I turned 17. And I worked hard to excel in my studies so I would be eligible to apply to the air force flight academy. And I was accepted.”

  “Then, right before I was due to report for basic training, a group of friends and I went down to Eilat for one last party weekend. You know, stupid kid stuff. While we were there, I crashed on a scooter and fractured two vertebrae in my back. That put my entrance into the academy on indefinite hold.”

  “That’s too bad,” Molka said.

  Uri continued. “I had surgery and rehabbed like a maniac for months until four separate top orthopedic surgeons declared me as 100 percent healthy. I just had to be cleared by an air force doctor, which was supposed to be a formality. But after he looked at my x-rays, he wrote a report that said, ‘out of an abundance of caution, the applicant should be disqualified from flight training.’ I mean, really? No consideration was even given to my family’s famous name within the air force or my rightful destiny to carry that legacy on.”