24: Trial by Fire E-Book

Dayton Ward

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 514

Beschreibung

1994: Tateos Gadjoyan, an Armenian arms merchant, has been a target of the Central Intelligence Agency for years. Efforts to thwart his selling of American military weapons to terrorists and other enemies of the United States have been unsuccessful. Now, after months of careful planning, two undercover agents have infiltrated Gadjoyan's inner circle. Soon, they will have sufficient evidence to seize the arms dealer and remove a clear and present danger.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chronological Note

01

02

03

04

05

06

07

08

09

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

Also available from Titan Books:

24: Deadline by James Swallow

24: Rogue by David Mack

24: Trial By FirePrint edition ISBN: 9781783296477E-book edition ISBN: 9781783296484

Published ByTitan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.144 Southwark StreetLondonSE1 0UP

First edition August 201610 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

24 ™ & © 2016 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation.All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For my wife, Michi,who always keeps me focused onthe prize,even when the clock’s tickingand I’m saying “Damn it!” a lot

CHRONOLOGICAL NOTE

The following takes place approximately six years before Operation Nightfall, and eight years prior to the events that transpire during the California presidential primary elections.

(24: “Day 1”)

01

“Someone’s coming. Keep your eyes open, and be ready for anything.”

Hearing the warning in the wireless receiver inserted into her right ear, Amorah Banovich saw the headlights pushing aside the darkness and beginning to illuminate the top of a small rise to her left. The still night air had already allowed her to pick up the faint sounds of at least two vehicle engines making their way up the service road. Pulling back from the scope of her Dragunov sniper rifle, Banovich watched as a dark Toyota Land Cruiser crested a hill at the far end of the compound, navigating the narrow, poorly maintained road that snaked between the rows of dilapidated warehouses. Behind the SUV was a larger vehicle, a nondescript white cargo truck. The beams of their headlights swept across the walls of the low-rise buildings at the far end of the compound, and the whines of their engines were punctuated by the crunching of tires crossing dirt and uneven gravel.

“Damn this heat,” she whispered, pulling her right hand from the Dragunov’s stock so that she could wipe perspiration from the side of her face. The thick, warm air that was characteristic of summers here was just one of the many things she hated about this irritating sliver of an island, and made her long for the more temperate climate of Prague. It wasn’t the first time that an assignment had brought Banovich to Okinawa, and she loathed every occasion that required her to travel to this part of the world. Even now, nearly two hours before the first hints of sunrise began painting the sky, the humidity was uncomfortable and on its way toward oppressive despite the light breeze wafting in from the ocean to her back.

She sighed. More than a soothing shower or just a simple bottle of water, what Banovich wanted right now was a cigarette, but the time for that had passed. Lighting up now would serve only to mark her position as she lay in the tall grass overlooking the compound from its west end. The small rise was one of the few spots not illuminated by lights from nearby Naha, the island’s capital city, and allowed her sniper’s perch to remain cloaked in darkness. This was the intention, of course, as she and her partner, along with two other men, were providing perimeter cover. Below them, Banovich could see four figures standing at the center of an open compound in front of a dull white Toyota sedan of the sort that seemed to account for 90 percent of the cars on Okinawa. The Toyota and all four men were within the halo of light cast by the lone lamp situated at the periphery of the dull brown-gray dirt-and-gravel lot between the clusters of warehouses. Behind them sat a white cargo truck of a type similar to the one currently approaching the compound.

“Two vehicles coming your way,” Banovich said into the microphone positioned near her mouth and connected to her earpiece. “SUV in front, followed by a panel truck. No way to know how many men might be in the truck.”

“Perhaps a dozen, altogether,” replied the voice of Grisha Zherdev, the group’s leader. Banovich watched him and his three companions turning toward the approaching vehicles. “It’s a good thing I have you watching my back.”

Banovich almost thought she could hear him smiling as he offered the second comment.

Resuming her position behind the Dragunov, she closed her left eye and peered through the sniper rifle’s scope at the approaching vehicles. The SUV’s windows were tinted, but the headlights from the cargo truck were sufficient to illuminate the lead car’s interior so that she could count four heads. Her finger stroked the rifle’s trigger. It would be so easy to kill the driver even from this distance, but that wasn’t her mission; at least, not yet. Taking action against the newcomers might well become necessary, but that hinged on what they chose to do in the next few minutes.

Banovich forced herself to remain still as the vehicles made their way over a final small hump in the dirt road and entered the compound, the cargo truck bouncing on the path’s worn, uneven surface. The first vehicle’s headlights played across Zherdev and the others as the new arrivals began to close the distance across the open expanse separating the warehouse buildings.

“All right, people,” said Zherdev over the open channel, “stay alert. I don’t want any surprises.”

“Got it.” Pulling back once more from the sight, Banovich glanced to the still figure lying prone in the grass to her left. Despite the heat, the man was dressed in dark clothing including a heavy jacket, gloves, and a wool cap that concealed his blond hair. He hadn’t moved since they had taken up position on the rise, his attention fixed on the compound below as he peered through the scope of the sniper’s rifle that was a match for her Dragunov. In the few months she had known him, she had come to learn that his reserved manner belied a singular focus on whatever commanded his attention at any given moment. He approached every task with deliberation and a quiet intensity that she found—among other things—alluring. This strength of purpose had served him well during his brief tenure as a member of Zherdev’s team.

“You ready, Stefan?”

* * *

So absorbed was his attention on the approaching vehicles that it took Jack Bauer an extra moment to realize Amorah Banovich was calling him by his cover name. Turning his head from the scope mounted to the top of his rifle, Jack saw her staring at him, an expression of concern gracing her soft features. Like him, she was dressed in dark clothing that helped them blend into the hillside where they had taken up their positions. Her brown hair was pulled away from her face, knotted in a ponytail that rested across her left shoulder.

“I said, are you ready?” she asked, her voice low but still audible.

Trying to split his attention between Banovich and the oncoming vehicles, Jack nodded. “Yeah.” Despite his composed demeanor, his pulse was racing and it required effort to keep his breathing under control. He was irritated with himself for allowing fear and uncertainty to gain any sort of foothold on his emotions. Why was he so damned nervous?

Because there are so many things that can go wrong?

“I only see the two vehicles,” he remarked, keeping his voice low as he employed the thick Russian accent that was part of his cover. “Think they’re alone?”

Banovich shook her head. “No.”

“Me, neither.” Even though no one in the compound was likely to hear them, Jack didn’t discount the possibility of the new arrivals having dispatched their own people into the area surrounding the warehouses to scout for security. In their position, he would do the same thing, and he had been on the lookout for anyone moving about on foot. So far, signs pointed to him and Banovich being alone here, and the other two-person team Grisha Zherdev had deployed to the compound’s opposite end had likewise reported no suspicious activity.

Meanwhile, Jack’s gut was telling him a different story.

Thanks to time spent serving with the U.S. Army’s Special Forces, and the Los Angeles Police Department, he was no rookie or stranger to hazardous situations. His skills and track record had smoothed his entry into the Central Intelligence Agency. Even though he technically was a “junior agent,” his prior experience and qualifications had allowed his mentors, Abigail Cohen and Bill Fields, to utilize him in a handful of high-profile operations. His personnel reviews reported him as an agent on the fast track for climbing the CIA hierarchy ladder. Cohen had remarked that his potential was unlimited if he maintained his current standard of performance.

All of that sounded nice, but at the moment, Jack’s main concern was surviving the day.

Through his rifle’s scope, he studied the cargo truck following the SUV. Its headlights washed across the side of a nearby warehouse, illuminating for a brief moment the truck cab’s interior. “Three in the truck’s cab,” he reported. “No telling how many in the back.”

“So, at least seven,” replied Banovich. “Maybe three or four with the cargo. Now I know they have backup somewhere. Keep your eyes open.”

For a moment, Jack pondered the odd circumstances that had brought him to the point of providing cover for criminals while they attempted to do business with a group of likeminded individuals. While it wasn’t the most bizarre situation in which Jack had ever found himself as a consequence of his job, he guessed it would end up ranking among the most memorable, assuming he lived long enough to reflect on the day’s events, or tell anyone else about it.

Jack’s present cover identity had taken months to establish. He was Stefan Voronov, a former soldier who, like so many others, had deserted the Russian military years ago while it was still recovering from the collapse of the Soviet Union. Abby Cohen and a team of specialists had worked out every key and seemingly insignificant detail of Voronov’s fabricated personal history, after which Jack and another agent, William Fields, had been positioned in Kiev, Ukraine. There supposedly were other agents embedded in other areas of Gadjoyan’s organization, but Jack had not been briefed on their activities or even their identities. Working independently, Fields and Bauer had secured employment as dockworkers with one of the freight companies that used the Dnieper River to transport goods to and from the city. The warehouses had been identified as a front; one of several businesses owned and operated by Tateos Gadjoyan, an Armenian arms dealer with interests across Europe.

The CIA had become aware of Gadjoyan and his activities thanks to his attempts to procure nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons of mass destruction. The mission given to Fields and Jack had been simple, if dangerous: find a way to infiltrate Gadjoyan’s organization and collect any information that could be used to expose his criminal enterprise. This required both agents to play the game of landing jobs at the dockside warehouse and doing whatever menial, mundane tasks might be required of a new hire at the bottom of the ladder. Fields had been working at the freight company for almost two months, while Jack had hired on three weeks later. Both agents kept their ears and eyes open and their heads down as they attempted to gather intel. It largely had been a fruitless endeavor, given Gadjoyan’s penchant for maintaining a heavy veil of secrecy separating his legitimate business dealings from his illicit activities.

A fortunate opportunity to move up presented itself when Jack had observed two other dockworkers attempting to sneak a large packing crate from the warehouse. Jack and another man, Victor Dudin, who had been acting as his floor manager, intercepted the would-be robbers in the midst of loading the crate into a cargo van. In the ensuing scuffle, the crate fell from the van onto the concrete, splitting open and revealing a consignment of what Jack had recognized as factory-fresh AK-74M assault rifles, each boasting its own GP-34 grenade launcher. Under Dudin’s direction, he and Jack collected the weapons and returned them to the warehouse before Dudin reported the incident to his supervisor, Grisha Zherdev.

As reward for their quick thinking, loyalty, and honesty, both Dudin and Jack were “promoted” and moved to another part of the warehouse under Zherdev’s direct supervision. It was there that Jack, now working like Bill Fields as a security man and handler of whatever other jobs Zherdev had for him, got his first peek into the inner workings of Tateos Gadjoyan’s criminal empire. Though his role was small and peripheral, Jack still was able to observe all manner of activities as well as the comings and goings of Gadjoyan’s “business associates.” This information was relayed at sporadic intervals to Abby Cohen, who was acting as Fields’ and Jack’s handler.

“Here we go,” said Zherdev, his voice sounding small and distant to Jack as it filtered through his earpiece. Down in the compound, the SUV and its trailing cargo truck were slowing, several meters from where the Russian and his three companions stood. Zherdev sounded cool and composed, as was his nature. In the short time Jack had known him, Grisha Zherdev had never so much as raised his voice in anger, let alone lashed out the way Jack had seen other members of Gadjoyan’s inner circle behave. Instinct told Jack that this man had seen and experienced far more than a man of his age ought to have endured. Attempts at casual conversation had gotten him to talk in general, vague terms about his past service in the Ukrainian military. Beyond that, the man was a closed book, and even the agency’s attempts to provide Jack and Fields with any sort of useful information had come up dry.

“Grisha,” Jack heard Banovich say, “I don’t like this. Something doesn’t feel right.” The words echoed in his ear a heartbeat after she spoke them from where she lay in the grass ten feet from him.

“If everything felt right to you,” Zherdev replied, “you wouldn’t be doing your job. At the first sign of trouble, kill them all. Everyone else, wait for Amorah before you open fire.”

Swapping his rifle’s scope for a tactical monocular he pulled from his jacket’s inside pocket, Jack scanned the area surrounding the compound. Upon their arrival, he and Banovich, along with the other pair of men providing flank security for Zherdev, had performed a brief reconnoiter of the area. They had found nothing among any of the buildings and the grassy hills rising up from open field. This had done little to alleviate Jack’s incessant worry that all here wasn’t what it seemed. He knew almost nothing about the people with whom Zherdev was meeting, but the conversations he had overheard indicated that Tateos Gadjoyan trusted—at least, to a point—the people with whom Zherdev was here to do business. The two men likely were not friends, although Jack had learned that Gadjoyan and his Okinawan counterpart, an older man named Miroji Jimura, had conducted various dealings over the years. Each viewed the other as someone with whom doing business was beneficial. So long as that remained the case, Jack surmised, there should be no problem.

So, why is my gut giving me fits?

Wiping sweat from his face as he returned the monocular to his jacket pocket, Jack felt dampness under his arms and in the small of his back, and the unmistakable rush of adrenaline as the vehicles continued their approach. He settled himself once more behind the Dragunov, drawing a series of deep breaths as he aligned the rifle’s scope at the SUV. Through the reticule, he could see Bill Fields, operating under his alias of Levon Sarkisian, standing close to Zherdev. The senior agent looked calm and collected, like the seasoned professional Jack knew him to be. Meanwhile, Jack was sure he might throw up all over his rifle.

There was nothing to do but wait.

* * *

Standing behind Grisha Zherdev with two of the other men serving as Zherdev’s security detail, William Fields removed his hands from the pockets of his worn leather jacket and allowed his arms to hang loosely at his sides. He glanced to his left and right to see his companions mimicking his movements, each of them demonstrating that they held no weapons. They were armed, of course; Fields felt the press of the Glock pistol tucked into his waistband just inside his jacket’s left side. He wouldn’t hesitate to use it if circumstances warranted drawing the weapon, but his employer—rather, Levon Sarkisian’s employer—had vouched for the man on the other side of the deal that was about to take place.

It had taken more than a year of undercover work, preceded by months of covert surveillance and planning, for Fields to get to this point. Tateos Gadjoyan was an intelligent, deliberate man who left nothing to chance. Although the CIA’s monitoring of the man’s businesses and activities had provided much in the way of suspicion and allegation, the agency had been able to collect almost nothing in the way of actionable intelligence.

The investigation had gained considerable traction after an undercover asset already embedded within Gadjoyan’s organization was able to turn one of the arms dealer’s most trusted employees, Grisha Zherdev. This development carried with it such sensitivity that even Fields’ junior partner, Jack Bauer, was unaware of it, or even the existence of Daniel Boyce, the undercover CIA agent who had succeeded in converting Zherdev. Using this new advantage and assisted by Bauer, Fields had begun working toward the point of acquiring the final pieces of damning evidence that would allow the CIA to move against Gadjoyan. Their work, along with the support of dozens of agents around the world, might well see them reaching their goal here and now.

Here’s hoping.

Fields ignored the SUV and its headlights, which hadn’t yet been extinguished, instead focusing his gaze on the cargo truck as it pulled around the smaller vehicle. Its headlights washed over him and the rest of the group, and he forced himself not to squint or blink in response to their harsh glare. The truck circled around the front of the SUV before coming to a stop twenty meters in front of him, its rear door now facing in his direction.

Both doors on the truck’s cab opened, and Fields watched three men exit the vehicle and drop to the ground. One of the men who exited via the passenger side smacked the side of the truck’s cargo section with the flat of his hand. Fields saw the vehicle’s rear door raise open to reveal three men. They and their two companions from the SUV began spreading out, their eyes taking in the scene around them. None of them openly carried weapons, but Fields recognized the telltale bulges beneath shirts and jackets. The five men took up positions behind and to either side of their vehicles, each of them splitting their attention between Zherdev and his people and the rest of the compound. Only when they appeared to be in their predetermined positions did the doors of the other vehicle open.

Of the four men who exited the SUV, Fields recognized one from photos shown to him by Zherdev prior to leaving Prague. The lean, muscular man with black hair trimmed almost to his scalp was Kenta Sashida, a top lieutenant in Miroji Jimura’s employ. He was dressed in black cargo pants and a dark dress shirt with its top three buttons opened revealing a tanned chest and an intricate tattoo covering a significant portion of his exposed skin. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal his forearms, which also sported tattoos and a prominent scar running from his left elbow to his wrist. Another scar curved over his right eye, lending an intimidating air to his features.

Moving away from the SUV and the other men who had come with him, Sashida stepped closer to Zherdev, holding his hands away from his sides. “You’re Zherdev.”

“That’s right,” replied Zherdev. “And you’re Sashida.”

Fields knew that this was one of Jimura’s front men, overseeing any number of illicit enterprises. Only one of those interests concerned Zherdev at this moment.

The Okinawan smiled. “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”

“And you’re not nearly as pretty.” Zherdev smiled, as though to punctuate the remark’s teasing intent. With the preliminary introductions out of the way, he stepped forward, extending his right hand. Sashida took it and they shook, and Fields noted how each was now doing his best to prove to the other man the strength of his grip. Once that was finished, Zherdev gestured toward the cargo truck. “Looks like you came to do business.”

“Jimura-san does not like to waste time or resources,” replied Sashida. “I trust you are ready to complete this exchange, as well?”

Zherdev nodded. “Absolutely.” He gestured to Fields, and the two men exchanged meaningful glances. “Levon, get the package.”

“Yes, Mister Zherdev,” replied Fields. As he moved to the sedan’s trunk, he noted two of Sashida’s men wrestling with one of the crates from their cargo truck. The container was composed of a hardened plastic, with silver latches and hinges, and required both men to lower it to the ground. At Sashida’s direction, one of the men unfastened the latches and raised the container’s lid to reveal the crate’s contents.

“Very nice,” Zherdev said, offering an approving nod.

Fields studied the ten M16A2 assault rifles resting in padded cradles inside the case. Each looked as though it had just come from the factory, their blackened finishes offering only the slightest reflection of light from the nearby lamp.

“Five hundred, just like these,” said Sashida, indicating with a wave the cargo truck and the containers it held. “None of them have ever been fired.”

Fields forced a smile. “Impressive. How did you manage that?” He knew that the M16s, utilized by the United States military, were hard to come by due to rigid Japanese and Okinawan policies prohibiting the ownership of firearms in general and military weaponry in particular. That didn’t even begin to explain how Jimura had managed to infiltrate a U.S. military armory, either here on Okinawa or the Japanese mainland, or perhaps elsewhere.

“Jimura-san is a man of many talents,” replied Sashida, “and he has numerous friends who owe him favors.”

Turning at the sound of footsteps behind him, Fields saw another of Zherdev’s men approaching with a large bag constructed from black ballistic nylon. He took the bag and set it on the ground between Zherdev and Sashida before moving back to his original position, and Zherdev knelt to open the bag’s zipper. Reaching inside, he extracted a sealed packet of currency and proffered it to Sashida.

“Five hundred thousand dollars,” said Zherdev, “all American, as requested. I was told not to be offended if you chose to count it in front of me.”

This elicited a chuckle from Sashida. “And I was instructed not to count it.”

Rising to his feet, Zherdev once more extended his hand. “If all our exchanges are to be as pleasant as this one, I look forward to continuing our partnership.”

“I’d like that.” Sashida turned to one of his own men and directed him and the others to begin off-loading the crates from their truck. Both men watched in silence as the first of the containers was transferred between the two vehicles. After a few moments, Sashida returned his attention to Zherdev. “Getting these off the island will not be easy.”

Zherdev shrugged. “You have your miracles, and I have mine.”

In truth, Fields knew that under normal circumstances, getting the weapons away from Okinawa would prove challenging. However, money flowing into the proper pockets over at Naha Port would greatly simplify loading the illegal cargo aboard the ship waiting for them. The Konstantinov, an asset belonging to one of Tateos Gadjoyan’s shell companies, would be ready to leave port once Zherdev and his men returned with the consignment. Checking the watch strapped to his left wrist, Fields saw that it was 4:30. Dawn was just over an hour away, and he wanted to be gone from here and to the port before then.

The illuminated dial of his watch was the last thing William Fields saw before he heard the crack of a rifle firing from somewhere nearby.

* * *

“Son of a bitch!”

Jack’s eyes widened in shock and he only just remembered to speak with the proper accent as he saw the greater portion of Bill Fields’ head disappear in an explosion of blood and bone. He fell backward and everyone else, including the Okinawans, were scattering even before Fields’ body collapsed in a limp heap on the dirt and gravel. Weapons were pulled from jackets and beneath shirts as the men lunged for whatever might provide cover and concealment.

“It’s a double cross,” Jack said, gritting his teeth. He shifted his position and his rifle so that he could sight in on the Okinawan man who seemed to be the leader of his group. Before he could center the scope’s crosshairs on the other man’s chest, Jack watched his body jerk as multiple bullets struck him.

What the hell?

“Hold your fire,” said Amorah Banovich, to Jack and for the benefit of the other security team positioned above the compound. “It’s not us.”

“Who is it?” asked a new voice, belonging to Rauf Alkaev, Banovich’s counterpart on the other security team. “Where did they come from?”

Jack pulled his head up from his scope to see that everyone in the compound was under fire. Flashes high and to his left were coming from the hills to the east of the warehouses. Jack was sure he now saw movement among the shadows shrouding the buildings at that end of the yard. Weapons fire was also coming from the depot’s west flank, creating a vicious crossfire down in the compound itself. Zherdev’s men and the Okinawans were easy targets. One or two of the men—Jack couldn’t tell who—were making their way toward the four vehicles in obvious attempts to take cover or perhaps escape, but they had no chance. Within seconds, everyone down in the yard was lying unmoving on the ground.

“Somebody knew we were meeting here,” Jack said, feeling his heart pounding as though it might punch through his chest. For a wild moment, he considered the possibility that law enforcement—either Japan’s National Police Agency or the Self-Defense Forces, or perhaps even an American agency like the Naval Criminal Investigative Service—was behind the abrupt ambush, but he discarded those ideas. Law enforcement agents would sweep in to arrest everyone, not shoot them. Something else was going on here and now; something very, very wrong.

Shouts from somewhere in the distance drifted across the compound, and Jack could hear distinctive Japanese intonations. A moment later, he caught sight of figures moving along the hillside on both sides of the depot. He counted at least ten men, all of them dressed in dark clothing, emerging from concealment all around the yard.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he said, and before Banovich could offer a reply, he was keying his radio mic. “Alkaev, we’ve been set up. Pull back, now.”

“Acknowledged,” replied the other man over the open channel, but before his transmission ended Jack heard the snap of weapons fire echoing in his earpiece. The shots were followed by the sound of someone, likely Alkaev, shouting a warning.

Jack grunted with irritation and mounting anxiety. “Damn it!” Rising to a kneeling position, he reached for the Dragunov with his left hand as he pushed himself to his feet. “Amorah, come on, we’ve got to….”

Thirty feet away, beyond Banovich and almost cloaked in shadow, two figures moved.

02

“Amorah!”

Banovich heard his warning and looked in his direction, but Jack was already moving. Dropping the Dragunov, he threw himself to his left just as gunfire tore open the darkness atop the rise. He tucked his shoulder and hit the ground, rolling with practiced ease. Coming up on one knee, he drew the Glock 17 he carried in a holster beneath his left arm. The pistol, its threaded barrel fitted with a sound suppressor, cleared his jacket and he targeted the first man—an Okinawan—even as his assailants were reacting to his rapid movements. Two quick shots from the Glock drilled into the man’s chest. He staggered backward before falling out of sight, but Jack had moved on to searching for his partner. The second man had dropped to a crouch, carrying some kind of compact machine gun. It looked like a Heckler & Koch MP5, judging from its silhouette, though in the dark Jack couldn’t be certain.

All of this processed through Jack’s mind in the two seconds it took for him to acquire his new target. The Glock coughed twice again before the other man could raise his MP5, and one of the rounds took him just above his right eye. The man’s body seemed to waver for a moment, like a pennant caught in a soft breeze, before crumpling to the grass.

“Nice shooting,” said Banovich from behind him. Jack turned to see that she’d drawn her own suppressed Glock, wielding the pistol in a two-handed grip as she searched the immediate area for threats.

Stepping toward the first of the men he had killed, Jack kicked away the MP5 near the would-be assailant’s right hand. The Okinawan, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, was definitely dead. A pair of dark patches stained the man’s shirt, and his eyes were open and staring at the sky, seeing nothing. Crouching next to the body, Jack used his free hand to check the man’s pockets. They were empty.

“Come on, Stefan.” Banovich’s tone was one of warning, and when Jack looked up, he saw her gesturing toward the compound. Distant voices were just audible, and he thought he saw at least one of the new arrivals waving toward the rise where he and Banovich had set up their sniper positions. “We need to get out of here.” Pressing a hand to her right ear, she said into her radio mic, “Alkaev, are you there?”

A moment later, Alkaev replied, “We were attacked. Three men. Manish and I took care of them, but the others know where we are.”

Banovich released an annoyed grunt. “We’re leaving. Get clear and head to the safe house. We’ll figure out what to do once we’re all together.”

“What about the money or the weapons?”

“They’re gone. Just get moving. Steal a car if you have to, but get away from here, right now.”

“Understood.”

Kneeling beside the second of the dead Okinawans, Jack had completed rifling through the man’s pockets and found nothing. “Neither of these guys is carrying a wallet or any sort of ID.” For Banovich’s benefit, he added a rather picturesque Russian profanity to the end of the sentence.

“So what?” asked Banovich. “Stefan, we need to get out of here before they hem us in.”

“Don’t you want to know who set us up?” Jack gestured to the two bodies. “If these are Jimura’s men sent to kill us, then why’d they shoot their own men down there?” There was the not unrealistic possibility that some of Miroji Jimura’s employees may have decided to use tonight’s exchange as a means of going into business for themselves, taking advantage of the situation to secure money and merchandise. However, that presupposed Jimura had allowed men of questionable loyalty to advance within his organization while being oblivious to their own contradictory motives. From what Jack had learned about the aged Okinawan businessman, that didn’t seem a likely scenario.

“All I know is that we’re screwed out of our money and our guns,” Banovich countered, “and if we don’t get the hell out of here, we’re done. We need to go, Stefan. Right now.”

She was right, but Jack couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to what had just gone down here than a simple double cross among Jimura’s men. Had Zherdev and his people, Jack included, stumbled into some kind of turf war? There were several possibilities, and his cop’s brain was already working overtime trying to make sense of it all. His thoughts were clouded by the haunting image of his friend being murdered before his eyes.

Move your ass, Bauer.

Keeping low and using the tall grass for cover, Jack followed as Banovich led the way from their makeshift sniper’s nest and deeper into the darkness surrounding the compound. At least some of the voices he heard coming from the yard moments ago were closer, now, but Jack so far had seen no indications of anyone in their immediate vicinity. Still, people in the compound would be missing the men sent to deal with him, Banovich, and the other perimeter security team.

It took several minutes spent moving with deliberate care before Jack and Banovich made their way to a staging area for warehouse pallets, shipping containers, and other detritus. Most of the dumping ground remained shrouded in darkness, offering a decent view of the compound. Once more using his monocular, Jack scanned the yard, watching as men returned a pair of cargo containers to the truck Jimura’s men had brought to the exchange. Another man retrieved the black satchel Jack knew had contained the money Zherdev had brought as payment for the weapons consignment. Scattered around the vehicles were the bodies of Zherdev and his people, and the Okinawans who had met them.

Jack’s stomach twisted as his gaze fell upon the body of William Fields.

Damn it. Bill, I’m so sorry.

“Gadjoyan is going to be pissed,” said Banovich, keeping her voice low. “He’ll send an army back here to bring Jimura to him.”

Jack nodded in agreement. Tateos Gadjoyan’s reputation as a ruthless enforcer of his own rules and policies was one of the things that had stood out in the intelligence reports Jack had read prior to going undercover. Even more unforgiving was his treatment of those he perceived to have wronged him, whether enemy or betrayer from within his own organization. Appeals for leniency usually fell on deaf ears. Miroji Jimura, if indeed he had betrayed Gadjoyan today, would die, but only after living long enough that every breath he took gave voice to his own desperate pleas for death.

The sound of something—fabric, perhaps—rubbing against wood made Jack flinch, and he grabbed Banovich’s arm. With his other hand, he put a finger to his lips, telling her to remain silent. He could see from her expression that she also had heard the sound, and now Jack could make out other movements behind the stack of pallets they were using as cover. Banovich said nothing as she holstered her Glock, shifting her position so that she faced away from him. A shadow flickered across an adjacent stack of pallets, and Jack saw a glint of light on metal. It was the short barrel of another MP5 submachine gun. The man was advancing slowly and with deliberate purpose, checking corners and shadows, but Jack could see from his movements that he wasn’t certain where his quarry might be hiding.

Before Jack could even think to stop her, Banovich lunged forward, timing her strike with skilled precision just as the man, another Okinawan, stepped into view. A lightning-quick blow with the edge of her left hand found the man’s throat and he gasped in surprise and pain. Giving him no chance to react or retaliate, Banovich followed her initial strike with a knee to his groin. That was more than enough to incapacitate him for the seconds she needed to pull the MP5 from his grip. The man raised his arms in a feeble effort to defend himself. Banovich deflected the attempt and punched him in the face. He dropped backward to the ground, releasing a single long groan of pain before his arms fell across his chest and his eyes closed. A trickle of blood was visible from his left nostril.

“Damn,” Jack said, nodding with approval as he moved forward to frisk the unconscious man. “Nice moves.” He knew that Banovich could handle herself, but aside from kickboxing in the gym, this was the first time he had seen her in action against a real opponent. From studying her in the ring, he had guessed her fighting style to be a mixture of at least two forms of martial arts, some military unarmed combat training, and the sort of aggressive, dirty tactics one acquired the hard way in bars and the streets. For someone who knew what they were doing, it was an effective combination, and damned fun to watch.

The man mumbled something incomprehensible, and Jack knelt beside him and slapped his face. “Hey, wake up,” he snapped, punctuating the command with another smack to the man’s cheek. “I said wake up.” When the man’s eyes opened, Jack made sure the first thing they saw was the muzzle of his pistol hovering an inch above his face.

“Who do you work for?” Jack asked. “Jimura? Did he set us up?” When the man only stared past the Glock’s muzzle and up at him, Jack scowled. “I asked you a question.” Again, the man said nothing.

“Let’s go, Stefan,” said Banovich. “They’ll have this whole area cordoned off before too long, assuming they don’t already. Kill him and let’s get out of here.”

Jack shook his head. “No. This guy’s going to tell us who his boss is, and where we can get our money and our weapons.” When Banovich protested, he added, “We can’t go back to Gadjoyan empty-handed.” With his free hand, he grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt and yanked him to his feet. “This guy’s going to help us get back what belongs to us.” Nodding toward the compound, he added, “Besides, I’m betting he can get us out of here without being spotted by his buddies. Then, we’ll have a little chat.”

“I don’t know anything.” Despite his defiant expression, Jack heard the fear in the man’s first spoken words, and noted the anxiety in his eyes.

“We’ll see about that.”

In truth, Jack didn’t care about the lost money or weapons consignment. What he wanted was information about Miroji Jimura, and whether he warranted greater scrutiny on the part of the CIA. While it was true that there was an open case file for the aged Okinawan arms dealer, his actions to date had been deemed too small and isolated to deserve the degree of attention given to other, higher-profile targets in Europe and the Middle East. For the moment, Jack’s options for obtaining decent intel were limited, but the man he now held at gunpoint might prove useful.

I guess we’ll see.

* * *

“Jimura-san.”

Miroji Jimura had been awake and alert from the instant the panel closing off his bedroom had begun to slide open. He had heard the familiar footsteps of his assistant, Akina Hamamoto, crossing the teak floor with such grace that not a single board squeaked beneath her bare feet. The feather-light touch of her arm was enough to tell him that she was reluctant to disturb him, but the fact that she was here meant that something of great urgency had brought her to him.

“Akina,” said Jimura, his voice low and raspy. Sitting up on his shikibuton, he pushed aside the cream-colored silk sheets and accompanying blanket Hamamoto had obviously thrown across him at some point during the night. Glancing through the open window, he noted that it was still dark. He suppressed a cough that rattled him, feeling the fluid in his lungs. At least the headache had ebbed from the previous evening, though he knew it would return in due course. “What time is it?”

“Almost five thirty,” Hamamoto replied, and her expression communicated her unease at having wakened him. “I apologize, but something has happened and Yeager-san needs to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”

Reaching for the glass of water resting on the table next to his bed, Jimura took a long drink before nodding to her. “Very well. Tell him I will be down in a moment.” Hamamoto nodded and departed the room, leaving him to find at the foot of his bed the maroon silk robe matching his pajamas. With robe donned and tied at his thin waist, Jimura peered through the window overlooking the well-manicured lawn surrounding his house. Lights were positioned so that they illuminated the variety of plants and flowers accenting his gardens, allowing him to enjoy the momentary solitude.

Despite the number of employees and other assistants working in and around his home, no one save Hamamoto was allowed in his private living quarters or office on the house’s upper level. He had other rooms set aside for meeting with others, including a formal office where he hosted clients and business partners, and a smaller, more welcoming room where he entertained friends and guests.

These rooms, however, were his sanctuary and off-limits to everyone. Only Hamamoto came and went without restriction, tending to his various needs and requests at any time of the day. She had never failed to answer a summons regardless of the hour, and never complained about the demands he often placed upon her. In recognition of her unflagging devotion, Jimura saw to it that she and her family were well compensated, and she was granted numerous privileges unavailable to most others on his staff regardless of their position. Hamamoto was the closest thing Jimura had to family, and his standing orders were that if any harm should come to her or if she was in any way mistreated or disrespected, those responsible would incur his wrath.

With a heavy sigh, Jimura made his way from his bedroom downstairs to the office he used for conducting daily business. Unlike his private study, this room’s trappings offered immediate insight as to its purpose. A scuffed, black utilitarian metal desk faced the doorway, behind which sat a worn gunmetal gray chair and a trio of five-drawer file cabinets, each secured with its own lock. Another pair of similar cabinets, one gray and the other black, were positioned to the left of the desk, and two cracked leather chairs sat between the desk and the door. Papers, books, and file folders were everywhere, stacked atop the desk and cabinets. A desktop computer was perched on a table, away from the desk itself.

Hamamoto had brought the device to him months ago in an attempt to show him how to use it, but Jimura had yet to embrace the technology. His first attempts to warm up to the monitor screen and its lines of harsh green text, the keyboard that felt so fragile compared to the typewriters his mother had used, and the even more delicate plastic black squares upon which information could be copied to and from the device itself did nothing to make him feel at ease. Regardless of the advantages Hamamoto assured him he would enjoy by converting his records and correspondence to electronic format, he preferred to maintain his records by hand. Ledgers and notebooks, their pages filled to overflowing with the all-but-indecipherable coded shorthand he had developed over nearly five decades, were more than adequate to serve his needs. Besides, Jimura had assistants and trusted aides like Hamamoto on whom to rely—a younger generation who welcomed gadgets like the one staring at him across the room. Perhaps one day, he would avail himself of the wondrous technology at his fingertips.

Perhaps, one day, Jimura thought. Then again, perhaps not.

Standing before the desk and dressed in an immaculate tan suit with a dark shirt and silver tie boasting one of those odd grid patterns that seemed to be popular with younger businessmen was Samuel Yeager. One of Jimura’s most experienced and trusted employees, Yeager also was one of very few Westerners on his staff. As usual, he wore his thin, brown hair slicked back and held in place with some sort of gel product.

During his tenure with the United States Marine Corps, Yeager had come to the attention of one of Jimura’s lower-echelon managers, and the two had become friends. Yeager, nearing the end of his service, had been eager to remain on Okinawa with the young woman with whom he had entered a romantic relationship. His willingness to “assist” with procuring various items from the Marine Corps base where he worked had bought him some consideration with Jimura. Though Jimura at first had dismissed the man as just another gaijin, Yeager had within just the first few months of coming to work for the elder Okinawan proven his abilities and willingness to carry out any assignment given to him. Further, the contacts he maintained within the American military establishment were invaluable. All of this, while eschewing anything resembling a sense of loyalty to his home country or government. As far as Samuel Yeager was concerned, it was all about the money, and how much of it he could make for himself.

“Ohayou gozaimasu, Jimura-san.” Yeager offered a formal bow. “I apologize for waking you, but I didn’t think this could wait. We may have a problem.”

Walking past the younger man, Jimura eyed him with unease. Yeager could only be referring to one thing. “The exchange with Zherdev. What happened?”

Yeager drew a deep breath. “We’re still gathering the details, but the short version is that somebody hit our people while the exchange was going down.”

“Zherdev?” asked Jimura, lowering himself into the seat behind his desk. The chair’s aged metal springs groaned beneath even his modest weight.

“I doubt it. Not unless the people he brought to do it were idiots. Whoever it was shot up both sides. Zherdev and some of his men are dead, but Sashida and several of ours also got hit. A couple of our guys called in after it was over. They’re on their way back here, now, and I’ll get the full scoop then. We’re still trying to account for everyone.”

Jimura clasped his hands before him. “The weapons?”

“Gone,” replied Yeager, “and likely the money Zherdev brought, too. At first, I thought it might be cops, but according to the report I got, whoever it was just started shooting, rather than trying to arrest anybody. This was a hit, Jimura-san.”

Nodding in agreement, Jimura drew a deep breath as he contemplated the possibilities. “Perhaps the Kyokuryu˜-kai have finally decided to move against us.” An element of the yakuza crime syndicate headquartered here on Okinawa, the Kyokuryu˜-kai for years had seen fit to leave Jimura alone. They did so in accordance with their own strict code of conduct so long as Jimura pledged to do the same and did nothing to interfere in their affairs or encroach upon areas of the island they claimed as their own. It was an agreement both sides had honored for decades. So far as Jimura knew, his organization had done nothing to offend the Kyokuryu˜-kai. Even if that was the case, it was unlike the yakuza to retaliate in this manner.

As though reading his thoughts, Yeager said, “I don’t think it’s them. They wouldn’t send a message to you like this. They’d want to meet face to face.” He shook his head. “No, this is somebody else, and I think I have a pretty good idea who.”

Now it was Jimura’s turn to anticipate the other man’s thinking. “Kanashiro.”

“Exactly.”

Aside from the obvious threat of disruption by any of the various law enforcement agencies, Jimura knew that his main concern was competition from rivals. When it came to dealings with other organizations headed by men closer to his own age, an honor system had developed over time whereby territorial boundaries were respected, and poaching business from another group was discouraged. However, in recent years, younger, more contentious challengers to the status quo had attempted to move in and stake their own claims. In most of these cases, the interlopers soon learned either the virtues of working and living in harmony with their established counterparts or else they opted to seek life and opportunity elsewhere. Only on rare occasions had more extreme measures been required. Those tended to serve as object lessons for anyone else contemplating similarly ill-advised actions.

It remained to be seen whether such a lesson might need to be imparted to Edoga Kanashiro.

“He’s been playing it cool for a while, now,” Yeager continued, “but I think he’s just been biding his time. A guy like Kanashiro doesn’t want to be hemmed in, and we know he’s already pushed out a couple of the smaller groups.”

“Yes,” replied Jimura. Upon arriving on Okinawa from the mainland, Edoga Kanashiro had made no secret of his desire to carve out a slice of the action enjoyed by Jimura and other established groups. Only the Kyokuryu˜-kai seemed deserving of a wide berth in the eyes of the young, ambitious “entrepreneur,” and even they had communicated their displeasure with Kanashiro’s apparent lack of regard and respect. The one thing upon which all of the groups, gangs, and families agreed was the desire to avoid the attentions of law enforcement, and a few of Kanashiro’s business dealings had threatened that goal. Among the elder heads of the established groups now facing this encroachment, Jimura had been the most outspoken, earning him early disdain from the younger opportunist. It was easy to believe that Kanashiro might finally be making a move to advance his cause, with Jimura as his first target.

“If you’re right,” he said, “then he’s picked an unfortunate time to launch his campaign.” The deal he had brokered with Tateos Gadjoyan to sell the consignment of M16s was by itself of only minor consequence to Jimura. The weapons and even the money lost could be absorbed or replaced, but if Kanashiro had chosen today to begin serious disruption of his other interests, then it was a problem demanding immediate attention.

“Find out for sure if Kanashiro is behind this,” he said, gesturing toward Yeager. “If he is, then we deal with him, today.”

Yeager nodded. “Understood, Jimura-san. I’m on it.”

His subordinate turned and left, leaving Jimura alone in his office. Leaning back in his chair, he stared through the window overlooking his garden, and sighed as he shook his head.

Today, of all days.

03

Dale Connelly was up before the alarm went off.

Of course, he had only been awake for less than a minute, lying on his side and staring at the digital clock as it changed from 5:59 to 6:00. The occasion was marked by a shrill beeping which Connelly silenced with a well-practiced slap, hitting the clock’s snooze button. This prompted the day’s first decision: Should he get out of bed and on with his day, or lie here for nine minutes until the alarm sounded again?

Then he felt a soft hand slide over his hip, and forgot about the clock.

“Morning,” said a quiet voice behind him. Connelly felt the covers shift and the warmth of the bed’s other occupant pressing into his back.

“Good morning,” he replied, rolling over to face his wife. Jessica Connelly, in defiance of all reality, laws of physics, or whatever the hell governed such things, looked beautiful even freshly roused from sleep. It was a safe bet she’d been up for a while. After all, it was their last full day on the island, and tomorrow they were homeward bound. For him, the day carried additional weight, because for all intents and purposes, it marked the beginning of the end of his military career.

“You better get a move on, Top,” said Jessica, pushing closer and planting a kiss on his nose. “Lots to do today, and you don’t want to keep the boys waiting.”

“Tell me about it.” Connelly sighed. So far as his family was concerned, most of the hard work was done. Their household effects had been packed and taken away for shipment back to the United States, and they had moved out of their home of the past three years. For four days, the Connellys had taken up residence at the motel-like temporary housing while waiting for his orders to be finalized. Jessica and their two children would spend their final day saying good-bye to friends and doing some last-minute shopping, while he went to work. Most of his day’s official activities would involve completing his transfer documentation and other administrative hurdles standing between him and his plane ticket. Once that was completed, there would be the traditional going-away party with his unit and a few hours’ sleep before he and the family—with him nursing an inevitable hangover—began the eighteen-hour flight home.

Screw it. I’ll sleep on the plane.

Where had the last three years gone? For that matter, where had the last twenty-six years gone? It seemed like just a few days ago that he and his family had arrived on Okinawa, where he had reported for duty as an aviation ordnance chief with Marine Aircraft Wing 36 at the Futenma Marine Corps Air Station. It was his third tour on the island, the first two having been one-year stints early in his career and before Jessica and the kids were in the picture. His first assignment here had been right after completing boot camp and his aviation specialty school in Florida; he had even requested the overseas duty.

Growing up in a small town in central Kansas, Connelly had never traveled beyond the borders of his home state, let alone to the other side of the planet, and he had been anxious to see what the world offered. Average grades in high school and limited funds for college made a hitch in the military an enticing proposition, and it was with that outlook that he had walked into the Marine Corps recruiting office in Salina, Kansas, one day after school. The recruiter—a grizzled veteran with a high and tight haircut and rows of multicolored ribbons offering testimony to a glorious career spent in uniform—tried to convince him that a tour in the infantry was the way to go, but Connelly had always loved airplanes and wanted something aviation-related. Anything would do, he told the recruiter, who had wasted no time selling him on the virtues of aviation ordnance and the need to help pilots be ready to, in his words, “blow shit up real good.” That was enough for Connelly, and the seeds for growing a brand new aviation ordnance man were born that day. His choice of specialization saw to it that he would serve at bases and aboard ships around the world, in peace and wartime. As for the college education he had planned to pursue following a single four-year enlistment in order to qualify for the G.I. Bill? Connelly ended up earning his degree via night courses at whatever schools were near the bases where he worked.

It was while attending one such class during a stint at Camp Pendleton that he met Jessica, who likewise was completing her degree while working as a payroll clerk at a civilian hospital in Escondido, California. “Lust at first sight” was the kindest way to explain their immediate attraction to one another, but it had taken little time for them to figure out that they were meant to be together. They were married less than eight months after that first meeting, and sixteen years later, here they were, still crazy for each other.

“You’re going to be late,” said Jessica, her words teasing as her hands began to wander.

Connelly chuckled. “You’re going to make me late.”

“What are they going to do? Shave your head and ship you overseas?” It was a common joke, uttered by some Marine somewhere perhaps every day of the Corps’ existence, but it was funnier coming from her.

Behind him, the alarm sounded. Nine minutes.

“Hit it again,” Jessica said, her hand slipping beneath his T-shirt. “Let’s see if we can beat it.”

Before he could retort, other voices sounded through the wall separating their room from the one occupied by their kids. Though he couldn’t make out any words, Connelly could tell from the tone that all wasn’t cheerful next door.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “The war’s starting early today.”

“It’s been like this the last couple of days. I can understand it, at least a little. Saying good-bye to your friends is always hard.”

Connelly nodded. “Yeah, I know, but they’ll be okay. Moving is part of the job, after all, and this is the last time we’re doing it.” As a family, they had discussed and agreed that returning to Southern California was the best option for everyone. His children would reunite with at least some of the friends they had left behind before coming here, and Jessica’s parents were an hour’s drive away. Even his mother had considered the idea of moving out from Salina in order to be closer. With his father having died five years earlier, she had no other family in Kansas, and she was still young enough to enjoy retirement and doting on her grandchildren. He had already received interest from several aviation firms in San Diego, and interviews with the first of them were scheduled for next week. Life all around was looking good for the Connelly family. It would be an interesting transition, and one he welcomed, at least in most respects.

“There’s that look again,” said Jessica as she studied his face. “You’re going to miss this, aren’t you?”

“I’m not going to miss getting out of bed at dawn to go running,” he replied, rolling over to a sitting position and swinging his legs out of the bed. Today would begin with his unit’s normal weekday physical training routine, consisting of calisthenics and a formation run around the base. At age forty-four, Connelly still ran at least five miles three or four times a week, and his physical fitness scores remained in the top bracket for his age group. He was helped along in this endeavor by his daughter, Brynn, who had taken an interest in jogging and even joined her school’s track team. Thanks to this extra motivation, Connelly had no plans to abandon his exercise regimen. Still, there was something to be said for doing such things at a more civilized hour.

Stretching across the bed, Jessica gave him a shove to send him on his way. “Last call for morning PT. Hop to it, Top,” she said, employing the unofficial appellation traditionally reserved for master sergeants and master gunnery sergeants, particularly if that Marine occupied the senior enlisted billet in a given unit. Some holders of that rank or position disdained the informal moniker, but Connelly had never minded what he considered a term of endearment bestowed upon him by officers and subordinates who respected him. Then there was Jessica, who tended to use it when she was feeling playful.