Dead Ringer Read online

  Fergus wasted no time with civilities. “What happened, man?”

  Hamish lowered his head. “I guess I’m losing my edge, Fergus. I let the guy get behind me and knock me cold, and I didn’t even get a glimpse of him. Let him take the woman and child I was supposed to be guarding.”

  “That kind of talk will no help ye now. Take a cab back to the hotel and get some rest. I’m going to start searching.” On his way out of the hospital, Fergus called Frank. He could search Naples alone until help arrived. “Get back to the island as fast as ye can and pick up the other three men. Traci and Daniel are missing.” Protecting the boy was Fergus’s primary responsibility. And he had blown it.

  Involving the local police was an option, but one he wanted to postpone as long as possible. Police would mean the press, and if she and Daniel were abducted, it might force the kidnappers to harm the lad.

  If Traci deliberately ran off with that Italian scoundrel, it would mean more ugly publicity.

  Fergus searched the docks and side streets while he waited for reinforcements.

  Frank and the men arrived in Naples a little after two o’clock in the morning. They spread out and continued the hunt.

  Finding no sign of Mercy and Daniel, nor of the Rolls, they returned to the hotel at five for a couple of hours sleep before sunrise. The car could have already left the city.

  If he hadn’t heard from the kidnappers by noon, he would have to contact the Italian authorities. He inhaled a deep breath, picked up the SAT-phone, and made the call he dreaded.

  There was no answer.

  26

  London, England

  Wednesday, July 5

  Thomas placed a call to Chip Nelson while they were still in the air. The kit with all his supplies was with the freight headed back to Edinburgh. He had to pick up a replacement at Chip’s shop in the back alley of London’s warehouse district. At precisely noon, he arrived at the CIA supply depot.

  Chip answered the bell seconds later. “Wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. You on another assignment?”

  “Nope, same one. I need to replace the kit you brought, but this time I need the gun.”

  “What?” Chip looked at him, askance. “The reports I’ll have to fill out.” He groaned.

  “Chip, you’re such a cry baby.”

  “Yeah, well walk a mile in my moccasins, Wallace. You know how the government loves paperwork. It’s job security for a couple’a thousand bureaucrats in dark rooms in D.C.”

  Thomas rubbed his hands over the stubble on his face and grimaced. “How can I make it up to you, Chip?”

  The supply agent faced him, a bright smile on his face. “How about a week on your private island?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Can’t do that. It’s my home, not a hotel. But when the mission is over, I’ll bring back both kits and buy dinner for two at the restaurant of your choice.”

  “Anyplace?”

  “Anyplace,” Thomas said.

  “Wallace, I love you.” He made as if to hug Thomas.

  Thomas backed away.

  Chip raised his hands and grinned. “It’s gonna cost you, buddy.”

  “I know, Chip.”

  

  CIA Training Camp, North Carolina

  Thursday, July 6

  The plane landed in a cavern of darkness relieved only by the runway lights as they flashed down the tarmac. The small jet eased to a stop and the unfasten seatbelt signal flashed red.

  Thomas and his companions, dressed in black, descended from the aircraft and stood at the bottom of the stairs, the crickets’ crescendo almost deafening.

  Heim shrugged into his backpack and stepped onto the runway. “Lead on, goy. This is your bailiwick. Moshe and I will be right behind you.”

  “Sure you’re up to this, Heim? You haven’t been a foot soldier for a long time.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Wallace. I can do this in my sleep.”

  Moshe slapped him on the shoulder and chuckled. “Stay awake, OK? I may need you to cover my back.”

  Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Thomas searched the shadows. It took only a few seconds to spot the camouflaged vehicle Paul had left for them.

  Thomas started the engine, and it roared to life.

  Maximum humidity hung in the air, and Thomas’s T-shirt stuck to his back. He didn’t complain. It was better than the dry heat in the Saudi desert that made him feel like a wrung-out sponge.

  The training camp lay twenty miles north of the airstrip, and they made good time on the deserted gravel road. Lightning streaked across the eastern sky, barely visible through the thick forest. They were headed east.

  He didn’t mind getting wet, but the NV goggles didn’t come with wipers.

  Headlights on the vehicle spotlighted a wall of insects in their path, leaving a splatter of bug guts on the windshield. Rain would just smear it.

  Heim looked up. “I hate rain.”

  Thomas laughed. “Afraid you’ll melt, tough guy?”

  Heim harrumphed. “Ten of us could take out a full platoon of regular army.”

  Thomas shrugged. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t try it with Rangers.”

  Heim pulled his cap down. “Maybe.”

  Thomas parked a mile from their destination, and they moved away from the road into the woods. Low hills and shallow valleys lay between them and the compound.

  As the group pushed through the forest, heavy raindrops began a slow pounding on Thomas’s cap, rapidly increasing to a full-scale deluge. Cloud cover, rain, and the canopy of trees made the darkness absolute. He’d run every foot of the familiar terrain during training, and the night vision goggles lighted the way.

  Paul Redford had given Thomas the gate entry code, and they moved easily into the compound. He scanned the darkness for the Dobermans. They would be on high alert the minute the gate swung open.

  Chip had included a spray deterrent he assured would stop the dogs in mid-stride without permanent damage. However, the downpour would render it useless unless he got close enough to blow it down the dog’s nostrils. He could lose an arm before that happened.

  The dogs were his first indication something wasn’t right. They didn’t show.

  He held his hand up, and the two Mossad agents stopped behind him. Motioning them to spread out, he withdrew the P229 gun from his shoulder holster.

  Night vision goggles in place, they moved silently into the trees along the drive.

  Filling his lungs with a deep breath of moist air, Thomas waved the two agents to move forward.

  Four instructors lived on base at the compound, but Paul assured him they were away for a week in D.C.

  And Thomas didn’t believe the entire training camp was infested with traitors.

  They knew he was coming. An unexpected complication.

  He and his two friends might be outmanned, but not out-classed.

  The first bullet sailed past his right ear. Gunfire exploded around him. No need to worry about Heim and Moshe. They were soldiers and knew to take protective cover.

  He returned wild shots to provide cover until he could put the nearest tree between himself and the firefight. Green shadows took human form in the trees around him, closing in. He took aim at the closest man, sending two quick taps into his chest.

  A cry sounded, and then silence.

  Thomas crouched and moved to a new position. Bullets plunked into his tree cover, sending wood chips flying.

  A muzzle flashed on his left flank, and another target went down. Moshe’s handiwork.

  The darkness would have been impenetrable without the glasses. Two down and no way to calculate how many were still out there.

  Keeping as low as possible, Thomas moved towards the cabin in the center of the compound. Another green figure moved into his field of fire. Two more taps.

  With the barrage of gunfire that followed, he couldn’t tell if he hit the target. The noise was deafening. Seconds later, the man stumbled and fell.

  Two men s
plashed across the clearing and dashed into the cabin. His clip half-full, Thomas followed, moving from tree to tree until he stood about twenty feet from the cabin’s main entrance. Within minutes, gunfire behind him ceased, and he felt, rather than saw, Heim and Moshe move up behind him.

  “You guys OK? All the targets down?” he asked.

  “Yes and yes,” Heim shot back. “What’s up?”

  Thomas whispered. “Two men ran into the cabin. There may be others inside. They’re probably getting set for a standoff. They’ll have a ton of ammunition at their disposal. Not to mention great advantage to shoot from the high ground. You guys don’t happen to have a couple of flash bang grenades, do you?”

  “Nope, didn’t think I’d need them,” Moshe said.

  “Yeah, simple operation, right? OK, we go to Plan B. Cover me, I have an idea.”

  He’d remembered a roof skylight from when the instructors sent the recruits to the shack to store supplies in the attic. Holding up one finger, he dropped his backpack and removed the climbing equipment.

  “Cover the front and back doors. When you hear the first shot, come running. I may need you to save my life again.”

  Minutes later, nylon rope and crowbar in hand, Thomas secured the cord to the chimney. The wet nylon slipped in his hands, but he scaled the building to the roof’s edge without incident. He swung one leg over the lip and pulled his body over.

  For a moment, he considered removing his boots for stealth. The tile was slippery under the leather soles. If the goons heard any noise, they might just send a hail of bullets through the ceiling leaving him no place to hide. He decided to keep his boots on.

  The skylight came into view. He knelt beside it, and pried the seal around the glass loose. Water ran into the cracks, around the casement, and then dripped onto the cardboard boxes in the room below.

  He scanned the rooftop and moved with efficiency, using a small crowbar to finish loosening the window seal without a sound. In short order, the glass lifted out, and he set it on the wet asbestos tiles, along with the tools.

  Mercy’s face flashed into his mind. Visions of London and Paris swirled in his thoughts like clips from a well-loved movie. He shook his head to clear the vision. No time for distractions.

  The room below the skylight was in total darkness. Water dripped so loudly through the portal he feared the men below would hear.

  He wiped raindrops from the goggles and pulled them back in place. Flat on his stomach, Thomas listened for sounds that someone had detected his entry. Nothing but silence below. His gaze roamed the attic floor. Wooden crates were stacked within feet of the ceiling, the area almost full, with only narrow aisles for access.

  After snapping a full clip in the Sig, he returned it to the shoulder holster under his arm and put an extra clip in his pocket. He brought the nylon cord over to the opening, let out the play, eased onto the closest crate, and then to the floor below. After plumbing his memory for the layout of the first floor, he waited until satisfied that he’d embedded the floor plan into his mind.

  The attic stairwell bypassed the living quarters on the second floor, descending straight to the ground level. He pulled the Sig from the holster and moved down the steps. The staircase narrowed, eerily quiet as he moved downward and halted at the closed door at the bottom. The knob released without a click.

  The great room he remembered lay on the other side of the door. To the right were two large plate glass windows. To the left, a bar and sofas grouped around the fireplace.

  One man, his back to Thomas, guarded the front, the second man probably stationed at the back.

  He shoved the door open, sending it bouncing against the wall.

  Brad Reid whirled towards the noise and hesitated.

  Thomas fired a shot in the air and shouted, “Freeze Reid, or I’ll drop you where you stand. I don’t want to kill you, but I will. Drop it now.”

  Taking Reid out wouldn’t be hard. Visions of the evening Shaul died crystallized his purpose for being here. Reid not only assassinated Shaul Lobel, he was possibly directly involved in the deaths of Aref’s comrades in Iran. Those men would have died a slow painful death. Their only crime, love of country. No sleep would be lost over the death of Brad Reid.

  Reid didn’t stop.

  Instead, he raised the Glock.

  Thomas fired, sending the 9mm slug slamming into Reid’s shoulder.

  Reid stubbornly held onto the weapon.

  Thomas held his revolver steady, aimed at the assassin’s heart, almost wishing he would make a move. Even the score for Shaul.

  From behind him in the stairway, Monroe said, “You drop it, Wallace.”

  27

  CIA Training Camp, North Carolina

  Thursday, July 6

  Hiding in the living quarters on the second floor, Monroe had come up behind him.

  The mantel clock’s tick sounded despite the roar of the storm and occasional thunder. No one spoke for a couple of seconds.

  Thomas lowered the gun but didn’t drop it.

  Monroe motioned him away from the doorway. “You think I’m kidding, Wallace? Drop the weapon.”

  “Take him, Clint,” Reid spewed a volley of profanity. “Blow out both knees. He ruined my shoulder.”

  “Not here. Not now. When the rain stops we’ll march him into the woods and you can take your revenge.” He turned his attention back to Thomas. “Where are your friends?”

  “I’m all that’s left. How did you know we were coming?”

  “I’m not stupid. Redford was nervous. I knew something was up and came back to clean out my files, just in case.”

  “And those dead guys on the lawn. Who are they? Not agency trainers.”

  Monroe shook his head. “Mercenaries I brought in. I expected more efficiency from them.” His face twisted into an ugly grin. “Perhaps I should have run them through the training program here.”

  Lightning brightened the sky and Moshe’s silhouette passed the large plate glass window behind Reid.

  Both men, focused on Thomas, missed it.

  Monroe growled. “I’m not going to tell you again to drop the gun, Wallace.”

  Monroe didn’t want to kill him here or he would already be dead.

  Thomas could take one of them, but not both. He had to trust Moshe to get the second one. Reid would be the easiest target. His wounded shoulder would throw his aim off. That was a maybe, not a certainty.

  Dropping to the floor, Thomas squeezed the trigger twice rolling back against the wall as he fired.

  The force of the bullet spun Reid around, his legs twisted, before he did a face plant into the tiled floor.

  Moshe blasted the shotgun through the window, knocking Monroe off his feet. Glass shards erupted inward, covering Thomas and Reid.

  Monroe tried to raise his weapon but not before the Israeli emptied the other barrel into his chest.

  At the same time, shots echoed from the back, a grunt, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor.

  Heim entered, his firearm lowered to his side. He nodded at the back door. “Another bad guy. You OK, Wallace?”

  Thomas rose, brushing glass from his hair. “Yeah.”

  “Good,” Heim said. “I’ll clear the building.”

  Moshe glanced down at Reid’s body. “Too bad you had to kill him, Wallace. I was hoping for a little alone time with him.”

  Thomas shook his head. “It’s better this way. It won’t keep you awake nights.”

  Moshe kicked Reid’s gun away. “It wouldn’t have bothered my sleep.” He didn’t smile.

  “Where’d you get the shotgun?” Thomas asked. He placed his Sig back into the shoulder holster.

  “Dead guy out front gave it to me.”

  Thomas laughed. “Nice of him.” The cell phone in Thomas’s pocket vibrated. He retrieved it and scanned the screen. Paul Redford.

  Abort. Monroe back at base. Confirm.

  Great timing, Paul.

  Thomas pulled up the age
ncy chief’s number and pressed call, quickly explaining what just went down.

  Paul yelled through the phone. “I told you to abort.”

  “You sent the message a minute ago, Paul. The fight’s been over for five. Bad timing. You should have kept Monroe in DC and we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

  “He disobeyed orders, left without telling me. I think he knew something was up.”

  Thomas kept silent—let Paul work it out.

  “What a mess. You know who Reid’s father is, right? And Congress doesn’t like us, anyway.”

  “I don’t think the Congressman will be interested in pursuing an investigation. Reid had a sniper rifle with him. Same model as the one that killed Shaul. I’ll bet the family jewels it’s the murder weapon. He won’t want that to go public. Might hurt his chances for re-election.”

  “You don’t have proof of that.”

  “We have the videos from Tel Aviv showing Reid in the area and now we have the gun. That’s good enough for me. Have your cleanup team comb this place until they find what you need.”

  Paul waited in silence on the other end of the line. Finally, he heaved a resigned breath into the phone. “OK, hang round until I get a team in there. Tell Heim and Moshe to go back to the plane. I’ll clean up the mess.”

  Thomas called the two Israeli agents over and filled them in on his conversation with the CIA chief.

  “OK. We’re on our way,” Heim said. “We’ll wait for you at the landing strip. We’d get a cold reception from the Mr. Clean Team. Two foreign operatives at the scene of a bloodbath wouldn’t go over well. Especially with two dead CIA agents in the mix.”

  While waiting for Redford’s team, Thomas searched the cabin. It didn’t take long to prove Paul’s position was covered.

  Monroe had bugs everywhere in the great room, attached to the latest in recording equipment. That’s how he’d learned about Aref’s undercover presence in Iran. Monroe had recorded Thomas’s conversation with Paul that last day at the training camp.

  The clean-up team arrived by chopper within two hours and landed on the helipad behind the cabin. They spread out like ants on a sugar cube. The agency’s technical whiz-kid, Chase Stabler, headed for the desktop and switched on the computer. Thomas had worked with him in the old days. “Hey, Thomas. Haven’t seen you in a while.”