Free First Team by Jim DeFelice, Larry Bond Page A

thought to have escaped from Afghanistan during the American action there in 2002. He had gone to Pakistan, where he was responsible for a bombing in a Karachi nightclub. Then he had managed to slip into the United States through Canada, masterminding a suicide attack on a Syracuse shopping mall. Following that, he had been spotted in Georgia—the one next to Russia, not Florida—and was now believed to be leading some of the Chechens.
     
    “His friends are even worse. He seems to have met with Allah’s Fist, the people who tried to blow up Independence Hall and got the IRS center in Massachusetts,” said Lauren. “Nasty bunch.”
     
    “How associated?” asked Ferg.
     
    “Not sure. Allah’s Fist hasn’t done anything since the attack on the IRS center. The leader, Samman Bin Saqr, disappeared right after that attack, just fell off the map. He might be dead. In any event, you have a green light to bring Kiro out. They want this guy, Ferg. They want to put him on trial for murder.”
     
    “I can’t clip him?” said Ferg.
     
    The term, taken from the American mafia, was slang for an assassination. It had to be approved by Slott and the CIA director, either from a list of high-level terrorists or on the president’s direct command. An extraction generally applied to a lower level of terrorist or enemy prisoner of war, though there were exceptions.
     
    Three people had been killed in the mall attack, and dozens wounded. Ferguson shook his head—that ought to be enough to have the bastard’s heart cut out, no questions asked.
     
    Five hundred people had been killed or wounded in the IRS attack. Was that what it took?
     
    “They really want him, Ferg. They want a scalp. We don’t have a positive connection,” Lauren added. “But the people at the NSA have a voice match that we think is good, and there’s one photo. We’ll upload them.”
     
    “The Russians know who he is?” Ferguson asked.
     
    “Not as far as we know.”
     
    “We’re going to tell them?”
     
    “Not until you bring him home. Slott has been on Corrigan’s back since we made the connection. He wanted to call you right away. Corrigan held him off.”
     
    Ferg held the phone down and took a few steps along the front of the building, scanning in the distance of the road. The team was getting a little ragged; they’d been out in the field for about two weeks.
     
    If Kiro really was Aberrchmof, he ought to be grabbed.
     
    Then castrated, burned, and pissed on.
     
    He put the phone back to his ear.
     
    “Ferg?”
     
    “Yeah, I’m here, Beautiful.”
     
    “Colonel Van Buren has already been alerted.”
     
    “OK,” said Ferg, even though he knew an all-out assault on the fortress would be out of the question, even if they were absolutely sure Kiro was there. Too many Russian troops were nearby, ready to gum up the works. They’d either have to get the Russians in on the game or find a way to finesse it. “I’ll get with him,” he told her.
     
    “You need anything else?”
     
    “Well my inflatable doll sprang a leak last night.”
     
    “Very funny.” She killed the connection.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    10
     
    IRKTAN, CHECHNYA—TWELVE HOURS LATER
     
    Rankin spotted it, staring at the images upside down.
     
    “They run out that tunnel, then pick up the vehicle there,” he said, pointing at the laptop screen. “You can see the wheel in the hide.” Everybody squinted over the screen.
     
    “So we knock on the front door, they run out the back?” said Ferguson.
     
    Rankin snorted. “Yeah, right. They could take two companies on before they felt the heat. Even then, you don’t have armor, you’re not getting in.”
     
    “What do you think, Dad?” Ferg asked Conners.
     
    “Got to figure they have at least one guy inside the cave at all times,” he said, pointing at the escape route. “I have to tell you, I don’t quite see the cave, let alone the tire or even the hide Skip’s talking