Free Target Deck - 02 by Jack Murphy Page A

them were taking advantage of it to catch their breath. Samruk hadn't even been on the ground for a full twenty four hours and they'd already killed one cartel, pissed all over another, and formed an alliance that the US State Department would certainly frown upon.
    The Kazakh mercenaries that stood at the sandbagged positions near the gate began getting restless. They aimed down the sights of their rifles at something approaching on the other side of the wall.
    Frank's cell phone began to ring.
    “Yeah,” he said, taking the call. “Cool. Got it.”
    “It's okay,” Frank yelled to the gate guards. “He's one of us. Open the gates!”
    Deckard hurriedly translated into Russian before they had a shoot out on their hands.
    The mercenaries nodded before one of them climbed down the ladder and swung open the gates. The gates were still a mess since they had blasted their way in earlier but an ad hoc repair job held them closed for the time being.
    As the gates parted, Deckard could see a cloud of brown dust roll in along with a beat up 1990's model Saturn sedan. The muffler was being dragged in the dirt behind it. Once the rust bucket came to a halt in the court yard, the Kazakhs swung the gate closed and resumed their post.
    “Goddam piece of shit,” the driver coughed out as he slammed the door shut.
    Deckard frowned as he and Frank walked over to the newcomer. The car had American license plates.
    “Did you drive here?” Deckard asked.
    “Sure did,” the driver turned around to face him. He had to look up at Deckard to see him. The newcomer was short with a mop top of black hair and a gnarly looking mustache. “I hit the road an hour after Frank gave me a call about some hot action south of the border. Drove all the way from Oklahoma.”
    “You know I would have flown you in, right?”
    “Can't do it brother. On the no-fly list.”
    “You're fucking kidding me.”
    “Well not me but some dude with my name is and those costumed clowns that pretend they are security guards give me a hell of a time whenever I try to fly.”
    “What's your name?”
    “Ahmed Aghassi.”
    “I don't remember seeing him on the target deck.”
    “He was some Iranian fuck hiding up in the mountains of Afghanistan who was advising Al-Qaeda cells throughout the country.”
    “Tell him the fucked up part Ghassi,” Frank interjected.
    “I was on the mission that killed him,” Aghassi said as his eyebrows bobbed over his eyes.
    “So you waxed some Iranian with that same name as you out in Afghanistan?”
    “Yeah.”
    “And his name is still on the no-fly list?”
    “Takes a while to get the names of dead terrorists taken off the list,” Aghassi muttered. “Years apparently.”
    “What the fuck?”
    “You said it brother.”
    “Alright,” Deckard said. “Frank vouches for you so let's get the job interview out of the way. Who the hell are you really?”
    “Everyone calls me Ghassi. I grew up speaking Farsi at home-”
    “Where is home?”
    “I told you already. Oklahoma.”
    “Which is where you drove from.”
    “Yeah, so it's like this, my parents emigrated from Iran and I grew up in the States. I joined the Army as an interpreter and learned Arabic in DLI as a third language-”
    “Frank told me you spoke Spanish.”
    “I do, I picked it up in High School. So some computer program picks my name out of a hat because of my background and language skills and the next thing I know I get approached by some shady dudes at work. That was how I got recruited to the Intelligence Support Activity.”
    Deckard nodded for Aghassi to continue. He had worked with ISA numerous times when he was in Army Special Operations units. They did intelligence and reconnaissance work, mostly for SEAL Team Six and Delta Force. Frank had also served in that unit after a stint in the Ranger Reconnaissance Detachment or RRD, although Deckard still suspected that Frank must have lied his way through the battery of psych evals he was required to