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CHAPTER 17



“Damn. Call Cafferty,” he said. “Sam, we’re busted,” he said into his own phone.

“Dialing,” Wade said.

He didn’t need to speak Romanian to understand the shouts as, “Get out of the car slowly with your hands in sight!”

“Do it,” he said, just as Wade spoke into the phone, “We’re pinned by police, help.”

Wade continued, “I’ll leave the phone connected until they take it away. Kyle, I’m complying, phone in hand.”

“Then reach the phone out first and slowly,” Kyle said. He’d seen weapons from this side before, several times. But there was no cover and no way to shoot back now, and he’d heard that Romanian police were often very eager to shoot. There were also hi-tech guns disguised as cell phones. The combination was bad. He felt a hard knot in his stomach as he reached and opened the door using the outside handle. “Be very helpful,” he told Wade. “Might get us a bit better treatment.” Though Cafferty’s warning about the police hereabouts was bright in his mind, and he wondered if they were to get an obligatory thrashing before being tossed into a cell. Could even State get them out of this? He extended his own phone, still live for Sam to listen in.

He continued his progress as his brain whirled. Wade was stepping out, one foot at a time, phone held high so it was obviously not a weapon. Kyle waited for him to finish, then followed, hands open and clear.

The car’s hood was hot but not painful as he was slammed down onto it. The cuffs, however, hurt moderately. Hands were plucking at his clothes and voices were shouting at him. He caught glimpses of batons, pistols, and tear gas, and wondered which they planned to use.

“Sint American,” he said clearly. “Sint armuri in automobilul.” I am American. I have weapons in the car. They were going to search, anyway, so he may as well admit it and be helpful. Police, like soldiers, liked to have control of a situation. And unless one’s goal was to fight them, it was safer to let them have it.

“Are you carrying any weapons?” he heard behind him in heavily accented English.

“There are none on my person. Oh, a knife in my pocket,” he added hastily. He’d forgotten that the knife he carried as a “tool” could be perceived as a weapon by others.

His pockets were emptied onto the hood, he was felt down for anything hidden, then placed on his knees. Wade was already in that position, he saw, but then they were turned in opposite directions to prevent communication.

The police found all the weapons. It took only a few minutes before the .22, the AK, both pistols, the suppressors, cases, ammunition and their knives, flashlights, pocket tools, and cameras were all laid on the ground. A crowd had started to gather, but was chased away with a few curt words. It gradually built up again until it reached a level the police considered unacceptable, then was chased away again.

“Who are you and what is this?” A man in a gray suit, presumably a detective, asked him.

“I am Kyle Monroe. I am an American. I would like to talk to my embassy before I say anything else, domnule,” he replied. He wasn’t sure what if any rights he had here, but there was no need to talk unnecessarily. At the same time, he didn’t want to be rude or evasive. They might have the legal right to smack him around for answers. And they did need to talk to the embassy.

“Why did you shoot? Who are you working for?” the man asked. He was neat-looking and appeared confident and calm despite the agitation around him, but clearly wanted answers.

“If you call my embassy and ask for Mister Mick Cafferty, he can explain everything,” Kyle said. I hope. They’d been told they wouldn’t be abandoned, but the government was notorious for changing the rules partway through.

“Spell that name,” the detective asked curtly. Kyle did so, grateful that they seemed to want answers more than to bust heads.

“We will discuss this at the station and there you will answer my questions. You are under arrest and in much trouble.”

“Da, domnule,” Kyle said. He could hear Wade being questioned and harassed further over. Perhaps they’d heard stories of American street gangs and drug dealers. There was a drug trade here, after all. Heroin.

A van pulled up and the doors were thrown open. They were shoved rudely but not viciously into it. It drove away at once, swaying them off the plain metal benches they sat on. There was a single dome light for dim, shadowy illumination, and not much else. It was a steel box.

“I hope he doesn’t brake hard,” Kyle said. He could see them being slammed around like bugs in a box.

“Know how to get cuffs around front?” Wade asked.

“No.”

“Like this,” Wade said, rolling on the metal floor and forcing his wrists past his hips, then tucking his feet through the cuffs one at a time. “Gives leverage in case there’s an ‘accident,’ and lets you scratch your nose.”

“Thanks,” Kyle said, dropping and rolling and yanking until he, too, had his hands in front. It had hurt a bit, the cuffs cutting in, but he did feel better with them in front. He was restrained still, but not helpless. “And how often have you had to do this?”

“Let’s not go there at this time,” Wade said.

“Fair enough.” He spent time examining the cuffs. They were well-worn but solidly built, and there was nothing to be gained by unfastening them, anyway. All it would do was annoy their captors, if shifting them to the front wouldn’t have done so already.

Shortly, the van stopped and someone opened the doors. Figures waved them out into a dark, dank basement and through a steel-barred gate into a concrete receiving area. The staff were all male, mostly smaller than the snipers but with attitude and control to back them up. They may not even have known why these two were here.

Again Kyle and Wade were searched, fingerprinted, photographed, shoved around like sides of beef, then dragged down a passage and tossed into a small cell with a sink and toilet, both slimy gray with mold. They were separate from any other prisoners, but the noise indicated there were quite a few in the building.

“Well, we’re not hurt yet,” Kyle said. He was still worried about abuse and torture. Enemies he could face bravely enough. Being cooped up was a different threat entirely. The room was a concrete box with a barred door. There were two concrete benches, shelves really, to sleep on. Both were filthy and dusty.

“So we sit and relax and wait,” Wade suggested. “We both need sleep.”

“I suppose.”

It seemed Kyle’s responses had put off any further questioning for now. They were left in the cell. They swapped jokes and war stories. Kyle started to wonder about food and water. Then he stopped wondering, because they obviously weren’t to get either anytime soon.

He untensed enough to use the toilet. He hadn’t gone in hours, and was puckered and wound up tight. Between the arrest and political incident, and not getting their target prior to that, he was very worried. If there was a dead terrorist to ID, they were in a much better position than if not. There were two others they could claim as kills, but that might not improve things. Results aside, few nations approved of operations in their territory without their oversight. After all, the people being disposed of had their own home countries which would be disturbed.

There was just no way this was going to end well, he thought.

He sat on one of the benches and leaned back. It was cold, smelly, drafty, and dank in there. The lightbulb above in its cage, glaring into his eyes, reminded him of the nonfunctional ones in the castle. He had a quick flashback to the burial pit and shivered. They certainly knew how to hide people in this country.

He really hoped Cafferty could do something. He was their only link, and if he decided to deny them, it would fall on Robash, who would have to deal through State, which wasn’t happy with them.

He looked across at Wade, who was pretending to be calm and not succeeding. There was an uncharacteristic twitch to his left knee.

“Scared?” he asked.

“Trying to sleep,” Wade said. He didn’t deny the inference and didn’t crack a joke. He was scared, too.

Sleep was the only thing that would pass the time, and they’d need to be alert when questioned. Hopefully, they’d have a representative with them when questioned. He thought that was considered normal procedure in most of the world, and hoped it held true here.

He twitched awake, gasping in pain. He was still sitting up, and his head had flopped sideways. Added to the tight muscles, it caused him an excruciating cramp. He rubbed it, then his gritty eyes. Then he muttered to himself and lay down. If he could sleep, he should. Wade was already out, breathing evenly but tossing fitfully.

Kyle had never felt hopelessness in this measure. There was nothing to give him any hope at the moment. He wasn’t religious, his only friend in this hemisphere was next to him, and he had no idea what the government would do. As he drifted back into a disturbed doze, that colored his dreams.


It was some time later, hours at least, when noise came down the hall.

“Someone’s here,” Wade said. They were both awake but lying, staring at nothing.

One of the guards was clanking keys in the lock. “Veniti,” he said. Come.

“Better something than sitting here. Maybe we’ll see a phone or a judge,” Kyle said.

Linişte. Vă plimbaţi,” the guard said curtly, finger to lips and pointing down the hall. Silence. Walk. Kyle picked up his gist.

They preceded the guard down the corridor, not cuffed, and wondering what was next. The passage was scrubbed but ugly cinder block, and would have been foreboding had not Kyle seen the holes under Bran already. On the other hand, there were definitely people with guns here, and he was definitely at their mercy. Movies aside, trying to break out of a police station, with no map, no communications, and no idea of where they were was suicide. It made him feel even more helpless, and he didn’t like it. He glanced at Wade, who was silent and had a firm set to his jaw. He was scared, too.

They waited while the guard clanked open another heavy door. He waved them silently through into what was a normal office hallway. They blinked at the much brighter and more modern lights, and stood waiting. The guard motioned them forward and pointed at a door.

They entered and were in an office. A Romanian in a suit awaited them, along with two men in Romanian leaf-pattern camouflage, similar to U.S. Woodland pattern but splotchier. The ranking one didn’t come across as a cop but as a government authority figure of some kind.

“Captain Monroe, and Lieutenant Curtis,” he said with a nod. His English was accented but clear.

“Uh, yes,” Kyle agreed. The ranks were wrong, but he wasn’t going to object just yet. The names were right and this man was obviously from the government. He knew who they were and was going to want answers.

“Mister Cafferty spoke with me. I am a little annoyed that the U.S. chooses to run operations in my country without consulting.”

“I can understand that completely, sir,” Kyle said. He felt relieved, though. Cafferty knew they were here, and they were speaking to an official, not a local cop. And being out of the cell and in an office, not an interrogation room, was a good sign.

“So you will finish this in cooperation with DGIPI.” It was a statement, verging on an order.

“Ah, yes, sir,” he said. Then he said the thing he was afraid would get them back in jail. “But I must consult with my government first.” He also wanted to know who exactly the DGIPI were, but that could wait a few minutes.

The man, who had not yet identified himself, stared coolly at him for a second that seemed endless. “With yours, and not with mine. You forget which country you are in.” The obvious threat was left unsaid.

“But,” he continued, “you are obviously disciplined and professional, judging from your accomplishments so far. We shall all discuss this. Then, we shall hunt terrorists. You will come with me.” His face betrayed nothing.

With that, he turned and headed out, two of the men nearby picking up the case that held the Ruger, a rifle case that apparently held Wade’s AK, and a box that sounded like it held pistols, from the clattering. That left a cardboard carton full of clothing and other gear. The police stood aside and pretended not to see what was going on.

“That’s a hint, I think,” Wade said, nodding after the mysterious spook.

“Yup. Forward,” Kyle said.

Out the door, down the steps. It felt partly like freedom, and partly like a step toward a firing squad. Outside was dusky again. They’d been in jail all day and not fed.

They were led to a car with an open rear door. It was a large, black BMW sedan, and they climbed in without urging. It was away from the station, and the official had told them they were involved in the operation. Given that, their property accompanying them, and Cafferty’s name mentioned, it should be safe. But the specter of the cell followed them and would for a while. They sat silently.

In a few minutes that seemed oddly compressed, the car stopped and the door opened. In the growing dark, they went where directed, up steps into another office. It seemed the Romanians liked steps. Their chaperone and his soldiers flanked them. Others waited inside.

Then they saw Mick Cafferty, sitting in a chair. He looked grim, until Kyle realized it was fatigue. The man was gulping a cup of coffee, and it probably wasn’t his first. He smiled when he saw them, and it was an ugly smile on that lined and worn face.

“Glad to see you gentlemen,” he said.

“Likewise, sir,” Wade said, while Kyle was still shifting mental gears.

“How are things?” Kyle asked.

“‘How are things?”’ Cafferty repeated, eyebrows raised. “We’ve annoyed our hosts, killed people on their soil, chased terrorists through their streets, allowed a shipment of explosives we knew about to come in without warning them, admitted to espionage and deceit . . .”

“That bad?” Kyle asked. Maybe they were all to be back in jail soon. Or just deported on the next plane.

“That bad. But you got two who were confirmed and scared up another, plus the explosives, which were secured. If we didn’t have that to show, it would be bad. As it is, you impressed several bureau chiefs, including Dvidiu Pavenic.” He pointed at their escort.

“Really?” Wade asked. Both snipers were still in shock.

“Really,” Cafferty nodded. “There’s new respect for our ability. We got you in, you tracked these bastards right under everyone’s noses, and pulled them out.”

“And the secrecy wasn’t embarrassing?” Kyle asked.

“Not publicly. If you’d made a scene at any point and the press had caught on, that would have been embarrassing. But as long as it’s quiet and our hosts get the credit,” he hinted, “we can finish this.”

“Hell, we knew we’d never be allowed to boast, anyway,” Kyle said. “And I don’t care about credit. General Robash knows what we’re doing, and I don’t crave to have hit squads bent on revenge. Anyone who wants the credit can take it.”

From behind him, Pavenic said, “That is a very professional attitude, Captain. I like how you think, and I like how you shoot.”

Kyle turned to face him. “And I like your honesty,” he said. “With Mister Cafferty to approve, we’re at your disposal.” He wasn’t quite sure he felt that way, but he knew they were under local command now. Still, that meant backup for any operation, and no need to worry about local issues. They could just shoot as they were told and let someone else take the blame. As much as Kyle liked independence and the trust placed in Wade and him, he could use a break.

“Yes. It’s a pity Mister Cafferty didn’t know to come to us first. But of course, he couldn’t have known.”

“Sir?” Kyle asked.

“Like yourself, we are a counterterror unit,” he said, though Kyle had never thought of himself as a “unit.” He was a soldier who took the shots and gathered the intel he was told to. Target acquisition was largely not his problem.

Pavenic continued. “We are a small platoon within DGIPI. And we all know our people, so we know there are no leaks here.” That might not be entirely true at all times, but it likely was in regard to terror. No one competent wanted to shame themselves in front of their buddies, or get them killed through carelessness.

“And there was no way to know that,” Cafferty agreed, “but I am very glad it turned out this way.”

“So are we,” Kyle said. It had likely made it much easier to get out of incarceration with the equivalent of the FBI interested.

“Then we are all happy, and happier still when these filth are shot, eh? Every nation that shoots a few makes it that much harder for the rest to operate and find homes. We shall get your property, and discuss what we are to do. I will return.” He left, as did his henchmen, though Kyle was quite sure there was one posted outside the door.

As soon as the door closed, he took a glance around and asked Cafferty, “How bad is it?”

“Well, it could be better,” Cafferty admitted. “We’re on probation, and if we don’t have something else to show, it’s not going to be good.”

“So you still need us to pull off a shot?” Wade asked.

“That would make things better,” he admitted, drinking more coffee. “There are other ways, but that’s cheapest and simplest.”

“No pressure,” Wade said, but he was grinning.

“None,” Cafferty smiled back. “We told him you were officers. It made a better appearance that we required that status for a mission, rather than ‘mere’ NCOs.”

Kyle nodded. “I thought that might be it. Understood, sir.”

“Is there a temporary pay raise with that?” Wade joked.

“Sure is,” Cafferty said. He leaned back, fished a European five-cent coin from his pocket, and dropped it on the table. They all chuckled.

“You’re lucky,” he added. “High profile prisoners are harder to have accidents with.”

“Yeah, I was worried about that,” Kyle said. Hell, there were American cops who would have shot first or applied a club. He didn’t imagine it was any better or worse here. Police were charged with the peace, but were also human beings, subject to prejudice and attitude.

“It was very tense,” Cafferty agreed. “But I made calls, the ambassador made calls at the behest of State and DoD. We got someone over there. I hope you’re both okay?”

“Hungry, thirsty, tired. And not thrilled about working with the locals.” It was true, he had to say it.

“Well,” Cafferty observed, eyebrows raised slightly, “it is their country. And I’d rather work at this level with Mister Pavenic than let the word leak out. DGIPI is known for their . . . vigorous attention and forthright approach.”

Kyle looked at Wade, who nodded back. They both understood the implication. The government as a whole wouldn’t hear of this, except as statistics. And there’d be no due process. DGIPI would bury the bodies deep and erase the records.

“Then we’ll do it their way,” Kyle acceded. There was nothing else to say.

The Romanian counterterror chief returned a few moments later. He was smiling faintly, and the smile became a grin when he saw the nods from the Americans. “Excellent,” he said. He spoke a quick, fluid sentence to the captain with him, and the weapon cases were placed on the table. “Your tools, gentlemen,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Kyle said. He and Wade both dived in to assess the weapons.

They had been well dusted for fingerprints by the police, and some powder still drifted from ports and wells. But someone, likely with the DGIPI, had wiped them down with oil. They spent a few minutes stripping and cleaning with long-practiced fingers while they discussed strategy. The Romanians drank tea and Cafferty chugged coffee. What he really needed, Kyle thought, was a caffeine IV. He looked up from his work as a tray of sandwiches on dark bread arrived. He was grateful for that. His hunger was severe. It was decent roast beef with butter, salt, and mayonnaise. It would go a long way toward reviving him.

“We have posted guards at the borders, airports, and the port. While that doesn’t prevent him from leaving, it does make his task harder. We were hoping to drive him underground,” Pavenic said.

“That’s where we found him last time,” Kyle said.

“Perhaps not literally this time,” spook said. “Nevertheless, with his photograph on television, he seems nervous. We are hoping to shortly get reports on his whereabouts.”

“Assuming he comes out and is seen,” Kyle said.

“Yes, there is that. However, we were able to trace his car to its owner. The owner also had a satellite cell phone relay station, and several maps and charts. While not conclusive evidence, it was enough for us to question him further. He was hesitant at first”—Pavenic sounded rather pleased with that, and smiled a very cold smile. Kyle had an American’s belief in due process, but a soldier’s hatred of terrorists. The latter ruled and he wasn’t very bothered by the probable torture that the accessory had suffered—“but he eventually told us what we wanted to know. It appears there was some kind of contact missed, because al Asfan was not in his hotel when we arrived. But we know where he is, approximately.”

“Oh?” The question was asked simultaneously by Kyle, Wade, and Cafferty.

“Yes. He had another hideout in the Carpathians and tried to get there. He apparently figured out it was occupied and is now trapped. The road in that area is blocked, and we have the area monitored. But that still leaves a lot of mountain and forest to search. He could slip out at night, and we do have to let other vehicles through from time to time. We need to find him quickly. We will have the Army search, but he may be dug in quite well. As you have taken two of them so far, it seemed polite to invite you along. Besides, it allows me to keep an eye on you both without worrying over your whereabouts.” He smiled again, with some humor.

“Oh, I’m in,” Kyle agreed. “We both are.” He looked over at Wade, who nodded slowly with a big grin. “There may not be enough left of this asshole to bury after everyone gets a shot,” he said.

“There is a problem here?” Pavenic asked with a cold, feral grin.

“No problem,” Kyle said. “Should I leave him alive for the rest of you?” he joked.

“That’s rude,” Wade chided. “I just may get the first shot.”

They all chuckled together. Kyle asked, “Do we get to meet our counterparts?”

“As we have time,” Pavenic said. “I shall be leading. Our sniper is Sergeant Tibor Dobrogeanu.” He pointed. The man stepped forward and nodded.

It was pretty obvious who he was. He held a ROMAK-3 rifle, well cared for and customized to fit him. It had been customized the professional way, with duct tape, files, and spray paint. Only amateurs prettified their weapons. Experts went for function. Dobrogeanu was tall, blond and very lean, and looked very confident. He’d make a good, lanky Southern farm boy, and Kyle knew without asking that he could shoot. He was reaching out a hand, and Wade shook it, then Kyle. His grip was firm but without any attempt to prove how strong he was.

At once, the rest of the team was running through, gathering gear and piling it around. They nodded or shook hands at a run. Pavenic yelled orders, grinning and gesturing flamboyantly. Periodically, the team would respond with, “Da, domnule!” in shouted unison.

Cafferty came over, sucking coffee, and said something to Pavenic. The CIA man looked like hell, Kyle thought. His eyes were sunken, his skin waxy. Whatever stress the snipers were under, this man looked as if he were fighting a war by himself. Or perhaps avoiding a war.

The two exchanged nods, then Cafferty came toward Kyle and Wade. He nodded with a faint frown and directed them to a corner for a bit of privacy.

Once there, he asked, “How are you feeling about this?”

“At least it’s like being soldiers again—outside and shooting,” Kyle said. “Woods, hills, support’. I like it. It’s much more our mission than the espionage stuff.”

“Kyle, you got two so far. Another has been arrested and we’re working on a fourth. Stop beating yourself up.”

“Yeah, I know,” Kyle said, frowning. “Still, we got found.”

“Everyone gets found. That’s why we have State, and why I’ve got a bank of favors I can draw on. Hell, it’d be a miracle if you hadn’t been caught during this. We warned you at the beginning.”

“I suppose,” Kyle said. He did recall the emphasis. He just hated to be less than perfect.

“I trust Pavenic, but keep in mind he’s very aggressive. You’re on your own as far as orders go. I have no authority and you’re volunteering to work with him. If there’s any roughing up and it gets reported to the UN . . .” he tapered off.

“War crimes charges?” Wade asked.

“Could be,” Cafferty said. “So you make the calls. I’ve got to slide out of here. But good luck, thanks for everything so far, and we’ll talk again in a day or two.”

“Right,” Kyle said. “I just wish I knew more about this.”

“So do I.”

He turned with a half grimace, half smirk, and trudged out.

Meanwhile, Pavenic came over and asked, “Is there any equipment you need?”

“Yeah,” Kyle said. “Our boots, some clothes, weather gear of some kind. Whatever radios you’re using, or we’ll use ours.” He paused to think.

“Preferably our own stuff, if it can be gotten in time,” Wade said. “We had all we needed at the hotel.”

“I will see to it,” Pavenic said. “That should only take an hour or so.”

While they waited, Pavenic briefed them. It wasn’t as bad as Kyle had anticipated. Pavenic laid a large map out across a conference table and used a wooden pointer. He waved it like a rapier, jabbing it when excited.

“Al Asfan was seen here as he left Brasov. Our informants tell us he has a facility of some kind in the mountains here.” He jabbed the map over the Carpathians, near Comnesti. “We have a helicopter observing, and there is something there. So we will investigate.”

“Flying in?” Kyle asked.

“We are flying nearby. I do not care to land on top of explosives,” Pavenic said. “I am crazy, and vicious, it is said and is true.” His men snickered. He smiled. “But I am no fool. We will approach a few kilometers on foot, quietly. The helicopters will maintain watching, and I have called Army units to patrol the lower elevations. They will stop and inquire of anyone, and shoot anyone who does not stop. The police are likewise blocking the road.

“But this is a large area,” he continued, “and if al Asfan thinks we follow, he may leave on foot or by vehicle and manage to escape. So we will leave at once. I would like him by daytime.” His expression said it would be by daytime or else.

Loud but cheerful voices came from the outer office, and in a few seconds, one of the operatives clumped in. He was dressed in urban casual; raincoat, jacket, shirt but no tie and sturdy shoes, and was carrying all their luggage. He looked like a cartoon gunbearer for a safari.

“We don’t really need the cameras,” Kyle said as he smiled. He reached out and helped the young man untangle from his burden. “Those were mostly for cover, anyway.” Wade stepped in to grab other bags.

“This way you don’t have to fish for them later,” the man said.

That was true. “It’s appreciated,” Kyle said. “But we’ll have to do a check for anything we left.” He was thinking of notes or possible small items forgotten behind furniture.

“There is nothing left in the room that is not the hotel’s,” the man assured him with a grin.

“I’ll take your word on that,” Kyle agreed. The man was a professional at this; he’d likely gotten everything.

“Captain Monroe,” Pavenic called, and Kyle turned, still holding the betacam. “Here is your new rifle.” He came over with it extended at port.

Kyle took it. It was another ROMAK-3. The ROMAK looked a bit like a Dragunov, but had been built up from the AK action. It wasn’t impressive, because Eastern Bloc theory was for the sniper to support the infantry squad, not be a force multiplier by gathering intelligence and disrupting operations by shooting important targets. It was what Kyle would call a designated marksman’s rifle, not a sniper’s rifle.

But this one, like Dobrogeanu’s, had a Dragunov stock fitted to it, proper windage drums on the iron sights and a decent-looking long scope with tritium reticle. It was also, he discovered when he checked the ammunition, chambered in 7.62 NATO, not 7.62 x 54R Russian.

“Not bad,” he commented softly. This might shoot well after all.

“It will shoot as well or better than you,” Pavenic said.

“Want to bet?” Kyle asked with a challenging smile.

“I will trust you, Monroe. But if we get al Asfan first, you will buy the dinner.”

“Deal,” he agreed. It was a win/win proposition. Either he or Wade bagged another bad guy, or they assisted. If it all failed, there were a lot of people higher up to take the blame, and both nations would pass it off on each other. It was much more like the military he was familiar with, and would be a more comfortable shooting environment. And if he had to buy dinner, he had cash for the purpose. Uncle Sam’s cash.


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