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  Chapter 6

  Three Years Ago, Algiers, Algeria, North Africa

  The security detail manning the perimeter of the walled beachfront compound on the bluff three stories above the sand wore heavy windbreakers to fend off the evening chill. Even though Algiers was situated on the Mediterranean, the moods of March could plunge it into the high forty-degree range after dark, and tonight was one of the more frigid, even though the sun had only set an hour before.

  In addition to the compound’s guards, each of the guests had brought personal bodyguards, resulting in an uneasy equilibrium within the villa, as menacing figures in dark suits with barely concealed weapons passed one another in the halls and jockeyed for position in the larger common rooms.

  Luxury automobiles had been arriving since five o’clock, when the first of the targets came straight from his private jet. Every light in the massive villa glowed bright, its expansive grounds and huge swimming pool illuminated by discreetly mounted spotlights designed to eliminate potential hiding places. The neighborhood was one of moneyed power and exclusivity, and police cruisers were stationed at either end of the beach to ensure that nobody disturbed the residents.

  The tiny ear bud clicked in Jet’s ear.

  “Delta. Are you in position?”

  “Roger that,” she whispered.

  “Anything new from your end?”

  “Negative. The last of them showed up half an hour ago. It looks like everyone’s gathered for a late dinner in the formal dining room.”

  “Nice. What’s your take on hostiles?”

  “They’ve got a small army and look alert.”

  “How many do you see?”

  “Exterior, two dozen. Inside, it’s hard to make out, but based on the head count we did as they arrived, I’d have to say at least twenty, total. So almost fifty armed and dangerous.”

  The voice paused…then said, “Let me touch base with control. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Roger. Out,” she murmured.

  She continued watching the villa through her sniper rifle’s high-powered scope. Even though she was two hundred and fifty yards away, hidden on the roof of a construction site, she could still see the activity in the principal rooms. Whoever was running the security must have believed that throwing bodies at the problem would be sufficient, and hadn’t thought to shutter the windows. The ten-foot-high walls surrounding the main house probably had a lot to do with the sense of invulnerability. Besides which, nobody knew about this meeting or would have recognized the men in the room, all of whom had been in Algeria for less than eight hours.

  Nobody, that is, except her team.

  It had been well over a year since she’d taken part in an operation with the full group, which was minus Rain, the code name of the operative who’d gone into deep cover in Yemen six months prior.

  Jet, Tiger, Fire and Lightning had been called into this when Ariel had been alerted that five terrorist financiers were going to be meeting for an unprecedented conference on neutral ground. Such a gathering presented an irresistible opportunity – the chance to cut off funding to any number of terrorist organizations, many of which viewed Israel as Satan’s embodiment on earth.

  The planning was as good as it could be with six days advance notice. Resources had been allocated, personnel had been scrambled, and the team had been assembled and deployed.

  One of the negatives from Jet’s perspective had been the source of the intel. The CIA had alerted them and had insisted on an observer who could represent its interests. The condition hadn’t been negotiable. The combination of a short timeframe and the presence of an outsider hadn’t sat well with Jet or any of the rest of the team, but in the end it wasn’t their call.

  And now she was on a roof in North Africa, staring through a Hensoldt ZF 4 scope at a heavily fortified group that looked like it was ready for trouble. This wasn’t her ideal scenario. She preferred surgical strikes to brute force, but sometimes circumstances didn’t permit it.

  The ear bud chirped, and then Fire’s voice returned.

  “We’re to hit them as soon as possible. Everyone’s now in position. Engagement to occur in two minutes. Repeat. Engagement in two minutes. Are there any questions?”

  The comm line went silent for several seconds.

  “Negative,” Jet said, and then a chorus of other voices, all male, repeated her statement.

  She depressed the timer button on her watch and waited. This would be a relatively clean operation if things went well. If they executed properly there was no chance that any of the bad guys would make it out alive. Still, the team liked backup. On a mission this big, they couldn’t afford anything going wrong.

  At exactly the two-minute mark, a streak of flame shot from a building eighty yards away from Jet, where Fire and Lightning were concealed with a Kornet 9M133F-1 guided rocket armed with a thermobaric warhead.

  The dining room of the villa exploded outward in a shower of glass, steel and white-hot flame – a direct hit had gutted the room. Jet peered through the scope as the guards stood stunned, first gaping at the destruction, and then alternating between darting to the burning villa and sprinting for their vehicles. She watched as three of the men huddled and one pointed at Fire and Lightning’s hiding place with a radio raised to his lips. Four men ran for a van toting assault rifles.

  She tapped her ear bud. “Alpha, you have heat headed your way. Repeat. You were spotted.”

  “Roger. Lay down cover for as long as you can, then get the hell out of there.”

  “Will do. Delta out.”

  Jet squinted through her scope and fired at one of the three gunmen, obviously the supervisor of the guard detail, and took him out. The rifle’s stock slammed her shoulder, but she ignored the recoil and targeted another man. Two more vehicles tore out of the compound toward them, motors revving over the screams and shouted commands from the villa walls. She fired again, and another man went down. Someone had seen her muzzle flash – within a few moments, bullets began peppering the side of the construction site. The likelihood of being hit was slim, but a stray round was still lethal.

  It was time to pack up.

  “Alpha, hostiles are on their way in.”

  “How many?”

  “Three vehicles.”

  “Can you disable any?”

  “I’m trying, but you can expect company shortly. I’m taking fire.”

  She sighted on the first van, aiming for the driver. Just as she squeezed the trigger, the van jolted against a pothole, and the shot went wide. A hole appeared in the windshield six inches to the left of the driver’s head, and he began taking evasive action. She fired again, but he was swerving and jerking the van around too much.

  Ricochets from the lip of the building intensified as more gunfire was directed at her.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. Her ear bud crackled again.

  “Delta, hostile helicopter inbound. The army must have had a bird in the air. Pull out. Repeat. Pull out now.”

  “Roger that, Alpha. Good shooting, by the way. Expect to engage within sixty seconds. I spotted grenade launchers on their guns. Be careful,” Jet said.

  “You too, Delta. Clear out. This is over.”

  “I’m on the move. Out.”

  Jet scooped up the rifle and ran to the stairwell, taking the raw concrete steps two at a time. It was dark, but her eyes had adjusted to the gloom so she was easily able to avoid the collected construction debris and trash. She hit the second floor running and risked a glance back at the complex. Lights from the approaching vehicles bounced toward her. Maybe thirty seconds now.

  At the ground floor, she sprinted to her car, the headlights of the trucks bouncing their beams on the street. She swung the driver’s door open, tossed the rifle onto the passenger seat, and then cranked the engine.

  The pursuit vehicles separated, two headed to Fire and Lightning’s building, and one came directly at her.

  Fifteen seconds later, the van pulled to a s
top fifty yards from Jet’s car, and four men with Kalashnikov assault rifles emptied out.

  Jet’s Ford Festiva exploded in a fireball. Part of a door sailed through the air in a lazy arc and slammed down six yards from the nearest gunman. An oily black cloud of smoke belched from the carcass of the burning car, the flames licking hungrily at the frame as they fought for supremacy.

  The CIA observer would later confirm one friendly casualty, and even though the Mossad remained silent, everyone involved knew that the team with no name had lost a key member. Fire and Lightning had also seen the blast, and the consensus was that there was no possibility anyone could have survived.

  One week later, Jet’s code name was retired, never to be used again.

  There was no memorial service.