The War Business: A Sam Raven Thriller Read online

  “On your left!” Osborne shouted, Raven mentally noting his friend’s position. His peripheral vision didn’t allow a glimpse. He rolled across the hood of a car, the two people inside, a man draping his body over a woman, staring at him wide-eyed through the windshield.

  “Stay down!” Raven shouted, moving forward, the urge to end the fight paramount in his mind.

  Another burst of AK fire cut through the air, but the rounds didn’t come near Raven. Osborne was the target. Raven fired over the roof of a car. The gunman’s head split open. One more down. One left. The last shooter swung around the bumper of a vehicle two car-lengths away.

  He might as well have been at point blank range. Raven pivoted, feeling the heat of the muzzle flash and the first shot whistling past his ear. He closed his finger on the trigger of the Nighthawk .45 and sent two rounds into the shooter’s face. The shooter pitched over and fell flat on his back.

  “Clear!” Raven shouted.

  “Clear!” Osborne echoed.

  Raven looked left. Osborne ran toward him and didn’t stop. Raven followed him to the opposite sidewalk where they ducked into an alley.

  “You hit?” Raven asked. They put their guns away.

  “Only scratches.”

  Raven looked back at the carnage with a pained expression. The heavy smoke continued to drift with the wind. The van still burned. The flames from other cars contributing to the choking thickness. People were on their feet, trying to get the wounded and walking wounded clear of the mess, police sirens wailing in the distance.

  “This is awful,” Raven said.

  “Nothing else we can do, Sam, come on,” Osborne said, tugging on Raven’s arm. “It’s another day in Paris, come on!”

  Raven turned and ran with Osborne along the length of the alley.

  Osborne suggested Raven return to his hotel and hide out for a while. “I’ll go back to my place where Tracy is waiting, and we’ll meet up later tonight.”

  Raven agreed. The pair split.

  Back at his hotel, the lobby was buzzing with news of the terror attack. Guests clustered around televisions in the bar. Distracted clerks struggled to keep their focus as they dealt with a line of arriving guests.

  Nobody looked at Raven as he crossed the lobby. Smelling of smoke and looking a little rough, he avoided the elevator and climbed the stairs to his floor. Out of breath, he shut himself in his room, took off his clothes, and spent fifteen minutes in the shower. He washed the smoke and street grime off his body while he thought about what happened.

  Jihad activity in Europe was out of control. So called “refugees” from the wars in the Middle East often contained jihadists using true refugees to infiltrate the continent. They made their presence known with random violence and organized attacks. The politicians did nothing, claiming action would discriminate against the refugees seeking a new life. Caught in the middle were the civilians who died as a result. The situation made Raven furious. It was more important to protect killers than victims. Why? Europe had dealt with terrorism for decades, in much better fashion than present-day attitudes allowed.

  It was as if governments fed off the conflict, used it to justify endless war and military spending. War was a source of millions of dollars which flowed into the pockets of the corrupt. It served their interests to keep the chaos going.

  Raven turned off the shower in disgust, dried off, and pulled on fresh clothes.

  He stood up and paced a moment. He’d eaten breakfast not long ago, but felt starved. He called room service and asked for an early lunch.

  Tracy Donahue, Osborne’s girlfriend, jumped when the apartment door opened.

  “Honey?” Osborne called.

  “Aaron!” She ran to him, crashing into his arms. She felt tiny and fragile because of her petite frame, but she was fit and well-muscled, with long dark hair and big brown eyes. She stepped back and her eyes widened as she saw the cuts on his face. “You’re a mess!”

  “I was there when the bomb went off.”

  She gasped and put a hand to her mouth.

  “I’m fine,” he said, pushing past her into the living room. She had the television tuned to a news report. He switched off the set.

  “Did you—”

  “Sam and I, yeah. We got four of them.” He removed his jacket and pulled off the shoulder harness holding his gun. Setting the rig on the coffee table, he went to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water to get rid of the sweat. Using a washcloth to dry his face, he avoided his eyes in the mirror. He didn’t want to look at himself.

  He’d fed Raven a pack of lies and his loyal pal accepted the meal. He told himself it was the only way to accomplish his objective. He shouldn’t feel guilty. But he did feel guilty. Raven didn’t deserve to be caught in Aaron’s scheme. If he’d been able to recruit others to help, he wouldn’t have needed Raven.

  He finally dropped onto the couch. Tracy squeezed beside him and ran a hand through his hair.

  “I’m okay, babe,” he said. He eyes stared at a wall, not at her.

  “What did your friend say?”

  “He’ll help us.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “I wish I had more gunners on our side, but nobody wants the job.”

  “Then it’s only us,” she said. “We’ll get it done and take the money to your father.”

  Finally, he turned to her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. He pulled her close. “Yeah. It’s time to go home. I’m tired of people shooting at me."

  He’d told her the same lies. She had no reason to think he wasn’t telling the truth.

  Tracy laughed. “You act as if this happens every day.”

  “It’s happened enough.”

  “When do we see your friend again?”

  “His name is Sam.”

  “When do we see him?”

  “Tonight.”

  8

  Tracy thought, Good.

  With Sam Raven along, she could finally learn what her “boyfriend” was up to and why the CIA wanted him stopped. It had been a long three months since her briefing at CIA headquarters. It had been a long three months pretending to be Aaron Osborne’s girlfriend. In both instances, she’d yet to learn anything.

  She’d met her boss, Christopher Fisher, in his office. Fisher was the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations. She had recently completed an assignment overseas and was looking forward to time off, but Fisher told her she was the only one who could step into this new situation.

  Fisher clicked a file folder on his desktop monitor and opened a picture. He rotated the wide-screen display so both he and Tracy could see. The photo showed a side profile of a man with receding dark hair and a sharp jaw.

  “Remember him?” Fisher said.

  “Aaron Osborne,” Tracy said. “His father is Mark Osborne, CEO of Osborne Defense. They build bombs for the military. I met him in Afghanistan. He used to joke that he could get stuff for our unit at cost.”

  “Uh-huh.” Fisher frowned as he studied the picture.

  “We dated once, too,” she said. “Not long. What’s the problem?”

  “Mr. Osborne has been overseas the last several years working as a mercenary.”

  “So?”

  “He’s lately tripped a couple of alarms and we’re concerned he’s up to no good.”

  “What happened?”

  “One of our surveillance teams spotted him in a bar last week, talking with a mercenary recruiter. He wants to hire some guys for a job.”

  “He’s recruiting?”

  Fisher nodded.

  “What for?”

  “All we know is he was asking for the names of qualified fighters. For what, we don’t know. Since he’s an American and his father is plugged in with the military and especially the Pentagon, there could be a national security risk if he’s planning something illegal.”

  “Did our team stay with him?”

  “Enough to know where he is right now. You two get along when you
dated?”

  “Very well,” Tracy said.

  “Who broke it off?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Wasn’t working for us. We were both gone all the time and barely saw each other.”

  “Would he give you a second chance?”

  “If it’s what I need to do to find out what he’s doing,” she said, “I can make him change his mind.”

  “Think he might take you into his confidence?”

  “I’ll make it happen. When it was good, it was very good. The time apart is what ruined things. We can rekindle. Where is he?”

  “Paris. You leave tomorrow morning.”

  Tracy left her chair. “We’ll have a grand reunion and drink all the beer in Paris. Want me to bring you back a souvenir?”

  “I’ve always fancied a mini-Eifel Tower for my desk, sure.”

  Tracy started for the door. “But one thing, sir.” Tracy stopped and turned around.

  “Yes?”

  “What if he doesn’t notice I’m around? It has been a few years.”

  “Make sure he does notice you. I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling about this one.”

  As she sat beside Aaron on the couch and the conversation with Fisher filtered through her mind, Tracy could only echo his concern.

  None of the mercenaries Aaron tried to recruit wanted the job. They said the pay was too small for the effort. Tracy believed they didn’t want to risk getting killed in retaliation. It surprised her none had decided to tip off the cartel to what Aaron was doing.

  Enter Sam Raven. She knew a little about him, but not much. He had been long gone from the CIA by the time she joined. She’d report to her control in London about the arrival, and see what orders followed. They were close to discovering Aaron’s agenda. She hoped they could stop him before he did something stupid.

  Fortun Dacourt took his motto from his first name. It meant lucky. His mother had insisted on the name after being unable to conceive for so long. Then Fortun came along and brought them the happiness which had eluded them for so long.

  He glanced at the tall woman next to him. He’d been lucky for sure when Geneva Ramsden decided to be his one and only. Her blonde hair was perfectly curled and hung below her shoulders. She wore her hair in a different style every day. Today, curls. Her strapless black dress fit her curvy frame and accentuated every attribute. Dacourt knew there were other women around, some similarly dressed, but Geneva was the only one he looked at.

  They stood near one of the six marble support columns holding up the overhang of the Opera de Marseilles—the city’s ornate opera theater. It was warm night, and Geneva required no wrap; Dacourt, in his tux, felt a little toasty beneath the clothing.

  The pre-show reception carried on in the lobby beyond the entrance. Other patrons waited outside on the steps. They drank champagne and ate fancy hors d’oeuvres and bought drugs. Geneva sipped champagne, but Dacourt needed his hands free for business.

  “You predicted we’d run out tonight,” she said.

  “Night is young.”

  “We’ve had what? Four customers?”

  Dacourt only smiled. “Wait a little longer, hon.”

  The show for the evening was The Bluebird Castle, a one-act by Bela Balaza about a newly married couple returning from a honeymoon. Dacourt loved opera. The music and visual spectacle swept him into a trance-like state and away from daily cares.

  Geneva liked the opera because it allowed her to dress to kill. Dacourt allowed her the opportunity on a regular basis.

  But she was correct. He had predicted a rush. The theater doors would open in twenty minutes. He still had plenty of product in his pockets.

  He needn’t have worried. While the mingling continued on the steps, young couples and a few single men stepped up to say hello and greet them as friends. Their “friends” passed cash.

  Dacourt in return passed small bags of white powder.

  And pocketed the cash.

  These transactions carried on without notice. Dacourt knew how to be discreet. There was a reason he wasn’t behind bars or sitting in front of the interrogation lamps of the narcotics detectives.

  Dacourt’s customers were mostly young people in their 30s who represented the growing presence of high-tech companies in Marseille. The city’s economy, once wholly dependent on the port, was racing into the 21st Century. The influx of young workers, their pockets full of money, with a desire to party, had been a boon to Dacourt’s business.

  Presently, as Geneva started on her third glass of champagne, the baggies ran out. Dacourt politely turned away business. The people liked cocaine. Dacourt and Geneva liked supplying their cocaine.

  “I’ll never doubt you again,” she said.

  “Sure, you will.”

  An announcement over exterior speakers said the show was about to begin. Wait staff collected empty and half-full glasses. Geneva downed what remained of her third glass in a fast swallow.

  In the lobby, the crowd began a slow migration, either straight through the lobby theater doors or up a staircase to the box seats. Dacourt and Geneva climbed the stairs. The couple, their arms hooked, didn’t stand out.

  “Looking forward to the show?” she said.

  “Indeed,” he said. “And with all the cash in my pocket, something else, too.”

  “Barcelona this time?”

  “Let’s go skiing instead.”

  “You’ll fall and break your arm, dear.”

  “You better be nearby to catch me then,” he said.

  Geneva let out a low laugh.

  After the opera, while humming a tune from the show, Dacourt steered his Jaguar F-Type into traffic.

  “We are out entirely after tonight,” Geneva pointed out. She’d taken off her heels. The shoes lay in the footwell of the passenger seat.

  “Won’t be long till the next shipment. It won’t hurt to lay low for a few days.”

  “How long?”

  “Two days. I’ve already scheduled the meeting at our usual spot.”

  “We need to change spots. We’ve used the mall three times already.”

  “We’ll change next time. The mall’s convenient for everybody.”

  “Convenience will get us killed, Fortun.”

  He patted her leg. “That’s why I keep you around. Make sure I don’t go soft.”

  Geneva leaned forward to turn on the radio. A newscast filled the cabin, updates and commentary on the attack in Paris.

  “What do you think?” she said during a commercial.

  “I’m glad we don’t live in Paris,” Dacourt said.

  He gripped the steering wheel tight for a moment, then loosened his grip. He didn’t like an attack on his country any more than the next Frenchmen, and the government couldn’t get a handle on the cancer thriving within. Marseille had avoided such incidents, so far, but the city’s “luck” could turn on a dime.

  Traffic loosened and Dacourt headed for home.

  “Sam, this is Tracy.”

  Aaron Osborne beamed as the petite young woman stepped between him and Raven. Raven shook the dark-haired woman’s hand. She wore a tank top and jeans and Raven decided not to challenge her to an arm-wrestling contest. Her handshake was firm and she looked in good enough shape to give him a run for his money. The tank top exposed her tanned skin.

  “It’s a pleasure,” he told her. “Aaron is totally in love with you.”

  “Hey!”

  Tracy laughed. Her big brown eyes widened in delight. “You should hear what he says about me in his sleep.”

  Osborne blanched and turned for the kitchen. “Who wants beer?”

  Both Raven and Tracy signaled the affirmative and Osborne returned with three bottles.

  Raven popped off the top of the bottle handed to him, with a sharp twist. Tracy was faster. She downed two big swallows before he took his first sip.

  “Nice apartment,” Raven said.

  “I dare you to make
a joke about the closet space,” Osborne said.

  It was a modest apartment, furnished with the basics, and the pictures on shelves near the wall-mounted television caught his eye. He wandered over. “Who are these people?”

  “My family,” Tracy said. “I have four sisters.”

  Raven noticed, but did not point out, Osborne appeared to have no pictures of his family among the set.

  Osborne suggested they sit on the balcony. The plastic chair Raven settled on was actually comfortable. Osborne and Tracy pulled their chairs closer and sat across from him. Beyond the iron railing was a pool where kids, watched by lounging parents, played Marco Polo. Even in French, the game was unmistakable. The night was cool.

  “We managed to avoid the news,” Osborne said. “Nobody’s talking about two Americans shooting a bunch of bad guys.”

  Raven said, “But it won’t be long before somebody says something. The cops will want to know who shot the gunmen.”

  “My contacts in French intelligence,” Tracy said, “say it was a local jihadist cell. They’ve connected the attack with a coded Tweet sent out last week, believe it or not.”

  Raven nodded. “Decoded before or after?”

  Tracy scoffed. “Right? The bodies provided some leads, and they’re tracing the leadership of the cell through the Twitter account.”

  “They’ll have cut-outs to hide the origin.”

  Tracy shook her head. “Don’t bet on it.”

  “Aaron said you were a spook.”

  She smiled. “INSCOM, Fort Belvoir.”

  “I did my Ranger training there.”

  “When?”

  “Before you were born, probably.”

  They laughed.

  Tracy said, “And you’re ex-Company?”

  “Crazy ex-Company,” Raven said. “But what I want to talk about is knocking over some drug dealers.”

  Aaron elbowed Tracy and she transferred her beer from her right hand to her left, and dug a cell phone from the back pocket of her jeans.

  “She’ll show you the targets,” Aaron said.