One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [19]
“Two minutes out.”
“Roger.”
He watched the man get closer and closer, until he took up the entire display. The picture was clear enough for him to recognize Azzam. Knuckles rotated the ball as he passed, now watching the target’s back moving into the first hitch.
“Thirty seconds.”
“Roger.”
Knuckles nodded to the driver, who started the van, pulling into the street at a slow pace. He rounded the first hitch in the road and saw Azzam bathed in the glow of the headlights. They were late. The driver inched the gas pedal forward just as the assault team deployed.
Knuckles saw one man move to Azzam’s front, while the other two advanced from the rear. One held a Taser X26 stun device. He pulled the trigger from a distance of five feet. Firing two projectiles attached to wires, the Taser caused Azzam to instantly lose neuromuscular control. He fell to the ground with only a sharp exhale of breath, quivering, unable to move. The other men from the assault element fell on him, flex-tying both his hands and legs with zip ties much like those used on garbage bags, only much, much thicker.
The driver pulled the van up parallel to the downed terrorist, while Knuckles threw open the sliding side door. Two men outside heaved the terrorist into the van while the third kept the voltage going, preventing Azzam from doing anything but twitch. They climbed in behind him, sliding the door shut. Knuckles breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the clammy sweat on his body for the first time. They’d been working toward this moment for what seemed like years, but the entire operation had taken less than the planned five seconds. The van sped out of the area, only stopping momentarily to allow Knuckles to recover the Remington ball.
IT HAD BEEN ALMOST SEVEN MINUTES, and I was growing a little antsy. Maybe I should have had Knuckles confirm his plan. I was itching to break radio silence but wouldn’t, mainly because I’d never hear the end of it from Knuckles. I knew better than to bug the team. He would do the right thing. I hoped. Finally, I got the call.
“Pike, Pike . . . this is Knuckles . . . Jackpot. I say again, Jackpot.” Knuckles spoke in a calm monotone, as if he had just awakened from a nap.
I knew this was an act. He was probably hyperventilating when he put the handset down. I matched his cadence, because that’s what cool commandos do, and replied, “I copy Jackpot. What’s your ETA to my location?”
“Two minutes.”
“Roger. Standing by.”
I cranked the car and waited. Two minutes and fourteen seconds later they pulled up, not that I was looking at my watch. Knuckles was grinning like a teenager who had just egged the principal’s house. He gave me a thumbs-up, and we pulled out of the parking lot with me in the lead. My car would now be a buffer vehicle for any contingencies that might happen en route.
Within minutes we were out of Tbilisi proper and headed toward a warehouse the support team had rented, not a single bit of evidence left that anything at all had occurred.
I called in the mission, alerting the reception team we were en route. Twenty minutes later, the car and van pulled into a vacant warehouse, the rolling door closing behind us.
I left the packaging of the terrorist to the support team, knowing he wasn’t being flown out until tomorrow. In the meantime, he would be given a complete physical to make sure he wasn’t on the verge of a heart attack, then sedated for the trip. My part of the mission, the fun part, was over. I grinned when I saw Blaine Alexander come out of the small office we were using for a tactical operations center.
“Another good one. No issues whatsoever.”
I noticed that Blaine’s face was grim.
“What’s up? Did something go bad on the Chechen hit?”
“No. It’s