Zero Dark: Zeb Carter Series, #6

Chapter One

Some experts, those who came on talk shows, called it an impact killing. An incident, they said, that took out low value targets, did not affect the operations of a country or a state. Whose sole purpose was to garner headlines and publicity.

Of course, most people called such incidents acts of terror.

The shooter didn’t care about semantics and linguistic terms. He had a gun, a SAKO TRG-42, a scope, several five-round magazines, a tripod, a suppressor mounted on the barrel. Nearby, he had a bottle of water, a backpack in which was his Beretta, more magazines and identity documents. They verified him as Joe Hines, a vet who had served a tour in Iraq.

They were good but fake. Iskander Blokhin, who was masquerading as the vet, settled down and brought the scope to his eyes.

Columbus Avenue sprang up in detail. Four hundred yards from where he was on the fifth-floor of an office building. It was under construction and prominent signs at street-level forbade entry.

Blokhin had checked out the building, one of several options. It’s location, at the junction with West 60 th Street, a nearby hospital and church, ensured that there was heavy traffic.

He snorted. This was New York. Traffic was always heavy, but on this stretch of road, it was a few shades more.

The building’s proximity to a glass-fronted one nailed it for him. That mirrored one housed some undercover operatives from some US outfit called the Agency.

His incident was supposed to be a message to that outfit. He shook his head in disgust. Why not kill them directly? Why this elaborate dance? But his was not to question why. He was one of the best shooters in the world, a mercenary. He was paid well and if his paymasters wanted him to shoot something else, he was game.

The room he was in was a large empty space that would presumably be fitted out as an office. The street-facing side was boarded up, but he had punched several holes to give him a good view.

A honking in the distance alerted him.

He swung his scope to the left and spotted the school bus immediately.

It approached the junction, its driver sounding the horn in irritation to get slower-moving vehicles out of the way.

Blokhin timed it in his mind as he moved the scope idly. That girl in the blue dress. Chinese-looking. She was right in his sights. Would make a great impact kill. A car moved away from the bus, leaving its side exposed to the shooter.

The bus accelerated as the light turned green.

It was going fast, but not fast enough for the shooter.

Blokhin pulled the trigger.

Chapter Two

Jose Martinez had been driving the bus for several years. In his fifties, the jovial employee was a well-known, well-liked figure in the school. He was experienced, good at managing children and had a blemish-free record at the wheel.

He knew a tire had blown immediately from the way the steering responded and the bus lurched.

‘Settle down, kids,’ he yelled in his stern voice and checked his mirror swiftly to see they were complying. No one went against Jose when he spoke like that.

He reduced the speed, started pulling to the left to park near the pavement. He honked several times to get vehicles to make way for him. The next signal was approaching. It would be tight. Nope, it wouldn’t be. That Toyota and the other car over there were leaving. He could park in their space, just about.

And then the delivery driver appeared out of nowhere.

He raced down the left of the bus, his jacket brushing the vehicle’s side as the bike roared ahead, the rider seemingly blind to the school bus.

Jose cursed, yawed hard to the right. Saw the light turn green ahead. Realized he had crossed the intersection too late. Sensed it first before seeing it. The garbage truck coming from the left, its driver desperately turning the wheel, stomping on the brake, but it was too late.

The fifty-one-thousand-pound truck smashed into the school bus, shoving it into the midst of traffic, creating a multiple-vehicle collision but, by then, Jose Martinez was beyond caring.

Zeb Carter was with Beth and Meghan Petersen, at their usual spot. A café on Sixtieth Street, a block away from their office, that served the best juices and cakes in Manhattan. Beth swore by them and dragged him and her sister to the shop at every opportunity.

It was a slow time at the Agency. In between missions. Nothing burning on the horizon. Bwana and Roger had left town. Gone hiking in Costa Rica with their girlfriends. Broker and his girlfriend had retreated to his cabin in the Catskills. Writing his memoirs, he announced, but they all knew he was going to fish, read and sleep. Bear and Chloe were touring Italy.

Beth would have spent more time with Mark, her boyfriend, a NYPD detective, but he was at a training course in Quantico.

That meant Zeb was left with the twins. They were high-energy. He was laidback. They talked a lot. He hardly spoke. They were sunshine and clean air and laughter. He wasn’t.

Beth was gesticulating animatedly as she narrated a story when the accident happened.

Zeb, up and racing, his chair crashing behind him, even as the truck plowed into the bus a few hundred yards away.

He raced down the Avenue, Meghan a step behind him, Beth catching up. He scanned the accident swiftly. Three cars jammed into the back of the bus. Steam rising from its front. The truck skewed across the side street, blocking it. Long tails of traffic building. Horns blaring. Onlookers crowding around the vehicles. In the distance, their office gleamed in the sunlight.

Something made him slow down.

‘What’s up?’ Meghan drew up.

‘Nothing,’ he shook his head, ‘you go on.’

She left with her sister and he watched them for a moment as they took natural command of the accident. Their confidence, steady, green eyes and height gave them an advantage which they made full use of in such circumstances. Meghan ordered the onlookers back while her twin climbed up onto the bus.

Zeb looked away. Something bothered him.

This isn’t far from our office. Was it directed at us in any way?

How could it be? he argued with himself. It’s an accident for chrissakes. It could happen anywhere.

Few people in the country knew who they really were. Their Columbus Avenue office was the address for a security consulting company, which was a real firm, had genuine corporate clients. It was a front for their real work, however, as operatives for the Agency, a covert US outfit. Zeb, its lead agent.

He had stayed vigilant ever since the last mission. That message to Jian Hsu … it will rankle him. He’ll want revenge. He knows my identity, this office.

The Chinese man was head of the Ministry of State Security, the country’s powerful and secretive intelligence and secret police agency. It ran agents and operations all over the world, engaged in espionage, blackmail, kidnapping and targeted assassination.

They hacked into our servers and set me up, the last time, he thought, as he checked out the street again. But this doesn’t feel like a hit. How does it benefit the MSS to stage this?

It could be some other hostile agency. A couple of others know who we are and where we’re based, as well.

But a bus accident? How does it help them?

He leaned against a lamppost, one hand inside his jacket, close to his Glock, just another onlooker, and watched.

The first cruiser arrived. Squealed to a stop. Others joined it. An ambulance came. Another joined it. Firetrucks noisily signaled their approach.

Beth turned around, searched for him, started heading in his direction when a shout caught her attention.

Two men climbing out of a cruiser. Senior detectives Lee Chang and Pizaka of the NYPD. The former raced towards the bus, disappeared inside it and when he emerged, he looked white. Shaken. Boneless as he sagged against his partner.

Beth came to Zeb, her face strained.

‘It’s his daughter.’

Chapter Three

‘No,’ Beth said hastily when she read his expression. ‘His daughter suffered a concussion but other than that is unhurt.’

‘Fatalities?’

‘One, the driver. A few cuts and scrapes on the other children, but no one seriously injured.’

Zeb nodded. Watched the fire crew cut open the front of the bus. They worked swiftly, efficiently, pros working in a team.

‘Jose Martinez,’ Beth continued as he headed to join the NYPD detectives. ‘Fifty-eight-year-old driver. He’s been doing school runs for almost ten years. This route, this bus, for three. Not one accident, and then this,’ she said bitterly. ‘Lives in the Bronx with his mom. Cares for her. She’s got no one, now.’

Zeb said nothing. He reached Chang and laid a hand on the cop’s shoulder, who straightened and nodded. A muscle ticked on the detective’s cheek. His face was pale, his jaw tense, no other reaction on him.

‘It was an accident?’ Zeb asked finally.

‘Near as we can tell,’ Pizaka removed his Armani shades, inspected them critically, decided their gleam was not good enough. He removed a neatly-folded piece of silk from an inner pocket and proceeded to polish the lenses. Satisfied, he blew on them lightly, donned the shades and looked around casually.

Despite the grimness of the situation, Zeb had to suppress a smile when Beth’s elbow dug into his side. They knew what the cop was looking for. TV cameras and journalists.

The Agency operatives knew Pizaka and Chang well. The detectives were a two-person team who worked on special, high-profile cases and reported directly to the NYPD Commissioner. Their paths had crossed with the Agency’s several years ago when Zeb and his team were taking down terrorists in the city. The Agency let them take credit for that capture and that had been the start of a good working relationship.

Over time, there had been more cases in the city, more cooperation, intel and resource sharing. Zeb was happy for them to take credit for every win. It’s tough being a cop. Besides, it’s not as if they’re piggybacking on us. They’re great detectives, helped us close down several missions.

The cops were poles apart in looks and demeanor. Pizaka, tall, good looks, slicked-down hair, looked as if he had stepped from the pages of a glamour mag. He reveled in the media’s attention, actively sought it wherever he could, and on the back of their fame, had penned a book that had become a bestseller.

Detective Lee Chang, in his rumpled suit, hair awry, looked nothing like a detective. He let his partner do the talking, take the spotlight. Behind those sleepy eyes, however, was a sharp mind that observed everything.

There was one more difference between the two cops. Both were aware that Zeb and his team worked in a clandestine US outfit. Pizaka thought they were reckless mavericks and didn’t hide his disdain. Chang, loved working with the twins.

Despite their differences the two made a great team.

‘We’re friends,’ Chang had answered, puzzled, when Zeb had once asked how the two managed to get along.

‘They had a school trip,’ Chang said bitterly. ‘Milly was looking forward to it. She had the whole day planned out.’ He glanced at the bus as the emergency workers loaded the driver’s body into an ambulance. ‘Jose always had a smile. He knew every child’s name.’ He kicked at the ground savagely and stomped off towards his cruiser.

‘Bus had a flat,’ Meghan flicked her hair back as she approached them. ‘Some of the school kids say they saw a delivery driver ride close to the bus, on the left. If that’s true, that might have gotten Martinez to swerve and…’ she trailed off, jerking a shoulder in the direction of the accident.

Zeb nodded. Traffic accidents in the city were very common. Not a day went by without a pile-up of some sort, though loss of life was rare. New Yorkers were used to crashes and traffic resumed quickly with other drivers giving no more than a passing glance.

Zeb stood there, flanked by the twins, out of the way of the emergency crew. It’s not related to us, he mused.

But that niggling feeling persisted.

Chapter Four

Blokhin watched from the safety of the crowd. He was behind a large man, used him as cover to observe Carter.

He had read the man’s file as well as those of his friends. Beth, he identified the younger woman. Meghan, the other one. They hadn’t been in the military but the shooter had been in the game long enough to know that didn’t matter much.

Killing can be taught anytime, to anyone.

Carter moved like a panther. Fluid grace, no wasted motion. His eyes were rarely still. They kept moving, taking in the surroundings as if watching for prey. Or for enemies.

They flicked a couple of times over Blokhin, but the shooter was sure his face was partly concealed behind the large man.

It wasn’t the first time he had observed Carter. He had watched him from far and near. Had followed him a few times as the American went running in Central Park, joined by the women. He had initially thought to take Carter down with a long gun. That was when he had first taken the mission and had gone through the files.

However, after observing the man, Blokhin knew how difficult that would have been.

His prey took to the shadows whenever he was in the open. He used every available cover when walking. He used the protection of large crowds, vehicles, pillars and posts. He stopped abruptly, changed direction. It came naturally to him, without conscious thought. Then, those twins. They were in front of him or by his side when he came out of their office.

Blokhin had thought at first that was because they were close friends. But, no. It was as if the sisters were shielding him deliberately. Even when they were running, they covered him.

Sure, the shooter could have taken out all three, but that increased the risk and lowered the chances of success. The survivors would scatter at his first shot and then they would start hunting him.

No. Iskander Blokhin took only high-percentage shots where kills could be practically guaranteed.

In any case, he wasn’t instructed to finish Carter. His orders were to toy with the man until the rest of the plans and the teams were put into place.

And so, Blokhin watched as Carter spoke with the women and the detectives. And when he had seen enough, the best assassin in the world melted into the crowd and disappeared.

Zeb was snoozing on the couch in their Columbus Avenue office when he felt someone approach.

Meghan.

One look at her face and he rose to his feet. The beast, that thing inside him that instantly turned him into a lethal weapon, stirred.

‘What?’

‘Chang called. He wants us to go to the accident site.’

Chang was crouching by the side of the bus which was cordoned off by tape. He looked up when Zeb approached, his face grim.

‘Milly’s fine,’ he said before Zeb could ask. A smile appeared and disappeared on his lips. ‘She’s sad that Jose died, but this has turned out to be bigger than her school trip. See this?’ he waved a hand at the wheel.

Zeb knelt next to him and looked. All he saw was a shredded tire.

‘I’ve seen punctured tires before,’ he said mildly. ‘This one is torn. Rubber probably gave way when Jose attempted to steer hard.’

‘Nails, loose strips of metal, glass, anything could have holed that tire,’ Chang said. ‘They didn’t.’

He nodded at Pizaka who came to them, dug into a pocket and removed a labeled, plastic pouch. ‘That caused the puncture,’ he pointed at the deformed bullet. Someone shot at the bus. Deliberately.’

Chapter Five

Zeb stared at Chang, then at the bullet. Beth and Meghan on either side of him. NYPD technicians working in the distance. A few onlookers gawking. The steady thrum of traffic.

‘Shot?’

‘Yeah,’ Chang replied. ‘The round was beneath the bus.’

‘From where?’

‘Behind us. That building.’

Zeb looked at the under-construction structure. Scaffolding around it. Large tarp sheets hanging down, tears and holes in them.

‘You know from where, exactly?’

‘Third or fourth floor.’

He got to his feet and ducked under the tape. Zeb followed along with the twins. A flight of stairs protected by a door was the entrance. Cops and technicians made room for them as they entered the third floor which was nothing but a vast expanse of space with construction material dotting the floor.

Dust everywhere, but not enough of it to leave any tracks. Zeb checked the equipment lying around. No gun or tripod. He went to the windows and peered through the holes in the tarp. The street was visible. The traffic light as well. An awning from a store front. He looked around and picked several likely spots where a shooter could lie prone. But would those be my first choice?

He went back to the stairs without waiting for the twins or the cops, and climbed. The fourth floor was similar to the third. More construction equipment. A few safety helmets and vests lying around. Many tears through the tarp. He went to the left most one at a window. Yeah, he could see the street. The second one was even better, but it was the third that offered the best view. No obstruction. Great angle.

‘This is it?’ Beth asked him.

‘Feels like it.’ He turned to Chang who anticipated his question.

‘We’re dusting for prints, checking the helmets and vests for DNA samples, interviewing anyone in the building’s proximity who might have seen someone.’

‘You won’t find anything,’ Meghan said confidently. ‘This feels like a pro.’

‘Yeah,’ Zeb agreed. ‘What I don’t get is why would he shoot a tire? He could have gone for the kids. Shot the driver.’

Meghan brushed past him and crouched at the shooting spot. ‘What if it was a distraction? What else happened on the street? Kidnapping? A killing? Robbery?’

‘Nada,’ Pizaka smoothed down a stray hair that had dared to spring up out of position. ‘People going to work or whatever business they were on. No reports of anything else.’ His shades caught the light as he looked at the Agency operatives. ‘Let’s get out of here. We’re in the technicians’ way.’

Zeb caught Meghan’s subtle wink. That was Pizaka code for, this is cop business. Stay out of it.

He shrugged and followed the sisters out. He’s right. Nothing to do with us. We just happened to be close-by.

A fleeting thought crossed his mind. What if the shooter wanted to test us?

Every incident isn’t about you, he told himself.

And yet, that nagging feeling, the tingling at the base of his neck, didn’t disappear.

Chapter Six

The Past, Beijing, Tehran, Moscow

It had started several months back, when Jian Hsu had reached out to Siavash Mostofi, head of the Quds Force, a special unit in Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, IRGC, and to Alexei Gorshky, head of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, SVR.

The Quds Force was an elite military unit whose mission was to advance the Islamic revolution, externally. It operated internationally, worked with Iran’s allies such as Syria in combating ISIS, provided training, weapons and support to terrorist groups around the world and at times, even fought alongside them.

Its operatives had worked with terror groups in major hot spots such as Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Palestine and Africa. Quds members had attacked the US Embassy in Beirut a couple of decades ago and over the years had killed several Americans, US soldiers and those of its allies.

It also went after enemies of the country, wherever they were and undertook assassinations, kidnapping and extortion, all over the world.

Mostofi, who had initially headed the IRGC and had then taken over command of Quds, reported only to Iran’s Supreme Leader and was one of the most powerful men in the country.

Every Western intelligence agency wanted to get hold of him, and the US government had offered a multi-million-dollar reward for his capture

The SVR carried out intelligence and espionage activities outside Russia. It played an active role in election manipulation, fake news propagation and was one of the most lethal intelligence agencies around.

Hsu reaching out to the two men was unusual. China and Russia weren’t allies. Neither were China and Iran. As far as intelligence agencies went, the MSS, Quds and SVR had no common goals. Each one of them worked towards advancing their own country’s interests. Which meant they were competitors in a sense.

The three men had Zeb Carter in common, however.

The American had closed down several of MSS’s operations which had resulted in Hsu losing face with his bosses. Carter had demolished IRGC’s and Quds’ operations in the US and among its allies for which he had earned Mostofi’s burning hatred. As for Gorshky, the Russian wanted the American dead. The Agency was the SVR’s biggest threat and Carter, as its lead agent, was its number one enemy.

The MSS, Quds and SVR, all of them had tried to assassinate Carter. Each agency had issued kill orders on the American. Not one of them had succeeded.

‘We need to cooperate,’ Hsu had sent a coded message one day, after receiving a blistering rebuke from the Chinese president.

His message wasn’t acted on immediately. He understood why. Mostofi and Gorshky would be wary of such a reach out. They would check if the message was fake. They would then investigate their own operations to see if there was any need for cooperation.

The responses came a month later. They were understandably cautious, but positive.

Hsu set up a conference call. There was too much risk in the men meeting in person. The CIA, MI6, BND, Mossad, DGSE, everyone would be alerted by their movements. No, a video conference was safer.

Hsu set it up. The electronic signal was bounced between proxy servers all over the world before reaching Teheran and Moscow. The video and sound packets were encrypted and decrypted by keys known only to the three men.

‘We need to kill Zeb Carter,’ Hsu announced baldly, in English. ‘We have our differences. We will always have them, but Carter, he’s a thorn in all our sides. He needs to be taken care of. Permanently.’

‘You’ve tried to kill him before,’ Mostofi said contemptuously. ‘We all have. Why do you think we’ll succeed, now?’

Hsu bit back his irritation. The Iranian had a blunt, arrogant style that grated on him. But, no. It wouldn’t do to show his displeasure.

‘We never tried going after him. Together,’ he replied.

Mostofi fell silent. Gorshky remained impassive, unmoving, until he stirred. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘We combine our resources. People, intelligence and money. We come up with a plan and we hit Carter in America. In New York, in his city. It will deliver a massive blow to US intelligence agencies. His outfit will be devastated. We all benefit by the removal of our enemy.’

‘What’s the timeline you have for this?’

‘We kill him on the eleventh of September.’

Mostofi straightened. Gorshky blinked. Assassinating Carter on Nine Eleven?

Hsu smiled. He knew he had their attention.

‘It won’t work,’ Mostofi said. ‘America is most alert on that day. Carter will be too.’

‘Anyone can be taken down,’ Gorshky said. ‘Anytime. But there’s no guarantee he’ll even be in New York.’

‘He will be,’ Hsu smiled slyly, ‘if we keep him there.’

‘How?’ Mostofi demanded.

‘By keeping him occupied. Playing with him. Attacking him but not killing him.’

‘He’ll suspect something.’

‘He’ll suspect that someone’s after him. Sure. And, he’ll try to find out who it is. That will keep him in town.’

‘What if he takes out our killers?’

‘We’ll send more,’ Hsu said carelessly. ‘It’s not as if any of us lack assassins.’

‘What do you have in mind for the day?’

Hsu paused for effect. ‘We take down his New York office.’

Mostofi sucked in his breath sharply. Gorshky closed his eyes and nodded his head slowly.

‘Yes,’ the Russian whispered, ‘that will be a fitting end to our enemy. And I have just the person who can execute it.’

‘Who?’ the Quds head asked.

‘Has anyone of you heard of Iskander Blokhin?’

Hsu thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘But then, I don’t know every assassin in the world.’

‘Nor do I,’ Mostofi chimed in.

‘He won’t be in any of your systems,’ The SVR chief said confidently. ‘He’s the best killer in the world. No one knows about him. The Americans, British, not one of their agencies are aware of him.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He can be anywhere,’ the Russian boasted. ‘You know how these people are. They are mobile.’

‘How good is he?’ the Quds man challenged him.

Gorshky opened his mouth to retort. Closed it with a knowing light in his eyes. ‘If you have good assassins, we can use them.’ It wouldn’t do to narrate the assassin’s achievements.

‘Let’s share some details of the people we all have,’ Hsu said noncommittally, ‘and then we can decide.’

He had already decided. If Gorshky’s man is good, we’ll use him. I don’t want to expose any of my people.

‘We’ll need more than one man,’ the Russian said.

‘I can provide a team. More than one,’ Mostofi said and then he scoffed. ‘You both have such low ambitions.’

Hsu’s lips tightened at the man’s sneering laugh. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked coldly.

‘Killing Carter will remove a persistent enemy for all of us. But, is that all you want? No wonder, your agencies have never achieved anything big.’

Hsu rubbed the jade ring on his finger to cool down his anger.

‘What exactly has Quds done?’ Gorshky sneered. ‘You just rattle your swords from your country. You’ve been branded a terrorist organization by the Americans. That’s thinking big for you?’

‘Mostofi, what do you have in mind?’ Hsu asked quickly before angers could explode.

The Iranian glared at his camera for a moment. He swallowed visibly and settled back in his chair.

‘What else happens on the eleventh of September?’ he asked.

‘There are events all across America,’ Hsu shrugged his shoulders. ‘What of them?’

‘The biggest—

‘The President makes a speech at World Trade Center…’ Gorshky began and then trailed off at Mostofi’s knowing smirk.

‘You don’t mean …’ he whispered. Goosebumps broke out on his arms. One World Trade Center was built on the footprint of the destroyed Twin Towers.

‘Yes,’ the Quds man said confidently. ‘Why don’t we take out the President of the United States on that day? At the most historic location in New York?’

Chapter Seven

Present Day

There was no need for them to watch any of the CCTV videos. However, there was nothing else going on and so Beth got Werner to collate the camera footage at the bus crash and corralled her sister and Zeb into watching it.

Most of the videos were in black and white, low resolution. Barely a handful, from cameras installed by stores, were high definition.

All of them showed the most common scenes in New York. Those of traffic and tourists gawking at sights.

Meghan threw her hands up in disgust after a long while. ‘That’s two hours of my life gone. The NYPD would have run these and in any case, they’re investigating.’

‘You got anything better to do?’ Beth retorted.

‘You got anything at the scene? After the accident? Shots of the crowd?’ Zeb asked.

‘Yeah. There are several clips on social media, taken by onlookers and by journalists.’

No face jumped out at them from the throng. No one wearing a sign saying, I did that! I’m the shooter.

‘That’s us,’ Beth squealed in excitement as a clip showed her standing with Zeb.

‘You’d think she’d never seen herself on video,’ Meghan rolled her eyes.

Zeb ignored them. He paused the footage several times and replayed them. Some killers come back to the crime scene. But all he saw was curious faces and a jostling crowd.

‘You ran these through Werner?’

Beth nodded. ‘Facial recognition didn’t turn up anything.’

Werner, their Artificial Intelligence program, was plugged into several agency databases nationally as well as internationally. There were a few that the twins had gotten it to hack into. Hostile agencies that didn’t share intel with the US and its allies.

‘If Werner didn’t find anything, we’re wasting our time,’ Meghan announced. ‘In any case, this is the NYPD’s problem.’

And that was the end of their investigation.

Blokhin knew what the cops would be doing. He was confident they wouldn’t find anything other than the spent bullet. There was no way they could trace his SAKO with it. It was a Finnish made weapon that was common in Europe, not very often seen in the US. He knew using such a rifle increased his risk, but he was used to the weapon and preferred it to all other long guns.

He hadn’t left any DNA behind. No prints, no hair, nothing. He was a pro; it hadn’t been his first gig.

He watched the twins as they sat in their usual coffee shop. Just them, no Carter. He was across the street, dressed in baggy coveralls, a golf cap pulled low over his head. He sat on his bench and chewed his food slowly. No one came near him. He stank and the litter of bottles about him gave him away as a drunk.

The distance between him and the sisters was about two hundred feet. What he needed was cover, though.

He shuffled to his feet and burped loudly. A passing woman wrinkled her nose and hurried away. He sang under his breath and swayed as he walked away.

No empty store or buildings on his side. Every establishment was occupied. Which made him consider his plan again.

Do I need to do this?

He thought about it, but he had no choice. His instructions were clear. Keep attacking Carter and his crew without any let up.

The American had a less predictable routine and therefore Blokhin had decided to go after the twins.

It would be far better to kill them whenever the opportunity arose. This kind of shadow boxing increased the risk of detection. But who was he to argue with his masters? His orders were clear.

And so, he made plans.

Chapter Eight

The Past, Beijing, Tehran, Moscow

‘You can’t be serious,’ Hsu lost his cool for the first time during the video call. ‘Killing President Morgan … how can you even think about that?’

‘Why not?’ Mostofi snarled. ‘You’re going about making these plans to take out Carter. What will you really achieve? Someone else will come after us. In our profession, the fight never ends. However, assassinating the president … that’s different.’

‘It can’t be done,’ Gorshky said. ‘He’s the most protected man in the world. He cannot be taken out.’

Hsu’s eyes narrowed at the comment. Was the Russian saying he was