Demon Read Free

intelligence operatives in the area. A banker, so to speak. The Iranians deposited, and Anwar transferred it to the people with the proper motivation. Mike hated bankers more than terrorists. Terrorists at least did their dirty work. Bankers like Anwar were slimy and ran away when the shit hit the fan. No honor in people like that, no matter what the cause.
    And he was late, which pissed Mike off even more. He sat on the roof of a dilapidated Basra hotel and waited because his boss in Langley wanted him to punch Anwar’s ticket for helping coordinate a suicide bomb run on a British SAS safe house for special operators. “Why can’t the Brits snuff him out?” Mike had said when given his orders. “It was their people.”
    â€œBecause we owe them one,” Glenn Cheatum, the deputy director for operations, of Central Intelligence, had said. “And the Brits want to stay removed after putting down that IED warehouse a few weeks ago. They’re not officially in-country, remember.”
    â€œMust maintain the PR even if you want revenge, huh?”
    â€œStow it, Mike, and do your job.”
    â€œIt’s bitch work.”
    â€œIt’s killing and it’s what you’re good at.”
    Mike let the memory go as he wiped sweat from the gaskets around the binos’ lenses before scanning the market once more.
    â€œWhere are you, you little bastard?”
    Probably long gone. Maybe he made the Brits surveilling him. Maybe the British intelligence was shit.
    Then Mike found him. He recognized him easily from the surveillance photos he’d studied the night before. Anwar was short and round and had a wispy beard only a goat could appreciate. He rode into the market on a fire-engine red moped with flames painted on the front and a fresh pile of rugs strapped to the back. For an asshole banker, he had a sense of style. Or humor, depending how you looked at it.
    Mike pushed up to a crouched position, slung the binos over his shoulder, and hotfooted it across the roof to the stairwell. Inside, he patted the dust from his clothes. He wore a pair of khaki cargo pants, black T-shirt under a tactical vest, and a pair of polarized Oakleys. Although Mike had a dark tan, he couldn’t pass for an Arab. So, instead, he’d try to pass for a government contractor.
    As he descended the stairwell, Glenn’s words echoed around his head. “It’s killing and it’s what you’re good at.”
    Mike couldn’t argue that fact. Someone else would have sniped Anwar from the roof. But a rifle shot would scare the crowd in the market. A panic would follow, maybe even an angry mob, and walking out of the hotel wouldn’t be easy. A silenced shot up close still would have put him in an exposed position from street-level. Guns attracted attention pretty damn fast, and Mike didn’t want attention. Instead, he planned to be mobile before and after, in a position where he could hit and walk away. This required getting up close and personal to minimize attention. Not a lot of people could handle that kind of kill.
    The trip down the stairwell and out onto the street took about a minute. Mike didn’t rush. Anwar should still be setting up shop for the day. Plenty of time.
    He would have preferred to take care of the banker at his residence, but the guy had a rotating home. The Brits quit trying to keep up with him, choosing to monitor him at Ashar. It seemed the only place he was guaranteed to be was in the market selling his damn rugs.
    Once out on the street, Mike cleared the area around him with quick glances, making sure no one watched or followed him. The chances he would walk into a setup were slim, but the time he didn’t act with caution would be the time they found his severed head in a gutter.
    He didn’t see anyone ghosting him, and no one on the street seemed interested. The windows in the surrounding buildings were clear. Nothing out of the ordinary.
    Mike