Cleopatra's Vendetta

Chapter 10

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

Present Day

Day One

As he stepped behind a palm frond to disguise his movements, Timothy Stryker wondered why world leaders were being picked off like tin cans atop a fence at a hillbilly family reunion. Raising his Futures Command special-issue mini-binocs to his eyes, he scanned the royal palace grounds for any threat to the Saudi crown prince, who was currently neck-deep in a seaside hot tub.

Stryker’s wife, back in Bari, was probably soaking too, in their less-luxurious hotel spa. A muscle in his jaw flexed. He’d been fantasizing about a sensual holiday with Angie for months, and was irritated that their time together in Italy had been interrupted by the encrypted phone call last night.

Five feet away, looking the part of a local landscaper in loose-fitting gray and blue clothes, Jerónimo Guerrero Reyes, Stryker’s best friend and a member of his M2 team, raked fallen palm fronds like a pro under a leaden sky.

“Anything?” his friend murmured.

Stryker replaced the binocs inside his own loose-fitting shirt and stepped out from underneath the leaves. An itchy but realistic silicone mask concealed his entire head and most of his chest. His ginger hair appeared black. They both wore body armor and colored contact lenses. Knowing there was no need to disguise his Chicago-area accent in this coded conversation, he replied softly into his custom-fit molar microphone, “Nope. The crown prince is relaxing in the spa by pool number two.”

The prince’s two lapis-lazuli pools, like the eighty-five acres that surrounded the palace, oozed modern sensibility and elegant design. The swimming area abutted the Red Sea and a private harbor, which held the family’s sleek, low-slung yacht. Numerous helipads dotted the landscape, handy for a quick escape. Groups of women in head-to-toe black burqas moved like flocks of starlings through the grounds, passing knots of security guards surreptitiously stationed throughout. One guard had a Belgian Malinois, which made Stryker miss the family German shepherd back home.

Still, it all seemed oppressively quiet. No birds chittered in the trees, and in the distance, there was only the throaty growl of a lone motorboat. A low blanket of gunmetal-gray clouds made the air feel dense and heavy.

Reyes, who went by Rey when he didn’t have an operational call sign, picked up some of the dead palm branches and deposited them into the short bed of an all-terrain vehicle. “Think an assassin will really take a shot at the prince?”

“Someone in Saudi Arabia is the next target,” Stryker replied. “Director Wolff said it was a solid signals intelligence hit.”

“That SIGINT must have been good to pull you off your fancy Italian holiday.”

“Agreed. I was surprised to get the assignment last night. Sounds like the director is doing a favor for some friends in the beltway. At least Sam got to stay back in Bari.” His sister-in-law, Samantha Coin, was still in Italy with his wife and daughter. Apparently, there had been enough resources to cover the other Saudi hot spots, like Riyadh, where the king was today.

Their team did deniable black ops field work for the US Futures Command, a forward-looking Army think tank that took a problem-solving approach rather than a guns-first style. A hidden hand within a hidden game, on paper they were part of the Army’s Budget and Finance department. Although they had plenty of paramilitary training, they were the team that was called into delicate situations where the government needed more brains than brawn. Like now.

“Weird that our mission is just to provide eyes and ears for the Saudis, though,” Rey said.

“Not really. Leadership wants to interrogate anyone who fires on the prince so they can figure out why those other world leaders have been knocked off.”

Rey nabbed the water bottle from the ATV and drank. The bottle was fitted with a long-range surveillance microphone built on acoustic radar technology. “Why target the crown prince?” He wiped water off his fake beard with the back of his hand. Under the mask he had a more lustrous black mustache.

Stryker took the bottle and pretended to take a swig while he focused on the lush, out-of-place-in-the-desert gardens. He listened to the conversation about soccer happening between two guards near the ostentatiously jeweled fountain, easily translating the Arabic. Languages were one of his strengths. Thanks to his younger sister, who had been born deaf, he was grateful that he could also read lips.

“Why not target the prince?” Stryker asked. “Dead men don’t bite. And besides, he’s ticked off some religious leaders, right?”

not“Yeah. He was instrumental in allowing female drivers, and isn’t against things like film and pop music. Or alcohol. He thinks it should be part of the kingdom’s new tourism push.”

“That’s probably your answer then.”

“Maybe. Could be a cousin who’s under the gun, though. Royals are always killing each other.” Rey touched the lucky St. Christopher medallion inside his shirt.

Stryker’s friend was into lucky charms, astrology, and palm readers. He preferred the special energy drinks made by the think tank and the magic of meditation. Too bad those enchantments hadn’t been helping him relate to his wife of late.

“I think cousin-killing has been out of fashion for a few centuries,” Stryker said. “More likely, this is related to all the high-profile assassinations. Britain’s PM, a US senator, and the German chancellor. All killed in the last three months with no one claiming responsibility.”

Rey picked up his rake and began attacking the palm fronds again. “Then I hope we can capture one of the assassins and learn the truth about their motives. It’s probably a worldwide conspiracy.”

“You always say that. Maybe it’s just a loner with a grudge.” Stryker paused. “Could be they go after a different royal. My money is on the king over in Riyadh.”

“Bet on it?”

“Nah, that’s your thing with Sam.” Sam loved to gamble, and she and Rey bet on everything. On their last mission, they’d wagered on who would get the first wound, and Sam had won, getting a s***h to her thigh as the prize. It hadn’t stopped her from getting the USB data stick they’d needed, though. She’d done well, while he’d felt rusty. Actually, he hadn’t felt on top of his game for months.

As they continued their landscaping ruse, Stryker wondered how the wedding party was getting along. Some of the women had been going to take a day trip to Bari. For once, he’d been bummed to get called up on a mission as he and Angie hadn’t had a chance to make up from last night’s humdinger of a fight, and he’d been enjoying the vacation with his young daughter. Harper was at that really fun four-year-old stage when the whole world seemed full of wonder and discovery. Today was to have been a father-daughter trip to an old castle. He huffed and raked the sand into Zen garden patterns.

Across the dark sea, a gust of cool wind rustled the leaves of nearby plants. The sound reminded him of visiting the barren cemetery where his father, mother, and sister were buried. On cold November days when he and his aunt would commemorate his mom’s birthday, dry maple leaves the color of blood would blow around his small tennis shoes as he stared at the three granite headstones and held back tears.

Trying to forget that morbid memory, Stryker returned to the cover of the tree. They’d chosen this spot for its good view of the pools, where security had said the prince would be for the afternoon. The royal liked to conduct business on the phone under the shade of an awning. Assistant Director St. James and the prince’s security detail had tried to get their big shot to stay inside, but the man refused to modify his routine. Although Stryker loved order more than the next guy, routines worried him because they made targets easier to kill. What was it about powerful people that made them feel immortal?

Pulling the mini-binocs out of his tunic, he studied the crown prince. The muscled royal had emerged from the hot tub, but kept his legs dangling in the water. Stryker scanned the area again for obvious sniper nests. The palace roof had a few hiding spots. That yacht had a lower profile than many luxury models, but would present good line of sight if the killer managed to get past security. The prince stood, and another man handed him a towel, which the prince used to dry off while gazing out to sea. Through lip-reading, Stryker gathered they were discussing the early January weather. A low-pressure system on the way from Europe was due to bring a week of cold rain. Maybe even sleet and ice. He glanced at the dark sky. No moisture yet.

He returned his focus to the prince in time to see a black dot form on the man’s forehead. Without waiting to see the corresponding spray of blood that announced the royal’s demise, Stryker swore as he scanned the area. Nothing on the yacht. No movement on the roof of the palace. But in the middle of the harbor, a large buoy moved, and the black tip of a rifle muzzle disappeared straight down into the water like a modern incarnation of Excalibur. Small ripples appeared on the sea’s glassy surface.

Stryker took off at a dead run toward the harbor, Rey not far behind him.

Sprinting through the gardens, Stryker flew past the gurgling fountain and one of the vacant helipads to his far right. No other ripples or bubbles came off the harbor buoy. Legs burning with the effort, Stryker bolted past where men had gathered around the fallen prince and raced down the long dock, breathing hard, his footsteps echoing off the wood. Without breaking stride, he executed a perfect dive into the water’s black depths.