The Assassin by Andrew Britton Page B

Arshad Kassem did not have the best interests of the United States at heart.
    It was the risk they took. To get things done in a place like Iraq, the Agency was forced to deal with some of the worst people on the planet. Not all of the bets turned out to be good, but Walland knew the meeting could still be salvaged. All Kealey had to do was stop talking and pay the man. They would pass the word on Kassem up the line, and then… well, it didn’t really matter what then. Fortunately, those decisions were made by somebody much higher on the food chain.
    He reached up and wiped a film of sweat from his face. The sun was barely over the horizon, but the temperature was already climbing rapidly. His eyes drifted over to the cooler. He remembered what Kealey had said. I’m going to get some water. Just sit tight .
    Still cradling the M4 in the crook of his right arm, Walland leaned over and flipped off the lid. What he saw turned his spine to ice.
    There was nothing to drink in the small compartment. All he saw was money. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills, neatly wrapped in plastic. Walland didn’t know how much he was looking at, but he knew exactly where it was supposed to be. More importantly, he knew what Kealey was about to do.
    He grabbed for the radio and pressed the transmit button. “Colonel, I think we have a serious problem here.”
     
     
    The guard Kassem had sent for the water had never reappeared. Kealey didn’t know how many men might be waiting outside the door. He didn’t know how Owen would react, and he didn’t know if his plan, hastily composed at the last possible moment, had even the slightest chance of working. Somehow, he doubted it, but he was beyond caring.
    His next movements were somewhat detached, almost mechanical in the precision with which they were carried out. Kealey reached down for the backpack, his hand slipping into the main compartment. He flipped a switch and lifted the bag, tossing it onto the table, counting the seconds in his head. At the same time, he used his left hand to grip the lower edge of his T-shirt. Arshad Kassem reached for the pack and pulled it across the table, his gaze fixed on the younger man. When he got to five, Kealey closed his eyes and threw himself to the floor.
    The charge went off a split second later. Kassem and his bodyguard were instantly blinded by the flash of light, then deafened by the following concussion. The older man was blown out of his chair as Kealey struggled to his feet, ears ringing with the blast, pulling up on his shirt as his right hand wrapped around the butt of his Beretta 9mm pistol. The weapon came up an instant later. He had just enough time to meet the wide eyes of the guard over his front sights before he pulled the trigger. The man’s head snapped back, and he crumpled to the floor in a lifeless heap.
    Kealey couldn’t hear the footsteps in the hall, but he knew they had to be coming. He scrambled for the dead guard’s AK-47, jarring his fingers on the tile floor in the process. He lifted the weapon and squeezed the trigger as the door flew open. His rounds caught the advancing guard in the chest, propelling him back into the hallway. At the same time, Kealey flipped the metal table onto its side to put an obstacle between the door and his own body.
    Kassem was splayed across the floor, his hands and face scorched by the magnesium powder in the improvised charge. He was howling in agony, hands pressed to his ravaged face. Trying to block out the screams of pain, Kealey listened for movement in the other parts of the building. He heard feet pounding overhead and then a shouted phrase in Arabic.
    He wouldn’t last long in this little room, he knew that much. Sliding the Beretta into his waistband, he leaned over and slammed a fist into Kassem’s face. The man went instantly limp. Kealey crouched and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, lifting him up and onto his shoulders. It took all his strength; Kassem weighed at least 200