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Do they look Russian?" Vance did not sound concerned. "Big shaved heads, jeans, and T-shirts. Yeah, old man, I'd say they look pretty Russian. I mean they're not wearing Cossack outfits, but hey, it's the next best thing."
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In the back of the van, the teenager was sitting on a layer of small bricks wrapped in wax paper. He was clutching what looked like a slot car controller, his fist clenched around it. "Release-activated detonator," Ice stated calmly, "and probably at least half a ton of C4." "I've seen this before," said Vance. "You see how he's clean-shaven, head and all. I've seen this before in Yemen. He's been purified for the big bang. Poor bastard's w..
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How did you know the CIA would send me?" Vance asked. "That, my friend, was Allah's will, or perhaps it was because I asked for you personally. It depends what you believe."
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Remember, Bish," Vance growled, "this is a covert op. No blowing shit up or jazzing up the local law enforcement. If Dostiger realizes we're onto him, he'll just get the fuck out of Dodge. Keep this clean, not like that shitfight in the Philippines." The recent Philippines operation that Vance was alluding to had started as a simple case of surveillance, followed by a precise assassination. Instead, Bishop and his team had taken it upon the..
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Then that hunch of yours has turned out pretty well." "It's a bit early but it would seem so." "Getting more like Bishop every week." Vance grinned. Chua frowned. "Unlikely. Unless I start chasing random women and getting myself ambushed every five minutes."
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Race you back. Bet you twenty bob I win." Mitch pressed the ignition button of his customized ride. The 1,000cc engine roared to life. "You serious? God knows what you've done to that thing. Probably goes like a jackrabbit on meth." "Come on, Vance, everyone knows you and Flash are the biker heads. There's no way yours is stock." Vance grinned as he climbed into his ATV, barely fitting inside the roll cage. He turned over the engine and it ..
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Let me get this straight," asked Vance. "You want to fund us to run around the world whacking all those evil fuckers that the CIA never let us touch?" "Not how I would have described it, but yes, that is the crux of the concept." There was silence at the table as the three men considered Tariq's proposal. Ice broke the silence. "I'm in." Mitch followed suit. "Me too. I need a new"
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So this is the renegade running black ops in my Emirates," Beecroft said. "I'm sorry: black ops?" Vance returned the scornful gaze, equally unimpressed with the ambassador. Beecroft sported a portly frame and ruddy complexion, the result of years on the cocktail circuit. "Yes, the CIA didn't seek my approval for your little mission." The ambassador's voice was clipped and pompous. His chins wobbled as he spoke. "Last time I checked, the CIA..
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Major Chua speaking." "Hey bud, it's Vance." "You're supposed to be dead." "That's no way to greet an old friend." Chua looked down at the phone; the caller ID was blank and yet the call was still coming through on the encrypted military network. "Vance, where are you calling from?" "I'm on a beach under a palm tree."
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Beecroft pushed back his chair and struggled to remove his corpulent frame from its clutches. He finally jumped to his feet, drawing himself up to his full five feet nine inches. "You will do no such thing. This is my post and I will--" "You will sit the fuck down, Ambassador!" Vance growled from a height advantage of almost six inches. Beecroft shrunk like a deflated balloon, dropping back into his chair."
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