By Paths Coincident

Chapter 5

11 Years Ago

Port of Algeciras Bay, Strait of Gibralter, Spain

Captain Eve Baird parked the rented BMW SUV by the base of one of the post Panamax ship-to-shore cranes that the Port of Algeciras Bay boasted. In her side mirror, she could see headlights telling her that Fortinsky was pulling up behind with the other half of the team. NATO had no airbases in Spain, so they'd flown commercial from Brussels into Aeropuerto de Jerez late that night, acquired the vehicles, and driven the hour and a half to the Port. The night was still moonless and dark, but the Port lights cast everything into a contrast of glaring white and black shadow.

So far their cover story was holding. As representatives of Langdonne Enterprises, Inc. they were to meet an agent to negotiate the purchase of cargo loaded on the same ship as their target. The burner phone, resting in her pocket, contained a single text with cryptic numbers that translated to a time and berth at which the off-loading would occur. Forged bill of lading papers, which would allow them to depart with Moreau's merchandise, crackled in her other pocket.

They had time to get into position before the ship would dock.

Her team members were professionally subdued in their behavior, but Joscin and Derya were staging a whispered debate about whether, when the mission was complete, they could wrangle a day's leave to run down to Costa del Sol for some R and R.

In the shadow of the great crane, they stripped out of their bulky civvy camouflage, into the leaner silhouettes of their combat gear—Teresinha joked that it was the fastest-working diet she'd tried. Not that Interceptor Body Armor was so very figure-flattering.

Lieutenant Brader was unpacking their weapons from the suitcases, muttering under his breath about Poptart's Mickey Mouse boxers.

"What can I say?" Poptart shrugged as he accepted his M-16 and ammunition from the Lieutenant. "Father's Day present. My strength is as the strength of twenty because my shorts are licensed by Disney."

"Twenty mice!" Fortinsky teased.

"Hey!" Poptart sniffed loftily. "That mouse rules half the known world." He checked his pockets for his lucky four-leafed clover and his photographs of his wife and son. "All set."

"All right, you chuckleheads." Eve tried to sound like she wasn't laughing. "Get your helmets on, and let's move out."

"Yes, sir, She Who Must Be Obeyed," the Terrible Twosome chorused, donning their helmets.

As her team split up into their designated groups and melted into the shadows where they would assume their agreed-upon positions, Eve did not feel any chill of premonition. Fate sent her no sign that she would never see her whole team alive again.

* * * * *

Perched high on the beam of the post Panamax crane, Eliot Spencer watched through his infra-red scope as the NATO team separated, crept from shadow to shadow until they had reached their positions, and established their hiding places. Even from this short observation, he was enumerating weaknesses, developing strategies for dealing with each of the individuals in the team. There was a phrase for this sort of operation, he decided. It was called shooting fish in a barrel.

In the east, the night was turning imperceptibly into pre-dawn grey, and he could see the dark blot of the ship as it approached this side of the Strait.

First he would deal with the traitor. Then he would go collect his prey from the places they had so conveniently stashed themselves. He would start with the group farthest from their commanding officer. NATO didn't put officers in charge of teams like this because their granddaddies went to private school with the right brass. Whoever she was, she would be a formidable opponent. If he took her on first, he ran the risk of being injured and compromised in his ability to go after the others. This way, they might bust each other into pieces, but all that would matter would be that his pieces would be living and hers would be dead.