July 2017
Twelve Kilometers East of Raqqah, on the Euphrates River
Quinn leaned back against the wall of the rock outcropping, well dug-in to his outpost. He'd been on long, hard jobs before, as a sniper. He knew that for premium targets, most of the job was waiting. Waiting for the intel, waiting for the rest of the group to assemble in their places, waiting for the target to arrive. This job had been more complicated than most, since the target was so high-profile. He'd been waiting in the general area for more than a month, on surveillance, and running recon missions. And he'd been waiting in the precise environs of the sniper nest for the last eight days. Finally, he thought, the word on the comm was probably right: His target would move today, and when he did, it would be their best possible shot at eliminating him.
Quinn thought back over his career. Most of the time, his period of waiting in a sniper post or surveillance position switched his mind to neutral. But since he'd left Carrie's flat, he'd had a harder time forcing down the normal human feelings around his life and his choices. It seemed she'd reawakened some kind of warmth and sentiment that he couldn't sever, just by willing it to go away.
He'd been doing this job for such a long time. It was hard to tell anyone else how long, because they'd hardly believe that a man of his intellect and strength had been pulled out of obscurity at such a young age to do a job like this. Most of the high-sensitivity sniper roles in the Black Operations group were held by educated men. It was not a secret that they didn't recruit many women for these roles, though the ones that did work with the group tended to be the best- and the coldest. But the majority of Dar's team had been yanked from a training group, after having made a splash on the marksmanship courses at Fort Benning. Some of them were pulled from the squads of Agency recruits, those who had somehow distinguished themselves as more able to behave in socially acceptable ways, and retain their cover, while fulfilling their dark objectives.
Quinn hadn't done any of that. Had time gone by, he might have been able to join the armed forces. Thus he might have been one of the ones who'd shone so bright on the rifle course in the red Georgia clay that he was selected by a Black Ops Recruiter. But of course, that's not how it happened for him.
It had never occurred to him to resent it, but he hadn't been recruited as an adult. His time with Carrie had built some badly needed self-worth into his thinking, and he was seeing past events with new eyes.
It was dawn, too early for the convoy to be leaving. His comm was silent. He lay his head to one side, and in the burlap-filtered sun, thought back to the mother and father who'd cherished him and reared him to near adolescence. He didn't think about them often - it hurt too badly. But he was alone, with all the time in the world, and he was used to sleeping with his eyes open. He faded out, and daydreamed.
Almost without effort, he called up an image of his mother. A happier day from a better time. She was lean and agile, her ash blonde hair in a pixie cut, climbing around on a tall stepstool and laughing, hanging strings of incandescent lights on a real Christmas tree. Her chambray skirt swirled around her knees, and he could smell her ghostly perfume: Blue Grass. In his memory, he breathed it in, along with the smell of the fresh noble fir, tall and stately, cut by the family the previous evening. His father stepped into the daydream, laughing as well, reaching for the string of lights and steadying his mother with a hand to her waist, as she leaned in to put the yellow light on the top. The tree would gleam from the bay window in front of the house, and cast its parti-colored reflections on the fresh snow piled there. It was his favorite time of year.
"John," his Mom had called, her eyes alight. "Honey, hand me the star!"
Quinn's eyes shut reflexively as a blast of wind threw hot sand into his face. He shoved the sweet memory away. His Mom and Dad had been good people: educated, kind and loving. But all of that had ended the night they'd gone to the Knights of Columbus Christmas pageant in Meadowbrook. John, a seventh grader, had caught a ride home earlier with his best friend, Peter, who was a fellow student at Good Shepherd. John's parents had decided to stay until the door prizes had all been given out. His Dad, he knew, was hoping to win the drill press, or maybe the 21 inch color TV.
So twelve-year-old Quinn had waited at home, alone, enjoying his free agency this on evening five days before Christmas. First, he ate liberally from the Whitman sampler his Mom had put out on the hearthstone, then washed it down with icy Coca-cola. Then, after having shaken every present under the tree, he played with his computer toy, Simon, while sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, across from the front door. He'd see them whenever they came in. Eventually, even Simon's comforting boops and bleeps weren't enough to keep his heavy eyelids open. He had lain the toy on the step, and gone to sleep next to it, his cheek on the deep pile of the shag carpet.
When the doorbell rang at midnight, he sat up from the spot where he'd fallen asleep, wondering why the Christmas lights were flickering so vividly. Then, a finger of fear poking into his stomach, he wondered why the bell was ringing at all. Who'd be coming over at this hour, that didn't have a key?
He turned the deadbolt to admit a State Patrol officer, who frightened the already shaken boy by taking him by the shoulders. He looked into the cop's eyes, and when he saw tears shining in them, the bottom dropped out of his stomach. The officer went down on one knee in front of the tall, slender child.
"Am I in trouble?" he asked querulously, as the snowflakes fell lazily around them on the stoop, backlit in the midnight dark by the glow of the headlights from Father Blazewicz's black Cadillac. Father stepped up onto the stairs, the gloom of winter shadowing his pale face, his sorrow palpable, as he crossed himself and kissed his thumb. That's when Quinn understood everything he needed to know - the life he knew was over. But the cop had made him stand and listen to the news, anyway. It had happened on the way home from the Knights of Columbus hall, he'd explained. A drunk driver. There had been nothing anyone could do.
The memory became too painful at that point, and Quinn pushed it away. There had been no people on Earth he'd loved like his Mom and his Dad, and there were no other close relatives. After that day, he'd gone into the foster system, lost, alone, and uncared for. He'd spent a long, lonely stretch with strangers, and didn't remember feeling anything for years. At least, not until he'd met Carrie, when felt the heat of her personality and intensity ignite something fierce in his heart.
He shook his head sharply, and looked far down the dirt road with his scope. In the distance, Quinn saw the sand and dust churn, and the road turn from a diminishing brown snake into a swirling, khahi sphere that approached slowly through the dry river valley. He knew that his position was exposed and his shot window was limited. And he knew, as they all did, that when the sniper at this position took the shot, he had a 75% chance of being made, targeted and killed by the rest of the convoy, before he could move out and self-extract. Quinn knew that, and accepted the risk. He felt confident in his skills. And it was part of his job. There was another nest, ahead across the valley, where Rob and team two, the support team, squatted and waited, in case Quinn missed. Another team further on was poised with rocket propelled grenades, as well as the ability to call in a drone, which would tail the car and blow everyone in it to kingdom come. But the preference from on high was to make the kill shot, make it certain. Nobody guaranteed a more certain outcome than Quinn.
Dar didn't think the drones would be necessary. God knew, they'd missed before, for example, during that hideous mess that Carrie and her drone team had made of the Haqqani wedding, almost three years ago. But then, she would have had no way of knowing that Haqqani had survived that attack. Quinn's position as first sniper made it likely that he'd be able to take the first shot and kill the target. Haqqani would then be dead, and the element of surprise would allow all the other teams to destroy what was left of Haqqani's posse. They expected team two and the cleanup team to be able to annihilate the rest of his group in a couple of routine sweeps. That was the way it worked.
Quinn knew the risk. It was in his training, set in his mind, and deeply ingrained since Dar Adal had pulled him out of the Baltimore foster home on his 16th birthday. He knew what his job was. He was Dar's guy. And he knew he could get this motherfucker, avenge Fara, and put Haqqani's evil behind them all, forever. Then, he'd check out of this shitshow, and go home to Carrie. Wherever home was. He didn't even care.
But it was hard to concentrate. If only he could get shut of the image in his mind, the image that called him back, and begged him not to take the risk. A pair of liquid blue eyes, a shaft of sunlight with pale hair floating, sweet lips that covered his, and called him beloved. His heart nearly failed in his chest as he recalled Carrie, the intensity of their love, and their parting.
His training was the only thing that saved him. He had things to do, and people to shoot. He shoved the sweetness of her memory aside, and concentrated on the crosshairs.
Haqqani was close. It wouldn't be long until he was in range. And Quinn was ready.
