Page 2 of The Perfect Stranger

Chapter One

Two Years Earlier

“A minute and thirty to countdown,” the voice belonging to Zero announced in my ear piece both calm and collected despite the killing about to take place. My finger flexed on the trigger, itching to end this saga once and for all. Adjusting my balaclava, beads of sweat trickled down my brow. New York City was in the midst of a heatwave. The humidity making any mission within the city’s smoldering caldron almost unbearable.

“How do you feel, bro?” Jase asks quietly next to me, his breathing staggered as he struggled to take his mind off the job ahead. He was like that. A pro at what he did, but always battled with his nerves in every operation. “Last day before long service leave. Can’t say I’m not envious.” We both worked in Tactical Operations within a private Special Forces Division specializing in counter-terrorism and high-value manhunts. Holidays were few and far between.

“Being able to hang up the rifle for two weeks is a sweet feeling.” I turned to my fellow fast shooter, who looked like he was visualizing the moment.

“The beach, cocktails in the sun, curvy mamasita’s teasing me day and night.” Jase’s eyes flittered to the dark, damp ceiling. We were positioned in an alleyway that was now forming entry to a bridge building. Somewhere in the derelict housing estate, there was a water leak that was finding its path through the roof cracks, creating rhythmic drops that fell in time with my heartbeat.

“Thirty seconds to countdown,” Zero cut through once again. Beside me, Jase exhaled heavily.

“Relax, I teased. “Come out of this and take your wife to Mexico.”

He looked like I’d said something ridiculous. “No fun in that.”

It was my turn to mirror his expression. “She’s too good for you, bro.”

“You don’t live with her.”

“Any man would gladly take your place.”

“You only say that ‘cause she practically orgasms over your accent.”

“Someone’s gotta pleasure her.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you through that Colombian dribble.”

I chuckled. I couldn’t help it. He always gave the same reaction, whenever he knew he was losing the battle. “Like a knife. Every time.”

Truth was, his wife Nessa, was beautiful and sweet, and for some reason he just didn’t see any of it. His self-inflicted situation was always a useful distraction for him prior to a kill. But this wasn’t your average kill. Not unless you considered Bin Laden’s cousin just any terrorist.

When Osama Bin Laden was captured and killed, his large family—to who he was estranged from, and who had resided in the States for decades—were removed from the country three days after the 9/11 attacks and flown back to Saudi Arabia fearing lynching from those angry at Muslims. They were considered innocents, many with children in schools and colleges. All were homebound, except one. Yusuf Alamand. Alamand had been a great supporter of Bin Laden’s with an ambition to continue his cousin’s work. He was a rallier who used social media to recruit Islamic brothers and sisters to plan and carry out attacks. Two of his plans had already been intercepted. Had they not, thousands of people would have been killed or maimed. Now, he was planning an attack of mass proportions, one that would be just as epic as Bin Laden’s.

“You’re on,” Zero announced, and I squared my shoulders before preparing to round the corner.

“You good?” I asked Jase.

“See you on the other side.”

“Your entry is clear,” Zero confirmed as I stepped around the brick wall, rifle positioned, finger on the trigger. I blinked droplets of sweat from my lashes and made a track down the blackened tunnel that would lead to the complex opening.

The sun’s glare at the other end was becoming larger with every step I took, the soft chatter of children filtering through.

“Where are the kids?” I asked Zero through my mouthpiece.

“Just beyond the tunnel.”

Behind me I could hear Jase following, his heavy booted steps splashing the puddles caused by the roof leak.

Stopping just shy of the exit, I remained in the shadowed darkness casting a glance over the courtyard where three young children all under the age of seven played in squalor. No parents were around monitoring. Looking high, I scanned the six-level apartment complex façade and could identify no visible threat by the windows.

Pulling some cash free from my back pocket for exactly this type of situation, which happened far too regularly, I scooted across the courtyard, the curious and unfazed innocent expressions watching my every move. Jase stayed behind in the tunnel, his rifle pointed at the levels above.

“Here, take it,” I said, holding out the bills. “Go to Larry’s and stay there for an hour.” Larry’s was a diner on the corner. I needed to get them as far away as possible. Two pairs of eyes lit up at the money and they took the notes without question. The oldest of the group however, didn’t seem so convinced. He looked me up and down, jaw clenched. He appeared far too serious for a seven-year-old.

“Go,” I barked, and he snapped out of the stare.

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