Chapter 5

Clicking his pen, Donnie looked at his watch. The instructor took way too long to wrap up the day’s training. He prattled on about new advances in propulsion which could reduce a drone’s engine heat signature, thus reducing detection via vibration and heat. Donnie closely followed advancements in the unmanned aerial vehicle—drone—arena. Thanks to independent research, he’d already covered much of the day’s curriculum. His heart pumped a little faster, though, at getting his hands on the newly released insect-sized drones. The rumors were true. Drones were now that tiny, and just that morning, he’d held the prototype in his hands. The valuable bastard looked like a yellow hornet, capable of flying a distance of three kilometers, at more than 18 kilometers per hour, equipped with a thermal micro-camera.

Chasing high-value targets for a living meant that the small drone was a distinctly desirable tool for the MIT teams. And the rumors were—MIT2 would test that prototype in the field. Every analyst’s wet dream.

As soon as the instructor excused them for the day, Donnie pulled out his phone. The conversation he’d had with Slater bothered him, and he couldn’t stop thinking of how he’d left things off with Charlie.

The phone rang, and Dylan “Atlas” Jenkins picked up. The Utahan sniper—originally from the 19th Special Forces Group—was a great asset to the team. Both he and Donnie were stationed Stateside, temporarily forced to be away from MIT2. Donnie hated that replacements had been rotated in for them in the field.

Two weeks ago, just days before MIT2’s deployment, a drunk driver t-boned Atlas’s Dodge Challenger. The accident strained ligaments in the operator’s back. After a week of bed rest, Atlas still felt tender, and like Donnie, he was eager to get back to MIT2.

“How’s the back feeling?”

“I may have overworked it at the gym. I saw the doc this morning, I’ll be returning to duty in two weeks.”

“Two weeks, huh? You still in the Fort Bragg area?”

“Yup. Scratching my balls in the locker room as we speak.”

“Meet me at the Cross Creek Mall. I have a proposal.”

Thirty minutes later, Donnie sat opposite the laid-back operator at a well-known coffee spot. Atlas was the opposite of Donnie in many ways. He looked like a hippie surfer, and not one of the deadliest snipers in Special Operations. Atlas ran a hand through sun-bleached, wavy hair, as he gingerly stretched out his back.

Donnie leaned on the table. “I have one day left of training.”

“Bully for you. You still can’t join the team. MIT2 has just gone radio silent. Last time I spoke to Max, he mentioned a new target embedded in South Sudan. We’ll have to wait until they’ve returned to Nairobi before we swap out, and that could take weeks.”

“I know. I spoke with Johnny yesterday before they left. I still want to fly out.”

“To Kenya?”

“To Italy or possibly Malta.”

“What the fuck is in Malta?”

Atlas hadn’t yet been to Johnny’s farm or met Charlie. That made things easier for Donnie. He wouldn’t get ragged for showing an interest in a girl he’d kept at arm’s length for way too long.

“Not what—who. A friend from Wyoming is visiting and I thought we could all hook up; it beats sitting in North Carolina.”

“A lady-friend? Mate, I’m not gonna be your third wheel.”

“You won’t have to, Charlie has a friend with her. A single friend—as far as I can tell.”

“Screw that. You ain’t setting me up with some random chick!”

Donnie pulled out his phone and tapped away, pulling up Elana’s Facebook profile and handing it over. He’d met Charlie’s friend at Johnny’s notorious party a few months before. “You’re welcome to stay behind. This way, we’re only twelve hours away from the team, as opposed to twenty hours.”

“Holy shit, she’s not a human, she’s a Victoria Secret model.”

“In the flesh. Are you coming?”

“Hell, yes. I’m coming.”

“I’ll call Charlie and determine where we can meet. Stop ogling.” Donnie had to wrench the phone from his mate’s hand. He walked out the door, bracing himself for a potentially awkward conversation.

Johnny had shared Charlie’s number with the team when she’d told him that she’d be country hopping for the next three months. Johnny watched over her like a big brother, except he wasn’t the one lying awake and thinking of her in the early hours—wondering who Charlie was with and if she was safe.

Taking a deep breath, Donnie dialed the number. It rang and rang. Just as he was about to hang up, she answered.

“Um. Hello?”

“Charlie?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Donnie.”

She didn’t say anything.

“You know. James’s friend…”

“Donnie, of course, I know who you are. What do you want?”

This might be a harder sell than he’d first thought. He contemplated backing out of the call but chose honesty instead.

“I can’t stop thinking about you. After your dad died, we didn’t get to talk, and I need to know if you’re okay.”

Silence. For a second, he thought she’d hung up. A hitched breath came through the line. Shit. He’d upset her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up your father—”

“It’s not that. I didn’t expect a call from you or from anyone back home. It’s nice, especially after the week I’ve had.”

“Wait. What do you mean? Where are you?”

More silence.

“Charlie, talk to me.”

“I’m still in Malta. Something happened… it’s not a big deal. I’m fine now.”

“As opposed to what? What happened?”

“Two men attacked us. Three days ago, in Gozo.”

“Define attacked. Attacked as in ‘mugged’ or attacked as in—”

“They tried to kill us.”

“How badly are you hurt?”

“Both of us are okay. Bruises and stitches. A friend of ours is in the hospital; he’s just woken from an induced coma and I’m on my way to see him.”

She relayed the chilling story. Of how she’d fought for her life, how she’d almost fallen to her death and Donnie wanted to put a fist through the wall.

“We’ve spent the last few days with the police and at the hospital. The authorities have been after a serial killer. Seven women have fallen to their deaths on the cliffs over the last two years. They think it was the men that attacked us, and the locals are hailing us as heroes.”

Donnie’s gut felt like ice. He needed to be by her side, to watch over the woman who was like a baby sister to Johnny. At least that’s what Donnie told himself.

“Stay where you are, I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“I don’t want you flying over. I told you, we’re fine. Besides, we had to reschedule our flights around the attack, but thankfully, we’re heading out tomorrow for Morocco.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“We’re meeting up with the rest of our dance group and a film crew. We have three photo shoots planned and two performances scheduled in Marrakesh. Plus, we’ll be training with some of the local belly dancers.”

“I don’t like this. Come home.”

“Morocco is a whole other country. We can escape the ugliness and the violence…”

She couldn’t carry on, and he heard the tears in her voice. Donnie rubbed a hand over his eyes. Charlie didn’t deserve any of this. Her father had just died. She’d run to find peace and instead run into violence. The two women, traveling alone after such an ordeal—their vulnerable situation bothered him. Arguing with Charlie would make her dig in her heels.

“I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Keep your phone nearby.”

“Thanks, Donnie, I appreciate the concern. I have to go.”

“Charlie,” he called out, reluctant to end the call.

“Yes?”

“If you feel afraid in any way, call me. No matter what time of the day or night, I’m here. Even if it’s just to talk.”

After Donnie hung up, he relayed the information to Atlas. Next, he stopped by the boxing gym, releasing his frustration on a bag. Later that night—as he lay in bed—he couldn’t shake the worry that phone call invoked. The Intelligence Specialist in him prodded Donnie to rise and pull out his military grade laptop. After establishing a secure line, he researched the recent attacks in Gozo. Seven women had died—beaten and tossed onto the rocks below. The eighth victim had survived. The murders were significant as the Republic of Malta had low crime rates.

It was one of the safer tourist destinations in the EU. Donnie used his cyber hacking abilities to gain access to the survivor’s file. Martina Denaro. Attacked a year ago while walking her dog along the cliffs. According to her statement, a masked man had assaulted her. She described her attacker as a large man—over six feet tall and close to two hundred pounds. He wore brass knuckles, punched her in the face and cracked her cheekbone. Luckily, she wore a fanny pack that contained her police grade mace. She’d managed to spray him repeatedly before screaming at the top of her lungs. By the time help arrived, the man was gone.

Donnie rubbed his neck, knowing what came next. Re-focusing, he tapped away furiously, hacking into the Imgar Police station in Gozo and locating the online file. He opened the report and froze. Charlie’s image sat front and center—a photograph—taken just days before. One of many that cataloged her injuries. Fine, my ass, he thought. The son of a bitch had torn her up, both mentally and physically. He sifted through her nasty scrapes and cuts, including her sliced up forearm. The dazed look in her eyes—reflecting shock—had his gut clenching.

Donnie zoned in on their statements. According to Charlie and Elana, the perps were of average height. Unmasked. No mention of knuckle dusters. Hacking into more files, Donnie sifted through autopsic reports from the last twenty-four months. Two of the female Gozo bodies were too battered from the fall and the eroding sea, to recover much evidence. But the other five victims showed bruising, indicative of being punched in the face with a metal object. Best guess from the pulverized patterns? Brass knuckles. Different assailants had attacked Elana and Charlie. The men were dead—the threat permanently removed. Then why did the back of Donnie’s neck prickle?

He never ignored his gut instincts in the field. As an analyst, facts and hard evidence led every mission, but that didn’t mean that intuition never played a role. As an intelligence professional, collecting data and developing knowledge of the enemy’s intent, was a critical objective of any mission. Did these assailants even connect to the Gozo serial killer? If so, then what was their plan? Patterns and links were always present, and the analyst in Donnie needed answers.

Donnie considered the long list of items he’d need to prep. Decision made, he called Atlas as he pulled up connecting flights. “Wake up, asshole. We’re heading to Marrakesh.”