Scorpion: Rogue State Prologue

Nine years ago. 

Avery rode shotgun in the Mehran hatchback. Produced by the local Suzuki affiliate, the Mehran was one of the most common cars on Pakistani streets, allowing the two Americans to blend easily into traffic without warranting a second glance from passing motorists, pedestrians, or police. The passenger side lacked air conditioning vents, so Avery, sweating profusely, kept his window lowered a third of the way in flagrant violation of security protocol. The outside temperature was 85°F, with 70% humidity.

Horns blared all around them. Brakes squelched. Shouts and curses were exchanged in Urdu.

Local drivers possessed a general disregard for traffic laws and a stubborn unwillingness to give anyone the right-of-way. Nobody bothered to obey the traffic cops positioned at major intersections. The wide streets lacked lane dividers. The only people getting anywhere fast were the ones riding motor scooters weaving between and around the lines of cars, trucks, and donkey-drawn carts.

Traffic came to a dead stop at the oncoming intersection a hundred feet ahead. They were boxed in now on all sides. Not a good position to be in for two Americans alone in a city like Peshawar.

A foul odor, reminiscent of a dirty zoo combined with raw sewage, drifted through the open window, a stark contrast to the pleasant aromas from the spices and grilled meat at the kabob stands on the previous block.

The bearded man behind the Mehran’s wheel sniffed, turned his head to glance at Avery’s open window, and, scowling, grunted his displeasure.

Brett DeVane reached down to the console and raised the window. The stench of shit still lingered. Without a word, Avery reached around and shifted one of the driver-side A/C vents in his direction as best he could.

 Stuck here like this was a bad position to be in, in a bad part of town. Not that they had reason to expect trouble, but you never knew, and this was Peshawar, after all; a city where suicide or car bombings and shooting massacres were commonplace, spillover from the ongoing war in neighboring Afghanistan and Pakistan’s own insurgency in Waziristan. Foreigners, especially Westerners, were tempting targets for kidnapping by the Pakistani Taliban, al-Qaeda, or any of the other extremist groups active in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas of northwestern Pakistan. Then there were the bandits who just wanted money or valuables, and corrupt cops harassing foreigners for a bribe.  

That’s why Avery never went anywhere outside the safe house without his Heckler & Koch USP, chambered in .45 ACP. He knew DeVane carried a Sig Sauer P226, a throwback to his time as a SEAL. Each man also kept an MP5 submachine gun beneath his seat.

The gear came from the armory of sanitized weapons CIA kept at the Special Activity Division’s Harvey Point facility, known as The Point, in North Carolina. The weapons had been brought in-country via diplomatic pouch, exempt from search by Pakistani customs, through the local American consulate.

Less than a year out of the army, this was only Avery’s second year as a contractor with Global Response Staff, the division of the National Clandestine Service that ran contractors, so he was still regarded as something of a newbie. This was his first time working an op with DeVane. He wouldn’t be disappointed if it was the last.

The older and more experienced of the pair, and a veteran Ground Branch paramilitary officer, DeVane naturally held seniority, and he liked things done his way. Full stop. End of story. Non-negotiable. He was also tribalistic, as SEALs tended to be, and he had little use for an Airborne Ranger, no matter that said Ranger was once a master sergeant and former Ranger Recon, with nearly a decade of experience conducting reconnaissance and direct action, often in tandem with Tier One JSOC special mission units, in Iraq, Afghanistan, and even a few other places he couldn’t talk about.

DeVane came from Dev Gru, Naval Special Warfare Development Group, which is the innocuous sounding codename for the special mission unit once known as SEAL Team Six. He had a reputation for being brazen and aggressive. His longtime call sign was Gremlin.

Like many Dev Gru SEALs, DeVane was a big weightlifter. He was also an obvious steroid user. Proper fitness and nutrition were difficult to fit in when you’re fucking about in Iraq or the Stan for months at a time. Dianabol and Sustanon use was common among those guys.

Both men were Caucasian and taller and of larger build than the average Pakistani, but they sported unkempt beards and wore Pashtun clothes, including pakol hats, and they’d been eating nothing but local food all month so that they even smelled like locals. They were also well-tanned after spending a couple afternoons sunbathing on the safe house’s rooftop to darken their complexion.

Avery at least had a dark tan and dark hair, but DeVane looked like a friggin’ Viking.

The light ahead changed, and traffic started to creep along. After several seconds, they were finally moving again, passing through a heavy black cloud of noxious smoke left by a diesel truck.

DeVane knew the streets well enough that he didn’t bother with the GPS as he negotiated their way across the city and into a southwest side residential area that was composed of two-story dwellings. Most of the houses sat behind closed gates and had covered windows, flat rooftops, narrow upper floor balconies, and patchy plots of grass or dirt. It wasn’t the nicest neighborhood in the city, but it was a far cry from the worst, where people lived in tiny shacks stacked on top of each other, with unpaved streets overrun with trash, debris, and flooded with filthy water.

The source’s house looked like any of the others: an orange square on top of a wider orange square with big windows and a five-foot high stone wall topped with shrubs running along the front and back yards.

They drove around the block once to scope out the surrounding area, making sure it was clear, or at least absent of anything to register on either man’s internal threat radar.

They hadn’t been briefed on who the source was, only that up until a few days ago he had been providing the local CIA base with intelligence on the location of one Ali Waseem Khasif, which was the kunya, or war name, for a particularly nasty and elusive Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan commander who had earned a top place the White House’s approved Kill List.

Avery and DeVane were on their own here, operating below the radar of the Pakistani government, because Ali Khasif was reportedly allied with senior officers of Pakistan’s Inter Service Intelligence (ISI).

Problem was, after receiving a suitcase full of Agency money, the source abruptly cut off all contact with his American handler. The Agency knew he was legit, though, because his previous product had panned out, even leading to a successful drone strike against a high value target in the Swat Valley.

NSA geo-located the source’s cell phone and placed him here, where ground surveillance positively identified him. The Agency’s Peshawar base chief then instructed Avery and DeVane to visit the source and have a friendly chat with him, to get him to change his mind about ghosting his handlers.

DeVane parked in the alley directly behind the source’s house. He shut off the engine but left the keys in the ignition. They climbed out of the Mehran with their guns held low and out of sight, safeties off, rounds in the chambers.

They stepped up to the stone wall, glancing around once more, scanning nearby windows and gates to make sure no one was watching. Swiftly and simultaneously, they reached up to grab the top of the stone wall. Each man effortlessly pulled his weight up, muscled over the plants on top, and landed smoothly and silently in the courtyard on the other side.

At 19:30, the sun was still out, so they didn’t have the cover of darkness on their side, but surveillance indicated this was the latest time of the day when the source was alone. DeVane couldn’t give a fuck, but Avery had argued against involving the man’s wife and children. Avery had not so subtly gone over DeVane’s head by suggesting it in front of the base chief, who had known nothing of the source’s family and subsequently ordered the two contractors to take all necessary measures to avoid endangering noncombatants.

Wasting no time, they crossed the courtyard, skirted around the house, and stopped outside the front door. While DeVane covered him, his weapon in low ready, his eyes scanning, Avery crouched in front of the door and produced the small case containing his lock pick set from the compartment on his vest. He didn’t bother with a snap gun, even though it would have bypassed the lock within seconds; those things were too loud and could result in compromise. So, he did it the old-fashioned way, inserting the torsion wrench and pick into the lock’s plug, and gently, silently, working the pins, until all were picked. It took the best part of a minute, and he ignored DeVane’s mild southern drawl impatiently urging him on.

Avery gripped the doorknob firmly and slowly pushed the door in while pressing the door up to reduce friction on the hinges and prevent any creaking. He did this with his left hand because he held the USP in his right, holding it in front of him with his index finger extended over the trigger guard. He stepped forward through the threshold into the dark living room, a wide space with wooden floors, a throw rug, furniture, and green walls.

The front sitting room led into the kitchen, where a small light was on over the stove and there was a small table capable of accommodating four people. To the right was the staircase and the arch leading into a hallway.

The place was completely silent, to the extent that Avery wondered if the source was even home, but it smelled of fresh curry and soy. As his eyes scanned the interior of the house, he detected the covered pan sitting on the stove with the handle of a wooden spoon sticking out.

With a hand signal, DeVane sent Avery to check the rear hallway while he covered Avery. The younger man did so, leading with the USP into the narrow hallway, where he peered into the laundry room, closet, and pantry. He re-emerged seven seconds later, motioning to DeVane that it was clear.

They proceeded up the staircase to the second floor. Here they saw a sliver of light coming into the hall from an open door, and they heard a radio playing. DeVane entered first, pushing the door open, and Avery followed him into the study. A black-haired man had his back to them as he sat at a desk before a computer screen, a lowball glass and a bottle of scotch next to him on the desk.

Avery stopped six feet away, held the USP in both hands with his arms extended in front of him. He kept the man in his sight picture while DeVane approached him, grabbed him, spun him around in his swivel chair, clocked him in the head, and wrangled him to the floor. DeVane rested a knee on the back of the man’s neck, with his full weight pressing down, as he flex-cuffed the man’s wrists together behind his back.

When he flipped the man over, both Avery and DeVane examined his face and confirmed it was the source. DeVane nodded, satisfied, and indicated for Avery to check the rest of the floor while he stayed with the source. When the man tried to protest in Urdu, DeVane smacked him in the side of the head with the butt of his Browning, scraping bone and drawing blood. On his way out the door, Avery heard DeVane softly but assertively inform the source that they knew he spoke fluent English and then the Pakistani man fell abruptly silent.

Avery returned a minute later, after checking to verify the other rooms were empty and looking out the windows to make sure everything looked quiet and normal on the streets outside.

“Looks like he doesn’t want to tell us about his buddy Ali Khasif,” DeVane announced when Avery re-entered the study.

Without a word, Avery dropped to a knee, produced their little interrogation kit and opened it up on the floor, in view of the source; a small hammer, nails, scalpels, pliers, matches. The source’s eyes widened as they moved from one item to the other. Sweat soon formed on his brow and his lower lip developed a slight tremor as his imagination took over in the worst possible ways.

“Please, sir, I do not-”

 “Shut the fuck up. It’s very simple. You either lied to our friends and took their money, or you know something about that piece of shit Ali Waseem Khasif and you’re holding back.” DeVane paused, his eyes boring into the source, the vein on the side of his head pulsing beneath the flesh. “We’re going to get the bottom of this shit right now.”

Avery kept the source covered with his USP while DeVane selected the pliers. With his freehand, DeVane selected one of the source’s fingers, then applied the pliers. Avery’s view was obscured, but he saw DeVane’s hand snap back with the pliers. He saw the source give a surprised jump, and he heard the Pakistani release a painful yelp.

Looking up to the desk, DeVane’s eyes rested on the plate of food. He removed a lemon slice and squeezed the juice into the bloody wound that was the source’s nailbed. Judging by his reaction, Avery thought the Pakistani didn’t like that one bit.

Contrary to conventional thinking, physical coercion does in fact work, in a pinch. But there was more to it than just pulling fingernails, shoving a rifle up someone’s asshole, or beating the shit out of someone all day. You had to keep the subject’s body in a constant state of shock and alter the sensations he experienced. For torture to be effective, the subject couldn’t know and anticipate what was coming next. If you just kept pulling fingernails one at a time, eventually the body became accustomed to the pain, knew what to expect, released natural painkillers to the afflicted area, and the subject could mentally and physically brace for it.

But under a state of duress where a fingernail is pulled, then a thumb is broken, then a testicle is busted, a tooth is pulled, with the mind in panic mode, it became even more difficult for the subject to concoct and stick to a consistent line of bullshit.

That’s why a minute later, after ripping out the next fingernail, DeVane went on to snap the finger all the way back and break the bone.

Avery thought DeVane knew exactly what he was doing, and DeVane seemed more than comfortable with torture.

Not that Avery had a problem with that. In Afghanistan, he’d seen the Tajiks of the Northern Alliance do unspeakable things to their Taliban prisoners, like boiling the Talibs alive in vats of oil. He’d also seen those prisoners who opted to cooperate treated respectfully and humanely. Everyone made their own choices.

“Please, I do not know where Khasif went,” the source pleaded. “He suspected I was talking to Americans. I told his people I was only talking to a journalist. I stayed with the cover story, but they told me the American was a spy and to stay away.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell Paul?” DeVane asked, referring to the source’s original handler.

“They said they would hurt my family if I was seen talking to the American again. They told me never to-”

DeVane broke another finger, then ripped the nail out. The source screamed savagely, thrashing his head from side to side as DeVane proceeded to hammer a nail through the bloody nailbed.

“Please! No! It is the truth. I swear on my-”

Everyone shut and up and froze when they heard the front door creak open downstairs.

“Who the fuck is that?” DeVane asked.

“I don’t know. It might be-”

“Fucking find out right now.”

The source took a couple deep breaths and called out in Urdu.

A women’s voice called back from downstairs.

“My wife and son have returned from the mosque.”

“Call them. Tell them to come here. Don’t fucking warn them.” DeVane switched to poorly accented but understandable Urdu. “Because I will know if you do.”

Seconds later, they heard someone coming up the stairs. Avery stepped back against the side of his doorjamb.

The woman’s voice called the source’s name from down the hallway, and when she entered the study with the boy, maybe ten years old, she screamed when she saw the large bearded white man with angry eyes standing over her bleeding husband and pointing a gun at her. Avery stepped into the hallway to make sure no one else was there before he came up behind the woman and the boy and pushed them further into the study, keeping the USP trained on them.

“I’ll tell you what,” DeVane told the source. “I’m sure you want us out of here as badly as we do, so we’ll speed things up. Tell us about Khasif, or we will kill this bitch.”

 Avery kept his gun on the women and wasn’t moved by the shock and fear in her face. If he appeared surprised or at all hesitant, the source might read him and call his bluff.

“I do not know where he went,” the source said, his voice cracking, his eyes shifting. Avery judged the statement as a lie. Obviously, he was still more afraid of the Taliban than he was of the Americans. “He surely has re-located by now. He wouldn’t have-”

“Shoot the bitch in the gut,” DeVane ordered Avery.

Avery automatically stepped back and lowered his aim. He didn’t hesitate until he took first pressure on the trigger and the source still didn’t say anything.

Fuck.

Suddenly Avery felt a permeation of mild panic and anxiety, uncertain about what to do next. An unfamiliar sensation for him, not being in control, and he didn’t like it.

“I said, fucking do it! Now!” DeVane shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls. “What are you waiting for?”

Before Avery could react, a single shot rang out from DeVane’s SIG. The woman went down, folded at the waist with a surprised gasp, and the source screamed until DeVane grabbed a handful of his hair and smashed his head against the floor.

Dark, viscous blood pooled around Avery’s feet from the woman’s core, telling him that the liver was hit. 

“The fuck are you doing?” Avery shouted to DeVane. He padded his vest down for his QuikKlot sponges. He took out two and tore the wrappers open. As Avery bent over the woman, DeVane shot her twice more in the body. The boy was immediately on the floor at her side, pushing past Avery’s legs, kneeling in her blood, and holding her, sobbing.

DeVane glared at Avery. “You’re fucking finished, asshole. Fucking questioning my orders in extremis.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s finish up here before the cops come around.”

He returned his attention to the source and kicked the man in the side of the head. “Last chance, cockbreath.”

Avery glanced down at the writhing woman’s wounds. He was sure nothing could be done for her, even if she got an ambulance right now. He also doubted that the medieval nightmare that was a Pakistani emergency room could do much for her. She was losing too much blood too fast. At least she was unconscious now and no longer felt a thing. 

The little boy looked up and watched Avery with pitiful, pleading, watery eyes. 

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Avery heard DeVane tell the source. “I’ll give you your son’s life for Ali Khasif. Fair enough?”

The source was crying now. His gaze wavered and his voice quivered. “But I do not know where Ali Khasif is! I am not lying to you, sir! Please! I am begging you.”

“Well, tough shit. I tried.” DeVane shrugged and shot the source once through the head. He turned around, pointing the SIG toward the boy, because he couldn’t leave anyone behind who could provide a description of the killers.

“Wait, don’t,” Avery commanded DeVane, who froze in place and flicked his eyes to the USP in Avery’s hands. Avery studied DeVane’s face closely, keeping the USP pointed at him, center mass. The enraged look in DeVane’s eyes telegraphed his next move, and Avery was prepared. He fired the USP as DeVane pivoted. The former SEAL got off a single shot on the SIG, missing, as Avery’s bullet slammed into DeVane’s plate carrier center mass and took him down. Avery thought that .45 ASP wouldn’t penetrate the Type IIA vest DeVane wore, but it would certainly leave him with a serious bruise, possibly on his lungs, and might even crack a rib.

DeVane dropped onto his hands and knees, gasping, his breath caught short in his chest.

Avery was on him within a second, kicking him over onto the floor and snatching the SIG out of his hand. DeVane started back up, and Avery kicked him harder before dropping his weight on him and securing his wrists behind his back with flex cuffs. DeVane’s breaths were short and heavy as he fought to take in air. He was temporarily weakened and dazed as he failed to sufficiently oxygenate his body.

Avery slipped a hand beneath DeVane’s tunic and under his vest, feeling for holes and blood, and finding none, but DeVane winced nonetheless.

“You’ll live.”

“You fucking piece of shit,” DeVane said between labored breaths.

“Get up,” Avery said, pulling him onto his feet. “We have to get out of here.”

“I’m going to kill you, you fuck.”

“You want to get the fuck out of here with me, or should I leave you for the cops?”

DeVane shut his mouth.

Avery gagged and flex cuffed the boy, while keeping his eyes on the subdued DeVane the whole time. 

He shoved DeVane across the room, out the door, and down the stairs, leaving the boy next to his mother in the rapidly expanding puddle of blood. By the time they made it outside, Avery already heard police sirens in the distance.

They went around to the back of the house and the stone gate, where Avery cupped his hands and gave DeVane a boost. The older and heavier man then wormed his way over the edge, and Avery pushed him over onto the other side, where he plopped onto the pavement with a hard thud and grunt. Avery landed on his feet next to him, pulled him back up, and shoved him into the back of the Mehran. Avery slipped behind the wheel, put the car in gear, and accelerated down the alley.

They reached the safe house forty minutes later, after Avery ran a surveillance detection route to make sure they weren’t being followed. Along the way, he sent the codeword text, “Avalanche,” to the comms room at safe house, indicating an emergency exfil was in progress. 

The security guard posted at the front, a bearded contractor with reflective sunglasses and tattoos, opened the gate and allowed them through. Two more security men were already waiting in the little courtyard. They were armed with MP5 submachine guns and wore plate carriers.

Avery climbed out of the Mehran while one of the guards opened the door for DeVane, who stumbled out. The security contractor, oblivious to the situation, snipped DeVane’s flex cuffs and freed his hands.

“You fucking traitor! Fucking haji lover!”

DeVane shoved a security guard out of the way and launched himself at Avery, who sidestepped left, landed an elbow against the side of DeVane’s head, and extended a leg to trip him, landing him face first in the dirt.

DeVane rolled quickly over and hopped back on his feet, spitting out a wad of blood. He charged at Avery like a madman, but one of the security contractors grabbed onto him from behind and wrangled him into a headlock while one of the other guards moved to restrain and disarm Avery.

Fighting and struggling still, DeVane took a hit hard in the solar plexus from one of the guards, winding him.

 “That cocksucker fucking shot me! I’ll fucking kill him!” DeVane shouted through bloodied teeth as he stared down Avery from ten feet away. It took two guards to restrain the thrashing and kicking DeVane. They dragged him across the courtyard, while another man stayed on Avery, well aware that if they didn’t separate these two guys, somebody was going to die.