There are 12 ways to identify a suicide bomber, intoned the Israeli captain to the class. Woods recalled looking up at the dot points and the commentary that came along with them.

Point 1: If the suspect is male, check for a fresh shave.

Most of these men will be sporting a slight colour difference on their lower jaw. This is because they want to look less suspect. Keep an eye on whether the skin is lighter around the mouth and the jaw. They want to blend.

Point 2: IED-borne insurgents will be wearing suspect clothing.

Vests are awkward and so are belts. Large coats, outdoor jackets, those padded vests, all of them are suspect and are commonly employed to break up the form of the vest underneath.

Point 3: The suspect will have a robotic walk or shuffle awkwardly along.

There are 2 reasons for this. One, they are about to blow themselves up. Psyching yourself up to do something that rationally means not doing it, isn’t easy. But the real reason is because the vest is heavy. All that semtex, is fucking heavy. Not to mention all the other shit they have on there, like ball bearings, glass or even fucking cow-shit. Point is, if they’re walking slowly, or robotically, they’re loaded down and don’t want to detonate the damn thing early.

Point 4: Irritability

Point 5: Profuse sweating

Point 6: Tics

Point 7: Nervous behaviour

All of these are variations on stress. I don’t need to tell you boys about stress. You know what it does and how it affects people. But combat stress is different to suicide stress. There is a lot to suicidal stress. Most of the time, it will take a normal person lots of convincing and willpower to commit suicide. I mean, the damn act goes against human survival instinct. But in this case, it’s about making sure you don’t get detected, it’s about slipping through the security net and not being held up by some well-meaning asshole that will cause you to detonate early.

Point 8: Most suicide bombers have been reported to have irregular breathing

Beyond the obvious weight of the vest, this is also a psychological reaction to their task. Remember, everyone is new to suicide bombing. It’s their first time after all.

Point 9: Almost all suicide bombers have a blank stare before detonation

Opioids. This isn’t some 1000 yard stare because they are afraid of death. It’s the drugs in their system. We’ve only know this, because usually the head is separated from the body easily in an explosion, especially with the way how they shape the charges. After all, the head is held mostly in place by gravity and limited neck muscles. All heads discovered about 100 yards from the site of detonation usually have an opium strip in their mouths. This is to calm them down and gives them extra motivation to go through with the deed.

Point 10: Most survivors report hearing mumbled prayers from the bombers

Prayers are normal. It is normal to hear repeated surahs and phrases from the Bible or the Qu’ran before detonation. It will often be in a monotone, and serves as an enhanced psychological method to rile yourself into a religious fanaticism.

Point 11: Almost all bombers carry a large bag

Beyond the vest, there is usually a secondary amount of explosives in a bag. After all, you only get one chance of blowing yourself up. Might as well go big. You can pack a lot more in a bag, with all the extra shit they love loading in. Shrapnel kills just as much as the explosive does. If you don’t die from the explosive, then it’s the infection that gets you later.

Point 12: Their hands are almost always either in the bag or holding a switch in their pocket.

We used to be able to stop guys from blowing themselves up. Pin them in a bear hug and they can’t reach the detonator. But now they play it safe. They got it on a dead man’s switch or their hand is already ready to go without reaching for anything.

Woods remembered a student asking the Shin Bet expert on how the IDF dealt with such issues.

Easy said the Israelite with a fatalistic shrug Gun them down in the head before they blow yours off. If you don’t …. it won’t matter either way then.

Woods felt this advice keenly impressed upon his mind, as he moved through the Alexanderplatz Station, one of the busiest terminals in Berlin. Looking at his clock, he knew this was prime time.

Rush hour. 1745 HRS. A familiar time to hear IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices) go off in Afghanistan.

Not quite so common in the heart of Europe.

The end of your shift. Everyone rushing home, eager to get some R&R, their attention on getting there, causing them to lose crucial awareness. Traffic was flowing hard and fast in both directions. People eager to make the train home and people eager to get out of the station towards home.

With 3 regional trains, 4 inner Berlin S-Bahn and 3 outer Berlin U-Bahn lines, there could be upwards of 2000 people alone in the station at any given time.

Taking out his recently acquired phone and slipping on the new glasses he had received, he activated both, going to a auspiciously named app “Handle Me!” and depressing the frame of the glasses to begin broadcasting the live tracking of the suicide bomber.

Checking that the glasses and the phone were connected, he immediately heard a slight crackle, as he placed the new headphones in one ear, the other one left alone to maintain situational clarity.

G. Woods, Whiskey Oscar Oscar Delta Sierra. Situation: Imminent ITA (International Terrorist Activity). Need TACINTEL on suspect stat. Get German BND (Bundesnachrichtendienst – Federal intelligence Service) up now.

A calm female voice immediately came through.

Wait one, Whiskey. London Station Chief coming online. Patching through your feed now.

Woods scowled to himself at the delay and mentally ran through the list in head one more time, just to be sure he wasn’t targeting a random person. The timing fit all too well but he had to be sure.

Walking past a couple who were admiring the architecture of the attractive station, he angled his head and aimed his glasses at the profile of the man, before walking quickly further up, stopping down to pretend to tie his shoe and getting a front on view of the man’s face.

Everything screamed suicide bomber. Points 1 down to 12.

Woods felt his fingers brush the Glock 19 in his waistband instinctively.

~

In London, the CIA’s CTC (Counterterrorism Centre), the Station Chief, a Machiavellian type political operator and former U.S. Army Ranger Captain, Richard Washington stared aghast at the huge Screen One that dominated the room, displaying Woods’ livestream of the events unfolding in Germany.

With over 50 people in the room, monitoring almost the entirety of Western Europe, the London CTC was home to some of the CIA’s best, brightest and ruthless intelligence analysts and hackers. More coverage, analytics and surveillance footage filtered on and off the 7 huge screens along the wall in a day, than a Wall Street firm, and Washington’s team was as adept as they came at processing raw information.

Give me CCTV’s eyes. I want to see if there are any more at Alexanderplatz. Screen Two.

Copy sir said one of the female technicians as her computer flickered through a dozen surveillance cameras.

I want a direct line to German BND stat and immediate coverage of all other major Berlin transport hubs. Screen Three. Patch BND to 2IC.

On it sir! yelled a male technician as his fingers immediately began hacking into a myriad of German transport hubs and bypassing firewalls.

Find out who that asshole Woods is following. I want everything. Name, phone, emails, give me all of it, and put it on Screen Four. Any contact he’s made in the recent weeks, anyone he’s fucking travelled with. How he got there. Give me all of it.

Washington’s aide came besides him, a fellow Ranger who had served under his command, a reliable 2IC (2nd in Command) as they came, John Watts.

Watts. I want you talking to BND. See if they got anything.

On it sir. Watts ran over to the technician who handed him a headset as he continued to ping the German intelligence service.

Give me a direct line to Woods. I want to talk to him.

~

Woods?

Sir.

I want you to be eyes on this guy, follow him. If he tries anything … take him down. We’re gathering immediate actionable intel on him now. BND will be on record in 1 mike. Do you copy?

Copy Sir. repeated Woods robotically. He was too busy navigating the crowds to say any more. His eyes were glued to the bomber.

With his freshly shaven face, the bomber looked young, in his mid-20s. He could have been considered handsome, if it weren’t for the pockmarked acne scarring across his cheeks and mouth.

His brown eyes were glazed over, his jaw heavy as he sucked on an opioid strip and tried to murmur prayers at the same time. Beads of sweat ran down from his temple and onto his collarbone and into his clothes. The jacket looked heavy, and far too warm.

The backpack arced his back slightly, causing him to stoop slightly forward to compensate for the weight. His hands was tucked deep into the pockets of his jackets and there was even a visible wire bulging through the jacket sleeves as it led up into his body.

Woods’ every instinct screamed at him to pull the trigger.

Washington’s voice came over the earpiece.

Woods, BND has confirmed that they have been tracking this terror cell for the past 2 weeks, but did not receive any actionable intel on these guys. GSG-9 and SEK are on-route now. ETA 10 mikes.

We don’t have 10 mikes to spare. Where are the station cops?

Wait one.

Woods kept the bomber on his peripheral vision as he tried in vain to look less inconspicuous. However, the bomber seemed to focus on putting one step forward to notice the CIA operative standing less than 10 metres away from.

Gun them down in the head before they blow yours off. thought Woods, recalling the Shin Bet operator’s advice.

Don’t stop at double-taps. Shoot them repeatedly in the head. Even the smallest amount of brain functioning can depress a button. The only way to stop that, is to keep shooting.

Woods? interrupted Washington in his voice. Two undercover SEK operatives are making their way to you now. They should be coming up to your position in 2 mikes. South-entrance.

Copy. Tell them to get their weapons ready. The attack is coming soon. I can feel it.

Signing off, Woods kept following the bomber as he walked up a flight of stairs to the upper level.

To his horror, as the bomber neared the centre of the station, he noted 4 more similarly dressed men start to converge into the middle.

~

Washington’s face immediately paled as he noted Woods’ livestream focus in on the 4 other terrorists.

The entire CTC room grew quiet, as they realised the magnitude of the situation. The silence was a moment of sheer dismay, shock and the dawning of failure.

Then Washington heard Woods’ voice come clear through the comms and immediately everyone sprung back into action, their hands moving in a blur across keyboards as they did whatever they could to prevent the incoming catastrophe.

I need execute authority. I can take out 4. But not the last guy. I need it now. Someone give me a sitrep on those SEK boys.

Washington paused. Every instinct screamed at him. He looked over at Screen Four and began scanning the information gathered on the first suicide bomber.

He had to be sure.

Fara Harut.

Iranian born. An orphan. Adopted early by a state sponsored religious school, suspected of strong anti-western indoctrination practices. A ready supply for terrorists cells.

Washington skipped ahead to Harut’s last recorded movements, facial recognition placing him entering Germany via Czech Republic, last seen with the 4 other men that were now converging upon each other in Alexanderplatz Station. They had split up upon crossing the border and made zero contact with one another until now.

Coincidences in the world of spies didn’t exist. Connections could always be traced back. Deja vu acts as confirmation not coincidence.

5 men, following basic operational security, to prevent detection. A busy train station at the peak of rush hour and nearly a month since the last attack. Enough to relax security services and slip past the net.

All the hallmarks of a Sphinx’s train station attack.

Washington gritted his teeth and said the fatal words.

Whiskey. You have execute authority.

~

Woods kept his eyes focused on all 5 of the suicide bombers. They were not identically dressed. But all had the 12 boxes ticked. One of them even had the decency to look nervous and afraid.

Looking behind him, Woods noted the undercover SEK policemen (German SWAT Unit) and how well armed they were with MP5 submachine guns. With their civilian clothing boosted by ballistic armour and balaclavas, they looked more paramilitary than regular armed forces, but that was the idea. The crowd parted for them like Moses in the Red Sea.

Woods moved towards them and waved them forwards. The officers, having been briefed by BND, immediately closed in behinds Woods as he pointed out the 5 men.

Both pairs of the SEK officers’ eyes widened and stiffened into shock. Both men had never dealt with suicide bombers before. One of them, the younger Officer asked Woods shakily on how to deal with such a threat.

Woods replied coldly back with an echo from his past lesson: Gun them down in the head before they blow yours off.

Motioning that one of the officers had to stay back and warn civilians away, Woods took the other officer and told him to stay at the right flank, whilst he moved left of the group of 5 men. He also stole an extra magazine for his Glock as he moved past the crouching officer.

Anyone I miss … you kill. said Woods firmly to the SEK Officer who nodded firmly and tried to hide his shaking hands.

To his relief, Woods noted that the 5 men were still standing near each other, their chanting and prayers beginning to pick up in volume slightly.

People were beginning to catch on and whilst panic had not quite set in yet, it was a hair-trigger away from full blown pandemonium.

Woods knew this was his only chance.

In his appendix holster, he had 1 spare magazine. 17 rounds + 15+1 in his actual Glock 19.

Another 15 rounds in his back pocket, from the SEK Officer who didn’t realise he was missing a magazine.

47 bullets.

This was going to be close.

Woods moved directly towards them, as they began to split up. There was no point in detonating all at once. You didn’t kill as many people if you all went up together. Structural damage and psychological terror could only be achieved through multiple blasts that threw people in every single direction.

This would buy Woods time.

Precious seconds.

The closest terrorist began moving closer to Woods, his eyes focused on the floor, his hands coming out of his pocket, as the station’s clock began the final countdown to 6pm exactly. A mental countdown started in Wood’s mind. He had a total of 10 seconds.

Woods felt his Prince persona shine through and without hesitation, he lifted up his henley shirt with his left hand, and gripped the Glock 19 with his right.

The palm of his hand smacked into the butt of the dark pistol, and his fingers curled around and snatched the weapon up and outwards, his left hand meeting both the pistol and right hand halfway through, before they continued in unison into a firing position, elbows slightly crooked, the back sight and front sight lining up level to his green eyes.

4 sharp cracks in rapid succession, resounded resolutely and the atmosphere of the entire station changed.

The muted pop music that once dominated the station’s rhythm, aiding in people getting home in a hurry and to believe that they were safe, was suddenly drowned out by screams, mass hysteria and the sounds of thousands of feet moving in unison.

The sounds of thousands of people running in every direction, activated in everyone a primal urge to flee. It didn’t matter what the threat was, the average brain was locked in a rictus of fear and panic, and that was all Washington could see on the screen, as what was once orderly was now chaotic.

Hundreds of people were screaming, running, jogging, sprinting and many more were standing equally still, frozen before the mass of movement, unable to comprehend the situation before them.

Confusion reigned supreme, as the CTC staff looked on in horror. Then one of the technicians noted Woods advancing through the crowd, the lone SEK officer doing his best to follow with his clunkier MP5 submachine gun and placed the CCTV grainy footage on Screen 1.

Washington noted the bleeding corpse that the Prince casually stepped over, as he moved through the crowd with ease, the blood rapidly spooling out from the four headshots that the Prince had inflicted within a blink of an eye.

Squinting hard, Washington watched with concentrated horror and encouragement as the Prince moved to within 5 metres of the next terrorist and Washington watched as another 5 rounds expelled from the Glock 19 in the Prince’s hands and somehow magically miss everyone that ran in between and beyond, and slam directly into the target’s head.

The rounds, snapped the terrorists head to the side, flinging him down to the floor, his finger unable to depress the button that would activate the detonator.

By now, the crowd was slowly beginning to thin out, people aware that the action was all occurring in the middle of the station and learning to avoid it.

The SEK officer was still desperate to try and aim at the target Woods had told him to, but his fear of hitting a civilian was too great and he couldn’t press the trigger. He froze, his finger desperate to press inwards, but his mind unable to commit to such a dangerous action. None of his training had prepared him for this moment.

But he kept moving closer towards the threat. His duty overrode his fear.

He looked across at the Prince, as he ruthlessly tripped a sprinting woman to the ground, causing her to fall heavily, but open his line of sight to the third terrorist who was slowly catching on to what was happening and beginning to turn around to face the Prince.

The Prince’s seven rounds crossed the 10 metres and impacted heavily across the man’s face, ripping through eyes, brain, jaw and cheek, the final round neatly severing the medulla oblongata, causing the terrorist’s outstretched hand to never function.

With his immediate twelve, two and eleven o’clock target dealt with, there were now only two terrorists left, his original suspect, Fara Harut and the final bomber behind him.

The execution of the three men had elapsed the Prince’s precious inner timer down to 4 seconds remaining.

An example had to be made. The Prince’s right thumb depressed the magazine catch, as his left hand swept down, and took out the spare magazine in a smooth and robotic motion, a rehearsed manoeuvre that took only a precious second, as the hand swept upwards and into the base of the pistol, before wrapping around the right hand again. His right thumb released the slide catch, and the Glock’s slide slammed forward, chambering the first round.

The green eyes never wavered behind the sight and the Prince kept moving forwards, his right index finger a blur, as Fara Harut, in a sacrificial gesture, stepped between the Prince’s Glock and his fellow terrorist behind him.

The entirety of all 17 rounds of the Prince’s Glock slammed into Harut’s head, somehow the terrorist’s body staying upright under the onslaught of 9mm rounds. His face completely disappeared under the weight of the fire, chunks of flesh, brain, blood and bone spraying outwards as round after round slammed in a move so fast, that it actually stunned the final terrorist, whose fear was now palatable as he beheld the Prince.

However the Prince’s final reload would take too long. He had reach into his back pocket for the final 15 round magazine he had taken from the SEK Officer.

The SEK Officer in question, who had only just received an emergency call from BND and was looking forwards to a hot dessert after his shift. A man who told his younger partner to take the safer job of warning away civilians.

It was he who noted that it was now too late for the Prince to do anything about the final bomber and was himself only a mere 3 metres away from the vest, having fought his way through the crowd to get a shot in with his MP5.

He knew the Prince’s plan, prayed that it was going to work, but could see it would fail and was resigned for this very eventuality.

With a final look at the Prince, whose hands were blurred in a reload, the SEK Officer gritted his teeth, sprinted forward and tackled the bomber. The momentum slid them towards a support pole, that would take most of the blast.

He closed his eyes, as the terrorist did the same.

The finger pressed the button.

The Prince’s persona left Woods as his survival instinct took over the moment he saw the SEK Officer make his move.

Dropping his pistol, he spun on his heels, and dove for the floor, and rolled behind a sturdy food stall selling snacks and drinks.

Clamping his hands over his ears and burying his head as low as it could get into his knees, Woods shut his eyes.

He felt it first in his chest, then he heard a cavernous roar and then nothing.

The Prince sunk into an eternal darkness where nothing could hurt him again nor would anything comfort him for an eternity.

Author’s Note

Those who are fans of Paul Greengrass’ adaptation of book to film, Bourne’s Ultimatum (2007) will no doubt notice the similarities I’ve adopted for the Alexanderplatz Station with the famous and tense Waterloo sequence in that film.

Alexanderplatz is also a rather obvious reference to the previous entry in that series, Bourne Supremacy (2004) where the temporary abduction of one Nicky Parsons by Bourne also took place.

I wanted to capture the urgency, tension and paranoia of that scene and am grateful for John Powell’s incredible score to help me tap into that.

I also based the final sequence where Woods kills the terrorist on my favourite espionage series’ Gabriel Allon in Prince of Fire where he is faced with a similar scenario and is forced to take similar drastic actions to stop a series of terrorist bombings from going off in Paris’ Gare de Lyon station.

For fans of Jack Reacher, the 12 ways to ID a suicide bomber are stolen directly from Lee Child’s Gone Tomorrow for which I gratefully pay props to. I have no idea if it is accurate, and based on truth, but his writing always had an air of believability about it, so I thought it would be fun to incorporate into this story.

I originally planned this to be a quick stop and make Woods go straight to London, but chose to make this extended action sequence for further motivation and establish the threat of the Sphinx.

Until the next one!

~ Damocles.

An anonymous man in a suitably non descript black suit walked towards Woods, his hand gripping a briefcase.

Gabriel Woods watched from the corner of his eye, as the man stopped nearby and turned to examine the famous tourist square. The movement allowed Woods to see the the man’s hand on the briefcase, in which he was gripping it with just his index, and thumb. The other three fingers were splayed out.

Three is good, two is bad recalled Woods.

Miming his surprise at seeing an old friend, Woods walked over to the man with a smile and an arm outstretched. The man responded similarly and they mimicked a conversation, whilst the man handed the briefcase in an effusive gesture. Woods smiled and walked away, the grin wiped away the moment the charade was over.

Walking towards the Berlin Alexanderplatz Station, and past the famous Weltzeituhr (World Clock), displaying the current time in 148 major cities around the world, Woods rested the briefcase in one hand and popped the clasps with the other.

Taking out a small key, he walked over to the train lockers that lined the exterior of the station and searched for the number on the key.

Opening the locker, he placed the briefcase inside and looked at the contents proper.

Inside, Woods noted the new passport that had been issued to him, proclaiming his name to be Christian Taylor, a UK resident from Cornwall. Noting that the photo featured rather thick framed glasses, Woods looked inside for the pair of spectacles that would accompany him as a disguise. Opening the simple black case, Woods tried the glasses on, and was pleased with the fit.

Tapping the side of the glasses, he noted the thickness of the frame, a feature that allowed tiny pin-sized cameras to be installed on both sides of the spectacles. A simple unidirectional microphone also allowed remote recording of conversations up to 20 metres away, and with its’ wireless capability, it could transmit intel to his phone that would send the audio-visual footage to a CIA station nearby.

Woods also noted the new phone that would replace most of the capabilities of the military laptop he was used to. A nondescript Android design, the phone hid its true potential behind false apps, that Woods would have to explore, to unlock what each function would do.

The final spy-craft item in the briefcase was a pair of headphones, that disguised recording and transmitting abilities allowing him to talk and report back, or listen in on conversations heard through his glasses. Shaped like any wireless headphones, they were a functional black colour, and fit in his ears snugly.

In addition to the gadgets, Woods found a wallet with 1000 English pound and 1000 Euros, with plenty of different denominations, a car key that also featured another key to the safe-house and to his surprise, a spare pair of smokey lens for his glasses that would double as sunglasses.

Placing all these items into various pockets on his person, Woods left the briefcase in the locker and took out the key. He would head over to the Tiergarten, a huge national park that was near the US Embassy and deposit the locker key in an agreed spot for collection.

As he hopped aboard a yellow-white Strabenbahn tram to the park, Woods recalled the brief he had read onboard the C-17 from Afghanistan, about the target he was meant to observe and eventually stop.

Blessed with a photographic memory and near perfect recall, Woods replayed in his mind the personal call from the Station Chief in the CIA London’s operating centre, as the C-17 flew through the night sky, his hands gripping a headset that the loadmaster had given him.

Woods,

You’re probably wondering why we took you out of Afghanistan and transferred you to Europe. Well, we’re aware of your history there and this is priority one. Our Foreign Security Assessment (FSA) indicates that there is going to be a global terrorist attack happening on UK soil in a week from now.

Intelligence suggests that it will be occurring on the Valentine’s weekend where traffic is expected to be at an all time high. We’re putting every major asset in Europe on standby and we’ll be cooperating with your old crew, UKSF and SIS on this.

The truth is, you were asked to come, because the UK PM specifically asked for your services. We know that you are on loan for us from the Brits, so we couldn’t refuse when they asked for you to come back.

Anyway, the bad news is that we don’t know the exact time of the attack. We suspect it is going to be in the evening because that is where traffic will be high. However, because Valentine Day’s falls on a Friday, we are not exactly sure whether they’ll be hitting Friday, Saturday or Sunday or worse case …. all three fucking days.

In any case, it is imperative that you make contact with your SIS contact and start covert surveillance on Sofia, a courier for Hassan Malik, an operative we’ve nicknamed the Sphinx, due to how well he seems to hide his tracks. We’ve been after this guy for nearly 2 years and have still been unable to properly track his whereabouts and movements.

We know he is Europe based, because we’ve managed to extract intel from detainees and low-level HVTs in Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan. He’s been responsible for the recent train bombings in Paris, Madrid and Athens and we think its only a matter of time before he strikes in England.

As you can already see in the brief, actual photographs and intel on Malik is scarce. The only photo we have is approximately 5 years old, way back when he was in AQ training camps in Iran. At the moment, he’s considered a rogue terrorist for hire, a highly dangerous operative who offers his services to any groups linked to anti-Western agencies and government.

We don’t know who is backing him, as it could be any source ranging from Hezbollah, the Ayatollah or even Saudi backers. All we know is, he’s got a domestic network in Europe, and the logistics and capabilities to strike almost anywhere on the Continent.

Thus the key for you, is to find Sofia. Detainee reporting states that she is one of Malik’s most trusted couriers and sources.

Find Sofia, track her, and then eliminate Malik.

Currently, Sofia is under heavy surveillance. A team from 14th Det is tracking her 24/7. She has not made any suspect moves, but we’ve done the usual bugging and tracking on her phone, apartment and email.

I’m not gonna sugar-coat it Woods, the reason why you were chosen, is because we still think you’re the scalpel, you were in the past.

Europe could use help from a graduate from the Counter-Revolutionary Warfare. The guy known as the Prince only 6 years ago.

Show the Sphinx, why Europe is really the Prince’s domain, not his.

Good luck Woods.

Woods snapped out his reverie when he heard the tram driver announce the stop for Tiergarten. The change from the mountains of Afghanistan to the well-oiled streets of Germany still played with Woods’ mind. He found himself unused to the sensation of comfortable footwear that didn’t drag in the snow and mud. The sharper, cleaner air that didn’t have the faint scent of petrol, oil and spice.

Even the atmosphere was different, the sounds of people chatting softly in German, slower and more measured, relaxed and safe, a far cry from the rapid-fire Dari and Pashto in Kabul, the type of conversation you knew you had to hurry, because you didn’t know when something would end it terminally.

Even the idea of being onboard a functioning tram was alien to Woods, who had spend so many months simply walking everywhere in Kabul.

Acclimatise quickly and blend in even quicker recalled a mantra taught to him long ago.

Hopping off, Woods walked towards the park and began to count down the trees, before hiding the key to the train locker underneath an auspiciously placed rock at the base of the 7th tree.

Walking away and taking the return tram back towards Alexanderplatz, Woods tried to relax slightly, but his mind was occupied on the Sphinx. As Woods got off the tram at the Alexanderplatz station and began his walk to long-term carpark for his car, it was then he noted the odd shuffle of a man wearing a backpack nearby. He was making his way into the main entrance of the train station, pale and murmuring under his breath.

At first, Woods decided that it was just a homeless guy moving around the city. Berlin, whilst prosperous, still had its’ fair share of homeless people.

But usually due to malnutrition and poor mental health, they would pick a spot and rarely move. They would beg along a popular street, they wouldn’t be out and about if they didn’t have to.

Besides this man didn’t have the usual ragged clothing of a homeless person. He was dressed like an out-of-towner. A man who didn’t belong. A tourist. An outsider.

Woods frowned as he noted people seemed to subconsciously give this man a wide berth. Women would give double-takes, their eyes coming up from their phones more than once, unsure about why the man had his head down and was shuffling his feet so much.

Men would take an extra step to the right or left, unwilling to brush past closely, as if he smelled bad. They made the extra effort to sidestep him.

An alarm bell began to signal in Woods head. The fresh scars from Afghanistan were still bleeding into his mind. He recalled his training, the impressions he had received on his very first tour of Afghanistan, embedded in him by a Israeli IDF Shin Bet operative.

The 12 ways to identify a suicide bomber. They all gave the same clues. They were all unprofessional at it. After all, they’re amateurs at blowing themselves up. This is their first time doing it.

No one gets another chance at doing it.

Nor does anyone get another chance at stopping it.

Woods dropped his carry bag, lifted his shirt to check the Glock 19 in his waistband and immediately starting running.

The scent of petrichor slowly permeated the air, until it was all CIA Special Operations Group (SOG) Paramilitary Operations Officer Woods could smell.

The spice that usually perfumed the Afghan marketplaces in Kabul slowly receded as rain began to hammer the streets, turning the ground into dark, muddy slush that stuck to boots and the hems of coarse hessian trousers.

Woods aimed his gaze upwards, staring up the street, that stretched towards the Hindu Kush mountains that dominated the landscape of the capital city.

In the distance, tiny dots littered the sky, kites being flown by children, as they weaved their creations in deadly dances, mock combat being practised by skilled hands.

Woods watched as a scarlet kite smashed into a green one, crumpling the frame, noting the strong gust of wind that discarded the corpse of the green kite further away than the children expected.

Looking down at the weathered crimson carpet, he picked up the small tea cup and tossed back the amber tea, savouring the slightly spicy, sweet taste of Afghan chai, before standing up and adjusting his colourful kufi cap.

Brushing down his Perahan tunban tunic, and buttoning up his sleeveless vest, Woods ambled slowly over to the reception desk and handed over a few afghani into the tin bowl.

The elderly shopkeeper smiled and nodded his head in thanks at Woods, who nodded back and wandered back onto the streets of Kabul, to resume his search for the missing hostage.

Making his way through the people of Kabul, Woods ducked and weaved past hundreds of small minivans and bicycles, the endless cacophony of traffic adding to the chaos of colours, smells and wares on display. The Market Sediq Omar was always busy, with hundreds of goods on display, piled together unceremoniously and without any true reason or logic behind them.

It was atypical of bazaar experiences, claustrophobic, dense, overwhelming and fun. Merchants would rapid-fire Pashto at anyone who would walk by, with a particularly bothersome salesman insisting that Woods examine his electronics.

Woods, politely extricating himself with a firm grasp on the hand that rested on his shoulder, demurred politely in quiet Pashto, before silently disappearing into the crowd.

Within the tall structure that housed multiple levels of residents, the marketplace itself dominated the courtyard of the apartment complex, a hotbed of activity, both illicit and legal.

Woods had been frequenting this market for the past month, his Taliban source, a certain “spice” merchant whose product had more white than any other colour, a regular at this bazaar. This was the cost of war, turning an blind eye to certain dealings on the streets to fight more effectively in the mountains.

However, today there were going to be no such appearance. The weather was only going to worsen, as the rain would intensify and turn to snow soon.

Gently pushing a tall man out of the way, Woods made his way into the only functioning lift and pressed a button to reach the 4th floor. Silence filled the empty chamber as the doors creaked shut, unconvincingly.

As the elevator groaned slowly upwards, Woods lifted up his vest and checked through a a slit in his tunban tunic, that he could still access his trusty Glock 19 in its appendix carry holster. Reassured by the weight of the cold steel, he counted down the seconds until the elevator would reach the 4th floor, the average time being around 40 seconds.

At 38 seconds, the doors rasped open, and Woods sidled out, and made his way around to room 417, looking down and admiring the view of the marketplace below, as noise and the smell of spice and nuts wafted upwards to the sky.

Taking out a cheap key, he slid it into the wooden door, and carefully scanned the spartan apartment, before locking the door behind him.

It was a bold decision to have a hideout, right atop the market where all sorts did business, but the risk had paid off for the past couple of months.

Actionable intel was genuinely rare to receive, and Woods had managed to score 3 crucial pieces of intel that led to boots on the grounds and bodies underneath the snow. 3 vital pieces of the puzzle in less than 6 months.

A high risk, high reward play. So, in spite of the danger, Woods chose to stay and maintain this hideout.

Looking up at the door, he slid a deadbolt into place and undid the hooks on his appendix holster and placed it on a table, where a dirty rag that smelled of oil and grease reminded him of his duties.

Walking over to his bed, he reached underneath and pulled out a military laptop, encased in ballistic padding and with a small secure aerial that allowed encrypted access to the internet.

Typing in a standard report, effectively stating that he saw nothing of note today, Woods spent a moment browsing area reports, and noted that this week was slow and quiet. Winter was like that.

Sighing quietly, he closed the laptop shut and placed it underneath his bed, before reaching into a large duffel bag and extracting his pistol calibre carbine (PCC), a venerable MP5A5 with a sling, a torch and Aimpoint Micro T-2 optic.

Despite its Cold War status and age in comparison to better and more advanced weaponry, Woods still enjoyed using the MP5. Its’ legendary status, sealed with his original unit, the 22nd SAS, had been proven time and time again, with its remarkable reliability, accuracy and recoil impulse.

It also helped that the ammunition that serviced the weapon was the same for his Glock 19, thus ensuring lower cost and more ammunition carried if there was ever a firefight.

Picking up the dirty rag, Woods stripped the MP5, carefully putting aside the T-2 optic, the Surefire torch and the sling in neat corners, before taking a screw driver and undoing the weapon. With a tiny plastic bottle of oil, he cleaned the weapon methodically, and caressed each part with care.

Once every part was well greased, he swiftly reassembled the weapon and leaving the magazine out, flicked the ambidextrous safety to semi and aimed the tiny red dot at a circle on the wall.

Hearing the satisfying click, he flicked down the safety, pulled back the charging handle and inserted a skinny magazine, before slapping the handle forward, allowing it to chamber a round.

Putting the MP5 aside, Woods examined his Glock 19 and had just tucked his weapons away, when he heard a knock on the door and his mobile phone buzz.

Staring at the screen, he frowned and moved to the door, where he saw a man dressed similarly to him, nervously scanning the area, his hands falling back his side, as he finished knocking.

Woods opened the door, his right hand concealing the Glock behind his leg and felt his eyes widen in surprise.

Samir?

Khalid. This is urgent. You’ve been reassigned. We need to go now.

Samir, Wood’s local runner in Afghanistan stepped inside the room and handed him a burner phone. A heavyset man, with an impressive beard and dark enigmatic eyes, Samir was one of the many locals that helped Officers like Woods gather extra intelligence, in exchange for money or extradition to the States.

Samir, was one of the very first that had signed up to the CIA program, and was extraordinarily good at his job, despite the dangers and lack of training. For him to break cover and contact Woods in this manner, meant that this was serious.

Woods flipped the phone case open and keyed in the number his handler had reserved for emergencies. After a brief pause, a female voice came over the teeny speaker.

Woods. This is full priority situation. We’re pulling you out and reassigning you to Europe. More details to follow. Samir will organise extract and sanitation. This is a FSA (Foreign Security Assessment) priority level 5.

Understood. said Woods as he heard the phone click and watched as the screen self-destructed into darkness.

Give me five Samir.

Samir nodded and waited by the door, nervous. He looked out the tiny keyhole and noted that the weather had begun to worsen. Snow was now drifting lazily across the sky and the temperature was dropping further and further. Samir shivered involuntarily.

Taking out a large carry bag, Woods efficiently shoved the laptop, his MP5, and spare surveillance equipment in, before zipping it tight. A well-rehearsed move, all traces of espionage equipment was gone in 2 minutes. Woods spent the last 3 minutes checking over his bed, desk for anything he might have dropped or any incriminating evidence.

Pleased, he shouldered the heavy bag and walked over to Samir. The two left in silence, threading their way through the market that was closing up, before hopping into a decrepit white Toyota Corolla. As Samir pulled away into the traffic, Woods took a look back at the place that had served as home for a while.

As he did so, he noted a large Toyota HiLux Ute also start up and begin to follow in the direction they were headed.

Scowling, Woods said quietly. We got company.

Samir looked in the mirror and felt the blood drain from his face.

I’m sorry Khalid. They must have followed me.

It’s alright Samir. Punch it. We can make it to airport. Go, go.

Samir nodded grimly and put his foot down, the Corolla jerking forward instantly and nearly hitting a donkey as it barrelled down the tight roads of Kabul. Despite its’ appearance, the car was actually well-maintained and had significant upgrades for emergencies such as the one Woods and Samir found themselves in.

Snow continued to pound the windshield. Their breathing fogged the glass and Woods began a breathing exercise, designed to expel stress.

With a mixture of tight winding roads and super-highways, Kabul’s landscape was surprisingly modern, with many colourful buildings that were undergoing restoration and dozens upon dozens of stalls and vendors lining the streets, beside colourful flags and umbrellas.

To get to safety, Samir merely had to reach a super-highway and begin high-tailing down the long stretch of road for 5 kilometres, before they could be in the safe haven of the Hamid Karzai International Airport.

A simple task, but then the devil was in the details regarding execution.

Samir yanked on the handbrake, as he drifted the small car around a corner, nearly clipping an old woman, who ignored the reckless driving and continued her way down the alleyway. Even when the HiLux’s side mirror nearly hit her arm as it blasted after the Corolla, the Afghan native merely gave a fatalistic shrug and adjusted the basket of laundry she carried on her hip.

Woods kept his right arm outstretched on the dashboard, securing himself as the Corolla harshly jumped a small hump, and kept an eye on the Ute, who he now noted had 2 individuals inside, with one man gripping an Uzi submachine gun and the other manically concentrating on the chase.

Hold on Khalid! yelled Samir, as he ignored the stop sign at the exit of the road and cut in front of a truck, whose horn blasted angrily.

The Corolla skidded across the highway, smoke shooting from the tyres and brakes squealing in a high pitched whine.

Woods and Samir yelled in unison, as the car came sliding towards a minivan, and they collided with a sickening crunch. Both cars reeled in the impact, shattering the window and causing Samir’s head to lurch into the side of the minivan, effectively knocking him out.

Woods, groaned and looked out his window and saw the HiLux coming out of the alleyway. His eyes narrowing in clinical concentration, Woods felt his hands yank out the Glock 19 and he aimed the pistol at the large front right tyre and pulled the trigger rapidly.

The gunfire immediately sent the experienced people of Afghanistan scrambling for cover, those who had gotten out of their cars to help, running back and taking cover immediately, their hands over their heads.

The HiLux drove on, intent on ramming the Corolla. However the driver felt pressure immediately slacken on his front tyre and to his shock, the car lurched to the right and narrowly missed the stricken Corollla. Realising his mistake, the driver tried to brake, but the concrete barrier that separated the two sides of the highway was now too close.

The HiLux smashed into the barrier and both men felt their bodies lurch forward and brought to an immediate stop, the pressure of their seat-belts smashing into their chest, and their heads experiencing extreme whiplash.

Both men vainly attempted to get out, but couldn’t, their hands unable to depress the button for the seatbelt. The driver opened his eyes blearily, and saw the damaged Corolla drive away, before blacking out.

Woods kept his foot down, the Corolla’s engine ticking over angrily, as he sped down the highway and towards the airport. He looked at Samir, whose head had ceased bleeding, after Woods had dug out his first aid kit and applied battlefield superglue to the gash on his head. It had taken him considerable strength to move Samir from the driver seat and to the back, his eyes wandering over the HiLux constantly but manage it he did.

Minutes later, Woods pulled up to the NATO RSM (Resolute Support Mission, the successor the ISAF in Afghanistan) Base at the Hamid Karzai International Airport, digging out his ID card and allowing the U.S. Marine on guard to call for a medic for Samir.

Squeezing Samir’s shoulder, he allowed the paramedics take him away. As they wheeled Samir away on a gurney, a young Lieutenant came running up to him, and saluted, her hot breath misting the cold air.

Sir! If you would follow me to the command hub.

Woods nodded and shouldered his bag, following the Lieutenant through the maze of temporary buildings and barracks, refamiliarising himself with the layout of the base. It had been over 4 months since he had last set foot here, his usual stop being Bagram Airfield.

Walking past the mess hall and a platoon of Marines going about their daily exercises, Woods could hear snippets of German, Italian and English accents mesh together, through the door, as men and women filed in and out of the hall. There was even a small hint of Australian, his native tongue, rising above the usual chatter.

The Lieutenant knocked on the door of the command hub and in entered Woods, placing his large duffel bag near the entrance of the door. As his eyes adjusted to the perpetual darkness of the room, Woods noted the 3 men in uniform and a singular woman in civilian garb standing around, talking to each other animatedly.

His CIA handler, an attractive redhead by the name of Jessica, stared at him, initially unsure who the bearded, rough looking Afghan man standing before her was, before walking over and giving him a friendly hug.

Gabriel. I didn’t recognise you for a second there.

Woods gave an ironic smile.

Means the Khalid disguise worked. Good to see you too Jess. Why was my extraction hot?

It wasn’t meant to be that way. But somehow Samir was compromised. I’m not sure how. We’re looking into it though. They were following him, and it was poor timing that we asked him to get you out as well.

Who is ‘they’?

Our old friends. The Haqqani.

Woods grimaced.

Jess noted his gesture and tried to reassure him. Samir will be on the first flight State-side. We own him that much. Anyway, I got to talk to your about your reassignment. Don’t worry about those boys over there.

Jess gestured to the 3 men in uniform who were looking over at them, talking quietly to each other. I’ll handle the Colonel. He’s just upset about losing you, due to the quality of intel you’ve provided for RSM this rotation. However, I’ve already stressed to him about the FSA.

Jess walked over to her station, and bought up a PDF file.

I’ll be uploading this onto a tablet soon. It’ll explain why you’re being reassigned. A C-17 Globemaster is about to finish loading up its supply run. That’s your flight out of this shithole.

You’ll be flying to Germany, where you’ll be provided gear and coordinates for a safehouse in London. We want you in as deep cover, thus no direct flight to London, I’m afraid. It’ll be a road-trip for you.

From there, you’ll have to do some detective work straight away to find Hassan Malik, code-named SPHINX. A local contact from SIS will link up and you’ll get more info then.

You can read more about Sphinx in the brief. For now, Langley just want close surveillance. Good luck Gabriel. I’m staying here to monitor more movement, so I won’t be joining you.

Woods nodded and took the military tablet from her station before shaking her hand warmly. Jess hugged him in return and whispered “Good luck.” Ignoring the military men in uniform, Gabriel grabbed his bag and went in search of the nearest bathroom and a razor. It was time to remove the beard, and look human again.

10 minutes later, Woods stared at his reflection in the mirror.

At a rugged 31 years of age, Woods’ face was unconventionally attractive, with piercing green eyes and dark hair. His skin was well-tanned, and creased, an unfortunate side effect of his job, a feature that would make him stand out in a much paler Europe. His facial hair was shadowy, despite his best efforts with a razor to grant him a clean-shaven look. He had even given himself a rudimentary haircut, lopping long locks of his obsidian black hair off, to resemble that of a crew cut.

His flawless ability to navigate the many dialects of Afghanistan had made him a natural choice for the region, his features almost indistinguishable from a local, once a thick beard was developed. To pull him out, and compromise his cover, meant that this wasn’t an ordinary operation.

Shrugging to himself, he slipped into clean civilian clothes that Jess had provided him; a white henley shirt, a thick navy woollen jumper, a grey waterproof jacket and black sturdy jeans to match the combat boots. Shouldering his bag again, Woods looked at the giant hulking military plane that was to take him to Germany.

At a monstrous 53 metres in length, with a wingspan of 51 metres, the dark matte grey plane was as long as it was wide, capable of accommodating a 69 ton M1 Abrams tank, and nearly 85 tons of weight. A true behemoth of the sky, the C-17 Globemaster earned every inch of its name.

This particular airplane housed a pair of Bradley Fighting Vehicles, IED damage evident on their exterior, no doubt being shipped back State-side for extensive repairs. Dozens upon dozens of palleted cargo covered in camouflage netting lined the hull of the Globemaster and an U.S. Air Force loadmaster waved him onboard, handing him a pair of headphones.

Nodding gratefully, Woods made a motion about eating and the loadmaster nodded and shouted:

Over there! Grab yourself some MREs! I’ve already placed a hammock for ya by the mess!

Giving him the thumbs up, Woods secured his bag in the webbing of the plane’s wall and walked over to the mess, ripping open an MRE (Meal Ready to Eat) bag. He microwaved the contents, before tucking in to a hot meal of Sausage Peppers and Onions, chasing the main course with a trail mix recovery pack.

Looking over at the mess table, Woods felt the plane begin to move and threw away the packing of the MRE into a nearby bin, before keeping the unopened food nearby. Strapping himself in the hammock, he closed his eyes and waited for the ride to end.

Author’s Note

I know, I am taking a break from my Sci-Fi Sol series, but I was clamouring to write something in this current reality and universe.

This will hopefully be a series I’ll smash through quickly before picking up where I left Raikkonen and Kournikova in Sol.

I have a much better feeling and sense of the ending for this story, than I did for Sol so I am hopeful it’ll be a nice quick story I can polish off.

I am attempting to be a bit more descriptive about my world building, akin to Ian Fleming‘s style, but it is taking a bit more work than I anticipated!

Until the next one!

~ Damocles.