Skavenger Hunt

By J. Rickley Dumm

Dr. Raymond Skavenger is a devoted family man with a very successful career as an orthodontist. Unbeknownst to his family, however, he’s a former elite, anonymous Army sniper who once possessed unimaginable autonomous access and authority to carry out his missions, and now his past has thrust him and his family far beyond an appropria

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Rickley Dumm
• Release date: Oct 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996765619

J. Rickley Dumm

J. Rickley Dumm is a graduate of the University of Oregon (GO DUCKS!!), a Sigma Chi, and a former television producer and writer (Magnum, P.I., Riptide, Silk Stalkings, et al.). He currently lives in Southern California.

Book preview

Chapter 1

ZABRUD, SYRIA, a small town north of Damascus. In some areas, Zabrud had been laid to waste by Bashar al-Assad’s Syrian Army and many of its rebellious citizens and Free Syrian Army fighters had been chemically shriveled under Assad’s order. ISIS, much farther to the North, had not yet invaded this particular region. However, under Assad and ISIS control, over a million families and children had been displaced to refugee camps. Syria was a country that wasn’t a place any defiant, freedom-loving human, or Muslim for that matter, wanted to be, especially if they were Yazidi, Jew or Christian.

An old man in traditional Arab robes (jellaba) with a cane and stringy gray hairs that snuck out from under his headdress (keffiyeh), and adjoining a three inch gray beard, hobbled along an unpaved street lined with single level structures and others up to four floors; some structures were abandoned. The old man carried with him three loaves of bread in an old cloth sack slung over one shoulder. Only a dozen or so destitute residents were on this street, which had very little commerce. The old man entered a four-story building that appeared neglected and uninhabited.

In a narrow, scarred and decrepit stairwell, the brown-eyed old man made his way up, yet now the hobble seemed less troublesome. A young Zabrud man exited from a hall into the stairwell; he looked depressed. Seeing the old man, he was cheered at this human trove and intent on inconveniencing him. The old man acknowledged the younger man and passed him on the landing, continuing up the stairs.

Old man, stop! The old man complied. Where are you going? He asked in Arabic.

Delivery. I am late. The old man replied in Arabic and took a step upward.

"Yuuqif! (Halt!) The old man stepped down obediently. Who in this building has bread delivered? There is no one here."

He told the young man, I am a poor man, I must deliver. I beg you.

A cell phone rang. It didn’t belong to the young Zabrudian. The old man was caught.

Everybody has a cell phone. The young man with a plan simply stated with half a grin.

It appears.

The Zabrud man came closer, reaching for the bread.

One loaf and the cell phone. I will not take it all, old man.

Quite suddenly, this Zabrudian got a knee to his balls, his face slammed down onto the same knee, then the back of his head crunched against the wall. He slid down like a drop of soured milk. Out or dead, it didn’t matter to the old man who listened and darted his eyes about, then moved quickly up the stairs.

This wasn’t just any old man.

The old man entered the top floor, closing the door. Except for a few pieces of broken furniture, torn cardboard boxes, a wooden 2X2 box with one end missing and some rags, this three room flat was, indeed, abandoned. He set down the loaves of bread and cane, went immediately to the windows and established a direction.

He quickly put on gloves and began to tear off and unwrap the loaves, removing pieces of a high-tech CheyTac sniper’s rifle and suppressor. Everything was protected by plastic wrap.

From the cane, he removed two more pieces. He carefully, yet apace, unwrapped the pieces and assembled his weapon. He stood, and from under his gray robes he retrieved a shoulder cradle, scope, a monocular system that measured wind, barometric pressure, distance and trajectory, and a four-inch bipod. He then laid down two .308 caliber hollow point bullets next to his weapon.

The old man removed the jellaba and let them fall to the dusty floor; then the keffiyeh and the faux gray hair that revealed his natural sandy hair. Under his robes, he wore a T-shirt and dark pants.

He grabbed his weapon and the .308s and went to the same window, established his perch, then grabbed the wooden box to sit on, aware of the missing end. He settled and set an eye to the sight, focusing.

His sight was set on a mat’am (open air café) that had a small interior. Three men were having tea outside, one of them was reading a newspaper. Within the sight, a display of pin-sized lights appeared that also depicted distance and trajectory, as well as lock-and-launch and guidance.

He pulled back from the scope, checked the time and took a few deep breaths before removing his brown contact lenses, revealing blue eyes.

His name was Skavenger. He thought of how the hell he got here.

• • •

It all started in Room C in Skavenger’s office. This is a no-brainer, Catbird. What can I say? Rapsody appealed.

On Skavenger’s white, pinstriped smock was a nicely stitched Raymond Skavenger, DMD, MSD.

I’ve done my last covert, Rapsody. I have my family and my practice now.

Can you fathom any reason why I would physically be here, revealing myself to your staff if this wasn’t a moral imperative?

The two men gazed at each other, both in-tune. They were of equal height, but Rapsody was a larger, more heavy-set man.

All due respect, Catbird, I have the power right now.

Power over me is only by my consent. Skavenger corrected him.

• • •

Skavenger gazed through his monocular toward the target location then set a blue eye to the scope and surveyed the premises of the small mat’am. A local man brought tea, some baskawiit (biscuits) and a paper to a table.

Skavenger looked up from the scope and gazed with his naked eyes in the same direction. Nearly 900 yards away, the café couldn’t be distinguished. He gently rubbed his eyes and again checked the time. He looked out the window with the monocular and focused on a limp, ripped Syrian flag on a rooftop far away to check wind detail; fortunately, there was very little breeze with which to contend. He returned to the sight, refocusing and racking to its tightest field.

Both front windows of the mat’am were open-air; the mat’am looked to have perhaps eight tables inside with only two people having tea and ka’k (cake).

A businessman in a loosely fitting beige suit came to an outside table and sat. Skavenger widened his lens and looked away, somewhat frustrated; he eyed his cheap watch.

• • •

In Room C, Dr. Skavenger looked at his Patravi Tonneaugraph watch and was about to walk out.

Get another bird; I have patients.

Rapsody seemed a little desperate. He was somewhere in his sixties, at least twenty years Skavenger’s senior and an imposing figure. Rapsody was a pleasant man while being politically covert, tough and ruthless, but to a shadow government, he was a necessity.

The intelligence on this highly covert mission was huge for counter-terrorism. Obviously, the U.S. couldn’t put boots on the ground because it was politically and piously too provocative. The opposition wasn’t supposed to know we had knowledge of this as it could accelerate the enemy’s intended process or incite a diversionary jihad at targets of which Rapsody wasn’t aware.

More vital is the salvation of tens-of-thousands of innocent human souls who would like to wake up each day free of fear. Rapsody implored.

Skavenger was aware of the guilt Rapsody was firing at him. You don’t need me.

Rapsody needed a sniper to execute two high-value targets in no less than three seconds from at least 1,000 yards.

You’ve been to the country before and you speak and understand enough Arabic. At this time I have no one else of your acquired ability available, Catbird, and this has to be dealt with immediately. You’re one of the best I ever saw.

Skavenger hadn’t fired a round in four years. However, Rapsody was prepared to give him access to the range, ground assets, choice of ordnance, S-1 clearance on the Zenith Mainframe, and triple payment for this one when Skavenger committed.

It’s not the money, Rapsody. It’s the family.

Rapsody removed an encased disk from his suit coat side pocket. Five days from tomorrow. Your final covert.

Skavenger was amused at Rapsody’s comment. I’ve heard that before.

Rapsody gave him his guarantee and his word. Everything Skavenger needed to know was on the disk. It was thorough and the intelligence and language were authentic. Skavenger could have a look and submit his decision via the prompts on the disk within twenty-four hours.

Two targets. Skavenger stated.

Yes. Intelligence and confidence is elevated. Rapsody assured him. Do you recall your entry code?

From the look on Skavenger’s face, Rapsody wasn’t sure he did.

You’re the only one who has it, Rapsody reminded him, and there will never be another. You know its importance.

Skavenger did. What happens when they die?

• • •

The blue eyeball searched the café through the sight. Skavenger pulled back, his frustration intact. He rested his forehead on the weapon.

• • •

Room C was one of Dr. Skavenger’s examining areas. Rapsody drew closer to Skavenger and spoke quietly.

It profoundly bothers me that we have a history and you’re the only bird who knows my face. You must never abuse this, Catbird.

Fine, Rapsody. Answer my question. What happens when they die?

Rapsody stepped back and settled. He knew of the targets but didn’t know who their other players were. If the two targets, Jarrar Salim and Mujharod al-Shabari, were eliminated their ground-plan to detonate as many as five, possibly six, suitcase nukes was, at least, delayed indefinitely. After Salim’s and al-Shabari’s elimination, the other players would scatter, and C.I.A. operatives would follow and identify. With any good fortune, they could locate and recover the dirty bombs, thusly averting a tragedy beyond comprehension.

Skavenger was grimly intense. They act like the world’s theirs.

It’s no act.

Rapsody ambled to the door and turned back to Skavenger. It’s been a pleasure, Catbird. What can I say? We’ll never meet again.

• • •

Skavenger continued to scope the café when suddenly Mujharod al-Shabari casually strolled into the area and took a seat across from the businessman.

Skavenger had found his intelligence, histories, and photographs of his targets on Rapsody’s disk and knew their faces.

Mujharod al-Shabari, an Islamic extremist, was believed to be sixty-seven. He was a planner, recruiter, liaison to insurgency, including al-Qaeda and affiliates, and confidante to Jarrar Salim. Al-Shabari’s coordination of terrorism in the Middle East and Europe had killed tens-of-thousands; he was respected and revered by terrorist bases and factions.

Jarrar Salim was Syrian born and a notorious Islamic extremist; low profile, and in his mid-to-late forties. He had two brothers and one sister. His youngest brother, Hassan Salim, was killed in an Israeli-Syrian border conflict. Jarrar was schooled with other early insurgents at a madrassa, recruited by al-Qaeda, trained by al-Qaeda, and Jarrar Salim’s ensuing kill count was over one hundred thousand, including many Muslim citizens.

More than a decade ago, Jarrar and his younger brother, Mohwad Salim, were assigned to indoctrinate and train the so-called ‘English Brothers’ on the Afghan-Pakistan border at Mir Ali, but both were dismissed for their ruthless intolerance toward the English Brothers. Jarrar’s last known activity and association was the West Bank, Benghazi, and Sana’a in Yemen.

Skavenger moved his sight from al-Shabari and slowly scanned the exterior to those who sat outside, and passersby. He soon found a heavyset man approaching the mat’am in casual business attire. Jarrar Salim was friendly to those he passed; two bodyguards nonchalantly hung around outside as Jarrar Salim entered the mat’am.

Skavenger activated his weapon’s system, but his targets were not yet tagged. Again, he found Jarrar as he sat down at a table at an open-air window and the view through Skavenger’s sight was an almost perfect profile. Skavenger then panned back to al-Shabari, who continued his talk with the businessman who soon got up and entered the little café. Al-Shabari remained seated.

Skavenger looked away from his scope; he seemed puzzled. He rapidly blinked, softly rubbed his eyes and went back to the scope, seeing a soft image of a man sitting in his view of the open air window and racked his focus to a thirty-year-old man reading a paper.

Skavenger knew who he was. Stay for a few seconds, Rezi. He panned back to al-Shabari, but he wasn’t there. Skavenger swung back to the open air window, re-focused and saw the businessman sit next to Salim; al-Shabari then came to the table and stood there, but Skavenger couldn’t see his head, and Rezi was partially blocking the targets.

Yeah, there you are. Skavenger saw al-Shabari. Sit down, old man . . . Sit . . . Time to go, Rezi . . . Sit, old man, goddamnit. C’mon, asshole, sit. Easy, Rayboy . . . C’mom, Rezi, go.

Rezi soon folded his paper and looked directly in Skavenger’s direction as al-Shabari sat across from Salim.

Beat-it, Rezi. Skavenger impatiently said to himself. Ijjil, ijjil!

Finally, Rezi got up and casually walked away, observed by one of the bodyguards.

Attaboy, Rezi. Skavenger adjusted his sight and tagged his two targets that were approximately three feet apart and clearly seen and exposed.

Okay, Rayboy. Dish it and get the hell home.

Skavenger panned back-and-forth between Jarrar Salim and al-Shabari; a green light within his scope indicated he was locked and ready to launch.

In his crosshairs was Jarrar Salim. BAP! He panned to al-Shabari. BAP!

Two-and-a-half seconds after the first shot, the top of Salim’s head shattered. Less than two seconds later, al-Shabari’s skull exploded.

The businessman was crying in pain, he the recipient of the first .308 after it had smashed through Jarrar’s skull. The titanium bullet had hit him in the neck, which bled profusely; some of Salim’s brains covered his clothes.

Hubbub and panic ensued in the immediate vicinity of the mat’am; the bodyguards, instinctively, went to the open-air window. The bodyguard, who had been observing Rezi, turned and saw Rezi looking back; Rezi jogged away.

Skavenger had the weapon broken-down. He wrapped everything in one of the gray cloth robes, tying it around his waist. He then pulled out a black, disposable D-phone and set it down. The ‘D’ stood for ‘dedicated’ and it only permitted two calls; it was about the size of a king-size pack of cigarettes.

The outer robe was put on then Skavenger donned the tight-fitting, snap-around whiskers and beard, then the headdress and gray hair.

Skavenger took the shortest and last piece of cloth and threw it around his shoulders; he grabbed the cane and the D-phone, making a call on his way out.

Go.

Skavenger made his way down the stairwell, stepping over the Zabrud man on his way out.

De Gaulle International Airport, Paris, France. The terminal was noisy and teeming with night travelers. Constant arrival/departure announcements and pages in five different languages gushed from the terminal’s P.A. system.

Along a bank of telephone stalls, Dr. Raymond Skavenger had an ear covered and was turned toward the wall to drown out the noise.

Why do you buy her those outfits?

She’s not wearing them to school, Ray. Kate’s voice answered.

Where? The mall? It doesn’t make sense.

Skavenger looked very French preppie with horn-rimmed glasses and a beret. Squeezed in the stall with him was a travel sports bag.

Does Luke have any news about Mooney?

Kate was at their large island in the kitchen; she was chopping produce. Not yet, but it looks bleak.

Skavenger looked pleased. That puts Luke behind Lonny Wyler. He could get a lot of mat time as a freshman. That’s damn good, Kate.

He adjusted his position to check the time on his cheap watch and nearly panicked.

Luke doesn’t want to get it that way.

Kate, I have to go.

Are you alright?

The flight, I’m late, I love you. Skavenger hung-up, grabbed his bag and rushed off.

He nimbly maneuvered through travelers down the concourse like Bo Jackson — well, not quite — running for the boarding suite and gate.

He turned into the suite. At the far end, the door to the jetway was closed. Two female boarding agents were behind the counter.

Attendez! Skavenger sprinted through the suite. J’arrive; j’arrive!

The agents looked up and nodded to each other, one of them commenting, Monsieur Gordone, uh?

Skavenger came running up. J’regrette, j’regrette. Jean Gordone.

The agents were sorry, but the plane had already left the gate.

What? Skavenger watched his flight to Washington, D.C. slowly roll out on the tarmac to the runway. No. Look . . . Ah, shit. I had to be on that flight.

We are so sorry, Monsieur, but we tried paging you.

Skavenger knew the fuck-up was his. Ooh-lala.

Oui. Quel dommage. Monsieur Gordone, we will be happy to check into other flights to Washington, D.C. if you wish.

Chapter 2

IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON at Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C.

Waiting outside the Customs area with others was a young lady of mixed race in her early thirties. She held a neatly printed sign, Skavenger, R. and wore a freshly pressed, stylish, navy blue uniform. Eventually, Skavenger exited Customs with his travel bag, jockeyed among and around a hastening camera crew and came forward to the awaiting throng.

Doctor Skavenger?

I am.

Zoe Pola; Pola Cars.

Skavenger’s appearance was business-like. Dress shirt, loosened tie, and wrinkled suit.

Do you have other luggage, doctor?

This is it.

They left the area, passing another camera crew entering the terminal in a rush.

Zoe was cautious, savvy and knew where her brass was polished. She was no pushover.

My car’s not far. May I take your bag for you?

Skavenger had a friendly smile. I’ll drive the bag, you drive the car.

More news vans and uplinks entered the airport.

What’s happening? Skavenger wasn’t that curious.

Something about a lost plane.

How the hell do you lose a plane?

Sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean to leave the keys in the cockpit. Zoe joked.

She drove a mini-stretch Chrysler 300 from the Dulles terminal and rolled to the Expressway.

Zoe handed back an 8X10 envelope to Skavenger. I had to go by your office first, and Donna gave me the envelope to bring to you.

Skavenger opened it and saw two other pieces of mail: A Classified Medical Evaluation (CME) and a disk. He opened neither and set the 8X10 by his bag.

I love the smell of a leather interior. Earthy. New car? Skavenger wondered.

This is Pola Car Two.

I rate Car Two, huh?

Zoe chuckled. Yes and yes.

This is my business. It’s not a family business, and I have no partners. So far, so good. I started over a year ago with one Town Car. I was able to sell it then purchased my first Pola Car, which is the big car; my monster, and now I have two cars, and one day I’d like to have a fleet, then one day it’s California. L.A. The City of Angels would learn to love Pola Cars. I might even consider going convertible with Pola carriages.

Skavenger was enjoying her optimistic and energetic pitch.

Aside from the friendly personnel, what made Pola Cars better was cleanliness, neatness, freshness, far more reliable service, and great-smelling leather; leather-wrapped instruments with titanium finishes, hydrographic wood consoles and titanium accents. Pola Cars had state-of-the-art amenities and relatively reasonable rates, something Zoe stressed. She took her client’s unforeseen contingencies and problems to heart; she understood bad days and complaints, but didn’t embrace excuses.

State-of-the art amenities in Pola Cars were wi-fi access and global phone. If a client was without their laptop or cell phone, both were provided under the left rear seat of this particular mini-300; they were in a cabinet in her monster, the big stretch.

Skavenger pulled out the drawer beneath the left seat; the laptop and a cradled cell phone were there, securely placed.

I guess being a dentist you get complaints all day long. Zoe ended her pitch, switching subjects. I’m not complaining, but going to the dentist has never been on my list of things-to-do.

I’m not a dentist. Orthodontist.

That’s the . . .

The mad, feared, brutal leviathan from hell who decimates, devastates and seals the doom of kids everywhere.

They laughed together, and Zoe turned into a neighborhood.

Nice smile, Zoe. Who did your work?

Some hack butcher in East St. Louis. Not really. Actually, Zoe’s teeth were the only lucky thing bestowed upon her growing up. And her brain, of course.

Pola Car Two rounded another corner onto an upscale and beautiful street named Waverly Place. The mini-300 soon stopped in front of a two-story house on a corner. It had a large lawn, manicured grounds and a long walkway up to the house that sat on three lots.

Skavenger grabbed his bag and envelope and reached for the door.

Thanks, Zoe.

I’ll get the door, doctor. Service, y’know.

Skavenger was looking through the windshield; Zoe followed his gaze. A Jeep carrying three teenagers pulled up on the side street and Luke Skavenger hopped out with his backpack.

Your son?

Luke.

He’s beautiful.

He’s fifteen.

I wasn’t saying . . .

Didn’t think you were. He grinned. My door, madam?

Zoe got out and went around to the passenger door; Luke saw his dad and waited for him and had a look of fancy at Zoe. Skavenger exited and waved to Luke.

Good luck on car three and the rest of the fleet.

Skavenger handed her a fifty-dollar gratuity, and Zoe handed him her card.

Wow, thanks. She smiled. Call 24/7. You never know when you’ll need a Pola Car. Have a good evening, doctor.

You, too, Zoe.

Skavenger headed for Luke; Zoe got in the mini-stretch 300 and drove off.

Hi, Luke.

Hey, Dad. They joined, had a hug and took the walk to the front door together.

Who’s that? Nice outfit.

Zoe. It’s a uniform.

She’s hot.

She said the same about you, hotshot.

Really?

She’s thirty-three.

Just sayin’.

Luke was over six feet tall and 190 pounds of solid, youthful, well-built power. How was Paris?

As always.

Skavenger’s daughter, Cali, came running from the front door and down the walk. Hey, Dad. She ran up to him and gave him a big hug. She was thrilled to see him.

Hi, Cal. He returned the hug and kissed her on the cheek. Cali was almost thirteen and full of energy.

I gotta go to Francie’s; she has my History book. She ran off up Waverly Place and Skavenger watched her go with a smile on his face and he and Luke continued up the long walk to the house.

Did Mooney make it back?

Mooney was a senior at Luke’s school, Hamilton High, and had engaged in ‘behavior detrimental to the wrestling team.’ After a closed-door session with school officials, parents and coach, the coach suspended him for the season.

Luke was pissed about it and Skavenger educated his son on the lesson of ‘order.’ Condoning bad behavior brought chaos. No matter how good someone was, they had to own the bad. Hopefully, and at the very least, it would be a good lesson for Mooney.

It sucks, Dad. Mooney’s a cold gold again at regional.

Speaks well of your coach, don’t you think? Skavenger asked him. When’s the season start?

Luke opened the front door. Pre-league starts in February.

They entered into the foyer of their spacious and stylish two-level home. It looked comfortable and homey. A couple of original, colorful oil paintings hung on the walls; a grandfather clock in the foyer ticked as its pendulum swung.

You could be Ham High’s light-heavy grappler, pal.

Lonny Wyler’s a junior; he’ll be the ‘A’ match. Mom, Dad’s home. Luke bounded upstairs.

Just because he’s a junior? Skavenger pondered.

A smiling Kate whipped into the foyer like a tornado, wearing an artist’s smock spotted with various, dry paint colors.

Hello, hi, hey. She threw her arms around him and they kissed ardently.

My man.

My lady.

How was the conference?

Slow.

I hated it when you missed your plane.

I thought I was dreaming.

Kate had a knowing, sexy look in her eyes. I went to our favorite store today.

He immediately understood that sexy, anticipatory look in her eyes and the store to which she referred.

Skavenger had always used an inauthentic professional conference as a substitute for his few days away, not only with Kate and the kids but also with his fellow colleagues at his office. Later that evening, he was in his home office shutting down his computer. It wasn’t a big office by any stretch; it was more of a space with a hard wood floor, surrounded by walls.

The desk sat against one wall; on the opposite wall was a shelf with family photos, old and new, mementos, knickknacks and a bust of Genghis Khan. There was a small table and lamp by the door.

Skavenger closed a drawer and locked it. About to get up, he spotted the 8X10 envelope Zoe had given him next to his computer containing the CME and removed the contents, then opened the bottom file drawer and placed two items behind a laptop.

Ray?

In the office, Kate. Skavenger closed the drawer and locked it.

Ray.

Kate was in the threshold; she had tears in her eyes.

Skavenger came to her. What, baby?

She gently put her arms around his waist as if he