Disavowed by C. G. Cooper Page A

Cal followed after motioning for Higgins and Neil Patel to stay in the truck.
    He’d allow the Brit to lead whatever scheme he’d concocted, but he wouldn’t risk his support personnel. Cal trusted the SAS veteran, his instincts in urban settings were uncanny. But sitting in an empty parking lot with no way out was crazy. At least they should take cover and setup a hasty ambush. Standing out in the open wasn’t Cal’s style.
    Nope. Kreyling stood with his arms crossed facing the entrance, his face set with its usual grim determination.
    The enemy approached, cautiously taking in the situation. Cal could only imagine what they were thinking. Good thing they didn’t have mounted weapons.
    They piled out all at once, black-clad stalkers wearing balaclavas. The two men heading toward Kreyling were not wearing masks, unperturbed by the lack of anonymity. A large Middle Easterner led the procession. He had one ear left and a jagged scar across his pock marked forehead that pushed his eyebrows down into an eternal scowl. He was not carrying a weapon that Cal could see.
    The man just behind him had a lighter complexion and the facial features of a foreigner. He was smiling as if he’d just made a delicious discovery. Similar to his friend, this man’s hands were empty.
    The oversized ogre growled.
    “Well you’re one ugly bastard, aren’t you?” said Kreyling, still maintaining his stance in front of Cal and the rest of the Americans. Rango lounged off to the side, running his hand back and forth along the length of his H&K.
    Cal counted nineteen men, seventeen of whom were fanning out to cover any possible escape. The Marine glanced at Daniel Briggs who was casually taking in the display. He looked almost bored. MSgt Trent and Gaucho looked like they wanted to pounce, shifting their weight slowly from foot to foot.
    Cal didn’t doubt that his men could put up a good fight, but they were outnumbered. Casualties were inevitable. Not that he was scared of a fight, but better to wait for a more opportune moment.
    The non-Arab pushed his goon aside and stepped forward.
    “You’re all under arrest.”
    “Under whose authority?” asked Kreyling.
    “The Afghan government and The United States of America.” An American. The guy had spook written all over him.
    Kreyling chuckled. “Sorry, chap, but I don’t take orders from you or your governments.”
    The man frowned. “And who do you take orders from?”
    “Haven’t you heard? I’m the Queen’s butler. I go wherever the hell she tells me to go. Chamber pots are my specialty.”
    No one laughed. The tension and stakes were too high.
    The stranger’s mouth curved into a sarcastic smile. “My orders are to take you in. Someone will sort the rest out with your government later.”
    “Sorry. I’ve got my orders too, and they don’t include sharing a cell with your overgrown ape,” Kreyling said, motioning to the beast standing in front of him, whose eyes burned as he looked from target to target, obviously choosing his favorite one. He must have understood English because his head snapped back to Kreyling at the remark. He stepped forward, a drop of spittle leaking from his cracked lips.
    Kreyling didn’t move.
    “I suggest you tell your foul friend to back away before I make him kiss the pavement,” Kreyling said as if he’d asked for a napkin at the dinner table.
    “I think I’d like to see that,” said the spook.
    A shrill whistle sounded from the closest rooftop. Cal’s gaze followed the others. Barely visible all along the roof were more black clad shadows. They’d appeared all at once, completely silent. Cal’s hand shifted on his weapon, readying for deployment. The look on the CIA guy’s kept him from moving. Was it fear? Were those not his men on top of the buildings?
    The answer came a moment later when Kreyling said, “As you can see, more of the Queen’s staff have just arrived. I suggest you take your thugs and make for home. I wouldn’t