Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) by Ethan Jones

freelance.”
    Romanov waved his right hand in front of him. “It’s a favor.”
    He did not say it, but he did not have to. Justin understood what Romanov meant: it was time for Justin to repay an old favor. He knew borrowing Romanov’s Bugatti Veyron for his unauthorized covert operation in Nice earlier that year was going to come back to haunt him. He just did not know where and how. Now he would find out.
    Justin nodded. It was sufficient to express his agreement to at least listen to Romanov’s proposal. “Who dares to steal from you?”
    Romanov grinned. “Their families have already paid dearly for their sins. They betrayed me. It was a few men whose loyalty to me had a price.”
    Higher than the one you were paying them, was Justin’s first thought. He nodded.
    “A crew of eight men was aboard a cargo plane headed for Jizan, Saudi Arabia. En route, they changed their flight course, diverting into Sa’dah, in northern Yemen.”
    Justin frowned. “The plane wasn’t carrying equipment for the oil refineries of Jizan, was it?”
    Romanov shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”
    “Do you care to tell me what the cargo was?”
    “I think you already know the answer.”
    Justin let out a deep sigh. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. The cargo contained weapons. I didn’t know you’ve branched out into the arms trade.”
    He smiled. “A small investment to test the market.”
    “What kind of weapons are we talking about?”
    It was Romanov’s turn to sigh. “SA-24s.”
    “What?” Justin fell back in his seat. “A planeload full of surface-to-air heat-seeking missiles is gone now, probably in the hands of Yemeni terrorists?”
    Romanov’s eyes narrowed. “I would have not called you if it was a batch of Makarov pistols.” He scratched his drooping chin, before continuing, “And the cargo is not gone. The crates have trackers, so I can follow the delivery to its destination. My sources tell me they haven’t fallen into terrorists’ hands. Yet.”
    Justin weighed on Romanov’s words. SA-24s had the same capacities as the American-made Stinger missiles. One of them—in able hands, and Yemen had plenty of able terrorist hands—was sufficient to bring down a heavy combat helicopter or a low-flying small airplane. These shoulder-launched missiles could destroy targets as high as 11,000 feet, over a distance of three and a half miles. “Where is the cargo now?”
    Romanov took a second before replying, “Somewhere north of Sa’dah. I have the exact coordinates.” He tapped his BlackBerry.
    “That’s a terrorist stronghold. Houthis insurgents control all the roads in and out of the area. They also have a large number of men and weapons stationed there.”
    “Yes, but they haven’t gotten hold of my cargo. The thieves were planning to sell the cargo, but the original deal went bad, so they are looking for a new deal.”
    Justin put his hands together, locking his fingers. “And that’s your plan, to send me in as a potential buyer?”
    He nodded. “It’s an idea, unless you want to charge into the warehouse and kill them all.”
    Justin grinned. “Yeah, that was my first impulse. You don’t have someone else you can trust to take care of this?”
    Romanov looked out the dark windows. The glow of outside lights came in filtered and distorted, as if through a thick haze. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m having some trust issues with people around me.” He spoke the words in a hushed tone, as if he did not want to hear his own confession. “But you’ve never given me a reason to doubt your motives or your abilities.”
    Justin blinked. He had never heard Romanov use flattery as a currency.
    Romanov paused for a moment, then turned his right hand into a fist and slammed it into his left palm. “And I’ve got to get these bastards. I’m not going to let eight bastards put me to shame.”
    Justin glanced at Romanov’s face. His eyes had turned black with anger. “There’s more at stake