The Oceanic Princess (Brice Bannon Seacoast Adventure Book 2)

by David DeLee

  With Bannon, McMurphy, and Pierce, but not seen, were nine FBI SWAT team members from the Boston field office. Men and women under the command of Daniel Pierce, whom, like himself, were highly-trained SWAT agents. Bannon feel slightly less antagonistic toward the man, knowing he wasn’t just a paper-pushing desk jockey.

  Security spaced every fifty feet along the building’s façade lights illuminated the parking lot. Across the two-lane roadway was a walking path and low concrete wall. Beyond it a cluster of small yachts were docked on Reserve Channel, a waterway leading directly out to the Harbor. The night air was humid and thick. The mosquitos were awful.

  After their meeting with Grayson, and Tara’s adamant insistence she was doing the job and nothing Bannon said or did was going to stop her—again driving home his doubts he was really in charge in any way that mattered—she and Captain Amar and a team of Coasties piloted the Naeem into Boston Harbor, docking a few hours later.

  Well within any ETA margin of error.

  Immediately upon arrival, Amar made his call and was given the address of the building they now had under surveillance and surrounded. Amar was told to bring the woman, be there in a half hour, and throw the phone into the harbor. Pierce told him to go ahead and dump it. Their Ops Tech guy had already gone over it and gotten anything off the burner phone they were going to.

  On the roof, Bannon and the others watched through binoculars as a red Hyundai Santa Fe pulled up to the building. The car was driven by yet another FBI agent, and if questioned about it, Amar was to tell them he’d hired an Uber.

  “They’re here,” Bannon announced. With just five minutes to spare. To Pierce’s credit, he had scrambled his men and had them ready and in position as soon as the location was revealed. It had been a tight timeframe, which was what the terrorists were counting on, but they’d made it.

  Tara and Amar got out of the car.

  The car pulled away.

  A minute passed then the driver’s voice came through the comm unit’s earpieces. “Package has been delivered.”

  Pierce radioed the rest of the team. “Head’s up. Kestrel is on site. I repeat. Kestrel is on site.”

  Bannon and McMurphy exchange glances. Bannon arched an eyebrow. “Kestrel?”

  “It’s a bird of prey. Associated with the Egyptian Sun God Ra,” Pierce explained.

  McMurphy spurted laughter. “You gave Blades a code name?”

  “We always do. It’s protocol.” Pierce returned his binoculars to his eyes.

  McMurphy and Bannon continued to shake their heads.

  Tara’s voice whispered over the comm link. “We’re inside.”

  -----

  AMAR PULLED OPEN THE aluminum framed door to one of the two unoccupied stores. Tara stepped into the darkness beyond. The glow of the outside security lights through the widow was the only light to see by inside. She whispered, “We’re inside.”

  Her wireless earpiece was directly synced to a radio transmitter sewn into the seam of her jacket. The device was virtually undetectable, but strictly one-way communications. Also, the Ops Tech guy installed a GPS tracker in her phone. That, she was told, would look exactly like it belonged, a piece of phone tech if they went so far as to open it up to inspect it.

  Amar eased the door closed behind her. The room they were in was still under construction and empty except for a service counter and in the corner, construction chests, ladders, and sawhorses, all chained together. The walls were taped and spackled but not painted yet. The floor was covered in sheetrock dust. The glass still had manufacturer stickers on them.

  “What now?” Amar asked. “The person on the phone simply said to come to this building.”

  Tara noticed an open doorway behind the counter. It did not yet have a door and frame installed yet. The opening led into the back section of the space. She pointed. “Let’s check back there.”

  She took the lead, pulling her cell phone from her pocket. She switched on the flashlight app and proceeded toward the dark opening. “Stay close,” she whispered to Amar.

  They entered into a much larger room in the center of the building. The side walls were gray cinderblock. The ceiling was corrugated steel. The grid for a suspended false ceiling was in place but the tiles had not yet been installed. Tara swept the flashlight from left to right, but midway through two powerful work lights snapped on, blinding them. Tara stopped short and Amar bumped into her. She glared at him and he stepped back.

  “Turn the flashlight off,” a male voice commanded from the darkness behind the work lamps.

  She did as she was told, returning the phone to her jacket pocket. For a second nothing happened. Tara held an arm up to shade her eyes and strained to see past the lights. With her night vision compromised, she could see nothing—which, of course, was the point. She avoided looking directly into the glare of the lights. Her vision would adjust, but it would take time. In the meantime, her nerves were like piano wires pulled to their breaking point.

  “Is that quite necessary?” she asked.

  No one answered.

  “I did not travel all this way to be toyed with. We have a job to do.”

  “Tell us your names,” a second voice commanded, also male.

  “I am—”

  “The man first.”

  “I am Captain Karim Amar of the MV Naeem. I was contacted in Alexandria by a man named Ebadaah Syed. He told me to allow this woman to book passage on my ship.” He stepped forward. “I was given a phone, told to call the one number stored in it when we arrived.”

  Amar nervously wrung his trembling hands in the silence that followed. “I did as I was told.”

  He looked back at Tara.

  “What of you, woman?” The disembodied voice asked. “What is your name?”

  “Safiyyah Zayd. You know this, and I tire of these games. Show yourselves.”

  Three young men stepped out from behind the light. Two were in their early twenties, babies, Tara thought. Middle Eastern with dark skin and black hair, their facial hair scraggy and poorly trimmed. One wore a dark toqiyah, a prayer cap, but otherwise all three wore Western clothes. The third one was large and clean shaven, bald, and appeared to be at least ten years older than the other two.

  All three were armed. The two children, as Tara thought of them, carried small Davis .380s. Dirt cheap handguns one could purchase on the streets for less than a hundred dollars. The large man carried a Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun. He carried it casually propped against his shoulder. The handguns were aimed at Tara and Amar.

  Behind them, the sound of heeled shoes clicking on the poured concrete floor echoed in the chamber like gunshots.

  A woman wearing black pumps, skinny leg blue jeans, and a red leather jacket emerged from behind the light. She held her hands in the side pockets of her jacket. Her red hair was big, loose, and bouncy. Her skin tone was fair. No question, she was American born.

  She stepped up to Tara and held her hand out. Her fingernails were manicured, long and painted red. She snapped them. “Passport.”

  Tara handed her Zayd’s passport, having taken it off the woman immediately after her capture. She wasn’t worried. The document had been issued nearly ten years earlier. The photo could easily have been plucked from a photo album of her own. Their likeness was that close.

  The American redhead held it up next to Tara’s cheek. She grunted. “Huh.”

  She turned to Amar. “You vouch for this woman’s identity?”

  At first, Amar looked confused. Then he said, “This woman arrived and boarded my ship in Alexandria when Ebadaah Syed said she would. With that as proof she was who she claimed to be.” He nodded toward the passport and shrugged. “Beyond that, I do not know.”

  The woman stared at him while she chewed the inside of her cheek. “You’re sure?”

  “Of course. Why would I lie?”

  Tara wanted to kick him. Shut up.

  Finally, the woman nodded. “The agreed upon amount has been deposited into your a
ccount, Captain. You may check it now if you wish. Otherwise, you’re free to go. With our gratitude.”

  Amar bowed and took two steps backward. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  As he turned to leave, the woman called out, “And Captain?”

  He stopped and half turned.

  “Not a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Of course.” He bowed again. “As if it never occurred.”

  “Very good, Captain.” She waved him away like a debutante would dismiss the help. Amar practically ran for the exit. “Now, as for you...”

  “Are you not satisfied I am who I say I am?” Tara asked.

  The woman scrutinized her, gazing at her like she was a lab rat. She paced a semi-circle around Tara. The woman rubbed her thumb and forefinger over her brightly painted mouth in quiet contemplation. She pinched her lower lip. “Do you know who I am? My name?”

  Was this a test?

  Tara followed the woman with her eyes. Then she looked at the three men. They’d lowered their guns but stern expressions remained on their faces. Tara’s heart beat fast, racing in her chest.

  “Do you?” the woman prompted.

  “Of course, I do not.” Tara folded her arms over her chest.

  “Tell me about yourself, Ms. Safiyyah Zayd.”

  The two women faced each other, combatants locking horns. The woman wore a lilac-scented perfume. Her breath smelled of minty mouthwash. Tara held her gaze for a moment then said, “I will not.”

  Tara turned and started to walk away.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” The woman grabbed Tara’s arm and twisted her back around. It took every ounce of willpower Tara had to fight down her instinct to grab the woman’s hand and twist it back until she snapped her wrist.

  “I am leaving,” Tara said, weakly shaking her arm but failing to loosen the woman’s tight grip. “I will be subject to these stupid games no more. Nor will I be humiliated by your paranoid antics. I am Safiyyah Zayd. I am here to strike a blow against the American Infidels. Believe me or not. You can explain to those you serve why I have gone.”

  “You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that.” The woman let go. “You can call me Bridget.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  “Does it matter?” She marched back toward the shining lights and disappeared into the darkness. The three men remained stoically staring at Tara. From the darkness, Bridget called out. “Remove your clothes.”

  Tara looked at the men. “You cannot be serious.”

  Bridget returned carrying folded clothes and sandals. “Yasra.”

  The young man wearing the toqiyah pocketed his handgun and crossed the room, going to a large oil drum. From where she stood, Tara could see the top had been cut out of it. The young man struck a match. He touched it to a book of matches and tossed it into the drum. Whatever was inside had been presoaked. The contents ignited with a whoosh. Flames climbed a foot over the rim of the drum. Bright orange light flickered off the walls of the facility.

  Bridget reached Tara and shoved the clothes at her. “I said, take off your clothes.”

  Tara refused to accept the clothes. “For what purpose?”

  “So we can burn them. Even if you are who you say you are. We still do not take chances. A fact you will come to appreciate, Safi.”

  Tara stripped off the jacket she wore, fishing the cell phone from the pocket.

  “Don’t bother,” Bridget said and made a gesture for her to hand the jacket and cell phone over to her. Tara did so, and Bridget immediately dropped them into the fire. Tara did her best not to react as the garment with its wireless mic and the cell phone that contained the FBI GPS tracking device crackled and burned.

  “Quickly,” Bridget urged. “We need to move.”

  Tara hesitated for a moment, looking at the three men now leering expectantly at her. “With them watching?”

  “Get over yourself, woman.” Still Bridget made a spinning motion with her finger. “Yasra. Ahmad. Reza. Turn away. All of you.”

  The men did, reluctantly.

  Tara quickly stripped down to her bra and panties. She handed the clothes over to Bridget, including her shoes. The woman dumped them all into the fire without fanfare. Tara reached behind her back to unsnap her bra hook.

  “That won’t be necessary.” Bridget tossed the clothes she held at her. “Get dressed. We need to move.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BANNON HAD HIS EYES glued to his binoculars. He noticed Amar exiting the building first. The captain was alone. Bannon tapped Pierce on the shoulder.

  “Pigeon has left the building,” Pierce said into his commlink.

  McMurphy smirked. “Code names.”

  Bannon shook his head.

  “We’ve got him, team leader,” a reply came back.

  The plan was for two team members to follow Amar back to the Naeem to ensure he contacted no one along the way before taking him back into custody. Back at FBI headquarters, he’d be debriefed and dealt with in accordance with whatever sweetheart deal he’d worked out with the Attorney General.

  Bannon didn’t care about him any longer. His attention remained solely on the audio they were receiving from the transmitter woven into Tara’s jacket. The device was working perfectly. The sound clarity was studio quality. He had to hand it to the tech wizards working for the FBI, they knew their stuff. The entire SWAT team was dialed into the audio. Nobody would miss anything.

  But Bannon furrowed his brow.

  Take off your clothes.

  “No. No, no, no.”

  “Easy, Bannon,” Pierce said.

  “Easy, my foot. You know what comes next.”

  Grayson had said this group was cautious. Bannon was beginning to understand how they’d stayed under the radar for so long. He shook his head as he listened, growing more uneasy by the minute.

  Quickly, the woman self-identified as Bridget said. We need to move.

  More to himself than anyone else, Bannon said, “Where are they going?”

  Yasra. Ahmad. Reza. Turn away. All of you.

  Pierce wrote the names down in a notebook he had laid out in front of him. A second passed, then another. Then there was a loud pop. Bannon pressed his finger against his ear bud. The audio was dead.

  “God damn it.” Bannon pounded his fist into the gravel-covered rooftop.

  “Settle down, Bannon,” Pierce warned. “They can’t go anywhere. We’ve got the building surrounded. And even if they did manage to slip away…” Bannon shot him a look. “And they won’t. We’ve still got the GPS tracker in her phone. That was the point. To follow them when they left, take us to their headquarters, to others. Remember?”

  Pierce clasped Bannon on the shoulder. “We’ve got this.”

  From his position on the other side of Pierce, McMurphy said, “You know, every time someone tells us that, we find out they don’t.”

  Pierce opened his mouth to respond but got cut off by a voice over their comms. “Team leader. We’ve got a problem.”

  “Who’s that?” Bannon asked.

  Pierce shushed him. “Go for team leader. What’s going on?”

  The request was answered with dead air for a second. “Um, we lost pigeon for a moment.”

  “A moment?”

  “But we found him.”

  “So, this still a problem or not?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. He’s… um… dead, sir. His throat’s been cut and…he’s dead.”

  McMurphy said, “You got this, huh?”

  “It’s screwed, Pierce. We need to get in there.” Bannon made a move to get up.

  Pierce grabbed his arm. “No. It changes nothing. We stick with the plan. Tara’s made contact. She’s past the worst of it. Now she can lead us to the rest of the cell. We stay the course.”

  Bannon didn’t like it, but he settled back down and lifted his binoculars to his eyes. “If anything happens to her, Peirce, you and me, we’re gonna have a problem.”


  -----

  TARA QUICKLY DRESSED IN the most unflattering set of gray, baggy, oversized mechanic’s coveralls she’d ever worn in her life. She zipped up the front and began to roll the sleeves up so her hands would be visible.

  Bridget tossed her a pair of old brown sandals to put on. “Get moving.”

  Tara gave the burning drum a final wistful glance. Both her lifelines to the FBI SWAT team and by extension Bannon and McMurphy were burning to a crisp. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “Yasra. Ahmad. You two, remain behind,” Bridget instructed. “Make sure no one follows us.”

  “Who is there to follow us?” Yasra asked. “No one knows we are here.”

  “We don’t know that, do we? You stay.”

  “For how long?” Ahmad asked.

  “Until you know it’s safe.” Bridget grabbed Tara by the arm. “Come on.”

  Tara shook off her grasp. “Unhand me.”

  Bridget released her arm but moved in close, crowding her. “Settle down, Safi, and do what you’re told. Now, go. Follow Reza and do not lag.”

  Reza was the big bald one carrying the shotgun. He walked briskly toward the back corner of the large room. He had long legs and a wide V-shaped upper body with thick, gym-produced, dark arms. His form was quickly swallowed up by the darkness behind the work lights. Bridget walked fast to keep up with him. Tara did, too.

  In the back corner there was a fire door, propped open. Rather than leading outside and right into the arms of the waiting SWAT team she knew had the building surrounded, it led down a hallway along the back of the building. At the far end they reached a stairwell that went down into a basement of the building.

  Tara felt the first hot twinge of panic. There hadn’t been time to examine the building or get building plans from the city. They did not even know there was a basement in the place.

  At the bottom of the stairs Reza opened a metal fire door. It didn’t lead to a basement after all. It led to a dirt walled tunnel. The walls were braced with wooden timbers and bare 40-watt lightbulbs were strung along the ceiling. The walls were damp. The tunnel was cool with an earthen smell to it. Old wooden pallets were laid one after the other, forming a sidewalk of sorts over puddles of muddy water and the unevenly dug dirt and rocks.