by Brad Taylor
He wandered out to the balcony, lit a cigarette, and gazed up the street. He saw a blond-haired woman standing next to a car, casually talking into a phone. She glanced his way, their eyes met, and she turned away, as if the sight of him were poison.
He was used to such reactions in Europe when he’d dressed like he was at home, but nobody had done that since he’d started wearing jeans and had shaved his beard.
He looked at her for another moment, saw her kiss a black man in a car, and relaxed. He flicked his cigarette into the street and went back inside. He paced a bit, then decided to check on Sayid. He pulled out his cell phone, thinking about what he would say in case it was monitored. He dialed Sayid’s number, hearing it ring.
54
My radio came alive, “Pike, this is Koko. I’ve got eyes on Unsub Two. He’s on the balcony smoking a cigarette.”
Which answered my biggest pressing question—whether or not there was a target in the apartment. I said, “Let us know when he goes back inside.” Off the net, I said, “Okay, let’s take him down.” I turned to Veep in the rear seat, and said, “You have the lock figured out?”
“Yeah. Our bump key will work.”
“It better, because we can’t leave any evidence that we’ve entered. No kinetic breaching here.”
“It’ll work.”
Koko came back on. “He’s inside. I say again, he’s inside.”
Off the net, I said, “Knuckles, you got point. Veep, flow in after me.” I keyed the radio and said, “All elements, stand by for assault. Koko, when you hear breach, move to the front for early warning. Any reaction, let us know. Blood, you keep the rear locked down. I think we’ll dominate him quickly, but if he bolts, he’s coming out that balcony.”
I heard, “Wilco,” and opened the car door. All three of us exited like something out of a mob movie, glancing left and right up the narrow alley. We were clear. We speed-walked up to the short staircase, and I could see the cathedral square at the end of the alley, people milling about, enjoying the sunshine.
I said, “Veep, make it quick as you can,” then on the net said, “All elements, stand by for breach.”
Veep jogged up the steps holding what looked like a baseball with a skeleton key sticking out of it. Right behind him was Knuckles, his pistol out, focusing on the door while Veep was at risk working the lock. I stood behind Knuckles, my eyes on the street, protecting our back. I heard the rattle of the electronic bump key, then Veep whispered, “Breach, breach, breach.”
He swung the door open, leaning back, and Knuckles charged in, me right behind him. Knuckles cleared the funnel of death and went left, and I went right. He entered a bathroom, shouting, “Small room, small room,” and bounced back out, now with Veep behind him. We raced together to the bedroom and the balcony the Syrian had been seen on earlier. I entered first, and saw the terrorist standing in shock, a smartphone to his ear.
He shouted something into the phone, and I took his legs out from underneath him, slamming him face-first into the floor and kicking the phone out of his hand. Knuckles continued to clear, and Veep searched him for weapons, finding none.
Six seconds later, Knuckles came back in, saying, “It’s clear.”
I said, “Get the front door. Close it down.”
I got on the radio, saying, “Jackpot, I say again, jackpot. Blood, rotate around to the front, taking east security. Koko, you have west. Remain in place for Unsub One.”
I received acknowledgment from both Jennifer and Brett, and Veep handed me the phone, keeping a knee on the terrorist’s back. The line was still open, the seconds ticking by on the screen. I put it to my ear and heard a man speaking Arabic. I had no idea what he was saying, but he grew more fervent, then the connection was cut.
I knelt down to the man on the floor and said, “Who were you talking to?”
His eyes wild, he said, “No English, no English.”
I bounced his head against the floor and said, “Don’t lie to me. No way could you travel from Syria to Switzerland and then here without speaking English.”
I saw his eyes flicker at my statement and I said, “That’s right. We know all about you and the Red Mercury. We know about the boat, we know about the Special Forces base. We know everything.”
Knuckles came into the room carrying a weird thermos-looking container. I said, “Hey, you guys have coffee made for the trip? Knuckles, open that thing up.”
Knuckles reached for the lid and the terrorist freaked out, writhing on the floor and screaming, “Don’t touch it, don’t touch it!”
Veep restrained him and I smiled. I set the phone on the bed and said, “So much for ‘No hablo Inglés.’ What time is your friend coming back? Where is he?”
He furtively glanced at the phone on the bed, and my own phone began buzzing in my pocket, startling me. I said, “Watch that fuck,” and went to the foyer, pulling it out.
* * *
—
Amena saw the men in the back of the fishing boat, near the rear, and scampered on board, moving to the bow. She crouched down and slowly crawled to the captain’s bridge, peering at them through the windshield. She could catch snatches of their conversation, and was excited to hear they were speaking Arabic.
The man she’d followed in the Moroccan jacket wanted to talk to the captain of the vessel, but the man on the boat was calling himself the first mate. Moroccan Jacket stated he was going to spend the night on the boat, but the first mate said he couldn’t let him do that without speaking to the captain first. They argued, and then Moroccan Jacket dropped his backpack and satchel, reaching into his pocket for his phone.
He spoke into it, waving his hands at the first mate, and then his face went white. He held the phone, saying nothing, then shouted into it. He hung up, and she thought he was going to run away. He picked up his backpack, grabbed the satchel, and started to walk to the gangplank. She crouched down and scurried to the port side, hiding on the far gunwale. She peeked, and saw him looking torn. He glanced back at the first mate, then ran back, dropping his satchel and screaming at him. The first mate raised his hands, and Moroccan Jacket pulled out a knife, laying it against the first mate’s throat, repeating his request.
The first mate’s eyes popped open, and he vigorously nodded. The man with the knife pointed to the ropes mooring the boat at the bow. He then began untying the stern, and she realized the first mate was going to see her when he reached the front of the boat. She slithered across the deck, opened a hatch, and dropped into a tiny berth with two small beds lining the wall. She cowered on top of one, pulling the sheets over her, wondering what she was going to do. And then the boat began to move.
Frozen in fear, Amena felt the slide through the water, picking up speed. She glanced out a porthole, and saw the harbor racing by. They were headed out to sea.
She crawled off the bed, then went toward the stern, finding herself in a galley. She looked about for a weapon, opening drawers and cabinets, the sound of the engine cloaking her movements. She found a small paring knife, but didn’t think it would help. Another cabinet yielded an iron skillet. She pulled it out, hefting it, then felt the boat slow. She moved farther to the stern, seeing a set of stairs to the back deck, then a shadow.
She crouched down, clutching her pan, and saw the first mate arguing again with the terrorist. The man ignored him, opening his satchel and withdrawing what looked like a robot helicopter. He extended the arms and set it on the deck, and she recognized it as a drone, the same type she’d seen on YouTube, but this one had some large tube on the bottom.
The first mate lost his temper, waving his arms and shouting. He made the mistake of advancing toward the drone. The terrorist pushed him, and the first mate pushed back. The terrorist jumped forward with his knife, stabbing the first mate in the chest, his arm working like a piston, the blade going in over and over. The first mate screamed, and fell t
o the deck, trying to stop the attack. The terrorist leapt on top of him, and continued to stab until the body quit moving.
Amena felt sick, seeing her father’s blood rushing from his neck. She looked at her iron pan, and knew it would be no help whatsoever. She retreated back to the bedroom at the bow of the boat, collapsing. They were all the same. Everyone was a killer, and they would extract their vengeance on her. And then she remembered Pike’s phone. An anchor to a predator that hated these men as much as she did. She pulled it out, saw a signal, and exhaled in relief. She dialed his number, and heard him answer, “Amena, I’m a little preoccupied right now. I’ll have to call you back.”
She hissed, “Pike, I’m on a boat in the middle of the sea. I’m with a terrorist.”
“What?”
She described what she’d done, then said, “He killed the guy that drives the boat.”
“He doesn’t know you’re there?”
“Not yet.”
“How long have you been going?”
“I don’t know. Ten minutes maybe, but we’re stopped now. The terrorist has one of those drone things. He’s about to launch it from the back of the boat.”
“Right now?”
She heard the drone’s blades turn and whispered, “Yes. It’s taking off right now.”
“Does it have anything on it? Is it carrying anything?”
“It just has a tube on the bottom. Like a camera lens or something.”
“How large? Like the size of a thermos?”
“Yes. It looked like a coffee thermos.”
He started shouting something away from the phone, and she heard, “harbor,” then he returned, saying, “Amena, listen to me closely. We’re on the way. I need you to turn on an app in the phone. Look at the screen and pull up the music app.”
Confused, she said, “What?” She heard a car door close, then Pike said, “Just do it.”
She did, getting a list of songs. He said, “Scroll until you find ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ by U2.”
She started scrolling and said, “Why am I doing this?”
“It’s a hidden beacon for that phone. So I can find you. Play it.”
She did, then put the phone back to her ear, saying, “It didn’t do anything.”
She heard him say, “Veep, she’s up.”
He returned to the phone and said, “We have you. Keep hidden. We’re on the way.”
“He’s going to find me. This boat isn’t that big.”
“He’s flying the drone. It’s got probably twenty-five to thirty minutes of flight time, so he’ll have his hands full, both literally and figuratively.”
She said, “What’s he taking pictures of? Is he planning an attack?”
“Amena, he’s not taking pictures. That’s not a camera. Listen, I’m going to have to ask you to do something. I don’t know if we’re going to make it to you in time. That thing you saw under the drone is a canister of poison, and he’s flying that drone to use it.”
She paused for a moment, then said, “What are you asking me?”
She heard the car door slam again, and she said, “You want me to stop him? Is that what you’re saying?”
He said, “Never mind. Forget I said that. We’re at the harbor. I have to steal a boat. Just stay hidden.”
“If I stay hidden, will he kill people?”
“Amena, I have to get moving. Just stay hidden.”
And he disconnected.
She put the phone back in her pocket, thinking. She went to the window and saw the shore of Nice about a kilometer away. She realized that’s where he was flying the drone. He was going to poison the people on the promenade.
Where the others had died.
55
I ignored the NO WAKE signs and punched the throttle, spewing a rooster tail of water as our speedboat pierced the harbor, heading out to the Mediterranean. It had cost us two hundred US dollars to buy off the guy doing maintenance on the boat, but he’d eventually agreed to let us use it, saying we had to have it back by nightfall. After a short bidding process, he walked away with some money. He should have considered himself lucky, because if he had pressed me one more second he would have walked away with a concussion and nothing else. As the only watercraft on the harbor that was fast and had a man near it with the key, I was taking that boat one way or the other.
Catching himself as I slammed the throttle, Knuckles shouted, “Whoa! Easy there. We’re still in the harbor, and you’re going to get a patrol on us.”
I said, “Fuck the patrol. They won’t catch us. Veep, give me a vector.”
He said, “Clear the harbor and head right, forty-five degrees.”
I did as he directed, the boat now skipping over the light waves, bouncing us up and down. Knuckles pulled himself up and said, “We’re going to make it. She’ll be okay.”
I said, “This isn’t about her. You heard the call. He’s airborne with the device, and I don’t think we’re going to make it. I don’t think we’ll stop him.”
He held on to the railing as we bounced and said, “I know. You should have told her to attack.”
His words were like a hammer. I said, “I couldn’t. Come on, Knuckles, would you have?”
I knew his heart, and there was no way he would have ordered such a thing, but I was the team leader, responsible now for more deaths than just one. I should have ordered her to do it. Sacrificed the pawn to save the king.
He said, “No. I wouldn’t.” He looked at me and said, “I’m sorry I said that. You made the right call.”
Veep said, “Left five degrees. Contact in four minutes.”
I corrected, and Knuckles asked, “What’s the plan?”
“I’m going to drive right up to the boat, and you’re going to nail him. Pretty simple. He’s got to be out in the open flying that drone. No matter what happens, no matter where that drone is, drop that fucker.”
He withdrew his Glock from the holster and said, “Get me close. I’ll get one shot. He starts running for cover, and we’ll have to board the boat.”
I saw a single fishing trawler about a hundred meters away and turned toward it.
“Don’t fucking miss.”
* * *
—
Amena gripped her iron skillet and crept back to the galley. She went to the stairs and saw the terrorist at the back of the boat, next to the dead body of the first mate, his focus on a tablet attached to a remote control for flying the drone. She thought about what she could do. Smash him in the head? No. If she wasn’t strong enough to knock him out, he’d kill her, and then kill everyone else.
Smash the controller. He couldn’t fly the drone without it. He might still kill her, but he wouldn’t kill anyone else.
She hefted the skillet, holding the handle with both hands, and crept as quietly as she could up the stairs. She reached the top, and he turned, startled. She screamed like a banshee and charged forward, swinging the heavy iron skillet at his hands. It connected, and the remote control bounced onto the deck. He shouted in pain, then tried to grab her. She ducked under his arms, ran to the controller, and hammered it again with the skillet, hearing the plastic crack. He charged her, and she threw the pan at him, then jumped headlong over the side.
She splashed into the water and began swimming. She rolled onto her back and saw the terrorist run to the rail, screaming curses. He stood for a moment, staring in fury, then ignored her, rushing to the shattered controller. He began tapping the screen and manipulating the toggles, and she prayed she’d ruined it. Swimming away from the boat on her back, she saw a dot in the sky, streaking toward them, flying fantastically fast. He frantically stabbed at the controller, but it did no good, the drone returning unerringly to its launch point.
As it got closer, she saw the canister was dangling below it, not like it had be
en when the drone had left. The aircraft reached a level above the boat, and then began to descend. The terrorist screamed in fear and dove over the side himself.
The drone crashed into the deck of the boat, and the terrorist treaded water, looking at it. He turned to her and shouted, “You little bitch. You’ve killed us. We can’t get back on the boat.”
She said, “Better you than innocents.”
He began swimming to her, a snarl on his face, and she frantically stroked away from him. She glanced behind her, seeing him gaining. Eventually, she felt a hand on her leg. She kicked desperately, then felt his arms around her neck.
She heard a roar coming from the other side of the boat, and he forced her under the water. She began to thrash, bubbles everywhere, arms and legs fighting for life, hitting and scratching.
* * *
—
We came within fifty feet of the bow of the trawler and I pulled back on the throttle, letting the boat drift in. I cut the wheel, sliding toward the stern, both Knuckles and Veep on the port side, pistols out. But the only sign of human life was the first mate, his body leaking fluids on the deck.
I stared hard, seeing the bridge empty as well. I swung the craft around the stern, both of my men ready to fire, but nobody appeared. Panicked, I realized the attack was done, and he was now going to kill Amena. I’d failed all the way around.
I let go of the wheel and with more urgency than I wanted to release, said, “We need to board. He’s belowdecks. He’s going to find her.”
Knuckles heard the angst in my voice, and it was something new. When it came to the pressures of combat, I was the one always in control. I drew my pistol and said, “Veep, take the wheel. Knuckles, on me.”
I prepared to leap the five feet to the deck of the boat, and Veep yelled, “In the water! In the water!”
I looked to the starboard side and saw a thrashing, like a fish caught on a line. I jumped back to the console and gunned the engine, sliding next to the boiling spit of water, and saw the terrorist holding a small form underneath the surface, the body putting up a ferocious fight.
