by Brent Towns
“Only one way to find out. Mason based in New York?”
“Yeah. Rockland County. About an hour from your location.”
“Give me the address.”
“Sending it to your phone now.”
“Thanks, Slick.”
“No problem, Reaper. Happy hunting.”
Kane hung up and dialed Mike Reardon. As he waited for the DEA agent to pick up, he reflected that Slick might be right, that Eddy had played him. But he didn’t think so. Eddy Chance was one of those bottom-feeding weasels with a knack for survival, and he had honestly believed Kane would put a bullet in his head. Live to die another day, that was the fatalistic creed of gutter rats like Eddy, so Kane was willing to bet that he had played it straight and told the truth.
When Reardon answered the phone, Kane didn’t waste time with chitchat, just got right down to business. They were in blitz mode, hitting hard, moving fast from target to target. Small talk could wait until the mission was over. Hopefully, that small talk didn’t take place at the graveside of a young boy. “Mike, it’s Reaper. The name Richard Mason mean anything to you?”
“Not off the top of my head. Why? Is he involved in this mess? Does he know where my son is?”
Kane could hear the desperation in the man’s voice. “Not sure, but his name popped up on our radar.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Pay him a visit,” Kane said grimly.
Rockland County, New York
The Mason home was out in the suburbs. Swift fed them the satellite imagery as they drove up the Palisades Interstate Parkway North, showing nothing more than the average one-family ranch house, complete with a two-car garage and above-ground swimming pool in the privacy-fenced backyard, situated on a well-maintained one-acre lot. It was exactly what you expected a middle-class federal government employee to own.
Had it been normal daylight hours, they could have just walked up and rang the doorbell. But unless they were a fool, nobody would open their door after dark to talk to strangers, not even out here in the suburbs. And it wasn’t like Kane and Axe could pass as vacuum cleaner salesmen or Jehovah Witnesses. Tall and broad-shouldered, they both carried themselves like men more suited for war than peace.
So Kane decided to scrap the soft approach and go with a home invasion approach. Axe and Cara remained outside to watch his six, sticking to the deep shadows close to the house. Luckily, rows of pine trees on each side of the property screened them from any prying eyes or nosy neighbors.
Kane slipped quietly through the darkness, edging around the perimeter of the house, seeking a penetration point. All the windows were black except one, soft orange light spilling out into the night. He crouched beneath it, then slowly raised his head to peer through the glass. Through a narrow gap in the curtains, he saw a bedroom lit only by a few candles. On the queen-sized waterbed, he saw a paunchy man and a plump woman gyrating wildly, going at it with gusto and little regard for anything other than their carnal satisfaction. Through the glass, Kane could hear the woman’s moans of pleasure and Mason’s panting grunts. Candlelight glistened on the sweat streaming down their naked bodies.
Kane grinned. This was going to be too easy. Coitus interruptus courtesy of Sig-Sauer.
The slapping of flesh and enthusiastic cries of coupling worked in tandem to cover any sound Kane made as he raised the window and crept into the room. His boots sank into the plush carpet, silent as stepping on a cloud.
He aimed the Sig at the nude man pounding against his partner’s rippling flesh. “Hey,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the woman’s loud howls of passion. “Quit screwing around and pay attention.”
“What the—? Shit!” Mason rolled onto his back, waterbed sloshing like a miniature tsunami. Even in the dim light of the candles, his splayed legs revealed way more than Kane wanted to see. The woman started to scream and clutch the covers to her breasts. Kane had to admit they were pretty impressive.
He expressed his appreciation for the skin show by putting a bullet in the headboard next to her ear. He had no intention of hurting her, but she didn’t know that. “Keep your mouth shut,” he said. “No reason to scream. I just need to ask your husband a few questions, and then I’ll be gone.”
She shook her head and pulled the covers all the way up to her chin. “He’s not my husband.”
“Then who the hell are you?”
“His secretary. His wife’s out of town visiting her family.”
“Guess that makes him an asshole and you a slut, but that’s none of my business.”
Mason switched from fearful shock to indignant anger in less time than it takes most people to peel off a used condom. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What the hell is going on? You’re making a big mistake, buddy. You can’t do this. For god’s sake, I’m a federal agent. I have rights, dammit!”
Kane stalked toward him, eyes cold and deadly as a rattlesnake’s stare. “Damn straight you have rights,” he said. Mason cringed away from the ice-eyed warrior. “You have the right to be silenced if I decide that’s the best course of action.” He pressed the end of the Sig’s suppressor against Mason’s wilting manhood. “So start telling me everything you know about the DEA getting in bed with the cartels, or I’ll change your name to Dick-less.”
Turned out Mason wasn’t much for holding up under pressure. All it took was a gun to his crotch, and he skipped the denial stage and buckled right down to the blabbing. “I don’t know much. I’m a desk jockey. I push paper. That’s my job, that’s what I do. That’s all I do. I’m a paper pusher. I noticed a few discrepancies on some forms, asked a few questions, and was paid good money to keep my mouth shut.”
Kane didn’t interrupt to tell him he was doing a lousy job at that.
“That’s the extent of my involvement,” Mason finished. “From what I hear, the higher-ups are the ones really getting their hands dirty.”
“Way I hear it, they’re fist-deep in cartel ass,” Kane rasped. “What were the forms?”
“Shipping manifests.”
“Cargo ships?”
Mason nodded. “Yeah.”
“From where?” Kane asked.
“Colombia.”
“So they’re bringing the shit in through the ports.”
“Easiest way to smuggle coke—or any drugs, for that matter—as long as you can afford to pay off the DEA and Customs agents.”
“Pocket change for a Colombian cartel,” Kane said. “Now, give me the names of the higher-ups who are getting their wallets greased.”
“I don’t know.”
Kane rammed the pistol harder against Mason’s groin. “Then I don’t know if I can keep my finger off this trigger.”
“Wait! I can give you the name of the guy who paid me off.”
“Better than nothing. Let’s hear it.”
“Steve Nash.” Mason nervously glanced down at the suppressor grinding against his private parts. “The only other name I’ve heard in regards to this alliance is someone called the Razor.”
“The Razor?”
“Yeah.” Mason nodded. “I’m guessing it’s a nickname.”
“Brilliant deduction,” Kane drawled sarcastically.
Mason looked up at him nervously. “That’s all I know, I swear to God.”
Kane probed Mason’s eyes for deception, for any indication of a lie. Satisfied that the DEA agent had told the truth, he removed the Sig from Mason’s groin. The man let out a long sigh of relief and reached down to cover himself. His secretary remained quivering under the covers, watching Kane with wide eyes and trembling lips.
Kane decided to let Mason go. Plenty of bodies would hit the floor before this was over, but they had bigger fish to fry tonight than some low-level agent paid off to ignore some shady paperwork. Taking down Mason would be the equivalent of pulling a single scale off a snake when you really needed to chop off the whole damn head. They were hunting sharks, not minnows.
Kane gestured toward th
e Glock 17 lying on the nightstand next to an open tube of Astroglide. “Make a move for that thing, and you’ll regret it.”
Fool that he was, Mason ignored the warning. As Kane ducked down to climb out the window, the DEA agent apparently felt the need to seek redemption for the way he’d been humiliated. So he grabbed for the Glock.
Big mistake.
Straddling the windowsill, Kane fired a 9mm rocket into Mason’s bare ass, the suppressor reducing the shot to a muffled cough. He deliberately placed the bullet to the right of Mason’s tailpipe. He was going for incapacitation, not termination; a direct hit would have blown the guy’s guts out all over the place. Instead, the bullet tore through the flabby meat of his buttocks and skidded off his hipbone.
Mason lurched forward, banging his skull off the headboard with a brain-jarring thud as blood sprayed across the rumpled sheets. “Oh, you son of a bitch!” he howled. “You son of a bitch!” He reached behind him to clutch at the wound with trembling fingers, the Glock forgotten.
“Damn right I’m a son of a bitch,” Kane growled. “I suggest you type up a letter of resignation and then get the hell out of town.” He slid the Sig back into its holster. “Because if I ever see you again, they’ll be carving your name on a gravestone.”
As Mason laid there and whimpered, the woman took one look at the bloody wound and fainted. She slumped down, face disappearing under the covers. Kane ignored them both as he faded into the darkness.
Chapter 4
On the outskirts of Rockland County, Kane pulled the SUV into a deserted gas station and called headquarters.
Thurston answered and in her usual fashion, got right down to business. “Did you get anything from Mason?”
“Found out he’s banging his secretary,” Kane replied. “Want the details?”
“I’m guessing they’re not pertinent to the mission, but thanks for sharing,” Thurston replied. “Anything else?”
“He coughed up a couple of names. Need Slick to run them.”
“Yeah, well, it’s gonna have to wait. Find a television. The terrorists released a video, and you’re not going to believe this shit. Call back when you’re up to speed.”
She hung up, and Kane quickly found a news channel on his phone. Thurston was right—he couldn’t believe what he was he was hearing. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, adjusting the angle of the screen so Cara and Axe could see. “Looks like Al-Qaeda’s back in business.”
Axe shook his head in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” he growled. “I thought we put those jerkoffs down for the count.”
Grimly, Kane replied, “Looks like they’re back from the dead.”
The White House
Washington, D.C.
President Jack Carter sat in the Situation Room of the White House’s west wing and stared angrily at the screen. If a caricature artist could have captured him in that exact moment, they would have drawn him with a red-flushed face and steam shooting out his ears. “I thought these sons of bitches scattered to the four winds after we put a bullet in Bin Laden’s brain,” he growled.
With him were General Hank Jones, National Security Advisor Kevin McNanes, and CIA Director Russell Quay.
“They never completely folded,” McNanes replied. “But they were a shell of what they once were, that’s for sure.”
Carter pointed at the images of carnage on the screen and scowled. “They came close to killing as many American citizens today as they did on nine-eleven. Three attacks in a single day. That’s not the work of a shell, gentlemen.”
“Looks like they managed to pull themselves back together,” Quay said.
The President tossed him a stern look, his face reflecting his foul mood. “And despite everything we learned after the towers came down, they still somehow managed to hit us again, in the same damn city, right under our noses.”
On the screen, a man wearing a black, hooded mask was speaking. The caption beneath him simply said “Johnny Jihad.” Whoever had filmed the video had focused the camera tight on his face, revealing nothing of his surroundings save for a flag used as a backdrop. Not the traditional black Al-Qaeda flag, but an upside-down American flag that appeared to have been hacked to shreds by a madman with a knife and then splattered with blood. Real or fake, it was impossible to tell from the footage. In the corner, covering the fifty stars, were the words “New Babylon” inside a red circle and slash.
“Today your wretched city again knows fear,” Johnny Jihad intoned. “Today you suffered for your grave mistake—the mistake of foolishly believing that you had crushed Al-Qaeda. But today you know the truth—that Al-Qaeda is still very much alive—and with that truth comes death. Death to the infidels, death to the whores, death to all those who would defy Allah!”
President Carter ran his fingers through his gray hair, which was turning even grayer with each passing second. Running the country turned young men old, and he had been old before he even got elected. “This cannot be happening,” he sighed.
Nobody responded, all eyes glued to the screen. It was like a horror show you couldn’t look away from.
“Today you mourn your dead but do not shed all your tears, for you will need them again tomorrow. You will call me Johnny Jihad, but my name does not matter. What matters is that the spirit of Osama Bin Laden dwells within me and I will bring America, the New Babylon, to her knees once again. I will not cease this holy war until every infidel is burning in hell.”
“He’s full of crap, right?” President Carter asked. “Trying to bluff us. He can’t really have another attack planned for tomorrow, can he?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Jones replied. “He planned and executed three attacks. Not too much of a stretch to imagine a fourth.”
“Maybe we should lock down the city,” McNanes suggested. “Send in the National Guard.”
“Easier said than done,” Carter said. “There’s over eight million people in New York City.”
“Evacuation then?”
The President shook his head. “Those that want to evacuate are already doing so. No point in making it mandatory.” He pointed at the screen. “Not sure how it gets done, gentlemen, but I want that Johnny Jihad bastard, whoever he is, fitted for a toe tag.”
“Not going to be easy,” Quay replied. “As you pointed out, he pulled these attacks off right under our noses. The guy’s sneaky and clearly knows how to lay low.”
With a sour expression on his face, Carter said, “So find whatever hole he’s crawled into and drag him out. Pretty sure that’s what we pay you to do.”
“We can activate some assets if you want to authorize a black bag operation.”
“Does your agency have any operations that aren’t black bag?” President Carter sighed, then added, “Just find him, and this time when you stomp the hell out of Al-Qaeda, make sure they stay stomped. Like bugs under a boot heel, with their guts hanging out.”
On the monitor, the terrorist continued to speak, eyes flashing with a zealot’s fire from behind the holes in the mask. “There is but one way we will cease our slaughter, our jihad. Only one thing that will make us put down our guns, our blades, our bombs. It will require a great sacrifice from America, perhaps the greatest sacrifice your country has ever had to make.”
Johnny paused for effect, then delivered his ultimatum. “There will be no more strikes on American soil if the President of the United States, President Jack Carter, surrenders himself to me for execution.”
Jones, McNanes, and Quay all turned and looked at the President.
Carter leaned back in his chair, arched his eyebrows, and said, “Well, ain’t that a bitch.”
Rockland County, New York
Kane, Axe, and Cara watched the video all the way to the end. It ran a little over sixteen minutes and featured the same “kill the infidels, bring America to her knees” nonsense over and over again.
“Johnny boy needs an editor,” Cara muttered.
Kane called back to headquarters, putting th
e phone on speaker. Thurston answered on the second ring. “What do you think?” she asked without preamble.
“They didn’t waste any time claiming responsibility,” Kane said.
“Yeah, they clearly want us to know Al-Qaeda is alive and kicking.”
“Are we even sure it’s Al-Qaeda?” Axe asked. “The prick could just be running his mouth.”
“I’m sure the CIA will work on authenticating the claim, but they’ll take him at his word for now,” Thurston replied. “This definitely wasn’t a lone wolf scenario. These attacks required significant resources which indicate backing from a terrorist organization.”
“Nature abhors a vacuum,” Cara commented. “With Bin Laden nothing but shark shit by now, it was only a matter of time until someone stepped in to fill the void. Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long.”
“All the counterterrorism analysts predicted Al-Qaeda would fold when Bin Laden bit the dust,” Thurston said.
“Cut off the head, and the snake will die,” Cara said. “Yeah, I’ve heard the theory a time or two. Looks like the analysts got this one wrong.”
“It happens,” Thurston replied. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“Ballsy,” Kane said. “Demanding the President turn himself over to be executed. You gotta know they’d cut his head off and livestream it.”
“Ballsy or delusional, take your pick.” Thurston sighed. “Either way, it’s a nasty bit of business.”
“He won’t seriously consider turning himself over, will he?” Cara asked.
“You know the policy,” Thurston replied. “The United States does not negotiate with terrorists. We all like to think that it’s written in stone. But if we get hit by another attack—or, God forbid, multiple attacks—then the American people might start singing a different tune. Trade the life of one President to save the lives of thousands of Americans.”
“That’s bullshit,” Kane said. “He needs to stick to his guns on this.”
