With both hands, I grabbed the barrel of the gun and pulled with all my strength prying it from his grasp. The gun slid across the floor, giving me a chance. Driving my fist into his ribs, I stabbed at his insides, leaving him doubled over in agony. Rolling onto my knees, my ears still ringing, I stood to my feet. Fatima was now on all fours. My boot cut across his face, spraying blood onto the walls and floor. He stumbled to his feet, breathing hard, his balance wobbly.
The ringing faded.
“You are a coward like the Prodigal — and your father.”
I grabbed him by the shoulders and drove my knee into his chest several times. Then with every ounce of hatred and revenge, my knee connected squarely with his skull. Fatima’s body grew limp as he slumped back against the wall. Grabbing the Sig Sauer from behind my back, I flipped the safety and pointed it squarely at his head. As I stared into his bloodied face, his eyes looked up at me and flared with soulless evil. My index finger pressed against the trigger.
Two suppressive shots rang out in quick succession. Spinning to my left, I caught sight of Swanson moving toward me with his M-4 tucked against his shoulder. Both shots struck Fatima in the side of his skull — sending him to the abyss of Satan’s paradise.
Lowering my weapon, tears welled up in my eyes as I struggled to catch my breath. Swanson’s bear paw grabbed my shoulder. “The ghost is dead.”
In a matter of seconds it was over.
Winded, I retrieved my M-4 while Swanson stood nearby. Fatima’s lifeless body oozed blood as he stared blankly into nothingness. Being in the underground space it hit me — Fatima was a prisoner inside a glass cell. How long had he been here? Did Dad know? Is that what got him killed? Was Uncle Randy here before we arrived? I’d faced Fatima on the beach in Malibu — which meant he was set loose more than once. Kneeling beside him, I noticed a titanium bracelet around his wrists.
A green light on the bracelet flashed, stopped, then turned solid red.
Swanson must’ve seen it at the same time. He barked an order, grabbed my arm, and pushed me up the stairwell. A high pitched sonic noise grew increasingly louder. Reaching the main floor, I darted through the house, before bursting out the front door. There was no time to look back and see if Swanson was behind. The advanced IED exploded with such force that I was launched airborne, landing with a thud twenty feet from ground zero.
Facedown on the grass, I opened my eyes to see Laney looking at me wide-eyed. In the distance, fuzzy lights grew clearer as paramedics barreled down the dirt road. In a daze, I rolled over, looking back toward the house which was flattened into a flaming ball of rubble. Panicked, I scrambled to my feet and headed towards the flames.
“Chase, it’s too late,” Laney shouted. “He’s gone.”
Fatima’s graveyard was Swanson’s final mission.
A roaring groan from the depths of my soul unleashed.
Hovering overhead, the Eurocopter avoided the bursts of flames and landed on the property. The side door slid open. Dax climbed out. It was total chaos as the Feds attempted to make sense of what just happened. Laney tended to Johnson as paramedics hurried over.
“Where’s Reggie?” Dax yelled.
“He’s dead,” I answered in shock. “I should’ve…”
“Chase, look at me.” Dax stared intently, knowing the consequences of my words. “Clock is ticking.”
He yanked me to my feet and the two of us hobbled toward the Eurocopter. If Uncle Randy knew Fatima was dead — that meant so would Tama and Kasim. Whoever was being held as hostages at the black site would be next to lose their lives. I was halfway inside the helicopter before Laney reached us.
She shouted, “Chase, are you sure it was Fatima?”
“Positive,” I called back. “We need to leave.”
Laney glanced back toward the scene. She had to choose. I couldn’t make the choice for her, so I climbed inside. Sliding into the co-pilot seat, I slipped on a pair of headphones and heard Elena’s voice.
She asked, “Are you good?”
“Not even close, but we’re in too deep to turn back.”
Laney tapped my shoulder and gave the thumbs up. Elena glanced over, lifted the Eurocopter off the ground, then hovered over the devastation before heading south. I synced my cell with the Eurocopter coms, so everyone would hear, then dialed.
“Fatima is dead.” I waited for Bouchard’s response. He said nothing. “Operation Mongoose is still in play.”
I disconnected the call, knowing I couldn’t allow my mind to dwell on the tragic loss of Navy SEAL Reggie Swanson — the warrior who killed Abu Haji Fatima. If I survived the night, I’d forever carry the burden that he saved my life but lost his own.
SEVENTY-TWO
PIKES PEAK BUNKER
President Bouchard’s Chief of Staff, Simon Adams, rifled through spreadsheets on his laptop documenting transfers of one hundred million withdrawn from the $2 billion Iraqi nest egg routed to the Caymans, Switzerland, Sweden, Columbia, Singapore, Netherlands, and Germany. Then he opened a master folder for Red Venture Group that contained every ounce of intelligence gathered during the covert operations. His fingers hovered over the keyboard before deleting the files.
Bouchard entered the office and closed the door. “Fatima is dead.”
“Hardeman left a mess behind in Los Gatos.” Adams pointed to news reporters on screen standing outside of the ranch property. “We lost a SEAL — Reginald Swanson.”
“Son of a…”
“Married. Two kids. He and Wilkins fought together in Iraq.” Adams glanced at another file on the laptop. A list of terrorists who threatened the freedom of America and its allies — a hit list given to him on Bouchard’s first day in office. “Seems Hardeman called an audible.”
“Set up a call with Swanson’s wife.” Bouchard itched the back of his neck. “Simon, did we make a mistake?”
“You made the right call.” Adams knew the Red Venture Group accounted for nearly one hundred kills and two hundred prisoners at Gitmo. Hardeman and Thompson were the only two operatives… ever. “Power outage in LA is still ongoing. All agencies remain locked out of their internal systems. David, this is far from over.”
“Where are we with reaching Randall?”
“He’s not answering my calls.” Adams closed the laptop. “You need to be prepared to respond decisively if the situation escalates.”
Bouchard removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Simon, who owns the property in Los Gatos?”
“Not a question you want answered.”
“Tell me it’s not us.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. A secret service agent poked his head into the room. “Mr. President, you’re wanted in the command center.”
For half a mile, Bouchard and Adams rode a golf cart through a 747-sized underground tunnel before they reached the main center. Inside, several hundred government employees sat behind rows of computers monitoring military forces worldwide, as well as thousands of nuclear warheads hidden underground across the nation.
At one end, soundproof-glass encased a situation room equipped with the most advanced technology available. The Joint Chiefs of Staff waited to brief the President on the extent of the cyber attack. So far, their best coders had failed to corrupt the Level 10 malware that infiltrated and locked their systems.
Bouchard sat at the head of the table while Adams flipped a switch turning the transparent glass solid black and cancelling out any audio leak of their conversation. All eyes were focused on a flat-screen where a camera panned across a single line of thirteen individuals standing against a wall — each hooded and zip-tied.
The camera shakily moved away from the hostages, then pointed toward two bodies on the floor. Motionless. Another shaky movement before the camera stabilized, revealing a room similar to the command center.
“Right now, President Bouchard is hidden safely inside a nuclear bunker,” a woman’s voice said off camera. “Why? Because your government is in a free fall, and
the people of America will suffer greatly if he refuses to obey my demands.”
Digging in his elbows, Bouchard asked, “Who’s seeing this?”
“Everyone,” General Abbott answered. “It’s on the internet, sir.”
Bouchard slammed his fist against the table and growled, “Shut it down!”
“That’s not possible. Right now, our responses are crippled.”
“FBI. CIA. Homeland Security. Pentagon.” A woman stepped into frame, her face covered except her eyes. “All are under my control. If you do not believe me, force your President to deny it. America, you are under attack, and in the hours ahead the consequences will be severe.”
“Do we know who she is?” Bouchard asked, settling down a bit.
“We cannot confirm her identity,” Abbott replied. “Voice and facial recognition is useless without being able to compare to our intelligence.”
“So, whoever she is, she’s got us by the balls.”
“Seems so, Mr. President.”
The woman leaned closer to the lens. “Bouchard, I have your nation’s secrets, and soon the world will too. You have twenty-four hours.”
Millions from around the world watched as the live feed cut out, replaced by a countdown clock. Bouchard was powerless to stop any of it from happening.
“Mr. President,” Abbott said cautiously, “do you know her demands?”
“I’m as in the dark as everyone else in this room.”
“We’ve heard from the FBI,” Abbott continued. “The LA black site is the only one who has not accounted for all of its people. Our suggestion is that we focus our efforts on getting inside the black site to see firsthand the extent of the situation.”
“For now, I want the barricades secured.” Bouchard’s eyes darted between the Joint Chiefs, then to the clock. “No one leaves the downtown area, and no one is authorized to go in without my order. Understood?”
“Mr. President, with all due respect,” Abbott countered, “we need to get our forces in a position to act.”
“Until we know who the hostages are, or who we’re dealing with, I don’t want us getting too close and giving her any excuse for another attack.” Bouchard glanced at the others around the table. While several averted his gaze, the General stared him down. “Okay, give me options of how we’d respond.”
Abbott slammed his intelligence binder closed. “Very well, Mr. President.”
Bouchard and Adams stepped out of the situation room, knowing they’d left the Joint Chiefs with more questions than answers. A secret service agent shadowed them until they reached the President’s bunker office. Inside, Bouchard opened the blinds of a large window that overlooked the command center. He took a moment and gazed out on the activity below, knowing his presidency hung in the balance, and one wrong move would send the nation into a disaster that would define his legacy.
“Simon, the Joint Chiefs know it’s not the Russians.”
“Let them work up their scenarios, but stand your ground.”
“We’re putting all our hopes in one man.”
“If he pulls off a miracle, we’ll bury this for good.”
“What if he fails?”
“Then we’ll deal with that when it happens.”
“We know she wants the $2 billion.” Bouchard turned around and faced Adams. “It’s a straight ransom that can end this.”
“You cannot negotiate with a terrorist.”
“Why not? Let’s give her the money.”
“And then what?” Adams shot back. “What else will she want?”
Bouchard’s eyes narrowed. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
“David, a confession on any level is game over.”
“What if she’s not just threatening, but willing to divulge our secrets?”
“At the first sign, we’ll let the Joint Chiefs loose. Shock and awe.”
“Make sure we’ve isolated the six-mile radius.” Bouchard was uneasy about misleading his top advisors. “I need to address the nation.”
SEVENTY-THREE
Thanks to Levowitz, we landed the Eurocopter on the studio lot. Dax was still inside tucking the M-4s under the seats and stuffing our backpacks with the Sig Sauers and ammo. Remembering the conversation with Dmitry Vihkrov in London, I knew I’d pushed the limit — Elena would go no further.
“You can’t go with us.”
Elena turned her face away from me. “I will not lose you, Chase.”
Gently grabbing her arm, I pulled her close, then whispered, “You’ll never lose me.” I turned her body and kissed her gently on the lips. Her gaze lingered, seeping into my troubled soul. Holding her in my arms, knowing the loyalty that bonded us, made her beauty even more stunning.
I loved her, and for now that meant letting go.
Dax handed me a backpack. Slipping it over my shoulder, we walked toward a side entrance to the studio lot. I didn’t dare look back, fearing I might change my mind. A few steps behind, Laney and Dax caught up once we reached the street.
“Figured out the fastest route.” Dax scribbled on a notepad. “Once we cross the barricades our cells will be useless. We can make it there in about three hours.”
“No mention of the Bureau in Los Gatos.” Laney adjusted her FBI badge. “Saying it was nothing more than a ranch fire.”
“Sounds like Bouchard is watching.” Swanson’s face flashed in my mind, buried in a graveyard where those I’d loved, lost, and even killed lurked beneath my sanity. “I owe my life to Swanson.”
“No one will ever know what he did.” Dax stole the words from my mouth. “Doesn’t seem right.”
“Let’s make sure he sacrificed for a reason.” Rotors of the Eurocopter thumped overhead, a blinking light fading in the distance. I wondered when I’d see Elena again. “Alright, time to find the electro-disruptor and shut it down.”
The scene near Griffith Park was straight out of a Hollywood blockbuster. News helicopters hovered above. Black-and-whites lined the street as LAPD was out in force. A blue-and-white semi-truck was parked on a dirt shoulder. FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATIONS MOBILE COMMAND CENTER. Soldiers in fatigues guarded the barricades that stretched the width of Griffith Park, across the 134 Freeway, and continued along the six-mile radius.
A crowd had gathered on both sides. Family and friends waiting for their loved ones to emerge from the blackout area. On the other side were those attempting to pass through the barricades. No one was allowed to cross on either side. Frustration. Anger. Tension inched closer to the brink of chaos.
As if she owned the scene, Laney flashed her badge at an officer. “Who’s in charge?”
“Special Agent Davidson.” The officer pointed towards a semi-truck. “Check with mobile command.”
It was her turf, so Laney led the way. As we approached, a woman stepped out from inside the truck. Early fifties. FBI badge hanging around her neck. Holstered Glock on her hip. Bethany Davidson was the original Quantico mold that shaped female agents like Laney.
“Last I heard you were in DC,” Laney said to Davidson. “You’re running point?”
“With Russell still unaccounted for and you being MIA,” Davidson replied, “they needed someone with experience.”
“Well, they made the right call.” Laney rested her hands on her hips. “What’s the status downtown?”
“Fifteen still on our list, including Russell.” Davidson eyed Dax and me, but neither of us introduced ourselves. “Have you seen the video?”
“No doubt, it’s the black site.” Laney showed Davidson a screen capture on her cell and pointed out the familiar clues. “We need to get through the barricade.”
“That’s not happening.” Davidson noticed the stitches on Laney’s face, gashes and bruises on mine, and the cane in Dax’s hand. “I’m guessing neither of them are law enforcement?”
I sensed she was teetering. “Agent Davidson, this will not end in surrender.”
Chaos erupted as the crowd pushed their way forward. LAPD an
d the National Guard stood their ground. Davidson rattled off commands into her walkie-talkie. It was a distraction. With Laney and Davidson focused on the crowd, Dax and I knew it was time to disappear. Elena wasn’t the only one I loved enough to leave behind.
Pushing closer to the barricade, we were swallowed by a massive LAPD response. Glancing back, I caught Laney spinning around trying to find us. Dax used his cane to clear a path. Drafting on his shoulder we were immersed in shouting and screaming as LAPD officers with bullhorns tried to calm the crowd. Pointless. In a matter of seconds, the wave of humanity crashed over the barricade.
Dax waved his cane over his head so I could keep him in sight. Push. Shove. Scramble. It was a human obstacle course of pure pandemonium. Bump. Nudge. Squeeze. Nearly there. My fingers wrapped around my backpack. Swimming upstream seemed impossible as more LAPD officers arrived equipped with riot gear.
No one heard the warning before tear gas deployed. Flipping my hoodie over my head, tugging at the strings, I kept my mouth covered beneath the material. Eyes burned. Five more feet. I’d lost Dax in the crowd, but my sights were set on a large tree across from the barricade. Dodging an LAPD officer, and a few others desperate to escape, I shoved until bursting through to the other side.
Crouched near a tree trunk, I looked back at the aftermath. It was like a battlefield, only it was impossible to distinguish an enemy. Pulling a bottled water from my backpack, I poured half of it over my eyes. Slowly the burning eased, but not enough to stop completely.
From behind, Dax’s voice startled me. “That was some crazy…”
“It’s only going to get worse.” My eyes adjusted to the darkness and the mass of people who were trekking through Griffith Park. “Lead the way, Moses.”
“We’re headed to the Promised Land.” Dax held up his cane. “Time to part the waters.”
The Auctioneer Page 28
