by David Spell
“Sí, jefe. I do. Everything works there. The gringos do a good job.”
“I’m glad you’re happy there, but I think I’ll stay here,” the cartel leader chuckled. “When you get back, we’ll start planning on the best way to get you across the border, amigo.”
CHAPTER NINE
THREE MONTHS LATER, Leesburg, Virginia, Monday, 1030 hours
Kevin, Chuck, Sandra, and the general, along with Sam Mercer and Shaun Taylor, sat around a long table in their new conference room, discussing the previous week and planning out their next training contracts. McCain and Clark had spent the preceding Monday through Friday conducting an Advanced SWAT Tactics Course for Chuck’s former department near Atlanta. The two men felt like they were finding their rhythm as instructors and the course reviews had all been positive.
There had been no further attacks from the New Generation Cartel or any other gangs, for that matter. Musa Khan had disappeared. According to Thomas Burns, with Juan Guerra and his associates fleeing into Mexico, the investigation had reached a dead end.
Chuck had brought Elizabeth and Ray home after being apart for two weeks. They were still being cautious, with Beth wearing her Glock at all times, but they had begun to feel safe again. For the time being, Elizabeth and the baby were staying with Scotty and Emily whenever McCain travelled for his new job.
General Perkins had found a suitable building for Century Tactical Solutions in downtown Leesburg, adjacent to the Loudoun County Courthouse. The historic building dated from the time of the Civil War but had been renovated and updated by the previous tenants, a criminal law firm. Perkins had chosen the location because it was almost halfway between his ranch in Winchester, and where the rest of his team lived in the Metro DC area.
During their first three months of business, Century had conducted seven courses, six for SWAT teams and the seventh for the Fort Belvoir Military Police Unit. This class had been provided free of charge as a token of appreciation for the base commander, Colonel Jefferson, who had allowed Chuck’s men and their families, along with a number of other federal agents, to stay at the secure military compound during the zombie crisis. All that McCain and Clark had asked in return was for Jefferson to put in a good word for them up the chain-of-command.
Today was the first time that Sandra had been able to come into the office. She had been connecting with the rest of the team via video conferencing. Even though Dunning hadn’t been present physically, she had still been working. The former CIA Ops Director had assembled a solid team for the intelligence component of Century Tactical Solutions.
Stephen Chan had been her first recruit. Like so many others in the Ops Directorate, Chan had been transferred, his new assignment as a supervisor in the Intelligence & Analysis Directorate. While this position was a step up for Chan, he had watched with disbelief at how his friends had been treated. When he got to his new job, Stephen also found that the news of the mass transfers from Operations had labeled many good people as ‘problem children,’ who had obviously done something wrong to get booted out of Ops.
Chan had lasted a couple of months in his new role, but had seen the handwriting on the wall. He would never go any higher in the Agency, not that it mattered to him. The real issue was that after tasting the adrenaline of working real time missions, he would never be satisfied doing anything else. And even though Century Tactical Solutions might not provide him with the same adrenaline rush, he was working with people who had become like family and the pay was excellent.
CIA computer expert Gabriella Vargas had been relocated to the Office of Technical Issues in the Science and Technology Directorate. Now, rather than using her skills to track terrorists or to hack into a foreign government’s most secure databases, she was being asked to create a new reporting software for agents. When Sandra called her, checking to see if she might be interested in coming to work for the new company, the young woman couldn’t fill out her letter of resignation fast enough.
Even though Chloe Wilkerson had a background in analysis to go with her time in Operations, she had been transferred to the Support Directorate and the Center for Talent Management. Since she had also been an officer in the Army before coming to work for the CIA, Chloe was tasked with recruiting qualified people out of the military to continue serving their country in the clandestine service.
After a month of this, though, Wilkerson felt that she was having to lie to her potential recruits about the benefits of working with the Agency. She and her former colleagues had been treated unfairly and it did not take an expert to see that something strange was happening inside the CIA. The Operations Directorate looked nothing like it had just a few months before, and even within the organization, people were clearly wondering what was going on.
Dunning’s phone call had come after a recruiting mission to several bases on the East Coast. Chloe hated not being completely honest with the men and women she had spoken with. If she told them the truth about what was happening in the Agency, though, no one would want to come and work there. When Ms. Dunning had offered her a chance to come work for Century Tactical Solutions, she jumped at the opportunity.
The former Army captain was a realist. She knew that most startup companies did not last past their first or second year. At the same time, Chloe was going to be working with Ms. Dunning, Gabby, and Stephen, as well as being around Mr. McCain and Colonel Clark. Even if this venture didn’t last, she would enjoy every second of the ride and learn as much as she could.
As the team discussed their pending projects, Dunning shifted her weight, trying to get comfortable in her wheelchair.
“You OK, Sandra?” General Perkins asked, concern in his voice.
“Yes, sir, I’m fine. I’m still adjusting to being in this thing, but I’m good.”
“You take all the time that you need. We can let you work from home a couple of days a week, if that’ll be easier on you,” Perkins added.
“Thanks, but I need to figure out how to make this work,” she said, a determined look on her face.
Looking around the table, the general asked, “Anything else we need to discuss?”
McCain cleared his throat. “I’ve got something, sir. I got a call this morning from FBI Agent, Thomas Burns. He wants to meet with Kevin and me Wednesday night to discuss running a course for some of the agents in counter-terror.”
“Very impressive, Chuck,” Perkins nodded. “Isn’t he the Assistant Director of CT for the Bureau?”
“That’s right. He and I have become friends over the last couple of years. I don’t know what he wants or has in mind, but Kevin and I’ll meet with him to find out.”
“A contract with the FBI would certainly be a feather in our cap,” the general said.
“I was thinking,” McCain added, “depending on what Burns wants us to do, this might be a good time to bring in the heavy guns. We haven’t used any of our contractors yet. Maybe we could utilize Walker and Norris? Having two former SEALs run the class might just wow the feds enough to give us some more contracts.”
“That’s a good idea, Chuck,” Kevin interjected. “It just sounds sexy when you have SEALs offering any kind of training.”
Perkins chuckled. “You have a point there, Colonel. Just keep me in the loop about whatever y’all decide.”
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Monday, 1310 hours
FBI Agent Barry Towers sat on the opposite side of Fayette Street, two houses down from the residence he had been watching for the last three days. He couldn’t believe that he was getting this opportunity to track a real terrorist. His boss, Supervisory Special Agent Valerie Morris, had been impressed with the work he had done in the aftermath of the second attempt on Sandra Dunning’s life. He had been responsible for spotting the mysterious middle-eastern looking male on the surveillance footage from the hospital. Since then, Barry had spent the last three months following up lead after lead, trying to find Khan.
When Agent Burns had alerted them to the suspect’s rea
l name and gave them his bio, Towers felt like he had been promoted to the major leagues. This Musa Khan was a really bad guy, responsible for countless murders and assassinations all over the world. Khan’s photo was quickly circulated throughout all of the FBI’s field offices, as well as among local police departments around the country, but there had been no solid sightings of the terrorist. The few calls that had come in had proven to be false.
Until now, however. This seemed to be a credible lead which had come into the Philadelphia field office. A reliable informant from the Muslim community in the City of Brotherly Love had alerted his FBI handler that a stranger had shown up several months earlier. The word was that he was organizing a cell out of the Masjidullah Mosque. One of the imams was evidently working with this mystery man. Imam Shaheed Ali was known for his radical leanings so this was no surprise.
The best part of the informant’s tip was that he had followed the imam from the mosque along a winding five block route to a townhome that was only two short blocks away on Fayette Street. It was possible that he was visiting a member of the mosque, but if that was the case, why the long roundabout journey? Maybe the imam had a girlfriend that he didn’t want his wife to know about. Or maybe he was meeting with Musa Khan. At any rate, this was the closest thing to a breakthrough that the FBI had had in the case so Agents Morris and Towers had been sent to Philadelphia to coordinate a stakeout with the federal agents there.
For the last three days, a team of eight agents had rotated sitting on the home in twelve hour shifts, waiting for someone to show themselves. There had been no activity at the townhome. Agents had knocked on the door a few times with no response and had also attempted to look into the windows, the heavy drapes preventing them from seeing inside.
That morning, two bank robberies, one of which involved a shootout with the responding Philadelphia police units, had pulled all the Phillie FBI agents away, leaving just Morris and Towers to sit on the address. Morris was parked two houses up from the address, on the opposite side of the residence from her young subordinate. The two DC feds had driven to Philadelphia in Valerie’s Durango on Friday afternoon. Barry had borrowed a black Suburban from the local FBI office.
“Morris to Towers,” the radio crackled.
“Go ahead, Boss,” Barry answered.
“We’ll give this until 1800 and then we’re going to have to call it and head back to DC.”
The younger agent sighed with disappointment. “10-4.”
“We gave it our best shot,” Valerie continued, knowing what Barry was feeling, “but we need to get back to work. We still don’t know if this a legit lead or not. It’s beginning to look like another dead end.
“For right now, though, I’ve got to go pee. I saw that there’s a fire station a few streets over. I’m gonna go see if I can use their restroom. Call me if you see anything, but I’ll be back in just a few.”
“10-4, good luck with that,” he answered with a chuckle.
The gray SUV drove past him, his supervisor giving him a smile. Towers watched in his rear-view mirror as she turned left onto Washington Lane in pursuit of a restroom. The young agent missed seeing the drapes move in the house as someone peeked out the window.
Musa had just returned to Philadelphia from a four-day trip to New York City where he had met with several of his most radical contacts in the Muslim community. It was looking good for Saleem’s chances to win the election. Khan wanted to make sure each of his cells understood that they must hold off on any attacks if Bashir won. There would be plenty of opportunities for them to kill infidels in their cities at a later time, but they would need to be patient a while longer if Bashir became the president.
Per his normal habit, Musa parked his rental car in another residential area a few blocks away, approaching his safehouse on foot. Instead of entering through the front door, he preferred to come in through the back. Behind the row of townhomes was a narrow alley where most of the residents parked. On the opposite side of the alley was a retaining wall that backed up to the rear of the mosque’s property.
Khan carefully let himself into the residence, drawing his FN FiveSeven pistol. The Pakistani wasn’t expecting any problems but he had many enemies, so he followed the same procedure every single time he came home. After carefully clearing the residence, he stepped into one of the upper level bedrooms, slightly pulling back the drapes to peer out into the street.
The assassin felt a hand squeeze his chest as he saw the two SUVs sitting against the curb. He instinctively knew that something was wrong. None of his neighbors had vehicles like that. From the second floor, he couldn’t tell if the SUVs were occupied or not.
He moved downstairs to peer out the living room window. His angle was better, allowing him to see a woman in the driver’s seat of the gray Durango. As he watched, she picked up a walkie-talkie and spoke into it. Musa glanced down the street to see a black man in the Suburban, also speaking into a walkie-talkie.
A minute later, the Durango was moving slowly down the street. It passed the other SUV, heading towards Washington Lane. Khan quickly scanned the area around his townhome, not seeing any other possible surveillance vehicles. The black man appeared to be staying put in his Suburban, at least for the moment.
Musa hurried upstairs and grabbed the backpack that he had just carried in. He opened it, stuffing a few more items inside. He took a quick look around the room for anything that he might have missed. He would not be returning. As he slung the pack over his shoulder, the Pakistani descended the stairs. At the bottom, he stopped, mulling his situation over.
As far as Khan could tell, there was only one fed—he assumed it was the FBI— sitting outside the house at the moment. He peeked through the curtains again, still observing just the Suburban with the lone male inside. After considering the situation for a couple of minutes, the terrorist started for the back door.
Agent Towers composed a text, alerting his girlfriend that he would be home later tonight. He had just hit the send button when he caught movement out of his peripheral vision in the passenger-side rear view mirror. Before it even registered that a dark-skinned man wearing a Flyers hoodie and a Phillies cap had slipped up behind his vehicle, the rear passenger door opened and a black pistol was pointing at his head. The man climbed in, the gun never wavering.
“Drive, just up there. Turn left and stop,” the gunman ordered, his voice heavily accented, gesturing with the gun to a narrow side street running off of Fayette, which cut between two rows of townhomes, connecting to the alley behind the residences.
Even with the baseball hat and dark shades, Barry recognized Musa Khan, fear bubbling in his gut. How had he managed to sneak up on me? The FBI agent was unable to move, stunned by what was happening in his vehicle. Towers glanced over at the walkie-talkie laying on the passenger seat.
Suddenly, something sharp pricked him on the back of the head while the cold metal of the pistol pressed into his right ear.
“I said, ‘Drive!’ Go now or I will kill you where you sit.”
“Okay, okay, I’m going,” the young man stammered, his hands shaking as he turned the key in the ignition.
“Don’t try anything,” the figure behind him snarled, again pressing the point of a knife against his skull, drawing blood.
It was just two hundred feet up to where East Johnson Street cut between the homes, dead ending twenty-five yards down. Towers’ mind was spinning for a solution. He had only been an FBI agent for two years, remembering nothing in his training to prepare him for this. Khan sensed his hesitation at the left turn, giving him another slight jab with the knife.
Barry turned onto the short street, glancing again at the walkie-talkie, slowly moving his right hand off of the steering wheel, back towards his side where his Glock was holstered. Another poke to the back of the head caused him to cry out in pain.
“Put it in park, turn off the car, and keep your hands on the wheel.”
After he had complied, Khan spoke again, �
�Who are you?”
“Special Agent Towers, FBI,” his voice squeaking as he answered.
“FBI? What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” Barry answered, truthfully. “Look, this isn’t going to help anything. We can…”
“Silence!” the terrorist snarled, pressing the sharp blade against the base of his skull. “So, you were looking for me? Well, now you’ve found me. The question is, what are you going to do with me, Agent Towers?”
“Morris to Towers?” A woman’s voice suddenly spoke through the walkie talkie on the passenger seat.
For a slight instant, Musa glanced away, looking towards the radio. Barry felt the pressure of both the knife and the pistol lift off of him and he grabbed for the door handle in an attempt to escape. He threw himself forward out of reach of the knife and pulled back on the latch.
Khan fired the FN pistol from a distance of three feet, the 5.7x28mm round striking the FBI agent in the back of the head. The small, high-velocity bullet exploded the fed’s skull, splattering the door and window with blood and gore. Towers’ weight carried him forward, however, and his lifeless body fell against the door, pushing it open. He slumped onto the pavement, facedown, his legs still in the vehicle.
“Morris to Towers, you there? My ETA’s about two.”
Musa glanced around the interior of the Suburban. A manila folder was tucked behind the driver’s visor. He reached over the seat, grabbed the folder, and looked outside. There were no witnesses that he could see and the killer quickly tucked his knife and pistol into his pants, under the hoodie.
The Pakistani walked briskly up East Johnson Street for a hundred yards before turning to the left and working his way over three blocks to where he had left his rental car on Gilbert Street. After getting into the vehicle, he removed his ball cap and hoodie. When he checked himself in the mirror, Musa observed a few drops of blood on his face. He used the hoodie to wipe off the FBI agent’s blood. The assassin then drove west for fifteen minutes, wanting to get out of the immediate area.
