The Damaged

by Brett Battles

“You should have joined us. We found a place about a half kilometer from here that had great feijoada. I can tell you how to get there if you want.”

  “That’s all right. I’m going to get something down the block.”

  “Your loss. Think I’ll go up and hit the sack.”

  “Me, too,” Ortega said.

  “Sleep well,” Quinn said. “See you in the morning.”

  They headed to the elevator and Quinn went outside, glad his concern about Durrie’s drinking had proven untrue.

  He had the sudden urge to call Orlando and give her another update on Durrie. He even went so far as to slip his hand into his pocket, but he let go of his phone before he could pull it out, knowing the real reason he’d be calling was to hear her voice.

  And that would be disrespectful to both her and Durrie. Granted, neither would ever suspect the actual reason behind his call, but Quinn would know and that was enough.

  He ate quickly and returned to the hotel. The door between his and the others’ room was closed and all was quiet. He sat down at the desk and started going over the plans again. At 11:06 p.m. Juarez sent him a text.

  El-Baz is airborne. Seven others in his group, plus two pilots.

  Unless the plane headed somewhere unexpected, it appeared the mission was officially on.

  Durrie stopped talking the moment he heard the door to Quinn’s room open. He moved quietly over to their shared doorway, and listened as Quinn walked through his room. A squeak of what sounded like a chair being moved, and afterward only the occasional clicks from a keyboard.

  Durrie returned to his bed, sat down, and whispered to Ortega, “Run through it one more time.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”

  “Do it.”

  “Okay, okay. I drive us to the port and park. You and Quinn exit and head to the building where you’re supposed to wait. As soon as you’re out of sight, I send the text, then I get out.”

  “Keep going,” Durrie said.

  Ortega took a breath and continued until Durrie was satisfied.

  Chapter Twenty

  THURSDAY

  APPROXIMATELY THIRTEEN HOURS UNTIL OPERATION REDEEMER

  DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF CONGO

  At ten a.m. local time—six a.m. in Rio—the freelance watchers observing the private airfield just outside Kinshasa sent a text to the team in Rio.

  The Falcon has landed

  They monitored the aircraft as it taxied to the small hangar at the side of the landing strip, where it was met by a fuel truck. As service to the plane began, El-Baz and his men exited and boarded two waiting Range Rovers. The SUVs then headed down the only road leading away from the field.

  After a nod from Watcher 1, Watcher 2 hurried over to the pair of motorcycles they’d arrived on, climbed on his bike, and took off in pursuit of the SUVs.

  Watcher 2 followed the Range Rovers at a safe distance. Not surprisingly, the SUVs headed toward the city, allowing Watcher 2 to gradually decrease the gap between them. Before long he was only a handful of car lengths away.

  As the city closed in around them, the SUVs stuck to the main road for about fifteen minutes before turning into a rundown neighborhood. There, the vehicles turned every few blocks, making them trickier to follow. If not for the fact the Range Rovers hadn’t increased their speed, the watcher would have wondered if he had been spotted and the serpentine path was a ploy to lose him. Even then, he couldn’t help but check over his shoulder a few times to make sure a third vehicle wasn’t sneaking up behind him.

  Deep into the new neighborhood, the SUVs finally stopped in front of a row of shops, several of which had yet to open for the day. Each shop had painted its storefront a different color—purple or red or yellow or green or blue.

  A passenger door on the front SUV opened, and one of El-Baz’s people stepped out and entered an orange-fronted shop with a sign in the window reading PTISSERIES DE KETIA. The man remained inside for nearly two minutes before opening the door again and waving once at the SUVs. The remaining men, including El-Baz, piled out and entered the bakery.

  While it was possible El-Baz just happened to be a fan of the shop’s pain au chocolat, the watcher was no idiot and had no doubt something more sinister was going down inside.

  He reported what he’d witnessed back to Watcher 1, then sent his partner a picture of the location to be forwarded to the powers that be. They undoubtedly would want to give the business a closer look.

  The meeting lasted over an hour. By the time the SUVs returned to the airfield—with the watcher still following—it was ten minutes past noon.

  “Anything else interesting come up?” Watcher 1 asked.

  Watcher 2 shook his head. “Just a straight trip back here.”

  At the airfield, El-Baz’s group reboarded the aircraft and the plane taxied to the end of the runway. As soon as the jet was in the air, Watcher 1 fired off another next.

  The Falcon wheels up. Good luck.

  USA

  Fifteen minutes later, a second text went out. This one from an analyst working at the NSA Black Box outside Washington, DC.

  Satellite confirmation. Jet on a west-southwest heading over Atlantic, on course for Rio.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  RIO DE JANEIRO

  Quinn donned a light blue windbreaker and zipped it closed, covering most of the black, long sleeve T-shirt he wore underneath. Over his black jeans, he pulled on gray sweatpants, then slipped into a pair of off-white Converse high tops. Finally, he pulled on a New York Yankees baseball cap and a pair of black, thick-framed glasses.

  He checked himself in the mirror and nodded, satisfied. It wasn’t the best disguise he’d ever worn, but that wasn’t the point of the outfit. Its job was merely to ensure that, if things went awry, no one would report seeing anyone wearing all black leaving the building.

  He grabbed his small duffel off the bed and knocked on the adjoining door.

  “It’s unlocked,” Ortega called.

  Quinn opened the door and stepped into the room shared by the rest of his team. Ortega was standing near the window, dressed in a similar fashion to Quinn.

  Quinn raised an eyebrow, silently asking about Durrie.

  Ortega nodded his chin toward the bathroom. Seconds later, the sound of a flushing toilet was followed by running water and Durrie exiting.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Angel was hogging the bathroom earlier.”

  “No worries,” Quinn said. “Everyone ready?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Ortega replied.

  “Let’s do this,” Durrie said.

  Quinn handed out the comm gear. Once they all had their earpieces on, he led his team down to the lobby.

  “You’re up,” Quinn said to Ortega.

  Ortega grinned and headed out the front door, while Quinn and Durrie followed at a more leisurely pace. By the time the two cleaners reached the sidewalk, Ortega was halfway down the block, walking at a brisk—though not attention-gaining—pace.

  Quinn glanced at Durrie. His mentor was staring ahead, as if he had something on his mind.

  “You okay?” Quinn asked.

  There was the slightest of delays before Durrie looked over and smiled. “I’m good, Johnny. Don’t worry. You can count on me.”

  “I know I can,” Quinn said, believing Durrie’s words more than he would have two days earlier.

  A click came over the comm, followed by, “Ortega for Quinn.”

  “Go for Quinn.”

  Ortega was out of sight, having made a left turn at the upcoming intersection.

  “Area looks clear. I’m proceeding to the van.”

  “Copy.”

  When Quinn and Durrie reached the corner, they paused and turned to each other, just a couple of friends stopping mid-walk in conversation.

  “If you’ve got any questions,” Quinn said in a low voice, “now is as good a time as any to ask.”

  Durrie shook his head. “Like I said, Johnny, you don’t have to worry about me.
I’m as ready as I’ve ever been.”

  Quinn wasn’t so sure about that. Back in the day, no one knew the ins and outs of a job better than Durrie. But that said, Durrie had put in a good amount of prep work on this one. When they went over the plan one last time that morning, Durrie had all but led the session, reciting the smallest detail from memory.

  “After we finish, I’ll talk to Peter about that San Francisco job,” Quinn said. “As long as you’re still interested.”

  Durrie grinned. “Thanks. I’d really appreciate it.”

  “I’m always here for you. Whatever you need. I hope you know that.”

  “Oh, I do, Johnny. You are nothing if not reliable.”

  That wasn’t exactly the response Quinn was expecting, but before he could think about it too much, the comm crackled to life again.

  “Ortega for Quinn.”

  “Go for Quinn.”

  “Van’s clear. Come on down.”

  They headed to the port, Ortega behind the wheel, Quinn in the front passenger seat, and Durrie crouched in the space between them. In the back of the van were the two crates containing cleaning supplies and body bags that had arrived with them on the plane.

  The bags would be a temporary measure, of course, meant only to aid in transporting the dead from the scene of the takedown to the plane. Once the team transferred them to the jet, the dead men would be unwrapped and strapped into the seats.

  As for the cleaning solutions, if everything went the way Juarez planned, Quinn and his team wouldn’t have to crack open any but the mildest of solvents. The gas Juarez was going to use was odorless and invisible, and should quickly render El-Baz and his men unconscious. The ops team would then administer a lethal dose of Beta-Somnol beneath a toenail of each terrorist, theoretically finishing the job without a drop of blood being spilt. The only cleanup would be removing any fingerprints and hairs left behind by the victims and ops team.

  The long shadows of the late afternoon hung over the streets, causing the brake lights in the horrendous traffic to shine all the brighter.

  Quinn checked his watch. It was 6:23 p.m. He looked out the side window, toward Santos Dumont Airport, as if he might be able to pick out El-Baz’s jet on final approach.

  The traffic signal ahead changed to yellow. Ortega gunned the engine, rushing the van into the intersection a split second before the light turned red. The cars ahead of him, though, were at a dead stop, leaving him only enough room to get the front half of the van out of the intersection.

  A traffic cop, who’d been standing at the corner, strode into the road, blowing repeatedly on his whistle and motioning for Ortega to pull forward. But until everyone else started moving, the van wasn’t going anywhere.

  The cop continued toward them, his whistle working overtime. It wasn’t until he was a few meters away that he dropped the device from his lips and began yelling at them in Portuguese. Before he reached their vehicle, though, the line of traffic moved.

  Quinn watched the cop out of the side of his eye. For a moment, it looked as if the officer would still pursue them, probably to give them a ticket, but then he turned away as something else grabbed his attention.

  As soon as Quinn was sure they were safe, he turned to Ortega.

  Before he could say anything, Durrie spoke up, his voice terse. “Don’t ever do that again. If it’s turning yellow, you stop.”

  Ortega glanced over at Durrie and then at Quinn. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, be smart,” Durrie told him. “It’s the little things that can trip you up.”

  Quinn almost grinned at hearing two of Durrie’s favorite rules in the same breath.

  “It won’t happen again,” Ortega said.

  “That’s all we can ask.”

  While the smackdown had been vintage Durrie, it had ended in an uncharacteristically forgiving way. Quinn could not recall a single time Durrie had ever let him off the hook that easily back in his apprentice days.

  When they were a couple of blocks from the warehouse where the operation would occur, Quinn received a text from Juarez.

  Touchdown

  El-Baz looked out the window as his jet taxied toward a hangar north of the passenger terminal. He had never been to South America. It was a continent full of heretical Catholics, with few fellow Muslims to be found. The day would come, of course, when that would change, but he would leave that to others. He was more concerned about ridding the home of Islam of its Western influences. And that was the only reason for this trip. Tonight, he would be meeting with an arms merchant named Varela, to close a deal that would keep El-Baz’s organizations equipped with gear and ammunition for years to come.

  When the plane finally stopped, Omar Urabi, El-Baz’s chief of security, was the first off. The Falcon watched as Urabi and several members of the security detail thoroughly examined the waiting SUVs for bombs and tracking bugs.

  Upon his return, Urabi announced, “The vehicles are ready.”

  El-Baz stood and followed his protector down the stairs to the tarmac.

  The plan to take down El-Baz was hatched within a day after the source inside El-Baz’s organization informed his handlers in Washington about the meeting with Varela.

  The trick had been to arrange for Juarez instead of the arms dealer to be waiting for El-Baz at the meet location. This entailed a separate strike team intercepting Varela before he arrived at the site, and making sure he and his men had no chance to warn the Falcon.

  As El-Baz’s aircraft was making its final approach to Santos Dumont Airport, Varela, his two advisors, and his four-man security detail exited the Belmond Copacabana Palace Hotel through a side exit and hurried into a waiting van. When the vehicle pulled away from the hotel, a sedan containing two members of team Omega—the Varela strike team—followed. Two other Omega sedans kept pace with Varela’s vehicle, on the streets to either side.

  Seventeen minutes later, at approximately the same time El-Baz’s jet was taxiing to the hangar, Omega’s team leader radioed, “Omega Prime to Decoy Three.”

  “Go for Decoy Three.”

  “Target continuing on route Blue. Looks like you’re the winner.” The strike team had five separate decoy teams set up, covering all of Varela’s likely routes.

  “Copy. Decoy Three ready.”

  Pursuit continued for several minutes before Prime said, “Decoy Three, two minutes out.”

  “Copy, Omega Prime.”

  “Pursuit, reconfigure.”

  “Copy. Omega Two moving into point position,” the agent in one of the other sedans said.

  “Omega Three, flanking.” This from the third sedan.

  The intersection was only a kilometer from the port and had been chosen because of the large construction project in the area. Though work routinely continued until late in the night, on this evening, the construction personnel had been given a rare day off. This had been arranged thanks to a “problem” discovered during an inspection that morning.

  The area was lit up like it was still in operation, but the only workers present were the two members of Decoy Three, one sitting in the driver’s seat of a faded yellow earthmover, and the other standing nearby, holding a perforated metal pole with a stop sign reading PARE attached to the top. If one took a long look at the sign, he or she would notice it was not the normal shape, and instead looked more like a custom shade for a car window. It was, however, painted in a way to make that less obvious, something also helped by the twilight.

  “Thirty seconds,” Omega Prime said.

  The man with the sign looked down the road, searching for the van. The moment he saw it, he signaled his partner on the earthmover and stepped toward the road, affecting the persona of a bored construction worker nearing the end of a long day. He waved cars past him until there was only the sedan containing Omega Two between him and the van. He raised his free hand in the universal gesture for halt and turned the sign so that the drivers of the sedan and the van could read it. Both vehicles slowed to
a stop. A moment later, Omega Prime and Omega Three halted behind the van. The sign holder signaled to the earthmover that the road was clear.

  The construction vehicle rolled onto the asphalt, and lurched to a stop as its engine abruptly quit. The driver played with the controls as if trying to get the vehicle going again, then acted confused when the tractor “refused” to move.

  In perfect Brazilian Portuguese, the sign holder shouted, “What’s wrong?”

  The driver, also selected for his language skills, called back, “Something popped. I think it’s the shaft again.” He climbed off his seat, dropped to the ground, and leaned down to inspect the underside of his vehicle.

  Looking exasperated, the sign holder walked up to the sedan at the front of the line.

  “Sorry,” he said to the operative behind the wheel, still speaking Portuguese. “It should just be a few moments.”

  He proceeded to the van. The driver looked at him through the closed window, so he mimed for the guy to open it.

  The driver was one of Varela’s security men and seemed reluctant to do so. The faux road worker stepped right up and repeated the motion of winding down the window. Finally, the driver relented, lowering the glass halfway.

  The sign holder smiled. “I’m sorry, it’s just a small technical problem.” As he spoke, he turned the rod the sign was attached to, pointing the short barrel hidden inside it at the driver’s shoulder. “It should only be a few minutes at most.”

  The man looked at him, clearly not understanding anything the agent had said. The agent smiled, then with a timing he’d been perfecting over the last twenty-four hours, he depressed the button on the rod that fired the dart, while activating the disk he held in his other hand and tossing it into the van.

  The driver jerked as the dart embedded itself in his arm, but he passed out before he could make another move.