by Richard Bard
“The general consensus from my higher-ups is that you’re not one of the good guys,” Doc had said. “And the few that know better still won’t rest until they get a closer look at what’s in Alex’s head. I’m doing everything I possibly can to force the truth down their throats and change people’s minds. But it’s a slow process, Jake, so we’ve still got a long way to go before you’ll stop having to look over your shoulder. In the meantime, there’s a lot of guys like Sam who are willing to stand up for you.”
There’d been three of Tony’s SWAT buddies in the hangar as well. They’d affirmed they weren’t the only LAPD cops who’d step up if called. The three cops had taken Alex under their protection, and were now en route to Simi Valley. Once again, Tony had pulled through for him. He sat on Jake’s right, carrying the same model M249 SAW—squad automatic weapon—the mercs in Brazil had carried. It was Tony’s weapon of choice these days, and Jake was glad he’d brought it along.
“Anyone else smellin’ smoke?” Tony’s voiced squawked over his headset. Two of the SEALs nodded, and Jake noticed the smell, too.
“Looks like forest fires on the ridgeline ahead,” the copilot reported. “Got a couple firefighter water scoopers on course for the lake. Skirting east around them. Six minutes to Target Bravo.”
Target Bravo was the GPS location of the burner phone Sarafina had used to call Marshall. Jake had taken off on this mission with the intent of exploring the ranch Marshall had identified as possibly being associated with that morning’s terrorist attacks. The ranch had been designated Target Alpha. It had been a thin lead, but when Marshall had explained his logic regarding the duplicate drones, and that other drones were secreted in the forest around the lodge, Jake suspected Marshall was right. But it hadn’t been until fifteen minutes ago that he’d known for certain, when he’d finally taken the time to watch the rest of the terrorist leader’s televised speech that had preceded the attacks.
Jake had already watched various views of the attacks posted by users on YouTube; the team had watched them together in the helicopter using one of the men’s smartphones. But Jake had not watched the end of the speech until a short while ago. He’d been stunned by the terrorist’s final words in Dari. Jake recalled the speech Luciano Battista had laid on him as justification for his own agenda of terror. When the man from this morning’s broadcast recited the same inscription from the cavern wall, Jake had known the same Afghan tribe that had wanted to decimate Americans—and him—was back to finish the job.
They’d tried and failed at the lodge to kill Francesca and his friends, but now they presumably had Ahmed, and Sarafina may have lost her life while trying to tail them.
The copilot’s voice sounded in Jake’s headset. “Eyes on Target Bravo. Two minutes out. The area is scorched, and the prevailing winds have pushed the flames northward. There’s a much larger fire four miles further up. It coincides with Alpha’s location.”
Jake craned his neck to look outside. He spotted the fire north of Sarafina’s last known position, and an all too familiar fear gnawed at his insides. Traveling at over two hundred knots, their helicopter streaked past a string of emergency vehicles heading in their same direction.
“Get us down to that site before the firefighters and that ambulance show up,” Jake said into his microphone. He couldn’t afford to be held up by authorities who recognized either him or Tony.
“Roger that.”
Two minutes later the helicopter’s searchlight spotted the Alfa Romeo. It was upside down in a culvert. Flames licked at the tires, and smoke drifted from its charred remains. An old pickup truck was parked nearby, and an elderly woman standing beside it waved her hands back and forth.
“Get me down there!” Jake shouted, sliding open the side door.
The chopper dropped fast, and Jake was out the door before the aircraft settled on the ground. Tony was right behind him. The two raced toward the upturned car as the SEALs set up a perimeter.
“The fire was too hot!” the woman beside the pickup yelled from across the road. “I couldn’t bear to look.”
They skipped across scorched earth and slid down the short embankment to the car. Jake dove onto his belly and scrambled to look underneath the overturned convertible.
“She’s not here,” he said, jumping to his feet. He forced himself to control his breathing.
“Thank God,” Tony said.
Sam and one of the SEALs stood above the embankment. Sam aimed a powerful flashlight up and down the culvert. “Check west,” he ordered. “I’ll go east.” The SEAL split off with his own flashlight, and Sam pushed in the opposite direction.
“Movement!” Someone shouted from out of view. “Across the road.”
Jake and Tony clambered up the slope and raced in that direction. Two of the SEALs took knees with their weapons aimed toward the shadows.
“Dad?” Sarafina’s voice called out. “Is that you?”
Jake spun around, unable to find his voice.
Tony bellowed, “Damn straight it is, girl. Come out of there!”
Sarafina rose from where she’d been crouched in the trees. She limped into view. Jake raced over and wrapped her in his arms. “Thank God, honey. I was so worried.”
Words spilled from her. “I was following them. They shot a rocket or something. I saw the drone at the last second. I swerved. There was an explosion. Fire. The car f-flipped. I barely made it out.” Her voice cracked.
“It’s okay. I’m here now.”
“I heard your helicopter. I had to hide. I was afraid it was them.”
“You did good.”
“Daddy, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have let Ahmed go.”
“Time to go,” Sam said, pointing at the lights from the approaching firetrucks. He circled his hand over his head. “Mount up.”
“Are you okay to walk?” Tony asked.
“Well, my knee…sure—”
“Never mind that. I’ve got you.” Jake swept her into his arms.
“Wait!” she said. “We’ve got to get my phone. It was on the passenger seat in the car.”
Tony said, “Don’t worry. We’ll get you a new phone.”
“You don’t understand. We need that phone. I took a video of the vehicles when they left. All of them.”
“We’re on it,” Sam said. He and two of the SEALs raced back to the convertible.
Jake smiled at his daughter. “Smart girl. I’m proud of you.”
“Not mad?”
“Oh, hell, yes I’m mad. But I’m still proud of you.”
Ignoring the curious looks from the old woman, Jake jogged toward the helicopter. Sarafina squeezed her arms around his neck. “I knew you’d come, Dad,” she whispered. “I just knew it. Now we’ve just got to find Ahmed.”
His gut tightened.
After they settled into their seats, Sam and the two SEALs rejoined them, and the helicopter lifted off. Sam held up Sarafina’s charred cell phone. “It’s toast.”
Tony grinned. “To you and me, it’s toast. But to our buddy Marshall, it’s a jelly-filled pastry just waiting to give up its tasty secrets.” He took the phone and dropped it into one of his pockets.
Three minutes later the helicopter was hovering over Target Alpha.
“Smithereens is the word that comes to mind,” Tony said over the headset as they circled the scene. Just like the car crash site, the winds had pushed the fire to the north, but the structures that had once made up the terrorist headquarters were nothing but smoking embers.
“No sign of life on night vision or IR,” the copilot reported.
“Let’s head for the ranch in Simi Valley,” Jake said into his microphone. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”
Except pray Sarafina is correct in assuming the men in the vans took Ahmed.
Chapter 28
Warehouse in Carson, California
FARHAD FUMED OVER THE TRAITOR’S ESCAPE. The boy Ahmed had been brave; he’d give him that. Clever en
ough to take out his lifelong friend, Latif, but not so clever as to escape a knife to his own chest. Farhad stroked the empty sheath at his waist. The ancient blade had been passed from father to son for three generations, and he bemoaned its loss.
“It served its purpose,” Hadi said. They were leaning on the rail of a metal walkway overlooking a warehouse space, where the three vans and the command truck were parked. They watched as the team applied labels and logos to the vehicles, changing their appearance for the next day’s attack. The warehouse was located in an industrial area in Carson, less than seven miles from their target.
“Do you think he survived?” Farhad asked.
“The boy is surely dead. If the knife didn’t kill him outright, then the headfirst fall out of a speeding vehicle would have finished the job. Worst case, he’s a vegetable.”
“On the other hand, I think the girl survived the car crash.”
“Likely so, unfortunately. But what does she know? She never saw our faces and the vehicles will be unrecognizable.” As an added precaution, each of the teams had pulled off the freeway at various locations and swapped out the license plates. After that, each had taken a different route to the warehouse. No one had followed.
Farhad nodded. Bronson and his younger son had slipped from their grasp, and now that the lodge and its surveillance tools had been destroyed, Farhad’s team no longer had the means to gather intelligence on the American’s location. The last they’d learned was that Bronson was en route to their destroyed facility, and the little boy was being taken to a safe house somewhere. The only thread that still dangled was mention of the Chinese monk who by now should have landed at LAX with something of great value.
Farhad called down to the warehouse. “Any word?”
Tarik waved a hand and tucked his head into the command truck. He stepped back out and nodded. “Jamal said they just arrived.”
A minute later Farhad and Hadi were standing behind Jamal and Ghazi at the console. They both wore headsets. The wall screens were switched on, two displaying different angles of a large crowd around the exit from the customs area in the LAX international terminal. There were families, porters, and well-dressed drivers holding signs over their heads. “Those are the camera feeds from Pirooz and Amir,” Jamal said. Pirooz was outfitted with a head-mounted optical display, disguised as tinted eyeglasses, and Amir wore a cap with a similar hidden camera embedded in the Lakers logo above its brim. Each had disguised his features with facial hair and theatrical makeup.
“Mohammed is stationed outside,” Ghazi said, indicating a third screen with a view of the curb where passengers were catching rides.
Ghazi glanced up at a screen that showed the passport photo of the monk. It had taken little time for Jamal to hack into Cathay Pacific’s network to gain access to the flight manifest and travel docs. The intelligence gathered from Marshall’s not-so-secret tablet conversations had revealed the monk was traveling under a false name as Zhang Wei, and the passport photo of the fifty-year-old Chinese man with the bald pate would make him easy to single out.
“Any sign of Bronson or the big cop?” Farhad asked.
Jamal shook his head. “Nor of the wife and the others.” There was acid in his tone. They all hoped the trio had been burned to a crisp at the lodge, but they hadn’t been able to confirm it. If not, one of them could show at the airport to pick up the monk. Either way, the team was well able to handle them.
“There!” Ghazi said, standing up to point out a passenger who’d just passed through the exit. He spoke into his headset. “Amir, blue suit and roller bag. Stay on him.” The image squared on the man, and Ghazi zoomed in with his joystick. The monk’s suit and roller bag contrasted with the ancient-looking leather satchel hanging from his shoulder. He didn’t walk; he glided. But his serene expression was marred by the calculating manner in which his eyes seemed to take in the entire space all at once.
Farhad grabbed a headset and plugged it into the console. “Stay on him but don’t take him yet. Mohammad, remain outside. They could be waiting for him in a vehicle.” The screen depicting the curbside view panned along the line of cars. There were a lot of people about, both inside and out, but no sign of Bronson or the others.
Hadi said, “Do you see the way the monk is clasping that leather bag? He’s guarding it. Whatever he’s brought of value is in there.”
Farhad nodded. The monk strode through the crowd and stopped to look around. When he didn’t see anyone he recognized, he stepped outside, glanced up and down the line of cars, and checked his cell phone. After a moment, he went back inside and headed for a restroom.
Hadi grinned. “Allah be praised.”
Farhad activated his microphone. “Move in. Take him in the men’s room. Your target is the leather satchel, but take the roller bag as well. Remember, it needs to appear like he simply fainted, so don’t kill him unless it’s absolutely necessary. But don’t leave without that satchel.”
Mohammad joined the others inside. Three jostling camera views converged to follow the monk into the restroom.
There was a man and a young boy washing their hands, but neither paid attention to the newcomers. The monk parked his roller bag by the wall. He stepped up to a urinal, and Amir’s camera angle showed Mohammad and Pirooz sauntering into position on either side of him. They kept their gazes straight, leaning forward as they pretended to do their business. Behind them, Amir’s view shifted back and forth to confirm nobody was watching, and then it focused on the back of the monk’s head. Amir’s right hand snapped into view, holding a hypodermic needle. He jabbed it into the man’s neck and pressed the plunger.
All three camera views went crazy.
Farhad leaned in, trying to make sense of what was happening. The monk had reacted violently, his body spinning, his arms flashing. First Amir was on the ground, and then Mohammed’s face crashed into a urinal and his camera blacked out. Pirooz had an arm locked around the monk’s neck one moment, the room was spinning topsy-turvy the next. Pirooz’s view jerked hard when he hit the floor, showing the feet of the man and boy scampering toward the exit. By then Amir was back up. He charged and shoved the monk into a stall. The powerful drug finally took hold, and the monk seemed to still.
“Grab the bags and get out of there!” Farhad ordered. Amir ripped the leather satchel from the monk’s shoulder. When Amir spun around, Mohammed had retrieved the roller bag and Pirooz had pushed to his feet. They straightened themselves up, spaced out their departures, and walked casually away in three different directions.
***
Los Angeles International Airport
Moments earlier
“We’re late,” Lacey said, faking a sneeze so she could scratch her real nose underneath the prosthetic one. Pete had finally made it through traffic to a nearby hotel, where Lacey and Skylar had grabbed an Uber to the international terminal. Lacey was done up as an older schoolteacher, complete with an age-blemished face, bifocals, and graying hair in a bun. She shuffled with a stoop as they entered the waiting area outside customs.
“Don’t worry. He’ll still be here,” Skylar said, panning the crowd. “It’s not as if he would know where to go otherwise, Grandma.”
“Can that crap right now, girly. And what the hell is it about this damn nose you fitted me with? It itches like crazy.”
“New brand of latex adhesives. Sorry about that.”
“Hold on.” Lacey gestured toward the other end of the lobby. “That’s him heading into the restroom. With the silver roller bag.”
“You sure?”
“I’d know that face anywhere. He saved our lives. It’s him.”
“Cool,” Skylar said. They set off.
Half a minute later, they were waiting outside the restroom when a man and a boy rushed out like the place was on fire.
“Something spooked them,” Skylar whispered.
“I’m going in.”
Skylar grabbed her arm. “Wait.”
A young traveler
strolled out the door, followed shortly by two others who stepped off in a different direction. Their casual demeanor seemed forced, and it made the hairs on the back of Lacey’s neck stand up.
Lacey maintained her composure, offering a motherly smile as the first man brushed past her. Two beats later she and Skylar stepped into the men’s restroom and rushed to the stalls where Little Star was staggering to his feet. There was a half-filled hypo on the floor.
“Are you okay?” Skylar asked.
“Y-yes,” he said with a frown. “I’ll be…Skylar?”
“You bet. And this old lady is Lacey.”
His mouth twitched upward while his body swayed like he’d had too much to drink. When he reached for his shoulder, he frowned. He glanced around the room. “They took my bag. We must retrieve it. At all costs. Go quickly. I’ll be fine.” He steadied himself on a sink, blinking rapidly. “Go!”
Lacey was first out the door, her mind racing to the three men she’d seen earlier. Only one of them had been pulling a suitcase. He’d been heading toward the south exit. “That way,” she said, hurrying in that direction. She pointed. “There. The young guy with the roller bag.”
“Got him. Remember that scene we did at the Parthenon? Get behind him and follow my lead.”
Skylar was out of earshot before Lacey could reply. Her stunt double raced out the nearest exit and disappeared. Lacey closed the distance between her and the man with the bag. People stared at the elderly lady who seemed to me moving faster than her age should allow, but her prey paid no notice to the mild commotion behind him. She slowed right before catching up to the man at the exit. The sliding glass door whooshed open. As the man walked outside, Skylar stepped in front of him with her face in her smartphone. The man tried to avoid her, but Skylar yelped and their legs got tangled. She went down hard, clasping his arm. He released the roller bag to catch her. Lacey grabbed the handle and slipped back inside, smiling when she heard Skylar spew the same lines Lacey had used in the film.
