“We should be touching down at Ramstein in about four and a half hours, sir.”
“How is Henning holding up?” Joshua asked Steel, nodding his head in the direction of the unmoving dignitary who lay prone in one of the corners of the plane.
“He took one hell of a beating, but he’ll live. They must have doped him up with something good because he’s still knocked out, which is probably for the best, given his injuries.”
Joshua’s eyes darted away from Richard Henning, looking around the plane at his men. All in all, it had been a good hostage rescue.
No fatalities reported on his team, and Jax’s injury shouldn’t be permanent—though it was clear that he would be in traction for a while. Despite the overall success of the operation, however, Joshua still had a nagging feeling of unease. He leaned back in his seat on the plane, tried to focus on the positives of the assignment, and settled down for the short trip to Germany.
Chapter Two
Miranshah, Pakistan
A
dib Malook smiled to himself, looking around his expansive dining room. He was living a life of luxury. He had the type of life that some people could only dream about. He and his family lived in a large home by Pakistani standards. His home had ten rooms and featured many comfortable amenities, such a flat screen television and a microwave.
Everyone assumed that during his fifty-three-years on Earth, through hard work and determination he had managed to amass a fortune. However, in actuality, the heavens had smiled on Malook a lot earlier and his path to riches had been a lot easier. He had been born into extreme wealth.
Malook had grown up in the capital city of Riyadh to a family that owned and controlled five percent of the oil reserves in the Eastern Province of Saudi Arabia. He had moved to Pakistan five years earlier, with his three wives and children in order to fulfill his religious duty.
It had been a fateful trip to Afghanistan ten years ago that had solidified his religious imperative. Malook’s family was ethnic Punjabi and had lived in Afghanistan for centuries. His ancestors had emigrated from Afghanistan to Saudi Arabia in the early Twentieth century and were still devout Sunni Muslim.
During his trip to Afghanistan in 2002, he had seen firsthand the destruction caused by de-unification of the major ethnic groups in the country. He had also seen the deplorable way that the Shi’as were treating his Sunni brethren. While he was there, members of his same Sunni Muslim sect were bombed in a well-known Sunni marketplace in the Punjab district—killing fifty civilians. A Shi’ite group had taken the credit for the bombing, allegedly in retaliation for a previous Sunni attack on one of their mosques.
After witnessing this tragedy, Malook had come to the realization that the two religious sects would only be able to subsist together if they were able to unify against a common enemy. The most obvious common enemy, of course, was the infidels who were attempting to deplete his home country of its highly desirable natural resources.
Shortly after his trip to Afghanistan, he had connected with other individuals who shared his same fundamentalist interpretation of Islam. It was through these initial, individual contacts that the Haqqai network had been born. Now with considerable monetary backing from an unlikely source, the group was all that more close to gaining a stronghold in the region.
Malook understood that there would be doubters who would characterize his actions as those of a lunatic and who would denounce the tactics that he was willing to use to reach his goals. However, Malook believed that his end goal justified the means. He and his cohorts were more than willing to do whatever was necessary to make sure that their mission succeeded.
He looked up from his musings as one of the ornate eight-foot-tall wooden doors that separated the kitchen from the sitting room as his assistant Mansour scampered in.
“The Congressman is gone, sir.”
Malook immediately pulled his attention away from his morning breakfast of dates, Shashukah—a traditional Islamic egg dish—, and nan bread. “What do you mean he’s gone,” he asked with a disconcerting calmness.
“The Americans. They raided our facilities in Karak earlier this morning sir, most of our men who were there guarding the facility are dead sir… and the Congressman was taken.”
Malook stared at his most trusted aid and carefully lowered his knife and fork back down to his plate.
Malook had known Mansour since he was eight years old. Malook’s family had employed Mansour’s father as a gardener. Later, they had hired Mansour to become his servant. Mansour was probably the closest thing to a true friend that Malook had in his life. Mansour and Malook were complete opposites from each other in both physical stature and worldly station.
While Mansour was thin and pale almost to the point of looking ill, Malook was swarthy and rotund. In addition, unlike Mansour, Malook had been born into a rich Saudi family. Malook could afford a mansion filled with the most expensive luxuries. However, what the two men did have in common was their devotion to their specific interpretation of Islam.
Malook threw an irritated glance at his third wife and she knew immediately to escort herself and their six children out of the dining hall, closing the large wooden doors behind her.
“How did this happen? I gave you at least thirty men to guard one lone American, and you couldn’t even get that right without screwing it up? At the very least, did we get the information from him that we needed?” Malook asked with a lethal coldness as he rose from the dining table.
Mansour stepped further back toward the wall. “A million apologies, sir. It appears that the Americans sent in one of their Special Forces units to conduct a night raid to recover the Congressman. The American infidels took over the compound in under six minutes. By the time that one of our reinforcement crews arrived, they had already taken off. Unfortunately, our men had not finished questioning him.”
“This incredible show of ineptitude is completely unacceptable. You are pushing me to the edge of my patience. Leave my presence at once. I will speak with you again later,” Malook frowned at his assistant whose face was turning an interesting shade of grey. Mansour quickly bowed his head slightly and then walked from the room, once again closing the doors behind him.
After a few minutes, Malook moved over to his study. The large room served as his office/library and was located just off the gourmet kitchen in the east wing of the house. Once inside, he shut the door. He sat at his ornate cherry stained wooden desk and opened up a decanter of brandy—pouring a healthy portion for himself.
After throwing back a large gulp, he placed the phone call that he was dreading to make. He drummed his fingers on the corner of the desk nervously. An older, craggy voice answered the phone on the second ring.
“Henning was rescued last night by a special operations force sent in by the United States,” Malook proceeded immediately with the news.
There was a long moment of silence before the man spoke. “Well, that wasn’t necessarily unexpected now was it?” the seemingly magnanimous voice on the other end replied.
“No, but we did not anticipate that the Americans would find his location quite so soon. We were unable to finish the questioning,” Malook continued.
“This situation is not ideal. Nevertheless, think of it as only a minor deviation from our goals—a lost opportunity. It was mere coincidence that Henning made his goodwill tour to the Middle East when he did. But, we have important contacts within Henning’s organization that I’m sure will prove useful once he returns back to the United States.”
“Excellent, sir. Do you think that we will have enough time?”
“This is a setback, but we should be able to correct it without too much delay, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir. Good sir.”
“Oh and Adib … keep in mind that we all have a lot to lose if we do not follow through with our plan this time—some of us more than others. No more mistakes.”
“Yes sir,” Malook replied as the phone call disconnected. His
hands shook as he hung up the phone.
Chapter Three
Dallas, Texas
One Day Later
V
ictoria Sanchez rapidly tapped her manicured fingers against her steering wheel. It was close to nine at night and she was sitting alone in her car outside of a rundown apartment complex in West Dallas. It was burning hot outside still, so she’d cracked her window a bit but she didn’t dare to roll it down all the way.
West Dallas was an area that was composed of a multitude of communities bordered by I-30 to the south and Trinity River on the east and north. Singleton Boulevard was a street in West Dallas that was located in the Singleton Industrial District.
The apartment complex that she was lurking outside of was in a particularly seedy part of town on Singleton Boulevard. She was alone—except for the “corner boys” who had taken up spots on either side of the street.
Despite recent revitalization efforts, this part of West Dallas had remained a hodgepodge of vacant buildings, low-income wood-frame homes, heavy industrial complexes, with a smattering of small mom-and-pop stores. After night fell, this neighborhood and surrounding areas became just as dangerous as any large city could be, such as Chicago or Detroit.
It would be a miracle if she weren’t carjacked for her nine thousand dollar Volkswagen Passat or worse. The can of pepper spray that she had tucked into her purse was only a cold comfort. If something went down, the cell phone that she always kept inside her purse would be of more use.
Normally, Victoria wouldn’t have set up a meeting in this neighborhood so late in the evening. Tonight, she hadn’t had a choice. The shooting victim’s mother, Nina Ortiz, had only been able to meet with Victoria after her evening shift at a local restaurant. Therefore, Victoria had scheduled the meeting at night, one of the worst times to be gallivanting around this part of town.
About a month ago, the Dallas Police Department had issued a statement about the recent murder of a young high school student, Antonio Ortiz. In the statement, the police spokesperson insinuated that the young man’s murder was related to the narcotics trade. That bit of information was not in and of itself surprising.
Drugs had somehow become woven into the fabric of American life. They were almost as American as rock-n-roll or apple pie. Drugs were an equal opportunity destroyer, so even though lower-economic classes may have felt the disproportionate burden of the drugs, higher social classes were not exempt from the ill effects of the drug trade.
What had originally grabbed Victoria’s attention about Antonio Ortiz’s murder was that it had come on the heels of another local drug-related killing. In the past few months, there had been a rash of drug related homicides, coupled with an influx of narcotics into the city. This increased flow of drugs just didn’t make sense because Homeland Security had beefed up the number of border patrol guards. The DEA had also been increasing their security efforts to monitor the nearly 2,000 square mile border.
Victoria got out of her car when she saw Ms. Ortiz walking down the street, approaching her apartment building. The older woman was in her mid-fifties and had black hair that was streaked with white. She wore it up in a bun and had on a waitress outfit with the logo of a local diner across the front.
“Ms. Ortiz,” Victoria called out, as the woman got closer to her on the sidewalk. Lifting her head up from the ground, Ms. Ortiz’s eyes locked with Victoria’s.
“Ms. Sanchez?” the woman asked, her voice slightly raised in pitch. Her lips were pinched together tightly, in a strained expression, and her eyes were bloodshot. She held on firmly to a brown purse that was draped over one of her shoulders.
“Yes, Ms. Ortiz. I’m Victoria Sanchez, crime columnist with the Dallas Star Gazette,” Victoria said as she stuck out her right hand before continuing, “Thank you very much for agreeing to speak with me.”
“Yes, well come in,” Ms. Ortiz said, leading the way up the concrete steps of the red brick, seven-story apartment building.
The apartment building hallway was dimly lit. There was only a small rectangular fluorescent ceiling light to illuminate the first floor. Walking past a small room with the word “OFFICE” imprinted on the window, the two women walked up the narrow stairway to the third floor.
Ms. Ortiz stopped in front of apartment number 312, pulled out a key, and opened the old wooden door. The door’s green paint exterior was chipping was chipping around the edges.
“Please, have a seat,” the woman gestured toward the small green loveseat situated in the center of the room. Victoria sat down while the other woman took off her black wind blazer jacket and locked her front door.
“Can I get you anything, water or tea?” the woman asked. Victoria shook her head in reply, her eyes watching the woman’s every move. Ms. Ortiz sat down across from her in a matching green armchair in the corner of the room. She stared back at Victoria, her hands tightly clasping one another.
“Ms. Ortiz do you mind if I record our conversation?” Victoria removed her tape recorder from her purse. The woman shook her head, indicating that Victoria could proceed with recording the interview.
“Ms. Ortiz, can you tell me more about your son, Antonio?”
A cheerless smile fell across the older woman’s face. “Antonio was a good boy. Mi solamente hijo. He wanted to become an engineer. He’s a straight A student.” Victoria didn’t comment on the woman’s use of both past and present tense in describing her son. It had been over a month since Antonio was shot to death, but Victoria could imagine that it would take a long time before the realization of her son’s passing would fully take effect.
“Here, I’ll show you,” the woman said before she got up from her armchair and walked over to a small table that she had set up in the living room that served as a vigil to her son. Several candles were lit around framed photographs of Antonio at various stages of his life. Picking up a photo, Nina Ortiz walked back over to Victoria and placed the photo into her hands.
“He’s a good boy,” Ms. Ortiz repeated while Victoria looked over the photo. It was a different photo from the one that had been splashed all over the local TV news in the days following the murder. The picture that Ms. Ortiz handed her was of a young boy, approximately five or six years old. Antonio had close cut brown hair, freckles, tanned skin and was grinning from ear-to-ear. He also had a gap in his front teeth where two teeth still needed to grow in.
“Ms. Ortiz, I know that this is a very difficult time for you. I can’t begin to understand what it’s like to lose a child,” Victoria started, “but there are some hard questions I need to ask you. The police seem to think that Antonio was involved in some sort of drug activity, which ultimately resulted in his death. Do you have any idea if there’s any truth to that claim?”
“No, my Antonio was a good boy!” Ms. Ortiz stated, her eyes narrowing with anguish and anger. “He wouldn’t do drugs. He knew firsthand how damaging drugs could be. We lost his father ten years ago because of his heroin addiction. No, Antonio had never even tried alcohol, let alone any drugs.”
“Did Antonio get into any trouble at school prior to the shooting that may have indicated that he was acting out for some reason?”
“No, of course not. He was a very kind boy and an honor roll student. He never got into any type of trouble. He even tutored other classmates in Calculus two days a week after school.”
“To your knowledge, had Antonio made any new friends that he was spending time with prior to his death? Maybe someone that he shouldn’t have been hanging out with?”
“No. He still had his same friends from primary school.”
“Who were his best friends?”
“Well, Antonio was a very nice boy. He had many friends. I guess he did have two friends that he was very close to: Kevin Frasier and Lou Kinley. They’ve known each other since the first grade.”
Ms. Ortiz spent the next thirty minutes telling Victoria stories about Antonio when he was a very young child. It was obvious that Nina Ortiz loved her
son very much and was still wracked with grief. It was also clear that given how close she had been to her son, she might not be the best person to give an objective view of his activities during the last few weeks of his life. After all, Ms. Ortiz’s mind’s eye still seemed to see her son as a young child instead of the seventeen-year-old boy that he had been when he died.
Glancing at her watch, Victoria saw that it was close to 10 p.m. Victoria stood up to leave, saying, “Thank you very much for your time, Ms. Ortiz. You’ve been extremely helpful. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss. Here’s my business card in case you remember something else later that may be important.”
“Ms. Sanchez, there is one other thing that you should know.” Victoria stopped in her tracks and turned back around a few feet from the doorway.
“What’s that, Ms. Ortiz?”
“A few months before my Antonio was killed, he had started a new job.”
“A new job? Who was his employer?” It wasn’t uncommon for children in this area to take on odd jobs to help their families.
“He didn’t really give me the specifics. He said that he was just moving boxes for a local moving company I think.”
That was a little out of the ordinary. Usually, businesses could afford to hire official moving companies in order to move out medium-large shipments. And it was unlikely that Antonio would have been able to apply for a CDL license, which was needed to operate a commercial truck.
“Did Antonio have his own vehicle?”
“No, not on his own. He was saving up to buy one.”
“Did he ever borrow your car for his job?”
“I don’t have a car. I have not been able to afford one. But, Antonio would sometimes borrow his Uncle Romero’s—his father’s brother—pickup truck.”
“Do you know if Antonio spoke to his uncle about his new job?”
Pushed to the Edge (SEAL Team 14) Page 2
