Tucked away in the dry land of a nestled suburban neighborhood was Captain Martinez’s family, which proved difficult to find. He had been injured during the raid that brought down Asgar’s strategic Mexican outpost, and no personal information had been recovered. Angela’s family, however, was out in the open, and Salah ordered a midnight raid on their home.
The kidnapping of an innocent American family gave Asgar credibility like no terrorist organization before ISIS. The Islamic State had infiltrated the United States, and it was about time the Americans learned the extent the power they had toyed with.
Sending a message of fear into the hearts of his enemies was one of Asgar’s specialties. Attack plans had been postponed as his team regrouped and further prepared for what they were destined to do: strike at the heart of the great Satan and exterminate as many infidels as they could.
From the precinct office, Angela watched in horror the video streaming on her supervisor’s office laptop. Her supervisor, Chief Milton Drake, was just as shocked as she was. The video was running on its own site, reached through an encrypted link sent to several top government officials by an unnamed source.
It was meant as a message—a warning—of just what the sleeper cells were capable of and the consequences for interfering with their actions.
According to the masked man in tan fatigues speaking to the camera, the reach of ISIS was immeasurable, throughout the world. To emphasize this claim, he spoke in a clear British accent from behind a kneeling man in an orange jumpsuit with a bag over his head.
The masked speaker towered over his captive and then pointed a knife at the camera. In the small, basement-like room, a black ISIS flag hung on the wall behind them. The man delivered a scripted tirade against the United States and a list of other enemy countries, declaring that ISIS would soon bring them all to their knees.
As she watched, standing behind Chief Drake, Angela felt sick and dizzy, barely able to stand. And when the captive’s face was revealed with a yank of the hood, she felt gravity pushing her to the floor, crushing her inside. The man in the jumpsuit had his hands tied behind his back, and a solemn, vacant stare on his face. He looked oddly similar to Doug. As she held on to her disbelief, the terrorist called her out by name, sending a deep-rooted chill down her spine and crippling her with fear.
“We have your husband, and we have your daughters. And if our demands are not met, they will receive a swift and brutal death,” he said.
She pulled her phone out, but it was dead. She grabbed the chief’s office phone and called Doug’s cell. After four rings, it went to voice mail. She immediately hung up and called again. Nothing.
“Are you sure that’s him?” Drake asked, gesturing to the man on the screen just before the feed went out.
“I... I don’t know,” she said, shaking.
The image had been clear. The pale, frightened face on the screen belonged to one man only: her husband.
She waited again as the phone rang and rang, going to voice mail, as it had before. She slammed the phone down and began to pace in frenzied circles. It was a little after nine in the morning. She was tired and ragged, just like her fellow border agents, who had been up all night as well. She had expected to wrap up her briefing with Chief Drake, go home, crawl into bed, and maybe sleep for the next two days. All of that, however, had changed in an instant.
Angela suddenly collapsed face-first onto the carpet, lost in a dizzying stupor, with the fading voice of Chief Drake calling out to her. Then everything went black, and for a moment, she was at peace.
Angela awoke in daze to find herself lying on a small vinyl couch in Chief Drake’s office with a blanket placed over her. Two paramedics stood over her, talking to each other, as sunlight beamed through the spaces between the blinds. She heard Chief Drake on the phone talking in a frenzy about terrorists and FBI support and everything Angela had hoped to step away from—at least for a day or two.
In her daze, a shattering recollection consumed her: Doug, Chassity, and Lisa—Angela’s entire life, everyone she loved the most was in jeopardy. It all started coming back. She jolted up and tossed the blanket off, startling the boyish-looking paramedic and his pony-tailed female partner.
The male paramedic tried to calm her down, holding out a water bottle. “Ma’am, please. You need to take it easy.”
She was too frightened to consider anything of the sort—despite her obvious weakness and ghost-like complexion.
“You’re dehydrated, and we need to get some fluids in you, pronto,” the female added in a motherly tone. She then reached into her medical kit and pulled out an IV bag, preparing to set it up and hook Angela to it.
Angela stood up, disregarding their concerned glances and trying not to give in to her faintness. Chief Drake looked up and covered the receiver on his phone.
“Agent Gannon. Please. We’re working the situation. Lie down and get some fluids in you.”
A strand of blonde hair fell across her face as she placed one hand on against the wall and turned to them. “If you think that I could rest right now, you’re out of your mind. Where is my husband? Where are my daughters?”
“The police have been called to your house, and they’re investigating right now,” Drake answered.
Angela covered her mouth, mortified. “I’ve got to go.” She pushed past the paramedics and tried to run out the door but lost her balance and nearly fell over herself in the process. Her hands hit the door as she stumbled, but she was only caught by the muscular arms of the male paramedic.
“Don’t worry, I got ya,” he said, lifting her.
She shook in his arms as she looked around the room in a panic. All their eyes watched her in concern. “I need to get home,” she said again.
“Please sit,” Chief Drake said. “You’re not going to get very far running on fumes.”
Something snapped in her—a primal rage that sent her rushing from the paramedic’s grip to Drake’s desk, where she slammed her fist on its mahogany surface. “Where’s my family?” she shouted.
Startled, Drake took a step back, holding the phone receiver on his shoulder. “I’m trying to find out, okay?”
She turned to flee the office, but the male paramedic again placed a hand on her shoulder, urging her to sit.
The chief was more direct. “If you don’t calm down, you’re going to the hospital. Now take the IV, and I’ll explain everything that I can.”
She nodded and slowly sat as the female paramedic took her arm and inserted the needle into her wrist with deft precision and then secured it with tape and blue gauze. The fluids instantly made Angela feel more at ease—or as comfortable as she could feel after hearing the devastating threat against her family. The paramedics backed away as Drake hung up his phone and took a seat at his desk across from her.
Drake folded his hands with a solemn look that only hinted the troubling news ahead. He proceeded to speak calmly, as though everything were completely under control, but Angela knew better. The terrorists had targeted her. That was the only explanation. How they had done it, she had no idea. She trusted no one but was desperate for answers nonetheless.
“Could you give us a minute, please?” Drake asked the paramedics.
Angela turned toward them, slightly embarrassed. “Oh no. Don’t stay here on my account. I’m fine now.”
“It’s best that we hang around for another ten minutes or so,” the man said, brushing his surfer bangs back. “We’ll be outside.”
“No, please,” Angela said. “Thank you, but I don’t want to hold you up.”
But they were already on their way out the door, prepared to wait as long as it took, apparently. As the door closed, Drake heaved a long sigh—his confident facade already fading. “We called the police to your house immediately. A search shows no signs of forcible entry… just yet.”
She waited for the words, and when he said them, she still found herself surprised.
“Doug and your two daughters were not there
. Their rooms were empty. Doug’s truck was in the driveway. His wallet and cell phone were in your bedroom. Your daughters…” Drake paused as Angela felt tears stream down her cheeks, not even realizing that she was crying. “It looks like someone rummaged through their rooms and grabbed a bunch of clothes in a hurry.”
“What about the neighbors?” Angela asked. “Did anyone see anything?”
Drake rubbed his eyes, thinking. “They’ve talked to a couple of them, but no one saw anything. That could change, of course, as information trickles in.”
Angela had heard enough. She stood up, holding the IV bag in one hand as its fluids continued to drip through the tube. “I need to see the video again.” She walked to his desk, reaching for his laptop as he pulled it away.
“The feed is lost. It was sent through very specific channels. These terrorists… they’re not amateurs.”
Angela got up and walked toward the door, ready to go it on her own. But she was still in her dusty uniform from the night before and looked as though she had been hit by a truck. The thought of her partner, Captain Jorge Martinez, suddenly flashed into her mind. He would know what to do—that was, if the terrorists hadn’t gotten to him yet.
“Captain Martinez!” she called out, turning around. “Is he okay?”
Drake sighed as if he were preparing to reveal more bad news, but then was quick to clarify. “He’s fine. After your family’s disappearance, Martinez and his family were placed in protective custody.”
Angela shook her head in disbelief. “What, in the past ten minutes?”
“Homeland works very fast, and they’re not taking any chances.”
“Where is he? How can I talk to him?” she asked, stepping forward. The severity of the situation removed all pretense of rank and seniority from her mind. As far as Angela was concerned, being a border patrol agent was the least of her concerns. She wanted answers and didn’t give a damn how demanding or insubordinate she might appear.
Drake seemed to understand but continued to maintain a professional tone. “We don’t currently know. Agent Martinez’s location is top secret. Hell, I can’t even get hold of my own agent. How do you think I feel?” He raised a calming hand to put her at ease. “But rest assured, he is safe.”
“And what are they doing to find my family?”
The question itself encompassed everything Angela feared most. What kind of monsters was she dealing with? She remembered the man in the video speaking with a clear British accent. She remembered that he had said something about demands.
“What do they want?” she asked.
“We’re not sure. A complete shutdown of Guantanamo Bay, for starters. The immediate end of aid to Israel. The usual terrorist nonsense. As of now, none of that is happening.”
Angela looked around the room, crippled with frustration. “Where’s the FBI? Where’s Assistant Director Thaxton?”
“I called them back only moments ago. They should be arriving any time now.”
Angela covered her face and rubbed her forehead, overcome with the familiar and unpleasant feeling that her entire world was falling apart. She thought about how she had been roped into assisting the FBI to investigate the terror cells. It was after her and Martinez, during a routine patrol of their sector, had found a truck packed with explosives in a remote part of the desert. Just days ago, she had found herself embroiled in an investigation that stretched way beyond her profession.
She had undoubtedly stirred something up. Now it all began to make sense to Angela. Her family’s abduction and captivity were a direct response to her involvement, a repercussion for actions taken against the Islamic State, no matter how inadvertent.
Drake’s office phone suddenly rang, and he answered it.
“Yes, Special Agent Sutherland…” he said, phone against his shoulder as he scribbled on a pad.
Angela remembered the name all too well. Sutherland was one of the FBI agents who had directed the raid. Their mission had been to save Martinez after he’d disappeared while pursuing his own independent investigation into the sleeper cells. The agents had found Martinez and killed every suspected terrorist in the building.
Angela was the key to exposing the operation for what it was—a slaughter. Had ISIS really managed to get her address and personal information quickly enough to abduct her family within hours after the raid? Or were there other forces at work? Paranoia began to set in. It was the same paranoia that had afflicted Captain Martinez, her trusted partner, in his mission to expose the ISIS cells around Texas, whose existence he believed the government was covering up.
Drake glanced up at Angela, holding the phone against his ear. “Yeah… yeah, she’s here.” He paused to listen. “Roger, sounds good. See you in a bit.” He hung up and flashed Angela a look of reassurance. “FBI team is on the way. They promised to do everything in their power to find your family and get them home safely.”
Angela wanted so much to believe it, but the FBI wasn’t on her list of most-trusted organizations. “Great,” she said to Drake. “I certainly hope they stick to their promises.”
3
Closed-Door Meeting
Not much was known at the Del Rio Border Patrol sector involving Angela’s situation. For most agents, it was business as usual, since no one beyond a handful of government officials had seen the video. For whatever reason, the terrorists hadn’t publicly launched it yet. It hadn’t gone viral, though no one currently knew where the encrypted URL had originated.
For the past couple of days, Angela’s situation had been a mystery to her peers. She had been an agent for less than a year and had grown close only to her partner, who was said to be in protective watch.
Among her acquaintances, there was Captain Sheila Reynolds, a steely-eyed redhead who never gave Angela much mind, and Agents Jack Bernasconi and Roger Tyson, two senior border agents who knew their way around. The others Angela hadn’t gotten to know very well.
Now she was better well known around the station than she would have preferred. Attention was something she had neither asked for nor desired, especially in the wake of the death of one of their own. Rookie agent Jeremy Dawson only days prior had been killed in the truck explosion that set off the investigation Angela now found herself in. Too much had happened in too little time, and Angela needed to get her head together—if such a feat was possible.
She sat in a closed conference room at the side of a table, with Jennifer Thaxton, a young assistant director with the FBI, at one end, and Chief Drake at the other. A blank projector screen was lit up behind him as Thaxton spoke on one of the conference phones, providing updates to her superiors in DC.
To Angela’s right sat Special Agent Sutherland, an aggressive and no-nonsense FBI man she didn’t fully trust. Across from them sat Special Agent Lynch and Agent Hopper, two middle-aged men, quiet but lethal in their abilities, as Angela had seen during the FBI raid.
They had all arrived back at the station in a relatively short period. Angela tried to compose herself, to shield her emotions in the same way the FBI agents were so good at, and just listen. Her family’s very survival relied on these people, and she wanted to believe that they could help.
After she got off the phone, Assistant Director Thaxton flipped open a thin binder in front of her as though they were in some kind of board meeting. She glanced up at Angela first and got straight to business.
“This is what we know as of 0900 hours: Border Patrol Agent Gannon’s family was abducted between the hours of 1200 and 0200 following our raid in the Juarez Desert and subsequent recovery of Captain Martinez. We have assessed that the perpetrators are operating in relatively close proximity to this area.”
That much made sense to Angela. But it also brought larger, more disturbing questions about the vastness and reach of the terror network, whose existence the government had, according to Martinez, been downplaying for the past two years.
Thaxton continued in her standard non-emotive tone as Angela waited to hear th
eir solution. In the end, it was the only thing she cared about. “In order to abduct the Gannon family, take them into captivity, and record a video within the time it was posted, they couldn’t be operating more than one to two hundred miles from here. Even that is pushing it.”
“I saw concrete walls,” Angela said, cutting in. She paused, lowering her head. “When… when I saw Doug on his knees, the wall with the ISIS flag looked like something in a warehouse basement.”
“Precisely,” Thaxton said.
She clicked the button on a remote control. An aerial image appeared on the projector screen. Several spots on the map were circled, surrounding the Del Rio and greater Val Verde County area. “These are the industrial sites we know of, some of them vacant and ideal for running operations. The key is to narrow them down one by one and extract your family before it’s too late.”
The words “too late” sent a crushing blow to Angela. She didn’t even want to consider such an outcome. Looking around the room, she counted four FBI agents, including the assistant director. She knew them to be tight-knit and secretive in their operations and wondered how they planned to do so much in the time allotted.
“How do you plan to do that?” she asked outright, gaining looks from everyone in the room. “I mean… with such a small team. I count at least twenty different locations marked on that map.”
Thaxton folded her hands together. “I’m glad you asked. We have someone here who may be able to answer that.”
The doors opened as if on cue, and a man in a suit walked into the room. His hair was brushed back in a wavy froth, and an ID badge dangled from around his neck. His strong blue eyes flashed around the room as he circled the table. He was tall with a trim graying beard and walked with the confident stride of a man prepared to take charge.
“I’d like to welcome our special liaison from the CIA, Chief Special Agent Lyle Burke.”
Burke nodded at the room and remained standing near the projector screen, folding his arms.
Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction Page 135
