by Evans, Misty
“Don’t forget, I carry a big gun,” he murmured as he grabbed his own jacket and followed Julia out the door.
It was almost time.
The terrorist leader watched reporter Gus Schultz end his commentary and felt a ripple of anticipation in his stomach. The news was out to the American people. Panic would be setting in as word spread. The West would again be gripped with fear, glued to their television sets in shock that yet another terrorist had invaded their sacred homeland. What destruction would he impart? What classified secrets would escape from the hostages’ lips to endanger their safety even more? Arguments between the warmongers and the peace lovers would break out, slowing the behemoth government of the United States from making any decisions before the day was over.
The anchorwoman solemnly announced that CNN would run continual coverage of the hostage crisis in order to keep their viewers updated on the latest happenings. Raissi flipped through several other channels on the TV and saw the other networks were doing the same. Valid information was, as usual, scarce, but wild conjecture and equally wild opinions flourished as each network fought for top position in the ranks, interviewing anyone deemed an expert that they could get their hands on.
This pleased the terrorist. Keeping the politicians and the military analysts guessing served a valuable purpose in his plan. Strangling the people of the United States of America with fear was icing on his cake.
Raissi turned down the TV’s volume and sat back in the recliner, steepling his fingers under his chin. His plan was morphing again. He and his compatriots had brought their jihad to the enemy, and instead of one spectacular at CIA headquarters, he had seized the opportunity from Susan Richmond to use the leaders in this house as a different, but just as powerful, spectacular against America. He planned no demands or negotiations, only a brutal lesson, execution-style, about interfering with the Arab world.
But now Raissi saw another opportunity. Before the executions, he could speak out for his family, his neighbors and his country in a way no other brother of Islam had been able to before him. Americans worshiped their televisions and believed the daily propaganda it imparted. What better resource to use to spread the truth about his people and their fight against the unholy West? He had already used specially prepared videos in his homeland to spread his doctrine there. What better way to immortalize his name in the history books with the vengeance he was bringing in the name of justice?
Smiling, Raissi rose from his seat and began calculating the risk of his new plan as he paced the floor. He could control the risks with a few simple demands and that would work in his favor. Having studied the counterterrorism tactics of the United States, Raissi knew the FBI negotiators would try to play with him, prolonging the hostage situation for the amount of time it took them to figure out who he was and how they could destroy him with minimal collateral damage. The game would begin with him stating his demands and then the FBI would dance around those demands, buying time for their commandos to form a plan to take him out and Congress to okay it.
In order to keep the FBI and the U.S. government feeling in control, he needed to make his first contact with the FBI short and simple. Give them a false sense of confidence and hope by making his first demand easy to fulfill.
Raissi felt the ripple again in his stomach. His smile widened. He was excited.
Collecting specific terrorist information and planning for every possible contingency was a superhuman feat, but in the middle of the controlled chaos of their hostage situation, someone, God bless them, had remembered to make coffee and score cinnamon rolls. Tim Buchanan, now seated at the table where all the planning was going on, sipped from a Styrofoam cup and ran different strategies and outcomes through his brain.
The rectangular table was organized but overflowing with telephones, blueprints and computer printouts. Around it were translators, counterterrorism cognoscenti and the senior chief, executive officer, and leader of the East Coast SEAL Team. Tim was leading the group in a discussion, prepping everyone for both negotiations and takedown if the need arose.
They all knew the need would arise. There was no such thing as a good hostage situation, but of all the ones Tim had witnessed, this one was by far the ugliest in terms of outcome scenarios. As he took another sip of coffee, he listened, not only to the words coming from those at the table, but also to the tone and other verbal nuances of his coworkers’ voices. The atmosphere of a group like this under similar conditions was always charged with a super-sized amount of electric current. That current usually pulled the members of the group into a close, cohesive unit. Today, due to the fact the hostages included a senator and the head of the United States Intelligence community, there were extra people bringing their two cents, and a lot of current, to the table. The usual balance of egos and agendas was skewed. Everyone had an opinion and few of them agreed.
Tim scribbled a note to himself as he listened to several CIA analysts discuss a list of possible terrorists who could be responsible for the current hostage situation. When the group around the table fell silent, Tim looked up and then followed the group’s attention to a spot over his shoulder.
A woman stood just inside the tent with a police escort. A CTC analyst, Tim had seen her before in the halls of Langley. Susan Richmond had been waiting for her.
He’d been waiting for her.
“Ms. Quinn,” Susan said from the far end of the table. “You finally made it. Let me introduce you.”
Everyone around the table stood as Abigail approached, and Tim saw her jaw was clenched. She disregarded Susan and addressed him with an outstretched hand. “Abigail Quinn, CIA Counterterrorism Center, sir.”
Tim shook her hand. “Tim Buchanan, FBI.”
“Yes, sir. I’m familiar with you and your team of specialists. I believe I have pertinent information on the identity of the terrorist inside Michael’s house.”
Although several of his comrades fidgeted and exchanged glances, Tim showed no surprise. Ryan Smith had already called him and told him about Julia, a.k.a. Abigail. Smiling at her, he motioned her to a chair across from him. “Please have a seat and tell us what you know.”
“Fayez Raissi,” Julia began, “is a professional terrorist who began his career at age fifteen in Kazbekistan. For the past twenty-five years, he has struck targets from Pakistan to Paris working with a variety of terrorist groups, including the GIA, and using a number of different names. He has also assassinated a string of Islamic moderates whom he accused of abandoning their faith, and he has served as a hit man for various Arab backers. Most recently he has been linked with the extremist group Takfi-wal-Hijra.”
“I’m familiar with him.” Agent Buchanan motioned to his left at Susan and the CIA’s Middle East specialist, Chuck Atwater. “But your CIA counterparts here believe the group behind this hostage situation is one of bin Laden’s sleeper cells. Why do you think Raissi is our man?”
It would have been so easy to tattle everything she knew about Susan and her plans right there and then, but Julia held herself back with tight control. Michael’s life was on the line and if she came across sounding like a raving lunatic, turning on her boss in front of all these people, he might very well die. “I’m not ruling out the involvement of bin Laden,” she said, and that was true. “Probably the men working with Raissi are from one of bin Laden’s sleeper cells here in the States. But Raissi’s been traveling in our direction for several months, starting in Paris, hitting London along the way, and recruiting as he went.”
Susan tapped her pencil on a stack of papers in front of her. “Why would he come here?”
Julia chose her next words carefully. “An anonymous source has come forward to say Raissi planned a spectacular on American soil.”
Susan raised one eyebrow at Julia. “Another anonymous source? How interesting. There sure are a lot of those running around tonight.”
Agent Buchanan ignored Susan. “What kind of spectacular?”
“He was planning to blow
up CIA headquarters in Langley,” Julia said. “Instead, he had a change of plans and ended up here, holding Michael and the others hostage.”
“CIA headquarters? That’s pretty ambitious. You believe this hostage situation is something he would orchestrate instead?”
She nodded. “Raissi is extremely radical, but he is also extremely intelligent. I have studied his attacks and assassinations all the way back to the embassy bombings he pulled off in Paris in 1997. Taking hostages is not part of his usual bag of tricks, but he does like attention-getting spectacles so this situation is not out of the realm of possibility. As far as Raissi himself, orchestrating this entire thing”—Julia looked directly at Susan—“who knows what kind of help he’s had here in the States?”
Chuck Atwater, fresh out of the hospital, grimaced slightly as he shifted forward in his seat. “Since Raissi has been moving in this direction over the past couple of months, I believe Ms. Quinn may be right. He never does anything without a premeditated plan and he’s been lying low since 9/11, probably laying the groundwork for something of this magnitude. His original plan may not have included taking hostages in this manner, but he was definitely after the DCI. Raissi is an explosives expert. I would guarantee he was and still is planning on making a statement we won’t soon forget.”
Buchanan nodded at Chuck and returned his focus to his newest advisor. “You agree?”
“Definitely.” Julia shifted in her chair to look over her shoulder between the vans. The house sat in silence sixty yards away. “Are either of those vehicles Raissi’s?”
“No,” Buchanan said. “One’s Allen’s and the other King’s.”
“So Raissi and his men had to carry their explosives with them. That cuts down the amount by at least half of what a car or van could carry for them. Still…” she studied the house, “…C-4 bricks are light and easy to carry so at the very least, he’s got every door and window wired to blow and has booby-trapped the hostages.”
Lt. Brad Diamond, the direct and self-assured leader of the SEAL team spoke. “What kind of explosives does he usually use?”
“He favors Semtex or C-4, but will use anything handy.”
“What kind of detonators? Tripwires? Motion sensors? Pressure pads?”
“Tripwires would be easiest for him to transport and set up,” Julia responded, “and more effective for this type of situation.”
“The HRT can bypass the doors and windows by making holes into the walls to get in,” Agent Buchanan stated.
“That will work if Raissi hasn’t strung wires across the walls,” Julia countered. “But since he had to pack the explosives on his men, he probably didn’t have enough to layer them throughout the house. If you successfully penetrate the outside layer, there may be others, but it’s unlikely. However, he’s been dealing biological weapons ever since he worked with the GIA, and those are light enough to transport easily. There is a possibility he has anthrax or smallpox with him.”
Buchanan glanced at Chuck Atwater, who nodded his affirmation.
Julia glanced at the house again. “Have you cut power to the house?”
“Power was already cut at the pole,” Buchanan answered, “but somehow they have electricity.”
“Michael has a generator,” Julia told him.
Lt. Diamond made a note on the paper in front of him. “Why do you think Raissi has refrained from contacting us with his demands, Ms. Quinn?”
Julia cleared her throat. “He doesn’t have any.”
“No demands?” Buchanan asked. “Why would he take hostages if he has no demands?”
“He’s an anti-American Islamic fundamentalist who plans to use those hostages as an example. Bring retribution to the evil West. Like Chuck said, he wants to take out the DCI and the head of the spy group and blow something up to get the attention he wants.”
Buchanan looked down at the papers in front of him while chewing on her words. Exasperation tightened the muscles in his face. “So everyone believes this is a suicide mission?”
Of course everyone nodded.
“Agreed,” he said. “Options, anyone?” He looked at Lt. Diamond. “Lieutenant?”
Lt. Diamond looked at Senior Chief Leon Cassell. Cassell spoke. “The situation is currently stable, but obviously life expectancy for our hostages is down to days, maybe hours. Even with urban camouflage gear, the SEALs can’t get close to the house during daylight hours without alerting Raissi and his crew. Sunrise is in”—he checked his watch—“approximately two hours. We either move shortly or we’ll have to stall any plans he has until nightfall again. I don’t recommend rushing this situation, but we may not be able to stall him that long. While it’s dark, we can install microphones and possibly fiber-optic cameras at sites around the house so we can hear what’s being said and get a look inside. We can also use IR thermal-imaging cameras to approximate where the hostages and the tangos are. But if Ms. Quinn is right about the explosives, overcoming them is damn near impossible to do without serious injury to our assets.
“We can’t rule out a biological attack either. A bioterrorism group is here and ready with masks and suits.
“One more thing,” the senior chief added. “If you’re going with the theory that Raissi is our man, we need an updated picture of him. Recent pictures of all of the hostages as well. We don’t want any mistakes when the shooting starts.”
No one spoke for several long minutes, each contemplating the next few hours.
“All right,” Buchanan said, “everybody take a break. I don’t want any of you to stray far, but I do want everyone to stay fresh, so grab a cup of coffee and report back to this table in ten minutes.”
The group rose reluctantly, all except Julia. Susan walked a few yards away to consult with an aide, but her gaze stayed on Julia. Julia followed Agent Buchanan and when she thought they were out of hearing range, she laid a hand on his arm. “Sir?”
“Yes, Miss Quinn.” He poured himself a cup of coffee from a large stainless-steel drip machine.
“I know a way into the house that may help us rescue the hostages.”
Buchanan eyed her intently. “I’m listening.”
Julia took a deep breath and watched Susan watching her. “There’s a dog kennel, sir, at the back of the house…”
Chapter Forty-One
Julia walked out from under the tent, feeling Susan’s gaze on her. She didn’t know where to wander to, didn’t feel like making small talk with her coworkers. Conrad was somewhere nearby, but she couldn’t look for him. She didn’t want to anyway. Agent Buchanan had listened intently to the information about the kennel entrance to the house, but he had forcibly rejected her reasoning that the only way to keep Pongo from raising the alert and blowing their one chance to save the hostages was for her to lead the rescue team.
Michael is going to die and it’s my fault.
She couldn’t keep the horrifying scenarios from running through her brain. Just like when Conrad had supposedly died in the bombing of the warehouse, the bad images just kept coming.
Leaning back against the rough bark of a tree, she tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs wouldn’t fill. She’d blown Susan’s primary plan, forcing Susan to deal her next set of cards. Michael and the others were being held hostage because Julia had forced Susan to call in Raissi.
But deep inside, Julia knew she wasn’t to blame. Susan was the culprit here, not her. The supreme puppeteer was leading them all through each act as it suited her purpose.
And now Michael’s going to die.
Julia bent at the waist, covered her face with her hands and tried to breathe.
“You look like hell.” Susan’s voice was soft as people milled around a few yards away. She leaned her shoulder against the tree and looked down at the back of Julia’s head. “Rough night?”
Julia rose to face her. “You are unbelievable,” she murmured, matching Susan’s voice level. “I can’t believe what you’ve done to all of us.”
“You pl
ayed your part well, my dear, and I appreciate that. You even put Raines in the hospital, adding another crime to your list. You’re lucky I could even get you in here.”
“The only reason you haven’t had them arrest me is because Damgaard ordered you to bring me here. Where is he, by the way? Cari and I’d like to talk to him.”
Susan glared at her. “Let’s talk about Flynn. Where is he?”
Julia turned away from her and watched her counterparts filing back into the tent. Of course Conrad was the only one Susan was worried about. “Gone. Probably headed to Bermuda or the Caymans by now.”
Susan snorted. “Not a chance. He wouldn’t leave his precious queen with her back against the wall.”
“You forget. He left me before without so much as a backwards glance.”
Susan’s impatience got the better of her. “Stop playing word games. Where is he?”
Running her fingers through her hair, Julia remained cool. “You didn’t really think he’d be stupid enough to show his face here, did you?”
“He was stupid enough to let you come alone.”
“He didn’t let me do anything. Nobody controls me, Susan. Not Conrad and certainly not you. If you still want a piece of me, go ahead and try to get it. You’ve already failed once. This time you’ll have quite an audience watching.”
“Ah, Julia, you were always too cocky for your own good.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Your arrogant partner?” Susan snorted. “He’s hardly the best.”
“I was referring to you.”
Susan studied her for a few seconds. “I do see myself in you at times. Smart, aggressive, not afraid to seize an opportunity when it presents itself. You’re driven by the same forces that drive me so you must understand why I’ve used you and your friends to get what I want.”
“What I understand, is that you’re a manipulating bitch who has sold out her country and betrayed the people who trusted her.”
Ignoring the comment, Susan looked away. “Just tell me where Flynn and Smith are.”
