by Jack Mars
Ed smiled. “You want me to go up there and bag him?”
Luke shrugged. “I’d say a team of six should do it. Ride with a couple of your best people to make sure it gets done. But also bring a couple of your newbies. I’d like to watch them in action, see what we’re looking at.”
“What’s the situation on the ground?” Ed said.
“It’s a house. Swann has the details. There are two women in there, and two children. Three adult males. All we want is the subject, who is in his sixties. I’d say tumultuous entry, move fast, bag him and bring him out. Try not to break anything.”
“In other words,” Ed said, “don’t kill anyone.”
Luke nodded. “That’s right.”
“You’re a very gentle man,” Ed said.
Luke smiled. “I try to be.”
“Okay. Consider it done.”
CHAPTER SIX
8:40 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
Westgate
Baltimore, Maryland
“Do you have a look at this place?” Ed said into his microphone.
Mark Swann’s deep, throaty voice came over his speaker. “You mean real time?”
Ed shook his head. “No, I mean back in 1978. Yes, real time, Swann.”
“Of course not. I can’t see anything. I don’t have a drone in the air on a day like today, and even if I could put one up, the cloud canopy is too low. All I can see is coming from your body cameras.”
“So you can’t see what’s going on in the backyard.”
“Not at the moment, no. But you have that aerial map, right? And the floor plan?”
Ed sighed. “Yes.” They were going in blind.
“Then you should be good.”
Ed was sitting in the back of a white van, parked thirty yards up the street from the house where Mustafa Boudiaf lived. The van had an orange, yellow, and green SMECO logo on it, with a lightning bolt through the middle. SMECO was the shortened version of Southern Maryland Electrical Cooperative, an electric company that didn’t even serve this area.
Three people were in the van with him, members of his team. They were dressed the same as him—in black long-sleeve fleece shirts, heavy tactical vests, and cargo pants lined with lightweight Dragon Skin armor. Pulled over the tactical vests were yellow reflective vests with the SMECO logo—just like electrical workers out to fix a power outage on a snowy day would wear. On their heads were white combat helmets with hinged facemasks, currently in the up position. A person not sure of what they were looking at might imagine those helmets were hardhats.
Ed glanced out the rear window. It was a relatively affluent neighborhood. The house was tan stucco, nondescript, two stories tall, set back on the other side of a wide lawn from the road. A bay window faced the street, next to a red front door. On the right side was a driveway with a black Lincoln Town Car in front, and maybe some kind of Toyota in back. On the left side was a narrow alley between properties. A long hedge lined the front sidewalk.
Everything—the hedge, the two trees on the front lawn—was brown and bare. The snow was blowing pretty hard.
Ed was calm. He looked at his people.
Two of them were young, early to mid-twenties. That would be Rodriguez and Stamos. Ed had taught Rodriguez at Quantico—she was one of his best students. She was the fittest person there, could knock out more pull-ups than Ed himself. She could run a five-minute mile, then follow it up with a hundred pushups and another five-minute mile. And she was serious—dead serious. Maybe a little too much. She wanted very badly to prove herself.
Right now, her eyes were like saucers. She looked like she needed to go to the bathroom.
“Rodriguez, you’re with me, girl. Ain’t nothing to this. We’re just utility workers, knocking on doors during a power outage. We’ve got a clipboard. The door opens, whoever answers, we take them down. You secure them, I move on. Got it?”
She nodded. “Got it.”
“Stamos, Anderson, you guys move up that alleyway and connect with Marshall and King on the back porch. Stamos, you and King are swinging hammer. You get the word, I want to see you hit that thing with all you got. Two hits max, I want that door open. One is better.”
Stamos nodded. He looked less nervous than Rodriguez, but still pretty green. “I got it.”
“Of course you do. This ain’t your first rodeo, man. So stop acting like it. You got nothing to prove to me. Just do your job the way I know you can.”
“Okay.”
Ed looked at Anderson, then shook his head and smiled. Anderson was thirty-two, and had come to SRT out of Delta Force. He needed a shave. His eyes were hard, but his body language was relaxed. He was probably bored. They had hired him, more than anything, out of Luke’s nostalgia for Delta. Ed doubted he would last. There were wars going on out there in the world, and mercenary work was where the money was.
“You know what to do, man.”
Anderson nodded. “Yeah.”
He addressed the whole group. “Look. There are women and children in there. Job One is to bring the subject out, but Job One-A is to do it with no loss of life. Non-lethal force is the motto for today. That said, don’t anybody let yourself die in there. If they want a fight, you give them one. Understood?”
Everyone understood.
Ed spoke into his mic. “Marshall, King, where are you?”
A voice came through his speakers. “We’re in the neighbor’s yard, just on the other side of the wooden fence. Waiting for go.” Marshall was former FBI. King had come from a SWAT team in Newark, New Jersey.
“You guys heard all that? You on my page?”
“We got you, Ed. Nobody dies today. Not them, but especially not us.”
Ed nodded. “Good.” He took one deep breath. He tried to let whatever tension was in his body release into the universe.
“All right. In and out in ninety seconds, kids. Let’s hit it.”
* * *
“Here they go.”
A dozen video screens were mounted on the wall in Swann’s office. Six of them were currently active, each showing the view from the body camera on each of the SRT agents about to hit Mustafa Boudiaf’s house.
“Office” was a generous term for Swann’s strange kingdom. There were four desks, each with at least three video monitors on top. Three tall computer server racks were bolted to the wall across from the video screens. Wires snaked all over the floor. Everywhere—on the desks, on the floor—were pieces of electronic equipment, with LED lights blinking in red and green and white.
There was one long window; the shelf below it seemed to have a force of magnetism that drew empty Coca-Cola and Red Bull cans to itself.
Swann sat in a chair in front of the video screens, Luke and Trudy standing perfectly still behind him. The screens showed a bizarre jumble of imagery, each screen marked with the last name of the person whose point of view was showing.
The screens marked NEWSAM and RODRIGUEZ both showed a snowy walkway, and a red door at the top of some steps. ANDERSON showed an alleyway, a house to the right and bushes to the left. ANDERSON was moving fast. STAMOS showed the same view, except with a tall man in a yellow safety vest running just ahead, slipping and sliding just a bit in the snow. MARSHALL and KING showed a tall wooden fence, then the POVs went right over the top of it. Now there was a tan house with a wide back porch covered in snow.
“Agents converging,” Swann said. “Anytime you’re ready, Ed.”
The camera marked NEWSAM was right in front of the red door. A hand reached out and its index finger pressed the doorbell.
Ding-dong!
The camera marked STAMOS showed a thin black man, also in a yellow reflective vest, and with his visor in place now, standing with his fist in the air. Then the camera turned to a back door.
Luke held his breath. They were about to take that door down with a battering ram. Then they were going to throw a stun grenade in, a so-called flash-bang. Both of these things would make loud noises. Luke didn’t love loud no
ises. The flash-bang would make one hell of a loud noise.
Just then, he got a text on his phone. It vibrated in his hand; he had set it to silent mode. He glanced down. It was Gunner.
Hi Dad. Where r u?
“Spell out your words!” he said in his mind. The simplified Orwellian language kids used in texts drove him crazy. Still, he let it drop.
He texted back. At work. Where are you?
Snow day 2day. Wanna get lunch?
Luke smiled. Did he want to get lunch with Gunner? Of course he did.
“Back porch, go!” Swann said, nearly shouting. “Go! Go! Go!”
On the screen marked KING, two men reared back and swung the battering ram.
* * *
“Help you?” the man who answered the front door said.
He was a young guy in a blue T-shirt and red track pants, flip-flops on his bare feet. His brown eyes were flat and more than a little annoyed. His hair stood up in tufts. He had a full beard.
“Yes, hello,” Ed said. He indicated the clipboard in his left hand, and tiny Rodriguez standing to his right. “We’re from the electric utility. We’ve been getting reports of power outages from the storm in this neighborhood. We need to come in and check your smart meter to see if your system is working properly.”
The guy made a sort of grimace. “What? Why would you have to—”
Suddenly, there was a loud noise somewhere deep in the house.
BAM!
The guy turned halfway around. It sounded like something in the kitchen had—
Ed punched him in the side of the head. He didn’t rear back—he just uncorked it from halfway. It wasn’t hard enough. The guy’s eyes were dazed, but he was still conscious and on his feet. Ed stepped in, slid a foot behind the guy’s legs, and shoved him onto the floor.
“Rodriguez!” he shouted and ran past the guy. Somewhere, in his peripheral vision, through the eyes in the back of his head, he saw Rodriguez jump on the guy, already turning him onto his face and zip-tying his hands, almost in one movement.
Ed walked down the hallway, moving fast. His Glock had appeared in his hands.
“Flash-bang coming!” someone shouted inside his helmet. “Flash-bang coming.”
He stopped, shut his eyes, and ducked back.
Even behind closed eyes, he could see the flash. Even with his ears protected by sound cancellers, he could hear and feel the explosion.
BOOOM!
Somewhere down the hallway, a child started crying. A young woman appeared, carrying a baby in her arms. She ran past Ed, her face frozen in terror.
Up ahead, four large men suddenly swarmed into the house, shrieking, “Down! Down! Get DOWN!”
The stairs to the upper floor were to Ed’s left. He bounded up them, two at a time. If the floor plans were correct, the master bedroom was to the right. He turned that way at the top of the stairs. He could feel, rather than see, another man right behind him. There was a door straight ahead.
He ran at that door full speed. Surprise was everything today. Speed was everything. He hit the door without slowing down, giving it his right shoulder, blasting through it. It was a cheap wooden door—it looked nice, but there was nothing to it.
Ed came crashing into the room head first, rolling to the ground. A bald man in a sleeveless T-shirt and boxer shorts was crouched on the ground in front of him, pawing through a box.
He turned. He held a small revolver in his hand—an old .38 special.
A shadow flew over Ed, reached the old man, and knocked his gun sideways just as he fired it.
BANG!
Then the old man was on his back, the shadow now resolved into a man—a man with a yellow reflecting vest on. The SRT man—it was Anderson, the former Delta operator—put a forearm across the old man’s throat. The .38 caliber slid away across the floor.
“I think this is the subject,” Anderson said over his shoulder.
Ed stood. “All clear?” Ed said into his microphone. “Give me your all clears.”
“All clear.”
“All clear.”
“All clear.”
“Anybody hurt? Anybody down?”
“We’ve got two young guys trussed up downstairs,” a voice said behind him. Ed turned and it was King. “They’re down, but not hurt. Rodriguez corralled the women and kids and has them in the living room.”
Ed glanced at the bed. It was an old rickety cot. The blankets were kicked all over the place. A pair of eye shades was on the floor. The old man had probably been asleep just a minute ago.
Anderson had zip-tied him and was in the process of putting a black canvas bag over his head.
“Mustafa Boudiaf?” Ed said.
The old man shook his head. “Who wants to know?”
Ed turned back to King. He looked right into King’s body cam. He smiled pretty for the folks back home.
“You seeing this, Stone? Smooth as glass. Hard, fast, totally devastating. No chance for meaningful resistance. That’s how you do the tumultuous entry.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
11:45 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
McLean, Virginia
They met in a diner just across from the famous one-arch McDonald’s. The place was ten minutes from headquarters. Luke was there early, nursing a coffee. He sat in a booth at a big bay window, half-watching CNN on the big TV mounted behind the serving counter.
Luke had just spent two hours with Mustafa Boudiaf. He was having trouble getting it out of his mind.
The one place in the SRT headquarters where smoking was allowed was the interrogation room. They had given Boudiaf coffee and cigarettes, and he had drunk and smoked the entire time. But that didn’t soften him up any.
Boudiaf wanted a lawyer. Boudiaf wanted a phone call. Boudiaf wanted to know if he was under arrest. Boudiaf had apparently watched a lot of television.
“What do you know about the plane crash in Egypt?” Ed said.
The sight of a giant black man looming over him didn’t seem to hold any terror for Boudiaf. He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about a plane crash. I was asleep when you invaded my home.”
“Where did all your furniture go?” Ed said.
Boudiaf shrugged. “I am very poor. That’s America. I work all the time, but I have no money. I don’t have any furniture. What you saw is all I have.”
Luke nearly laughed. “What if I told you we know you sent all your furniture to Pennsylvania three days ago? That’s a strange thing to do, isn’t it? Send your furniture and all your belongings inland? Why would someone do that?”
Luke paused.
“Is that what you were doing?”
Boudiaf looked at him. “Who are you, please?”
“It doesn’t matter who I am.”
“It does because I will have your job.”
Luke shook his head. “You’re not the first person who has told me that.”
“You must charge me with a crime or release me. Since I have committed no crime, there is nothing to charge me with. You are breaking your own laws.”
Luke shrugged. “I know you’re in a hurry because you have a plane to catch tomorrow night.”
Boudiaf made no attempt to conceal it. “Yes, I do. I am going home.”
“I thought this was your home.”
“You’re a very foolish man.”
Suddenly, Ed hit the jackpot. “You’re going to miss your plane,” he said quietly, and in a matter-of-fact tone.
That idea set Boudiaf off. “You must release me!” he shouted. “You’re dead men, do you understand? You’re all dead men!” Then he stopped and took a deep breath, seeming to realize what he had just done.
“Why are we dead men?”
Boudiaf shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“How are we going to die?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
Boudiaf’s shoulders slumped, and his body language changed. A moment before, he had been wired, sitting tall, ready to resist. Now he set
tled into his chair, seeming to resign himself to a terrible fate.
“I must get a message to my family.”
Ed nodded. “We will send it. That I can promise you.”
“If you are being honest, then give them this message. If I am not released, they must get on the plane without me, and leave me behind.”
Boudiaf wanted his family to get out. Before what happened?
Now, in the diner, the car pulled up. It was a black Lincoln Navigator SUV with smoked windows, moving slowly and carefully on the snow-slicked streets. Sometimes it was easy for Luke to forget that Gunner’s maternal grandmother was a descendent of the man who had invented floor varnish in the mid-1800s; his product was still in use more than 150 years later. Of course, the original fortune had been diluted over succeeding generations, but Gunner’s grandparents had a lot of money.
Gunner attended private school and lived in a large stone mansion at the end of a long driveway. A driver took him anywhere he wanted to go. He wasn’t breathing the rarified air of the billionaire elite like Susan’s girls, but…
It was good. Luke wanted only the best for Gunner, things he would never have if Luke’s good civil servant’s salary was paying the way. And as much as Luke wanted to see him every day, it was good that Gunner lived in a place where people were always home. He couldn’t have that with his father—Luke was away from home a lot.
He watched as the boy stepped out of the car, slammed the door, and without a backward glance picked his way through the snow toward the front door of the diner. He wore a long coat of gray wool, heavy boots, and a red scarf wrapped around his throat. He was tall and thin. He reminded Luke of a young English gentleman.
Luke smiled. The kid was trying on personas. It’s what kids did.
Gunner came in, pausing in the foyer to stomp snow and slush off his boots. He moved through the aisle with easy grace and slid into the booth, across the table from Luke. His eyes were big and blue and he was grinning.
“Hi, Dad,” he said.
“Hi, Gunner. What’s the smile about?”
Gunner shrugged. “No school today. What’s your smile about?”
