Ring of Fire

by Brad Taylor

  In no mood to engage in more politics. Kurt said, “I know.”

  Hannister looked at him, not as the president of the most powerful nation on earth, but as the same man he’d been when Kurt had guided him through the rocky shoals of a near world war.

  Hannister said, “I trust you. Give me some Pike magic.”

  Kurt smiled and said, “Don’t blame me if the magic ends up being black. With Pike, it can go either way.”

  Hannister chuckled and said, “Black magic is still magic. Get it done.”

  42

  We landed at an obscure airfield on the Mediterranean coast of Morocco called Sania Ramel, in the city of Tétouan. It was about an hour and a half north of Chefchaouen, but the closest strip of asphalt that could handle the Rock Star bird. The distance presented some issues, though. Ordinarily, I’d leave all of the killing tools on the bird, returning to it as necessary. With our target city so far away, I’d decided to send the aircraft with our prisoner to a rendition team in Ireland, and thus had to make an early call on what to bring with us. Instead of dictating, I threw it to a floor vote, after customs had cleared us.

  I watched the immigration guys walk down the airstairs and said, “We’re going to need more surveillance kit than lethal. But then again, we might need lethal more than surveillance. Knuckles, what do you think?”

  Knuckles said, “Yeah. I’m with you. Take out the level-one package for surveillance. GPS trackers, Dragontooth, lipstick cameras for the cars. On the lethal stuff, I say we leave the long guns. Bring suppressed pistols. We aren’t going to get into a firefight. The most we’ll need is self-defense.”

  Veep said, “We thought that in Poland, and Retro ended up using the Punisher.”

  I nodded, then said, “Okay. No Punisher, but bring two breakdown long guns. I’m not going to try to hide a sniper rifle with a twenty-two-inch barrel everywhere we go. The PWS rifles will have to do.”

  Retro said, “What about exploitation? I’m going to need some tools.”

  “How much? I don’t want to drive out of here with fourteen Pelican cases.”

  “We need the exploit kit for cell phones and computers. I’d recommend two Gryphons, one for Android and one for iPhone, along with two Grapples, one for Windows and one for Mac. I don’t think we should wait for the Taskforce to exploit. Let’s get what we can on-site.”

  I nodded. All of that would fit in a backpack, and I could live with it.

  Jennifer said, “What about nonlethal?”

  I said, “That goes without saying. Tasers are loaded in the bug-out package. Anything else?”

  Nobody spoke. I said, “Last chance. I don’t want to hear shoulda woulda coulda in a day.”

  Met with further silence, I said, “Okay, let’s roll. Jennifer and Knuckles, break out the kit. Veep and Retro, head to the terminal and get us some rental cars. Two SUVs.”

  They left, and Jennifer and Knuckles started removing the panels of the aircraft, breaking into the walls to bring out the specified kit hidden within. I went to the pilots, passing our prisoner near the bulkhead, handcuffed to an eyebolt in one of the leather seats, his left eye swollen and black from Knuckles’s blow. He was snoring softly into a pillow against the window.

  He’d ended up being perfectly compliant, telling us anything we wanted to know, to the point that we didn’t even need to hack his Google accounts through the Pokémon application. He’d simply unlocked the phone for us.

  Our target was his brother, Snyder McDermott. Both were college dropouts from Chicago and had come to Spain for nothing more than the usual “see the world” wanderlust. They’d financed the trip by selling Oxycontin in their hometown and had ended up running out of money, so they began doing what they knew—this time selling marijuana in Madrid. Eventually, they’d moved from dealing on the street to actual distribution.

  A Moroccan man named Jalal al-Khattabi had recruited them, and a job that was originally designed just to get them airfare home had become a career.

  At twenty-seven, Snyder was a few years older than his brother Frank, but apparently he was the immature one of the two. Through Frank, we had plenty of photos of him, and almost all of them had him sampling the product, stoned out of his mind. One video, however, showed him doing flips off of walls, hurdling railings, and hanging from balconies. An ascetic-looking man with a pronounced nose, he was all skin and bones and didn’t look athletic, but when asked about the video, Frank said Snyder was a fan of parkour—a sport of free running where the runner utilizes an urban environment as a giant obstacle course, leveraging anything in his path for efficiency in getting from point A to point B.

  Invented by French Special Forces as a way to economically navigate an urban environment in a hurry, it had become a little bit of a cult, with people training in it all over the world. I found it strange that a dopehead would do such things, and Frank told me Snyder began practicing precisely to get away from the police on foot.

  Should have guessed that.

  The real target, of course, was Jalal. His last name coincided with that of the suspected bomber of the tanker in Houston, and Frank had said he believed that if anyone had the bank account, it would be Jalal. Unfortunately, Jalal al-Khattabi had apparently taken a leave of absence from the trade, placing Snyder in charge. Frank had no idea where Jalal was, but he said Snyder would know.

  So now we’d turned over one more rock in our quest to walk up the chain to the actual terrorists. Frank would be flying to Shannon, Ireland, and turned over to a Taskforce rendition team, who would fly him to America for a much more thorough interrogation.

  After that, I had no idea what they’d do with him, and really didn’t give a crap, but I suspected he’d probably get put into the general prison population as a drug dealer.

  I conferred with the pilots, making sure that they’d be gone only as long as it took to drop off the human waste, then would return back here. Given the flight time from the United States—the long pole in the tent, as the flight time from Morocco to Ireland was only about three hours—I didn’t expect to have them available for at least another cycle of darkness.

  I double-checked the crew chief, making sure he was good with the drugs to keep Frank unconscious and had no qualms with the mission. He seemed squared away, reassuring me that he’d done such missions before.

  Satisfied, I returned to Jennifer and Knuckles, seeing them boxing up the small amount of kit into specially configured suitcases, on the inside padded with foam but on the outside looking like ordinary Samsonites.

  Forty-five minutes later we were bouncing down the N2 highway, on our way to the city of Chefchaouen, with Retro doing some research on our target’s location.

  We knew he was staying at a riad called Lina high up the hill in the old town, but nothing about atmospherics of the operational area. Retro gave us our first bad news: Like the Moorish neighborhood in Granada, it was pedestrian-only.

  I said, “Surely they drive around somehow?”

  “Doesn’t look that way. The road ends at the main plaza next to the original Kasbah that protected the city.”

  Jennifer said, “Well, that makes a little sense. The city was founded in the Middle Ages by the people fleeing the persecution of the Spanish Inquisition. They just built what they’d left.”

  Retro said, “Okay, Professor, tell us why it’s blue.”

  I said, “Blue? What do you mean?”

  He twisted his tablet around, showing a densely packed alley, with every building plastered in stucco and washed with blue paint. I mean every building. I said, “What’s the point of that, Jennifer?”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and I thought Retro had finally stumped our team historian. I was wrong.

  She said, “A bunch of different rumors, but nobody knows for sure. Some say it was started for religious reasons; others say it’s to ward off
mosquitos. Either way, the entirety of the old town is repainted blue every year, with individual owners collectively doing it. It’s more for the tourism aspect now.”

  I squinted my eyes, and she said, “I’m not making it up. I’m not you.”

  The group chuckled, and I said, “Well, that doesn’t hurt or help. Show me the location of the riad he’s using.”

  A riad was an establishment that equated to a North African bed and breakfast. In Arabic, the term meant a house with a courtyard, but in modern times it signified a house that someone had revamped to allow travelers to stay in it—just like one in, say, Alabama, only without the grits.

  Retro pulled up Google Maps, showed me where the Kasbah was located, then the riad. It looked to be about a five-minute walk straight uphill, but the way the maze was built, it would probably be longer. There wouldn’t be a cross street that ran right up to it.

  I said, “Okay, on the plus side, if we can’t get cars up there, he can’t get cars up there, so the surveillance problem of him going foxtrot to vehicle while in old town doesn’t exist. But we can’t capture this guy without vehicle support, so we need to follow him until he leaves the old town into the new section of the city. Make sense?”

  Knuckles said, “Yeah, but we need to confirm him first. Retro, any ideas about boxing that riad?”

  “Stand by. Let me check the area.”

  After another ten minutes, he said, “There’s another hotel with a balcony in view of the rooftops, and a café at the base of the stairs leading up to the front door, but that’s about it.”

  I nodded and said, “So the Starsky and Hutch stakeout it is.”

  43

  Two hours later, I was on the small iron balcony of our new hotel room, looking out across a sea of roofs onto the outdoor deck of the Lina Ryad. Built onto the roof of the riad, it stood four stories above the ground—five if you counted the narrow stairs that led to the alleys below—and was eye level with my balcony, about seventy meters away.

  From up here, the entire city looked like a congested, tangled mess, with haphazard roofing material ranging from red tile to corrugated tin, each building jammed next to the one beside it, some roofs higher, some lower, with random alleys providing the only break and every roof seemingly having a clothesline on it. Apparently, the blue whitewash was only for ground level, as it was a multicolored mess up here.

  Jennifer was on the first floor at the hotel’s small café, with eyes on the base of the stairs. She couldn’t see the door, but that was my job from the balcony. Retro was at the main plaza, drinking mint tea with a host of locals and watching our cars. Knuckles was to the west of me, up the alley at the first intersection he found. Veep was to the east, doing the same thing.

  We couldn’t capture the guy in the old town, because getting him out on foot would be a little problematic, so we intended to follow him until he breached the old town and entered the newer section of the city—one we could drive on.

  I would trigger him leaving the riad; then Jennifer would relay east or west. Either Knuckles or Veep would pick him up, and we’d all collapse around him, using the maze of alleys to keep him in sight. From there, we’d just develop the situation. It might take a day or two, but eventually, we’d have him.

  Retro called from the plaza, saying, “Just a heads-up; two police cars pulled into the plaza.”

  I said, “From the checkpoint?”

  During our drive down from the aircraft, we’d passed multiple checkpoints anytime we entered a town, manned by some guys in brown uniforms. They didn’t stop us, or even slow us down, so I figured they were just for show. We’d passed one more as we’d entered the city.

  Retro said, “No. These guys are in blue uniforms. I think they’re the actual city police force, and those guys on the road are like state troopers or something. They just went by me, four of them, headed into the old town on foot.”

  I said, “Roger all. Bumper positions, you copy?”

  I got an acknowledgment from them, and we continued to wait. I saw the door to the upper deck open, and I’ll be damned if our target didn’t appear, talking on a cell phone. I alerted the team, telling them I had eyes on—which was good, since we only had the word of his brother that he was staying there. He glanced down into the alley below, and I got a call from the east. “Pike, Pike, this is Veep. The policeman just passed me headed your way.”

  Uh-oh. I prayed they’d walk by the riad before our target decided to leave.

  “Koko, let me know if they reach you.”

  The target went back inside in a rush, talking into his cell phone, and it clicked: He had someone staged like we did, only it was for early warning. I hoped that the police weren’t coming for him, but my sixth sense said they were—or Snyder wouldn’t have prepared a tripwire to alert him.

  Jennifer said, “They just passed me, and they’re headed to the stairs.”

  Damn it. We were going to lose our next lead because he was getting arrested. I began mentally exploring options for leveraging the Taskforce to get us into his cell, when the target burst out onto the balcony, wearing a backpack and looking over the side. The police spotted him and began racing up the stairs, banging into the lobby of the riad. I could hear faint shouting, and Snyder put away his phone. He backed up, then took a running leap, clearing the railing of his rooftop deck and soaring onto the next rooftop. He rolled, then stood up at a dead run. He planted his feet, then threw himself into the air, clearing the alley between us—floating through fifteen feet of open death—landing on the roof to my left.

  Holy shit. I stood up, saying, “Target’s on the run, target’s on the run. He’s on my side of the alley, on the roof.”

  I heard noise behind me, and Jennifer came out onto the balcony, saying, “Which way?”

  I pointed to the roof attached to our hotel, two balconies over, and said, “He’s running. Get on him.”

  She didn’t hesitate. She leapt onto the railing, then jumped to the next balcony, scattering wineglasses and a bottle on a table. A man came out, shouting at her, and she ignored him, repeating the maneuver, leaping to the next balcony, then jumping to the adjacent roof. She said, “I got him, I got him, and, man, he’s moving out.”

  Parkour . . .

  I saw the police burst out onto the deck, looking around. One of them pointed across and they all began running back down, the leader shouting into a radio.

  I got on the net and said, “This is going to be a footrace. Veep, Knuckles, track from the ground. Follow Jennifer’s phone. Sooner or later, he’s leaving the roof.”

  I heard, “Roger.”

  “Retro, Retro, give me a route. Where’s he going? He planned this beforehand, so he’s got to be headed to a vehicle.”

  I was sure he was a junior El Chapo and had planned this escape long ago. Retro said, “I’m on it.”

  We had only about five minutes before he left the old town. I ran off the balcony, saying, “I’m moving to you.”

  —

  Jennifer watched their target leap up onto a wall and barely touch the top before using his legs to springboard sideways to another roof. She was impressed.

  There was one roof between him and her, and she leapt to it, scrambling upright.

  She saw him run to the edge of his roof, abutting another alley. He glanced over, and she thought he might be boxed in. She crouched down below the parapet, waiting.

  He backed up ten feet, swung his arms, and took off sprinting. He leapt up to the top of the wall and launched himself across like a long jumper, arms and legs forward, backpack straining against his shoulders. She couldn’t believe it. He began running across the roofs as if it were flat terrain.

  She leapt up and repeated his maneuver on the earlier roof, jumping forward to an adjacent wall, gaining height, then planting her feet and pressing off, rolling on the new roof. She heard Knuckles s
ay, “Holy shit, he just came over my head. He cleared my alley.”

  She ran to the gap, seeing about a twenty-foot spread, and the target moving to the next roof. She glanced down and found Knuckles looking up at her, two women in hijabs closing up a spice store next to him. Into the radio, Knuckles said, “Can you do that?”

  She said, “I don’t know. That’s a big gap.”

  “I can’t get parallel to him on the street. He’s going to get away.”

  Jennifer nodded at him and said, “Catch me if I fall?”

  He said, “I’ll do my best.”

  She took a deep breath and backed up. She heard movement behind her and whirled around. A child came out, saying something in Arabic. She smiled at him, then ran as fast as she could, knowing if her foot slipped, she was going down.

  She leapt up, planting both feet on the wall, and launched herself through the air. She sailed forward and saw she wasn’t going to reach it. She hit the next parapet at the waist, getting the wind knocked out of her. She scraped her feet on the wall, seeking purchase and hearing Knuckles say, “Koko, you going to make it?”

  She pulled herself over the parapet and sat down, holding her ribs. She heard Knuckles say, “Pike, she’s over. This is getting nuts.”

  “Find another way to parallel. Keep on him. Through satellite imagery he’s got about three ways to go.”

  Veep said, “Cops are on the move. Knuckles, you should see them in ten seconds.”

  “I got ’em, I got ’em, but they have the same problem I do.”

  Jennifer kept running, her target now two roofs away. She heard, “They just ran into a spice store.”

  Veep said, “Follow them. They know this place a hell of a lot better than us. There’s probably a cut-through.”

  Knuckles said, “Good idea.”

  She saw her target leap up to an iron bar and swing himself sideways, dropping to a roof forty feet lower on the hill. She leapt across to the next roof, saying, “He’s coming down. He’s no longer moving parallel to the ridgeline. He’s traveling down the hill toward the plaza.”