And he had a good team.
Actually, he had a great team.
Most in the CIA were the cream of the crop when it came to minds. In his business those who just couldn’t cut it were quickly weeded out, tossed either to less mentally tasking jobs or out of the Agency completely. And it wasn’t just IQ that mattered—it was mental toughness. Could you think clearly for 24 or 48 hours? Could you deal with images of torture and mutilation, the pressure of innocent lives in the balance, or the ramifications of delivering that piece of intel that could result in the deaths of the guilty?
He had passed all those tests, all those pressures. It had actually been quite the surprise since he had never considered himself brave or even much of a man. He was a shy loner who took a job working with computers and data, two things he loved. The CIA had approached him, he having done well on some aptitude test he had taken online on a whim.
And he’d never looked back.
Now thanks to his job he had a stable income, a good if infrequent friend back in his life, and a girlfriend who was way out of his league.
You have to stop thinking like that!
Sherrie would kick his ass if she knew he still thought that way. He used to always say ‘I don’t deserve you’ to her and she had ignored him at first, but finally turned on him one night. In his mind it was true, he didn’t deserve her, and by telling her so, it was a compliment, but apparently she wasn’t taking it that way.
“How do you think it makes me feel?” she had screamed. He had merely stared at her blankly. “Every time you say that you’re putting yourself down! You’re telling me that I’ve chosen poorly! Well, I don’t think I have, and you better realize that you do deserve me pretty damned quick, or you’re never going to see me again!”
She had stormed into the bathroom and taken a long shower while he cried into his pillow.
And he never said those words again, though his feelings had barely changed. He realized now that she truly did love him, and he her, and that they really were a great couple. They liked a lot of the same things, and since they both had top security clearances, they could be honest with each other, though sometimes that merely meant saying, ‘Sorry, classified.’
He thought of what Morrison had said and realized the man was right. And as he entered the Operations Center, his team and other support staff looking at him expectantly, he realized for the first time that he had become a man, despite his best efforts. He was a boss, and apparently good at it, his team respecting him and looking up to him, despite his age. His supervisors and peers treated him as an equal, no longer talking down to him as if he were a pimply kid fresh out of college, trusting him to make life and death decisions on a daily basis.
He sucked in a deep breath, pride and confidence swelling inside him, a rare feeling with so many eyes on him.
And decided that tonight when he got home, he was going to tell Sherrie how he truly felt.
That he did deserve her.
He pointed at a map of Northern Sierra Leone on one of the displays.
“Let’s get some drones over that area ASAP.”
West African Drop-In Center, Baltimore, Maryland
Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme pulled open the glass door of the West African Community Drop-in Center, Spock behind him, Control jacked in through his earpiece and a hidden mike on his jacket. The center had opened about ten minutes late and they had observed from their car parked across the street seven people enter since, five of them still inside, all male.
Photos had gone to Bragg for identification but nothing had come back yet. The order had come down the pipe to proceed, a possible sighting of the Vice President’s daughter reported by Langley only minutes before.
Time was of the essence, the location of the sighting over 24 hours cold and the intent of the kidnappers still unknown, except that they were willing to kill and die for their cause.
Assuming the group here were connected to those in Sierra Leone.
Intel suggested the one suspect in Africa was born in the same vicinity as the terrorists here, a tenuous connection at best, but a connection nonetheless. And the timing was simply too coincidental. Red, like the others, was convinced everything was connected, though the end-game was still a mystery.
And if their experience so far was any indication they were about to discover absolutely nothing that might help them.
A rattle above the door signaled their entry, three men visible inside turning their heads to stare, Red’s pale redhead British heritage setting him distinctly apart, Spock’s lineage not much better though at least he could tan.
Red pulled out his wallet, flashing his fake FBI ID. “I’m Special Agent Grey, this is Agent Brown. Can we speak to whoever’s in charge?”
Nobody said anything for a moment, the stares continuing though the eyes were a little wider, a hint of fear clearly evident.
Maybe we have stumbled onto something.
He stepped toward the group, just a single step, and they all turned to face him, eyes darting about as if looking for somewhere to run. Intel had already provided them with floor plans. There was the front entrance now at their back, a rear entrance through three adjoining rooms, and a fire escape if they were to go up the stairs, accessed through the next room, to the second or higher floors.
“Are one of you in charge?” he asked pleasantly, a smile on his face as he continued forward, subtly nearing the rear door so he could cut them off should they try to flee. “We just have some questions about Mr. Dia Conteh. I understand he came here often.”
Looks were exchanged and words whispered in what he assumed was their native tongue of Krio, a language he was nearly completely unfamiliar with. He and the others had been receiving crash courses in the language as soon as the Norfolk incident had begun, but it was impossible to learn a language in a couple of days, and their knowledge transfer had been more the key phrases like “hands up” and “drop your weapon”.
Panicked conversation hadn’t been covered yet.
His comm squawked. “The one on the right is telling the others not to say anything. The one behind the counter agrees.”
Fortunately for them someone back at Control spoke Krio perfectly and could see and hear everything thanks to the hidden comm gear both he and Spock were wearing.
“Listen, nobody’s in trouble, we just have a few questions.” He looked at the man on the right who had told the others to say nothing. “Did you know Mr. Conteh?”
The man quickly shook his head. “Good, you do speak English.” Red knew damned well the man spoke English, English was the official language in Sierra Leone, and even though their version of it was quite often unrecognizable when overheard by an American, these men could certainly understand the version spoken in their new country.
He simply hoped to goad them into a reaction.
“Of course I speak English.”
And it had worked.
“Good, that will make this much easier. I assume of course your friends here speak English.”
His comm squawked. “The man on the right is Ahmadou Ballo. He’s the founder of the West African Immigrant League. No criminal record, American citizen for six years. He works nights as a janitor, volunteers at the center during his off hours.”
“I’m looking for a Mr. Ballo. Is that you?”
The man’s eyes flared almost imperceptibly. The others leaned away slightly.
“Yes.”
“Good, then I’m sure you can definitely help us.” He stepped over to the counter, leaning on it, his body angled in such a way that he could easily block the rear exit from the room, Spock covering the front and hanging back at the opposite corner of the room, forcing the men to continually turn their heads if they wanted to watch both of them. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Conteh?”
Ballo shrugged. “I’m not sure. Not for a long time.” His English was heavily accented but excellent, good enough for Red to be able to sense the tension in his answers.
“Really?” Red pointed at the counter, a pile of leaflets advertising some sort of mixer next month, the same leaflet stuck to Conteh’s fridge with a Domino’s Pizza magnet. “New flyers? Kinko’s?”
The man behind the counter shook his head. “Staples.”
Red picked one up, pretending to read it but instead watching their reactions through his peripheral vision. “Looks like it might be fun.” He rubbed the paper between his fingers, detecting nothing. “Feels new. Last week?” The man behind the counter nodded. “First batch?” Another nod. “That’s good, then we’re getting somewhere.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ballo.
“Well, this flyer was on Mr. Conteh’s fridge, so we now know that he was here after you had these printed last week.”
Ballo glared at the man behind the counter for an instant then caught himself. “Perhaps someone gave it to him.”
“That’s always a possibility.” Red was impressed, Ballo clearly quick on his feet. “Which means someone that frequents this place saw him recently.” He suddenly changed tactics. “Where are you from?”
Ballo’s eyes narrowed. “Sierra Leone.”
“Where in Sierra Leone.”
“Kamakwie.”
“That’s fairly close to where Mr. Conteh is from, isn’t it?”
Ballo nodded, though he appeared reluctant to do so. He looked at the other two. “Are you from the same area?” The man behind the counter nodded, the other shook his head.
Someone from the next room yelled something in Krio, Ballo responding.
“He just told the person in the back to tell the others to leave.”
Red pretended to not know what was going on, Jagger and Sweets covering the rear exit and listening in. “Can you tell whoever is back there to come out here, please?”
Ballo shouted something to the back.
“He just told them to arm themselves. Sending backup to your location now.”
Red stepped back, drawing his Glock 22, aiming it directly at Ballo’s chest, Spock covering the other two. The man in the middle’s face visibly sagged, a small yellow puddle forming at the soles of his shoes. “Now everybody is going to remain calm and get on the floor,” said Red. The soiled man hit the floor immediately, but Ballo didn’t budge, neither did the man behind the counter who seemed to be taking all his cues from his boss.
And his hands, on the counter, seemed to be twitching, as if ready to reach for something.
“Now listen,” said Red, moving slightly so Spock would have a clearer shot at the man behind the counter, “nobody has to die here today. The rear exit is covered, nobody’s leaving here. Tell your friends in the back to lay down their weapons and nobody has to get hurt.”
“The man behind the counter is named Camara Okeke. He’s got a wife and a daughter.”
Red looked at Okeke. “Do you have a family?”
The man nodded.
“Any children?”
A rapid nod, his eyes flittering between his boss and interrogator.
“Son? Daughter?”
“D-daughter.”
“What’s her name?”
“Tell him nothing.”
Red turned to Ballo. “What harm could there be in telling me his daughter’s name?”
“We will tell your government nothing.”
Red pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re an American citizen. Isn’t it your government too?”
“It ceased being my government the day they let my homeland die.”
Bingo! Motive determined, now for the endgame.
“I assume you mean Ebola?”
Ballo nodded, lowering his slightly raised hands and turning to face Red’s weapon directly, as if making certain there was no way a bullet could miss the large target now provided. “You let our people die while wasting billions on your wars over oil, and only react when someone shows up here sick. You spend millions to save two of your white volunteers, but barely a penny on the thousands of blacks suffering in Africa.”
“Ahh, so it’s a race issue.”
“It is, and it shouldn’t be.”
“I agree.” Red was pretty certain where this was heading, but he had to make one last effort to diffuse things before the ending Ballo seemed committed to was triggered. “Listen, just because I work for the government doesn’t mean I agree with everything they do. Between you, me and the lamppost, I think our government should have gone all out in fighting this disease at the outset. Thousands of lives would have been saved, and in the end, hundreds of millions if not billions of dollars as well. By ignoring it thousands of your people died needlessly, and now it will just cost that much more to try and stop it.” Red shrugged. “Washington is filled with assholes who only care about getting reelected. There’s nothing I can do about that except vote against them in the next election. And as an American citizen, that’s what you can do too. You though have a luxury I as a public servant don’t. You can publicly criticize your government, organize rallies, protest, and change people’s opinions so they change their elected representative’s opinion. There’s nothing more terrifying to a politician than the thought of losing the next election. But this”—he motioned with a turn of his head at the room—“is not the way. You will never gain sympathy from Americans by killing innocent people in the name of your cause. Lay down your weapons and tell your story. Americans will listen to you. If you’re dead, your people lose what is obviously an impassioned voice.”
Ballo seemed to be taking in Red’s words, and for a moment Red had a sliver of hope that they might just be able to shut this impending disaster down when shouts from the back erupted, the thunder of a shotgun piercing the tense silence of the front room.
Okeke’s hands dropped below the counter. Spock put two in his chest as Ballo lunged for Red. Red shot him in the shoulder, spinning his body in mid-air. Ballo cried out in agony as he hit the floor on his back, the third man, already on the floor, begging not to be shot.
Red pushed Ballo over then stepped on his back as Spock quickly zip-tied the man’s hands and feet, moving on to the pisser. Sirens in the distance signaled that the local backup response status had been upgraded to lights and sirens now that shots had been fired. Red advanced, his weapon aimed at the door to the rear of the building as the shotgun continued to pump rounds, a second one joining in.
The distinctive sound of an AK47 upgraded the situation. “Bravo Zero-Eight, Bravo Zero-Two, preparing to enter through door Alpha, over.”
“Bravo Zero-Two, Bravo Zero-Eight, we’ll provide suppression fire, keep left, over.”
“Roger that, keeping left. Proceed in three, two, one, execute!”
The sound of two Glocks opening up on the rear of the building momentarily silenced the opposition’s weapons as they took cover. Red advanced, Spock on his six, taking a quick glance around the doorframe, finding what looked like a meeting area, threadbare couches surrounding the walls, an old CRT television against one wall and one man crouching near the door to the back room spinning toward them, a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum gripped in his hand.
Red double-tapped his chest.
Shouts from the next room indicated their approach had been discovered and rounds from the AK47 ripped through the thin gyprock. Red hit the floor as did Spock, both opening up on the wall. Somebody screamed on the other side, the AK47 silenced if only for a moment, but it was enough time for Red to jump to his feet and approach the final door, it closed with several bullet holes in it.
“Approaching Door Charlie, over.”
“Roger that, continuing suppression fire, over.”
The steady stream of fire from Jagger and Sweets minimized the response from what should have been only one gunman but sounded like two. Somebody had obviously already been in the building when it was unlocked less than half an hour ago.
Red kept to the left and low, Spock directly behind him as they continued to pump their own rounds through the wall, suddenly switching to t
he door as Red reached forward and grabbed the knob, shoving the door open. Spock surged past, firing three times, taking down the man holding the AK47, Red firing, eliminating an already wounded man gripping a shotgun. A third man was dead near the window, his own shotgun under his body.
“Clear!” announced Spock, still hugging the wall, suppression fire continuing.
“Clear!” said Red, activating his comm. “Hold your fire, situation is secure, over.”
The gunfire from the rear of the building stopped immediately. “Roger that, approaching Door Delta, over.”
“Opening door,” said Red, nodding toward Spock who opened the rear door, waving at their approaching comrades. Red immediately headed for the front of the building, there still two hostiles alive, Spock close behind. He found Ballo almost at the door, having wriggled his way across the floor, the urinator unmoved.
Ballo rolled to his side, twisting his body so he had a view of his whimpering partner, shouting something at him.
“He just said if you tell them anything you’re dead.”
Red smiled.
Good to know he knows something.
Somewhere in Sierra Leone
Sarah Henderson double-checked her gear in a large mirror that had been brought in from one of the houses. One of Koroma’s men was helping with a checklist that she had written down from memory, but without another trained eye to inspect her personal protective equipment, she had to rely on herself when Tanya was sleeping. It was nerve racking knowing she might have missed something, Tanya already having caught an improperly Velcroed seal, something the “trained” men were supposed to catch.
It showed the system was flawed.
At least their hobbled together system.
Back at the clinic she wasn’t concerned. She paid attention but two other people who did this type of work day in and day out were there to make sure no one screwed up. When she entered the isolation wards she was confident everything had been done to protect her.
Here she had no such confidence, especially when Tanya, with two months of experience, wasn’t with her.
Payback Page 14
