Traffick Stop, an American Assassin's Story (Paladine Political Thriller Series Book 3)

by Kenneth Eade

  “It’s got a Nightforce NXS telescopic sight.”

  Robert held the rifle up and looked through the sight.

  “It’s a beautiful weapon. You had any experience with it?”

  “Some. Let’s see the Ruger.”

  Bill took out another case, flipped it open and revealed a sleek, steel grey rifle, also with a long noise suppressor. When he laid his hands on it, Robert felt comfortable, as though he was with an old friend.

  “The Kahles 624 sight is three thousand extra, but it’s worth it. If you want I can fit it with something in the thousand dollar range.”

  Robert looked through the sight out the window.

  “Hey, careful!”

  “Don’t worry, nobody will see. I’ll take the Ruger and the Kahles.”

  “Okay, that’s six thousand.”

  “Also need a pocket protector.”

  “Are you a revolver guy, or an automatic guy?”

  “Automatic.”

  “Glock or Beretta?”

  “Glock.”

  “I’ve got just the thing for you. Twenty-five hundred.”

  Bill clicked the Tac-50 case closed and put it back in the closet. He pulled out a small aluminum case and flipped it open on the bed.

  “That’s a Liberty Mystic-S suppressor. Quiet as a library.”

  Robert handled the Glock. There was no magazine in it, so he pulled the slide back and checked the barrel and the chamber, then released the slide and sent the hammer home with a click.

  “It’ll do. What do you have in a .22?”

  “I’ve got a Ruger with a Silent SR suppressor. Fifteen hundred.”

  Bill popped open another case with a small black Ruger and suppressor about the same length. Robert lifted out the gun, popped out the magazine, racked the slide and checked the barrel and chamber, then pulled the trigger.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Okay. Ten grand total and I’ll throw in the holsters and some ammo.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Robert checked the barrel and chamber of the Glock, then pulled the slide back, removing it, and cleaned all visible carbon from the surfaces of the frame. He removed the spring and barrel, and thoroughly cleaned them, leaving them lubricated. Then he slid off the back plate and striker, and removed the extractor plunger, setting all the parts on a towel, and then carefully cleaned and lubricated them. Working backwards, he put the gun back together, checked it and set it down next to his laptop.

  He had read and memorized Abdullah’s file, which was detail-intensive, but Robert started his research at square one. He never delegated any aspect of his job. It was his life on the line with every pull of every trigger, and that meant preparation was far more important than execution. He fired up his throwaway laptop, hacked into the Wi-Fi of a Chinese restaurant and took a lap around the Dark Net to get more acquainted with his subject.

  She brushed her long, dark brown hair back and covered it entirely with a pink hijab which she had learned to tie step-by-step from watching a YouTube video. She looked curiously at the girl staring back at her in the mirror. The same hazel eyes, the same long eyelashes and stylish eyebrows, but something had changed; she could feel it, and she felt that it showed.

  Her excitement ran through her veins and out through her fingers, which played an involuntary tapping rhythm on the desk. This would be the first time she would actually see him. After all those texts and email conversations and chats, she would finally come face-to-face with her true love, Zaynul. She had written his name a thousand times in her notebook at school when she was bored and her mind drifted off into her own private thoughts. She checked herself in the mirror again, straightening the hijab and puckering her lips. Would he still like her? Would he find her attractive? They had exchanged pictures, but this was different – this was live. Her shaking finger activated Skype and she watched as it came to life on her screen. She checked herself again in the video. This was it.

  Skype’s tone signaled an incoming call and on screen she could see it was from Zaynul. She nervously clicked to accept the call and a young man’s face appeared on the monitor. He was even more handsome than his picture, and had a warm, friendly smile.

  “As-Salaam Alaikum.”

  Rasha smiled. “Wa-Alaikum Salaam. Sorry, my Arabic is not very good.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll teach you. You know, you’re even more beautiful than your picture.”

  Rasha looked down. She had learned that vanity was haram, but it still felt good to hear him say it. “Thank you, but Allah teaches us that every one of his creations is beautiful.”

  “You are so right. I’m happy we finally got to speak in person. We have so much to talk about.”

  Robert had cultivated jihadist recruiters before, but this one preyed only on young people. It would be tough to maintain a cover. He selected a photograph of one of his “look-alikes” for his Facebook and Twitter profiles. Robert, a man of many faces, could never afford to have his real face exposed to the giants of social media, which had better data mining technology than the government. His “look-alike” was a carefully selected photograph of a dead-ringer for Robert, only about ten years younger, and with a different “face print” than his own. He named his creation Asad, from the Bay Area. As he filled out the false details on his profiles, the trap had been set with Robert as the bait.

  Asad started by friending followers of Islam. His tweets, at first, were demure and curious: This is my first time on social media. But then they evolved into jihadist bait: What’s really going on in Syria? Does anyone know? He watched ISIS propaganda videos and subscribed to their channels on YouTube. The videos were professional and many were gruesome. Having seen them before, he hardly skimmed them, liking and subscribing, liking and commenting.

  For several days, there were no responses, then just a few. Finally, on the fifth day, he received a message on Twitter: Hello Asad, my name is Zaynul. I noticed you on social media. Here’s my IM name. Maybe we could chat sometime?

  Robert Garcia grabbed the Glock and racked the slide as he smiled from ear to ear. He pointed it at the screen and pulled the trigger, sending the hammer home with a click.

  “Yeah, asshole, let’s chat.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It didn’t take long for Robert to discover from Abdullah’s careless chatting that he liked to hang out in the hookah lounges on the north side of the city, which was probably where he took his meetings. His favorite appeared to be a lounge on Geary Street where Robert tracked him the second night.

  When Robert walked in, the outside was still bathed in sunlight, the inside a dark, smoky mist, illuminated by colored spotlights and twinkling chained lights dangling from the colored silks that adorned the ceiling. The air was filled with the scent of mint, eucalyptus and the sweet smell of fruit mixed with tobacco. He took a seat in the foreground of the café and spotted Abdullah right away, sitting in a red vinyl booth in the back corner of the bar with three other young men.

  Robert kicked back and enjoyed the Arabic music while he sipped on Moroccan tea and puffed on cherry and grapefruit hookah from a tall argyle pipe. He was tempted to just walk up and pop Abdullah and be done with it, but, like with any other profession, an assassination had to be planned with precision, and every possible variable had to be taken into account. Patience was a must and it sometimes took days or even weeks to organize a job that was finished in less than sixty seconds.

  Abdullah left the two young men and Robert estimated the amount of the bill in his head, threw down three twenty-dollar bills, and left after him. This time, he headed into a tacky hookah lounge with a long wooden bar and high topped seats and took another corner table, alone. Robert slipped into a seat at the bar and ordered a cup of tea. As good as it smelled, he abstained from smoking another bowl full. Abdullah was joined by a young girl this time who was wearing a colorful hijab. She entered shyly, her head down, and smiled when she saw the jihadi. As Robert watched Abdullah charm his female sub
ject, he thought of Rahbi’s daughter, Rasha, and how she must have been in a similar situation several years earlier, maybe in this very café.

  Rasha slid into the booth next to Zaynul. She was beaming. He nodded to her. It was considered haram for men and women to greet each other in public.

  “You are even more beautiful in person than on video.”

  She felt the skin of her cheeks uncovered by the hijab turn warm as they flushed red. “Thank you.”

  “Does anybody know you’re here?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Many people don’t understand the work of Allah.”

  “I want to learn. I feel Allah is guiding me to the straight path.”

  “That’s very good. And I will help you.”

  Rasha was tired of being shunned by her peers at school because she was Muslim. Now, with Zaynul in her life, when the Islamaphobes and bullies acted out, instead of despair, she found strength and resolve in her faith.

  “You know, I usually don’t meet with girls in person.”

  Rasha felt a little guilty to be singled out for such special attention, but it beat the negative attention she was getting at school and the strict disciplinary routine at home. She felt a euphoric happiness radiating from her heart spreading tingles throughout her entire body.

  When Abdullah left his meeting, he caught a bus on Geary Street and Robert filed onto it with several other passengers, taking a seat in the back. The slimy little jihadi slipped off the bus through its front door at “Geary and 12th. Robert went out the back, walking in the opposite direction until he was sure Abdullah wasn’t looking at him, and then doubled back, keeping sight of him in the distance.

  Adbullah disappeared into the lobby of an apartment hotel. It wasn’t as sleazy as he was – in fact it looked like it had recently suffered from a new coat of paint. It was one of those classic buildings with an outside fire escape – circa 1920s. Luckily for Robert, there was a motel across the street, also not looking in too bad shape. He went in and rang the bell at the front desk. A television echoed from an office in the back. He heard the creaking of a reclining chair, then a skinny old man with a few fuzzy grey hairs left on his head appeared at the counter.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I’d like a room with a window please.”

  The man looked behind himself at a peg dangling full of keys with large wooden fobs.

  “We’ve got 24A but that looks out on 12th Avenue. Might be kind of noisy for you.”

  “No, no, that’ll be fine.”

  The man grabbed one of the keys and set it in front of Robert. He withdrew a piece of paper from underneath the counter, set it down, and then grabbed a pen from a pencil jar and slapped it on top of the paper.

  “Just fill out your name and sign here, and we’ll need the license plate of your car.”

  “Don’t have one.”

  The old man smiled. “No problem. How many nights?”

  “Let’s start with two and see how it goes.”

  “Okay, that’ll be $138.”

  Robert forked over $140 in cash and the man gave him two one-dollar bills in change from his pocket.

  “We’re open down here 24 hours in case you need anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  The man went back into his office and Robert up the stairs to his new room. The room was Spartan, also freshly painted, with barely enough room for the double-sized bed, nightstand and desk. But all Robert needed was the window. He sat on the bed, parted the curtains and peered out. From this window, he had a clear view of the entrance to Abdullah’s apartment. He made a pistol with his thumb and forefinger, pointed it out the window and “shot,” signaling that Abdullah’s days on earth were numbered.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Robert skipped across the street to gather a few essential stake-out supplies from the small market. It was more of a liquor store, really. He picked up some bread, cold-cuts, cheese and mayonnaise – the essentials for a quick sandwich – and hurried back to his room, where he turned on his laptop again and sunk into the Dark Net.

  She played with the food on her plate, pushing it around with her fork. How could she be hungry with all the planning that had to be done? Sitting here in school was just a waste of time. The hypocrisy of the western world was tugging at her heart. She was allowed to wear her hijab to the junior college, but didn’t. That would only make the shunning and the bullying even worse. Seven more days and she could pick up her diploma, then it was off to Syria. Unfortunately, her father had insisted she attend the graduation ceremony. A girl snuck up on her, touched her on the shoulder, and punctured her daydream.

  “Rasha, let’s go, you’re going to be late for philosophy!”

  Rasha liked Susan. She wasn’t really a friend, but they had hung out in the same study groups the past two years. A Christian, she had no idea of what was really going on in the world out there, and philosophy was the biggest joke of all. The professor was a holdover hippy from the 70s who was always talking gibberish about “What is truth? What is love?” Rasha looked up and smiled. She had found her love in Allah, and, of course, Zaynul. It was her destiny.

  “I’m coming.”

  She took her tray to the bus area and joined Susan on the walk to the classroom.

  Abdullah finally proposed a “meeting” on Skype. Robert, of course, preferred a personal meeting, but there were undercover government agents posing as recruits, and Abdullah was well aware of it. So far, however, law enforcement had only arrested the recruits, never their recruiters. Robert used a USB microphone with software to make distortions to his voice that could not be detected by the human ear. Ever the chameleon, whose skin color was a varying degree of medium to dark brown, depending on how long he spent on the deck of the boat, he could easily pass as an Arab, and could blend in with any crowd. He had stopped trimming his dark brown beard, working on a trade mark jihadist fuzz, so his appearance in life would be as close to the avatar he had selected as possible, and to conceal the scars and wrinkles he had collected through time and experience. When the time came for his “meeting” with Abdullah, he would be prepared.

  “I just wanted to show you a few pictures of the place you are going.”

  Zaynul laid out colorful photographs of children playing, and street markets filled with fresh fruit and vegetables. Rasha looked through them and smiled.

  “We’re building a better world under Allah’s care.”

  “You’ll be coming with me, right?”

  “No, darling, I’m afraid I must stay here. But I will join you there – I promise. And there will be friends to meet you all along the points of your journey. You will be well cared for.”

  Her disappointment stabbed at her like a pain in her heart.

  “I’m not sure I can part with you.”

  Zaynul reached his hand across the table and grasped hers.

  “We will be married and live in paradise, Rasha. It is our destiny, In sha Allah.”

  Robert clocked Abdullah entering his apartment building at 6:00 p.m. At 7:45, the smiling face of the jihadist recruiter appeared on his screen.

  “As-Salaam Alaikum.”

  “Wa-Alaikum Salaam.”

  “Motasharefon bema'refatek.”

  Robert answered in Arabic, and their conversation continued solely in Abdullah’s native language.

  “Your Arabic is very strong.”

  “Not as strong as my love for Allah.”

  “What’s your interest in the caliphate, Asad?”

  “I want to serve my people. I guess I just don’t fit in here. I think differently than everyone else, and I don’t know what to do with my life. The prospects here seem so difficult.”

  “We are building a brand new society for our people in the caliphate, Asad. It’s a place where you will be understood and accepted. You will have work and Allah provides you with everything you need – housing, utilities, a woman – sometimes more than one. Do you have any particular skills?”
<
br />   “Well, I like to shoot.”

  “That’s good. We have some of the best training camps in the world. You are about to embark on a marvelous adventure.”

  “I can’t wait. I have my passport ready.”

  “We’ll talk about that later.”

  Robert played his Asad backstory skillfully and naturally, baiting Abdullah into the next step.

  “Well, I think we should get together and start you on the path for your journey.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Not so fast, although we do like the enthusiasm. We have to begin your education first. There’s a seminar tomorrow at 4:00 p.m. Can you make it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. I’ll text you the address. Ma-al-salamah.”

  “Fee aman-illah.”

  It was obvious Abdullah intended to put Robert through a vetting process, but he had no intention of taking it that far. He clicked off and began the final preparations for the job. He slapped a magazine into the Glock and slipped it and the noise suppressor in a concealed waistband and secured them. Then, after pulling on his boots, he placed the Ruger into his ankle holster and the silencer next to it. He pulled on his jacket and headed out the door.

  I’ll be happy to send you on your journey, Abdullah. Your 72 virgins are closer than you think.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Bay Area Islamic Center was a normal looking community center, with a library, a day care facility, an employment agency, meeting rooms and an auditorium. The center looked, for all intents and purposes, pretty innocuous, except for the fact that the people who were coming and going were all dressed in traditional Islamic garb. Women in dark colored abaya with matching hijabs and veils covering everything but their eyes, and men in kurtas. Robert dressed in western wear, but he sported a hoodie that said “Peace Be Upon You.”