The Somali Deception (Cameron Kincaid Book 2)

by Daniel Arthur Smith

  Yes, that had been pure rage.

  Cameron had recognized the fervor in Pepe’s eyes. He had seen that same madness many times before on the faces of enemy combatants that fought with a cultish intensity beyond reason. He thought himself and his team above and immune to such irrational emotive drive. Yet this warlord, Abbo Mohammed, had hijacked a yacht with Pepe’s sister on board. To liberate Christine, they had stormed the warlord’s Somali compound only to discover Abbo had separated her from the other hostages. Christine was to have a role in his Dubai harem.

  That was the intel they had.

  Christine was their motivation, and each hour she was held hostage would push them closer to the edge. Cameron was not surprised by Pepe’s reflex, entering the room to find Christine serving as a concubine to a warlord, to witness her act of forced fornication.

  The woman in the master room was not Christine, nor was she engaged in the act of forced fornication.

  Christine was not in the suite and she had not been with the harem.

  Their self made mission had a primary objective of infiltration and exfiltration of one primary target, Christine Laroque. Now the mission had taken a turn.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 38

  Abbo’s Suite, Burj Khalifa Level 105, Dubai

  Abbo Mohammed sat propped against his headboard. A crimson stream trickled from the center of his forehead where the muzzle of Pepe’s MP-5 had broken the skin.

  “What do you think you are doing?” said Abbo, the baritone of his voice resonating with contempt.

  Cameron lifted a pillow from the side of the massive bed, “Here, you can cover yourself up.”

  “Does my manhood make you feel inferior?” Abbo shot Cameron a judging leer. “Good. I feel no shame. You should have shame. Thieves in the night, and you, Cameron Kincaid, I see you beneath your mask. You think you can steal from me?”

  “We aren’t here to steal,” said Cameron. He dropped the pillow.

  “No matter,” said Abbo, his voice confident and deep. “You will not leave alive. My men will never let you leave.”

  Pepe had composed himself. “They are all dead.”

  “You think the men in other room and the hall are the only soldiers that protect me. You are foolish. I have men downstairs that will be arriving any moment to take your heads.”

  “Also dead,” said Pepe.

  Abbo furled his brow. “You play. You will see.”

  “The tall one, the two skinny men, the one with the scar? Dead, dead, dead, and dead, and your driver, too. Oui, he is also dead.”

  “That is impossible,” said Abbo.

  “No,” said Pepe. “Far from impossible.” He produced a knife from the inside of his jumpsuit. “I cut their throats one by one.”

  Abbo jolted himself from the bed, away from Pepe.

  Cameron lifted his MP-5, “Ah, ah. Stay right there.”

  Abbo peered up at Cameron, judging the next action, and then relaxed back onto the headboard, his attempt to scramble failed.

  “You are the assassins,” said Abbo. He straightened his back and then cleared his throat. Abbo’s head drooped around to Cameron, “You. You are a spy from the CIA, or one of the others from above, maybe?”

  “No,” said Cameron. “I’m just the wrong fella to mess with.”

  “Seems you hijacked the wrong yacht,” said Pepe, “and took the wrong girl.”

  Abbo began to lean forward, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  In a flash, Pepe raised his MP-5 high and then thrust his elbow back into the chest of the captive giant. The headboard cracked loudly as Abbo’s weight burst back.

  Abbo yelled up at Pepe, “What do you want with me?”

  “Where is Christine?” asked Pepe.

  “Who is Christine? I do not know who you are talking about.”

  Pepe’s stout body twisted and his knee flew up into Abbo’s chest, planting the warlord further into the bed.

  Abbo lifted his hands to cover himself, his eyes wide, “Really, I do not know what you are talking about. I do not know about a yacht or this girl Christine.”

  Pepe swung the muzzle of the MP-5 back toward Abbo’s face.

  “Hold on,” said Cameron. “We are talking about the Kalinihta. Demetrius Stratos’ yacht you hijacked and took to your compound when you kidnapped his son Nikos and Christine, the woman that was with him. We have Nikos and we want Christine.”

  “You fools,” said Abbo. “I did no such thing.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Cameron.

  “You have been deceived. Dada is the kidnapper. It was him that kidnapped my son and took him to this compound you speak of. The compound belongs to Dada.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Pepe.

  “I have nothing that far north. Dada took that compound from the Merca when he drove them out. Why would I hijack that yacht? I have no quarrel with Demetrius Stratos. I have been dealing with him for years.”

  Cameron shook his head, “You’re lying.”

  “No, no,” said Abbo. “This is about money.”

  “What money?”

  “The waste disposal money. That is what Dada wants. Demetrius charges one thousand euros per ton to dispose of toxic waste created by companies across Europe. For five euros per ton, the National Volunteer Coast Guard allows his ships to dump millions of tons of the waste. They dump far out in Somali waters. Demetrius pays me, and then pockets the difference. Why would I ruin all of this?” Abbo gestured his hand around the suite. “This is that scheming Dada. Dada is in London to rework the deal for the Somali Marines.”

  Alastair had returned and was at the foot of the bed, “He is lying to save himself.”

  “I am not lying. Dada has made a fool of you to win the deal with Demetrius and to take me out at the same time. My spies tell me he tries to get double increase. He wants everything. He is the one that sent you, is he not?”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Cameron.

  Wounded, Abbo lowered his voice, “Maybe you work for Dada? Maybe you were the ones who took my son? What have you done with him? Have you killed Feizel, killed my son?”

  “He’s lying,” said Alastair.

  “He’s not,” said Pepe.

  “When is the last time you saw your son?” asked Cameron.

  “I have not seen my son in weeks. He is not content to stay here. He is young and travels through Europe with the young people, where the young people dance. He was last in Ibiza when I spoke with him, then he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? What do you mean?” asked Cameron.

  “We always talk, every few days. Then nothing. He did not use his credit cards. No one had seen him. I was told he had been kidnapped and taken to the compound in Kismayu. By the time my men were able to get there, the compound had been burnt to the ground. Was that you?”

  “Yes,” said Cameron. “We liberated Stratos’ yacht and crew from the compound.”

  Abbo stretched his neck tall, “Did you see my son? Do you know what that dog did with him?”

  “Not everyone was there,” said Pepe. “That is why we are here.”

  “Then I must go to London,” said Abbo. “I know now what he is up to. I will set things right with Demetrius and I will torture that dog Dada to find out where my son is.”

  “Your son is dead,” said Alastair.

  “What?” asked Abbo.

  “Feizel was in on the deal to screw over his old man,” said Alastair. “The heir to the throne. Just didn’t play out like he thought.”

  Abbo’s eyes began to blaze red, “Now you lie!”

  Alastair continued, “He had a gun when we arrived. What kidnapper would give their hostage a gun?”

  “Where is he? What have you done?”

  “He is dead,” said Alastair. He nodded toward Pepe. “My friend shot him in the head.”

  Abbo shouted a guttural scream, “No, this cannot be!” He threw his outstretched hand up toward Pepe’s
neck, his wrists and fingers gnarled in the air, prepared to mangle. Pepe’s knees buckled as he dropped back to dodge the lunging warlord. Pepe squeezed his trigger as the warlord soared toward him.

  Abbo convulsed in the air, riddled by the stings of the MP-5 submachine gun, before falling twisted on the bed, less half his skull, which now plastered the face of the headboard.

  “Why did you have to go and say that?” asked Cameron.

  “You really think he was going to forget about us?” said Alastair. “He was going to hunt us down for what we did today alone, and once he found out the truth about Feizel.” Alastair shrugged, “Well.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 39

  Abbo’s Suite, Burj Khalifa Level 105, Dubai

  The door of the suite boomed in thwacks and thuds, the hollers of the men on the other side escalating in accordance with their impatience.

  “Sounds like they really want to get in,” said Cameron.

  Alastair was stowing all of the loose gear back into the duffels. He glanced out into the night past the glass wall. “We have less than a minute to wait for our cue.”

  Pepe was setting the final charges around the edges of the glass. “Will that be enough time? As soon as Abbo’s men figure out the card reader’s shorted they are going to take that door.”

  “They will have to have great luck trying,” said Alastair. “ I checked the lock when I sent Antoinette out to the corridor, that door should hold.”

  Cameron zipped the front of his jumpsuit, “This fits, and I get a logo as well.”

  “They came in a set,” said Alastair. “You know, Pepe, if you would have really killed all of his downstairs men like you told him we would not be in a rush.”

  “I would have enjoyed the task,” said Pepe. “You were the one that said we should minimize risk by manipulating the camera system. You should have started the fountain sooner.”

  Alastair stopped and shifted his gaze to Pepe. “I triggered the remote as soon as I bloody well could, thank you. I think all of Dubai is going to appreciate this unscheduled performance.” Alastair resumed zipping the duffels. “You should take a look down at the extravaganza.”

  “Hmm,” said Pepe. “Magnific.”

  “You’re damn right,” said Alastair. “They haven’t used those extreme shooters since the opening ceremony.”

  “They really shoot the water fifty stories in the air?” asked Cameron, adjusting his harness.

  “With percussion as loud as thunder. When those babies go off this whole building, that entire mall, hell, the whole city, is going to shake. It will be great. Except...”

  Pepe was adjusting his harness as well. Without looking at Alastair, he asked, “Except what?”

  “I said they haven’t been used since the opening ceremony.”

  “So?” asked Pepe.

  “When I went out on the lake this afternoon to calibrate them, they registered as engaged on the control screen.”

  “That’s fine then,” said Cameron.

  “Well, that only means they are calibrated for the performance and registering. If they are not set up to receive pressure or something goes wrong, this may not work.”

  “So then the world knows we are here?” asked Pepe.

  “We reduce the element of diversion,” said Alastair.

  “No matter,” said Cameron, “we’re leaving. Do you hear them out there? They’re rabid.”

  “No worries. There would have to be—” Alastair abruptly paused as the yelling suddenly escalated, flooding the suite beyond the master bedroom, “A secondary mechanism. There would have to be a secondary mechanism. How did we miss that?”

  “We need to go now,” said Cameron. “The bolts on this door won’t hold them long.”

  Abbo’s soldiers began thumping the bedroom door.

  “All good,” said Alastair. “The music is about to crescendo and then we make our exit. Three small percussions, then the two larger ones. Ready yourselves.”

  “What music?” asked Pepe.

  “You cannot hear the music from here?” asked Alastair. From beyond the glass wall, they heard a muffled boom. “That’s one. You’d better back up.”

  From inside the suite they heard furniture now thudding against the door.

  “That’s two.”

  Pepe held the trigger in his hand.

  “And three, get ready, Pepe.”

  The panels in the center of the bedroom door began to break inward, yet the door stayed secure in the frame.

  Alastair’s focus was intense. His eyes went vacant as he distinguished the outside concussions from the rounds the men beyond the door were firing into the locks.

  Alastair yelled, “Now!”

  Pepe flipped the charge in sync with the sound of thunder from the extreme shooters of the Dubai fountain below. The glass wall disintegrated into the Dubai night, high above the lake.

  At that same moment, Abbo Mohammed’s men broke the door to the master bedroom free from the reinforced bolts.

  Pepe, Cameron, and Alastair thrust themselves into the void adjacent to the tower As Somali soldiers poured into the dead warlord’s room.

  Pepe, Cameron, and Alastair separated quickly on launch, then tossed their chutes out, their canopies pulled up and open. The soldiers raced to the perch of the now open level. Alastair’s voice tinned in Pepe’s ear, “Now, Pepe.”

  Pepe squeezed the second igniter.

  To the left of the three commandos, eruptions of fuchsia hued water towered upward, high above the other buildings around them, accompanied by thunder. The series of charges set throughout the suite during the sweep exploded in a cascade, propelling the unprepared soldiers from the open ledge.

  Alastair pointed a green laser toward a darkened parking area to the far right of the fountain spectacle. As the three drew closer, a fluorescent green glow stick appeared, first waving, then still. Using the light of the glow stick as their guide, the three honed on their target.

  The heat of the desert enveloped Cameron.

  Though the next steps were clear—go to London and to Dada—that left little relief. Their plan was to BASE jump with a fourth. A fourth that was supposed to be held by Abbo Mohammed, and she wasn’t here.

  Cameron adjusted the lines of his canopy to swing himself around and into alignment with the green glow stick. Cameron heard a whizzing close behind, another, and then two concussions filled the air. Hundreds of amber and indigo lights filled the heavens above him.

  “What the hell,” said Cameron.

  Into his ear, Alastair responded, “The fireworks are beginning to erupt.”

  “Fireworks? Are you nuts?” Another whiz shot behind Cameron, followed by another pop, resulting this time in a magenta sky.

  “I didn’t think they would turn on,” said Alastair. “I didn’t put them in when I created the show protocol. There must be an automatic override.”

  “An automatic override?” asked Cameron.

  “Don’t worry. They’re farther away than they seem and we are about to touch down.”

  The next rockets went up with a swish. “Oh, dear,” said Alastair.

  “Is that what I think?” asked Pepe.

  “Hold on,” said Cameron.

  The sky above lit amber again, this time to the sound of popcorn popping, and then the rain began. Surrounded by the pouring lit remnants of giant fire blossoms, the three were ready for the silks to degrade and for airspeed to rapidly increase. None of those things happened. The lightshow was farther away then they perceived, an illusion.

  The dim parking lot became illuminated as they dropped close. The only vehicle, a vintage VW van, was parked to the side. The three touched down as they had countless times before and in the same motion, began to gather their gear. Rehan, the twelve-year-old boy from the Marmoom Camel track, was waiting next to the open doors of the van. He scurried over to the center of the parking area, scooped up the glow stick, and then buried the light in his pocket. Rehan then ran ov
er to Pepe and, with two hands and a heave of a lift, clutched his duffel. “Let me help you stow everything in the lorry, Sayyed. I have the water and food you requested. Where is the other?”

  “We have to make another stop,” said Cameron. “C’mon, let’s stow everything into the van and get out of here.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 40

  Paris Countryside, Fifteen Years Before

  The voyeuristic glances of Christine, stolen through the Citroen’s rearview mirror, pleased Cameron. In the backseat was innocent bliss. She had wrapped the chocolate lab in her scarf, cradling the puppy as she would a baby, and now soothed her tiny brown bundle with a maternal voice.

  “You are such a cute baby,” said Christine. “Are you a cute baby? Yes, you are.”

  The miniature muzzle poked up to reach Christine’s chin, so she folded herself toward him, giggling while his tongue basted her neck. “Such nice kisses. You are a darling little one.” Her words appeared to encourage him to eagerly devour his new mistress with a tongue lapping that paired with her further laughter.

  “You have a new love,” said Cameron.

  “Isn’t he beautiful? What should we name him?”

  “What would you like?”

  “Oh, I already love him so much,” said Christine. “Maybe little Cameron.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Christine shifted her eyes up from the pup to the mirror, “Don’t sound like a grump. You will hurt his feelings. I would not name this little darling a grumpy man’s name.”

  “Hey, I am hurt.”

  “You are not. Besides, I want him to keep me company when you are away, not remind me of how much I miss you.”

  Cameron had no response to this. His time between missions had diminished with each assignment. His career was unique, allusive, and one he was unable to share with Christine. He could not fool himself. Not too much time would pass before two to four week stints would turn to three and then six month operations. There were operatives he was aware of that had been in the field for years. His special talents had advanced him beyond one and done direct action missions. Christine’s opportunities were advancing as well, having traveled twice to Asia and once to Mexico already this year. A time would soon come when the few brief, fleeting days of the calendar, days when the two lovers could be together, would no longer intersect.