Counterfeit Lies

by Oliver North

  Looking at Mohammed, Jake said, “What are we talking here? Al-Qaeda? Hamas? Maybe Hezbollah? I’m guessing you’re Iranian.”

  “Wrong,” said Mohammed.

  “He speaks again,” said Jake with a manufactured smile.

  Kareem jumped back into the game. “I need to see the rest of the green and I need to see it now!”

  Candy barked, “We know you have money!”

  “Park wouldn’t have sent you here without three million,” added Kareem.

  “Mohammed, you can play anytime,” said Jake. “Like the rest of these guys I’m looking to you for direction.”

  Candy’s frustration was growing as the tension thickened. “I know Park has much money. Tommy tell me. He always talk too much. He always try to impress. He tell me Park bringing in three million and you would deliver.”

  Kareem added an evil smile. “See, Tommy got his piece off my girl here. Now I want my piece. If I don’t see the cash very soon, Gracie’s next nap will be permanent.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  In the hotel lobby Henry Yeong and three of his thugs entered the first floor and approached the window, where a thin, shaggy-haired white man in his early twenties had his feet propped up on the desk watching MTV. With little enthusiasm, he stood up and walked to the window.

  “Yeah, can I help you?”

  “Who’s in room 212?” asked Yeong.

  “We don’t exactly check ID. Most people pay cash and I don’t ask too many questions,” said the night clerk with too much attitude.

  One of Yeong’s thugs reached through the window and grabbed the skinny employee by the shirt, pulling him across the counter. His feet were kicking, his eyes filled with fear.

  “I’ll repeat my question since my associate has your attention. Who is in room 212?”

  He stammered, “Some black dude and a couple of camel jockeys.”

  “Did you see a white guy?”

  The clerk answered tearfully and stuttered, “Yeah, he . . . he . . . he just walked up the stairs.”

  Kareem looked at Candy and, referring to Jenny, said, “Hurt her.”

  Before taking any action, Candy eyed Mohammed, who nodded. She raised the weapon above her head, preparing to strike Park’s daughter, but Jake intervened. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got the money.”

  He pulled up his shirt and like a piñata bursting forth with Benjamins, the remaining seven bundles of newly minted counterfeit hundreds fell to the floor. Candy squealed with childish delight as the terrorists’ behavior revealed their excitement.

  Rostam slipped his weapon in his waistband and was joined by Kareem, who lurched to help gather up the bundles, tossing them on the couch as the two men collected their plunder.

  Mohammed remained still but dropped his weapon by his side. Though it was more money than any of the room’s occupants had seen in a lifetime, Mohammed was fairly certain the ten packets of bills on the couch amounted to far less than the $3 million ransom demand. He ordered, “Rostam, count one of the bundles.”

  Rostam tore off the brown paper Treasury wrapper and began counting the bills on the coffee table.

  As Rostam counted out the contents of a single packet, Kareem stacked the other nine bundles in a neat row on the table, saying, “This will further our cause. We can bring America to its knees. Allah’s word will reign supreme. Allah be praised.”

  The eyes of the others were focused on the man counting the money, but when Rostam said, “This packet is ten thousand dollars,” it took only an instant for Mohammed to do the math.

  He turned, pointed his weapon at Jake’s head, and said, “This is only one hundred thousand. Where is the rest of it?”

  “It’s nearby. You’ll get the rest once Jenny and Gracie are safe. I need you to let them both go. Jenny can have the keys to my car. I’ll stay here. Once they call and tell me they are with Park, I’ll take you to the rest.”

  “That wasn’t the deal,” bellowed Kareem, looking to Mohammed for reassurance.

  “It is now,” said Jake calmly, as Gracie, scared by Kareem’s angry shriek, began to sob again. Jake held her close, her heart pounding with fear and uncertainty.

  Suddenly Candy began to cackle mirthlessly. Everyone in the room but little Gracie turned toward the maniacal outburst and saw the reason for Candy’s mocking laughter: both Candy and Jenny were pointing large-caliber semi-automatic pistols at the men in the room.

  Neither Mohammed nor Rostam said a word. Kareem, on the other hand, moaned, “Ohh noo . . . Candy, noo . . .”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Candy’s sights were set on Mohammed, who quickly dropped his weapon when she ordered. Jenny swept the room with her .45, poised to kill anyone seeking to interrupt the women’s plan of action.

  Jake, still crouched on the floor, his arms around Gracie, quietly addressed Jenny: “You’ve got to be kidding me. I risked my life for you and now you’re part of it.”

  “What can I say?” said Jenny, shrugging, a growing smirk on her face.

  “Is the pregnancy a lie, too?” asked Jake.

  “How’d you know about that?”

  “Reid told me.”

  Jenny looked toward Candy and the two laughed, both cunning and composed. “Yeah, that was a lie. Reid tried to buy it off cheap but I was negotiating for a little bigger payday.”

  Kareem’s face bore defeat as he realized he’d been played, betrayed by those he trusted, even loved. He looked toward Mohammed and saw the look of a cornered animal seeking a way to escape.

  Jenny sneered, her weapon now pointed at Jake. “My father made me a widow. He had my husband killed because he thought Michael was stealing from him. He made Gracie an orphan when her parents got in the way of the hit on my Michael. Daddy Dearest lied to me about how they died and tried to buy my love and affection, but I knew he was responsible.

  “Now it’s payback time. Candy and I have been planning this ever since he ran his mouth about the three million coming in. He thought I never paid attention. I heard him scheming with Tommy. Thanks, by the way, for helping him get the container across the border.”

  Candy laughed. “Tommy say you reliable.”

  Jenny, poised and assertive, continued: “I guess he was right. Too bad he’s not around anymore to help us spend it.”

  “But this money is going for a greater cause. This is for Allah,” pleaded Kareem.

  Jenny shook her head. “Sorry about that, Ali Baba, but this is not Al-lah’s. This is all-ours.”

  Candy laughed at Jenny’s effort at humor.

  Jenny’s focus was now on Kareem, her muzzle pointing at his chest, center mass. “I figured a street-smart guy like you might realize what was happening when we got you to eliminate Sonny and Gabe. They could have ruined this for us. That’s why Candy accompanied you on your little nighttime romp to take out Sonny. Besides, I think she made it worth your while. You celebrated that night, right?”

  From the hallway Jake heard the squeak of the boards and suspected the next phase of what now appeared to be his ill-conceived plan was about to be implemented.

  Jake’s whole strategy was based on a false assumption: that the kidnapping was at Yeong’s behest. He planned to have Yeong and his bodyguards show up at the hotel after Jenny and Gracie were gone. Then, with the help of Trey and Brian, he would take down two Korean crime rings and shut down a North Korean–Iranian conspiracy to circumvent the new UN treaty on nuclear arms. And he had hours of audio-video recordings and $3 million in Supernotes to make the case.

  From outside the door he heard the unmistakable sound of a weapon being racked. Crouched down and holding Gracie closer, the thought occurred to him: Katie would know the verse in the Bible about pride going before a fall.

  As the doorknob began to turn, Jake’s eyes darted around the room, seeking cover or concealment from what was now inevitable, unstoppable carnage, and he said to himself, Oh dear God, help me and this child to survive this!

  In that same instant, Jenny
looked at Candy, who smiled and nodded. When Jenny returned the nod both women opened fire; the crack of gunfire in the small room deafened everyone.

  Jake grabbed his Glock 19 from his right hip and dove on top of Gracie, pressing their bodies tightly to the floor, protecting her from the barrage of bullets, refusing to join in the erupting chaos.

  Mohammed reached for his weapon, seeking cover behind the couch, his combat experience prevailing. Staying on his feet meant certain death. Prone on the floor, he reached up without exposing himself, firing blindly over the arm of the couch in the direction of the women, his shots ringing out in a semi-measured pace of two- and three-round bursts.

  Kareem, still coping with Candy’s betrayal, was slow to grab his weapon. Jenny’s first three rounds hit him in the chest. The bartender’s prison-tuned physique was no match for the hollow-point ammunition ripping through his internal organs. He bellowed just once as he fell to the floor in the kind of agony he had so often inflicted on others. He briefly struggled to breathe, coughed up bright red arterial blood, and convulsed as his eyes went lifeless.

  Candy got off several rounds before Rostam, frozen by the madness, finally reacted. As the Hezbollah terrorist attempted to drop to one knee and return fire, he was hit in the head, never engaging in the gun battle, never firing his weapon. For all his bravado in the back room of the mosque, he lacked the skills to survive on the street. His reward would have to be elsewhere. He would not find it on the second floor of a battered Los Angeles brothel.

  As the room erupted in gunfire, Henry Yeong and his men burst in, firing indiscriminately, spraying shots throughout the confined quarters, rounds striking in every direction—including the walls, floor, and ceiling.

  Candy and Jenny were both hit but refused to go down. They continued firing, shooting into the void, exchanging shots with Yeong’s men.

  Yeong hesitated too long when he realized it was Candy shooting at him. His mind failed to register the peril. Before he could grasp the full extent of the situation he was hit multiple times, Candy having little concern with his authority or their perceived friendship.

  Jake didn’t join the battle. Instead, using his body to shield Gracie from the errant rounds flying around the room, Jake shuffled the child along the floor toward the adjoining room. The shooters, more concerned with firing at each other, ignored Jake and the little girl. Though it seemed like a lifetime, and for some it was, it really took just a few seconds for Jake to low-crawl out of the carnage, dragging Gracie through the doorway to relative safety in the adjoining room.

  Mohammed continued firing, hoping a round would find its mark. When he emptied his first magazine, he quickly slammed in a second, releasing the slide and chambering a new round, to continue the battle.

  Trey heard the first gunshots through the transmitter taped to Jake’s leg, two floors above. He glanced at his watch—noted that it was two minutes before eight—and pulled the fire alarm, activating the sprinkler system throughout the hotel and automatically alerting the fire and police departments. Then Trey and Brian raced upstairs into the madness.

  As they ran to the sound of the gunfire, high-pressure water from the sprinkler system sprayed in their faces, nearly blinding them. They could hear shots mixed with screams and moans, some trailing off into mere whimpers. Lives were being wasted and the two agents could only hope Jake and the kidnap victims weren’t part of the bloodbath.

  Jake pushed Gracie beneath the bed in their new refuge and crawled toward the open doorway, his Glock at a suppressed firing position. He did a quick peek around the door frame and saw Kareem was down, as were Rostam, Yeong, and two of Yeong’s men. The weakening cries of Jenny and Candy flooded the room; both were on the floor, their weapons as empty as their lives.

  Mohammed got off a shot just after Jake retreated behind the door. The door frame splintered, the round mere inches from finding its mark. Jake waited a prolonged three count, then took a second look and fired one shot just as Mohammed rose from behind the arm of the couch. The economy of a well-placed round was evident. Jake’s aim was perfect. The terrorist cell leader’s head pitched backward. He collapsed, his skull split open by the slug, his brains leaking onto the worn carpet. By the time he hit the floor he had already joined the others in the dead pool.

  One of Yeong’s men retreated down the hallway. He was immediately met by Trey and Brian coming up the stairs.

  A ragged chorus of “Freeze, FBI!” rang out but the gunman continued, raising his weapon to engage the two agents.

  Brian, no stranger to urban combat, dropped to one knee and fired a three-round burst; each one on target. Yeong’s henchman was dead before he hit the floor, without getting off a shot at the approaching agents.

  “Trey, Brian, they’re all down in here!” shouted Jake, knowing it’s not over until the enemy is neutralized.

  “The hallway’s clear!” hollered Trey.

  The entire violent confrontation had taken less than two minutes.

  Trey and Brian ran into the room, weapons at the ready. Seeing only bodies, Trey shouted, “Jake, we’re in! Jake!”

  “Roger, coming in,” Jake responded from the adjoining room. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you; my ears are still ringing.”

  The three agents immediately began collecting weapons before administering any aid. Jenny, the only one of the assailants left alive, quickly drew her last breath and joined Candy, Kareem, Mohammed, Rostam, Yeong, and his three associates.

  With Trey and Brian securing the room, Jake ran back to Gracie, who was sobbing, scared, and confused. He grabbed her in his arms and held her tight, trying to comfort another innocent victim of evil.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Five LAPD units, three fire trucks, and two ambulances were at the hotel less than seven minutes after Trey pulled the alarm. A fireman shut off the sprinkler system while Trey and Brian provided an outline of what transpired in the room to an incredulous LAPD detective. Jake remained in the adjoining bedroom with Gracie, confident that there soon would be plenty of FBI agents of much higher pay grade on-scene to fill in the details.

  As soon as Gracie dozed off, Jake called Park. “Your granddaughter’s safe but your daughter’s dead. She betrayed the family.”

  “How did Jenny die?”

  “Yeong and a bunch of his goons showed up. All hell broke loose. I’ll explain the rest when I get to your house. I got out the fire escape with Gracie and will come to you as soon as I can get to my car.”

  “What about the money?”

  “Some of the bills were destroyed when the sprinkler system went off, but most of it is still hidden in the basement of the hotel. We can come back later and retrieve it after the cops and firemen leave.”

  Park replied with a simple “Thank you, Jake.”

  As the crime-scene technicians began their gruesome work, Jake tapped Brian on the shoulder and motioned for him to come into the room where the child was sleeping. In a voice just above a whisper he explained what had happened to Gabe. Jake could see the mist forming in the new agent’s eyes. Swallowing hard to suppress the emotions building in him, Jake grabbed the new agent, gave him a hug, and whispered, “Semper Fi.”

  Twenty-five minutes after the explosive firefight, ASAC Hafner, the CIA spook Wilson, and Supervisor Rachel Chang arrived on the scene wearing FBI raid jackets. Hafner elbowed his way past the police and demanded to speak to Jake in the adjoining room.

  Jake was sitting on the bed; the little girl, beside him, was asleep. Brian Carter was in a chair next to the window reflecting on what he had just experienced and on the loss of a friend.

  Hafner was visibly angry. But before he could raise his voice, Jake put a finger to his lips and pointed to the sleeping child.

  Instead of shouting, Hafner hissed, “You were supposed to have pulled out of this assignment. Headquarters ordered it. I want to know when you knew about the Supernotes. Why wasn’t I called? I’m your ASAC. I should have been notified immediately about this o
peration. I saw no ops order and I certainly didn’t approve of any of this.” Hafner waved his arm toward the slaughter in the next room and the hallway.

  Though neither man knew it at the time, it would take days of “trajectory analysis” and countless hours of forensic work in the FBI lab to eventually determine which weapons fired which rounds. Based on a 3-D analysis of the mayhem, it was determined that several of the deceased had been struck by multiple weapons. Only one, Mohammed, had been hit just once. Jake, hoping to mitigate some of the ASAC’s wrath, said, “If it makes any difference, I only fired one round.”

  Hafner simply glared, so Jake continued in a whisper. “It all came up suddenly. It was a very fast-moving operation. I didn’t have time to put it on paper. I thought I had until the end of the day.”

  “That’s no excuse. I should have been notified. I’m the ASAC. It’s my career on the line. I’m going to ask you again and maybe I should speak slowly so you’ll understand. . . . Why were you still in this operation and when did you know they were Supernotes?”

  Jake feigned innocence with an accurate but calibrated version of the truth. “I didn’t know for sure they were Supernotes. I suspected they were but I didn’t have any samples to run past Secret Service. Park just gave me the three million for the ransom.”

  Hafner wasn’t buying it. “So you had three million in samples!”

  “But that was for the ransom. All the meetings and calls are recorded. If you listen to the recordings you should get a pretty good idea of how it all went down. I thought the Bureau’s priority would be the safety of this child,” Jake said, pointing to the little girl asleep in the bed. He actually sounded sincere.