Rising, Awad picked up his rifle, stowed the empty bowl in his pack and started down the steep cliff to the trail that would lead him to the training area. He would meet with the leader and then retire to the camp to rest before the morning training session.
It was fully dark when Awad arrived at the valley floor. The others had already ended their training and were nowhere to be found. It took another thirty minutes to hike down the southern slope to the camp. Though the sky was clear and a bright moon was overhead, it provided little light to guide his way.
Reaching the camp, he went directly to the leader’s tent, tapped on the front support post and waited. The flap was pulled back and the group’s leader, Hussein Seif al Din Asfour, said, “It-fad-dal, Awad. As-salamu alaykum.”
“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam, Hussein. Faud said you wished to see me.”
Awad entered the tent and waited until the group leader sat on the bare dirt floor and motioned for him to sit also.
“How long did you stay in America?” Hussein asked.
“Three years.”
“You learned much in those three years at the American university.”
Awad nodded. “At the university, yes. But I learned much more outside the classroom.”
“We will move against the infidels in two weeks.”
“That soon?” Awad asked. The group had only been together for a short time, and it seemed premature.
“Yes, I understand it seems a short period. However, our target is an easy one, an event that only happens once every year. You are second in command and it is time you know what that target is.”
“Allah willing, I will martyr myself in glory.”
Hussein reached behind him and picked up a small hookah. Awad was uncomfortable with the use of opium, particularly by someone in power, but he dared not say anything.
“Do you know the city of San Antonio, in Texas?”
“I know of it,” Awad replied. “I have never been there.” This seemed to trouble Hussein, so Awad continued, “America is a very large country with many thousands of cities. Even Americans who travel often will never see them all.”
“There is a place in this city. A place called River Walk. At this place every year, they celebrate their military’s conquest over Allah’s people and drink alcohol.”
“I have heard of this,” Awad said. “It is televised live.”
Hussein’s mouth curled into a sadistic smile. “That is the main reason I chose it.”
Hussein lit the hookah and inhaled deeply. “There are many shops and restaurants along this River Walk, and tour boats that carry dozens of people along its length. We will separate into three groups on three of these boats. When the time is right, we will kill the infidels on the boats and as many as we can on this River Walk. You will lead the first boat, I will lead the second and Majdi will lead the third.”
“It is many kilometers to this city,” Awad said, “with many dangers along the way, just to get to the American border.”
Hussein nodded. “This is another reason why we will go in three groups. Majdi has been living in America for several years and speaks both English and Spanish. I learned English, as well as Spanish, while I was being held at the American prison, and you are fluent in both languages as well. Once across the border, we will rent separate vehicles in McAllen for the journey to San Antonio.”
Awad thought for a moment. Hussein had been a captive of the Americans for some time, held at their prison in Cuba. The Spanish he had learned there was very different from that of the Mexican peasants here. But Hussein had a reputation for being quick to fly off the handle, so Awad was hesitant to point this out. Perhaps anyone he came into contact with would think him a visitor from another Central or South American country.
“How do we get from here to the border?”
“A drug cartel, one of the most powerful in Mexico, will provide a truck to transport all of us to Reynosa, across the border from McAllen, in two weeks’ time. In Reynosa, we will be provided with paperwork that will allow us to cross the border without issue, mixed in with a large group of workers. Go now. Get rested. We have much preparation over the next two weeks.”
Without another word, Awad rose and left the leader’s tent. Outside, he stood silently in the darkness until his eyesight adjusted and then made his way to his own tent.
Shaking her head groggily, Charity looked around the room. Chyrel was still slumped back in her chair, but something was different. Her hair. It hadn’t been falling down the back of the chair a moment ago.
Gingerly, her head throbbing, Charity moved her long legs, spreading her feet further apart for better balance. She slowly stood up as Chyrel moaned and sat forward in her chair. Charity went quickly to her side. “Are you alright?”
“I think so,” Chyrel replied. “I must have dozed off.”
“Maybe,” Charity said, looking at her watch. “Both of us have been asleep for almost twenty minutes. We should go outside and check on the others.” Some kind of knockout gas, Charity thought, but not wanting to alarm the woman, she kept it to herself.
Outside, Charity looked toward the clearing. A light was on in the caretaker’s house, and the director was still sitting at the table where she’d left him, though she was certain that more than just a few minutes had passed. Chyrel stumbled from the door, and the two women walked toward the group.
“Fentanyl,” Charity heard the director say. “That explains it.”
Fentanyl? she thought, knowing she’d heard of it before.
“Ain’t that the stuff the Russians used a coupla years ago?” Donnie Hinkle said. “The Dubrovka Theater?”
This confirmed the time discrepancy in Charity’s mind. Donnie, an Australian by birth and former SEAL sniper, had been posted on a nearby island some time ago, and now he was suddenly here.
“Yeah,” Director Stockwell replied as Kim McDermitt and Deputy Phillips approached the table. “A hundred and thirty hostages and all forty terrorists were killed by it.” He nodded toward a metal can, similar to a propane tank. “Where’d you find this?”
Donnie jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Floating on the bank next to the foot of the pier, Colonel.”
Stockwell stood up and wobbled a little, as the rest of the team gathered around them. Charity noticed a cut on the back of his head, blood clotted in his closely cropped hair.
“A heavier-than-air gas,” Stockwell said. “Must have been someone in scuba gear who released it on the north side, letting the breeze carry it over the whole island. Who was first to wake up?”
“The dog,” Deputy Phillips replied. “Up on the deck.”
“Makes sense,” Andrew Bourke offered, his deep baritone voice seeming to echo across the island. Andrew, a handsome man with a barrel chest and thick mustache, had arrived on the chopper with Charity. “Had he been down here, he’d have been out longer. The rest of us were already asleep and didn’t even notice it. How long were you knocked out?”
Two other men had arrived with Donnie and Andrew. Art Newman and Tony Jacobs were standing silently at the end of the table. They had just come on watch as Charity went to the cabin to look at the file. Both men were very capable former SEALs, as was their boss. Tony’s shaved black head was beaded with perspiration.
Art looked at his wristwatch and said, “Tony and I just started our watch twenty-four minutes ago. I don’t remember anything after my first circuit out to the north pier and back to where Donnie found me, and I woke up just a few minutes ago.”
“So we were only out for fifteen or twenty minutes,” Stockwell said. “They can’t have gone far.”
“The dive boat!” Kim shouted.
“What dive boat?”
“When Marty and I turned into Harbor Channel, there was a dive boat running without lights out beyond the Contents. The water’s deeper out there, and it was headed east.” She crossed her arms and looked around the group assembled around the table. On the verge of tears, she asked, “Where’s
my dad?”
Stockwell went over to where Kim stood, gently guiding her to the bench and sitting her down. “We’ll find Jesse, Kim. You have my word on that.”
Charity sat down and put her arm around the girl. “We will.”
Stockwell started giving orders then. “Get Deuce on the horn,” he told Chyrel and then turned to the young lawman. “Deputy, can you contact the sheriff? We need eyes in the sky. Did you see the dive boat as well?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll give dispatch a description, and we’ll have a chopper up out of Marathon right away. There may be others in Key Largo, and Key West also.”
Stockwell reached into his pocket and took out a business card, handing it to Phillips. “Give the sheriff my number. Have him call me right away.”
“Yes, sir,” the deputy replied, taking the card and running across the clearing.
Stockwell slowly turned around toward Paul Bender, who’d been on the island when Charity and the others had arrived. Paul was a former Secret Service agent and had a degree in forensic psychology. “They came early, Paul. And covertly.”
“They must have had a plan ahead of time. It’s only twenty-one thirty. Lavolier and Horvac couldn’t possibly have moved that fast. In fact, they should only have arrived in Marathon by now.” He was talking about the leader of the Miami gang and the woman who somehow controlled him, that the group had rallied to protect McDermitt from.
“Andrew,” Stockwell said, “get on the horn to the Coast Guard. Let them know one of our agents has been kidnapped.” Formerly with the Coast Guard’s vaunted Maritime Enforcement, Andrew now worked as the team’s liaison with the Coast Guard.
“Linda!” Kim suddenly gasped. “Somebody has to call her.”
“Do you have her number?” Tony asked calmly as he sat down next to Charity, nodding toward the chopper. “We’ll call her together. Charity has to get up in the air.”
As Charity rose and headed toward the chopper, Tony helped Kim to her feet and started toward Chyrel’s office, which was now all lit up.
“Donnie, go with Andrew in the chopper,” Stockwell ordered and turned to Bourke. “Andrew, coordinate with the Coast Guard and the sheriff’s birds from the air. Have the sheriff’s office pass the boat’s description to every law enforcement agency between here and Miami.”
Going over the preflight, while waiting for the others to gather their gear and get aboard, Charity thought long and hard about what she was about to do. Accepting the file from Director Stockwell had put things into motion that now couldn’t be undone. At some point, she’d fly away from this group, and they’d be told she had stolen the helicopter and gone rogue.
Pushing thoughts about the future out of her mind, she concentrated on the immediate task at hand: finding Jesse McDermitt.
With the engine already running, Andrew and Donnie climbed aboard, Donnie in the back. He was still dressed all in black, after spending part of the night lying on a small stand on a nearby island with his sniper rifle and scope. From there, he could see nearly any approach to the island they were on—for all the good that had come of it. Apparently, the bad guys had gotten lucky and come from the opposite side of McDermitt’s island from where Donnie had been perched. Everyone had thought the water to the north too shallow to warrant more than occasional observation from one of the two sentries.
Once airborne, Andrew got a text message from the director that their boss, Deuce Livingston, and several other team members had just touched down in Marathon in the company’s Gulfstream and would split up there, two joining a sheriff’s helo about to take off and two going back up in the G5, with its sophisticated radar, to act as command and control.
Livingston had been an officer in the Navy SEALs. He was Tony and Art’s commanding officer, and both spoke very highly of him. He was an easygoing, good-natured man most of the time, but when times called for decisive leadership, that was when he was in his element. Tony had told Charity that the SEALs under his command would do anything he asked of them, relying on his intelligence and quick authoritativeness.
Within minutes, the men on the G-5 were back in the air and searching the area with radar, reporting quite a number of possible targets. Kumar Sayef, a twenty-year man and Delta Force linguist, was in command of the plane and began the arduous task of directing the two helicopters and eliminating the boats to the east of the island, one by one.
As the search progressed through the night, other helicopters and surface craft joined in. They’d intercepted and looked at more than ten boats already and were getting low on fuel.
Kumar had given them another boat to check out. “Roger that,” Charity said. “We’ll have to refuel after this one, if it’s not the right boat.” The only description they had for the target boat was that it was a white dive boat, about thirty feet in length, with a hard top that extended all the way to the stern. This had come from McDermitt’s daughter and the deputy, who had seen a boat running without lights near the island just as they were returning to the island from their dinner date.
The next boat wasn’t even close, a sailboat over forty feet in length. “Pulling off and heading to Marathon for fuel, Director,” she informed Deuce’s boss.
“Deuce is there getting fuel now,” Stockwell said. “Agent Rosales should be arriving there any minute. Pick her up and bring her here before continuing the search.”
She hauled back on the cyclic stick, and the helo went into a steep climb as she added throttle and pulled up on the collective. Climbing, she stepped on the right rotor pedal, moving the cyclic right and then forward, putting the bird into a tight, banking turn before diving back down toward the water.
Andrew had one hand on the handle by the door and the other on the dash in front of him, even though he was securely strapped in. “Where the hell did you learn to fly?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“Daddy was a helicopter pilot,” Charity replied, offhandedly. “He flew in Vietnam and later as a crop duster. Some fields go right up to the tree line. I was flying before I got a license to drive a car.”
Minutes later, they were on the ground in front of the fixed-base operator at Marathon airport. The fuel truck had just finished refueling the sheriff’s bird that Deuce was in. When the fuel truck operator pulled up and began to refuel them, Charity climbed out with the two men, just as the sheriff’s chopper was lifting off.
“I think my eyes are going crossed from looking at that little circle of light on the water for so long,” Andrew said.
Looking toward the terminal building, Donnie pointed with his chin. “I reckon the tall Sheila headed this way’s gonna be Jesse’s lady friend.”
Andrew broke apart and extended his hand. “I’m Andrew Bourke. You’ve met our pilot, Charity Styles, and this is Donnie Hinkle. We’ll take you to the island before resuming the search.”
Linda Rosales shook hands with all three. “I haven’t talked to anyone since Kim called me two hours ago.”
“Climb aboard, Linda,” Charity said. “We’re ready to go. Tony’s with her and we’ll fill you in on the way out there.”
Linda climbed in back as Charity hurried around to the pilot’s seat and started the engine. “Have you heard anything more?” Charity barely heard Linda ask. Donnie pointed to the headset he was wearing and another one hanging in front of the woman. Linda put it on and repeated the question.
“A lot of boats out there,” Donnie replied. “But don’t worry, love. We’ll find him.”
The big helicopter rose into the air quickly, the nose dipping as soon as they were aloft. Charity flew quickly along the short taxiway, gaining speed, then made a climbing turn over the runway before flying out over the water and turning northwest.
Charity gave Linda the details of the previous evening and the search they’d conducted so far. The flight to Jesse’s island only took a few minutes.
McDermitt’s mangrove-surrounded little island stood out against the other islands and black sea surrounding it, like a cruise
ship floating on the water. The lights were on in all four structures, filling the center of the island with more than enough light, and torches were burning on the four corners, marking the inside edges of the dense vegetation around the perimeter of the island.
“We’ll only be on the ground for a second, Linda,” Charity said over the comm.
Andrew turned around in the copilot’s seat as they descended. “We’ll find him. You have my word.”
Receiving the next location for yet another boat to look at from Kumar, Charity waited until Linda was out the door and clear, then quickly took off again and set a course for intercept. It was another false target, and she was beginning to think they’d never find the right one. She couldn’t believe so many boats were out on the water in the middle of the night.
The director expanded the search area in all directions and announced that there were now six helos from the sheriff’s department, Coast Guard, DEA, and FWC aiding in the search, plus twenty boats from all those agencies. Dozens of civilian boats were also hailing the Coast Guard, saying that they were heading out to join the search as well.
“Civilians?” Andrew asked nobody in particular.
“Jesse’s pretty well thought of around these parts, mate,” Donnie’s voice came over the comm.
Charity remained silent, concentrating on flying and locating the next target. Her mind was also drifting to what lay ahead. DHS had already made a lot of arrangements and gone to considerable expense. When Stockwell had first approached her, she’d thought it over for a full two days before giving him her list of requirements. At the top of that list was to be able to use a sailboat to move around. And not just any sailboat. It would have to be big and heavy enough to take on occasional storms without putting into a port. And it also had to be small enough and rigged so that she could sail single-handed.
That meant a wooden sloop, forty feet or so. The design had to be simple, yet classic, to avoid drawing too much attention. It had to be completely set up with all the modern electronics equipment it could carry and have a number of hiding places built in to carry the things that a person could be arrested for in many countries.
Merciless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 1) Page 2
