Unlike the movies, Spectre had no reason to check his mag or rack the slide of his Glock 36. He shot three rounds. He had six in the magazine and one in the chamber when the night started. It was basic math, but he was regretting not carrying a second magazine as he considered that the next attacker, or attackers, might have as much or more firepower as the first. His philosophy had always been that carrying a concealed weapon would result in firing a few rounds at most, not getting into a shoot out. He made a mental note to rethink that later.
Spectre walked into the house, keeping his firearm close as he cleared left and right. He had hundreds of hours practicing in his store’s shoot house, but nothing could prepare him for the real thing. He had just shot a man, and now he was facing an unknown enemy with unknown numbers and no backup.
As Spectre cleared the living room, he turned left toward the kitchen and laundry room.
“Don’t shoot!” screamed a heavily accented voice. Spectre raised his weapon and pointed it at the direction of the scream. He watched cautiously as the door to the laundry room opened and a man emerged.
“Hands! Show me your hands!” Spectre barked. The man quickly raised his hands high above his head. He was scared shitless.
“Don’t shoot! I surrender!” he pleaded.
Spectre held his position, front sight lined up on the man’s chest. “Keep your hands up, turn around, and get on your knees.” Spectre was winging it now, but he had watched enough COPS to look like he knew what he was doing.
The man complied, leaving his hands in the air as he reached his knees.
“Please don’t hurt me! I didn’t touch them!”
“Touch who? Where is the family?” Spectre demanded, slowly approaching the attacker. He ordered him to interlock his fingers behind his head as he moved closer.
“They are all in there, but I didn’t kill the fat one, that was Abdul! I swear it.”
Spectre’s mind raced. The fat one? Who was the fat one? As Spectre approached the man, he searched the kitchen for something to bind the man’s hands with. With his right hand pointing his Glock at the cowering terrorist, he quickly opened drawers as he passed, searching for something – anything – that would allow him to secure his newfound prisoner and clear the rest of the house.
“Are there more of you in this house?”
“No! No! Abdul left last night. It was just me and Tariq, but you killed him!”
Spectre found a roll of duct tape in a drawer. He grabbed it and walked up to the man kneeling in front of him. Holstering his weapon, Spectre shoved his boot into the small of the man’s back, causing him to face plant into the tile floor. There was a crack as the man’s nose broke against the hard floor. He screamed in pain.
With the man on the ground, Spectre planted his left knee into the back of the man’s neck, holding his face into the tile and preventing him from getting up. He grabbed the man’s right wrist and pulled it behind his back, then did the same with the left, duct taping his wrists together. With his hands secure and groaning in pain, Spectre released pressure on the man’s neck and taped his ankles together.
“If you even try to move, I’ll shoot you,” Spectre warned. The man didn’t respond. Blood was gushing from his nose and he was groaning in pain and muttering something in Arabic.
Spectre unholstered his weapon and proceeded into the laundry room. As he turned on the lights, he saw Chloe’s family bound and gagged on the floor. The room smelled of urine and feces. It was awful. He holstered his weapon and, starting with Evan, he removed the restraints and gags and checked his condition. He was breathing, but unconscious.
With Evan safe, he moved to Jack and helped him out of his restraints. Maureen could wait. She never liked him anyway.
“You ok, Jack?” Spectre said as he cut the last rope with his Gerber knife. Jack quickly went to Maureen and started to work on her restraints. Spectre handed him his knife.
“Yeah, I’m fine. They killed Dianne and the dogs. Cal, there was another one here – the leader.”
That must have been whom he was referring to as the fat one. Now it made sense. Dianne. She never hurt anyone. Spectre couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt her. She had always been so upbeat and happy-go-lucky around the house, especially when taking care of Evan.
“I’m sure the police will find him. What’s important is that you’re ok.”
“No, you don’t understand, I think they’re going to go after Chloe,” Jack said as he stood. The lights from the police and EMS vehicles arriving lit up the kitchen as they pulled into the driveway.
Spectre’s heart sank. The action of the night had nearly made him forget what brought him there in the first place. The family had obviously been tortured, and a long time friend and employee had been killed. Chloe’s death would absolutely crush them.
“Jack, that’s why I’m here. We need to talk,” he said grimly.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hialeah, FL
Victor Alvarez hated public meetings. He originally wanted to meet with Abdul Aalee in a secluded location where no one would be able to see or identify either of them. With his preplanned locations, he always knew where a surveillance van would park or where listening equipment could best be set up because he had done it time and again. Public locations, while nice for blending in, especially in South Florida, were at risk for just about every fear he could think of in a meeting. Anyone could be listening, anyone could be watching, or any of his enemies could be nearby, ready to strike without warning. It went against all of his training.
And yet there he was, exposed to all threats in the little Cuban Café outside of Hialeah, Florida. It had been Abdul Aalee’s idea to meet there. He had stayed in the nearby safe house the night before, and contrary to Alvarez’s fears, he thought the noise of the rowdy little Cuban diner would give them privacy from any potential listeners. Alvarez was not pleased by the location, but the fact that Aalee had left the two morons behind to guard the prisoners was an even bigger concern.
Normally, Alvarez would not have budged on such an important tactical issue, but in the recent months, Alvarez found himself compromising more and more. He chose to believe that it wasn’t complacency, but a firmer grasp of the big picture and the important battles. Maybe Aalee knew his men better than Alvarez thought.
Aalee was the ultimate narcissist. He had come from a world where people followed him without question. He was brutal and merciless to his enemies, and no one dared question or challenge him. Although Alvarez did not share this fear of his associate, he knew that the man would not work for him without a healthy dose of coddling.
As he sat in the crowded, smoke-filled diner, he was reassured that the location wasn’t a battle worth fighting. The dull roar of the patrons laughing and talking, mostly in Spanish, would serve as cover for their conversation. As long as Aalee didn’t get too boastful about what he had done and speak directly about the operation, Alvarez reasoned, they could maintain the security of their operation even if the Americans were listening. And as for leaving the hostages alone, well, there was nothing he could do about it now.
He sat facing the door in a booth in the corner of the cramped diner. It gave him a good view of anyone entering or leaving. The booth was away from the window, but he still had a good view of the outside and any cars in the small parking lot. It was there that he watched the minivan park in front of the window across from him.
Abdul Aalee emerged and walked casually to the front door. For a man who had spent years being hunted by the Americans, Alvarez thought, he didn’t seem to fear capture even in the belly of the beast. It was either a case of extreme arrogance or stupidity. He wasn’t yet sure which.
Aalee walked in and sat down across from Alvarez.
“Hello, my friend,” he said casually.
Alvarez smiled and handed Aalee a menu. “It’s good to see you again. I’ve heard you have been doing good work. I must admit I’m a little surprised by your decision to have breakfast
with me here.”
Aalee rubbed his chin and grinned. His facial hair was starting to grow back in patches.
“It was not much of a challenge. I had to kill their servant for trying to alert the police. The old man put up no fight. They will be fine with my men.”
Alvarez winced at the thought of Aalee and his men killing indiscriminately. It was the price of using him to do the heavy lifting. But he had hoped, that with the simplicity of the operation, the collateral damage would be minimized.
“It’s unfortunate that you had to do that. Hopefully there are no further complications.”
Alvarez was interrupted by the Hispanic waitress. They spoke to each other in perfect Spanish. When it was Aalee’s time to order, he spoke in heavily accented English. He was proficient in Spanish, but had no desire to make the attempt. When she was gone, Alvarez leaned forward and continued.
“Remember, old friend, you are not to kill them. They are very valuable to this operation. Do you have the photos?”
Aalee frowned. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the SD card from his camera, and put it on the table in front of him. “You mean this?”
Alvarez nodded, his eyes focused on the memory card in front of him. It was the key to moving the operation forward.
“Everything you have asked, I have done. The family is not harmed, for now. When this is over, though, I will use them for our cause.” Aalee slid the SD card across the table.
“I don’t care what you do when we get what we want and the operation is complete, but for now you have to do this cleanly. There can be no mistakes.” Alvarez picked up the card, examined it for a second, and put it safely into his pocket.
Aalee slammed his fist on the table, causing the patrons next to him to stop their conversation and look at them. “Do not tell me how to operate!”
Alvarez smiled nervously at the two men staring at him and tried to reassure them that everything was ok. When he was satisfied they were no longer paying attention to them, he leaned in and apologized in a low voice.
Aalee leaned back and smiled. “Have faith, my friend. You will get what you want. When you do, I will continue to carry out the will of Allah.”
Alvarez nodded. He hated having to put up the front that he actually believed any of that nonsense. Despite having grown up with a background laced heavily with strict Catholicism, Alvarez considered himself a strict atheist. The world he had seen left no room for a god.
They finished their breakfast and discussed the next steps of the operation. Aalee would return to the house and ensure that the hostages were ok, and then once he received word from Alvarez that the operation was complete, he would be free to execute them for his propaganda.
As Alvarez sent for the check, his phone rang. It was Special Agent Jay Leon, his long-standing asset within the Miami office of the FBI. Almost six years ago, he had turned Special Agent Leon from a newly assigned agent with a gambling problem to an effective and well-paid asset. The current phone call was just one of the many dividends he had enjoyed from turning him.
Aalee watched intently as Alvarez’s face grew more serious.
“Jay, are you sure?” he asked. The man responded and Alvarez hung up the phone. He was using every bit of self-control to avoid pulling out his weapon and shooting Aalee right in the head in the middle of the café. His instincts had been spot on. Leaving those two idiots alone had been a bad decision.
“What is it?” Aalee had been leaning in, trying to hear the largely one-sided conversation.
“It is no longer safe here, we must go,” Alvarez said, turning to smile at the waitress returning with the check. He pulled two twenty dollar bills out of his pocket and put them on the middle of the table.
“Where? What is happening?”
“Do you remember how to get to Daytona Beach?” It was their code for the secondary meeting location at Flamingo Park in Miami.
“Yes, it’s...”
“No need to tell me, old friend,” Alvarez interrupted. He really was going to have to shoot him. It was amazing a man so careless had managed to make it this far in this business. “Just nod.”
Aalee nodded. His expression had turned from concern to anger. He did not like to be patronized.
“I am going to get up and walk out the front door. I want you to wait five minutes and then exit through the side entrance over there. Go to Daytona Beach and wait. I’ll call you and let you know when I can meet you. Do you understand?”
Aalee nodded again. As Alvarez began to stand, Aalee grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“What has happened?”
Alvarez removed Aalee’s hand as he leaned in close.
“Your people were discovered,” he whispered, “and it’s not safe to go back.”
Without waiting for a response, Alvarez turned and walked out through the front door. He put his sunglasses on as the bright morning sun blinded him. He had a lot of work to do, and with the recent events, the timeline would have to be sped up dramatically.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Winter Haven, FL
It had been nearly a decade since he had been to the Air Force’s Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape (SERE) School, but the training seemed to be instinctively coming back to him. The memories of sleep deprivation, questioning, sensory deprivation and the subsequent loss of the sense of time were all coming back to him now. He had hated the training, but always knew he’d be grateful if he needed it and it worked.
But Spectre wasn’t quite sure why he would need it now. He had saved three lives. He had acted within the boundaries of Florida Law in using lethal force to defend himself and another during a forcible felony. And it definitely was a forcible felony. A former US Congresswoman and her family had been kidnapped at the hands of very dangerous men. Their housekeeper had been brutally murdered. And to top it off, they had shot a US Air Force Chaplain, which led to the firefight that killed one and led to the surrender of the other.
He had been in between the holding cell and the interrogation room all night and into the morning. They had taken his valuables, including his watch, when he checked in. There were no clocks on the wall and no windows to the outside world. His sense of time had been taken from him, and at first, he had been made to sit and wait what seemed like forever in the white fluorescent lighting of the small interrogation room. The temperature of the room was cranked up, causing him to sweat. Spectre recognized it for what it was – textbook interrogation techniques. He was being treated as a criminal.
The first detective to question him had been fairly polite. He offered him water and a snack and appeared to make no judgments as Spectre told his story. He only briefly interrupted Spectre’s narrative a few times for clarification as he took notes. At the end, he merely thanked Spectre for his time and left. He made no mention of the road ahead. Spectre had already waived having an attorney present. He was hoping to be out and on his way home soon.
Spectre was exhausted. He had been up at least twenty-four hours straight. Probably a lot more, but he had no way of knowing. The crash from the adrenaline high wasn’t helping matters either. The bottle of water hadn’t been enough. He felt dehydrated and had a headache. He was starting to regret his decision to waive the attorney. Maybe an attorney might have been able to get him out of there more quickly, but he technically wasn’t under arrest. He was only being questioned.
A few minutes later, two men walked into the cramped interrogation room. The first was slightly heavyset, a surprise to Spectre given the FBI badge clipped to his belt. Spectre had considered applying to the FBI after separating from the Air Force, and the physical fitness standards seemed pretty challenging. He reasoned that it must be part of the screening process, but not an annual requirement.
The agent sat down in the chair across the interrogation table from Spectre. He looked to be in his mid forties, slightly balding with salt and pepper hair on the sides. He was wearing a beige suit with no tie.
The second man walked
in behind him carrying some files. He looked much younger. Spectre guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties. He had on a white polo shirt with an OSI badge embroidered on it and khaki 5.11 Tactical pants. He also had an OSI badge clipped to his belt.
Spectre frowned as the second man sat down. The Air Force Office of Special Investigations was the investigative branch of the Air Force. In Spectre’s experience, they usually investigated airmen selling drugs in dorm rooms or sexual assaults, not a high profile kidnapping and murder.
Spectre said nothing as the two men sat down across from him. He felt like he had talked for hours with the last guy. No point in wasting more energy. They could watch the tape if they wanted more information.
“Mr. Martin,” the portly agent began, “I’m Special Agent Thomas, and this is Special Agent Baxter. We’re with the Miami Joint Terrorism Task Force. We’re really sorry for the delay, but as you can imagine it took us a while to get here.”
The Joint Terrorism Task Force was a multi-agency group designed to tear down interagency walls and work together to stop terror attacks on US soil. They were each agency’s best and brightest chosen to combat terrorism.
The JTTF had offices set up in each region around the country to bring federal agencies together to share information, resources, and skills to help bring those that would do harm to Americans to justice. With so many immigrants and people of every culture, Miami in particular was a hotbed for activity. Terrorist Mohamed Atta, leader of the 19 terrorists who hijacked four aircraft on 9/11, trained and operated in Southern Florida. In 2009, seven homegrown terrorists were arrested in Miami in a plot by Al Qaeda to blow up the Sears Tower in Chicago. It was an easy area to access and operate without anyone raising an eyebrow.
Spectre still didn’t see the connection though. He had gone over and over in his head the events of the last twenty-four hours during the torturous waiting games, but despite the backgrounds of the men he encountered, he was not convinced it was terrorism. US Representatives were just likely targets for kidnappers.
Spectre Rising Page 9
