Spectre Rising

by C. W. Lemoine

  Alpha One looked back and gave Thomas a thumb up. Based on the layout of the house, Bravo Team would enter first, having more ground to cover, followed by Alpha Team. According to the plans of the house, the back door led through a bathroom and into the main living area. The western door opened into the attached kitchen. The original plan did not involve the agents entering the house before the hostiles were secured, but Thomas had gotten impatient during the firefight. He wanted Aalee alive.

  Baxter adjusted his grip on his Sig P228. His heart was racing, and the adrenaline was in full effect. He had no idea what waited on the other side of the door. He hoped Thomas knew what he was doing.

  “Bravo Team, bang and clear, Alpha Team five seconds,” Thomas said into his radio, directing them to throw a flash bang into the main living room and clear the room. Alpha Team would enter and assist clearing five seconds after the flash bang.

  Both team leaders acknowledge. Bravo One opened the back door as Bravo Two stepped in and threw the flash bang grenade into the living room. With a loud pop, the grenade detonated, disorienting any within its radius. Bravo One then entered the room, sweeping left and right as his team followed covering his flanks.

  On the western door, Alpha Two opened as Alpha One entered with his shotgun ready. He immediately saw Aalee stumbling, covering his face with one hand and clutching his weapon with the other. As Bravo Team entered the living room, Alpha One fired a beanbag round directly into Aalee’s chest, knocking him back.

  “Clear,” the SWAT leader called. Thomas pushed him out of the way as he headed for Aalee.

  Baxter still hadn’t made it through the kitchen when he heard someone yell, “Grenade!”

  He dove to the ground behind the kitchen bar and covered his head as the two blasts rocked the small house. Time seemed to stand still for Baxter, but the sound was deafening. He hit the ground and then saw nothing but darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Homestead, FL

  “I taught you well!” Marcus said, laughing as he slapped Spectre on the shoulder. They were standing behind the counter of the large indoor range as Spectre had just finished retelling the story of his trip to Chloe’s parents’ house. The store wouldn’t open for two more hours, but Spectre had decided to go in early since he couldn’t sleep. He knew Marcus would be there. He wasn’t sure Marcus ever left.

  Spectre nodded with a forced smile. He hated to admit that Marcus was right. He had plenty of training with the Air Force and its 9MM M9 qualifications, but he didn’t really start to learn until he met Marcus. The former Marine Sniper and Certified NRA Firearms Instructor was an expert. He had taken Spectre under his wing and taught him everything he knew with a steady diet of fear, sarcasm, and ridicule to emphasize his teaching points. Spectre had gone from an average gun enthusiast who qualified by the Air Force’s standards, to earning his NRA Firearms Instructor certification and giving Marcus a run for his money during their monthly run-throughs in the company’s reconfigurable shoot house. The training had saved his life.

  “So what did her bitch mother say when you untied her, or did you leave her tied up for the cops?” Marcus asked. He found the mental image of a former politician bound and gagged to be highly amusing.

  “She didn’t say anything,” Spectre replied.

  “Fucking figures. She probably thinks you were responsible for it.”

  Spectre shrugged. “But what bothered me was what Jack said when I untied him. He was very concerned about Chloe. He had no idea what happened, but he wanted me to see about her. He thought she might be in danger.” Spectre suddenly got quiet.

  Marcus glanced over at him. “I know we haven’t talked much about it, but I’m sorry about Chloe. Unfortunately, it’s a risk in the business we all accepted at one point or another.”

  Spectre was lost in thought. He had been lost in his thoughts for a couple of days. The e-mail had sent him over the edge. He could deal with the breakup, and Marcus was right, aviation was a deadly business. He’d lost friends before. He was even starting to compartmentalize the shootout, but the e-mails were too much. Who was Victor? How could she keep a straight face while he busted his ass to work things out?

  Marcus attempted to drag Spectre out of his daydreaming. “So what did the Feds tell you? Who were the terrorist assholes?”

  “The guys in the house were low-level guys. I think one was from Pakistan, but do you remember that guy Director Browning was talking about back at Customs?”

  Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Aalee? The asshole they didn’t have enough money to track?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. They think he’s behind the whole thing. I couldn’t believe it.” Spectre realized what he said a few seconds after the words left his mouth. He knew he had just triggered another one of Marcus’s political rants. There was nothing he could do, but wince and hope he was wrong.

  “I knew it! I fucking knew it! Those fucking Democrats, the party of which Representative Ridley was a card-carrying member, did this! They started with handcuffing the military. Then that wasn’t good enough, not enough servicemen and women were dying, so they stopped advanced interrogation techniques. Terrorists had to have lawyers. They were cutting off soldiers’ heads, but they deserved rights!” Marcus was fuming.

  “Marcus, breathe,” Spectre said, holding his hands up to try to calm him down. It was no use.

  “Then this new prick gets into the big house in Washington, and they all hold hands and sing the song of unicorns and rainbows. The seas would part! Wars would be over! And Ridley was at the front, singing right in tune. She voted for the budget cuts! She voted for it! Ha! Look what happens, bitch!”

  “Marcus, please, let’s take this to your office.” Spectre was trying to usher Marcus into the back office. They had been chatting for a while and the first of the other employees began to arrive.

  “It’s just so poetic, Cal,” Marcus said, finally catching his breath. “You think there’s no karma, no bigger system, but then this happens. Congresswoman votes to cut Homeland Security and gets herself kidnapped by a piece of shit terrorist. You just can’t make this shit up!”

  “Hey, easy there. She’s still human. She just lost her daughter. Her handicapped son is in ICU, and she and her husband both got the crap beat out of them. It’s more than just politics, Marcus.”

  As they entered Marcus’s office, Spectre took a seat on the couch against the wall as Marcus sat in his executive leather chair. Various shooting awards and antique firearms lined the walls of the spacious room. Behind Marcus was an old World War II recruiting poster with a Marine in dress blues that simply said, “READY” and directed applicants to their nearest recruiting station.

  “I know, and it sucks that it happened, but come on. Elections have consequences. The world is a dangerous place.”

  “Ok, politics aside,” Spectre was trying to get the conversation back on track, or at least away from giving Marcus an aneurysm. “The guy took off before the chaplain and I got there. Jack told me he had taken some pictures of them or something.”

  “Standard ransom, probably needed proof of life,” replied Marcus.

  “Yeah, but proof of life for whom?” Spectre leaned forward on the couch, bracing his elbows on both knees.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Abdul Aalee is a terrorist, right? Does some high-level kidnappings, blows shit up, whatever. But he does it to prove a point. It’s not about money, so why does he need proof of life? Why not just make a video cutting their throats and post it on Al Jazeera?”

  It made him sick to think about it, but it was what Spectre expected from terrorists like Aalee. Most famously, Spectre recalled American businessman Nick Berg, who had been beheaded at the hand of Al Qaeda terrorist Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi in Iraq in 2003. The video had been uploaded and spread throughout the internet reportedly in protest of American treatment of prisoners at Abu Ghraib. It was brutal and sickening.

  “Maybe he wanted something. Sometimes they requ
est the release of their terrorist buddies, or some other asinine demand like the Jews packing up and moving out of Israel.”

  “I guess you’re right. It’s just weird,” Spectre said, leaning back.

  “You look like shit man, you sure you don’t want to take a few days and get your head right? I promise I’ll even pay you for one or two,” Marcus said with a wink.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I just need to get some sleep. I was out for a couple hours last night before the dog got me, then I couldn’t get back to sleep so I came in. I figured you’d be here. Do you live here?” Spectre smirked.

  “Only when I’m married,” Marcus replied. Spectre knew Marcus had been married at least three times, maybe more. He had only known one of Marcus’s exes, and she was tough, but then, exotic dancers in Miami generally were.

  “Any of your exes ever cheat on you?” Spectre asked, thinking back to the laptop and the e-mails.

  Marcus laughed. “Don’t they all?”

  “I’m serious. Did you ever find out one of them was cheating on you?”

  Marcus stopped smiling. His forehead wrinkled as he considered the question.

  “Yeah, my first wife cheated on me with a Navy asshole from the base. A fucking seaman! Do you believe that shit? I was a goddamned trained killer, and she picked some admin weenie who shuffled papers.”

  “How’d you find out?” Spectre still felt bad about going through Chloe’s laptop. The whole sequence of events just made him feel dirty, like he was violating her right to privacy. But the result was even more disturbing.

  “I walked in on them doing it on my bed. He was wearing my fucking boonie hat! I still don’t feel bad about the beating I gave him. But back then, I only had non-judicial punishment and a forfeiture of pay. A slap on the wrist, all things considered. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened today. I’m sure some kind of pussified sensitivity training and counseling.”

  “Wow, holy shit. Well, I think you might have been right about Chloe,” Spectre admitted.

  “She was cheating on you? Yeah man, I’m sorry, but chicks just don’t fall out of love like that. She was boning someone else.”

  “Ok, I get that, but here’s what I don’t get, why would he have access to her e-mail address?”

  Marcus gave Spectre a puzzled look. Spectre explained how he happened upon Chloe’s laptop sitting on the nightstand. He described how he found the e-mails in the draft folder, talking about her feelings for him and the e-mail she signed with the name “Victor.”

  “You found these in the draft folder?” Marcus looked very concerned.

  “Yeah, there was nothing in the inbox, sent items, or her deleted folder. I felt kind of stupid, but then I saw two drafts. One of them was signed ‘Victor’ and talking about seeing each other that night. That was the night of the crash.” Spectre was shaking his head. He still couldn’t believe Chloe might have cheated on him.

  “You sure that wasn’t a guy named Victor talking to her?”

  “Why would he have her login info and be sending her e-mails from her own account?” Spectre was still very sleep deprived. He couldn’t see where Marcus was going with this.

  “I was just reading a book about this. Apparently, it’s something spooks do. E-mails can be traced and tracked through IP addresses and other digital footprints. So they got around it by creating the modern day equivalent of cold drops. One party would create a draft on an account with a common logon, and then the other party would respond using the same method. Since no e-mail was ever sent, it made it more difficult for cyber monitors to trace.”

  Spectre considered it for a moment. “But it was her personal e-mail account, why would they care if someone intercepted it anyway? I’m not NSA or CIA. Just a pissed off fiancé.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t you they were trying to hide from,” Marcus replied.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Everglades, FL

  His senses came back online like an old computer booting up. First, he felt his head. It was throbbing worse than any migraine he had ever experienced. His body ached. It was as if he had just been hit with a semi truck. His ears were ringing, but amidst the constant pinging, he could hear a voice.

  “Baxter, are you ok?”

  Baxter tried to open his eyes. The sunlight was blinding. It took him a moment for his brain to process his surroundings. He was outside, lying in the grass. He could see trees around him, and a large black man standing over him.

  “Hold on buddy, the medics are on their way.” Baxter finally recognized the man. It was Agent Spencer from the ATF.

  Baxter tried to speak. At first, he could produce nothing but a cough. His lungs felt like they were full of soot and ash.

  “What happened?” he finally managed. He didn’t remember anything. The last thing he remembered was driving the lumbering SUV down the gravel road. Everything after that was a blur. He had no idea where he was or how he had even gotten there.

  Baxter tried to sit up. His ribs were killing him. He rubbed his forehead and noticed blood on his hands.

  “You’re ok buddy, don’t try to move,” Spencer said, nudging him back down.

  The paramedics arrived and started tending to Baxter. They stabilized his neck and checked him for any life threatening wounds.

  “I’m ok,” he said, trying to sit up.

  “Sir, don’t try to move,” the lead paramedic said.

  He pushed him away. “No, really, I’m fine.”

  Baxter sat up, pushing the lead paramedic back. He saw a small farmhouse in front of him and people running everywhere. The windows had been blown out and the walls looked charred and peppered. Paramedics were tending to other people on the ground nearby.

  “What happened?” Baxter repeated.

  “Why don’t you tell me, buddy?” Spencer replied. The paramedics were still busy checking his pupils, taking his pulse and other vital signs.

  “Last thing I remember is driving the Yukon down the road with Thomas. Where’s Thomas?”

  Spencer frowned.

  “Seriously, what the fuck happened?” Baxter asked impatiently. The paramedics were unstrapping his body armor. The outer fabric was torn and frayed. The FEDERAL AGENT on his back was barely readable anymore.

  “There was an explosion of some kind. We got here as fast as we could. I dragged you out here. It was really bad in there...” Spencer trailed off, looking at the tattered farmhouse and wounded SWAT members everywhere.

  “Where’s Thomas?” Baxter insisted.

  Spencer shook his head. “He didn’t make it. The blast had to have killed him almost instantly. He was the closest one to it.”

  Baxter slumped. He was struggling to remember details. He had a faint image of Thomas pushing forward into a room, but he couldn’t put it into context. Baxter looked over at the other medics tending to the injured. They were SWAT members.

  Baxter could hear the rotors of a helicopter in the distance. He recognized it from earlier. The memory of the Blackhawk and firefight started coming back to him. It had delayed the operation, but Thomas wanted to push forward anyway.

  “Jesus Christ,” Baxter responded. It felt like a war zone. “What about those guys?”

  “The CBP chopper is about to land in that field. We’ve got three critically wounded. They’re being taken to the hospital. There were also two killed in the explosion. Three total, but come on, we’ve got to get you to the helicopter.”

  “I’m ok,” Baxter replied, pushing Spencer away from helping him up. He struggled to his feet on his own. The paramedic hawked his movements, worried he might become disoriented and fall.

  “You’re not ok, Baxter.”

  “I’m not like those guys,” he said, pointing to the men carrying two litters toward the ambulance. The Blackhawk was waiting in the clearing on the other side of the tree line near the dirt road.

  “Maybe not, but you can’t remember shit and you’re pretty banged up. Helicopter or ambulance, your choice, but you’re going t
o the hospital.” Spencer left no room for interpretation in his voice. He meant what he said. The large man could be very persuasive. Baxter was glad he was on their side.

  “Fine, I always wanted to ride in a helicopter anyway.” Baxter pushed him out of the way and started walking toward the tree line.

  “Hey buddy, wait for a second,” Spencer said.

  “Yeah?”

  “The helicopter is that way,” Spencer was pointing the opposite direction with his giant arm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Miami, FL

  Baxter stood staring into the interrogation room through the one-way glass. He was watching Kasim Razvi sitting at the small interrogation table. The man looked nervous. He was fidgeting as his eyes darted around the room. Sweat was beading down his forehead onto his bandaged broken nose.

  Baxter’s forehead was also bandaged, covering the cuts he had received from the blast. He was still sore, having only been released from the hospital a few hours prior. It was late in the evening. The helicopter ride had been only fifteen minutes to the hospital, but one of the FBI SWAT members in critical condition had died en route.

  As a non-critical case, he was triaged and sent to wait before doctors assessed his condition. He had a few cuts and bruises and a minor concussion. It was nothing major. His memories of the assault on the farmhouse and subsequent explosion were starting to come back to him. He was given a few painkillers, stitches, told to rest, and sent home.

  But Baxter couldn’t rest. He was new to the Joint Terrorism Task Force and his assignment in Homestead, but he wasn’t new to law enforcement. He still needed answers. He wanted to close the case, for himself and for the brave men Aalee and his men had just murdered.