Paladine

by Kenneth Eade

  Robert set up his computer and accessed the Net through a WiFi server from a nearby beauty salon. He checked Halibi’s Twitter and Facebook postings. It appeared that he had been actively posting every hour, so that indicated he must be at home.

  There was no observation spot on the block where Robert could wait and stake out Halibi’s place. He would just have to go in there and see what happened. He hit craigslist thinking he could pick up some kind of service uniform as a guise to get them to open the door and found a listing for a used postal service uniform and hat. That would do. He called the number in Escondido, got the address and went to pick it up. On the way back to San Diego, he dropped by a post office and picked up some express mail boxes.

  Robert made his way back to the motel, stashed the bike, then took the short walk to Halibi’s place wearing his USPS uniform. He knocked on the door.

  A voice from inside called out, “Who is it?”

  Robert smiled at the peep-hole and held up the Express Mail envelope.

  “Post Office. Got an express mail delivery!”

  A man opened the door, Robert silently shot him in the head and held his body as a shield, moving forward without a misstep. There were two others in the living room. He shot one and made a “shh” sign with his fingers to the other as he trained the pistol on him. He dropped the body and grabbed the other live one.

  “Halibi!” He pushed him. A man came out into the corridor and Robert recognized him as Halibi. Suddenly, a large man came out of nowhere, pushed Halibi down and turned to Robert, reaching into his jacket. Before the big man could pull out his gun, Robert shot him in the head and chest. Halibi looked up at Robert and put his hands in front of his head, as if they would protect him from what was about to come.

  “Please, please! Don’t shoot me!”

  “Have fun in Jahannam, asshole.” Robert shot him two times in the head, then threw down his live shield. The man crouched on the floor and began to pray. Robert put the gun against the back of his head and fired.

  He made a quick inspection of the house to make sure there was nobody else there, picked up Halibi’s laptop and took his cell phone from his jacket pocket. This mission was over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Joshua Maynard received a lot more information from the FBI than he had expected, and the access to the TSDB database proved to be valuable to his research. With the exception of Aaresh Shanahwaz, every other murdered terrorist had shown up on their watch list, which meant that the shooter may have had access to it. That meant he could be in law enforcement, because that was the only type of person who had access. Maynard profiled the suspect from the information he had available. He was, most likely, ex-military Special Forces, because he was a sharpshooter. He could have equally been Mafia, but there were no other marks of organized crime on the case, nor were there any motives for any wise guy involvement. That meant he was probably either a gun for hire who had formerly been in the service, working for law enforcement with a military background, or currently in the service and working for one of Washington’s first-string espionage teams.

  Joshua booked a flight to Washington to meet with Wokowski and Samuels. If his suspect had a background in Special Forces, that would be the most logical place to start fishing for information.

  ***

  Maynard made it to D.C. on time and was whisked away in a taxi to the National Counterterrorism Center, where he sped through security and was given a tour of the facility by Wokowski and Samuels. Maynard was impressed with the data and surveillance capabilities of the NCTC. If they only had half of the features in Phoenix they could probably rid the city of all crime in less than a year.

  Wokowski and Samuels retired Joshua to a conference room, where they sat at a long oval table with sixteen chairs, and discussed his theories on Paladine.

  “I think we’re dealing with a highly trained individual, probably a mercenary who has a military background in Special Forces.”

  Wokowski nodded. “His expertise would certainly point us in that direction.” He frowned. “If it’s the same person who did all the killings.”

  “I think a lot of things point to it being the same person. The proximity of the killings to each other, the methods used, and the types of targets are all consistent with one another.”

  “So, how can we help?”

  “I have access to the FBI’s NCIC. That’s a database I use all the time and I appreciate it. What we really could use in this case though is some hard analysis. We need to sort out the guys who have this type of expertise who have left the service and then break them down into the ones we can locate and the ones we can’t. My gut tells me it’s someone who’s dropped off the grid.”

  Wokowski was eager to help. “You’re in luck, Josh. We have the best analysts in the world working right here in this building. We can have them cull out your data right away.”

  “There is one other possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It could be someone on the government’s team.”

  “That would be illegal. Only the CIA can operate like that, and not domestically.”

  Joshua was not surprised by Wokowski’s apparent naiveté. He was a respected FBI agent who was used to doing things by the book.

  By the time Joshua was ready to leave he had been given the reports he requested, including photographs. He sorted out the ones who had seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth, which gave him his first eleven suspects. Eleven guys and any one of them (or none of them) could be Paladine. He skimmed the dossiers on each of them. One of the files was a certain Captain John Richards, aka Malik Abdul, aka Robert Garcia.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  The warm spring with its refreshing breezes had given way to the assaulting blasts of heat that marked the beginning of the Las Vegas summer. Robert had to set his clock early so he could take a morning run in Sunset Park. Once the sun peeked out above the mountains around 6 a.m., it wouldn’t be long before the entire valley turned into a burning furnace. As he ran, with Butthead trotting at his side, panting and wagging, he contemplated his next move. He looked down at the dog briefly. He knew that this life he had made for himself in Sin City was only temporary. In Robert’s life, everything was expendable. If the terrorists or the feds got too close, he would leave it all in an instant. There was nothing worth fighting for in Robert’s life except for his own survival.

  When Robert got in the door, he grabbed a bottle of water and drained it as he listened to the dog gulping water from the bucket faster than it could breathe.

  “Slow down, dumbass!”

  Robert took the bucket away from the dog, who stood in the place where it had been, choking and heaving.

  “I sure as hell gave you the right name. You’re no scholar.” The dog looked up at Robert pitifully, water dripping from his chin like a waterfall in a pond.

  Robert illuminated his laptop and continued his planning. The next most important targets (though not sequential) were clustered around the East Coast. It was time for Robert to go home. Most of the arrests so far that had been made by the FBI were of students who had expressed their desire to fight on behalf of ISIS in social media. They were then caught and arrested after the first move toward their plans, such as buying a gun. Nobody knew of Robert’s gun purchases.

  Robert selected his next target, a level one suspect by the name of Aasen Al-Zahawi. Zahawi was an ISIS loyalist who was suspected by the FBI to be Al-Baghdadi’s right-hand man in the states. He lived in a one bedroom apartment in Queens, frequented by young people which would, most likely, be heavily guarded. This would be another silent operation. Robert finished his planning, committed it to memory, wiped out his external hard drive with a powerful magnet, then packed for his road trip. Just as he was about to leave the apartment, he realized that, as opposed to his habitude, he could not just walk out the door. He looked at the dog, which stood there like an idiot wagging his tail.

  “You know, you’re a
royal pain in the ass, that’s what you are.”

  Robert did a search for kennels and found one within walking distance.

  Robert waved the dog out the door. “Come on, Butthead, let’s go.” The canine followed him faithfully out onto the deck, down the stairs and during the three-block walk to the kennels. Robert paid cash for a week’s stay in advance, plus a little extra to overlook the blank spaces in his application form, and was finally off to New York.

  The three-day ride was a little more comfortable on the KTM than his previous long haul to Colorado. The cycle was built to be equally comfortable on the street as well as off-road. Robert motored most of the day, from sunrise to midnight, and stayed in fleabag motels along the road at night. When he rolled into New York, he parked the bike in a parking garage. For the rest of his mission, he would rely on public transportation and his own two feet.

  Robert was not the least bit nostalgic about being “home.” New York City was just a place he had hung up his six-shooter for a while. He did not look up any old associates or “friends.” For the few that existed, he was dead. But he did have an essential number memorized. He called it on a prepaid cell phone, arranged a meeting in half an hour and dumped the phone.

  Tom Yankovic, if that was his real name, was a rusty old sailor and ex-Navy Seal who had found his retirement plan in the arms business. He was an “off-the-books” gun dealer who was on call for his customers, who were mostly assassins like him. Robert’s meeting with Tom was set for a motel room in Queens. Robert would show up late because first order of business was checking the motel to make sure he wasn’t being set up. It was far too short notice to orchestrate any kind of terrorist sting operation and an impossibly short amount of time for the feds, but Robert’s paranoia had kept him alive this far and he wasn’t going to let it desert him in his time of need. He walked the perimeter of the establishment listening with his parabolic microphone and looking with his infrared goggles. Everything appeared to be normal, so he double-checked room 16. Only one individual was in the room. He knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” Robert recognized the familiar, crackly voice of Tom Yankovic.

  “It’s me.”

  Tom opened the door with a bearded smile, and pulled Robert in as he shook his hand.

  “Good to see you again, 007.”

  Robert nodded and Tom got right down to business.

  “I’ve got just what you need. A selection of .22s to do the job and some nice automatics for contingency plans.

  “Let’s see your .22s.”

  Tom flipped open a large black briefcase which revealed five small handguns. He lifted one out and held it in his palm. “My suggestion: The Ruger SR22 with double and single action, 10-round magazine. Has its own special suppressor.” Tom fitted a silencer on the Ruger and looked at Robert, who shook his head. The Ruger was a great gun, but he had used it in California and wanted to avoid similarities.

  “No?” Tom put the Ruger and suppressor back into the case and withdrew a truly beautiful gun you might expect to be used by James Bond.

  “The Walther P22. This is one bad ass piece of equipment. Only drawback to it is the side-mounted safety but I don’t think that would interfere with your work.”

  He handed the gun to Robert, who held it in his hand, flipped up the safety with his thumb, pressed the magazine catch which dropped the magazine into his left hand, and slid open the chamber.

  “Suppression?”

  Tom lifted a silencer from the case. “Gemtech Seahunter. Best match for this little baby.”

  Robert fitted the suppressor onto the muzzle and looked through the iron sight. “I’ll take it. Now, let’s see your big boys.”

  Tom popped open another briefcase and smiled. He picked up one and fondled it. “For reliability and commonality, I strongly suggest the Gen 4 Glock 17. I’m sure you’re familiar with this weapon.”

  Robert nodded and glanced at the rest of the pistols in the case. He picked up the Glock, popped out the magazine and opened the chamber.

  “Would you like to see anything else?”

  “No, this will be fine. I’ll need suppression for this one too.”

  “This little beauty’s been pre-threaded for a Titanium suppressor.”

  Tom handed Robert the silencer, and he screwed it onto the barrel. He nodded his agreement, which would be the only contract entered into between the two men.

  “What do I owe you?”

  “Four thousand.”

  It was more than three times the retail price, but people like Robert paid a premium for discretion.

  “No prior ownership?”

  “Negative. Both these specimens are brand new and personally tested by me.”

  Robert handed Tom the cash, tucked the pistols into his holsters, and took off.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Back at the office, Joshua Maynard pored over the files from the FBI and painstakingly researched each subject through every database he had available to him. Out of eleven, seven of them apparently had verifiable lives, jobs, and had been closely watched since leaving the service. These would be the easiest to check out, so Joshua went for the low-lying fruit if not for anything but to eliminate the less likely suspects.

  He didn’t want to approach any of them, in the slight chance that they may expose his investigation to Paladine, so he chartered around the fringes of their respective lives without leaving a trace of his investigation. Criminal background checks, job checks and credit checks were all done easily by computer and were below the radar. They would never know. The seven checked out. They all had jobs, bills and problems like any other normal person. They all had bank accounts with meager amounts in them. He couldn’t check for cash under their mattresses, but Maynard assumed that what he was seeing was what he would get and moved on to the remaining four, which were more problematic.

  These four suspects had many aliases, no bank accounts, no residence addresses, no jobs and no credit records that Joshua could locate. They all spoke Arabic and, at one time or another, had Arabic names. He wrote their last –known names on the whiteboard under “suspects.” Jamal Abama, aka Ramul, Emanuel Lockman, Ali Salam and Robert Garcia.

  ***

  Robert did his recon for the mission discretely. Early the next morning, he took a vantage point in an abandoned building across the street from the apartment and watched the comings and goings from what used to be an office in the old structure. The floor was dusty, the walls crumbling, and the windows had all been smashed. The walls were decorated with graffiti, and the remnants of its secondary tenants in the form of used condoms and garbage were strewn across the floor and it smelled like a gas station restroom.

  Apparently, Al-Zahawi was holding court, because a lot of Arab teenagers would show up, get buzzed in, then remain there for hours. Robert scanned the one open window to the apartment with his field glasses. It appeared to have a large living room, kitchen, and one bedroom, which was behind the closed window to the right. Robert made adjustments to his attack plan and waited until nightfall. He shooed a mouse away from his knapsack and dipped into it to energize himself with high energy and protein foods he had bought at the grocery store. This was so he would not be seen coming and going.

  From time to time, Robert saw two different young Arab men looking out the main window, and he surmised they must be sentinels. The first two high velocity bullets of the Walther had their name on them.

  Once it was dark, Robert switched to his infrared goggles. He surveyed the apartment. There were seven heat signatures inside. The Walther had ten bullets in the magazine. If his shots were accurate, that would be sufficient. If not, he would have to use the Glock, which would be a little more messy. No time to change magazines in what Robert expected to be a pretty hot war zone.

  At 2 a.m., one of the occupants left. Robert watched the man exit the main staircase of the building – it was not al-Zahawi. That left five inside. Two remained sitting, one at the door and the other at the wi
ndow, two were prone on the couch and the two in the bedroom who had been actively engaged for the prior thirty minutes had settled down and were not moving anymore. If that was Zahawi, he had just been laid for the last time in his life.

  Robert waited half an hour. The one by the door appeared to be slumped over, which meant he probably fell asleep, and the one by the window was seemingly still alert. He slipped out the back of the building, doubled back around, and went to the top of the stairs of Zahawi’s apartment house. He rang a couple of random apartments, told the tired occupants that he had lost his keys, and was buzzed in.

  There was one elevator to service all 11 floors. Robert used the stairs. Once on the fifth floor, he opened the access door slowly, peering down the corridor. As suspected, there was a sentinel perched by the elevator in a state of half-sleep. Robert walked up to him softly and took him out with one clean, silent shot to the head.

  He took a ready position in front of the door to no. 216 and kicked it in with one smooth motion, shooting the sentinel to his left first and then the one near the window, who had just realized there had been a breach and did not even have time to reach for his weapon. He quickly shot the two occupants of the couch bed who were also just stirring and kicked open the bedroom door. What transpired then occurred in a fraction of a second, although Robert could see every detail as if it were in slow motion. Zahawi had heard the commotion, stepped out of bed, naked, and was holding a gun in front of him that he probably had kept under his pillow. Robert’s weapon was pointed right at his skull. Before Zahawi could pull the trigger, Robert pumped two rounds in his head and two in the chest for good measure. The girl popped up from the bed, screaming. He shot her in the head and turned to leave.