She recognized the feel of flex cuffs being slipped around her wrists and kicked the larger man in the groin. His grip relaxed causing the chair to tip onto its back legs. The man in back lost his grip on her hands. Free of the flex cuffs, she leapt forward, head butting the first man in the gut, knocking him to the floor.
She spun around to take a punch at the other man when she felt the sting in the back. Every muscle in her body contracted and she collapsed on the rough-hewn floor.
“American Tasers. Work well, yes.” A third voice said.
She’d been tased once before. She didn’t like it then and nothing had changed. Affectionately called “riding the bull,” it was something all operatives had to endure during training, but there was nothing affectionate about it.
By the time she regained use of her limbs, she had been repositioned back in the chair, flex cuffed, and strapped to the chair with duct tape.
“Who do you work for?” The third voice asked.
“You know who I work for.” Hunt said. “Your goons kidnapped me.”
Knuckles crunched the side of her face. Blood spurted from her lips, splattering against the stone wall behind her.
“We can do this either way. The hard way or the easy way. I don’t care, I have all night. Again, who do you work for?”
“Hilal Shipping.” She braced herself, expecting another blow to the head but instead some sort of stick was rammed into her gut.
She gasped for air but the void in her chest wouldn’t fill. She lurched forward against the restraints, begging for air. Finally it came. A small sip at a time. Her lungs burned. Her gut hurt. What seemed like minutes were mere seconds.
She raised her head, tried to focus—he was smiling. The left side of his face burned, no eyebrows or eyelashes. His left hand missing two fingers. His disfigured face not as appalling as the stench from his rotten teeth. His gums were brown, teeth black.
“What is your job at Hilal Shipping?”
She struggled to speak. In broken breaths she said, “I’m administrative assistant to Ahmed al-Hilal. Owner of Hilal Shipping.”
“How long have you worked at Hilal?”
“Six weeks.”
“And before, you worked for the CIA, yes?”
“No, I never—“
The next blow broke her nose. Blood flowed over her chin, dripping onto her lap.
“Leave us.” The man commanded.
She heard two sets of footsteps walk away from her. The man lifted her chin with his stick. She felt his hot breath against her face. Smelled the stench of rotten gums.
“You will tell me the truth or you will die. I’ll leave you to think about how our next meeting will go. But I promise you this, I won’t be as polite.”
Footsteps walked across the room.
The door slammed and bolted shut.
Isabella’s chin fell to her chest. Pain radiated through her weakened body. Blood dripped from her nose and mouth as her lips formed the words, barely audible to her own ears, “Gregg.”
CHAPTER 7
THE SAS STRIKE team had been regimented to perfection. The operation meticulously planned and each soldier knew his task. Jake watched Kaplan drill the soldiers time after time, covering every angle and every possible scenario. If something were to go wrong, each man should instinctively know what to do. Stay the course, don’t over react, and maintain focus.
Underneath the canopy the terrorists used low light kerosene lanterns and flashlights to avoid detection from the air by overflying aircraft or satellites. In the nighttime desert, even the smallest output of light could be seen from miles away.
Team one entered the camp’s perimeter first. Their task was to secure the communications tent, disabling any opportunity for outside transmissions.
Mounted on support poles underneath the netting were floodlights that went undetected during surveillance. A detail neither Jake nor Kaplan had contemplated was about to turn the mission into a tragedy. The floodlights were activated by trip wires randomly strung around the perimeter—tripwires that also went undetected…until the first SAS soldier stepped on the wire.
The area lit up like a football stadium at night, blinding the soldiers wearing the NVGs. The men ripped off their night vision goggles but the initial blast of light had temporarily impaired their vision. Now six men stood sightless in the middle of an enemy camp.
Sitting ducks.
Jake and Kaplan were outside the perimeter when the lights came on. Far enough outside to escape being blinded by the NVGs. The eleven-man team was now a five-man team and Jake and Kaplan were the only ones at camp level who could still see.
Within seconds after the camp lit up, Jake heard the terrorists yelling inside the tents. The six-blinded soldiers dove to the sand and rolled.
“Gregg. We have a problem.”
Kaplan charged forward motioning Jake to watch Yasir’s quarters. “Snipers, fire through the netting. Take out the dorm tents.”
Teams two and three, the teams designated to hit the dorm tents, were deepest inside the camp and the most exposed when the first of the terrorists scrambled into the open.
Sniper rounds peppered the tents.
Screams of agony filled the desert night air.
Jake crouched to a firing stance on one knee. He took aim at the tent closest to his position. Three men ran out, two covered in blood, all firing wildly in the air as they ran into the night.
Jake noticed Kaplan in the same one-knee stance firing into the other tent.
More shots rang out. Silenced rounds continued to spray the tents. The snipers had done their job. The movement stopped and the camp went silent.
“Jake, Yasir.” Kaplan was up and running for the terrorist’s quarters.
Jake moved faster and was waiting when Kaplan arrived.
They stood outside, Jake heard whispering. “Drop your weapons.”
Kaplan looked at him. “What are you doing?”
“Giving Yasir a chance to surrender.” Jake said. “Just like Bentley wanted.”
A voice came through the headset. “Team one operational, communications and supply tents secure.”
“Good. Go help the others. Make sure both dorm tents are neutralized.”
Jake and Kaplan parted the tent doors with the barrels of their pistols.
Kaplan looked in, “Mustaff Bin Yasir?”
Crouched in back were two people, one Yasir. Jake recognized him from the preponderance of photos he’d studied. The other an Asian woman, not Hashim Khan, the American traitor they were looking for.
Yasir and the woman were huddled in the rear, Yasir holding a knife to her throat using her tiny body as a shield.
“No shoot. No shoot.” The woman pleaded.
“Drop the knife.” Kaplan stepped toward the pair, his barrel switching from Yasir to the woman to Yasir.
Jake moved next to Kaplan. “Let her go—now.”
“No shoot. No shoot.” She screamed.
Jake felt his anger swell. He couldn’t be responsible for letting another woman die because he failed to react fast enough.
† † †
A sudden clap of thunder blasted in his ears and caught Kaplan by surprise as he watched the pink mist fly from the back of Yasir’s head. The terrorist fell backward into the canvas tent and tumbled to the desert floor.
He saw Jake still pointing his gun at Yasir’s lifeless body, now crumpled on the floor in a bloody pile.
The woman started screaming in a language he didn’t know. After what Jake just did, Kaplan didn’t have time to deal with the Asian woman so he hit her in the head with the butt of his gun rendering her unconscious.
Securing her hands and legs with flex cuffs, he turned to Jake. “What the hell did you just do? Alive, Jake. Alive. Bentley wanted him alive.”
Jake lowered his gun. “He was going to kill her. We need her more than him.”
“How the hell do you figure?” Kaplan pointed toward the unconscious woman. “We don’t e
ven know who she is.”
“Look at her. She’s Asian. Why would an Asian woman be in this camp? Don’t you think that’s a little odd? Whatever her reason for being here is something we need to find out. That makes her our priority.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Jake? I don’t know you any more. You’ve gone off the deep end. Ever since Beth died, you shoot everything and everyone in sight. The whole concept of ‘capture alive’ eludes you. You’re careless and irresponsible. And your behavior endangers the safety of those around you.”
“Shut up, Gregg. I did what had to be done. It was Yasir or the woman.”
Kaplan shoved Jake in the chest, knocking him two steps backwards. “You’re no better than an assassin. You’re like, like…Ian Collins. Or worse, Laurence O’Rourke.”
Kaplan saw it in Jake’s eyes, he’d struck a nerve.
Jake raised his pistol, aiming it at Kaplan’s head. “Don’t ever talk to me that way again.”
“Jake, two things you better get through that thick skull of yours. One, you need help. Serious help. When we get back, I’ll talk to Bentley.”
“And two?” Jake asked.
Kaplan heard Jake’s sarcasm. “Two. If you ever point a gun at me again, you better use it…or I’ll kill you where you stand.” Kaplan paused to let the words sink in.
He turned and walked out of the tent.
CHAPTER 8
Two Days Later
JAKE TIGHTENED HIS seatbelt as the Challenger jet descended into the West Texas desert. It was the same Challenger he flew on to Ireland back in March when he discovered the secret cache of weapons buried beneath the ancient Irish ruins of the Creevelea Abbey. Since March, he’d flown on it numerous times. Bentley sat in the seat across from him and hadn’t spoken a word since they left Langley. For that matter, Bentley hadn’t spoken a dozen words to him since he returned from Australia.
He knew Bentley was upset he’d shot and killed Mustaff bin Yasir, but Bentley’s refusal to even acknowledge his presence upset Jake. Yasir got what he deserved. After all, he was about to kill the woman who Jake now knew was an operative with an intelligence organization of some sort. He learned the woman’s pleas to stop him from shooting were legitimate—she was close to learning the location of other cells. She needed Yasir alive, he was her only connection to Hashim Khan, the handler of the cells.
As Jake discovered after he returned to Langley, Yasir planned to reunite with Khan after the cell’s attack on Sydney. Yasir and the woman had been booked on a freighter owned by the Hilal Shipping Company in Yemen, the same company Isabella Hunt infiltrated, and from which she had disappeared. Too much of a coincidence not to be connected.
When he and Kaplan arrived back at Langley from Australia, Jake was sent home, told to get some rest, and pack.
No destination given.
Jake knew Kaplan had been in contact with Bentley prior to and during their flight back to Washington. Kaplan was summoned directly to Bentley’s office and Jake was sent home. He could only surmise that Kaplan would be going to Yemen in search of Isabella Hunt—only he wanted to go too.
“Sir.” Jake had to break the silence. “Where are we going?”
“Jake, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Bentley closed his portfolio and gave his seatbelt a tug.
“Why the silent treatment?”
“Because I had to decide what I was going to do with you.”
“And that is what…fly me across the country so I can meet someone?”
Bentley stared at him. “Yes, but first we’re going to eat lunch.”
“Where are we? We’ve been in the air for hours.”
“West Texas. Not too far from El Paso.”
“That’s a long way to go for lunch. It must be good.” Jake thought he saw a slight curl in Bentley’s lips. Then it disappeared.
The jet descended toward the desert floor. Jake looked out the windows on both sides and saw nothing but tumbleweeds, sand, rocks, and cliffs. As if out of nowhere, an asphalt runway appeared beneath the aircraft as it gently touched down and taxied to a large hangar. Parked in front of the hangar was the longest golf cart he’d ever seen with a driver dressed in full cowboy regalia.
Jake followed Bentley down the air stair to the tarmac.
Bentley turned and pointed back at the aircraft. “Go get your bag, you’ll need it. You’re not returning with me.”
The sound of those words sent a chill through Jake. He grabbed his bag and followed Bentley.
The cowboy stepped from the cart and motioned to take Jake’s bag. “Director Bentley, Mr. Pendleton, Welcome to Wrangler’s Steakhouse. If you’ll hop in, I’ll take you to your table.”
Cowboy tucked Jake’s bag away in a covered trunk on the rear of the cart. The cart’s seats were made of plush leather with studs securing it around the thick padding. Tassels hung from the outside of each seat and whipped in the wind as the cart pulled away from the hangar.
Jake ran his hand across the leather. “Is everything here this nice?”
Bentley kept looking forward, “E. W. doesn’t do anything half-ass.”
The cart pulled under a thatch portico attached to the large adobe style building. Jake counted five parking lots, two of which were full. He glanced at his watch, “A lot of people for lunch, I hope we have a reservation.”
“This is nothing," Cowboy said. "Wait til suppertime. It’s Friday night, all seven lots will be full and there’ll be a good two-hour wait for a table. Happens every weekend. Holidays are worse.”
“Seven parking lots? I only counted five.”
Cowboy pointed to a hill behind the restaurant. “Two larger ones beyond that ridge.”
Jake turned to Bentley, “Will I be staying here tonight?”
“No.”
“Mr. Pendleton, I’ll deliver your bag to you this afternoon.” Cowboy pointed toward the glass entryway. “Right this way gentlemen.”
Cowboy took them to a table in an empty part of the restaurant, “Your waiter will be right with you.”
Jake’s curiosity grew until he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Sir, what’s going on?”
Bentley placed his portfolio on the edge of the table. “You promised me you’d control yourself in Australia…yet you didn’t.”
Jake inhaled to speak but Bentley’s finger was in the air signaling him to remain quiet.
“I realize you thought you were saving the woman. She was undercover, sent to infiltrate Yasir’s camp. She’s a South Korean posing as a North Korean arms dealer. It took her nearly six months to gain Yasir’s trust. She was supposed to arrange a weapons transfer for Khan. Her intel indicated that Yasir’s camp was one of three cells planning attacks around the world. She claims she tried to stop you, our link to Khan is dead and we don’t know what other cities are targeted. Now we might not be able to stop the attack or attacks.”
“Sir, it all happened so fast. By the time I realized what she was saying, Yasir was already dead. I thought she would be more useful to us than Yasir. I had no idea a plant was in the camp.”
“That’s why you follow orders. You don’t have the bigger picture.” Bentley paused. “Are you familiar with Senator Richard Boden, Committee Chairman for Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs?”
“The old man with Donald Trump hair who's always chewing gum?” Jake nodded. “Yes sir, I know who he is.”
“He wants me to hand you over to him. He has so much as ordered me to do so. He wants to make an example of you. Drag you through the coals publicly and then lock you away. I won’t let that happen. Not to any of my operatives. I take orders from the President, not Boden. So I’m putting you someplace where you can lay low. Let this whole thing blow over, and sooner or later it will blow over.”
Bentley unrolled his cloth napkin, placed it in his lap, and rearranged his silverware on the table. “Things have changed, Jake. Times have changed. The Clandestine Service is not what it once was. Society has trouble accepting what we do
. Congress is slowly neutering the CIA. Everyday we lose power and prestige. The People want things done, want to feel safe and secure, but they don’t want to know the truth. Do you understand what I’m saying, Jake?”
“I think so, sir. The good ol' days are gone and the wheels of bureaucracy are grinding the company train to a halt.”
“Crude…but accurate. In many ways, we’ve already ground to a halt. More and more covert operations are being farmed out to contractors and paid through over-budgeted slush funds and dummy corporations. The government has reached a point where it can no longer have assassins as employees. The public has an unrealistic expectation that all problems can be solved diplomatically. Society has grown soft and refuses to accept the true, evil nature of our enemies. So we have been forced to find other ways to accomplish our goals—goals that must be accomplished for the welfare of this nation as well as many other nations.”
“How long before all this blows over and I can get back to work?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m putting you out of sight for a while. And in the mean time, maybe you will learn a little about yourself…and why your problems can't always be solved by simply pulling a trigger.”
“But Admiral, I’d like to help Kaplan find Isabella. We’re a team.”
“Jake, first of all, you and Kaplan need a little time apart.” Bentley’s tone startled him. “Kaplan is a team player. Isabella is a team player. You, on the other hand, are not a team player and you had better learn to be one very soon or there is no place for you in my organization. Do I make myself clear?”
Jake now understood the impact of his actions in Australia. Bentley had never spoken to him like that and obviously had given him all the leeway he could. He would do what ever Bentley asked of him. He would control his anger—he had to. He would become a team player.
The Toymaker Page 4
