Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3)

by Stephen England

  “Was,” Harry replied flatly, forcing himself to speak the words. “She’s dead, now.”

  The truth.

  She didn’t attempt to reply, to apologize—just stood there in silence, her dark hand covering his. Waiting for him to continue.

  He closed his eyes, fighting against the pain of that night. “I didn’t want to love her, Mehr. I knew better than that.”

  And so he had. The rules of personal protection were few, but they were simple, chief among them: Never become emotionally involved with your principal. Stay detached.

  Carol Chambers had been his responsibility, her safety his only concern. But he had allowed it to become something more. So much more.

  “I knew the price that comes from caring for someone. Anyone. But I wanted to dream…to hope for something beyond all of this. A normal life. A wife, kids. A home out in the country, just for us. Peace. The American dream.” His face twisted in pain at the memory.

  No one who hadn’t lived the life could have truly understood, but Mehr knew. “She gave me a feeling I hadn’t known for a long time—awoke dreams I’d thought long dead. And he took her from me.”

  She looked at him. “Tarik Abdul Muhammad?”

  A nod. “How did it happen?” He could see the sorrow in her eyes at the question—the look of a woman who had known such grief.

  How? Had he let his feelings for her cloud his judgment—even for a moment in time? Or had it been inevitable? Fate.

  “She and I…we were in Vegas together,” he responded slowly, every word stabbing into him like the blade of a knife, “trying to stop the attacks. We got the hostages out—evacuated the Bellagio just moments before the bombs blew. Had a congresswoman there with us, Laura Gilpin, one of the VIPs we’d been sent in to rescue. We came out of the building, out into a night filled with sirens and flashing lights. Chaos. And there was a sniper—on the roof of the resort across the street.”

  He could still remember that moment, still hear the first whiplash crack of a bullet breaking the sound barrier, a crimson stain spreading across the congresswoman’s blouse as she fell. Still feel Carol by his side as she lifted with him, helping him carry Gilpin to safety.

  Too late.

  “It was his second shot,” Harry whispered, as much to himself as to her. Reliving those moments. “I should have gotten her to cover. I had the time.”

  Life and death. A binary choice, really. You turned right when you should have turned left—spent the rest of your life wondering how things might have been different if you’d just taken the other path.

  He’d woken up nights in a cold sweat, reaching out for her, believing for a moment in that semi-lucid, subconscious state that he had made the right choice. That she was still alive. Still with him.

  The eternal hell of what if?

  “The bullet punched straight through the ballistic vest I’d had her wear,” he continued, struggling to keep his voice level, “caromed around inside her like a wrecking ball. She bled out in my arms, Mehr, and there was nothing I could do. Nothing except hold her…and pray for a miracle that wasn’t coming.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her hand on his arm. The words would have sounded so trite coming from anyone else. Meaningless.

  But she knew.

  She reached out, her arms enfolding him, her face pressed against his chest as she pulled him close. If she felt the bulge of the Sig-Sauer beneath his jacket, she gave no sign.

  “You’ll need this,” came the words and he felt her hand at the breast pocket of his jacket, the OSIRIS drive slipping beneath the leather. “Now go.”

  She didn’t look up into his eyes, didn’t say another word as she turned away. And he just stood there in the dawn, watching her go.

  9:45 A.M. Eastern Time

  The NCS Op-Center

  Langley, Virginia

  “We have a problem.” Kranemeyer looked up from his desk to see his chief analyst standing in the doorway of his office. No greeting, no preamble. Just the announcement.

  But that was Ron Carter. A short, thin black man, Carter had been running the Clandestine Service’s Field Support & Analysis Group for the past three years. And while there was no one better at what he did, it wasn’t a line of work that lent itself to pleasantries.

  “What’s going on, Ron?” The look on the analyst’s face was cause for worry—there was always something going on in the world, much of it a problem in the eyes of the Agency. But this was different.

  “This,” he replied, handing a folder across the desk. “Part of it came from Fort Meade overnight—the rest of it is what I’ve had my team spend the morning working up.”

  It was financial data, the DCS realized, his eyes scanning down the first sheet. He looked up as Carter continued, “The NSA got pinged when money was transferred out of a flagged account in the Caymans. Not a large amount, not at all. If the account itself hadn’t been red-flagged, it never would have attracted notice. So they let us know.”

  “Nice of them.” A statement loaded with irony. Cooperation between the bureaucracies that comprised the American intelligence community had improved in the years since 9/11, that much was undeniable. But it was improvement measured with a micrometer. Turf wars.

  “So I called in a few favors, had a friend at Meade run down every offshore transfer of the same amount during the time window. There were over twenty of them, several from the same accounts, nearly forty minutes apart from the first round. Over a hundred thousand US dollars moved in the space of less than an hour.”

  “Who does the money belong to?” Kranemeyer asked, his finger tracing along the rows of figures. Each transaction precisely the same amount, down to the penny.

  “You mean who did it belong to,” Carter retorted. “The name on the flagged account was a known alias for Sergei Ivanovich Korsakov.”

  Kranemeyere just looked at him, swearing softly under his breath. “The Spetsnaz assassin?”

  “The same.”

  “He’s been dead for three months,” the DCS retorted, still not entirely believing his ears. “His body was positively ID’d after Nichols killed him out in California. We even ran it by the FSB—Dmitri Andreyovich confirmed our findings.”

  “I know.” The meaning was clear…someone else had accessed Korsakov’s finances. Another player on the field.

  “Where did the money go?”

  Carter shook his head. “I have people working on that, nothing conclusive as of just yet. Europe definitely, perhaps the United Kingdom. Funds were being routed and re-routed all over the place—it’s like trying to follow the hands of a blackjack dealer.”

  He seemed to pause, as if hesitant to go on. “What is it, Ron?”

  “I think we have a bigger problem, sir.” That was itself a sign of trouble…Carter knew better than to call him “sir.” “It’s the way the funds were transferred. There’s a threshold at which the NSA begins tracking international financial transfers. It’s been in place since 2009. Each of these transfers came within two dollars of that threshold. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  No. The face came to his mind unbidden, unwanted. Kranemeyer looked up to meet Carter’s eyes. “You’re saying it was someone who knew precisely how we operate…”

  “Yes.”

  6:27 P.M. Greenwich Mean Time

  Masjid-e-Ali

  Leeds, England

  “Imam Anwar al-Awlaki, blessed be his memory, once told the story of how Christian missionaries in Indonesia had tried so hard to sway believers from the true path. So hard, with no success, insh’allah,” Hashim Rahman intoned, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the mosque as he looked out on the upturned faces on the young men before him. As God wills.

  “Yet at long last they were able to convince one man, this very old man…by promising him that if he would accept Christ, they would grant his wish—a wish that he said he’d had all his life. So, when he had become a Christian, the missionaries came to him and asked, ‘What is your wish?’ And the o
ld man looked at them, praise be to God, and replied, ‘I wish to make hajj.’”

  The imam smiled as the room erupted in laughter, along with a few more profane cries of approbation.

  An unwelcome reminder that the crass culture of the kaffir had reached out to touch even these chosen.

  “And so it is,” he said, holding up a hand to once again still the room. “The devotion that we must have to Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala, and His cause. You will see Muslims on your telly when one of your brothers is hauled away to prison, talking about how he was a ‘terrorist,’ telling you that you need to distance yourself, remain quiet, just go along, to ‘assimilate.’ Yet, I tell you this, as God is my witness, as soon as you allow one Muslim to be taken…Allah does not help you anymore. And why should He?”

  6:35 P.M.

  “How long before we can go in?” Thomas asked, glancing up at the screens in the back of the surveillance van. They had access to the CCTV feeds on a block radius surrounding the mosque, covering almost every approach. Getting the same type of coverage inside the mosque—that was their next objective.

  “There’s no “we” about this, mate,” Darren Roth responded, stripping off his coat to reveal a work uniform beneath it, the emblem of Yorkshire Gas & Power emblazoned on the front. “You’re staying right where you are.”

  A shrug. He’d figured as much. “This isn’t my first séance, Darren. I’ve done this a time or two. The Agency isn’t writing my checks so that I can sit on my hands.”

  The British officer shook his head. “That’s something you and your conscience will have to get sorted with them—I’m not risking a ‘visitor’ on an op like this. Getting the warrant was hard enough.”

  He turned away, inserting his earpiece. “Testing…Sierra One, do you copy? Sierra Two?”

  “Loud and clear, sir. Standing by.”

  “The lecture lets out in about twenty minutes, according to the mosque’s website,” Roth announced over the comm channel, looking around the interior of the van at Thomas and the female officer who was manning the surveillance equipment. “That’s when we go in.”

  7:02 P.M.

  So young, Rahman thought, bending down at the entrance of the mosque to recover his shoes. And yet so devout.

  He had himself been young once, growing up in Egypt under the repressive Mubarak regime. The lapdog of the Americans. That had all been before he had himself turned to the path of truth, found purpose for his life in the struggle.

  He laced his shoes, looking up then to see a boy of maybe sixteen years of age standing a few feet away—still barefoot. Hanging back.

  “Salaam alaikum,” Hashim greeted, smiling at the young man. Blessings and peace be unto you.

  “Wa alaikum…as-salaam,” came the stammering reply, the Arabic rough and unpracticed. And unto you, peace.

  The imam rose from his knees, extending a hand. “You’ve been coming to my classes faithfully for some time now—what’s your name?”

  There was the broad, youthful smile at the thought that he had been noticed. Remembered. “Aydin.”

  Rahman nodded with a smile of his own, clasping the boy’s hand in his. It was a question he had known the answer to before he asked it, but the time had come to see if this devotion could be developed into something…more.

  “The light of the moon. It is a good name. Wear it proudly as a follower of the Prophet should do.”

  He sensed a hesitation there, glanced about them at the rest of the students filing out. “Was there something you wished to say to me, Aydin?”

  The young man opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again as if he had thought better of his words. “Go on,” Hashim urged him. “Please.”

  “Is it true what they say, imam—that you fought against the unbelievers in Afghanistan?”

  He reached out, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s elbow. “Where did you hear this, my son?”

  Aydin shrugged. “Everyone says it,” he replied, looking earnestly into the imam’s face. “But is it true?”

  He gestured toward the rack. “Go ahead and put your shoes on, Aydin. We’ll walk together.”

  Cold air struck them in the face as they exited the mosque, the streetlights of Leeds glowing down upon them. “Why do you wish to know of this?”

  The boy’s eyes were shining, his words coming fast in the excitement. “I want to know how I can go overseas. To Syria. Or—or Afghanistan. I want to fight, to join in the struggle of God.”

  Rahman stopped on the sidewalk, turning to look his companion in the eye, searching his face. But there could be no doubting his sincerity. He smiled, squeezing the boy’s shoulder affectionately. “May His name be praised. But you must understand, to join in God’s struggle…it is not even necessary that you leave this country.”

  7:13 P.M.

  “Sierra One, Echo One—you are cleared to proceed,” Thomas announced, looking up at the screens as he keyed his headset mike. “The mosque’s security system will go off-line in three…two…one. Go!”

  He couldn’t see the two MI-5 teams as they moved into position, one near the back of the mosque—another in the alley at the side, but he could feel them. Adrenaline pumping through his veins as he stared at the screens, a sympathetic reaction.

  He’d been on enough of these ops in his time, knew exactly what was about to go down. Knew what they were feeling as they closed on their target.

  You were never more alive than in these moments.

  “We’re in,” Darren announced, replacing the lockpicks within the pocket of his shirt as he moved into the darkness of the mosque’s interior. His shoes were still on, that act in itself a desecration…but only if they were discovered.

  And that was the first commandment of espionage: thou shalt not get caught.

  “Roger that, Sierra One,” the American’s voice responded coolly. “You have five minutes.”

  “Five minutes, aye.” He raised a hand, motioning for the officer behind him to continue down the corridor toward the left while he proceeded straight ahead.

  Within that time, the mosque would be wired for sound.

  Thomas glanced over at the woman with whom he shared the van, her brown hair tucked back into a ponytail—beneath the headphones she wore. Monitoring the police bands was her job, making sure that no one had sounded the alarm.

  Roth had been close-lipped, but from the best Thomas had been able to determine, Five wasn’t coordinating with the North Yorkshire Special Branch.

  Marsh was playing it close to the vest, Thomas thought. An admirable tactic, but it meant if they were discovered, they were going to have to clear out. Fast.

  “Camera 3 in position, main hall,” Darren announced. “Moving to the office. Do you copy?”

  Thomas’s fingers moved over the keyboard, bringing up the feed, watching as the video buffered and then came up. “Camera 3 is live, Sierra One. Eyes and ears. You have two minutes.”

  He saw the woman shake her head, her hand moving to toggle the mike. “No, you don’t. Sierra One, you need to get your team out now.”

  It took Thomas only a moment to see what had prompted her reaction. The sight of an older man moving intently toward the mosque, his body cloaked against the cold in the traditional dress of an Albanian Muslim.

  “One moment,” Darren replied, the words escaping from around the flashlight clenched between his teeth, his eyes focused on the microphone he was implanting in the air vent. The vent itself was on the desk beneath him, a pair of small screws and a screwdriver beside it.

  “That’s not a moment you have, Sierra One. We’ve got company—get out of there.”

  Bugger.

  There wasn’t going to be time, Thomas thought, watching the man’s approach through the CCTV cameras. Not nearly enough time. He ripped the headset from his ears, pulling on a jacket as he pushed open the back of the surveillance van.

  “What—where are you going?” he heard the woman ask, but there was no time to stop and explain.


  He shut the door of the van behind him, zipping the jacket up against the cold.

  The man was coming toward his position, still out of sight beyond the Leeds storefront as Thomas set off down the sidewalk. On a collision course.

  Screws were small, Darren thought, rolling one of them between his big fingers, feeling clumsy in that moment. Forcing himself to calm.

  He fitted the vent up against the opening, holding it in place while he prepared to screw it tight. Everything back just the way they had found it. His earpiece crackled with static, the female officer’s voice coming on. “Sierra One, we have another problem. The American just did a runner.”

  A curse escaped his lips and he nearly dropped the screw in his surprise. “Why?”

  “He didn’t say, sir. Was gone before I could stop him.” She paused. “I still have him on CCTV…he’s speaking to the subject. They’re in conversation, looks like Parker is holding up a map.”

  Despite the tension of the moment, Darren found himself chuckling. He should have known better than to underestimate the CIA officer. He was as good as advertised. Maybe too good.

  He reached down for the second screw, the glow of the flashlight playing around the dark office as he finished up. Time to get out of here…

  “So I go down from here two blocks, turn right and walk to the bus station—another block and I’m there?”

  The older man nodded, the skullcap nestled among his greying hair. “You are an American, yes?”

  “How did you guess, man?” Thomas smiled affably, rattling on before his companion could respond. “I’m from New York—came here with my girlfriend on vacation. She’s out shopping as usual, I’m supposed to meet her for dinner in, like, an hour.”

  He grinned, stalling for time. “And that’s when I’m going to pop the question.”

  The cellphone in the pocket of his jeans buzzed quietly once, then twice. The recall code. Five’s team was out of the mosque.

  He glanced at his watch, as if just realizing the time. “Look, I gotta run. Thanks again for the directions.”