“Adam Drake,” he told the young receptionist behind a bulletproof glass enclosure, “I’m here to meet with Liz Strobel and the JTTF.”
“I’ll let her know you’re here,” she said, and punched an extension number into her console before saying, “Mr. Drake is here to see you, Ms. Strobel.”
Before he had time to sit, a metal door with a security pad opened and Liz Strobel motioned for him to follow. She looked every bit the executive assistant of the Director of DHS this morning. She wore a camelhair jacket over a dark brown blouse and striped slacks. Her tightly pressed lips didn’t allow a word of greeting to escape them.
Following her down a long hallway, Drake entertained the thought that her passion for her career had probably triumphed. Strobel walked ahead of him into a conference room where three men sat at a long mahogany conference table. There were only two pictures on the walls, a picture of the president and a picture of the twin towers before they collapsed. The American flag stood in the corner beside the two pictures. It was an appropriate place to meet with the terrorism task force.
Bruce Burton sat on the right side of the table across from where Drake stood. He had met Burton before, but hadn’t dealt with him since he took over the JTTF. Six feet tall, probably two hundred pounds, he looked like someone who had played football in college, which he had. Burton played halfback at Notre Dame.
“Hello, Bruce,” Drake said, reaching across the table to shake his hand.
“Adam,” Burton said, shaking his hand without standing. “You’ve met John Mason from the Secret Service and on my left is Robert Jorgenson. He works with me on the task force. Have a seat. We have a few questions for you.”
Jorgenson was the youngest of the three men on the other side of the table. A gung-ho FBI newbie, from the looks of him. Crew-cut blond hair, and a dark gray suit that didn’t conceal a body hardened by hours in the gym. Baby-blue eyes he was trying his best to make look fierce. Drake gave him a nod that wasn’t returned.
“Perhaps you could start by telling me why you killed the men who came to your farm last night?” Burton began.
“Self-defense, Bruce,” Drake answered coldly.
“You could have called nine-one-one and waited for help. Maybe there’d be someone alive to question besides you,” Burton responded.
Drake felt his pulse starting to race. It was always the Monday-morning quarterbacks who wanted to know why you didn’t retreat.
“If I had waited, Bruce, the person alive right now wouldn’t be me. Besides, the law doesn’t require me to retreat before using deadly force against the imminent use of deadly physical force, and you know it,” Drake said, quoting Oregon’s law regarding deadly force. “You’ve read the reports by now, you know what happened out there.”
“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea what happened all right,” Burton said. “You did what you were trained to do-kill the enemy before he kills you. John got the Secretary to obtain your service record. You might be a little rusty, but I’d say you’re still an efficient operator.”
Drake looked at the man across the table without reacting to his statement. Delta Force soldiers were known as operators. Their records were supposed to be sealed, to protect the identity of men who did things the government needed done. He wasn’t happy that Burton knew enough about him to call him an operator.
“Look, I’m not here to bust your balls, Drake,” Burton said. “But before we stand up for you with the press and the Muslim clerics, I have to be convinced there was no way you could have avoided killing those three men.”
“My dog woke me up, signaling danger outside. I saw three men surrounding my house, armed with AK 47s and one MP5. Those are weapons I recognized. They are not used for peaceful purposes in the dead of night. My only chance against all three of them was to take them out one at a time. I tried to subdue them, but they kept fighting. One whispered ‘Allahu Akbar’ with his last breath. The last one, the guy I thought was their leader, turned his MP5 on me at the last second. I didn’t have a choice,” Drake explained.
Glancing briefly at each of the others seated at the table, Burton said, “Why don’t you tell him what we learned about these three, John.”
John Mason leaned forward, opened the file in front of him, took out three photos clipped to NCIC printouts, and slid them across the table to Drake.
“You don’t need to read their rap sheets,” Mason said, “mostly robberies, assaults, carjackings and drugs. We identified them from their fingerprints, which were about the only things they hadn’t altered since leaving prison. They converted to Islam in prison, took new Muslim names, and disappeared. Their parole officers didn’t know where they were and had no idea why they were in Portland. They haven’t broken any laws that we know of, since they left prison. Until last night, that is. That’s all we know at this point. We don’t know where they were living or how they’ve been supporting themselves.”
Drake was surprised they had all been living with no known means of support and no new crimes they were being sought for. Usually felons either tried to go straight, at least initially, or reverted to their old ways of supporting themselves.
“Okay,” Burton said, after Mason closed his file and sat back in his chair, “so these guys were bad guys, despite what the imams are telling us. You have any idea why they came after you?”
Drake met Burton’s gaze directly and shook his head. “None of my old cases or anything I’m working on now would give these guys any reason to want me dead. The only possible connection, and it’s nothing I can prove, is my poking around the murder at Martin Research, starting two days ago.”
“Liz told us about you following this ISIS guy yesterday and the drug dealer he met for lunch. Why do you think this has anything to with the other night at your farm?”
Drake looked at Burton and smiled. “I don’t believe in coincidences, or random acts of violence. I doubt that you do either. I visited the ISIS office Thursday afternoon, trying to find out what caused the security lapse at Martin Research. At about the same time, the head of security at Martin research was killed. Whoever did it, tried to make it look like a suicide. That same night three guys came after me. The next day I see the ISIS manager having lunch with a felon I convicted, who apparently has access to a private ISIS facility in Hood River. That’s why.”
“It’s not against the law to have lunch with a parolee,” the blond kid injected, rolling his eyes. “Maybe he was interviewing the guy for a job at their ranch up there, you ever consider that?”
“No hotshot, I didn’t,” Drake said, tired of the hostile looks he’d received from the kid since entering the room. “And if you were using the brain the FBI hired you to use, you wouldn’t consider it either. ISIS can’t hire felons and have firms that do secret research for the government as clients.”
As the kid started to get out of his chair, Burton took control of the situation. “Sit down Jorgenson, and keep quiet. Maybe you can learn something.”
Looking back at Drake, Burton continued, “The ISIS manager’s meeting with someone you know is a felon doesn’t impress me. Maybe he doesn’t know the guy’s a felon. I’m more interested in any information you might have that warrants my involvement. We’re sitting on three bodies in the morgue. Ms. Strobel is concerned there might be a connection between the murder at Martin Research, these dead Muslims, and the Secretary’s visit next week. You have anything that indicates a terrorist threat is mixed in with all of this? Anything that I should let the Secret Service worry about?”
Burton was a good man, but Drake could see why this meeting had been called. The JTTF and the FBI weren’t about to jump into another terrorist investigation. Their last one blew up in their faces. They had arrested and jailed a Portland lawyer after a misread fingerprint linked him to a terrorist train bombing in Madrid. It cost the government two million dollars when they settled his lawsuit.
“You know the terrorism angle better than I do, Bruce. The dots are possibly ther
e, but I don’t see how they’re connected,” Drake admitted, and watched relief flood over Burton’s face.
“Good. Glad you agree with us. We’ll do everything we can to smooth over the killings on your farm. Ms. Strobel will keep you advised about that, and we’ll back up your story about when and where things took place. If there’s anything we can do to help with the police investigation, you call me,” Burton said as he stood, signaling the end of the meeting.
Drake left, realizing he was on his own. If ISIS sent the three gunmen his way, as he suspected, it was up to him to prove it.
Chapter 27
David Barak, aka “Malik,” left his twenty-seventh floor penthouse, one block off the Las Vegas strip, to head to the airport. He was accompanied by his personal bodyguard, Jamal James, a former defensive tackle for the San Diego Chargers. At six foot eight inches and three hundred fifty pounds, Jamal was a menacing presence that Barak was proud to have in his employ. Jamal wasn’t just a big body. His eyes shined with intelligence, his movements were both graceful and quick, and he was loyal. People were impressed that a man of such obvious strength and quality was his servant. Barak was most impressed with the man’s unswerving loyalty. The President of the United States might have his Secret Service to stop bullets for him, but Barak had Jamal.
“Jamal, when we get to Oregon, I want you to have the biggest steak the chef at the ranch can find,” he said, as they took the elevator down to the waiting limousine. “You’ve been a loyal friend. Is there anything you might want to do while I’m busy for several hours?”
“No sir, dinner will be enough. I thought I’d just wait for you in the plane. Still haven’t gotten used to flying around in so much luxury,” Jamal said with a wry smile on his broad face. “The quarterbacks always got the private jets.”
In America, Barak had learned that symbolism was everything. Bodyguards, expensive cars, private planes, big homes, and clothing and watches that cost as much as two-thirds of the world earned in a year, were symbols of achievement, worth, and superiority. He had chosen to put his headquarters in America’s gaudiest city, where symbolism was everything. It reminded him every day why America was a fraud and had to be destroyed. A country that celebrated actors above teachers, banned its religions from public places and catered to man’s most basic instincts, in the most vile and public ways, could not be allowed to remain the world’s leader.
So he put on the symbols America cherished and was recognized as a business leader, a man of means. His company, ISIS, was a world leader in security services and executive protection. Because of its success, he had access to the secrets of many of the world’s largest corporations and its most famous and influential people. Soon, he would make use of that access to shock the rich and powerful. He would make them all wish they had not allowed their governments to make war on Islam.
Barak was concerned about the developments in Oregon. It was where he had chosen to make his first strike, and he couldn’t afford to fail. As he made his way to the Las Vegas Executive Air Terminal and his private Gulfstream G650, he knew he would have to do something about the attorney Kaamil had allowed to live. He could not be permitted to jeopardize their plan. He would have to find a way to throw the man off their track.
In four short days, when the Secretary of Homeland Security was assassinated, the world would learn that the jihad could reach everywhere. Then, those on a list of twelve of the most influential American leaders and celebrities would receive an invitation to convert to Islam-or face the consequences. He had the means and the ability to make sure they understood that opposing Allah meant a swift and sure punishment. He smiled, as he thought about headlines announcing the beheadings of Hollywood stars, television anchors, politicians and a few billionaires. People who thought they were above the violence their government’s bombs had brought to so many in Arab lands.
As his plane took off for the flight to his training facility outside Hood River, Barak stared down at the flat land that reminded him of his homeland, and the life, war with the Jews had taken from him. He had vowed at his father’s funeral that he would avenge his death a thousandfold. With Allah’s blessing, and the Brotherhood’s support, he was close to keeping that vow and getting his revenge.
Chapter 28
As Drake left the Crown Plaza Building, he ran through his options. He didn’t have anything but his suspicion that ISIS was behind Janice Lewellyn’s murder. He didn’t have evidence the three gunmen sent to his farm were connected to the murder, and nothing that linked Kaamil and ISIS to either. He understood that. The FBI investigated federal crimes and domestic terrorism, and neither of those two categories appeared to be involved. The Secret Service had come to his aid only as a favor to his father-in-law, and they had no reason to help him any further.
The only thing he could think to do was to take a closer look at ISIS. To do that, he needed some help. A little help from someone who thought like he did, someone who had some of the same skills. Someone he trusted, a friend.
When he got back to his office, he found he had the place all to himself. Margo had left for the weekend with her husband. At his desk, he called his friend.
Mike Casey was a brother in arms, as loyal a friend as a man could have. They had served together in Delta, where Mike was the long gunner, or sniper. He’d saved Drake’s life more than once when an enemy unexpectedly stumbled onto their mission. Drake always felt more confident when Mike was providing him cover from a rooftop, a building, or a ridge, even a half mile away. Tall and gangly at six foot six inches, with red hair, he drew too much attention in their assigned fields of operation to be at Drake’s side. But from a distance, he was always there as his unseen partner.
Before Mike became a Delta operator, he flew helicopters for the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne). Its sole purpose was to deliver and pick up Special Operations commandos. Because they often flew at night, the unit was known as the Night Stalkers. They were the aces of military helicopter pilots. Mike was a natural pilot who flew by the seat of his pants and made landings and evacuations other pilots wouldn’t attempt. He was quickly picked up by Delta Force for its own aviation platoon. When they learned he was a great sharpshooter, a tribute to his misspent youth in Montana hunting varmints, he was also accepted as one of their snipers.
After leaving the Army, Mike settled in Seattle, working for a small security firm. Five years later, he was chosen by the firm’s retiring founder to run the operation. He became the major shareholder, by virtue of stock options he’d earned and had been given with his promotion. Married, with a wife who adored him and three young children, Mike Casey remained a close friend and confidant.
“Casey residence,” Mike said when he answered. In the background, children were splashing in a backyard pool and something was sizzling on a grill.
“I take it I’m interrupting one of your deck parties,” Drake said, “want me to call back later?”
“Hell no. I don’t know how I get stuck doing all the cooking around here, on the weekends anyway. Give me a minute to find someone to burn these burgers,” Mike said. “Megan, honey, could you take over for a minute? Drake’s on the phone.”
Drake smiled, listening to the sounds of his friend’s normal life. There were times when they both thought such a life was too much to hope for. They had lived so far beyond normal they thought they would never make it back. They both had, though Mike’s normal life was lasting longer than his had.
“When you coming up to see us again?” Mike asked, after a minute or so. “The kids keep asking when they get to see Uncle Adam.”
“I was hoping I could talk you into coming down and spending a day with me. A new client’s secretary was murdered in his office and a couple of yo-yos came gunning for me on the farm. I could use a friend to help sort things out. Maybe get out of town, go hunting some varmints like we used to.”
From the tone of Mike’s voice, Drake knew his friend understood what he was saying.
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br /> “Nothing I’d like better. Varmints, you say. What would you like me to bring along for this little outing? I have an M24A2 I picked up from one of our old friends. Will that do?”
The M24A2 was an improved version of the M24 sniper weapon system Mike had used in Delta Force. With a detachable 10-round magazine and barrel modifications to accommodate a sound suppressor, the rifle had proven itself in Afghanistan and elsewhere.
“If you think you can hit anything with it, bring it along. We might get to do some hunting at night, so if you have any of those special binoculars or scopes, they might come in handy as well,” Drake suggested.
“Can do. When do you plan on having this here soiree?”
“Tomorrow night,” Drake said, and listened patiently for his friend to calculate the domestic damage his request was sure to cause.
“Tomorrow night, huh,” Mike repeated. “If I’m able to make arrangements for this adventure, when would I be able to get back to burning burgers?”
“If your kids like burned burgers for breakfast, I’d say sometime Monday morning. Is that soon enough?”
“A man ought to be able to get out of the house once in a while. It’ll just have to be. Do me a favor, go out and buy a box of chocolates I can take back to my wife. I’d like to have a bed to sleep in when I get back,” Mike chuckled.
Drake put the phone back in its cradle and swiveled his chair around to look out over the marina below. Weekend boaters were moving up and down the river. He’d accomplished as much as he could for the day, it was time to go home and get some work done on the farm. Get on his old, red Massey Ferguson tractor and pull out another row of the dead grape vines left to rot by the previous owner. The work would help his mind settle into a planning mode for tomorrow night’s soiree, as Mike called it.
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