Relentless Pursuit: A Kelly Maclean Novel

by Hawk, Nate

  “Look! It takes fifty prissy cops to take me down,” he screamed in protest. “You just hatin’ ‘cuz I got eight inches of passion in my pants!”

  “Shut your fucking mouth!” one of the cops yelled as he fought with the man. “You want to go down for resisting arrest, in addition to kidnapping, you piece of shit?”

  “Hey, fuck you asshole!” the drunken man slurred. She’s a prostitute… I didn’t kidnap her! I’m jus’ sexy!”

  “Prostitute?” another officer said, as he seemed to be taking mental notes to put in his report.

  The man was quickly subdued and taken into custody, without any shots fired. As they dragged him out of the house in cuffs, he offered a joke.

  “What do you do with a years worth of used condoms?” he asked to a humorless audience.

  “Shut your pie hole!” one of the cops said.

  “Melt them, turn them into tire and call it a good-year!” he boasted.

  One or two of the SWAT members laughed. Most of them wished they had a more challenging adversary. In the end though, all of them were satisfied to go home safely after another call-out.

  Kelly watched the scene unfolding and he subverted a laugh at the man’s string of jokes. Part of Kelly wanted to help the man who was clearly under too much chemical influence. The other side of him was annoyed that taxpayers had to foot the bill for such nonsense.

  Kelly was standing next to his Lieutenant, Randy Cross, who seemed excited to get the operation over with. Probably so he could get back to the bar himself, Kelly evenhandedly considered, appreciative of the man. By that point in his life, the Lieutenant had shed the day-to-day responsibilities of fatherhood as his children had grown and moved out. Somewhere along the way he had shed the responsibility of being a husband too, after his wife failed to appreciate the long hours. Or the drinking that began after most shifts. Or the girlfriends that he had found along the way. Yet with Lieutenant Cross’ many imperfections, Kelly was inspired by the way he ran his section of the force and the dedication that he had to his officers.

  “Kelly, head home and take care of your lady. I’m sure your wife-to-be had other plans for you two tonight!” Cross said with an understanding wisdom emanating from his face, his grey mustache stoic as he talked.

  “Yes, sir,” Kelly told him. “See you Monday morning,” he predicted, showing appreciation to the man in his facial expression.

  That guy kind of reminds me of myself when I was that age, Lieutenant Cross didn’t need to say. Before the long hours had taken their toll. Before the drinking. And before the problems in his personal life.

  Kelly backed away from the unfolding neighborhood cleanup scene and turned his car around. As he did so, he noticed that several “Wanted” posters had slid out from in between his seat and console during his earlier driving. They fell over flat and spread onto the floorboard.

  Kelly realized that he was not that different than other cops. He stared at those photos, too, in an attempt to lock their faces to his memory. He had fantasized about being the one that recognized one of the criminals and making the collar himself. So far that hadn’t really worked out, he admitted. He grabbed the pile off the floor, eyeing the sorry bastard with half an ear whose grainy picture was on top. He tossed the pile of papers on his back seat. Then, he dialed Jen to tell her the good news of his impending arrival as he quickly powered away in his Magnum. The car would have to satisfy his adrenaline needs for now, until he received another call out. He sure hoped the next one was better.

  ***

  Chapter 4

  Despite each felon’s usual plea of innocence, the prison system is full of bad people that got caught doing bad things. That day there had been a preponderance of Intel, certainly enough to establish the probable cause needed for the search warrants. The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team is always looking for a formidable opponent (none have been identified to this day), so that particular day the team was hopeful that perhaps they had found one. They had certainly found more bad people doing bad things. Maybe the HRT would have a genuine challenge this time while serving some much-needed justice. Long-time Supervisory Special Agent Steven Lynch was leading the group of nearly 30 men. It was a joint-force, consisting of the highly trained FBI agents and several from a local law enforcement agency. Needless to say, the FBI wasn’t stopping by for afternoon tea.

  The terrorist compound in Red House, Virginia had an impressive physical layout. It was much like a spider web, if the onlooker were observing from an aerial view. There was a large building in the center with roads like wheel spokes leading radially to other buildings. The buildings themselves had additional roads connecting many of them. The centrally located structure was largely believed to be a mosque or some sort of community center for those currently residing within the compound.

  The Intel trail for this encampment of Jamaat Al Fuqra members was long and detailed but also at times somewhat contradictory. There were files and dossiers for several locations and multiple members involving criminal investigations that went back more than twenty years. There had been a well-documented rash of violence in the 80s that included an eclectic variety of illegal activities: assassinations, bombings, extortion and kidnapping, to name a few. Then, their activities lulled some during the nineties, both in frequency and violence. But ever since the turn of the century, their actions could only be described as terrorist activities. This was the same group of people that reporter Daniel Pearl had been en route to interview when he was abducted and later beheaded.

  The equipment that the Bureau had selected for this job was extremely expensive. The impressive convoy included a multitude of police vehicles and three of the FBI’s armored BearCats. Hovering overhead would soon be a Bell 412 helicopter with Forward Looking Infrared Laser (FLIR) thermal imaging equipment. The agents were outfitted with plate carriers, .40 S&W Glocks, fully loaded magazines, radios, impact resistant eye protection, helmets and various other appropriate support gear for the mission.

  The 18 federal agents had reported to the staging area in MultiCam, equipped with black M4 rifles. They knew that a strong possibility existed that they might be required to engage with an enemy at a distance of up to two hundred yards so the usual “go to” MP5s had not been the best option for use on this raid. The agents knew that with the added range of the M4s they would have the advantage over the popular AK variants that the terrorists liked so much. Ironically, it was this outfit’s online training videos that had been the best Intel for the FBI. These men did well on the monkey bars and balance beams but they weren’t expected to acquire much range with their unscoped AKs.

  Up in the helicopter, SSA Steven Lynch thought that perhaps his favorite piece of gear that day might have been his leather Timberland boots that just seemed to never wear out. Damn they provide great ankle support! Just like the box had promised, he thought to himself in an idle moment in the air. He wasn’t likely to need them though as he was one of those rear-echelon administrative types, as his men thought of him. He’d be flying high overhead in the imposing Bell, well insulated from any imminent danger. He was a Clark Kent of sorts, intelligent and somewhat socially awkward so it took more than an initial look to understand his true leadership capabilities.

  Joining him in the helicopter was a pilot and co-pilot and an FBI agent regularly found deep in the action. The agent was well regarded within the Bureau as one of the FBI’s best go-to-guys. Hands Wheeler had a special reputation for consistently accomplishing his objectives without added complications or coming up short. The man had a tattoo on one shoulder that he had gotten after a night of several rounds. Rounds of bad discretion. It was Chinese for “results”, or so he had been told by a man with odd piercings and his own camouflage covering of tattoo work. Truth was, Hands was still reluctant, all of those years later, to get that fact independently verified. However, the perceived meaning was fitting. Special Agent Trent “Hands” Wheeler was a man of results.

  He seemed to get all the good ass
ignments and his security clearance seemed to have no limit. He had several types of specialized training, beginning as a Navy SEAL in his younger years and eventually transferring to the FBI. He’d transferred to the Bureau as a more stable job appealed to him, and especially his wife. Good-looking, energetic, and always competent, he was sent wherever the action was expected on the East Coast. Hands stayed in close contact with the Director, their arrangement rarely giving him much downtime.

  Also, penetrating the compound would be the local sheriff’s office, which had supplied a team of ten men. They were not equipped quite the same as the Feds but nonetheless wore their own uniforms and vests. Some carried M4 variants and several carried tactical shotguns. All in all, the Sheriff’s Department would surely survive their rear echelon role too. They had trained for this situation and were confident in their abilities.

  The eclectic group of law enforcement officers had pre-positioned themselves at a staging area about a mile from the front gates of the compound. They had secluded themselves behind a local warehouse and finished their preparation, hoping that while doing so, they would go unnoticed. After a thorough final review of their geographic orientation and respective team duties, the men slid into their vehicles and began the quick climb to their objective through the Virginia hills. The collective signal that all of the men had conveyed to their superiors was: good to go!

  The three BearCat armored trucks that held the 18 FBI agents led the way, being the first vehicles to enter. There had been a metal gate in the closed position that produced a small chuckle from Team One’s leader upon the initial advance. The first armored vehicle did not even slow as it crushed the metal rail open effortlessly. Seven police cruisers displaying “interceptor” badges drove forward with lights on and sirens off, just behind the BearCats. The procession split outward, each vehicle towards its predetermined objective. The Team One leader sat comfortably next to his team’s driver as they approached their target building.

  “Mark in three seconds,” he loudly informed the four agents sitting behind him on the under-padded, inward facing bench seats.

  They hadn’t been built with blood circulation to the glutes as the primary goal. The vehicle was built to transport warriors and warriors never thought much about padded seating while being transported to a battlefield. The BearCats could squeeze twelve men into each one but the FBI had its sights set on three preliminary target structures that day and thus were equipped with an additional armored vehicle for added speed in getting to the third objective.

  The vehicles sure looked impressive, SSA Lynch noted to himself as he looked down below and thought, if only my mother could see me now. All three teams rapidly approached their building assignments in the armored trucks and prepared to synchronously enter their corresponding buildings. This was quickly done under the intimidating roar of incoming helicopter rotors. At the same time the over watch officers consisting of the local sheriff’s office, fanned out and secured the outdoor areas in the vicinity of the three buildings.

  “So far, so good,” SSA Lynch said softly to Hands.

  Due to the seriousness of the criminal charges involved a “no knock” warrant had been approved by the court. The men exploded from the rear doors of the beefy black vehicles. There was a stench in the air that was instantly noticed by the advancing agents. The officers connected their current first-person view to the satellite images that they had studied before the mission. The central structure had been added on to in several areas and even sported two towers.

  Team One leader was the point man in the quickly assembled queue. He stood directly beside the entry man who would step aside as soon as the door was breached. As he had done hundreds of times before, the man punched the door with the entry tool while the team leader tossed in a flash-bang. The doorman simultaneously stepped aside as the device went off. In sub-second timing, the other five agents were through the door, immersed in an explosive altercation. One filled with sudden violence and the permanence found in death.

  ***

  Teams Two and Three had similar experiences. At the same moment, the second team was “stacked” outside their assigned building. This dwelling had been carefully constructed of brick and stone, likely in the seventies, and appeared to be a residential building. The door, however, had not been reinforced and quickly gave under the momentum that the entry officer generated. Stepping aside, the other agents passed him in a smooth and steady rush with their M4s poised for targets. Each agent was excited as he entered the door but none more so than the first man, who had the best chance of seeing action that day.

  As often goes with search warrants there was no action for anybody in Team Two. The Bell was now directly overhead, hovering only a few hundred feet off the ground. SSA Steven Lynch was onboard, listening intently for all three groups to confirm that the three areas had been safely secured, and doing his best not to pollute the communication channel.

  “Tac two, 10-24 all clear, over,” Team Two leader neutrally reported as he exhaled deeply, professionally allowing his adrenaline to subside.

  “Roger that, Tac two.”

  “Tac three, 10-24 all clear, over,” a calm voice assured over the secured transmission.

  Just when the operation seemed to be going smoothly, rapid gunfire began erupting in the background.

  ***

  Ahmed Hussein was the man in charge of the large compound in Red House, Virginia. He heard the vehicles thunder through the gate and he knew that he was in big trouble. He knew there was no time to escape. There wasn’t even enough time to destroy any of the illegal weapons or the other evidence of various felonious crimes perpetrated. It short terms, his day of Jihad had come. He knew that he had just mere moments to destroy the most damning paperwork and to prepare himself for the incoming assault. He donned a suicide vest and stuffed a folder of sensitive documents deep inside his shirt. That seemed to him like a good way to destroy evidence and several infidels, all at the same time. He was saddened that his own time had come because he was enjoying his worldly life to the fullest. He even had his own sex slave. He went over to his prisoner that was locked in a small cage in the corner of his private room, kicking the bars and spitting at her.

  “Ah, they come for you now. Too bad for you… you die too!” the man said with a sadistic laugh.

  Then, yelling loudly, he told two nearby foot-soldiers to position themselves in the front room and shoot anyone that came through the door. Doing as they were told, but not as their insufficient training had taught them, they took positions in the front room. As they prepared themselves for an attack, they lacked any real cover for themselves. Fearfully, they aimed their weapons at the door. Immediately, footsteps were heard outside on the porch. Only a wall separated the two teams of men that were preparing for battle.

  There was momentary static, the sounds of a radio chirping and finally, some hushed whispers of, “turn that shit off!” Then the calmness was shattered. One terrorist finally came to his senses and attempted to fire through the walls of the building.

  His last thought was that he had left his safety on.

  He was in the process of fumbling with the sliding lever of the AK when the door flew open. A small object tumbled into their view, bouncing lightly before rolling to a halt in the center of the room. There was an immediate intense flash and a deafening explosion, which dazed both men. It didn’t matter that the other terrorist had forgotten to chamber a round. Both men were temporarily paralyzed in shock as the muzzles of their AKs pointed in the direction of the agents. The intruders ran in dropping both men with their M4s instantly, two shots to the chest, each. There was no need for follow-up shots. The two bodies flew backwards in a clumsy movement that only high-powered rifle rounds to the chest can provide. Those two men were no longer a threat. In fact, they quickly became a distant thought when the seriousness of the third man was understood to the team of agents. He was wearing a suicide vest and he had his finger on the detonator.

  He
yelled, “Allah Akbar,” as he smiled at the men who were fearlessly closing in on him.

  ***

  After killing the two terrorists in the first room, Team One moved swiftly through the building. As Team One’s leader closed in on the final room, he encountered a man chanting in a foreign tongue. This man had what looked like a suicide vest on and he was now attempting to finger the detonation switch. Without hesitation, Team One leader fired two shots into the man’s head.

  The other members on the entry team had filed in behind the lead agent, just as they had done many times prior. It took mere seconds before the entire building had been cleared and designated safe for entry by Hands Wheeler. The naked woman found in the cage was immediately identified as a probable friendly. The FBI’s radio chatter increased in a flurry and only an experienced agent that had memorized all of the “10 codes” would have been able to fully comprehend the conversations being broadcasted over the radio.

  “Tac one, shots fired, 10-24. No friendly casualties, 10-79, 3x, threat contained. 10-18, request bolt cutters, 10-75 unidentified woman, probable 10-96. Possible 10-89 request technician, over”

  “Roger that, Tac one. Setting the bird down now, out,” Supervisory Special Agent Lynch confirmed.

  The situation sounded real good to SSA Lynch. It looked like he would get in on the action after all. Plus, if the operation continued going well, he knew there would be other benefits to look forward to.

  ***

  Chapter 5

  Hands Wheeler wasn’t just a man’s man. He had the great looks and posture of a chiseled Greek statue. He climbed out of the bird, crossed the clearing and made it to the house with the bolt cutters and his tool bag. Most of the FBI team and several of the over watch deputies had congregated around the first team’s objective, as they watched the man move into action. In contrast to Hands Wheeler, a more intellectual looking man appeared out of the helicopter. But SSA Lynch had a problem. He had stuck his new boot in a mud puddle and was seen well out of any potential blast radius, cursing at the mud and valiantly attempting to wipe his footwear off in an area of tall grass.