by Brad Taylor
“No, I don’t. They want the hostages and will settle for one. As far as I know, their attack is set to go in a few hours whether we give them anything or not.”
He opened the door, and Kevin pulled his sleeve.
“What?”
“Don’t leave me down here. Let me come up with you. You can use the help.”
Seamus considered, knowing it would be better to have two instead of one. Ali Hassan was a spindly man, but, as the Americans were fond of saying, Sam Colt made an equalizer of anyone.
He said, “Okay. Check the hostage. I’ll watch from the end of the alley. We’ll go up together, but you need to be armed. Take a pistol.”
Kevin nodded, satisfied, like a puppy being scratched behind the ears. He exited the vehicle with a bottle of water, and Seamus walked to the entrance of the alley, surveying the street.
A half a minute later, Kevin approached, telling him the hostage was still out. Seamus said, “Let’s go see our patrons.”
They entered the front of the apartment complex, walking down a hallway past some front stores to a suite of mailboxes and an elevator. Seamus decided to forgo the easy route and took the stairs, going up three flights and passing several immigrants from Middle Eastern countries. All looked at them in curiosity.
He reached the third floor and exited, moving down a narrow hallway with a threadbare carpet running its length. He paused outside number 318, smelling the mold and decay. He put his ear to the door. He heard nothing.
He knocked, Kevin right behind him. No one came. He knocked again, and the door was jerked open by a large black man he didn’t recognize, sweating profusely. A sweat that Seamus recognized as fear.
“Yes?”
“I’m here for Ali Hassan.”
The man looked into the interior of the apartment, then opened the door. Seamus entered, followed by Kevin, and saw Hassan in the den, a gun in his hand. Aimed at Seamus’s head.
He said, “Hey, hey, no need for that.”
Hassan said, “There was no need for you to come here. In fact, no way you should have known where I am. You call, demanding a meeting, then tell me it’s here. How did you know where to find us? Who else have you told?”
“The Frog gave me the address. Really, he’s on both our sides. There was no reason to keep it secret. I’ve told no one.”
“The Frog never gave me your address. In fact, he never gave me your name. Get on your knees, and forgive me if I don’t trust you.”
Seamus did so, placing his hands behind his head and saying, “I have the payment.”
Hassan stood and said, “Where? All I hear is promises, and all I see is Irish scum.”
“We have him down in the car. In the trunk. Look, we’ll pass him to you, but you need to put out a statement soon, using him. I mean real soon, like in the next few hours.”
“Why? And what do you mean, ‘him’? Where are the others? You promised more than that. You told us we’d have many people to leverage.”
His hands still behind his head, Seamus carefully said, “We had some problems. I lost the others, but I still have the prize. The vice president’s son.”
Hassan stood, waving the pistol about. “And now you want to pay me half of what you promised? After my risk?”
“There’s nothing I could do! You know how this works.”
Hassan laughed, a mirthless tone, and said, “Yes. I do. Ismail, how does this work? When you were a pirate? What did you do when you were double-crossed on payment?”
From across the room, holding another pistol, Ismail said, “I killed the hostages. Payment is payment.”
“And since we don’t actually have the hostages, what do you suggest?”
“We exact a different payment.”
Seamus saw Kevin’s face crumble in fear at the words. He went on the offensive. “You talk about payment, but you’ve done nothing as far as I can see. Why the fuck should I pay you anything?”
Ismail looked at his watch and said, “One hour and twenty minutes.”
“Okay, then. We understand each other. The attack goes off, and you get the prize.”
Hassan said, “Lay down. On your belly.”
Seamus did so, right next to Kevin. He heard Hassan say something in Somali, and the man who answered the door went into the bedroom. Seamus saw the man return, carrying two black pillowcases, and he didn’t understand what was occurring.
Until the light disappeared from the hood slammed over his head.
78
Kylie felt the car engine shut off, but she continued to feign sleep. Through slitted eyes she saw they were in a shopping district, a mass of people boiling out of a London Underground stop called Camden Town. She exhaled in relief. There was no way the bearded man would try to stuff her back into the trunk in front of all of these people, and the ride locked up was more horrible than she remembered, every bump jarring through her body, the darkness mixed with the smell of exhaust. With Nick gone, her courage was sliding away, replaced by a sense of helplessness.
Last night, she’d felt the car rumble onto another ferry, the air horn blaring in the dark. Once on the far side, they’d driven for about thirty minutes, then had stopped. She’d waited for the man to release her, but he did not. She’d lain in the trunk for hours, hearing the man shift inside the car, and realized he had pulled over somewhere to sleep. Eventually, she’d drifted off herself, lost in her despair.
She was awakened by the trunk opening and daylight spilling in. Squinting her eyes, she’d been allowed to get inside the vehicle with him, but he had left her hands bound. They’d begun driving again, and she’d leaned her head against the window and pretended to sleep, afraid to ask the man where they were going. Afraid to find out. Postponing the inevitable, but it had arrived all the same.
He shook her knee, saying, “We’re here.”
She sat up and said, “Where?”
“London. Look, I didn’t like what was going on back there. Taking soldiers is one thing, but taking you crossed the line. I’m going to pass you to some people who will get you home. Okay?”
The words alarmed her, making her want to turn back the clock. To climb back into the trunk. She didn’t believe him for a second. He didn’t know it, but she’d heard the conversation he’d had on the phone and knew that whatever this was, it wasn’t about helping her. In a quavering voice, she said, “Why don’t you just let me go?”
“You’ll run to the cops. I can’t have that. These people will hold you until Seamus is done, but they won’t hurt you.”
She began to tremble but nodded tentatively, pretending to believe.
He pulled out a knife, and she recoiled against the window. He said, “I’m going to cut your hands free. Please do not attempt to escape. You won’t make it.”
He sliced the flex ties on her wrists and said, “See that pub over there? We’re going inside, and I’m going to get you some food. The men I’m talking about will meet us there in a couple of hours.”
At his words, she realized she was ravenous. She glanced out the window and saw a two-story establishment called the World’s End.
He said, “Anybody asks about your bruises, make something up. I don’t think anyone will, though. It’s early, but that bar has people who look like you in it all the time.”
She nodded, waiting on him to tell her what to do. He exited the vehicle, circled around, and opened her door. He said, “Remember, no tricks. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”
She got out and they crossed the street, threading through the traffic. He held the door for her, and she entered a giant pub that seemed to go on forever, put together with what looked like spare parts and salvage, with no two tables alike and heavy metal music blaring. He pointed to the back, saying, “That way.”
She walked past one bar and entered a large back room with a huge s
kylight. In the center was another bar, with a balcony seating area above it. She saw a sign for the bathrooms on the right and said, “I really need to go.”
He considered, then said, “Okay, but no tricks.”
He followed her down a short flight of stairs, stopping in an alcove, the men’s room on the right, the women’s on the left. She opened the door and found it empty. Devoid of any help. One more blow to her dwindling courage. She immediately looked for a method of escape, but saw it would be impossible. The only window appeared to be welded shut and was five feet off the ground.
She couldn’t believe how filthy the place was. No seats on the toilets, graffiti all over the walls, and water on the floor. She settled for relieving herself, hovering over the stained toilet. Back outside, she found Colin waiting for her. He pointed to the upstairs balcony. “Up there. Sit at the back, against the wall. I want to see them coming.”
They paused at the bar, a woman behind it with dreadlocks and a ring through her nose, a chain running from it to a hoop in her ear. Colin said, “You guys take euros?”
“Nope. Pounds only.”
He dug out his wallet, producing a credit card. “Run a tab. I’ll start with a Guinness. She’ll have a glass of water. We’ll both take a couple of baskets of fish and chips.”
The lady swiped his card and handed it back, saying, “Fifteen minutes for the food.”
While they waited on the drinks, Kylie considered what he’d said about wanting his back to the wall and wanting to see the men coming. It meant they weren’t exactly friends.
It was the reason he’d stopped here, in a large public place. He wanted the crowd to keep the men in check. After all, if they were such good buddies, and he had her safety at heart, why not just drive to their house? Why meet in a bar?
Colin handed her a glass of water and led her to a circular metal staircase, telling her to go first. The rungs were so narrow she felt as if she were standing still and turning in a circle. They reached the top, the balcony completely empty, deflating her. Driving home her lack of options. She’d again hoped to see someone. To give her a chance, no matter how small, to communicate her status.
He pointed to a couch against the wall, a small table in front of it.
He said, “I’m going to get the food. I’ll be right next to the stairs. You come down, and I’m going to hurt you.”
She said nothing, sagging back in the worn vinyl cushions and putting her head in her hands, her thoughts swirling about.
Nick’s face came into her mind’s eye, and she wondered if he was still alive. The last, vicious kick he’d taken replayed over and over, his head snapping back, his body dropping straight down. She began to weep in small, silent hitches.
She was now completely and utterly on her own. Nobody was coming to help.
She thought bitterly of her uncle, the man she’d placed so much faith in. He had failed her. She knew it wasn’t fair, but the blame filled her nonetheless. He and his pack of friends, all bragging about what they’d done on operations while she hid on the periphery, listening. She’d always believed them but now realized it was just the adoration of her youth. She rubbed her throat, feeling the absence of her pendant. An allegory for her misplaced trust.
Her uncle’s friend swam into her consciousness, and for the first time, she felt true betrayal. She was so sure he would come, like a child believing in the tooth fairy, that the realization he didn’t care crushed her will to continue.
The small bit of weeping grew, the jagged hitches so great she couldn’t breathe.
79
The argument was getting heated, but there was no way I was backing down. “Blaine, she’s climbing the wall. We need to see inside the apartment.”
“Pike, this isn’t a Spider-Man movie. It’s damn near noon. She can’t get up the backside without compromise. We take the team and hit the place with overwhelming force. It’s only a two-room apartment.”
“It was your call on the daylight hit, but no way am I setting foot in that place without intel. We could be walking into a firebox.”
Blaine said, “We’ve got the intel. Jesus, we have more than we ever did back when we used to do this shit at Bragg. We have the entire floor plan.”
The flight out of Ireland had taken as long as I thought it would, with the usual delays, but we put the time to good use, planning our next steps. The Taskforce had managed to give us a complete schematic of the entire structure the Somalis were allegedly in, and their room—318—was a corner one, with a window from the bathroom looking out into an alley and the bricks of the building next door. We’d hit the ground and rented a cargo van and a sedan, then driven straight to the target.
It was on a street called Edgware, which had the nickname of Little Beirut, but that was somewhat misleading. I’d expected it to be like other Little Arabias I’d seen in the past, in other countries. A small enclave of Middle Eastern culture, with BMO women walking about—Black Moving Objects completely covered head to toe—and men dressed in Gulf attire.
Instead, it was just a busy street in London with a few hookah-smoking establishments and a smattering of Arabic lettering on various stores. Definitely not Little Beirut, unless you were calling it that because of the international nature that city boasted in the ’60s. There were just as many westerners as people from the Middle East.
The apartment complex was set back from the street by a block of stores, a hallway leading past to the stairwell for the residences. It appeared fairly straightforward and simple to assault. Straight up the stairs and in, three rooms and ten seconds before target secure. But that intelligence was based on nothing but a sanitized piece of blueprint. It couldn’t tell us what they’d done inside. Didn’t show if they’d ringed the walls with RDX.
Brett chimed in, “Boss, he’s right. Every time someone mentions Somalis, people get killed.”
Blaine said, “Then you do it. Let’s get an Operator on the backside.”
And there it was. The prejudice. He wasn’t worried about compromise. He didn’t trust Jennifer.
Retro said, “Sir, no offense, but you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Jennifer can climb better than all of us together. If you’re saying we need to do the recce, then she’s it.”
For her part, Jennifer sat silently, letting us duke it out.
Blaine looked at her and said, “You can do this?”
“In my sleep, you chauvinistic piece of shit.”
Well, okay, she didn’t say that. But she should have. All she did was nod her head.
He said, “All right. Let’s go. We’re wasting time.”
I smiled and said, “Koko’s up. I’ll pull security to the rear, where she’s climbing. Retro, you got far-side front. Stage at the coffee shop next door. Check for atmospherics, anyone pulling security for them. Blood, you got the entrance to the apartment complex. Figure out how we get in. See if we need to fake a button-call to get inside, or whether we can just walk up like we own the place.”
Brett stashed his suppressed Glock, the barrel long enough to poke a tent in his jeans in the back. He threw on a large oilskin Burberry, draping the coattail over his butt, and said, “I fucking hate that callsign.”
Jennifer, slipping into a pair of Vibram FiveFingers shoes, said, “Preaching to the choir.”
We split up, me following Jennifer down the dank alley, past a beat-up car parked illegally, the bodywork pockmarked with dents and holes, like someone had taken a ball-peen hammer to it. Or like someone had shot at it.
I hissed and Jennifer held up. I said, “Is this the car you dinged up?”
She studied it, then said, “I honestly can’t say. It was dark, but those holes are new.”
I peered inside, seeing nothing obvious. We left it behind, turning the corner to a smaller alley, really just a walkway strewn with garbage cans. Jennifer looked up and
said, “That’s it. Right above us.”
I said, “Hey, I gave you a lot of props with Blaine. You can do this, right?”
She grinned and said, “In my sleep.”
She kept walking and I said, “Where are you going?”
“To the end. See that ledge? I’ll get to the third floor from the far side, then shimmy over. I should be able to see inside, but I won’t be able to do anything but look.”
“How long can you hang? Do you need to come back, or can you lock that window down?”
She looked up at the ledge, really just a four-inch outcropping, and said, “I can hold that for at least thirty minutes, especially if I brace my feet against the brick, but I can’t lock it down. Only give you visual reports.”
I said, “Good enough. Nobody’s going to escape that way anyway.”
She reached an old iron drainage pipe at the corner of the alley and tested it, finding it anchored firmly. She said, “Catch me if I fall?”
I grinned. “Of course.”
She glanced behind me, and I turned, saying, “What?”
“Just wanted to make sure nobody’s looking.” When I turned back around, she kissed me on the lips.
Taken aback, I pulled away and said, “Damn it, Jennifer. Quit that shit.”
She grinned and, in a false baritone, said, “I’m a knuckle-dragging commando. Don’t let my friends see me kiss a girl like last time.”
I realized that Brett or Retro had kidded her about what had happened at the farmhouse hit, and she didn’t like me hiding our relationship. Didn’t like that I might be ashamed of it. Which . . . I wasn’t. I thought.
Before I could reply, she slapped my gut, switched on her Bluetooth earpiece, and leapt up, grabbing the pipe and scampering like a lizard on a summer day, getting to the third floor in seconds. She reached out, grasped the ledge, and began shimmying over to the target apartment, raising her legs into a pike position for every window, holding it while she continued moving. Amazing the hell out of me.
