All Necessary Force pl-2

by Brad Taylor

  Buckshot said, “Roger. I’ll be there in thirty seconds.”

  Decoy said, “Pike, the schoolkids. I can prevent anyone from the café from seeing, but I can’t do shit about the kids. They have a clean line of sight to me.”

  I saw the street about seventy meters in front of me, the targets about thirty meters closer to the end than I was. I could see the kids, along with a teacher talking to them. Need a diversion. Something to focus their attention away from the left.

  “Jennifer, break away from me. Go to the right of the schoolkids and get their attention.”

  “How in the hell am I going to do that?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know. Figure it out. But don’t do it until you see the targets commit to Terez Boulevard. They keep going straight, let them go.”

  In my head I was tracking about forty different variables and knew I was on the ragged edge of causing the entire hit to collapse. Too many things to control with too few people.

  She glanced at the targets, saw them still moving, and returned to me. “Pike, don’t push this. Don’t… do something we’ll regret.”

  I had precious seconds to get her on board. I didn’t want to lose sight of the targets but decided to give Jennifer my undivided attention. I stopped and took both of her shoulders in my hands. “Jennifer, we’ve got about one minute to make this work. If it doesn’t, I’ll let it go, but I need you in place. I know what you’re thinking. You don’t want to be here. To be responsible for what’s about to happen. I know I’ve put you in situations before you were ready. Caused you to do things that made you question who you are, but your feelings need to take a backseat right now.”

  She glanced down the square toward the target, refusing to meet my eyes. I shook her. “Look at me.”

  She snapped her head back at my tone.

  “I need you. We need you. Right now.”

  Something flitted behind her eyes. A brief look of resignation tinged with anger. She broke away from me without a word, headed toward the children across the square.

  I picked up my pace, closing within twenty feet of the targets. “We’re thirty seconds out. You guys set?”

  Decoy came back. “Yeah, we’re set, but those fucking kids are still there.”

  “Don’t worry about them. The targets turn the corner toward you, the kids will be focused the other way. I’ll bring up the rear. We’ll double-team the Arab. Who’s on him?”

  Retro said, “Me. Decoy’s got the Asian.”

  “Roger all. Thirty seconds.”

  I glanced quickly at Jennifer, now on the other side of the schoolkids, talking to the teacher. Jesus, I hope this works.

  The targets reached the street and immediately turned left, amping up the adrenaline.

  “They’re going to Terez. Ten seconds.”

  I turned the corner, saw the targets abreast of our van, and heard a startled yelp behind me. Buckshot, in the driver’s seat of the van, came on, “Target’s ten feet out. Pike, I can see Jennifer. She just went down. Something happened.”

  I came back, now solely focused on the hit, no emotion whatsoever. “Execute, execute, execute.”

  I rushed the Arab from the rear, seeing the van door slide open in slow motion. The team deployed from an alcove, pistols drawn, Decoy taking the Asian guy and Retro focused on the Arab. The Asian froze for a second, then fell to his knees with a wail. Decoy hammered him in the head, cutting off the warbling with a thump, then threw him into the van.

  The Arab reacted instantly, snarling and whipping a seven-inch fillet knife at Retro’s body. He jumped back, holding his pistol close to his body and shouting, “Don’t, don’t!”

  I closed on the Arab’s back, tying up his arms and controlling the knife. I kicked the back of his knee, bringing him off balance, and knew we had won. I locked up his knife arm, about to leverage him to the ground and finish the fight when he whipped his head straight back into my mouth, splitting my lips and causing an explosion of stars.

  I sluggishly tried to maintain my grip, but the man was like a snake. Nothing but lean muscle that writhed and ripped out of my control. He rotated around, facing me, still snarling with spit flying from his mouth. He raised his knife hand for a killing blow, and his head exploded, spraying me with brain matter. He collapsed on my body, giving me a view of Retro standing above, his suppressed Glock still smoking.

  I shook my head, trying to get my bearings, unable to get rid of the fog, but knowing we needed to leave. Retro grabbed the body off of me and shoved it into the van, then helped me up.

  I piled in the van, followed by Retro.

  As we started to roll, I said, “Compromise status?”

  Buckshot, who’d been on lookout in the driver’s seat, said, “Nothing concrete. Nobody looking. I think we’re good. The schoolkids are still focused on Jennifer. The teacher’s on a phone now.”

  My head clearing, I keyed my mike. “Koko, break out. We’re good. Meet us one block south.”

  We passed by her, now sitting up with a smile on her face, apparently giving the teacher a story about dehydration, epilepsy, or whatever else her imagination could conjure. Either way, whatever she’d come up with had worked, flawlessly. I owe her.

  I took a moment to gather myself, my adrenaline still running amok. We had executed a daylight hit downtown, in a vibrant city. And gotten away with it. I surveyed the team and saw all of them still panting. It hadn’t sunk in yet, but we’d done the impossible.

  Decoy kept his hands on the Asian, even though it looked like that guy had become catatonic. Retro glanced at me and shook his head. “You know, when you were operational, everyone used to talk behind your back about the drama you caused. How you always pushed shit to the breaking point, squeaking out by the skin of your teeth.”

  I pulled out a rag, wiping the blood and brain matter from my face. “Yeah? Those same pussies that never get anyone?”

  Retro laughed and looked at the Asian. “Yeah. Those same pussies.”

  Seeing the Arab’s body, I said, “Didn’t work out like I wanted.”

  Retro became defensive. “Hey, he was about to gut you. I had to—”

  “Stop. I said it didn’t work out like I wanted, not that you did anything wrong. Thanks for saving my ass. It was my fault. I didn’t tuck my head. Fucker deserved it, although we’ve probably lost our main connection to the attack.” I looked at the Asian man. “Maybe.”

  I threw the rag down and squatted in front of him. The fear radiated off of him like heat from a sauna. His eyes were wide open and wet, like he was about to cry.

  I patted his knee. “Hello. We just saved your ass today. Now it’s time to repay the favor.”

  58

  When the screen cleared, I could catch movement behind Kurt’s head on the video teleconference hookup, making me wonder how much I could say. The screen itself cut in and out, looking like a bootleg video of a celebrity sex tape, but that was to be expected, since we were on a secure satellite connection inside an aircraft flying over the Atlantic. There was only so much technology could do.

  Kurt said, “Pike, you there?”

  “Yeah. I got you. How about me?”

  “You look like you’re talking from a fishbowl, but I got you.”

  “Who else is on?”

  He understood the reference. “Nobody. The link’s between you and me. The only other people in the room are Taskforce. Speak freely.”

  We’d gotten out of Budapest without issue, loading up the G4 at the airport within thirty minutes of disposing of the dead Arab’s body. We hadn’t had the time to give a full SITREP, since I’d wanted to get the fuck out of there immediately. All we’d sent was the information we’d gleaned from the pilot and the biometric data of the two terrorists. Now I hoped to get something we could sink our teeth into from the Taskforce analysts.

  I said, “Did you get anything from Montreal?”

  “Whoa. Slow down. We’ll get to that, but first tell me what happened. Did you get out clean? Q
uiet?”

  “Well… there aren’t any fingerprints, but it wasn’t quiet.”

  I told him the story of the house and the explosion, followed by the hit in the park.

  “Holy shit, Pike! You blew up a house? What happened to clandestine? Have you forgotten what that means?”

  “Hey, ease up. You told me to get the explosives even if it meant compromise. It’s good. I promise it’s good. There’ll be a little bit of news about the explosion, but everyone’s dead and it was a damn Albanian mafia house. There’s nothing connecting us. Trust me.”

  Kurt scowled. “You’re using that phrase a little too much. I didn’t mean you get to run amok blowing the shit out of whatever you felt like. We can’t afford a stink right now, even if you did get out clean. The story alone’s going to piss off the council.”

  The comment poked a sore spot, reminding me of all the bullshit staff officers I had to contend with before I had joined the Taskforce. “Fuck that political shit! I did what needed to be done. What I thought was right. You weren’t getting shot at. My team was. You used to trust me explicitly. What’s happened? Where do you stand now?”

  Kurt bristled. “Don’t question my trust, Goddammit. There’s a lot of pressure here you don’t understand. Pressure that extends beyond the mission, into the heart of the Taskforce. I ask you a question, and you answer it. Period. Or get your ass home and let someone else take over who can understand the political dimensions of the fight.”

  He paused for a moment, then continued, “I shouldn’t have said that. I do trust you. You know that. It’s just that not all the enemies are foreign terrorists. You need to be attuned to that, but if you made the call, I trust it.”

  The outburst took me off guard. We’d worked together for years, and he was used to me spouting off, but this time it had hit a nerve. Made me wonder again what was going on above me. He knew I understood the political side of things, even while I hated it, so I took the ass chewing and let it go. “Okay. What about Montreal?”

  The pilot hadn’t really known a great deal. His information consisted of three points: 1. He was supposed to fly cargo to Montreal, Canada, but he had no idea what the cargo was. 2. He had a number to call once he arrived. 3. The Arabs had shipped something from Prague via DHL.

  That was it. But it should be enough to get the ball rolling, with Montreal the key.

  Kurt said, “We got nothing from DHL. We’ve tracked every single shipment from Prague into Montreal, and we’ve come up with nothing. If they shipped the EFPs to Canada, they did it in a manner that used a legitimate business. Every shipment checks out.”

  From the pilot’s description of the cargo, we were sure that the DHL shipment had been the EFPs. Since the follow-on flight plan terminated in Montreal — apparently to transport the explosives — it stood to reason that the EFPs had been shipped there as well. But it looked like that final bit of deduction was incorrect.

  “What about the phone number? Did we get anything from that?”

  “No. Well, not much. It’s a TracFone that was purchased over a year ago. All phone cards for additional airtime were bought with cash. The phone itself was purchased with a credit card, but the store can’t tie a specific card to the purchase. Just the date it was bought. We ran a check of every credit card used at the store that day and came up with one possible. A guy named Abdul-Majid Mohammed used his card in the store the same day. He’s a radical that’s been on the watch list for a while. The Canadians have been keeping an eye on him for his preaching, but it’s never been anything big. Just the usual anti-American crap.”

  “Well, okay, pull his ass in. See what he knows.”

  “Pike, for one, he’s a Canadian citizen. We can’t ‘pull his ass in.’ For another, he hasn’t done anything wrong, even if he was in America.”

  “Let me go after him. It’s in Canada, so it’s still a foreign country. Taskforce authorities still apply. I’ll go wring him out. Bring it to the council and get me Omega authority.”

  Kurt grimaced into the VTC screen, and I knew something wasn’t right. He was keeping intelligence from me.

  “What? Sir, he may be the key to the EFPs. I understand it’s slim, but slim’s better than none. I won’t kill him. I promise.”

  “Pike, he’s not in Canada. We did get the Canadians to check up on him, and he flew out of the country two days ago.”

  “Shit! That’s the guy! Send me wherever he went. I’ll find him.”

  “He came here. He flew to Baltimore.”

  I didn’t say anything for a second, trying to assimilate how pathetic our security apparatus actually was.

  “Wasn’t he on the no-fly list?”

  “Yes. He was. Trust me, nobody’s happy about it. We’re working it now.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? We let a terrorist get on a plane and fly into the United States?”

  “Pike, calm down. There are thousands of names on the no-fly list, updated every single day. This guy has never done anything overt. Just a lot of smoke. He’s not a confirmed terrorist…. Shit. I’m not going to defend it. It is what it is. The police and FBI have his name and will find him.”

  I was disgusted, but decided not to press the point. At least not yet. “What about the biometric profiles? Anything from them?”

  “Yeah. Both of the dead guys are Algerian, although we knew that from the passports. They have a history of extremist activity with the Algerian authorities. Both have been in and out of jail, but nothing really drastic. Mainly a bunch of conspiracy charges that the Algerians throw around like popcorn. The older one might or might not have traveled to Afghanistan to train in the camps in the late nineties. Hard to prove, but that’s a little irrelevant now. They were bad guys, and nobody’s going to cry over them.”

  “Any associations we can use? Any other names connected to them?”

  “Nothing that we don’t already have. The intel’s incomplete. The third guy you were tracking, the guy from the catacombs, still has no name.”

  “He’s the leader. He’s the one we want. All the intel indicators show this is the hit. They line up completely. We have JI, GSPC, and al Qaeda — along with the fucking EFPs. All we’re missing is the homegrown part of the equation, and that guy in Montreal is the key. I’m sure of it. If we can’t find the boss, we need to find his associates. What do we know about Abdul-Majid?”

  “He runs a mosque, like they all do. Truthfully, we can’t even prove he’s bad. He just preaches bad shit all the time. We linked him to some shady charities, which put him on the no-fly list, but there’s only smoke. No fire.”

  “Fat fucking good that no-fly list did. Does he have any contacts in the U.S.?”

  “Some with various imams in the Northeast, but they’ve all checked out as no threat.”

  “Pull ’em all in. Put the heat to them. One of them knows something.”

  Kurt let out his breath. “Pike, calm down. We don’t do domestic operations, and the authorities have everything we can give them. It’s in their hands now.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know, I know. We don’t live in a police state, blah, blah, blah, but that guy is the key to this whole attack. I’m sure of it.”

  Kurt leaned forward toward the screen. “You’d better be kidding about the ‘blah blah blah.’ We don’t live in a police state, and I’m not trying to start one, especially with the thin bit of evidence we’ve scraped up. All we have is a TracFone number that’s close to two years old and tied to nobody, along with a credit purchase in the same store for a guy who might be bad. One of five hundred that day. It’s not something that’ll make anyone start pulling out fingernails. Especially since you stopped the attack in Budapest by interdicting the explosives.”

  I backed off. For all of my bluster, I knew he was absolutely right, but it still didn’t sit well. It’s why I was the guy who went out and thumped heads. I just didn’t have it in me to put up with the political bullshit, but I understood it.

  I asked, “You go
t the support team headed to Ireland?”

  Relieved at the change in subject, Kurt said, “Yeah. They may be a little behind you, so you might have to do a layover, but they’ll take the target off your hands.”

  We had the pilot bound up in the back of the plane, and I really didn’t want to fly into U.S. airspace with him on board. It had been hard enough getting him on the plane without anyone noticing in Budapest. Going through U.S. Customs with him in a box was a nonstarter, so I’d arranged for a Taskforce support team to meet us in Ireland.

  “Pimp that guy as soon as you get him. He probably doesn’t know shit, but maybe there’s a clue there.”

  “Will do.”

  I asked, “How’s Knuckles doing?”

  “He’s getting better by the day. He’s talking now and asked about the team.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “Tell him we started smoking the shit out of the bad guys once we got rid of his deadweight.”

  Kurt laughed. “I will.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Pike, you did some good work over there. Nobody’s going to pat you on the back, but let the team know. Those EFPs would be going off right now if you hadn’t intervened.”

  It was a half-assed apology for his original outburst. Letting me know he still understood what happened when bullets were flying, and that he trusted the man on the ground. I appreciated the sentiment but thought it was a little early. It was only good if nobody died.

  “Thanks, but this work’s not finished. I looked into the eyes of the guy in the tombs. He’s not some Johnny Jihad wannabe. He’s a killer, and he’s not going to quit.”

  59

  Rafik looked at the circle of men and wondered if he should tell them the truth. That the explosives had been lost and they were now on hold. Having led men in combat, both in Algeria and in Afghanistan, he understood the potential impact of the setback. Sometimes a lie was better than the truth. Sometimes the lie helped earn the victory. He had no idea of the mettle of the men before him, and worried what their reactions might be. He had seen it in untested men before. Out of the six in the apartment, four were recruits from prison. One was Abdul-Majid Mohammed, the Algerian contact from Montreal, and although he professed absolute faith, Rafik was ultimately unsure about him. Only Farouk, his remaining comrade from the original cell, could be trusted.