“Get under the bed, as tight into the corner as you can, and for God’s sake stay quiet!”
Samir ushered his children then his wife underneath the bed, then quickly shook Todd’s hand. “Thank you, my friend.”
“Don’t thank me. This is payback for when someone did the same for my family seventy years ago in Warsaw.”
Samir nodded, immediately understanding, and once again hating his father for his twisted views. He dropped to the ground and scurried into the back corner as the large storage bags were shoved back into place, the bed skirt closing off most of the light.
“Sharon’s going to pretend to be asleep so we can put the SoundSpa on. Hopefully that will provide enough background noise to hide any breathing.”
They heard the bedsprings move above them then the sounds of waves crashing as the small audio device was turned on. Samir reached into his pocket and pulled his iPhone out, turning on the flashlight app so they could see underneath. Before he did so he made sure a smile was plastered on his face so his kids wouldn’t be afraid.
It didn’t work.
Everyone looked terrified.
“Now we’re going to play a game, okay?”
Both of his children nodded, still scared.
“We’re going to play the sleeping game.”
“What’s that?” asked his daughter.
“It’s really easy. Whoever falls asleep first, wins!” They looked puzzled. “Now, just lay your heads down and get comfortable, then close your eyes and picture your favorite place. Then just breathe nice and deep, over and over, and fall asleep. Whoever falls asleep first, wins. But remember, Mommy and Daddy decide the winner, so just because you think you lost, you might not have, so keep trying.”
They both nodded and immediately curled into balls, their breathing becoming deeper and more steady as they both tried to win. He looked at his wife who had a slight smile on her face, but said nothing. Laying down himself, there several pillows already positioned for them to be comfortable, his wife joined him.
Their fingers intertwined, her tears flowing, the fear again overwhelming her, he himself fighting the urge with every fiber of his being.
Pounding on the door had him jerking, his wife squeezing his hand tight. He raised a finger to his lips as he heard Todd open the front door.
Samir couldn’t hear what was being said, but it sounded heated.
“Fine, I’ve got nothing to hide, search all you want.”
Boots on parquet echoed through the small apartment. “Do you have proof you’re an American citizen?” asked a booming voice.
“I’m sure I do somewhere, but as an American citizen, you have no right to ask me to produce it.”
“Times have changed. I suggest you cooperate or I might just find that you’re not.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m not a Muslim, I’m a Jew.”
“A Jew who uses the Lord’s name in vain?”
“That was irony.” There was a pause. “A joke. Look, my yamaka’s by the door, my Menorah is in the closet on the top shelf. I’m Jewish, so’s my wife, so is my son.”
“Where’s your wife.”
“Asleep in bed, that is probably until you guys hammered on the door.”
Samir could hear boots enter the bedroom.
“Who the hell are you?” cried Sharon, the springs bouncing as she apparently jumped up in the bed.
“Government authorized search, ma’am. Are you an American citizen?”
“Goddamned right I am! I was born and raised in Atlanta!”
“Do you have proof?”
“The fact I don’t have a damned accent, am as white as you, and have a brother who died in Iraq should be proof enough.”
“Sorry, ma’am, I’m required to ask.”
More boots and the sounds of closets and doors being opened then closed were accompanied by mild protest from Todd, who seemed to be keeping up just the right level of outrage to not arouse suspicion or ire.
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
A door closed then silence.
His daughter lightly snored, winning the sleeping game.
Footsteps entered the room, quiet, socked feet approaching the bed. “They’ve gone for now, but let’s wait until they’re out of the building.”
Suddenly there was a terrific crash from the front of the apartment. Sharon yelped as Todd rushed out of the room.
“Hey, what’s the idea?”
“One of your neighbors reported seeing a Muslim family coming in here just a few minutes ago. Where are they?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Half my neighbors are on crack, I wouldn’t believe a word they said.”
“Sir, if we find them in here you’re going to the same place they are, along with your wife and son.” The man’s voice rose. “We’re going to tear this place apart and arrest these good people if you don’t come out! You’ve got ten seconds!”
Samir stared at his wife, his eyes finally filling with the tears he had been fighting for so long. She nodded at him as they both realized what must be done
He pushed the storage bags out of the way.
Sharon wept in the bed, hugging her pillow as he crawled to his knees and looked back at her.
He helped his children out from under the bed, then his wife.
“Time’s up!” yelled the man from the front.
“We’re coming,” said Samir, his voice cracking.
Sharon cried out, climbing out of the bed and following them, her teenage son standing in the door of his own bedroom, his eyes red as he bit down hard on the knuckle of his thumb, fighting their shared terror.
Todd sat in his chair, his head in his hands, defeat written on his face. Samir looked at the man standing in the living room, several of his henchmen behind him.
“There’s no need to hurt these good people. We’ll go with you.” Samir turned to Todd, choosing his words carefully. “Thank you, sir, for agreeing to take us on such short notice. I shouldn’t have put someone I didn’t know in such an awkward position.”
Todd nodded, seeming to understand why Samir was speaking the way he was. He wisely said nothing.
Todd’s son brought their suitcases from wherever they had been hidden. “Can they take these?” he asked. The man nodded.
Samir smiled his thanks then followed them out of the apartment, trading one last look with Todd, who mouthed “I’m sorry” as the door closed.
His daughter tugged on his pant leg.
“Daddy, who won the sleeping game?”
Outside Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada
Burt Dawson ran alongside the CN Rail train heading east just outside of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. It had yet to pick up significant speed and was just rounding a slight bend to the left hiding their illegal boarding from the engineer. He pulled at the door but it wouldn’t budge. He noticed a padlock and pulled out his Glock, making quick work of the lock, tossing it to the ground. Pulling the door open, gear was tossed inside by the others then he reached out with one hand and grabbed Lee Fang’s wrist, yanking her up and inside the now open boxcar. He did the same with Niner and Kane then stepped inside himself to find the boxcar mostly empty, a shipment of paper filling only a third of the compartment.
“Everybody okay?” he asked, closing the door almost completely, not wanting the engineer to notice it open on his next right hand bend.
“Peachy,” said Niner. “I feel like a damned hobo.” He looked at Fang. “Didn’t some of your ancestors build this track? Fine job they did.” Fang again looked at Niner as if he were a little touched. Niner grinned. “Spend enough time with me and you’ll understand my sense of humor.”
Dawson shook his head. “And when you do, you know you’re due for a transfer.”
Kane chuckled, pulling a battery powered lamp from one of the bags. He flicked the switch and a gentle glow filled the boxcar. The others gathered around it like a campfire, it now chilly, the sun low on the horizon, the prairie landsca
pe quick to give up its heat. It would be a long night but hopefully a safe night, the freight train having no passenger cars to attract attention. The news reports they were listening to while waiting for the right train, one that wouldn’t be stopping in every small town along the way, had been bleak. Canada’s CBC News had been reporting many border incursions which the Canadian government had been strongly protesting but seemed powerless to stop. The latest news report had indicated a deal had been reached where Canadian authorities agreed to arrest and return anyone caught crossing the border illegally.
Dawson felt for the Canadians. It wasn’t like they had much choice. With civilian leadership, Canada could rely on the might of the American military not being used against it, but with the new military leadership, they had no such guarantees and Dawson had a feeling even they knew this wasn’t a temporary situation, many of the news organizations openly calling it a bloodless coup d’état with the foreign pundits calling for economic sanctions should the military not fulfill its promise to return power to civilian authority once the situation had been contained.
But it hadn’t been yet. There were still bombings, two more today, but they seemed to be much fewer in number though still deadly. Dawson suspected this was to keep the people onside, to show the “threat” still existed. If the attacks suddenly stopped, the people might demand power be returned, and those behind this coup couldn’t risk that.
But he still wondered if General Thorne was the head of this, or just a patsy. He had met General Thorne in-theatre. He was a good soldier, strict but fair from what he had been told, and a patriot. The man loved his country and loved its military. A history buff, Dawson and a few of his team had been chowing down when the General had made an appearance, regaling a nearby table with stories from the American Revolution.
The theme had been why overthrowing the government at the time had been necessary. It had been entertaining, a lecture delivered with gusto and genuine zeal, the men listening hanging off every word delivered by the popular soldier.
Thorne seemed to genuinely love his troops, his job, and his country. Whether or not he might be twisted enough to orchestrate these events, Dawson wasn’t sure. If he felt the country was being threatened by the inaction of its leadership, perhaps he might. But it would be an extreme reaction. He’d be better off trying to run for President rather than replacing him at near gunpoint.
Dawson had his doubts, and as far as he could see at this point there was only one way to end this for certain. Take out all the known and perceived leaders, and if that meant Thorne had to die, then so be it.
America had to be saved, and if Thorne were the man Dawson thought he was, he would gladly die to save his country, especially if he were innocent in all this.
Niner cocked an ear. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” asked Dawson.
“I heard something. Sounded like a prop.”
“Douse that light!” ordered Dawson as he jumped for the door, opening it slightly. He scanned the sky, the sound now obvious to him too, Niner’s hearing almost dog-like. “It’s gotta be a UAV.”
Kane was beside him, looking as well. “Sounds big, like a Reaper.”
“Do you think they’ve found us?” asked Fang, standing at the far wall, holding onto a railing for balance.
“Border patrol definitely would have reported us then satellite might have picked us up,” said Kane.
“Do you think they’d really take out a train in Canada?”
“It’s a freight train,” said Dawson. “Little to no Canadian casualties, eliminating a major threat like us? I don’t think they’d hesitate.”
“Do you think they know who we are?”
“Probably. For sure they’ve pulled satellite footage of your rescue, traced the plates and saw we were heading north. They might have even traced us to Duke’s place. A quick check of vehicle registrations would have his SUV plates, and those would have been reported by border patrol.”
“So in other words, yes,” summarized Niner succinctly.
Dawson’s lips pressed together tightly, then he pointed at the gear. “Niner, what have we got in there that could take out a Reaper?”
“My rifle?”
“Do you think you can try to hit it?”
Niner shrugged. “Do or do not. There is no try.” His Yoda impression was spot on.
“What do you need from us?” asked Dawson as Niner quickly began to assemble his M24A2 Sniper Weapon System.
“A spotter on the roof.”
“I’ll do it,” said Kane.
Dawson shook his head. “Negative. Your responsibility is her. If you see a missile inbound, you two jump.”
“Jesus, BD, we’re doing fifty or sixty miles an hour!” exclaimed Niner.
“You won’t survive a missile strike.”
“Debate over, get on the roof,” said Kane, pointing. “There it is and it’s coming around. Looks like an MQ-9 Reaper.” Dawson followed Kane’s arm and cursed as he spotted what was indeed a Reaper banking. He swung outside and climbed up a ladder placed near the door. Reaching down he pulled up Niner’s SWS, Niner scrambling up after it.
“You’ve got maybe thirty seconds!” yelled Kane from below as Dawson lay prone on the roof of the boxcar, his binoculars propped up on his elbows.
“Got it. Target’s at one-seven-zero, bearing right at approximately one thousand feet off the ground, two miles out. You see it?”
“Affirmative,” said Niner beside him, already in position.
“It’s going to fire any second!” yelled Kane.
“Come to Papa,” whispered Niner as he carefully took aim, it impossible for Dawson to help, there no way to give him wind speed and direction, it almost irrelevant since they were travelling so fast. Niner would have to rely on his instincts.
The weapon fired, Dawson feeling the report through the metal roof underneath him.
Nothing obvious indicated a hit.
“Presumed miss,” he said.
Suddenly cannons on the Reaper opened up, tearing apart the ground as the bullets neared the boxcar. “Take cover!” shouted Dawson as he split his time between the Reaper and the unexpected approaching fire, cannon equipped Reaper’s only experimental when he had last been briefed. But experimental or not, the massive caliber bullets found their mark, tearing through the boxcar’s thin skin, the hot lead climbing the side as it was about to reach the roof. “Roll!” yelled Dawson.
He saw Niner roll to the left out of the corner of his eye as he rolled to the right, suddenly finding himself falling over the edge, his left hand reaching out and grabbing onto the rung of a ladder just before he dropped between the two boxcars and onto the tracks. The buzz of the Reaper’s prop as it passed overhead had him looking up at the massive unmanned vehicle, his view suddenly blocked by Niner’s face.
“Whatcha doin’?” he asked playfully.
“Just hangin’.”
Niner reached out to pull him up when Dawson waved him off. “Forget me, just take that goddamned thing out.”
“Well why didn’t you just say so?”
Niner’s head disappeared and Dawson regained his balance, climbing back up just in time to see Niner squeeze off another round, this time in the near opposite direction as the Reaper banked sharply, exposing a rather large target.
Smoke immediately began to trail from the fuselage and the engine suddenly grew louder in protest as the seventeen million dollar vehicle dipped sharply to its right, spinning several times before slamming into the hard ground, erupting into a ball of fire.
The train jerked as the engineer hit the brakes, shoving Dawson painfully into the boxcar, Niner losing his balance slightly, his grinning celebration cut short. The train took its time coming to a halt allowing Dawson to climb around the corner and back into the boxcar entrance. “You two okay?”
Kane nodded, pointing at several holes. “It was close.” Niner passed down his sniper rifle, Kane grabbing it.
“You
missed one of my better shots,” said Niner as he flipped head over heels from the roof and into the boxcar.
Kane’s eyes narrowed as he grabbed some of the gear. “You sure? I just assumed it was a bird strike.”
Niner feigned mock anguish as he broke down his weapon. “I’m genuinely hurt that you would think such a thing.”
Dawson scanned the horizon for more Reapers and saw nothing. But he knew that wouldn’t last long. He looked ahead as the train continued forward, now slow enough for them to safely jump. He smiled. “There’s a town ahead. We’ll borrow a vehicle and hopefully be far enough away before its owner knows it’s gone.”
They tossed their gear and Dawson jumped first, rolling with the impact, the others following suit, the train continuing forward, the brakes squealing in protest as the engineer tried to kill the inertia built up by the incredibly heavy load. Dawson walked back and grabbed some of their gear, the others joining him.
“Shit, look!” pointed Niner at the southern horizon, a contrail streaking across the sky.
Dawson grabbed his binoculars and looked. “Reconnaissance. MC-12W Liberty by the looks of it. We used them a lot in Afghanistan.”
“We better hustle then,” said Kane, already breaking out into a jog. Dawson brought up the rear, tossing glances over his shoulder as the plane neared. Unless they were blind, there was no way they weren’t going to be seen especially with whatever town was ahead being a good mile away.
Suddenly a dull roar was heard from the north, a roar unmistakable to Dawson having heard it countless times in his life. It was the sound of jet engines on full afterburner, and with them approaching from the north they were obviously Canadian, probably CF-18’s from CFB Cold Lake.
They all stopped as the planes tore overhead, closing in directly on the USAF plane, buzzing it closely, the Canadians apparently tired of the constant border challenges. Dawson watched as the CF-18’s banked sharply, returning for another run as they reduced their speed, the American Liberty beginning to turn back toward the border, the Canadians tucking in alongside to escort them to American airspace.
Dawson gave a silent thanks to the pilots and just hoped this didn’t turn into a shooting war with America’s closest ally and friend.
Death to America (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #4) Page 20
