* * *
The nightmarish sight in front of them looked like it was pulled straight out of a gruesome horror movie. The sporadic movement of their tactical flashlights flickering across the room somehow made it more macabre.
The continuous din of automatic weapons outside made it difficult for Captain West to process what he saw. He continued to look though, as if the longer he stared, the more he might be able to understand what kind of monsters were capable of the kind of evil on display in front of him.
The building was an enormous space with one purpose—to serve as a modern-day torture chamber, equipped with all the requisite accommodations.
The floor was linoleum where Captain West and his Marines had entered, but the back half of the house contained an area of tile at least fifteen feet wide and ten feet deep. The back wall was also built of tile.
Jutting out of the back wall in two different locations, approximately eight feet apart, were two large metal carabiners, each holding a series of chains. It was what was connected to the chains that had stunned his trained Marines into a temporary daze—two naked bodies.
The body on the left seemed to be Caucasian, but they could only discern that fact from the light-skinned torso. The head was missing.
The dead man was propped into a sitting position. Someone had placed a hook in the ragged hole at the neck behind the spinal column in order to keep the body from falling forward. The arms were raised out to the sides, held up by a thick rope tied to each wrist. The rope had been thrown over a crossbeam in the ceiling to elevate the body. The man’s torso had multiple lacerations and bruises. His legs were splayed out in front of him but ended in bloody stumps where both feet had been roughly hacked off.
The worst thing about it, the thing that Captain West would never forget no matter how hard he tried or how much he later drank, was what the torturers had done to the man’s genitalia. Where the man’s crotch was supposed to be was in fact a gaping, red hole.
The body on the right was just as disfigured. Although the corpse did have its head, its face was a red mask of blood.
The man appeared to be of Middle Eastern origin, with a darker complexion than the body on the left. It too was naked and propped up against the tiled back wall, its arms outstretched and raised in a similar fashion to the corpse on the left. Both feet were also missing, but instead of the genitals, both hands had been removed.
As Captain West turned away from the horror, he heard Gunny Quick ask, “What the hell is on his face?”
He looked back at the dead man as Gunny Quick moved closer to inspect the second corpse. Captain West stared at the man’s face. He realized with a righteous sense of outrage what was wrong with it. It wasn’t just bloodstained.
Gunny Quick realized it too. “Good Christ. Someone cut off his face.” He said it again, as if to convince him it was real. “They fucking cut off his face, sir.”
He looked at Captain West, whose own expression was one of pure outrage and fury at the perpetrators of this heinous act. The look of intensity in his eyes was something the gunnery sergeant had never seen before in his commanding officer. He understood it completely.
Captain West broke the trance. Even though it felt like they’d been in the house for minutes, it hadn’t even been one.
This is getting worse by the second. We have to move.
“Gunny, you and Sergeant Avery check the other house, but I’m willing to bet there’s no one there, at least no one alive. I need to get Williams on—”
That was all he said as they heard the dull thud! thud! thud! as at least a dozen mortar rounds were fired from somewhere nearby.
“Oh, shit. They’re sitting ducks out there!” Captain West screamed.
His worst fears had been realized. The ambush had been triggered, and there was nowhere to hide.
PART III
REMEMBER THE ALAMO
THE ALAMO, SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
CHAPTER 20
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
30 OCTOBER 2008
1000 LOCAL HOURS
The Alamo Plaza was a living testament to the paradox of modern civilization. An isolated fortress that served as the last stand for a group of honorable men who started the Texas Revolution was now surrounded by buildings, streets, highways, and the finest shopping and dining San Antonio had to offer.
Carlos figured if Davy Crockett knew what the Alamo looked like today, he might’ve let Santa Anna have it, revolution be damned.
He looked out into the plaza in front of him as he sat on a bench along the curved walkway running through the heart of the memorial plaza. He scrutinized the civilians that passed on the street.
His honed observation skills had paid dividends throughout most of his adult life, but this morning, he’d fought hard to concentrate on the task at hand, especially wary after the fight at John Quick’s house the night before.
He’d run the scenario through his mind over and over on the private charter flight that had carried him and Edward from Montana to San Antonio. The only conclusion he could reach was that they’d somehow overlooked an exit from Quick’s house. How and where? He’d likely never know, but the fact that he’d lost two good men hurt his pride.
And my reputation to boot, if I don’t deliver the package . . .
He took several breaths and refocused his concentration on the small details of every person in the grass courtyard outside the Alamo Church. He looked for odd mannerisms, movements, and facial expressions—anything that might indicate trouble.
More importantly, law enforcement, federal or otherwise . . .
It was midmorning, and tourists and visitors were arriving at the Alamo, a place revered by Texans for the heroics of two hundred defenders who fought to the death against the Mexican general Santa Anna.
The legend was that when Colonel William B. Travis, the commander of the Alamo at the time of the Mexican assault, had drawn a line and asked for all men willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, only one man failed to step across it. Carlos figured that was the only smart man in the bunch. Everyone else had died.
Sure. Glory has its benefits, but what good are they if you aren’t around to enjoy them?
He shook his head at the thought as he continued to watch the wide-open area for anything out of the ordinary.
The encrypted email he’d received that morning from Juan Black had informed him that he was to deliver the flag to a man who would contact him at the Alamo. He’d been instructed to enter the church at ten minutes past ten a.m. and wait near Davy Crockett’s buckskin vest.
A man—he had no idea who or what he looked like—would approach him, greet him with the code phrase Juan had provided in the email, and Carlos would turn over the flag he’d recovered from John Quick’s study. Clean and simple.
Carlos pulled out his cell phone and sent a text message to his four-man team providing security just outside the Alamo. “Heading inside. Wait for confirmation.”
In his line of work, Carlos always had a backup plan. If things went sideways—like last night, for example—he’d need the team to provide cover for a hasty departure.
Juan Black had again emphasized how important it was that he successfully hand over the flag to the contact, going so far as to practically order him to guard it with his life until it was out of his custody. “No one gets that flag. You understand? Not the police, not the FBI, no one. If I find out you failed me, it’s the end of you.”
He stood up and walked toward the church, the large semicircular door looming in front of him.
He despised the FBI. If he had to kill a few feds to get the job done, so be it. A smile formed on his usually stern face, creating the illusion that he was just another enthralled tourist captured by the spell of the Shrine of Texas Liberty.
He reached the door, opened it, and moved inside to wait. He hoped this deal would get done and he could get the hell out of this city and into Mexico, where he knew he would be safe.
CHAPTER 21
/> Less than a block away in the downtown San Antonio Post Office just north of the Alamo, a group of weary and battle-hardened men struggled against fatigue from the previous night’s activities.
Logan West and John Quick sat at a rectangular table in a nondescript conference room. They waited for Mike Benson to update them on what the FBI interrogators had obtained from Antonio Morales, the lone survivor from the assault on Logan’s home.
Mike had told them the FBI technicians were pulling all the metadata off the phones they’d recovered. They were conducting some kind of analysis to search for patterns and similarities.
Logan’s muddled brain—thirsting for more caffeine while Mike described the analysis—had blocked him out while he was speaking. Mike’s explanation reminded Logan of his days in the TFC in Fallujah. He’d understood the concepts of signals intelligence—commonly referred to as SIGINT—but the technical details eluded him. A Second Radio Battalion operations officer had once tried to explain it to him. When the Marine major had concluded his brief, Logan’s only thought had been, Just tell me where they are, and I’ll take care of the rest.
He was smart enough to know what he didn’t know, and the finer technological points of SIGINT had definitely fallen into that category.
Logan looked at John and asked, “How’s your head?”
John took a sip from the white ceramic coffee cup filled with dark government brew and said, “I’ll be better when we know what the hell is going on. This is some seriously crazy mess we’re in.”
Logan laughed. “Tell me about it. But like I used to say, we’re in it to win it, right? Someone else started this carousel, but I’ll be damned if someone’s going to tell me when to get off.”
The smile was gone. Only steely resolve remained in Logan’s bright-green eyes, which contrasted with the dark, garish wound that ran down his cheek.
“Fair enough, brother, but God only knows how this is going to turn out. These are people with significant resources and money. You don’t just launch a two-pronged operation thousands of miles apart without serious leverage or power. It just doesn’t happen.”
“Well, hopefully the techs can make some sense of it all, including what was on that flag that’s worth all this trouble.”
Logan was about to add another quip, but the door to the conference room suddenly opened to reveal Mike standing in the doorway, a look of urgency on his face.
“We just got a hit on a cell phone that the lead tech thinks might be related to the team at your house, John. It’s a number that one of the cells recovered at Sarah’s had contacted within the last few days. And here’s the best part—and you’re not going to believe it, swear to God—it’s active right now, and the motherfucker is across the street at the Alamo as we speak. Saddle up.”
“You’re not going to tell me to get on a horse, are you?” Logan said half-seriously. “If so, I didn’t bring my cowboy boots. So you might be out of luck.”
“What? You need an invitation? Let’s go get this asshole before we lose him. I still can’t believe he’s right across the street. Guess it’s true what they say.”
“What’s that?” John asked.
“Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.”
Mike exited the room as Logan and John scrambled from the table to follow him to the underground garage and armory.
* * *
Carlos’s patience had finally worn transparently thin. It was nearly 10:15 a.m., and there was still no sign of the contact.
He’d been standing and studying Davy Crockett’s vest for more than five minutes. A security guard near the exit watched him. Was he suspicious about the tan Blackhawk backpack he wore over his right shoulder? Nowadays, all security personnel seemed to be paranoid, but who really wanted to blow up the Alamo anyway?
If his contact didn’t show in the next few minutes, he was leaving the church to find a safe location and contact Juan via email. A hand suddenly grasped his left elbow, followed by a low voice.
“To the victor go the spoils, and Mr. Crockett was definitely not one of the victorious.”
To which Carlos responded, “No, but his glory will last forever in this shrine.”
“Indeed, sir, indeed,” the man replied, confirming he was Juan Black’s promised contact.
Carlos turned and studied the man’s face. He appeared to be in his midtwenties—younger than Carlos expected—but his eyes had that calculating glimmer of a man older and wiser. He had short, blond hair, all one length, a mustache that curled down the corners of his mouth, and blue eyes that said Don’t fuck with me.
Carlos had no idea where this man was from or where he worked. He knew it was probably best not to know.
“Inside or outside?”
The man responded, “Outside,” and moved toward the exit at the rear of the church.
The daily throng was still filing onto the grounds. Pedestrian traffic was light, with maybe twenty or thirty people inside. Later in the day, the number of visitors would rise to well over one hundred at any given time inside the museum.
Both men exited the building and turned left. They walked until they reached the Wall of History, a memorial comprising several gigantic marble panels telling the story of the Alamo. The blond man stopped at the first panel and took off his black backpack, which looked heavy.
Carlos removed his own pack, reached in, and found the Iraqi flag, folded up neatly in a zipped leather pouch. He brought out the pouch, briefly thinking about the lives this artifact had cost him.
Before he could ponder any further, the young man grabbed it, inserted it into his own pack, hoisted it onto his back, looked at Carlos, and crisply said, “Thank you.” The man turned around and took two steps toward the southeast pathway that led to the Bonham Street pedestrian exit.
And that’s that.
Carlos let out a sigh of relief, his task complete. He turned around and quickly walked north past the Long Barracks building toward his destination, the pedestrian exit to Houston Street.
He glanced to his right. What he saw in the vicinity of the security building momentarily froze him.
What could only be three federal law enforcement officers—he could spot them anywhere—stood with another very serious-looking man with a set jaw, brown hair, and intense gaze. A large African-American man appeared to be the leader. They looked in his general direction, but at more than 150 feet away, he had no idea if they’d seen him and Juan’s contact man. He sure as hell wasn’t about to find out.
Carlos picked up the pace discreetly and moved toward the Houston Street exit, thinking, How the hell did they find me?
CHAPTER 22
Logan visually searched the area between the church and the Long Barracks, slightly out of breath from the sprint they’d just finished after deciding to discard discretion. There was no way to know how long the target would remain at the Alamo.
And if he runs, all the easier to spot him, Logan thought.
They weren’t even sure what they were looking for, just hoping for a lucky break. They had no idea what the subject looked like—no age range, nothing. It was a wild goose chase.
Logan remembered one of his Amphibious Reconnaissance School instructors beating into him the mantra Hope Is Not a COA, or “course of action.” At this point, he was willing to try hope, Chinese fortune cookies, or even a Native American rain dance if he thought it would provide a tangible lead.
They’d split into three groups: Logan, Mike, and three other agents covered the area near the security house; John and another FBI agent were outside in the main plaza; and two more agents were positioned outside the perimeter wall on Houston Street. All the agents had handheld radios, since they hadn’t had time to don their tactical gear. They’d literally grabbed their weapons and dashed across the street.
As Logan studied the crowd in front of him, he looked for anything or anyone out of the ordinary, someone engaged in behavior only a trained eye would spot. A quick look over a shoulder, a fa
st break through the crowd, anything that might reveal a person’s true identity.
All he saw were young couples, tourists, and middle-aged men looking for a midmorning coffee break from their office jobs downtown. He felt discouraged and was about to start over when a movement caught his eye. His head swiveled to where his peripheral vision had detected something.
There!
A young man walking quickly toward a pedestrian exit had grabbed his attention. It wasn’t anything he was wearing—khaki cargo pants, loose navy pullover top, black backpack, and hiking shoes—but it was the way he moved. His stride exuded confidence and an intense purpose.
Logan was reminded of something Sarah used to harass him about when they went out to dinner or shopping. She used to say, “Hon, you look like you’re on a mission, even at the mall. It’s kind of scary.” Now here he was, watching a potential suspect exhibit that same type of out-of-place behavior.
He has military written all over him.
“Mike, young blond man at our ten o’clock, moving toward the exit with a purpose. Also, that’s an Oakley tactical backpack. I know. I own one myself.”
Mike saw him and said, “Okay. Let’s move. At least we can stop him and ask him what he’s doing.”
He radioed to the two agents on the outside, “Get over to the Bonham exit. Now! Possible suspect. Young blond man in twenties, khakis, navy pullover, black backpack. He’s going to be outside in about twenty seconds. Move!”
The group of men moved swiftly down the walkway, not quite running but walking briskly enough to gain ground on the man as he drew closer to the exit.
The man was still thirty feet from the exit when he glanced left, directly at Logan. In that quick look, Logan saw a brief glimpse of recognition, and their subtle chase took on an increased momentum.
Overwatch: A Thriller Page 12
