by Brad Taylor
Jacob and Carlos had gone to bed, woken up early, packed up their bags, and cleaned out their room. They had it for three more days, but that had been done intentionally.
They’d entered the Best Western hallway, dragging Devon’s bag with them, when Jacob had stopped. Carlos had said, “What?”
Jacob had returned to the small minibar, saying, “Make sure the do not disturb sign is out.” He opened the minibar, sweeping all of the small bottles, candy bars, and soft drinks into his carry-on. Carlos had stared and Jacob had said, “Let the Islamic State pay for it.”
They’d left the hotel for the last time, walking out of the back door so the desk didn’t see their bags. Making small talk, ignoring the mission and what they were about to do, they’d walked to the targets’ hotel, where Devon was waiting.
They’d avoided the front desk and walked up the stairs to the chaperone’s room, dumped the bags, then gone down to the room that Devon was in. Jacob had banged on the door, and Devon had finally awakened. They pushed in, shouting and yelling as if they were ready for some fun. The boy, eyes red-rimmed from two days of drinking, acted game, then had sprinted to his bathroom, throwing up.
Soon enough, they had all three targets in the room, talking about what they were going to do for the day, Devon introducing Jacob and Carlos as another youth group also free from their chaperone.
They’d gone to lunch, then had traipsed around Piazza San Marco, just another group of tourists annoying the locals. During that time, Jacob had planted the seed for the night, teasing the boys’ sense of adventure. They’d returned to the room at four in the afternoon, with Carlos breaking free for his part of the mission.
During the entire day, there had been only two spikes, both from the nascent leader of the group—Fart Boy.
After lunch, he’d mentioned that they should let the chaperone know what they were doing, worried that they’d get in trouble. The other boys, under Devon’s lead, had drowned him out, calling him a mama’s boy. Later, once they were back in the room, he’d said he was going upstairs to send a message to his parents from the chaperone’s computer. Once again, Devon had taken the lead, giving him a minibottle of wine and challenging him to drink it.
Nothing had become of it then, but Jacob had determined that he would be the first to go. He didn’t want any trouble, and Fart Boy was the most likely to provide it if he were sitting by himself, the last target left alive.
In the hallway, hearing the drunken slobber from the room, Jacob called Carlos. “You good?”
“Not yet. I need ten minutes. Let it get full dark.”
“Okay. I’m taking the first boy. By the time we get to the alley, it’ll be night. You need to be there. Remember the story?”
“Yeah. We’re going to a pirate’s cave over by the airport.”
“And why aren’t we going all together?”
“Because the boat is rated for three. The Italian Carabinieri will pull us over with more.”
Jacob had no idea if that was true, but neither would the boys. He said, “Did you get the cinder blocks?”
“Yeah. I found a construction site. I drop you off, then go load up, then return. No problem.”
“I’ll see you in twenty minutes. Be waiting.”
Jacob returned to the room, smiling and saying, “Carlos is ready! Who’s first? Come on, let’s go check out the cave!”
On cue, Devon stood over Fart Boy and jerked him to his feet. “You go first, big guy.” Fart Boy looked a little uneasy, the wine and beer flowing through him.
He said, “Maybe we should tell Chris what we’re doing?”
Devon scoffed and said, “What? You think he’ll let you go? Our chaperone thinks we’re in our rooms. And we’re not even in our hotel. Don’t be a pussy. This is the last night.”
Fart Boy stood, a little weakly, and Jacob dragged him by the arm. They exited down the stairwell, away from the elevator, and spilled out into the lobby. Jacob pushed Fart Boy to the side door that led to the alley, glancing into the small lobby to see if anyone was watching.
And saw Chris’s mistress sitting in a chair, pretending to read a newspaper.
68
Knuckles opened the door, asking, “Did you spike at the desk?”
I said, “No. It was empty. But I don’t know about any camera systems.”
Knuckles stepped back and we flowed into the room, dragging three carry-on suitcases. He said, “Don’t worry about that. I’ve already checked. There aren’t any.”
Retro was in the rear on a cheap desk, stroking the keys of a laptop. Aaron, Brett, and Jennifer started unpacking the kit, breaking out weapons, cameras, and other things. I said, “So, what’s the status?”
“We got the room. Well, we got the room the computer’s in. The hotel only has ten rooms total, six on the second floor with shared bathrooms and four on the first floor with their own bathrooms. We picked a room with its own bathroom figuring that’s where he would be, but we were wrong. The computer’s on the second floor.”
“Access?”
“Outside stairwell right in front of the entrance and an inside one at the end of this hall. Straight linear target. The room is the second one in from the outside stairwell.”
“Recommendation?”
“Inside stairwell. It’s farthest from the door, but to get to the outside one you need to pass by the front desk.”
“Assault plan?”
“Bang it hard, just like Rashid. Hit both rooms, the computer one and the one it connects to. The problem will be exfil. We get the Chechen, he’s not going easy. We’ll have to take him down, then exfil with the dead weight.”
He lowered his voice, glancing at Aaron. “Even if we don’t, we have to assume Shoshana’s been hurt. Worst case, we’re exfilling carrying two.”
“We brought some litters, and Brett’s prepared to do limited trauma care. Showboat’s ready to receive with medical support. What’s the story on the renters? How many and who are they?”
“Hotel database is shit. They don’t run passports and work mostly on cash. When we signed in, they didn’t even use a computer. They used a ledger from 1970. The Internet system is self-contained, like someone built it stand-alone in an attempt to modernize, then gave up.” He pointed to the Ethernet cable and said, “Look at this thing. It’s slow as shit and definitely an afterthought.”
The plug for the cable was glued to the wall, with the line leading to it running on the exterior, as if it had been added as a temporary fix.
“So we don’t know who’s got the room, or who’s on the other side?”
“No. All we have is the room the computer is in.”
“What did we get from it?”
Retro looked up and said, “It’s not Islamic State stuff. It all looks like organized crime shit. Mafia things. Business transactions hidden by steganography, a bunch of pimp lists, some porno, things like that.”
I said, “Are we sure this is it?”
Retro nodded. “The raw file from the video is on this box. So is the YouTube upload trace. That video was sent from this computer.”
I nodded, thinking. I went to the door, cracking it and looking at the lock. A cheap dead bolt worked with an old-fashioned key. Easy to pick, but no way would I waste my time manipulating a lock on a hostage rescue. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’d pick it with the knock-knock, shattering the damn thing into a hundred pieces. Hostage rescue was all about speed, surprise, and violence, and we needed to ensure we had all three.
I said, “We need more intel. I want to know how many are in the room. I want to know who’s next door. I want to know what weapons they have. I want to know—”
Retro interrupted. “I got someone on the box right now. Sending a chat request.”
We all gathered behind him, and he said, “The chat’s in Russian. Stand by.” He manipulated the keys and another chat window came up from the Taskforce. He typed a command, and the man on the other end started work. Five seconds later we
were looking at the person typing a floor above. A thin-faced, bald-headed man with brown eyes and a goatee. He looked nothing like the pictures Kurt had sent. Behind him was an empty room. No Shoshana.
“Who the hell is that?”
“No idea. Hang on. Taskforce is using a key logger. We’ll get a readout of what he’s typing.”
We waited, Aaron jostling for a better view. The chat window began spitting out words.
Sender: The guy is crazy. He’s going to kill her here, tonight.
Receiver: Get out. Don’t get involved. It will damage everything.
Sender: I don’t think I can. You don’t know this man. We’ll be back tomorrow one way or the other.
Agitated, Aaron said, “She’s alive. She’s right above us. Come on, let’s go.”
My mind cranking through the information in the small chat, formulating an assault plan based on what we knew, I said, “Hang on.” I pinched my chin, then started issuing orders. “Okay, he said ‘we’ll,’ so we know there’s at least three, which means we hit both rooms. Retro, you get the knock-knock on the computer room. I’ll be behind you. Brett, you get the adjacent room with Knuckles. Aaron, Jennifer, you lock down the hallway for breach—Aaron in the front, Jennifer in the rear. Everyone, it’s a hostile force rule of engagement. My call. You see a threat, you take it out. Capturing the Chechen is secondary to recovering Shoshana.”
I held up one of the pictures of Omar Kurt had sent. “This is all we have, but remember, he might have ditched the beard, dyed his hair, or something else. Look for the size and his eyes. This is kill or capture. If you can incapacitate, do so, but don’t work at it.”
A noise came from the computer. Retro leaned in and said, “The mic’s on, the mic’s on. Shh.”
Everyone grew quiet, waiting. The speech came in incoherent, and I realized it was in a foreign language. I hissed, “Get the Taskforce on it. What’s he saying?”
He started typing, and I heard the words from the speaker slip into space, losing valuable intelligence while we waited. Eventually, they petered out, and the man in front of the computer stood up, leaving our view. I stomped in a circle, cursing, then Retro said, “The Taskforce got the tail end.”
Aaron said, “And?”
“Translation coming in now.”
We watched the screen, and what came out caused my blood to run cold.
Quote: I’m coming. Calm down. The Internet is shit in this place.
Quote: Get the camera. Hold her still.
End Quote.
* * *
Shoshana heard the man called Anzor coming back through the toilet and knew her time was close. He said, “Internet doesn’t work any better in there than it did in here. I’m amazed you actually got the video to load in the first place.”
Omar said, “Get her on top of the plastic. Pick up the whole chair. There will be a lot of blood.”
Anzor said, “Omar, think about this. You want to kill her, fine, but doing it here, in a hotel room I’ve rented, is too much.”
Omar looked at him, the death he represented flooding into the room, a power that had grown in the time the men had known him in Georgia. Anzor held up his hands and said, “Hey, Omar, I’m not fighting. I’m just talking sense.”
Omar said, “Surely you didn’t give them your real name?”
“No, of course not, but at least use the bathtub.”
“No. I want the propaganda. Go get the vehicle ready. Pull it on the other side of Toptani.”
Levan said, “We didn’t sign up for some crazy Islamic killing.”
“You signed up to help me, and that’s what you’re doing. You complete this, you take me to the airport, and you disappear, end of mission.”
The three looked at one another, and Anzor slowly nodded, saying, “Okay, but this is it. Our debt will be paid in full. No more help.”
Omar showed his teeth and said, “Of course. After this, all you need to do is take me to the airport. Nothing more.”
Anzor left the room.
Shoshana watched Omar pick up the bread knife and walk toward her. He said, “Levan, hold the camera. I want them to feel the pain of her death.”
Levan said, “Fuck you. Do it yourself.”
Omar snarled, “It’s no different from the punishment you’ve dealt out. Only you do it to prostitutes for not fucking enough people.”
Levan remained defiant, and Omar slipped his hand into his coat pocket. “You’re either with me or against me.” He paused, going from one man to the other, then said, “And I’ll kill everyone against me.”
Davit glanced at Levan and said, “Hang on. I’ll do it.”
He picked up the camera, and Shoshana thrashed, the thought of being slaughtered on tape more than she could bear. She felt Omar’s hands on her head, holding her tight. She stopped struggling.
He said, “Any last words for the camera? I’d prefer it if you denounced Israel, but I’m fairly sure that won’t happen.”
She looked into his eyes, and without even meaning to, she read him, her talent touching the depths of the abyss. She felt a blackness unlike any she’d experienced before, drenched in the blood of innocents.
She felt the pain of others long gone, saw the slaughter he’d caused, and recognized the truth, as she had in the past. She raised her head, looking him in the eye. She said, “You believe you’re powerful, but only because you kill the helpless. You are nothing.”
Bemused, Omar said, “And how would you know what I am?”
“You are no different from every terrorist that takes the lives of innocents. No different from the men I’ve tracked. You murder, then begin to believe you’re better than the ones who are dead. You project yourself as a killer of men, living within the superiority of someone with absolute power. You think that gives you strength. That you’re invulnerable. And your tribe reinforces the myth, kissing your ass and bowing to your control. But you make a mistake.”
“What is that, Jew girl?”
“You aren’t superior, no matter how many you kill. You are human. You live and breathe. You have blood that pumps through your veins. In God’s eyes, you are no more powerful than the man you put under the knife. And someday, it will be you.”
He scoffed. “That power is enough today.”
She didn’t say anything. He stared at her, and she saw a shadow of doubt flick across his face. A brief moment, but there nonetheless. More to himself than to her, he said, “I’m strong enough to kill you, am I not?”
She drilled into him with her eyes. “No. You’re not. I have something you do not possess. I have salvation.”
He took the words in, then raised the knife.
He said, “Only Allah has salvation. And He doesn’t offer it to offal like you. But I can give you what you want, if you feel so strongly about it.”
She closed her eyes and dropped her chin into her chest, wanting to make him battle for her soul. She thought about Aaron, and begged for the strength he possessed. She remembered her grandfather, fighting to save the athletes in Munich so long ago. She desperately wanted to focus on what was pure. What was right about her chosen path.
All she felt was fear.
Eyes closed, Aaron came to the fore again, and she was crushed at the pain he would feel upon seeing her death. He would need something to help. Something to show he’d done the right thing in bringing her here. She took a breath and decided to die looking the devil in the eye.
When she did, he was above her, holding the knife. He showed no animosity. Almost detached from what he was doing, he said, “You and I are not that different, but it will not save you. We both have a destiny. Mine is to secure the caliphate of Islam. Yours is to die.”
He brought the blade down slowly. Almost reverently. She closed her eyes again, waiting on the bite. There was a gunshot in the hallway, then a slamming noise outside of the adjacent room. Omar jerked his head up, shouting at Levan to find out the cause, but she knew what it was.
Like looking
into a soul, she knew.
69
The last chat still glowing on the screen, I said, “Everyone kitted up? Ready?” A group of nods. “We go right now, as briefed. Knuckles, where’s the interior stairwell?”
He said, “Follow me,” and slipped out the door. We reached it and spent a brief few seconds in the landing getting sorted for assault. We jogged up the stairs in stack order, Aaron leading the way, followed by Brett with the battering ram, then Knuckles. The second team was Retro, me, then Jennifer as tail-gunner. Aaron paused in the alcove on the second floor and peeked out. He nodded, looking at me. I pointed, and we entered the hallway at a jog.
The two rooms were the last ones on the left side, the outside stairwell just beyond the first door, an alcove on the right with a picture window showing starlight and the vague glow of a vapor lamp. Aaron had just passed my target room when the exterior stairwell door opened, a man appearing. A man I recognized.
Computer chat guy.
He took one look at the group, weapons bristling and radiating menace, and snapped back into the stairwell.
Aaron got off two rounds, the bullets hammering into the door as it slammed shut. I said, “Execute, execute, now, now, now.”
I slid out of the way, giving Retro access to our door, and a weapon appeared at the stairwell. An MP-5, held only in a fist, the body behind cover, and it began firing on automatic.
Retro slammed the sledge, bullets ripping through the hallway, the first team firing from the prone, jammed on top of one another in the narrow space, all trying to dig their way through the carpet. The door exploded open and I entered on the run, rifle barrel high and finger on the trigger. I swept, seeing a man with a pistol coming out of the bathroom. I split him open with a double tap while still racing in, clearing the breach for the others.
I heard someone shout, then my earpiece came alive. “Retro’s hit, Retro’s hit.”
I said, “Abandon second breach. Abandon second breach.” I reached the door of the bathroom and held up, waiting on another assaulter. I felt a squeeze and didn’t even look to see who it was, kicking in the door. We advanced to the far side and rounds split the air, puncturing the connecting bathroom door with both of us falling into the bathtub to get out of the fire. As soon as it raked past, I bounced up, moving forward to the breach. I kicked the door open, seeing Shoshana being dragged by the hair into the hallway, making her captor fight for every inch.
