Trap the Devil

by Ben Coes

  * * *

  Upstairs, Jones led down the dimly lit hallway. He stopped at a wooden door near the end of the hall, waiting. He heard voices from inside the room.

  He pushed the door in, then leveled his submachine gun and swept it, warning everyone not to move.

  Jones quickly counted seven men, all seated on sofas except for Al-Amin as well as another man at a table in the back. They were all drinking from small Styrofoam cups.

  Al-Amin was seated in a large leather chair. Jones made eye contact with him as, in the same moment, he trained the tip of the suppressor on the cleric’s head.

  Ramirez moved into the room, flanking Jones, sidearm out, finger on the trigger. He stepped slowly inside, covering Jones, then trained his weapon on a man standing near the door.

  Jones glanced over at the fat man sitting at the desk.

  The forger.

  “You,” Jones barked, pointing at Al-Amin. Then he pointed at the forger. “And you. Let’s go. Now!”

  * * *

  Kyrie looked at Guimar.

  “I’ll take the back. Kill the sentry at the front and hold until I signal—and stay out of my field of fire.”

  Guimar nodded. He understood. It meant Kyrie would take the entire hallway full of jihadis.

  “There could be twenty men in there,” said Guimar.

  “Just stay the fuck out of the way, okay? If I see you in the field of fire, I won’t stop shooting.”

  * * *

  Kyrie charged down the sidewalk toward the back of the mosque. He reached the door, paused, raised his handgun, silencer pressed to the seam of the door, then yanked it open. A large man in black was guarding the jihadis in the hallway; Kyrie fired a bullet into the back of his skull, just above his bulletproof vest. As the FBI agent crumpled to the floor, Kyrie opened up the weapon, triggering it as fast as he could, firing at the men in the hallway, hitting one after another as several of them, at the far end, scrambled to duck and hide from the fusillade.

  As he killed with his right hand, his left hand reached to his armpit and pulled out the second handgun. Just as the fourteen-round mag clicked empty on the gun in his right hand, Kyrie began firing with his left hand, moving along the walls and annihilating anything that moved. He fired after all signs of life were gone, until the mag was spent.

  He snapped his fingers. A second later Guimar appeared at the far end of the corridor, submachine gun out. He surveyed the carnage emotionlessly, stepping between legs and bodies as he moved toward Kyrie.

  By the time Guimar had crossed over the piles of dead bodies, Kyrie was gone.

  * * *

  Kyrie moved up the stairs, popping the empty mags from both guns, pulling two fresh ones from his belt and, one at a time, slamming them into the .45s.

  He reached the door to Al-Amin’s office. He saw Guimar arrive at the top of the stairs. Kyrie listened as words came from inside the office.

  “You! And you! Let’s go. Now!”

  FBI agents, arresting the imam. Keeping him alive. They would no doubt fly Al-Amin to Guantánamo Bay and interrogate him, perhaps even finding out some important information, but he would live. It would be yet another typical U.S. counterterrorism operation, noodling around the edges, cutting out a single blade of grass from a lawn the size of a football field. A disgusted, angry look crossed Kyrie’s face. He paused one more moment, looking at his watch, breathing quickly, heart racing … waiting.

  Guimar approached with his gun out. Kyrie held up his hand, pausing Guimar. Guimar had an impatient look on his face.

  Again, Kyrie glanced at his watch. He reached for the door handle just as the air was pulverized in noise. A powerful explosion ripped the air from across the street, shaking the ground as the VBIED detonated beneath the delivery truck. Kyrie pushed the door in, his handguns trained at torso level, and began firing before he was even through the doorway, pulsing the triggers on his weapons—low, metallic thwack thwack thwack—as slugs spat from the suppressed muzzles of the .45s. The first man down was an FBI agent to his right, the bullet kicking a dime-size hole in his cheek, dropping him just as Kyrie shot the other FBI agent in the neck. He found the fat man at the desk. Kyrie fired quickly—his bullet puncturing the man’s forehead dead center, a pained grunt his last sound as he fell off the chair to the floor. A young Muslim near Al-Amin moved, attempting to run toward the corner, but Kyrie found him and fired. His bullet struck him in the temple and he dropped, pulling a small table with him, cups filled with tea splashing as they were thrown to the floor.

  Kyrie paused, staring down the four American students, then fired four fast blasts, one into each of their chests, killing them all.

  Suddenly, there were sirens—but they were distant.

  Kyrie took another step into the imam’s office. He took aim, holding Al-Amin in the path of the suppressor. Al-Amin raised his arms in surrender, but Kyrie pumped the trigger, sending a bullet between Al-Amin’s eyes, knocking him backward, his momentum forcing the chair over, spilling Al-Amin to the floor, which was covered in a growing pool of wet crimson.

  The sirens grew louder—and closer.

  “Kyrie—”

  Kyrie turned to Guimar. He looked in Guimar’s eyes as he slowly swept one of the guns and aimed it at Guimar. He pumped the trigger. The bullet ripped into Guimar’s chest. His mouth gaped open in shock and confusion; his hand reached for his chest. He fell to the floor, his eyes still open. Kyrie stared at him for an extra moment, a cold, maniacal look on his face.

  “I told you to shut the fuck up,” said Kyrie.

  The sirens were getting closer. Kyrie stepped over Guimar and charged down the hallway. He needed to get away before the police arrived.

  7

  FBI HEADQUARTERS

  STRATEGIC INFORMATION & OPERATIONS CENTER (SIOC)

  OPERATIONS ROOM 4

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Dave McNaughton, the FBI’s director of counterterrorism, stared at a large plasma screen that was flashing black and green. McNaughton had on a headset and was barking into it, repeating himself for the umpteenth time even though he knew it was pointless.

  “Jones!” said McNaughton. “Are you there? I repeat, where are you? Toronto! Anyone! What the hell is going on?”

  The FBI’s massive Strategic Information & Operations Center, usually a hub of activity, fell rapidly into a state of quiet pandemonium.

  Nearly every employee in the forty-thousand-square-foot facility—men and women spread out over six crisis action team rooms, five large-scale operations areas, and a variety of conference rooms—converged on Operations Room 4.

  All eyes were on the plasma screens. There were four screens in all, each nine feet tall and fifteen feet wide. Two of the screens were flashing black and green, as if broken. A third showed a live video feed taken from a satellite. Though grainy and lacking focus, the image was horrific. It showed where a large explosion had destroyed the FBI’s in-theater command post. Flames and smoke billowed from the wreckage.

  “Dave,” said one of the analysts seated at a workstation near the front of the room, “ETF is almost there. I’m bringing it up right now.”

  One of the flashing plasma screens abruptly cut out. The screen was fuzzy and red for a few moments, then sharpened. They were seeing through the helmet-mounted camera of a Canadian Emergency Task Force police detective as he entered Hamza Mosque. Inside, the floor was littered with bodies, the walls splattered with blood. The officer wearing the camera stopped and flipped a man over. It was one of the FBI agents. Several people in the room let out gasps. Next, the officer focused in on the face of a dead man near the wall. His face was recognizable: Al-Amin.

  McNaughton stared at the screen for a few moments, then turned to look at the room. Normally, the room held approximately two dozen people, but other SIOC analysts, agents, and staff members had moved in. McNaughton didn’t want them there, but he also knew now was not the time to start reprimanding people, especially given the fact that most of t
hem knew Jones and the other members of the team in Toronto.

  “Everyone,” said McNaughton calmly, “as hard as it is to do right now, I need you all to get back to work. I was close to all those guys, and I know you were too. Right now, the most important thing we can do is not think about them. I need my operating team to focus on assessment before the concrete dries, and that’s right now, so please, everyone clear out unless you’re specifically assigned to Red Maple.”

  As people moved out of the operations room, a female agent seated at a computer terminal near the back signaled McNaughton.

  “What is it, Jennifer?”

  “Jesus June is on one for you. He says it’s urgent.”

  McNaughton looked at one of the analysts near the door.

  “I want a forensics team in the air within the hour,” said McNaughton as he pulled his headset back on. “Someone call Walsh at RCMP and have him close off the scene until we’re there.” He nodded to Jennifer. “Put Jesus through.”

  8

  NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY (NSA)

  SIGNALS INTELLIGENCE DIRECTORATE (SID)

  FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

  Jesus June, the senior analyst at the National Security Agency’s Signals Intelligence Directorate (SID), stared at his computer screen as his hands typed on a keyboard, pounding the keys slightly hard in frustration. The screen was black except for a small flashing red rectangular box with the words:

  SYSTEM ERROR:

  LOSS PARAMETER

  R33.7Y-0

  Something had happened. Something bad. Seventeen minutes into the FBI’s Toronto operation, June’s screen went black and then flashed an “R33” error. While June didn’t know yet what the “33” meant, he knew the “R” indicated massive signals dislocation. A bomb or explosion of some sort.

  June walked out of his office into a large room filled with a few dozen men and women at workstations, all SID analysts who worked for him. He focused on a woman close to him, Samantha Stout.

  “Toronto?” she said.

  “Yeah. My environment went down.”

  “I’m already on it,” said Samantha. “It looks like the main FBI hub went down, and there are reports of some sort of explosion coming out of Canadian police dispatch.”

  June pulled out his cell and hit a single speed-dial number.

  “CENCOM, Mr. June. Voice recognition.”

  “Harvard Sentences.”

  “Phrase one, please.”

  “Oak is strong and also gives shade,” said June.

  “Affirmative. Go, sir.”

  “SIOC command center. Alpha V.”

  “Hold.”

  June stared impatiently at the floor as he waited to be put through. More than a minute later, the phone clicked.

  “SIOC, four, this is Agent Glass.”

  “Hi, Jennifer, it’s Jesus June at NSA SID. I need Dave. It’s urgent.”

  “Let me try and get his attention, Jesus.”

  “Thanks.”

  A few moments later, McNaughton came on the line.

  “What is it, Jesus?”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s early, but it looks like a bomb detonated beneath Bravo command point,” said McNaughton. “Whoever did this blew up the truck, then went inside the mosque and killed everyone, including my agents. We got eight dead in all.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said June, pausing. “Dave, I need immediate access to all SIOC electronic signals, meaning backup, metadata, video, digital, pen tap, anything you have up through the explosion. I need you to provision us into the trunk.”

  “You got it,” said McNaughton. “It’ll be on six dash zero.”

  “Thanks, Dave. One more thing. I need decent head shots and thumb scans of everyone in the mosque. ASAP.”

  “Done, I’ll get them over to you.”

  June hung up the phone and looked at Samantha.

  “I need authorization,” she said.

  June pulled a chain out from his shirt and lifted it over his head. Attached to the chain was a thick black plastic card the size of a credit card. He held it up against Samantha’s computer screen. A moment later, a series of beeps chimed.

  “The entry is through six dash zero,” June told her.

  Samantha started typing.

  “I’m in,” she said.

  “Lock it down,” said June. “Run a matrix against the time frame. Everything up until the explosion. You heard what I asked McNaughton for, but include any variables. Run it against ECHELON, DS-300, Stellar Wind, and PRISM.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “I don’t know,” said June.

  9

  1244 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The office building was simple in its lines, austere, elegant, anonymous looking. A sheet of blue shot up in a mirror of shiny glass ten stories high, edged with copper. Dewey entered the building, still clutching an ice bag against his sore shoulder. He was dressed in jeans and a white, red, and black flannel shirt. A pair of men stood behind the security desk in the lobby. Dewey immediately registered that both were armed. He scanned the lobby, counting four security cameras as well as a two-way mirror behind the guards, framed to look like a beautiful wainscot-framed mirror.

  He reached for his wallet and removed an ID card. The guard pushed the card against a digital screen.

  “Floor ten, Mr. Andreas,” said the guard as he handed the thick plastic card back to Dewey.

  On the tenth floor, Dewey walked down the hallway to one of the offices. He glanced at the brass letters on the door:

  DR. PAMELA PECK

  Dewey knocked.

  “Come in.”

  He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

  The room was long and angled, light filled, and, except for a few choice pieces of modern furniture, largely empty. A long chrome and black leather sofa was at the far end of the room. Two white leather Eames chairs sat unoccupied to the left. An identical armchair faced them. Behind it ran an expansive window that showed a dramatic view down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House. The office’s outer walls were glass, and the view was astonishing, especially on this late autumn day. Washington was arrayed in crisp splendor. The Capitol Building was visible in the far distance, as was the Washington Monument. The buildings nearby refracted and the light seemed to glisten in a light blue haze.

  A woman was seated in one of the armchairs. She had medium-length auburn hair and wore a stylish black business suit.

  Dewey had a blank expression on his face, though it was obvious he was uncomfortable. He said nothing as she stared at him with a neutral, somewhat kindly expression. He glanced around the room, assessing it.

  Finally, Dewey acknowledged her. Dr. Peck met Dewey’s stare.

  “Dewey?” said Peck.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Pamela Peck.” She pointed toward the chairs. “Sit down, won’t you?”

  Dewey paused for a few seconds, then reluctantly sat down in one of the leather chairs.

  They eyed each other for more than a minute, saying nothing. Finally, Dr. Peck broke the silence.

  “Did you hurt your shoulder?”

  “It’s just sore.”

  “So, what brings you here?” she asked.

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m being ordered to see you.”

  “Ordered?” she asked.

  “You know it and I know it, so let’s get it over with.”

  Dr. Peck’s normally unflustered face broke into a smile.

  “You’re not being ordered to do anything,” she said.

  “Hector told me to come here,” said Dewey, referring to Hector Calibrisi, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

  “You’re free to leave at any time,” she said.

  Dewey grinned.

  “Sure, I can leave. Then that fact is noted in some file somewhere and at some point is used again
st me. I know how the system works. So just ask your questions and let’s get this over with, Doc.”

  Peck’s smile slowly disappeared.

  “You … let me get this straight … you actually believe what you’re saying?” she asked incredulously, leaning forward. “You think I’m going to share my session notes?”

  “Are they listening right now?” said Dewey.

  She shook her head in disbelief, but still managed a smile.

  “What is said here does not leave this room,” Peck said indignantly. “I do not share anything at any time with the Central Intelligence Agency—or anybody. My work is doctor-patient privileged and is protected under various laws and professional ethical guidelines, which I adhere to religiously. In addition, you should know that this room is swept for listening devices every morning. If you’d like to sweep the room with your own team prior to appointments, I wouldn’t object.”

  “How much is this?”

  “I’m two thousand dollars an hour. The agency is paying for it. You’re only the second person Hector has ever sent to me.”

  “Who was the first?”

  Peck smiled.

  “So why do they hire you?” Dewey asked.

  “Me personally, or a psychotherapist in general?”

  “You personally. There are dozens of them at the agency.”

  She paused. “Because I’m good at what I do.”

  Dewey watched as, unconsciously, Peck glanced out the window. In the distance, a few blocks away, was the White House.

  “I understand the mind of … people like you.”

  “What the hell does that mean, ‘people like me’?”

  “Cut the shit,” she snapped. She let it sink in. “You know damn well what I’m talking about. People under pressure. Pressure that’s atypical. Acute stress. Operators. People staring into muzzles all day.”

  “Did they show you my file?”

  “I have top secret clearance,” she said. “Yes, they sent it over. It saves time.”

  “Then you know damn well there’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “How many times have you had PTSD, Dewey?”

  Dewey was quiet for a few moments. “A few.”

  “Three according to the Agency,” said Peck. “Five by my count.”