Shattered Shield: Cole Cameron Thriller Series Book 1

by Camden Mays

  “Ask him if he has something to say,” Capps instructed.

  Amir didn’t have to ask. “He’s just praying,” he replied.

  “Ask him anyway. Tell him he can avoid much pain if he cooperates now.” Capps demanded.

  Amir obliged Capps’ request, but the offer was not accepted. Abdul began cursing and citing verses of the Koran. He spat on Amir, calling him a dog and a traitor to Islam. Amir wiped the spit from his face and trembled as Capps placed the gag back in Abdul’s mouth and nodded to Phillips to proceed.

  Phillips showed no emotion as he leaned over Abdul, stabbing him in the shoulder with a syringe. He pressed down on the needle fully injecting its contents into Abdul. Capps noticed Amir’s faintish expression.

  “This will just help him be more lucid,” he assured.

  Phillips wasted no time, reaching for a set of snipes lying on the table.

  Capps interrupted him. “Let’s give the drug a few minutes to set in.”

  Phillips stopped and said nothing. He folded his arms and paced around Abdul.

  Amir moved in front of Phillips and leaned over Abdul. Speaking into his ear, Amir repeatedly asked Abdul to talk. Abdul’s reply remained steadfast. It was a shake of his head “no.” Amir pleaded more urgently, and Abdul matched it with more violent shaking of his head and screaming through his gag.

  Amir felt a hand pull at his arm, dragging him away from Abdul. It was Capps; he led him to a corner of the room, stood in front of him and put his hand on Amir’s shoulders.

  “You saw the three dead bodies, right? You know Abdul has valuable information that we need immediately.” Amir turned his head looking at Abdul.

  “What if he has nothing, you will have tortured him in vain,” Amir argued.

  “He does know something. I need you to help me get it out of him.” Capps patted Amir on the shoulder and gave a nod to Phillips, as he moved with deliberation. He picked up the snipes and lifted the pinky finger of Abdul’s left hand. Abdul began shaking and gasping for air.

  Amir began shouting at him in Arabic, “Tell us what you know!”

  Abdul screamed curses through the cloth gagging him and shook his head in protest. Phillips gave one last glance, looking for approval. Capps consented with a nod.

  Abdul screamed with a horrifying pitch over the sound of his bone-crushing, and faint thud as the finger fell to the floor. Amir yelled in Abdul’s ear, his face red from anger and shame.

  “You fool, tell them what you know. It will only get worse.”

  Abdul’s shirt was soaked with sweat, his pants were now wet with his blood and urine, as Phillips sealed the wound to stop the bleeding.

  Several minutes passed, and Capps removed Abdul’s gag. He cursed looking at Amir. The two were engaged in a heated argument about the Islamic faith.

  “The Koran strictly forbids the actions your group is engaged in,” Amir argued.

  “And your actions?” Abdul slurred in Arabic. “You have been deceived and will suffer the wrath of Allah with the rest of these dogs.”

  Amir grabbed his shirt and shook him.

  “You are the fool that is deceived, now tell us about the hostages!”

  Abdul laughed, “the hostages?”

  Amir felt Capps tug again.

  “Go up on deck and get some fresh air. We’ll call you if we need you.”

  Amir stumbled from the room and made his way to the deck of the ship. The night wind blew in his face and against his sweat-soaked shirt. The sudden chill caused Amir to tremble; he rested himself on a rail and looked down at the white splashing of water produced by the ship’s speed.

  Down in the quarters below, Capps and Phillips proceeded with haste. Another finger, another injection, and more violent screams of anguish brought Abdul to the verge of complete shock. Capps slowed down the process and pulled out a photo of Abdul’s family.

  Phillips held Abdul’s head back by his hair, forcing him to look at the photo. Capps gestured with his hand, grabbed the snipes, and clasped the handles together so that Abdul could hear the sound of the steel. He pointed at his family, indicating one by one, which ones he planned to eliminate.

  Finally, Abdul shook his head ‘yes.’

  As Amir returned to the room, he quickly turned his head, attempting to hold back the urge of his stomach to regurgitate. The scene sickened him. Two fingers and a tooth now lay in a pool of blood and Abdul was beaten, bleeding and barely conscious.

  He looked in disgust at Phillips, who spoke his first words as he wiped the blood off his tools.

  “He has something to say to you.” His statement was almost arrogant.

  Amir stood in front of Abdul, who could barely bring himself physically to speak. Abdul uttered several lines of Arabic to Amir. He repeated the last line twice, then laughed as he spat up more blood. Amir was stunned and looked at his watch.

  “What is it?” Capps demanded.

  “I think we’re too late.”

  ✽✽✽

  CIA Headquarters - Langley

  The echo of her heels tapping the hard floor of CIA headquarters alarmed the lightly staffed office that Sunday morning. Shanelle Glover didn’t even knock as she ran directly into the office of the Director of the CIA. Henry Kingman was on the phone, remarking about the unfortunate turn in the weather.

  “I know Frank; I was hoping I could give you a chance to redeem yourself from our last golf tournament.” He chuckled as he listened to the response. His serenity was interrupted by Shanelle’s intrusion.

  “Excuse me, sir, we have a critical situation!”

  ✽✽✽

  Tucson, AZ

  An hour earlier that morning in Tucson, workers were beginning to make their way into the Roslin Environmental Group’s Research and Development Center. The usually full parking lot had cars sparingly scattered with a few dozen huddled close to the main entrance. Most employees coming in on this Sunday morning were maintenance workers, security and a handful of technicians working on a high priority project that was falling behind schedule.

  Yasser Nassif stepped out of an old Toyota pickup. His long dark hair waved in the desert breeze along with the hood of his loose-fitting windbreaker. He glanced to his right noticing a white van with a crew of workers. He took a deep breath of the desert air, feeling a sense of accomplishment as months of training had prepared him for this day. The arrival of one of Hasni’s most trusted leaders, Abu al-Himyari had provided much-needed inspiration. Hasni will be very proud, he thought almost audibly.

  Nassif followed a female lab technician through the central doorway into the large granite lobby. He approached the security station where two armed guards greeted him.

  “I’m here to see Sameer Bashar.” He announced. The guards checked their computer screen.

  “Let me call him, looks like he just got in.”

  While one guard placed the call, the other asked for identification. The young man obliged the guard, showing his Arizona Driver’s license. The guard copied down the information and noticed Nassif’s student ID as he placed the license back in his wallet.

  “Great school. My sister just graduated from there.” The guard said.

  “Mr. Bashar said that he will be with you shortly,” interjected the guard with the phone as he noticed sweat on the brow of Nassif. “Is everything OK?”

  “Yes, everything is fine,” assured the young man.

  “Well, he’ll be coming out of that secured entrance to your left.”

  “Thank You,” Nassif replied, as he moved toward the highly secured entrance labeled Authorized Personnel Only. He stood waiting for just a few minutes. The guard, still within speaking distance, asked, “So what are you studying at the University?” before he could answer a frayed Sameer Bashar arrived.

  “Who are you?” He whispered. “What do you know about my family?”

  His nervousness captured the attention of the guards. One spoke up. “Is everything all right, Mr. Bashar?”

  Bashar nodded.
“Yes, so sorry. A family matter.”

  “What is the code, today?” the young man whispered.

  “What?” Bashar asked in disbelief. “I’ve already done everything they have asked.”

  “You must tell me the code.”

  Bashar hesitated.

  “If I don’t give them the code now, they will kill your family. Now, what is the code?”

  “It's C74BY8!” Bashar whispered back, his voice trembling in fear.

  “What about my family? How will I know they are safe?”

  The young man raised his hand to signal for Bashar to wait a moment and punched the code on his cell phone sending a text message to another party.

  A cell phone vibrated in the white van. The driver looked at the text message appearing with the code C74BY8.

  The young student dropped his phone and stripped off his jacket revealing a powerful package of explosives strapped entirely around his body. He grabbed the detonator attached to the package with what looked like a curling phone cord.

  Screams of terror broke out in the lobby as the few people there fell to the floor. Two employees ran out the front entrance. Momentarily immobilized by fear, the guards then instinctively drew their weapons yelling at the man to remain still as they tried to position themselves.

  The young man reached with his free hand to grab Bashar, using him as a shield, he back peddled toward the secure entrance to the east wing.

  “No one move!” he shouted as he positioned himself.

  “What are you doing?” cried Bashar.

  “You have served Allah well,” Nassif said calmly.

  “My family?”

  “You will see them in heaven,” as he prayed.

  “Oh my God!” Shouted the guard.

  “Praise Allah!” Nassif concluded.

  He closed his eyes and pressed the button on the detonator sending a violent earth-shaking blast rippling through the facility. As windows on cars shattered, pieces of metal and chunks of concrete hurled through the air becoming lethal projectiles. An enormous billowing cloud of gray smoke towered above the building.

  Alarms sounded, bells rang, and water erupted from the sprinkler system throughout. The entire east wing entrance collapsed. A young woman crawled along the ground, bleeding from her shoulder and head. An older man, walked around in circles in a state of shock, his hair and face covered with gray ash from the blast. The few unfortunate souls that remained were now in total shock and horror. Some collected their senses trying to help the injured few they found.

  Three men in the white van quickly donned environmental suits equipped with air packs. They posed as first responders and rushed into the previously secure east wing research area housing the nerve agents. They could see the severity of the damage. A maintenance worker trapped in the rubble was calling out for help before choking on the toxins. A young female worker in a lab coat staggered toward the three men but soon collapsed to the ground grabbing her throat as she succumbed to the smoke and toxic air.

  The three protected men made their way to a vaulted chamber and entered the code, releasing the locks of the door. Inside the chamber, they surveyed the mini vacuum canisters and refrigerated units until they saw the label “VX” and then reached two shelves below to a group of canisters labeled “Y44.” They had found their prize.

  They removed the canisters, placing them into large hard cases packed with dry ice. They left just as quickly and efficiently as they had entered. As they were exiting the research area a young man, lying on the ground with his leg severed, pulled at the suit of one of the crewmembers, pleading for assistance. The crewmember jerked free and continued on his way.

  They hurried to the van, removing their air packs and pulling their suits down, tying them off at the waist. In no time, they were driving out of the parking lot. Just as they turned right, they saw approaching police cars and other response vehicles with lights flashing and sirens blasting. They sped past, never noticing the van, its passengers, or its dangerous cargo.

  ✽✽✽

  CIA Headquarters - Langley

  Director Henry Kingman had just picked up the phone when the news reporter on the flat screen behind him began to report on the devastating blast. Shanelle dropped her files and stared at images from the blast scene in disbelief as the camera revealed graphic images of death and destruction.

  “Get Kurt Friedlander from Operations and Nancy McCune from CTC. I’m going to want some damn answers. And have McCune get all available CTC personnel at the Mission Center immediately.” Kingman ordered.

  CHAPTER 6

  McLean Virginia

  The laser printer next to his desk spewed out his resignation letter. Cameron snatched it and sighed as he recognized the finality of his decision. He was not accustomed to feeling defeated, but this job had done just that. It had left him feeling less of a man, somehow incomplete — a rude and cruel exchange for the sacrifices he had made. His cell phone rang interrupting his thoughts.

  “Cole.” It was Amy. “Have you seen the news?”

  “Ugh…No. I’ve been...”

  “Well, you should turn on your TV. I’m sending an encrypted text, but we need you to come in, it's urgent.”

  “Be there in thirty minutes.”

  “Pack some clothes; you may need them.”

  “I’ve got a go bag ready. I’m on my way.”

  Cameron laid the letter on his desk and hurried through his closet pulling out his go bag he kept prepared for such a call. He scrolled through Amy’s text and flicked on the television to catch the news as he continued packing. He grabbed a couple of nutrition bars, not knowing when he would have the opportunity to eat again.

  The news revealed the scene of an explosion on the screen. He turned the volume up to hear more clearly. Where is this? Then as if answering his question directly, the newscaster repeated the location. Roslin Research and Development Center.

  What the hell! Cameron thought. He dialed the cell number of Grant Ramsey but just got his voicemail. “Grant, its Cole. We need to talk. Call me.” Cameron looked at his watch, knowing that time was getting away. He had to get to CTC fast. Glancing over to his study as he came to the bottom of the stairs, he could see the desk. He stood for a second contemplating, then took the letter and placed it in his case and was on the road.

  ✽✽✽

  Counterterrorism Center - Langley

  A territorial tug of war was on display for all to see in the Mission Center large conference room. The packed large room had representatives from various agencies. But the key players were Raymond Hernandez from the Department of Homeland Security, Charles Thompson with the FBI and CIA Director, Henry Kingman. They were barking at each other like junkyard dogs defending their territory.

  Kingman stood behind a table near the front of the room in his maroon golf shirt and khakis, with his thinning gray hair. In spite of his casual appearance on this Sunday morning, he still commanded the respect of those around him. Charles Thompson likewise conveyed an air of authority, and unlike Kingman, he was dressed in business attire, absent the tie.

  Each stood tall and carried themselves well. The same was not accurate for Raymond Hernandez, whose silver-framed glasses matched his graying hair. It wasn’t his small stature or that his clothes seemed a size too big for him it was that everyone could see he tried too hard to impress.

  Amy had overheard their bantering as she prepared the situation room for the briefing. Accusations flung about lack of intel getting to the FBI, but soon the banter stopped when they were connected via satellite to the situation room at the White House.

  The President appeared on the screen, flanked by several advisors and the Director of Homeland Security, Sarah LeJune. The President issued a directive for the FBI to lead an investigation of the bombsite. But he also issued an order for deployment of an interagency AIJB mission team to work independently from the FBI investigation with the primary objective to ensure that no further attacks materialized from the t
errorist group.

  The team would leverage the capabilities of the CTC mission center and be untethered by typical red tape. It was clear the President was leaning on the experience of Kingman.

  “Now Henry, you and Charlie work it out, but put your best damn people on it and get me some damn results!”

  The call ended, and Kingman took charge.

  “McCune,” Kingman began, “Who’s your lead on the AIJB?”

  “That would be Cole Cameron, sir.”

  “What’s his background?”

  “Air Force Academy grad and served with 10th Intelligence Squadron about five years before returning to the private sector in California where he owned an environmental consulting firm before he joined us after losing his brother to an IED in Kabul.”

  “Alright, I want him leading this team,” Kingman ordered

  McCune nodded but squirmed just enough to catch Kingman’s attention.

  “Is there a problem, Nancy?”

  “Well sir, while Cameron has served on few missions in the field, I think we may want to look for a more seasoned resource, and I’m just…”

  Shanelle handed some papers to Kingman, and he interrupted McCune.

  “We don’t have time for this shit. It’s Cameron’s reports that have been screaming for threat escalation. You’re his commanding officer, so you act as liaison from CTC. He leads the mission team unless there is something else that I need to know about?”

  “No sir, Cameron will lead the team and I will liaison from here.”

  Kingman continued across the room, “Charles who’s running point for the FBI?”

  “We have Special Agent Hannah Jacobs, who has been dedicated resource to CTC as part of our interagency efforts.” Thompson paused, knowing it was not the time to bring up the lack of cooperation, and instead continued. “She is on her way in now.”

  “Mr. Hernandez, what will DHS contribute to this interagency team?” Kingman reluctantly asked.