by David Spell
Five rifles clicked in unison as the operators dry-fired their weapons. The sound of steps coming back down the stairs stopped the class again, the five remaining cell members all wondering if they were next. Khan was by himself this time, with Ishmael dealing with the body, Richards figured.
The terrorist held a knife in his hands, wiping blood off of the blade with several paper towels. He paused for effect, the remaining recruits staring wide-eyed as their leader tucked the knife back into a sheath on his left side, under the jacket, opposite of where he was wearing his pistol.
“I’m sorry that you all had to hear that. Our friend CoCo was having second thoughts about being a part of this jihad. As you have all seen on the news, the infidels are reeling from the attacks by our brothers and sisters in Washington, D.C., and in New Jersey. You will be the next ones to make history. In just a few days, it will be your turn. I have already set up the transfers of money to your families. As soon as you make your sacrifice, they will receive their payment.”
The cell members nodded at Musa’s words. The remaining recruits were all serious about giving their lives in the war against the Great Satan. Each of the men had spent time in the prison system and believed that they had been targeted because of their skin color, not by the crimes that they had committed. Now, they had an opportunity to pay back the cops and others involved the racist criminal justice system. Their families would be well-compensated for their martyrdom.
“May I have a word with you?” Khan asked, looking at Richards.
Aaron nodded, wondering if the terrorist was planning on double-crossing him. The comfort of the .45 on his waist reminded him that this was a level-playing field. There was no doubt in the former soldier’s mind that he could take out the Pakistani if he had to.
“Keep drying firing. We’ll start working on tactics after lunch,” Richards told the terrorists-in-training.
Musa glanced at the pistol that the former Green Beret was wearing in plain view before pointing up the stairs.
“After you.”
Aaron locked eyes with the terrorist and gave him a slight smile. “Please, I insist, after you.”
Khan nodded, a look of suspicion in his eyes. The staircase emptied into the kitchen of the large ranch style home.
Ishmael was on his hands and knees, using a green towel to wipe up the mess that Corey’s death had caused. The body was nowhere to be seen. Musa led the American into the living room at the front of the house. Khan pointed to a leather couch.
“Please, sit down. I just want to talk.”
Khan took a loveseat across from the couch as the two men stared, measuring each other. Finally, the terrorist broke the silence.
“I meant what I said. I hear nothing but good things from Ishmael about your instruction.”
“I appreciate it. I want to make sure you get your money’s worth.”
“Would you be open to another assignment?”
“Same price?” Aaron asked.
“Of course. I’ll need you to travel to Detroit later in the week. You would be doing the same thing as you’ve done here. After that, I’ll have some freelance jobs if you’d like to keep working.”
“I don’t know. You know who I am. I know who you are. We both understand that if the wrong person sees us, we’re finished. I’m leaning towards going somewhere remote and dropping off of the radar. What kind of freelance work are you talking about?”
“Yes, “dropping off the radar,” as you say, is a luxury I don’t have. We can always use a man with your skills. I did contract work for many years and found that it suited me. Maybe we could stay in contact? I could call you when I had a job to see if you would be interested?”
The former soldier considered the proposal. Going into hiding and making some good money were both appealing. He finally nodded.
“Sure, that would work.”
“How much longer before you are finished with this group?”
“I could be done by tomorrow afternoon. I was going to start working them on movement-to-cover this afternoon. I’m not teaching them anything complicated, mostly fire, move, and get behind a parked car, but I want to drill them over and over, until they can perform without thinking about it.”
Richards saw the approval in Khan’s eyes. He thought it fascinating that he was sitting across from and having a conversation with one of the most wanted men in the world. Of course, I’m probably somewhere on that list myself, he thought.
“Very good. Ishmael will have your payment tomorrow, plus some extra for expenses. He’ll take you back to that car we’re loaning you. If you could be in Detroit by Thursday and I’ll contact you with instructions about where to meet.”
“Okay,” Aaron replied with a nod. “It’s good doing business with you.”
Musa Khan sat alone in the living room after Aaron Richards had gone back down to continue his session with the raw recruits. He had wanted to ask the American why he was training people to kill his own countrymen. At the same time he didn’t want to offend the man who had performed admirably in training his cell members.
Obviously, Richards was an infidel. At the same time, he was a useful infidel with a rare skill-set. If he would be willing to take on some contract work, the American had even greater potential. There was no doubt in his mind that eventually, the FBI, DHS, or even the CIA would locate and deal with the traitor. It never occurred to Khan that those same agencies were also looking for him. In Musa’s mind, he was much too smart to ever be caught by the Jew-loving pigs.
CoCo’s body had been rolled up in a blanket, a sheet of plastic, and then had duct tape wrapped around him. Ishmael dragged the corpse out into the garage and stuffed it into a storage room. Khan’s plan, unless he somehow miraculously heard from Abdallah, was to launch the attack in Philadelphia at midday on Monday.
Their target was the William J. Green Federal Building. Not only was this a federal courthouse, it also housed the Philadelphia headquarters for the FBI. To make this operation even more memorable, Khan would send one of the soldiers of Allah into the Philadelphia Police HQ, a block away. He had originally planned on sending two, but with CoCo’s demise, one would have to do.
“Hey, Boss, can I bring them up for lunch?” Ishmael asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“I need to leave. Let me out of the garage first and then they can eat.”
A few minutes later, Musa was on his way back to the warehouse. The clock in the car indicated that it was 1150 hours. When he arrived, he would send the message to Mohammad and Saman. Maybe they would have some insight into what had happened to Abdallah.
The drive provided a good opportunity for Khan to touch base with his contact in Michigan. Imam Abdul Mawdudi had proven to be a reliable colleague. His twelve-member cell would enter the fray, attacking targets in Detroit a week after the Philadelphia operation. Musa had no intention of letting up, now that the infidels had felt the wrath of Allah.
“Hello, my brother,” the Pakistani greeted the imam.
“Peace be upon you. How is everything going?”
“Everything is going fine. I wanted to let you know that it is time. I’ll be busy for the next few days but then I’ll come to visit you later in the week. I have a friend who will be helping us prepare our people. He’s an infidel but he was an American special forces soldier. He’s been a big help to me.”
“That is very good news. Our team is ready to go. When should I expect you?”
“I’ll call you on Tuesday. Watch the news. May Allah bless our plans.”
After disconnecting, Musa allowed himself a rare smile. The next two weeks will be devastating for Philadelphia and Detroit, he thought.
NORTH OF PHILADELPHIA, SATURDAY, 1140 HOURS
Tu and Chuck watched the drone footage of the four men as they took up positions around the target building. The Asian-American held his phone to his ear, a look of concern on his face. After a moment, he pushed the speaker button so that the others could hear the conve
rsation.
“I just put you on speaker, Gonz. If he’s not there, where the hell is he?”
“He’s at an address in Wynnewood,” Clark’s assistant answered. “That’s about half an hour away. The NSA is now monitoring that phone since our guys were able to hack it. Voice recognition is ninety-eight percent confirmed that this is Musa Khan. He made two calls this morning. The first was to the Empire Apartments asking about his pal Abdallah. The second call was to a cell phone but we pinged it and it’s at the same address he’s at now.”
“Hang on a second, Gonz,” Donaldson said, muting the phone and looking at McCain. “What do you think, Chuck?”
“Why don’t we have our guys try and make entry at the warehouse? If he’s tied up across town, let’s go see what he’s doing in there.”
The former Green Beret nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”
He unmuted Ricardo and said, “Keep us posted on whether or not this guy leaves. We’re gonna check out his operation over here.”
After disconnecting from the phone call, Tu spoke into his radio.
“Alpha One to Alpha Two.”
“Alpha Two,” LeMarcus Wade answered.
“Can you call me on the phone? I don’t want to put this info over the air.”
“Roger.”
After speaking with LeMarcus, Chuck and Tu watched the four team members huddle up in the narrow tree line behind the warehouse. Five minutes later, Smith and Fleming moved into positions to cover their teammates as they moved forward. LeMarcus and Terry cautiously approached the rearmost entrance. Hunt, the former parajumper worked on the lock for several minutes before it gave way to his picks. The two men quickly disappeared inside. Donaldson and McCain both found themselves holding their breath as they waited to hear something.
“Alpha Two to Alpha One.”
“Go ahead, Alpha Two,” Tu answered.
“This is it, Alpha One. He’s in the process of wiring a vehicle with explosives and there’s a pile of suicide vests in here. We’ve also got some AKs and ammo.”
Donaldson’s phone vibrated with an incoming call from Gonzalez. He handed it to McCain to answer.
“Hey, Gonz, it’s Chuck.”
“Okay, that phone is moving again. We just pinged it and he’s maybe ten to fifteen away. With a moving signal it’s hard to pin down, but he seems to be heading back your way.”
“Got it,” McCain replied. “Let Kevin know that we have people inside right now and they just found where he’s building a car bomb in that warehouse. He’s also got weapons and ammo stored there.”
“Oh, shit!”
“For sure.”
“The boss wanted me to let you know he’s got some more people on the way to help. They’re in the air now and should be touching down in the next hour or so. Joey is giving them a ride. I’ll call you back in a few with an update,” Ricardo said, disconnecting.
The sound of a vehicle got their attention as a white pickup truck drove between the two buildings, stopping at the corner as Jimmy and Hollywood flagged it down. Placards on the side of the truck identified it as belonging to the Pro Security Company. A bushy-haired, hefty white man appeared surprised to see anyone behind the building. Chuck’s first thought was that Chris Farley had risen from the dead and was now working for Pro Security.
“What are you guys doing back here?” he asked, his high-pitched voice clearly excited. The black man at the driver’s window and the Hispanic man on the passenger side both held wicked looking guns, but the barrels were pointed at the ground.
McCain kept his eye on the computer monitor while listening to Jones speak with the security guard.
“Sir, we’re with the Department of Homeland Security and we’re conducting a surveillance,” Jimmy said, holding out his official-looking credentials.
“Well, we weren’t notified about any kind of an operation and this is private property.”
“I understand that but we let Philadelphia PD know and asked them to keep away. We don’t want to spook our bad guys.”
“I’m going to need to notify my supervisor about this,” the hefty guard replied, looking around at the men and women behind the office building.
“Let me go see if I can handle this,” Chuck said softly to Tu.
Jimmy nodded at Chuck as he walked over.
“Why don’t you talk to my boss?” Jones asked.
“How you doing, Officer Feely,” McCain greeted him, reading his name badge. “Did the agents tell you what we were doing here?”
“Not really, just that it was a surveillance. But this is private property and you have to go through proper channels.”
Officer Feely reached for his walkie-talkie. The last thing that they needed was for the security officer to let his supervisor know that something strange was going on at the Schuylkill Business Center.
“Before you do that, why don’t you pull over here to our command post? I’ll introduce you to everyone and give you a quick briefing so that you can tell your boss exactly what’s happening. We might even have something that you could help us with.”
Feely’s eyes lit up as he looked over at the muscular black girl holding what looked like controls to a drone and then to the other woman and Asian man staring at a computer screen. The officer felt a sense of excitement, knowing he was about to become a part of a secret Department of Homeland Security mission.
“That’d be great! I’d love to help.”
Donaldson looked at McCain with annoyance as the security pickup pulled to a stop near their SUVs. Chuck shrugged, hating what he was about to do but not seeing any other way around it. As Feely, exited his vehicle, his belly bulged against the white polyester shirt. He glanced at the big man who had extended the invitation to help with their operation. The tall Hispanic agent had walked over, as well.
Before the security officer realized what was happening, his new friend had pulled a taser from under his jacket, pointed it at him, and squeezed the trigger. There was a popping sound followed by a guttural squeal from Feely as the electricity coursed through his obese frame. Tasers affect different people in different ways. For the security officer, after the five-second burst of pain, he lost control of his bladder and fainted.
Chuck and Hollywood moved in quickly, applying flex cuffs to the security officer’s wrists and ankles, immobilizing him. As Feely was just starting to regain his senses, Estrada quickly withdrew some items from his SUV. He put a set of headphones over the fat man’s ears so that he couldn’t hear anything, a piece of duct tape over his mouth to keep him quiet, and a black hood over his head so he couldn’t see any more than he’d already seen.
“Sorry, Tu,” Chuck said, after standing. “He wasn’t going to take no for an answer and was about to call us in to his supervisor.”
“What a dumbass. I told LeMarcus and Terry to get out of the warehouse and for the four of them to set up and try and take this bastard down.”
McCain nodded as he and Estrada trotted over to Jimmy, still standing guard.
“I’m sorry, Chuck. I tried.”
“All good. He’ll definitely have a story to tell.”
McCain briefed and updated his friends on what was going on in the warehouse, the fact that their target was Musa Khan, as well as letting him know that he was on his way back. They had no idea what the terrorist was driving.
“Tu is getting our guys out of the building and we’ll see if they can take him down. Obviously, we’re the QRF so keep an eye on that road but let’s also be ready to move quick if they need help.”
CIA HQ, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA, SATURDAY, 1200 HOURS
Kevin Clark’s wife wasn’t happy with him having to work on Saturday. He would make it up to her later. The former Ranger officer didn’t particularly enjoy it himself but with active operations he wanted to know what was going on. Gabby had patched in the drone footage to the large screen television in the conference room adjacent to Clark’s office. Gonzalez was monitoring the situation and in touch wit
h Tu and McCain. The ops director was making phone calls in his office, trying to bring more assets into play.
CIA Director Larry Purvis and Clark had briefed the President as he ate his breakfast that morning at 0730 hours. The commander-in-chief must be a good poker player, Kevin thought. Things like this had the potential to destroy his presidency.
“Thank you for what you and your people are doing, gentleman. Let’s do everything that we can to keep this under the radar, but if it somehow becomes public, I would still rather err on the side of trying to protect Americans and stop the terrorists. Clearly, these are gray areas in which the FBI and the DHS can’t operate. That leaves the Agency.”
President Asher wiped his mouth with a monogrammed napkin and stood, signaling an end to the meeting.
“The bottom line is this: no more terror attacks. Do what you have to do and we’ll sort out what’s legal and what’s not later.”
The ops director wandered back into the conference room, staring at the drone footage on the big screen, quietly wishing for a cigarette. Kevin had kicked the habit years ago, but situations like this activated something inside of him that craved nicotine. He hated the fact that his people were in this position of legal limbo. Musa Khan was one of the most wanted criminals in the world and everything indicated that he was on his way back to the isolated warehouse next to the Schuylkill River. In a perfect world, they would pass this information onto the FBI and the Philadelphia Police Department for them to move in for the arrest.
The problem was that every bit of intelligence had come through illegal means. This meant that it would never be admissible in court, creating a situation where a mass murderer might even be set free. Well, that wasn’t happening today. One way or the other, Clark thought, we’re going to deal with this son of a bitch, right here, right now.
“I just got off the phone with Walker,” Kevin told Ricardo. “I need them in Philadelphia like right now. They’re heading to the airport and I gave Jay the authorization to charter a Lear jet. FBI Special Agent O’Reilly is on the way to Tu and Chuck. It’s moments like these that I’m thankful Purvis knows the FBI so well. He smoothed things over with the powers-that-be and having the Bureau on-scene will probably work in our favor. Joey Anderson is giving him a ride and will stay in Phillie in case we need him and his helicopter again.”
