by David Spell
Back at Langley, ops director Clark welcomed his team and congratulated them.
“That could not have gone any smoother. Well done!”
Walker pointed at Stephen Chan.
“That was Stephen’s first “boots on the ground” mission and he performed like a veteran.”
Norris reached over and slapped the smaller man on the back, almost knocking him out of his chair.
“Yeah, man, good job!”
Chan gave an embarrassed smile.
“Thanks, guys. I knew you all had me covered. Plus, they were both so focused on Jen’s red panties, I think anyone could’ve taken him out.”
This got a laugh out of everyone.
“That was an impressive toy,” Hughes commented. “One poke in the leg and he was done for.”
“For sure,” Kevin nodded. “The science and tech team came up with that fancy ballpoint pen, loaded with their special potion designed to give someone a heart attack.”
“Do you think they’ll find any trace of the drugs in his system?” Jennifer asked.
Clark shrugged. “Science and tech swear that they won’t, but either way, he’s dead and you all got away. I borrowed Gabby from Century Tactical while you guys were gone. She’s already cleaned up the security camera footage from the airport so there’s no video at all of the hit on Chen.”
“Anything else going on?” Jay asked.
“As a matter of fact, there is,” Kevin answered, glancing at Jen. “Your buddy, Agent O’Reilly, called and asked for some help on that cell in Detroit. The FBI was able to get a wiretap on the imam’s phone but Big Joe said he doesn’t want to take a chance on anything slipping through the cracks and asked for us to see if those mics you guys put on the mosque’s windows were still working.”
“How’d you tame him, Jen?” Walker asked. “I met him on that op a couple of years ago in LA, at the very end of the zombie mess. He was an A-hole.”
Hughes laughed. “I don’t know. He started off that way after being ordered to work with me while I was on loan to the Bureau. Then he asked me if I knew Chuck, Scotty, and Jimmy. When I told him that I did, we became best friends. He told me a story about Chuck from that mission in California. Let’s just say that Agent O’Reilly is a fan of Mr. McCain.”
“Aren’t we all?” Clark chuckled. “And I can guess which story he told you. I got there right after it happened on the side of the freeway in LA. Chuck wasn’t even breathing hard. This thug was probably bigger and more muscular than Scotty Smith and McCain had beaten the crap out of him, breaking some bones in his face and dislocating one of his knees. And, while that was going on, Eric Gray and one of the FBI HRT members shot and killed a traitor FBI agent.”
“That’s the one,” Hughes smiled. “Joe told me he’s looking to retire in the near future, maybe even after wrapping up this case.”
“This would be a good one to leave on,” Kevin nodded, looking at Jay. “For now, I’ve got some stuff going on in the UK that I need you to take a look at. Our cousins at MI5 have asked for some help about a potential terrorist situation.”
The former SEAL whistled softly, shaking his head.
“If the Brits are asking for help, it must be bad. They hate having to ask for outside assistance.”
“Have you worked with them before?” Kevin asked.
“When I was in the Navy, we did a number of joint-ops with the SAS. Those guys are really good. They get a lot of their intel from the MI6, which is comparable to the CIA. The MI5 is essentially the British version of the FBI. In the UK, though, the lines are a bit more blurred. It’s not uncommon at all for SAS troopers to be assigned to the MI5 to work terrorism cases in England.”
Clark nodded. “Director Purvis has instructed us to help them in any way we can. I’ll have Ricardo forward the files to you, Jay, and you can disseminate it as you see fit.”
DEARBORN, MICHIGAN, WEDNESDAY, 1245 HOURS
Inside the Center for Islamic Studies, the five men and two women drilled with their empty AK-47 rifles. Imam Abdul Mawdudi had been disappointed and angry that the other three men and two women were no-shows. In fact, they had not even answered his calls or texts. One of the women did send him a message earlier that morning stating that her grandmother was ill in Ohio and she was already on the road to Toledo.
He had known that the money would be a dealbreaker for some, showing that they weren’t true believers. The seven soldiers of Allah training inside the mosque were the ones who would experience paradise as a reward for their martyrdom. So be it. We’ll launch the attack with the ones that Allah has provided, he thought. After things quiet down, I’ll pay a visit to the unfaithful ones, and give them the reward that they deserve— a bullet in the head. Then I’ll disappear and look for ways to continue Musa’s jihad.
They worked all afternoon until Abdul felt that they were competent enough to shoot down many Americans before activating their explosive vests. After dinner, the imam carefully showed them a live vest, laying it on a table and pointing out how to pull the detonator when they were ready. He discussed their targets, designating four soldiers to attack the Patrick V. McNamara Federal Building and three others to strike the nearby Theodore Levin United States Courthouse. They studied maps and photos of the locations, confident that they would kill many infidels.
After their evening prayers, Mawdudi explained the purification ritual and its importance. They must be ritually clean to ensure that Allah would allow them into heaven.
“In the morning, after breakfast, everyone must perform the cleansing. We’ll have our morning prayers, then I’ll help you prepare for the battle. Brother Amal has graciously allowed us to use his van tomorrow and he’ll drive you to your targets.”
“After tomorrow, I won’t need it anymore,” Amal chuckled, nervously.
His teammates all gave a forced laugh at the gallows humor. The two women slept in a classroom by themselves, while the men occupied another. The imam had a small cot in his office, where he would spend the night. The volunteers would be up early so that everyone could purify themselves. They would be on the road by 9:00am, enroute to their destiny.
PATRICK V. MCNAMARA FEDERAL BUILDING, DETROIT, MICHIGAN, THURSDAY, 0150 HOURS
The large federal building was eerily quiet in the early morning hours. The twenty-sixth floor, however, was bustling with activity as FBI agents prepared for action. This time of night, it was only a fifteen-minute drive to the Center for Islamic Studies. For almost two weeks, the federal officers had been watching the mosque around the clock, as well as maintaining surveillance on the cell members. In the next couple of hours, things would finally come to a head.
Tu Trang Donaldson and his two newest team members had arrived Sunday afternoon to monitor the listening devices Chris Norris had planted. Donaldson was impressed with his recent additions. Matthew “Matt” Graves sat at his computer with a set of headphones on, listening for any activity at the mosque. The thirty-two year old, six-foot, red-headed former Delta force trooper walked with a slight limp.
After just three years in the Army’s most elite unit, Graves had been badly injured on a high altitude low opening (HALO) parachute training mission. His right leg and three vertebrae were broken but he had recovered more quickly than the doctors had predicted. At the same time, no matter how hard he trained, Matt would never meet Delta’s rigorous PT requirements again.
After accepting the inevitable, Graves took a medical retirement from the Army and put an application in with the CIA. The Agency quickly snatched him up, sending him to the Farm for training before assigning him to operations. Even though this was Matt’s first mission, Tu could see that the young man was going to be an asset to his team.
The other new addition was Andre Nicholson, a former Green Beret. Even though Donaldson had served primarily in the Middle East and Nicholson’s deployments had all been in Africa, the two men had a number of common acquaintances. Andre had retired after serving twenty-years, ready to do someth
ing different. He had always been fascinated by the CIA and as a spec ops soldier, often worked closely with intelligence officers on his deployments in Niger and Mozambique, hunting down and eliminating ISIS cells. Nicholson had also spent quite a bit of time training the special forces of those African nations, teaching them valuable combat skills that would allow them to continue the fight against terrorism.
When the African-American mentioned to one of his CIA friends over drinks that he was thinking of retiring, the friend quickly put him in touch with a recruiter. Andre and Matt had trained together at the Farm, both realizing that they could easily be teaching many of the courses. At the same time, the best spec ops warriors combine confidence with humility and they had each quietly learned as much as they could to prepare them for their new careers.
Nicholson also wore a set of headphones, listening to an earlier recording of audio from the Center of Islamic Studies, transcribing what he heard, his fingers flying over the keyboard. There was a knock at the door and Jerome Louis stuck his head into the small room the three men occupied.
“Agent Donaldson, can you join us in the conference room? We’re about to have our final briefing and Agent O’Reilly would appreciate you being there to give a synopsis on what you’ve been hearing.”
Tu nodded and stood, gathering a sheath of papers, glancing over at Nicholson and Graves. “You guys keep at it. I’ll be back in a few.”
The meeting room was packed with agents and HRT members, dressed in olive-green BDUs. Most everyone had a cup of coffee or an energy drink, making small talk as they waited for the briefing to start. A few of the attendees stared with curiosity at Tu, wondering who he was and what role he was playing in tonight’s proceedings. The CIA agent had purposely avoided speaking with anyone but O’Reilly and Louis since they had arrived to keep their cover intact.
At 0200 hours, Supervisory Special Agent Joe O’Reilly strolled into the room carrying a thick folder. His tie hung low, his eyes were red, and it was obvious he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. When O’Reilly spoke, however, everyone sat up and took notice.
“We obtained a ‘no knock’ search warrant for the mosque and we’ll be serving it tonight. We anticipate finding a group of ten or twelve cell members inside, along with suicide vests, weapons, and ammo. Their leader, Imam Abdul Mawdudi, is also there. The group was planning on launching a large-scale attack later this morning along the lines of what took place in Washington, D.C. and Trenton, New Jersey. This building, along with the US Courthouse a couple of blocks from here are their targets.
“Agent Toney of the HRT is in charge of the tactical side of the operation and his people will make entry to secure the scene and all the perps. After I get the ‘all clear,’ CT agents and those we have designated from the field office here will execute the search warrant. Everyone inside the mosque will be separated as quickly as possible to keep them from collaborating on their stories. If there are explosives present, don’t touch anything. We’ll bring in EOD to deal with them before we start searching for other evidence.”
O’Reilly nodded at Donaldson. “This gentleman will give you an idea of what the people inside the mosque have been doing since yesterday morning. Don’t ask for his name or who he works for. You don’t need to know that, but you do need to know that the intel he’s providing is the most current and up-to-date that we have.”
Tu stood, strolling up the lectern carrying a sheaf of the transcripts from throughout the last few days. It was impossible to miss the raised eyebrows of all the agents in the room. FBI agents weren’t used to being told they didn’t have a need-to-know something.
“Thank you, Agent O’Reilly.”
The former Green Beret, Secret Service Agent, CDC Enforcement Officer, and current CIA operative saw fresh curiosity in the eyes of his audience as they heard the southern lilt coming out of the mouth of the Asian man.
“Since yesterday morning, the imam has been teaching them how to use the AK-47 rifle. As you’ve all seen in his file, he spent time in Syria where he received weapons, tactics, and explosives training. Late yesterday afternoon, Mawdudi conducted a familiarization lesson on explosive vests, explaining to the recruits how to detonate them.
“Their plan is to launch from the mosque at 0900 hours today. One of the cell members will drive everyone into the city. He’ll let three out at the courthouse where they’ll attack with their rifles, killing as many people as they can before detonating their vests. The driver will bring the others here where they’ll do the same.
“We aren’t a hundred percent sure on how many people are making the attacks. Originally, our intelligence indicated a group of twelve. As best we can determine, that number is now less than ten, including at least two women.”
DSAC Daniel Ward listened to the mystery man speak, his anger rising with each passing moment. Who was this son-of-a-bitch and where was he getting his information? If Ward were to guess, the Asian man was from the NSA or the CIA, but that prick O’Reilly had said that no one needed to know who he was.
Wait a minute, he thought. I know who this bastard is! He worked with that other little jerk, Walker, at the CDC back during the zombie virus crisis. What’s he doing here? Is this another bio-terror attack? Daniel shuddered at the thought. He had been terrified when the zombie virus had been released, managing to stay as far from the infected as he could.
What was O’Reilly not telling us? Maybe these terrorists inside the mosque are planning on trying to release a new bio-terror weapon. How should I handle this? he wondered. I definitely don’t need to be anywhere near that mosque if these clowns have managed to get their hands on some other nasty weapon. This is an interesting development. Why did the SAC decide to go on vacation this week?
As the Asian man spoke, Ward pulled his phone out, keeping it below the edge of the table as he scrolled through his contacts. At one point, he’d had several of the CDC agents’ numbers. There he is. Tu Trang Donaldson. What kind of name is that for an Asian?
Tu recognized Daniel Ward from his dealings with him when he worked at the CDC, noticing the DSAC looking more and more uncomfortable as the briefing went on. While he had never had any issues with the senior FBI agent, Jay had told him of several run-ins that the two of them had had. Hopefully, if he remembers who I am, he’ll be smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
Just as Donaldson turned the meeting back over to O’Reilly, Ward raised his hand and spoke up.
“Agent Donaldson, I have a question.”
Tu felt Joe stiffen, the senior FBI agent promising the CIA agent that he would not use his name with the group.
The former Green Beret shrugged at the task force leader and nodded at Ward.
“Ask away,” he said.
“Is there any danger of this cell possessing a biological weapon?”
“None that we know of. There was nothing like that used in either of the attacks or in the other groups that have been taken down. Why do you ask?”
“You work for CDC Enforcement, don’t you?” Daniel asked, clearly pleased that he had caught O’Reilly and Donaldson off-guard.
“Not anymore,” Tu replied, walking back to his seat.
It was clear that Ward wanted more of an answer but after several seconds of awkward silence, O’Reilly spoke up.
“Agent Toney, would you mind giving us a general idea of what your plan is to secure the mosque? After that, I’d like to be on the road to hit the target by 0400 hours.”
At 0350 hours, O’Reilly and Louis pulled into the parking lot at the end of Chase Road where it intersected with Hemlock Avenue. Jerome cut the headlights before they got there, the few working streetlights providing enough illumination for him to park. The front of the mosque was half a block or a hundred and fifty yards away. Tu and his team parked their rental next to the task force leaders. Joe glanced over, surprised to see the three CIA agents wearing tactical vests over their black t-shirts, each man holding a suppressed submachine gun.
“You
guys expecting to see some action?” the FBI agent asked.
Donaldson sat in the driver’s seat of the red Dodge Charger with Andre Nicholson next to him and Matt Graves in the backseat.
“I hope not,” Tu answered, “but if the HRT team gets into trouble, we’re the most qualified ones to go help.”
The CIA agent made the statement as a simple fact with no hint of arrogance. Joe didn’t know anything about the two men with Donaldson but he knew enough about the Asian to understand that he was probably right. Hopefully, HRT would not have any issues securing the terrorists but they knew going in that the bad guys had AK-47s, along with explosive vests. If the FBI’s elite tactical unit couldn’t deal with these cell members, could these three men really make a difference? From what Joe had seen working with Chuck McCain and Kevin Clark, Tu and his two companions could’ve probably handled the entire operation themselves.
“Your buddy, Ward, is quite the dickhead,” Donaldson commented, watching the target location with a pair of night vision binoculars.
“He’s not my buddy. I’d be surprised if he has any friends. He told me after the briefing that he suspects I’m using evidence illegally obtained from the CIA or the NSA. He guessed correctly that you work for the Agency now and said I have no business getting him or any of his people into trouble on an investigation that is tainted. He’s going to file a complaint with our Office of Professional Responsibility. That’s our internal affairs.”
