“Senator Roland?” Blunt said.
“Thank you, J.D.,” Roland said as he turned his attention to Hawk and Alex. “As you might be aware, Al Hasib is getting more aggressive and more brazen in their efforts to obtain powerful weapons. Their latest attempts include an effort to acquire a chemical weapon.”
“And they’ve never been able to do this before?” Hawk asked.
“Not yet, though Al Hasib has inquired about it with different arms dealers in the past.”
“What’s different about this time?” Alex asked.
Roland took a deep breath then exhaled. “This time, they’re probably going to get it unless we stop them—pardon me, unless you stop them.”
“What’s the mission?” Hawk asked.
“Hassan Garaar is a small-time weapons dealer in northeast Somalia,” Roland began. “Intel reports say that he’s gained enough methylphosphonyl difluoride to weaponize sarin gas.”
“How much gas are we talking about?” Alex asked.
“We’re not sure about how much yield he’d be able to produce from the shipment he received, but it’ll be enough to kill several thousand, maybe more, in the right setting in a large metropolitan area.”
“And how do you intend for us to stop this deal?” Hawk asked.
“In person, of course, at the docks in Berbera, Somalia. Garaar is tentatively scheduled to make an exchange with an operative from Al Hasib on Saturday night. We need you there to seize control of the weapon.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Alex asked. “We need more help than this.”
“Technically, you are the help,” Roland said. “We’ve got a guy on the ground in Berbera already.”
“Then why even use us at all?” Hawk asked.
“This guy can’t do it by himself, and we can’t risk bringing in even a small contingent of forces to Somalia. Since the 90s, every action we’ve taken there has had to be handled discreetly. I’m sure you understand.”
“I get it,” Hawk said. “I don’t want my body dragged through the streets if anything goes wrong.”
“Exactly. You two did so well stopping the threat in Washington that I thought you’d be perfect for this task. And quite frankly, since time is of the essence, I don’t have anyone else I can turn to.”
“We’re your last hope?” Alex asked as she leaned forward.
“You may be the last hope for thousands of unsuspecting Americans, too,” Roland said. “I feel far better about stopping this threat before it has time to take shape than trying to eliminate it while some Al Hasib agent runs around New York City with enough sarin gas to wipe out a crowd at Yankee Stadium.”
“You in, Alex?” Hawk asked. “You know I need you on this.”
She let out a long breath. “I’m in on one condition. I need to know who we’ll be working with.”
Roland nodded. “Fair enough. He’s a former special ops guy who worked for the CIA. You might have worked with him before, Alex. His name is John McGinn.”
Alex leaned back in her chair and interlocked her fingers behind her head. “McGinn? That’s your guy on the ground?”
“What do you know about him, Alex?” Hawk asked.
“He’s an interesting character,” Alex responded. “I find it hard to believe that the CIA would place him in a place like Somalia. What’s he doing there?”
“Nothing of too much consequence,” Roland said. “Just training some Somalian military personnel.”
Hawk watched Alex look up and bite her lip. He didn’t flinch, hoping she’d agree to go.
“I don’t like being on location, but I’ll do it,” she said.
“Excellent,” Roland said before standing up and handing her a pair of folders. “Everything you’ll need to know for the mission is in there. Good luck.”
CHAPTER 4
Tuesday
Berera, Somalia
HASSAN GARAAR TIGHTENED HIS MASK and carefully opened the fifty-five-gallon drum in front of him. He slid a small tube into the barrel and siphoned out some of the liquid. He placed a few drops onto a petri dish to examine the liquid.
Still good.
He closed the drum and used a dolly to move the container to another part of his warehouse. Returning to his work area, he stooped down to get eye level with the caged brown-and-white hamster treading on a wheel. He watched the small animal run tirelessly for half a minute.
Better run while you still can, Barbara.
Garaar never named the animals he tested his product on—almost. But he knew the hamster was going to die a gruesome death. As a result, he decided to name the hamster after a woman he dated at Caltech. Garaar caught Barbara cheating on him with a lab partner and employed restraint at the time.
You just keep right on doing what you’re doing, Barb.
Garaar adjusted his mask again and hovered over the device that would weaponize the sarin and make it far more potent. Every inch of the vaporizer was checked before he closed the small kit and latched it shut. He locked the main entrance to warehouse before carefully loading the case into his vehicle and climbing into the driver’s seat.
“See you soon, Barb,” he said before shoving his SUV into drive and kicking up enough sand to constitute a dust storm in certain parts of California.
While Garaar drove, he considered the path that led him to this moment, the point that he considered to be a crowning achievement in his fledgling career. The fact that he could mix his own sarin gas was reason enough for celebration. It was, after all, the primary purpose for his educational exploits in the United States. However, he was far from achieving his end game, which was to create massive quantities for Al-Shabaab. But his superiors needed a way to generate some funding for their next offensive after the U.S. and Europe conspired to freeze the organization’s bank accounts. Ultimately, Garaar knew Al Shabaab didn’t have the vehicle to deploy a weapon like this in an effective way. Yet, he didn’t complain, content to ply his trade until that moment arrived.
In his dream scenario, Garaar would’ve preferred to remain in Saudi Arabia and train for jihad in a much grittier way. At one time, pulling the trigger on a sniper rifle aimed at American soldiers seemed to be a much higher calling. But he came to understand his role in eradicating the infidels from the face of the planet, a role that was less barbaric in practice but far more barbaric when it came to results. At least, it appeared that way to him when he watched videos of what happened to test subjects when exposed to sarin gas.
The live test was the final hurdle he needed to clear in order to take his weapon to market. He’d already lined up a buyer and established a date for the sale. However, he realized that no one would pay the kind of money he was demanding for a chemical weapon unless it was proven to work. Garaar was also anxious to see for himself if he indeed implemented everything he learned while earning his chemical engineering degree. At this stage, failure would be disastrous and quite possibly could cost him his life. He needed to ensure the batch of sarin he mixed was every bit as potent as it could be.
Selecting a test subject wasn’t particularly difficult. He spoke with a doctor working in conjunction with the World Health Organization who told him about a small village thirty miles northwest of Berbera that had a viral outbreak of polio. Authorities placed the village under quarantine while epidemiologists attempted to isolate the source of the outbreak. In the meantime, the only people allowed in or out of the village were health personnel.
Garaar glanced down at the WHO credential hanging around his neck. The credential belonged to an Indian doctor Garaar had stabbed to death earlier in the week. He wasn’t proud of murdering the man, though technically he was still an infidel and deserved such a fate. When it came to Islam, all other religions stood at odds with it, even Buddhism. But it was tame compared to what he was about to do.
He flashed his credentials to the armed guards patrolling all the roads leading into the village. They waved him through. Garaar checked his notes and turned left at the first i
ntersection and drove a quarter of a mile until he reached the designated home. He worked quickly to assemble his camera and carry it into the house along with the weapon. If any snoopy neighbors appeared, his cover would be blown, resulting in an even larger-scale test. For now, all he wanted to do was get a record to verify the effectiveness of the gas and escape the village without further incident.
The woman who greeted Garaar at the door begged him to hurry.
“My children need you,” she said. “Come, quick.”
Garaar followed her into the main room of the house where two small children were lying down. He estimated the older girl to be four and the younger one to be about age two. The four year old wallowed in a pool of vomit while the two year old cried incessantly.
Putting on his mask, he directed the mother to the other side of the room next to her children. He turned on the camera and set it on the tripod. Then, without warning, he unleashed the gas.
In less than a minute, the mother and her children were dead. And Garaar was pleased that it worked as quickly as it did. He wasn’t sure he could take much more of the gurgling and gagging noises the trio made as they died. He proceeded to store all his equipment before drenching the inside of the house with gasoline. He unfurled a 100-foot rope, soaked it in gasoline, lit the rope on fire, and drove away.
Garaar passed through the checkpoint and was at least a mile outside the village before he saw large plumes of smoke billowing in his rearview mirror. He picked up his phone and dialed a number.
“I completed the testing,” he said. “The product will be ready for you to collect on schedule.”
He couldn’t wait to demonstrate the gas on Barbara.
CHAPTER 5
Berbera, Somalia
HAWK SLUNG HIS BAG over his back and descended the steps of Blunt’s private jet. He stopped at the bottom and stared at the runway that stretched for as far as he could see. Heat haze emanated from the tarmac. Looking down at his feet, Hawk watched two beads of sweat splash to the ground.
“Welcome to Somalia,” a man said in a thick accent.
Hawk looked up to see a man smiling and offering his hand. Shaking the man’s hand, Hawk flashed a smile back before he strode toward the private hangar.
“What kind of airport is this?” Alex asked.
Hawk looked over his shoulder to see Alex’s mouth agape as she stared down the runway.
“What on earth needs a landing strip this long?” she asked, still in disbelief.
Hawk stopped. “Nothing on earth, but something landing on it does.”
“Come again?” she said as she gathered her equipment bag and hustled next to him.
Hawk resumed his walk toward the hangar. “This runway was a backup emergency landing site for the U.S. space shuttle program during the 80s. Cost the government $40 million a year just to have the privilege of renting it in case of emergency.”
“If only I’d decided to pave a three-mile stretch in the desert.”
The man who’d greeted Hawk slipped up beside him and tried to take his bag.
“Let me help you with this,” the man said.
Hawk tightened his grip on the straps. “Cool your jets, my friend. I can handle it myself.”
“Very well then,” the man said. “Right this way.”
The man gestured toward an SUV sitting near the entrance of the hangar.
“My name is Cawaale or you can just call me ‘Lucky,’” he said.
“Lucky? Now how’d you get that name?” Alex asked.
“My mother was eight months pregnant with me when our village was overrun by a group of pirates. They killed everyone except my mother, who pretended to be dead.”
“That’s quite a story, Lucky,” Hawk said as he watched Lucky lumber toward the vehicle with a pronounced limp. “What happened to your leg?”
“I was attacked by a crocodile.”
“That’s not so lucky.”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Touché.”
Hawk opened the door for Alex and then climbed in after her. Cawaale gave them a brief tour, covering a vast expanse of Berera history, from the flourishing ivory trade in the ninth century to the Russian military presence in the 1970s.
“If tourism ever becomes a thing in Berera, you need to switch jobs, Lucky,” Hawk said.
Lucky flashed a 100-watt smile at Hawk and whipped around the corner before skidding to a stop.
“We’re here,” Lucky said as he jammed the gear into park.
Hawk and Alex got out and walked up to a gated compound. The cinder block walls towered twelve feet above, providing a formidable barrier to the outside and casting long shadows to escape the scorching heat. The sounds of men shouting and yelling were mixed with scuffling and fighting. And Hawk assumed it was all coming from inside the compound.
Hawk pressed a button next to the door and waited. A few moments later, a voice crackled over the intercom.
“Please state your name and business,” a man said.
“I’m Brady Hawk, and I’m here with my assistant Alex. We’re supposed to be meeting with a John McGinn.”
“Just a moment please.”
Thirty seconds later, the gate swung open, revealing a hive of activity that was every bit and more than what Hawk imagined. Two men shuffled back and forth, battling with a pair of wooden sticks. One man hurled a grappling hook over a wall that appeared to be used for training. Two other men sparred in hand-to-hand combat simulation. Meanwhile, dust swirled about the area and almost choked Hawk. He coughed several times before he looked up to see the man he’d been waiting to see.
“You must be Brady Hawk,” the man said, offering his hand. “John McGinn.”
Hawk nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”
“And you must be Alex.”
Alex smiled and nodded before shaking McGinn’s hand.
From his shirt pocket, McGinn pulled out a new pack of cigarettes and tapped it hard against the palm of his hand. He proceeded to rip the package open, tossing the cellophane wrapping onto the ground. He fished out a cigarette and placed it loosely on his lips.
Before he lit up, McGinn offered Hawk and Alex a smoke.
Alex waved him off; Hawk scowled.
“I’ll pass,” Hawk said. “Those things will kill you.”
McGinn flicked his lighter and took a long drag. He gestured with his hand around him then exhaled a lung full of smoke.
“This is Somalia, Mr. Hawk. Lung cancer won’t kill you here. You’ll never live long enough for it to catch up with you.”
“We don’t intend on staying long,” Alex said.
“Get ready because we're going till the world stops turning while we burn it to the ground tonight,” McGinn said as he took another long drag. “Follow me. You’re going to need to get situated in our state-of-the-art secure facility.”
Alex leaned close to Hawk and whispered, “Did he just quote Nickelback?”
“God help us,” Hawk said under his breath.
They followed McGinn as he navigated through the men engaged in combat training.
“Don’t pay them any attention,” McGinn said. “They couldn’t hurt a flea.”
“Aren’t you the one supposed to be training them?” Alex asked.
“Lady, you sure do ask a lot of questions. I’d suggest you keep your mouth shut. A woman talking too much is far more detrimental to her own health than smoking ever will be. You can take that to the bank.”
“Any other nuggets of wisdom for me?” she said, chiding him.
McGinn ignored her dig. “No matter what you do, don’t ever anger the camels.”
Hawk glanced at Alex, who rolled her eyes.
“This guy’s a piece of work,” she said quietly.
“That’s one way of putting it. It’s far nicer than I would have,” Hawk whispered. “I might just have to punch his lights out before we’re through here.”
McGinn entered a set of barracks and marched through the ha
llway until he came to an open door.
“This will be your room for the next several days. Feel free to smoke in here if you like.”
Hawk furrowed his brow. “What? No private room for the lady?”
McGinn shrugged. “It’s the 21st Century. Get over it.”
Hawk, who’d grown more annoyed by McGinn’s antics by the second, rammed his forearm into McGinn’s chest and pinned him against the wall.
“I think she’d like some privacy,” Hawk said. “You think you can make that happen?”
McGinn exhaled and cut his eyes skyward. “You Millennials are so damn high maintenance, I swear.”
Hawk released him. “We aren’t anything other than highly-trained operatives who are here to bail your ass out. I suggest you quit acting put out or we’ll go get on a plane and leave you to stealing one of the most lethal gases in the world on your own.”
McGinn put up both hands in an act of surrender. “Now, now. No need to be so offended. I was just making an observation.”
“Observations are usually intelligent,” Alex quipped.
McGinn shook his head. “Follow me, Alex. I’m sure I can find you a room down this hall somewhere.”
Hawk stopped at the room next to his. He pushed the door open, revealing an unoccupied space. “This one will do.”
McGinn forced a smile and cocked his head to one side. “This one it is. Room No. 12 for the lady.”
Alex pushed her way past McGinn and threw her bag on the bed.
McGinn tugged on his ratty New England Patriots hat. “So, you and Hawk aren’t a thing?”
Hawk chuckled as he took in the scene. Alex slammed the door in McGinn’s face.
“Are you always this hospitable?” Hawk asked.
McGinn blew a lung full of smoke upward. “Hospitality isn’t really my thing. Busting people’s balls is.”
Hawk shook his head and looked at the grimy floor. “So, when are we going to put together a plan?”
“You just leave that to me.”
Alex opened the door, rejoining the conversation. “We didn’t come here to be your puppets.”
“You settled in awfully quick,” McGinn said. “Don’t you want to put your bag up? Just leave the men alone, and we’ll take care of all the logistics. You just do as you’re told. Understand?”
Brady Hawk Series, Books 4-6 Page 16