In the backyard, we moved stealthily around the side of the house before pausing at the side gate which was wide open. A sedan was parked at the curb, which wasn’t there when we arrived. Lights blinked on from the houses across the street.
“Move together,” Laney whispered.
Beneath the street-lights, we moved toward the Jeep. A single shot rang out, shattering the side window of the vehicle, causing us to hit the ground for cover. From the impact it could only be one thing — a sniper. Another shot hit the Jeep, leaving a steady stream of gasoline pouring onto the concrete. Staying where we were was suicide.
Laney was the first to reach the SUV as a steady trigger of bullets struck all around us. Once she started the engine, I grabbed Sarina and dove into the backseat using my body as a shield. Tires screeched as the SUV lunged forward, swerving down the street. One last shot shattered the rear window before we escaped.
“Russell, we’re clear,” Laney yelled.
Vaughn’s voice cut through the speakers. “All three of you?”
“Yeah, there are two down in the house. Sniper somewhere close.”
“I’ll let Scottsdale PD and our guys know. Any idea who they were?”
“We didn’t stick around to ask.” I pulled myself off of Sarina, who slid over to one side of the SUV. “I don’t think they were expecting us to fire back.”
“We’ll work on identifying them and see if we can track the sniper.”
“Call you when we land.” Laney disconnected the call. “That was too close.”
As if speaking only to herself, Sarina said, “They know the truth.”
We rode in silence, with only the desert winds blowing through the shattered windows. Twenty minutes later, Sarina walked into the Phoenix Greyhound Station and was gone.
FIFTY-TWO
On the flight back to Van Nuys, adrenaline subsided, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Truth was, I never expected Laney to drop Sarina at the bus station. She was the only one connected to Fatima, and the only person who could convince Akram to cooperate. I had to admit it took courage for Laney to make that choice knowing what was at stake.
Beaten and bruised, we stepped off the jet onto the tarmac surviving another landmine. Elena greeted me at the hangar, avoided small talk with Laney, while her Russian bodyguards loaded a half dozen suitcases into the cargo hold.
“I have given McIntyre your cell,” she said. “Now we must wait.”
With that, Elena was airborne before I slipped behind the wheel of the Mercedes with Laney in the passenger seat.
At this time of the morning, traffic was heavier than normal due to the President’s anticipated arrival. It was re-election season, which meant campaign fundraisers across the Southland with Hollywood’s elite, Silicon Beach moguls, and the one percent most of America never heard about — the puppeteers who controlled the strings of their party’s marionette.
Avoiding the freeway, I cut through Burbank, Glendale, and Eagle Rock. On the drive, we didn’t talk about Fatima, Kasim, Tama, or the men left dead in Scottsdale. We both needed to catch our breath, get our bearings, and summon the resolve to press on. It was strange how quickly my reflexes reverted to the streets of the Middle East. After two years immersed in the family business, I thought I’d never face those days again — when bullets flew and lives were held in the balance. Now the terror that lurked on the streets of Mosul was on American soil.
Am I willing to return to my old life? Remember what happened last time, Chase.
Pushing my inner voice aside, I imagined Sarina on a bus headed deep into the Heartland. She was free from her past while I was being sucked back in.
“You did a good thing for Sarina,” I said.
“She wouldn’t have been any help with breaking Kasim.” Laney rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Besides, she deserved a second chance.”
My cell buzzed with a text: 37.2358° N, 121.9624° W
“Marcus broke the code,” I said to Laney. “He’s got a location.”
“Text me the coordinates.”
I forwarded the text to her cell.
We fell silent again with only the occasional directions from her, which led to an empty warehouse a few blocks away from where I’d stored the cars at the garage — where Sleepy died. To think the Feds were this close the whole time.
I followed Laney as she walked across the warehouse to a brick wall. She pressed her palm against a metal electrical box and the bricks separated. We rode a freight elevator below ground until it stopped and the wooden slats lifted.
“You’re alive.” Dax high-fived me. “It’s all over the news.”
Vaughn stepped forward. “Laney, we need to speak privately.”
At first it was too much to take in. People milled about, working on computers, huddled in glass-walled offices, and over it all, a massive screened wall with live news feeds, street cameras, and photos of the four horsemen, Akram, Fatima, and an empty box labeled Tama Fatima.
“We were wrong about Sarina,” I said to Dax. “She wasn’t cheating on Fatima.”
“That’s what I heard. He’s got a frickin’ sister.”
“Did you find anything on the hard drive?”
“Nah, man, I handed it over to one of their analysts.” He nodded toward a woman in the middle of the hub, whose face glowed from her computer screen. “Her name’s Yasmin. She’s badass, bro. I couldn’t keep up with her. A couple of hours and she’s already organized and sorted through most of what took us two years to put together.”
“Did you say anything about the malware?” I asked in a lowered voice. He shook his head. “Laney knows about it, but she’ll keep it between us.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Laney and Vaughn were inside a glass office. While we couldn’t hear the conversation, their body language spoke volumes. Vaughn crossed his arms. Laney pointed her finger at me. He slammed a stack of files onto a desk, leaving papers floating to the floor. It was clear they were at odds, something I guessed had been brewing for months. When he picked up the phone, my eyes shot towards the analyst, Yasmin, who pushed back from her desk and headed toward the office.
Walking across the hub, between the steady rhythm of surveillance, I reached the door at the same time as she did. With her head tilted she looked at me as I pushed the door open. Once she entered, I followed to the surprise of Laney and Vaughn.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Vaughn’s brows furrowed, his lips pursed. “Have a seat — the three of you.”
We each found a chair while Vaughn sat on the edge of his desk. “What happened this morning is unprecedented and unacceptable,” he began. “We can’t have civilians out there killing people.” Bullseye was on me. “Chase, I need to apologize for putting you in this situation, but it ends now.”
“What does that mean?” I asked with a sense of urgency.
“You and Mr. Thompson are free to go.” Vaughn shot a look at Laney whose eyes were directed toward the floor. “You have delivered on your end of the deal and given us the name we’ve been searching for — Abu Haji Fatima — who we now know is alive and on US soil.” Vaughn pointed through the glass at the massive screen in the hub where a reporter stood in the Scottsdale neighborhood, which had been blocked off by the Feds. “However, now everyone believes there’s a terrorist living next door.”
“Russell…” Laney paused. “We did the right thing.”
“Our only leverage with Kasim is in the wind,” he argued.
“Maybe you should be asking who it is within our government that is one step ahead of you,” I said matter of factly. “Someone on your side is helping Fatima.”
Vaughn turned to Yasmin. “Have you found anything on Fatima or Tama?”
“In the last two years, all we have are possible cells connected to Fatima spread out in various countries. Before his believed death and disappearance, there were no sightings of him or evidence of Tama’s existence found in our database, Agency’s intel
ligence reports, or the hard drive provided to us.”
“So, the only evidence is the photo,” Vaughn pointed out. “Which is open to interpretation. If we believe Sarina, then a sister exists. But if she was lying to protect herself, then we’re chasing after someone who doesn’t exist.”
“Then we keep our eyes on Abu Haji Fatima,” Laney said, before turning toward me. “I told them about the video and the coordinates.”
“Our mapping system shows a ten-acre property in Los Gatos,” Yasmin added. “Records indicate it is owned by an offshore company, Red Venture Group.”
“When are we going” I asked, ready to get back in the fight.
“Chase, you’ve given Laney your weapon?” Vaughn asked. I nodded. “Very well, Laney will escort you and Mr. Thompson out of the facility.”
I contended forcefully, “Don’t shut me out now.”
“You need to step aside and let us take control.”
Laney, Yasmin, and I left the office. I was pissed. Dax walked over and knew from the look in my eyes that it wasn’t good. No words were said until we stepped onto the freight elevator.
“Chase, it’s out of my hands,” Laney said, defeated. “Russell is the lead now.”
“You did what you could,” I answered.
Her eyes never left the wooden slats. “You need to step away.”
From the corner of my eye, I noticed the camera. “Maybe you’re right.”
Laney left us in the empty warehouse. I tossed Dax the keys and climbed into the Mercedes. We exited onto the city streets, and once we were clear of the black site, sure we were alone, Dax broke his silence.
“So that’s it, we’re done?”
“Not a chance.”
FIFTY-THREE
THE BEVERLY HILTON
The LAPD motorcycle officers led the motorcade with flashing lights and sirens. Along the Secret Service route that was mapped out weeks earlier, freeways were emptied and street intersections blocked. Blacked-out windowed SUVs drove in front and behind the Beast — the President’s rolling fortress. Heavy-duty chassis, five-inch-thick bulletproof windows, Kevlar reinforced run-flats, gas cannons, night-vision cameras, and military-grade armor weighing an estimated 20,000 pounds.
Arriving at a back entrance to the hotel, the motorcade was met by more Secret Service agents, along with snipers perched atop the surrounding buildings. In the lobby, press and international media were being cleared before gaining entrance to the exhibit room. Reporters, cameramen, online bloggers and writers, all had a sense of anticipation to witness the Artifacts of Exile on display — 3,500-year-old Jewish manuscripts from Babylon, Harp of Ur, Warka, and most valuable, Bassetki.
President David Bouchard strode through a restaurant kitchen toward a private elevator with direct access to the Presidential Suite. Late forties. Charismatic. Disarming. Glinting emerald eyes. Chiseled slender physique. He looked like a Hollywood actor straight out of Central Casting. Alongside President Bouchard, his chief of staff, Simon Adams, kept stride.
“Agent Kelly pursued a lead to the attack in Hollywood,” Adams said. “It’s still a bit unclear who she was after, but my sources within the Bureau are saying it was one of Abu Haji Fatima’s wives, Sarina.”
Bouchard stopped, keeping his stoic persona. “We’ve identified the others?”
“Abdul Bashar. Sami Abboud. Omar Hadid. Fareed Khalid. Known within our intelligence circles as the four horsemen, they were all killed at the club by Agent Kelley. All are connected to Fatima’s network.”
“Akram Kasim is still at the black site?”
Adams nodded as they stepped into the elevator and waited for the doors to close. “Agents Kelley and Vaughn requested more time and I agreed.”
“What do we know about Fatima’s wife?”
“After Fatima was killed at the compound, she disappeared in the wind.” A text buzzed on Adams’ cell. “Mr. President, were you aware Fatima had a sister?”
“Reach out to Randall for a face to face.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into a luxurious suite with Secret Service stationed in strategic corners. A director’s chair was set in the middle of the room in front of a lighted mirror. Bouchard slipped into the chair, as he’d done numerous times before, and a woman applied makeup to hide the crow’s feet, then styled his hair so it stayed perfectly in place.
Minutes later, Bouchard entered through double doors into a large living room where a film crew waited. Cameras. Lighting. Audio. Two chairs faced one another. He made sure to personally greet each crew member with a firm handshake and a disarming smile. Before he turned his attention to the reporter, he already had the votes of everyone else in the room.
“Ms. Reyes, thank you for putting this together on such short notice.”
“I’m honored to be asked, Mr. President.”
“I must say, I’m so impressed with your work on Siatembo.”
“I’m thankful I was able to share the story.”
Angela Reyes, a rising reporter, broke the story of Africa’s most notorious human trafficker, Ali Siatembo. Her firsthand account of the hunt for Siatembo was compelling, and managed to go viral with millions of millennials who were passionate about ending slavery worldwide. Bouchard’s decision to choose Reyes wasn’t by chance, but the demographic that religiously followed her blog. Gaining their support would make or break his re-election campaign.
“I’m assuming we helped supply the pertinent questions?” Bouchard asked.
Reyes smiled. “Of course. I’ve added several more, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Bouchard smiled back. “I’m an open book.”
Bouchard waited for Reyes to sit, then adjusted his tie and wiped the palms of his hands on his pants. A producer nodded to the crew and the red camera lights blinked. He pointed to Reyes and counted down. 3, 2, 1….
“Mr. President, thank you for allowing us this time.”
“Angela, it’s my pleasure. You know we were talking off camera about your work in the fight against human trafficking. I must tell you, I find it extremely inspiring and admirable. As you know, it is a fight we must win here at home as well.”
“We can agree on that, Mr. President.” Reyes checked her notes. “Let’s begin with your trip here to Los Angeles to raise support for your re-election campaign—”
“And to reunite the Artifacts of Exile,” Bouchard interrupted. “A piece of Iraq’s history missing since Operation Freedom. It is my honor to return them to Baghdad’s National Museum of Iraq.” Bouchard leaned forward, attempting to hijack the interview from Reyes before it was derailed. “My administration made a promise to the Iraqi people that we would go to great measures to find stolen artifacts, many of which were sold on the black market to fund terrorism. I believe our efforts to secure the Artifacts of Exile is proof of our resolve to continue to build a strong alliance.”
“Along those lines,” Reyes volleyed. “You have yet to speak publicly about the terrorist attack here in Los Angeles.”
Bouchard knew she was young, but she was a pro. No intimidation. And so far, she hadn’t asked any of the questions provided by his press secretary.
“The FBI has publicly provided the identity of one of the terrorists,” Bouchard said, knowing he needed to convey authority. “His name is Akram Kasim.”
“My sources have confirmed his known allegiance and connection to Abu Haji Fatima. Is that true?”
Bouchard leaned back in his chair, his hands pressed firmly into his thighs. “As I’m sure you are well aware, this is an ongoing investigation with many moving pieces. We are still identifying the other terrorists who were neutralized by the FBI, and we are confirming their connection to Abu Haji Fatima, who was killed by Special Forces two years ago. However, I can tell you that Akram Kasim was one of Fatima’s generals, who has been on the run since Fatima’s militia was dismantled.”
“How did these men enter our country?”
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“That is a question we hope to… we will answer.” Bouchard glanced off camera at Adams, who was as stiff as a corpse. “I’ve pressed Congress and the Senate to put their differences aside and pass a bi-partisan bill to increase the security at our borders. We can’t sit back and wait for another attack to occur. We must strengthen our borders, and if that means building a wall, then we need to be acting now.”
“So, you believe a wall is the answer?”
“Well, sitting around singing ‘Kumbaya’ and hoping that we love terrorists into submission is a fairytale. These kinds of individuals understand one thing — and if we do not choose to fight fire with fire, there is a greater threat that they will attempt to burn our nation down.”
“You built your previous campaign around border security, and you’ve spoken often about securing our cities from lone-wolf attacks,” Reyes pointed out, “yet we’ve seen as recently as this morning how that hasn’t stopped a sniper from terrorizing a neighborhood in Scottsdale.”
Bouchard’s eyes flared. “I have instructed all of our agencies to use their full resources to get to the bottom of what occurred in Scottsdale and bring the sniper to justice. We cannot continue to allow these types of attacks, whether it be at concerts, schools, public spaces, or the privacy of our own homes.”
“Will this be one of your campaign promises for a second term?”
“Angela, it will be one of many.” Bouchard rallied a counterpunch. “The fight against terrorism is one that we will continue to fight in the shadows abroad and on our own soil. I’m not going to tell them when we’re coming, or how close we’re getting, like previous administrations. But I will assure you, and the American people, that we will find those like Abu Haji Fatima, who pose a significant threat to us, and we will stop their reign of terror on the world.”
“Mr. President, have you changed your stance on gun control during your first-term?”
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