by Juno Rushdan
The mistake Castle had made earlier finally registered. He’d said Kit, dropping Miss Westcott. A small slip, but one the boss had noticed. And he didn’t like it at all.
“If I can’t use the safe house, I have no choice but to let the POI into my home.”
“Suit yourself. While she’s in your custody, use a Gray Box vehicle rather than your personal one. Get the hard drive and we’ll catch these guys. I hope your stint as a babysitter will be a cakewalk and we can celebrate with a box of macarons.”
Sounded good to him. After Castle completed a mission—each one a success—Sanborn bought a box of Olivia Macarons. A little bit of heaven in the form of a light and crispy cookie that melted in his mouth. They were addictive.
“Don’t lower your guard because she doesn’t carry a gun,” Sanborn said. “This is a person who uses a computer as a weapon and she’s just convinced you that giving her access to one is the right call. Tread with care. Above all, don’t trust her.”
Castle nodded. The Gray Box would get what they needed—he’d see to it—and in about five minutes, Kit would breathe fresh air. No black sites. No unpleasantness.
With his boss still eyeing him hard, he didn’t let relief seep in just yet.
“One more thing, Castle. If she slips through your fingers or fails to recover the hard drive as promised, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”
11
Aqaba, Jordan
12:55 p.m. EDT, 7:55 p.m. local
Wearing an indigenous hijab over her blond hair, Sierra sat behind the wheel of the team’s van in her designated position in the alley. Her weapon was within reach on the passenger’s seat—an AR-15 with built-in suppressor, sweet Geissele trigger for the lightest recoil, and .300 Blackout subsonic cartridges chambered.
They were going in quiet, prepared to pack a serious punch in close quarters. This phase of the plan was the part she’d been itching to execute.
The Islamic State—a barbaric group that also fell under the Arabic banners of ISIL, Daesh, and ISIS—was the most powerful terrorist organization on the planet. As well as one of the richest, spreading violence and its ideology like a cancer throughout the Middle East. They instilled fear and recruited other jihadis by showcasing their brutality—beheadings, crucifixions, and torture—in propaganda videos splashed across social media.
Stopping their next shipment of child brides to their so-called caliphate that encompassed swathes of Syria and Iraq would be a bonus to the primary mission of Sierra’s team. But also an immeasurable win for the young, innocent women saved tonight from a horrific fate of slavery, ritual beatings, and serial rape.
Any dent Sierra could make in hampering the depravity of those rampaging lunatics, she’d take with pleasure.
Their contact, Nasser, was an inside asset who’d managed to infiltrate the architecture of the Islamic State. He secretly worked for the GID, Saudi Arabia’s intelligence agency, and was embedded in a five-man clandestine ISIS cell. Whenever opportunities arose for Nasser to line his pockets selling information, he weighed the potential profit against the risk of betraying both the GID and ISIS.
Fortunately, Sierra’s team was paying extremely well.
“Heads up,” said Whiskey in her earpiece. “I have a Mercedes and a navy van pulling up out front. One male getting out of the van. The driver of the Mercedes is our Tango.”
Yosef Khan. A high-ranking financier and ISIS mastermind. Capturing him alive was their top priority.
“Both are going inside,” said Whiskey.
Sierra was parked in an alley adjacent to the target building, near the side door that Nasser had promised to leave unlocked, where their team would enter. She had a view of the street but couldn’t see the two vehicles mentioned.
“Our contact didn’t mention two visitors,” Yankee said over comms. “Tango travels alone. I don’t like this.”
“It might be nothing.” Sierra spoke into her mic. “In two minutes, the other guy may be gone.”
Yankee came back on. “Or it might be a setup. The target is early and those five-man cells are insulated. They don’t interact with just anyone. Nasser wasn’t expecting us to hit the place for another two hours. Maybe he decided to sell us out instead.”
“Maybe Yankee has a point,” Whiskey chimed in. “Picture four Americans featured in an Islamic State video. It wouldn’t matter that we’re freelance. It would cement Nasser’s cover to be the one responsible for our capture. Also, he already has half the money.”
Not a possibility Sierra wanted to entertain or validate. If that were the case, things were about to go sideways.
“Victor here. I’m with Sierra,” their fourth team member, who was covering another angle of the building from high up in his sniper’s nest, said. “Nasser wouldn’t take the chance that we’d burn him. Any iota of doubt, they’d kill him too.”
“I’ve got movement.” Whiskey sighed into his mic. “They’re loading the girls in the van. Seven of them. Goodness, they’re young. About the same age as my Lizzie. Thirteen years old, max.”
“What?” Sierra clutched the wheel, her chest tightening. “They’re not supposed to move them until midnight.”
“Another change in plan,” Whiskey said. “This isn’t good. Nasser is leaving with the driver of the van and the girls, but our target is still inside.”
Shit. “They could be shipping those girls sooner or changing the bed-down location.” Sierra knew her next words would be vetoed, but it didn’t stop her. “We have to follow and help those girls.”
“Negative,” Yankee said in a calm monotone. “Interdiction is not our primary objective.”
Sierra loved her husband, but sometimes she wanted to throttle him. “You know what’ll happen to them.”
“I don’t like it any more than you do.” Yankee sighed. “Don’t you think I want to save them too? We had a plan, but Nasser just took a monster crap all over it. We stay on mission. Break, break. Victor, this is Yankee. Prepare to enter the building and seal the front door so no one slips out as we breach.”
“Roger. Preparing the stick and stay,” Victor said, referring to a chemical compound he’d apply to the crevice where the front door met the jamb to seal it.
She gritted her teeth and shook her head even though no one could see her. “Yankee, this is Sierra. You can’t ask me to sit by and do nothing.”
“I’m not asking,” Yankee said. “I’m ordering. Stand down.”
The Jordanian police would intervene if they knew seven young girls were in the process of being trafficked like cattle. The plan from the start had been to notify the LEOs—law enforcement officers—right before the breach and have them ensure the safety of the girls afterward, but there was no time now.
“I’ll follow them,” Sierra said, desperate to see this through, “find out where they’re going, and let the cops intervene.”
“Damn it,” Yankee hissed over the airwaves. “The target takes priority. We won’t get another opportunity like this. Without Khan, the rest of the plan falls apart. Everything else has already been set in motion. We can’t afford to get this wrong. There’s too much riding on it.”
A navy van with two men seated up front—one was their double-crossing informant, Nasser—drove past the alley. The seven innocent girls were in the back.
“I have eyes on the vehicle. I can—”
“Follow protocol. It’s too risky,” Yankee snapped. “You don’t even speak Arabic. You can’t run after them half-cocked. What the hell are you thinking?”
What she was thinking should’ve been obvious. What if that was one of their daughters or sisters trapped in that van, about to be sold off like cattle to a terrorist? Didn’t it make them complicit when they chose not to intervene?
That’s what she was thinking. “I’m sorry, but I have to—”
“I’m inbound, S
ierra,” Whiskey said, sounding winded like he was running flat out. “Hold position.”
Hold? Wait for them to stop her? No way.
She cranked the van’s engine and punched it into drive.
Whiskey rounded the corner and ran up to the front of her vehicle, slamming his hands on the hood. “I’ll follow.” He sucked in ragged breaths.
“What?” Sierra asked, gobsmacked.
He hustled around to the driver’s side and threw his hand through the rolled-down window, grabbing her arm. “I’ll follow the van,” he said, straining for more air, “and I’ll reach out to an old contact in the Jordanian intelligence service. Although she won’t be happy to hear from me.”
Sierra would’ve asked Whiskey if he was sure, but time was running out with each passing second. Whiskey was fluent in Arabic and had a contact who could mobilize the police—even if no one was ever supposed to know they’d been in-country.
This was risky and reckless but a no-brainer. She couldn’t live with herself if those girls were shipped off and sold into slavery when she could’ve done something to prevent it.
She grabbed her weapon from the front seat, traded places with Whiskey, and gave him a nod of thanks. They’d worked together for close to a decade and the four of them were a team in every sense. In the field and on the home front.
Whiskey sped off in pursuit of the van.
Yankee and Victor ran down the back of the alley toward her, their heavy footfalls echoing off the brick walls.
Coming up beside her, Yankee glanced at the tail of the van just before it turned out of sight. He scowled down at her, his six-six frame even more imposing in the dry heat of the day and under the glare of his white-hot anger.
“There are five of them inside that building and now we’re down a man,” Yankee snapped at her, going ballistic. “We needed a full assault team.”
“It had to be done,” Sierra said. “I’m sorry. But it was the right call.” Or at least it was the only one her conscience would abide.
“No, it wasn’t. You’ve just put our entire team at risk.” Yankee got back on comms. “Whiskey, what were you thinking backing her up?”
“That she’s more stubborn than a mule and it was easier to help her than fight her.”
Yankee took a deep breath, visibly pulling from the edge of rage and falling back into collected team-leader mode. “Whiskey, geotag the van and contact the Jordanians to let them handle it. We have to breach without you.”
With the sealant on the front door, they needed to make their move now. Even if Nasser had sold them out and they were walking into a trap.
“Get back here as soon as you can. We’ll need a speedy exit once we have the package,” Yankee continued, referring to Khan.
“Roger.”
“We need to adjust the ingress plan since we’re short one.” Yankee threw her another glare. “Once we’re inside, Victor, cover the west side. Sierra, take the east and sweep upstairs. I’ll cover the north.”
They all knew the layout of the interior based on Nasser’s information. The north part of the building contained the main rooms and was likely to have the highest number of hostiles, making it the most dangerous. Two of them were supposed to cover that area.
“Let me go with you.” Sierra hadn’t calculated the risks in terms of putting her husband in the crosshairs. “The north section is too hot for one person.”
“You should’ve thought of that sooner,” Yankee said. “This was planned for four, each of us with a role. I need you to make sure no one comes down the stairs and sneaks up behind us.”
Yankee gave the hand signal to move in. Discussion over.
Victor tried the side door. The knob turned. It was unlocked as Nasser had promised. They entered a dimly lit anteroom.
There was another door. Victor pressed his palm to it and canted his head to the side. Following protocol, he was checking for heat, seeing if he detected any vibrations or picked up any sounds on the other side. Then he tested the knob. Locked.
“Shit,” Victor said, throwing the sling of his AR-15 over his arm. He whipped out a lockpicking kit from the cargo pocket on the side of his pants and got to work.
She glanced at Yankee and suspected he was thinking the same thing as her. Had Nasser tipped off the cell? What was waiting for them on the other side of that door? Were they walking straight into a trap?
Victor gave them a thumbs-up, signaling he’d picked the locks.
It would be radio silence from here on out until one of them located Yosef Khan.
Victor opened the door slowly. The low creak grated on her ears. Her adrenaline spiked. They all hesitated, waiting for any reaction to the noise from someone inside.
Nothing.
Weapons at the ready, they swept in using extreme caution. There was no hit squad waiting for them, no booby traps along the floor or walls from what they could tell.
Yankee nodded and gave the sign to advance. They all peeled off in their assigned directions.
Chatter came from the northside rooms, at least three male voices, making her pulse kick up. Yankee was sharp and one of the best. He can handle it.
Sierra cleared one small room that had prayer rugs on the floor and continued down the corridor.
Shouting and gunfire rang out from the front rooms. No silencers. The enemy was engaging Yankee. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back and help him, but the last thing they needed was for any tangoes to get the drop on them from behind.
A toilet flushed and a door opened four feet in front of her. A man stepped into the hallway.
Khan. It was Yosef Khan. The man they’d flown halfway across the world to find.
He spun on his heel and bolted up the stairs.
Sierra keyed her radio. “Eyes on target.” She took off after him up the dark stairwell, running the steps two at a time. She was in peak physical condition, ran marathons, had honed her body with lean muscle, and did stadium stairs for fun. The one thing she knew for certain was that he couldn’t outrun her.
More gunfire came from below.
“This is Yankee. I’m pinned down. Victor, go assist.”
“Just took out one in the kitchen. I’m on it.”
Khan bypassed the bedrooms on the second and third floor and took the stairs to the roof. The adjacent buildings weren’t close enough for him to leap to the next one, but he might get desperate and try jumping for the dumpster at the rear of the building. The fall wouldn’t kill him, and if he landed just right, he’d even walk away unscathed.
Khan burst through the roof door, letting in the last of the fading sunlight. Sierra climbed the last of the steps, reaching the top, and raced outside.
No sign of Khan.
The outbuilding on the roof that sheltered the stairway blocked her view in the other direction. She whipped around the outbuilding. Something hard struck her in the abdomen, knocking the breath from her lungs. She backpedaled, avoiding another blow.
Khan held a wooden two-by-four, wielding it like a baseball bat. His next swing went for her head. She ducked and rolled, barely missing a third strike that landed on the concrete rooftop. Spinning upright onto one knee, she aimed the gun right between his eyes. Instinct and training. But they needed Khan alive.
She refocused on his shoulder. “Drop it or I’ll put a bullet in you.”
Khan didn’t know they couldn’t kill him. He tossed the piece of wood to the side as Victor charged out onto the roof. He came up behind Khan, stuck him with a hypodermic needle, and depressed the plunger. One, two, three seconds—the target’s knees buckled, but Victor caught him.
An explosion rocked the bottom floor.
Sierra’s stomach corkscrewed in panic. “Yankee, tell me that was you,” she said over comms.
Silence.
“Yankee?” She lurched forward, her he
art in her throat. “Respond.” What if something happened to him because she’d separated the team and left him without backup?
What if…no.
No. No. She wouldn’t think it. Couldn’t think it. Her husband was okay. He has to be.
She gave Victor a frantic glance.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” he said, sounding as uncertain as she felt.
The airwaves crackled. “This is Yankee. All tangoes down here have been neutralized.”
Her lungs opened and she drew in a relieved breath. Thank God. “Are you all right?” she asked in her mic.
“Bruised ribs. I’ll live.”
“We have the package.” She glanced at Khan, who was out cold. “Ready for delivery.”
“Let’s get him downstairs,” Victor said.
With a nod, she sprang into action, throwing one of Khan’s arms over her shoulder.
“Whiskey here. The Jordanians are on top of the other situation. Local law enforcement is following the van, and an intelligence team is inbound via helicopter. But we’ve got to get the hell out of country stat. An old acquaintance isn’t happy I’m here and has a lot of questions that could stir up big trouble for us in little Jordan. My ETA to you guys, two mikes.”
In two minutes, they’d be downstairs, ready to rock and roll.
“The boat is waiting to take us to the exfil point,” Yankee said. “Let’s hustle, people. I want us airborne in two hours.”
12
Reston, Virginia
1:27 p.m. EDT
“We’re here,” Castle said, bringing the vehicle to a stop.
Kit removed her blindfold—no hood this time—and held a palm up to her eyes, squinting to let them adjust to the light. “Thanks for not tying my hands.”
“Thanks for keeping the blindfold on and not forcing me to.”
The NDAs she’d signed were one level of protection. Keeping her ignorant of the Gray Box’s exact location was a second Sanborn had apparently insisted on.