by David Spell
There did not appear to be anyone following and he pulled behind a strip mall, tossing the hoodie and ball cap into a dumpster. Now, wearing a green Eagles t-shirt and jeans, the terrorist took a moment to compose himself. That had not played out as he’d wished. He had definitely planned on killing the agent but had also hoped to get more information out of him first. He needed to know how they had found him. Maybe the folder that was now in his backpack would have some info in it about what the FBI knew about Musa Khan.
Did I screw up or had have I been betrayed? he wondered, maneuvering his vehicle onto I-76 southbound. The former intelligence agent’s mind quickly sorted through all of the possibilities. The only person who knew of his safehouse in Philadelphia was Imam Shaheed Ali. None of his recruits had ever been brought there, Khan always preferring to meet in their homes or apartments.
No, it had to be Ali, he thought angrily. I will have to pay the imam a visit very soon and find out if he betrayed me or if he’s just a fool. Either way, it will be a very unpleasant conversation for Shaheed.
For now, he was heading to Trenton, New Jersey. There he had rented a rundown apartment several blocks away from the Islamic Center of Trenton. Khan felt certain that the location was still safe, but he would know soon enough.
Bashir Campaign Headquarters, Detroit, Monday, 1515 hours
Amari Roberts was adding the finishing touches to a thank you note for one of Saleem’s biggest contributors. There was a small stack of similar letters on the campaign manager’s desk. The tone in the work area outside his office suddenly got louder with excitement, letting him know that Bashir had arrived. The candidate took a few minutes to shake hands and pose for selfies with many of the volunteers.
Eventually, the smiling presidential candidate followed two of his Secret Service detail into Amari’s office. The men shook hands and Saleem asked the bodyguards to wait outside the office, closing the door behind them.
“How are we looking, Amari?” Saleem asked, seating himself in front of his campaign manager’s desk.
Roberts pulled a chair up next to Bashir, laying the thank you letters next to his friend and handing him a pen. As Saleem signed, Amari spoke softly.
“On the Republican side, we have a slight lead over President Asher. On the Democratic side, you and Wilson are dead-even with the convention coming up in less than a month. The first dirt we dropped hurt him, but he’s still clinging to his story that he had a momentary indiscretion. He said that he had already asked his wife for forgiveness and was moving on, putting his personal life back in order.
“I think now would be a good time to drop the second bombshell about how he likes to be dominated. Sterling even sent me a picture of the woman, dressed in leather and holding a whip. I was going to get the info to my source at MSNBC tomorrow morning so that it could dominate the rest of the week and carry over into the weekend. Let’s crank up the heat and see if we can knock him out and then cruise into the convention.”
Saleem looked up from the thank you notes with a slight smile. “Very good, Amari. I knew that you would handle this correctly. Do you think that this will put him out of the race?”
The campaign manager shrugged. “Probably. I think that now’s the time to go for the kill. If he doesn’t drop out immediately, I’ll send the third ‘anonymous’ tip to my source. This one will be a letter and an audio recording from the prostitute saying that the governor is a liar and hypocrite. She’ll allege that the two have had on ongoing relationship for three years, starting when she was just eighteen years of age. She’ll offer to go on camera to be interviewed.”
“Very impressive,” Bashir nodded. “How much will that cost us?”
“Fifty-thousand dollars. We’ll have to be very careful in how we pay her. There can be no trail back to us.”
“No problem. I have someone who can take care of that for us.”
Roberts looked confused. “I don’t want you getting involved at all, Saleem. I’ll figure something out.”
Bashir smiled again. “No problem at all. I’ll have someone contact you if the governor doesn’t drop out. My friend can be the go-between, setting everything up for her interview and getting the audio that you mentioned. It would probably be best to pay her in cash. You get the money together and he’ll take care of everything.”
“Who is this friend?”
“Let’s just say that he’s very good at solving problems and providing creative solutions to some of the challenges that come up in a campaign like ours.”
Amari did not like getting cryptic answers from his boss. He also disliked the idea of shadowy people hanging around Saleem. At the same time, he knew that Bashir was his own man and would only tell his campaign manager what he wanted him to know.
The candidate saw the concern on the manager’s face. “It’ll be fine, Amari. He’s very discreet and will be the perfect one to handle this so that it doesn’t get traced back to us.”
The two men spoke for another fifteen minutes, discussing poll numbers and the upcoming convention. Finally, Saleem stood to leave.
“I’ll have my friend contact you this week. He prefers to stay anonymous so don’t worry about his name. He’ll be available if needed.”
After Bashir left, Roberts seated himself at his desk, lost in thought. Why did he feel so uncomfortable about Saleem’s mystery friend?
Reston, Virginia, Wednesday, 2005 hours
Chuck answered the door holding baby Ray. Thomas was surprised to see the big man playing dad.
“Hey, Burns, come on in. This is Raymond. It’s almost his bedtime, but he wanted to hang with the guys for a little while.”
McCain led the FBI agent into the living room where Clark sat chatting with Beth.
“This is my wife, Elizabeth,” Chuck said. “Babe, this is Thomas Burns. He’s one of the bigwigs at the FBI.”
“Nice to meet you, Agent Burns,” Mrs. McCain smiled.
“And, very nice to meet you, ma’am,” Thomas nodded, trying not to stare at the attractive young woman.
Several years earlier, around the time the bio-terror weapon had been released, Burns had suspected that Chuck and his boss with CDC Enforcement were in love. Rebecca Johnson had recruited the former SWAT cop, but she had been killed in a shootout with one of the key Iranian terrorists after he had deployed the zombie virus on the University of Georgia campus during their home-opener football game.
At the time, Thomas was the FBI Agent in Charge of the Atlanta office, working closely with the CDC in an effort to track down and stop the terrorists. He had seen Chuck just hours after Rebecca had been killed, heartbreak etched across the big man’s face. When and where had he met this gorgeous young gal? Burns wondered.
“Beth is the PA for the head of the CDC,” McCain commented. “He loves her and couldn’t do without her when we moved up here so she works remotely.”
“I imagine that’s quite a workload, Mrs. McCain.”
She smiled again. “Please call me Elizabeth. It is, but Dr. Martin is a good boss. I’m blessed.”
“Is that where you met this guy? At the CDC?” Thomas asked, pointing his thumb at Chuck.
This time Beth giggled. “No, not hardly. That’ll have to be a story for another day, Agent Burns.”
As the men seated themselves Elizabeth disappeared into the kitchen, returning with three cold bottles of beer which she handed out to the three men before taking the baby from Chuck.
“I need to get him to bed. Help yourselves to beer or whatever in the kitchen,” she said, leaning down to kiss her husband and to let him kiss little Ray before disappearing to the other end of the apartment.
Kevin and Chuck tried not stare at Thomas but his appearance told his companions volumes. The senior FBI agent had bags under his bloodshot eyes and his suit was rumpled. Obviously, there was something going on at the Bureau.
Burns reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and withdrew a four by six photograph, handing it across the coffee table.
Kevin and Chuck glanced at the handsome African-American staring at the camera, the hint of a smile on his face.
“Who’s he?” McCain asked, taking a long swallow of beer.
Burns sighed. “Special Agent Barry Towers. He was assigned to me. A really good kid.”
“Was assigned to you?” Kevin queried. “Where is he now?”
“He’s dead. That bastard, Musa Khan, murdered him on Monday in Philadelphia.”
McCain and Clark looked back at the picture of the young man in what was probably the photo taken for his FBI ID card. After a few moments, Chuck handed the picture back.
“Sorry, Burns. I know what you’re going through and it sucks.”
Thomas looked at both men, making eye contact with each of them. He saw compassion and understanding there. It was clear that his companions had also lost people before and really did know what he was feeling. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes before the fed finally cleared his throat and wiped his eyes.
Burns shared with his friends all that he knew of Towers’ murder. Normally, Thomas would never share any aspects of an active FBI investigation with outsiders. At the same time, he knew that both McCain and Clark had extensive backgrounds in tracking down terrorists. Even though they weren’t currently employed by the CIA or a law enforcement agency, that did not alter the fact that they might be able to offer some insight. After giving a synopsis of the investigation, the FBI agent leaned back in his seat, pausing to a take a drink from his bottle.
“McCain, you and your men tracked down and arrested or killed a lot of terrorists after the virus was released. Colonel, I don’t know you as well, but I’m sure you also have a lot of expertise in the field. Do you guys have any thoughts on what we might be missing? This bastard is slippery and seems to have dropped off the face of the planet. We’ve got nothing. Just a dead FBI agent and the killer’s prints all over the scene.”
“What did CSI find when they ripped apart the house?” Chuck asked.
“Nothing to speak of,” Thomas answered. “I mean Khan’s fingerprints and DNA were there. Some clothes. Some food in the refrigerator. But that was it. It really didn’t look like he’d spent a lot of time there.”
“Well,” McCain said, “your informant said that Khan was setting up a cell in Philadelphia so this guy has his fingers in a lot of bad stuff. I wonder if he’s setting up cells in other cities, as well? I can’t imagine anyone wanting to live in Philly. I can understand wanting to blow it up, but not living there. At the same time, there’s a lot of historical stuff in the city that I could see terrorists going after. From what you said about the location not looking lived in, it sounds like this was just a safehouse.”
“That’s right,” Kevin spoke up. “Plus, look at where he was at. He’s just a short walk from that mosque. I wonder if that’s his pattern? Pick a mosque to work through and rent a safehouse nearby? I’d probably expand my search to the other big cities within driving distance.”
“That makes sense,” Burns said. “We’ve been mainly focusing our efforts in Philly. There’s also an imam we’re looking for. He’s based at that mosque near Khan’s place and they’ve evidently been spending some time together. Now, he’s dropped out of sight, as well. For all we know, he’s with Khan. His prints were in the house, too, so he’s either an accessory or a witness.”
After discussing the case in detail, Thomas changed the subject, asking what kind of training courses Century Tactical Solutions was providing. The murder of Agent Towers had put an exclamation point on Burns’ plan to provide more and better tactical training for the nine hundred agents assigned to the CT Directorate. They were supposed to have fifteen hundred agents in counter-terrorism but were still rebuilding after the zombie virus had depleted the ranks.
“What I’m thinking is a one-day tactical refresher. With nine hundred agents, I think that is the best we can do right now. Most of these guys and gals are not former LE or military and anything you can do to sharpen them up would be great. I’ve gotten the money approved and you can use our range. Are you guys up to it?”
Chuck and Kevin glanced at each other, smiling.
“Oh, we’re up to it,” McCain answered, enthusiastically. “Thankfully, we’ve got an excellent network of contractors. You know most of them. A couple of SEALs, two MARSOC guys, Rangers, and even a couple of SWAT cops. There are several others that we can bring in if we need to. Everyone that we would use is battle-tested and a top-notch instructor.”
Thomas considered what he had heard. “What about that really big guy with the beard? What’s his name? Smith? That’s one scary guy. Is he one of your contractors?”
Clark chuckled. “He is scary and, yes, we’d use him. Scotty’s actually an excellent instructor. I was his CO in Iraq and we did some training for their military. He had more patience than I would have had trying teach those clowns anything. Your agents will love him.”
The FBI agent nodded. “If you say so. Why don’t you guys put a contract together and email it to me as soon as you can? This is a lot of money and I’d like to get it locked in before somebody above me decides to change their minds.”
Thirty minutes later, after Burns had left, Clark and McCain clinked their beer bottles together, grins breaking out on their faces.
“Can you believe that?” Chuck asked.
“No, I can’t,” Kevin shook his head. “One hundred and fifty grand. Not bad at all. We need to get that contract signed this week!”
They had agreed to allow Burns pull in another hundred agents from wherever he saw fit to give them a total of one thousand whom they would train over the next four months. The FBI would pay the discounted rate of one hundred and fifty dollars per agent and would allow the Century Tactical Solutions to use the Bureau’s firing range at their HQ.
“For sure,” McCain agreed. “This gets our foot in the door with the feds, puts some money in the coffers, and will let us keep some of the other guys busy.”
Atlanta, Georgia, Thursday, 2130 hours
Juan Guerra was panting with exertion, standing in front of the bloody figure in front of him. Marcelo ‘El Loco’ Martinez didn’t look so crazy right now, his motionless nude form strapped to the wooden chair in the middle of the basement. His chin lay against his chest, blood pouring from multiple lacerations on his face and skull. Twenty other members of the Atlanta chapter of the Nueva Generación Cartel stood in a circle, silently observing the spectacle in front of them. The head gangster wore his trademark white singlet, flecked with blood and sweat, along with baggy jeans. Instead of long hair, however, he now sported a shaved skull. A freshly inked “NG” was tattooed across the top of his head.
“You think you can steal from your own family, you piece of shit?” Juan screamed, his face inches away from the battered man.
The gangster slammed another right hand into Marcelo’s head. Guerra spat in El Loco’s face and reached over to the small table against the wall, grabbing an open shoe box. He threw it into the chest of Martinez, the green currency fluttering into the air.
“Was it worth it, El Loco? Huh? Was it worth it?” the gangster yelled again, this time grabbing a handful of hair, pulling back so that he could peer into the unresponsive man’s swollen eyes.
Pablo Cortes watched with horror as Guerra beat his lieutenant and right-hand man senseless. Marcelo’s face was unrecognizable: both eyes damaged, his nose crushed and flattened against his face, most of his teeth cracked, shattered, or knocked out. Juan wasn’t just roughing up Martinez, he was punishing him, making him an example to everyone. The brass knuckles that Guerra wore on both hands had rendered the man unconscious, possibly even dead.
Cortes felt his stomach getting queasy, wondering if he was next. He’d known that El Loco had been skimming money off their profits from drugs and prostitution. Pablo had never confronted his subordinate because, if he was honest with himself, he’d been scared of him. Even though Cortes had been the leader of the New Generation Cartel in Atlant
a, he hated confrontation and especially hated violence.
Cartel head Vincente Villarreal was Pablo’s cousin. He suspected that Vincente had sent him to Atlanta to give him a chance to prove himself. After almost a year, his cousin had decided that he had made a mistake, sending Juan to replace him. Guerra had shown up a few weeks earlier with some of his men from DC. Tito the midget, Daniel Guzmán, and Reinaldo Rodriguez would be the new leadership team for the NG in Atlanta.
Juan had not rushed into making any changes, watching Cortes and Martinez for several weeks, trying to decide how they could still be utilized. Pablo had tried to warn Marcelo that he needed to watch himself or he would be on the receiving end of Guerra’s wrath. After a month, though, things had come to a head.
Guerra had suspected that El Loco was snorting cocaine throughout the day. After several of their dealers’ payments had been short, Guzmán and Rodriguez had confronted them, each dealer saying the same thing. The amount of cocaine that they were given to sell was always less than it should be when Marcelo delivered it. The dealers also suspected that Martinez was skimming some of the profits as well, judging by the wad of cash that the gangster was always waving around.
For the moment, Juan had decided to give the drug dealers the benefit of the doubt. They all understood that stealing from the cartel was a death sentence. Guerra decided to have a talk with Cortes. Pablo had dreaded this moment, knowing that he should have dealt with El Loco himself. Now, he was complicit in the other man’s crime.
Cortes admitted to Guerra that he suspected his lieutenant had been stealing from the gang but had not been able to prove it. Pablo saw the anger and disgust in Juan’s eyes. Cortes never saw the strike coming. Guerra’s open right hand had caught him flush across the face, sending him to his knees with blood dripping from his busted lip.