by Tracy Brody
“Not cool if you live here.” Jody chewed on his lower lip.
“True,” he agreed.
“The sisters have two dogs. But the only danger from their yappy little fluffball would be to your ears. And Logan, their Lab, would retrieve their backpack and return it for a pat on the head.”
“No other attack dogs you can use? Guess you’re out of luck.”
“There are lots of dogs on the street. Mostly inside ones, though.”
That was good to know. The breeds that scared most people didn’t bother Tony as much as noisy little dogs, which posed more of a threat to a covert mission. He finished the text message to “Mandy” and hit send.
His phone vibrated a minute later. The message acknowledged his warning about the presence of dogs and asked if the party might break up soon.
Not likely, he replied. He shouldn’t have brought so much beer.
Stay as long as you can fly under radar, read Lundgren’s response.
“Did she give you the right address, or is she pissed?” Jody asked.
“I’m off the hook. A coworker didn’t show, so now she’s pulling a double shift. She feels bad for ditching out, and I didn’t have to fess up.” He tossed the beer bottle into the nearby can. “Guess I’ll head out.”
“No need to rush off. Have another beer.”
Bingo. An official invite to the party.
For the next half hour, Tony did his best to bluff about his “acting career.” He diverted attention by asking Jody questions about his roles as an extra, and they’d attracted a small group at the edge of the yard by the time he picked out Dita leading Hightower down the road. From the opposite end of the street, Porter meandered their way.
Tony positioned himself to face the target house when the white van turned the corner and cruised down the street.
When the firecrackers started going off, Dita began barking. Tony refrained from turning toward the source of the noise with the other partiers.
Before the van reached the suspects’ house, it slowed to a crawl. It didn’t stop, but three shadowed figures darted from the side door and crossed the sidewalk. The first figure, which had to be Rozanski, took hold of a low limb on the tree in the neighbor’s front yard and vanished into the foliage. The other two disappeared around the side of the adjacent house. Mack stared straight ahead as he drove the van past the party.
The fireworks, followed by Porter and Hightower’s shouting and Dita running free, held the attention of everyone in Tony’s field of vision. All clear.
“Police.”
Police? Tony’s head whipped left. Albert was on his phone, watching the escalating conflict between Hightower and Porter. Shit! Tony snatched the phone out of Albert’s hand.
“Excuse me. What do you think you’re doing?” Albert blustered.
“9-1-1. Where is your emergency?” the operator asked. Tony’s mind whirled, and his blood pressure shot up a thousand points.
He stepped back out of Albert’s reach, using his height and bulk to keep control of the phone. Time to bank on his acting skills. “Sorry. It’s okay now. My, uh, sister’s ex showed up and wouldn’t leave. Now that I called 9-1-1, he’s getting in his car. Sorry for the false alarm.” He disconnected before the operator could respond.
The police were the last thing the team needed. Hi, officer. I can explain being up a tree staking out this house. Fan-fucking-tastic. They could blow this op because Hightower and Porter oversold it.
“What makes you think you—”
“If the police show up,” he cut Albert off, “they may start issuing bullshit citations about open containers on public property.” He nodded toward the group standing on the sidewalk.
“Well, if those gangbangers get in a shootout—”
Gangbangers? He tried not to smirk. “If they’re gangbangers, do you want them or their friends coming back for retaliation because you called the cops on them?”
“I didn’t think about that.” Albert backed down with a sigh and nervously glanced toward the street.
Hightower whistled; Dita heeled, then dashed to his handler.
Tony held Albert’s phone out to him. “Looks like one’s leaving, and the other is trying to get his dog. If they start back up, then call the cops.”
Albert pocketed the phone. Disaster averted. Now they could get down to the business of gathering intel before they kicked in the door tomorrow night.
Twenty
“Well, hello. I’m Randall.” The short, balding newcomer sidled between Tony and Jody.
Damn, if Tony checked out a woman the way Randall sized him up, he’d deserve to be slapped.
“Albert said you were looking for me.” Finally, Randall looked him in the face.
“There was a little mix-up. I said Mandy; he heard Randy.”
“Well, that’s disappointing.” Randall pouted, his gaze fixed again on Tony’s chest. “Yet, you’re still here.”
“We got talking about acting gigs.” Oh, and I’m staking out some terrorist sons of bitches so my team can stop an attack and send their asses to prison for life—as their best-case scenario. A better scenario than Angela got.
“I thought maybe you were doing research in case you got called for a role playing a gay character,” Jody teased.
“What? You could tell right away I was straight?” Tony hoped his smile took the edge off his sarcasm, not entirely sure he bought into the gaydar concept. “Was it the shoes? Or am I stereotyping or being politically incorrect?”
Fortunately, both men laughed with him. It was the first time he’d laughed in days.
Randall stuck around, making it harder for Tony to mine any more information about the neighbors from Jody. Hopefully, his team had knowledge of how many subjects occupied the house since this fact-finding mission had run dry. Time to head out and see where else he could be useful.
Tony wished Jody luck with his next audition and headed to his vehicle. He pulled up short when he spotted the team’s white van coming back down the street. Watching it approach, he froze. He whipped out his cell phone. No, he hadn’t missed a text or call. When the van neared, he’d see if Mack gave him any signal.
It clicked that the white van was a different make than the team’s van. Tony made out a young male driver with a dark complexion and hair. Another man slouched in the passenger seat. A buzzing sensation filled Tony’s head when the brakes lights flashed, and it pulled into the driveway of the target house.
His heart thumped a steady cadence, even as he reasoned they wouldn’t need a van for backpack bombs. It could be their everyday vehicle. Or were they prepping for tomorrow? Shit. Shit. Shit!
Two men emerged from the house, and the driver and passenger got out of the van. The four stood in a tight group and alternated looks toward the party. Better than spotting Rozanski in the tree.
Tony needed to be in the loop. Now.
He navigated past the guests into the house and found the bathroom. Inside, he removed the earpiece from his pocket and inserted it. Silence. If this damn thing doesn’t work—then he heard it. A slight rustling and faint male voices—not his team’s—speaking what sounded like Arabic. Possibly another Middle Eastern dialect.
“Sounds like they’re bitching about the party,” Lundgren interpreted. “Trying to decide what to do.”
“How many—” Tony broke off. No comms link meant he couldn’t talk to the team. This sucked. The rest of the team had thermal-imaging goggles to see how many subjects and were clued in on their activities while he was flying blind. He sent a text to Lundgren to tell him he was listening in and asked for the 411.
“Vincenti’s live,” Lundgren informed the team. “We’ve got eyes on six counting the two who just arrived. One pair is getting up from their beauty rest.”
Tony liked those odds.
“Garage door is going up,” Rozanski relayed.
“Vincenti, see if your friends have seen that van before.”
Great. Not the plan of acti
on he wanted. Hopefully, the partiers wouldn’t notice the earpiece. At least his jeans concealed the ankle holster holding his baby Glock.
“They’re turning the van around and backing it in,” Dominguez said.
Tony exited the house to rejoin the party. He grabbed a water bottle from the tub and stood where he had a clear view of the house. The van’s headlights were off now, but the red glow of the brake lights reflected off the garage walls as it angled in. It maneuvered several times before the man in the driveway waved his arms, signaling the driver, who got out.
“These idiots can’t open the van’s back doors because then they don’t have room to close the garage door.”
Tony could barely make out Rozanski’s whispered update.
“Can you see anything of interest inside?” Lundgren asked.
A chorus of “negative” responses shot down Tony’s hopes of solid photographic evidence to guarantee a search warrant.
“I thought you’d left.” Jody popped up at his side, dogged by Randall.
“Decided I’d better lay off the beer and wait a while before heading out. Figured you wouldn’t mind if I hung out longer.”
“No problem, especially if you’ll put in a word for me with your agent.”
He nodded. If everything went as planned, they’d take down the tangos in the gloom of night tomorrow and be gone before the neighbors woke to see the house cordoned off with crime-scene tape. No future acting gigs with Jody. Sorry, dude. “Your neighbors have that van long? ’Cuz they sure can’t seem to park it.”
Jody turned to look. “I don’t recall seeing it before, but who knows.” He shrugged. “There’ve been several cars and trucks over there since they moved in last month.”
“Looks like the subjects are carrying something heavy through the house,” Rozanski said.
Tony scrutinized the thick blanket of leaves hiding his teammate from sight as Jody spoke to Randall.
“Anyone able to get a look into the garage?” Again, Lundgren’s question brought a round of negative responses. “Everyone hold your position. They could be loading up in preparation for tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry. What?” Tony had missed whatever Randall said.
“Randall’s ranting about how Hollywood keeps ruining classics with second-rate remakes. We don’t listen to him anymore, either.”
This time, Tony half listened to the conversation, though his focus kept shifting to the house less than a hundred yards away and the possibility it contained a weapon of mass destruction. He could be vaporized in a matter of minutes.
Every muscle fired warning shots through his body when Rozanski reported someone getting behind the wheel again. The van pulled forward in the drive, then backed straight into the garage. Seconds later, the garage door closed. Both Jody and Randall turned to stare at Tony when he audibly exhaled the breath he’d been holding.
Maybe Lundgren was right. But why leave the bomb in the van tonight? He managed to ditch Randall and mill around where he didn’t have to participate in a conversation. Hearing surveillance updates about the men assembled in the kitchen of the target house gave him hope they’d all sit down for a terrorist-style family dinner.
“Two subjects entered the garage.” Dominguez’s voice had that singsong quality Tony associated with a mission about to go down.
Dammit. Tonight was supposed to only be surveillance. What if the bad guys had other plans? Thank God, the team members were armed and prepared for this contingency.
He hesitated. Did he have time to sprint to the car for more firepower? The garage door going up answered that question.
“Go! Go! Go!” Lundgren called out before the van cleared the garage.
Tony freed his Glock from under his pant leg in one fluid motion. A nearby woman saw the gun and screamed, then jumped out of his way. Across the street, the dark forms of his teammates materialized from their concealed positions, rapidly converging on the van and house.
The driver hit the brakes. From more than one direction, voices yelled to stop and exit the vehicle.
Tony cringed when the van surged forward, tires squealing. Bodies jumped out of the way. Rage fueled him as he skirted the guests and rushed toward the street.
Albert stood wide-eyed, his mouth gaping.
“Take cover! Get in the house!” Tony slowed long enough to shove a few guests in the direction of the small brick home in hopes it would offer protection.
“Tires! Tires! Tires!” voices yelled.
The first gunshots rang out. The van veered off the driveway onto the front lawn.
Following their hasty plan for this possibility, Tony focused on stopping the van. He had ten rounds. Each shot counted.
He fired at the front driver’s side tire as the van navigated down the driveway next door.
Though confident he hit the tire, the van kept coming—for him, or to inflict carnage among those at the party. He raised his arm, taking the shot he didn’t want to, praying it didn’t set off the very thing they wanted to avoid.
The windshield shattered. The driver’s head jerked back against the headrest, then slumped over the steering wheel. The passenger lunged for the wheel, but the van slowed and crashed into one of the parked cars lining the road.
No explosion.
Tony didn’t have time to catch his breath before the occupant in the passenger seat ducked behind the dash, then slammed open the door to squeeze out the wedge of space. The staccato cadence from the automatic gunfire confirmed the passenger was well armed. Tony crouched low, using the front of the van as cover when a few poorly aimed shots came his way.
Heat radiated from the van’s engine, reminding him he lacked a bulletproof vest. But he couldn’t play it safe with his team taking fire and all the civilians in the danger zone. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he muttered and duckwalked to the back of the van.
The target beat him there, yanking open the doors. The metal door shielded most of his body, but Tony fired at the terrorist’s exposed calf.
The man wailed and crumpled to the pavement. He still managed to fire at Rozanski and Porter, who returned fire as they advanced. The terrorist’s body jerked, and he cried out in anguish. His weapon clattered to the ground, and Tony kicked it away.
“I got him.” Porter dropped to a knee next to the man.
Rozanski closed the distance, dragging his left leg.
“Checking the driver.” Tony kept one eye on the house. It only took seconds to confirm his head shot proved fatal. He secured a .9mm Beretta from the driver and scoured the van’s cab for other weapons.
The gunfire died out, and silence reigned. The remainder of the team reported they’d secured the house.
“We’re clear. Rozanski needs a bus,” Porter said.
Tony stood over the passenger, who lay on his back a few feet away from the vehicle. Blood soaked a large portion of his plaid shirt and one leg of his khakis. His strained breathing made it clear they weren’t getting him before a jury. It also reminded Tony of Angela’s struggle for life and sent a chill through his sweaty body.
Porter motioned to Tony to change places, then climbed into the back of the van. He circled the crate, not touching it. “Size matches the specs on the computer.”
“How bad is it?” Tony asked Rozanski.
Rozanski winced. “I’ll live—provided that bomb doesn’t go off. It in there?”
Tony stared at the crate. “Looks that way.” What if …? No. No point in going there now. “Here come the NEST guys.” He cut away the fabric of Rozanski’s pants. “It’s just a graze.” A deep graze bleeding badly, though. He dug a dressing out of Rozanski’s medic pack and wrapped his buddy’s leg.
Porter stepped out of the van, allowing the NEST agents access to the suspected bomb.
“Low-grade radiation reading,” one said after they conferred. “Appears the crash didn’t compromise the integrity.”
Tony knew that comment was directed at him. He’d gone with his instinct. It’d worked out.
So far.
Porter laid the top of the wooden crate against the side of the van, then was handed another piece of the crate.
“There’s a timer. And it’s counting down,” one of the NEST guys announced.
Tony locked eyes with Porter. Neither breathed.
“How long?” Porter asked.
The NEST pair climbed out, lingering near the wounded subject. “It’s set for—” The SEAL member’s mouth pursed as he examined his watch. He tsked. “Nine eleven p.m. on the Fourth of July.”
The significance wasn’t lost on the gathered men.
“We’ve got all the time in the world and the bomb’s specs.” The SEAL’s confidence let Tony breathe.
Angela had been right. They found the bomb. The experts could defuse it.
Dominguez ambled out of the house and over to help Porter place the driver into a body bag. “He say anything?” Dominguez nodded toward the passenger.
“No dying confession. Just an ‘up yours’ in Arabic.” Porter laid an empty body bag on the pavement beside the passenger. “Any survivors inside?”
“One. Think he’s the scientist. Claims he doesn’t speak English. Chief is trying to ID him now,” Dominguez answered.
“What else did you find?” Tony asked.
“Airline tickets for tomorrow. Bags of bundled cash. Guess they finally wised up and decided being suicide bombers wouldn’t be so great if their virgins-in-paradise were virgins for a reason. As in, they aren’t young or hot.”
A gruff chuckle escaped as Tony envisioned strict Catholic nuns as the reward for killing infidels.
The scream of sirens grew louder, then flashing lights appeared. Two police units turned onto the street. Based on their speed, or lack of, Lundgren or the FBI had updated dispatch on the situation to prevent them from becoming targets themselves. The team produced IDs when the cops emerged with weapons drawn.