by Spell, David
“Just stay where you are. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Corona ordered, disconnecting the call.
The sixty-nine year old cartel leader gulped his expensive tequila and then poured himself another shot. Jose was of average height and a thin build. What little hair he had left he combed over, trying to conceal his ever-growing bald spot. He glanced around his spacious office, decorated in varying shades of red and black. On three of the four walls, oil paintings of himself in various roles looked down on the room.
In one painting Corona was dressed as a matador, holding a cape and a sword, staring down a charging bull. Another portrait had him astride a large brown horse, twin six-shooters on his side, cartridge belts crisscrossing his chest, looking like a bandito. The last painting portrayed Pepe as a businessman wearing a dark suit standing behind his desk, his arm resting on the back of a leather chair, a serious look on his face. The fourth wall held a family portrait of he and his wife and their three children when they were much younger. Even in that painting, he felt his wife’s icy glare as she looked down on him.
Pepe opened the laptop on his desk and composed a simple email, sending it to his niece at the FBI. He then picked up his phone, sending a text via WhatsAp.
“Check your email as soon as you can.”
Corona knew it might be several hours before he heard back from Maria. The protocol that they had worked out was that she would always use a public computer, such as a library’s, when contacting him. The gangster hated to wait but knew how to entertain himself.
“Marcos!” he called.
“Si, señor?” his beefy bodyguard answered, stepping into the office. Pepe always had two of his best men just outside of his door.
“Are the American girls still here?”
“Of course, Señor Corona. They will stay here until you tell us that you are done with them.”
“Bring them to my room,” Pepe said, looking forward to his diversion.
“Si, señor, right away!” Marcos answered, moving into action.
Upper Marlboro Branch Library, Upper Marlboro, Maryland, Monday, 1900 hours
The text from her uncle had come just as Maria Sanchez was getting ready to leave for the day. She had come across some information that she knew Uncle Pepe would be interested in, saving it to her thumb drive. She used several different libraries around the area to contact Corona, never wanting to get predictable. Today she was driving to Upper Marlboro. Normally this was a twenty-minute drive, but with traffic slowly returning to normal as the zombie’s were eradicated, today she sat for an hour on the highway.
Her forged library card allowed her to log onto one of the public computers. Maria had four different email addresses with different providers that she and her uncle used. Uncle Pepe rotated among the four when he needed to contact her. Today, she found his email on her Hotmail account.
Sanchez smiled as she read his short, terse message. The young woman had anticipated what he would want and already had the information on a thumb drive. She inserted it into the computer and quickly uploaded the report from the shooting at Fort Belvoir. The investigation had been conducted by the Army Criminal Investigation Command and contained everything that Corona had asked for.
As soon as the email had been sent, Maria sent her uncle a WhatsApp text.
“Check your email.”
She pulled her memory stick out of the computer, erased her history, and logged out. As Maria reached her car, she sensed movement behind her and reached for the gun in her purse.
“Put your hands up!” a male voice commanded. “FBI Professional Standards. Maria Sanchez, you are under arrest.”
Two women and a male agent moved in and grabbed Maria, spinning her around and pressing her up against her government-issued gray Chevrolet Impala. Sanchez felt her purse being snatched off of her shoulder and her hands were quickly cuffed behind her back. One of the female agents gave her a thorough pat down.
A Dodge Durango pulled up and Maria was placed behind the driver and seat belted in. A female fed got into the backseat with her on the other side and the vehicle quickly pulled out of the parking lot, heading back to Andrews Air Force Base. Sanchez still had not said a word but felt herself beginning to shake as fear coursed through her body. She had failed and the cartel punished failure harshly.
Tijuana, Mexico, Monday, 2230 hours
Pepe Corona felt refreshed after his time with the two American teenage girls. He didn’t even have to beat them this time as he had his way with them. They were learning. Some of his men had snatched them off the street in Rosarito a few months before. Two nineteen-year old blonde girls, traveling alone in Mexico. How stupid were the parents of these gringas? Now, they belonged to him and would eventually join one of his many prostitution operations throughout the country. He might even consider selling them to one of his Middle-Eastern friends. After the cartel leader was done with them, of course.
Jose left the bedroom of his sprawling Tijuana hacienda. and walked downstairs to his first-floor office, his two bodyguards trailing behind him. This mansion was a few miles outside the congestion of the city in the quiet neighborhood of Corona del Mar. He had other houses around the country where he would stay for days or weeks at a time, depending on his mood.
Large floodlights illuminated the walled compound of the main residence and the two smaller buildings where Corona’s house staff and security team stayed. A fourth structure served as the garage for the fleet of armored Cadillac Escalades that transported Pepe from one place to another. Armed guards patrolled both the inside and the outside of the walls.
Corona helped himself to another glass of tequila and seated himself at his desk. He pulled the Kimber Classic Carry Pro .45 pistol out of his waistband and laid it on the desk. Maria’s email was waiting for him and he quickly scanned the report, his anger starting to rise again when he realized that the gringo federale’s wife and son had been wounded but were expected to recover. The report detailed how a mother and her son had taken out his team of killers.
A boy, a teen-age boy, had shot two of his soldiers as they burst into the house. They deserved to die, thought Pepe, loudly slapping his desk with an open hand, his Latino blood boiling with anger. How could they let a boy get the drop on them? They were supposed to be professional assassins. And the woman. What kind of hitman let himself be shot by a woman? Hombrecito deserved to die, as well.
The only good news to come from the police report was that he knew which hospital the woman and her son were in. Now, El Lobo could go and finish the job and get some vengeance for Corona’s nephew and for all the other men he had lost in Atlanta. The cartel leader considered calling the soldier right then but remembered that the new protocol was to turn their phones off if they were not using them, making it difficult to track their location. No problem, Pepe thought, sipping the amber liquid. I’ll talk to El Lobo tomorrow and give him his orders.
Fort Belvoir, Virginia, Monday, 2300 hours
Beth’s head rested against Chuck’s chest in their bed as they spent their last night together for a few weeks.
“I’ll never get used to you leaving. How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“I hope you never get used to me leaving,” McCain said, kissing her on the forehead. “It’s hard to say. A week, a month, who knows?”
Even as Chuck spoke of his departure, he felt the pain of separation. Normally, when it was time for an operation, the big man was able to shut everything out and focus on the mission at hand. Instead, he found himself worrying about Elizabeth, hating to leave her behind.
“And you can’t tell me what you’re doing?” she asked.
“Only the little bit I told you over the phone earlier. Let’s just say we don’t need a repeat of what happened on the east coast to happen on the west coast.”
Elizabeth processed that information. After a few moments she said, “No, we don’t, but you guys are the ones who can stop it.”
“Let’s hope so. I’d love it
if you would stay here while I’m gone. I don’t think Dr. Martin will mind you working remotely.”
“Are you sure? Look what happened to Amy and Tyler and Scotty and Emily’s house on this supposedly secure base. Are you sure it’s safe here?”
“I know what happened, but Kevin’s guys will be around, plus the Army realizes they screwed up and they’ve reinforced their security. Since Eddie’s guys are going to be on the operation with us, I’ve asked if Grace can come and stay with you. That’ll be good for both of you.”
“Oh, Honey, that’s great!” Beth replied, excitedly. “She’s really come a long way and I like spending time with her.”
“Good. And it’ll give Jimmy peace of mind while we do what we have to do. You know the drill. Make sure you have your pistol on you at all times, even at home. Keep your AR handy in the house.”
“I will. Do you think we can ever go back to our house in Georgia?”
Chuck stroked her hair, understanding the question: would we ever be safe there again?
“I’ve already spoken to the insurance company. They’re going to have a contractor in there later this week to clean it up and fix everything. But, if you don’t want to go back, I understand. It’s hard to recover from that, knowing people broke in, trying to kill me.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I know that was your place, but I don’t know if I could ever stay there again.”
“It’s OK, babe. I told you right after we got married that if you wanted to move, we could move. Why don’t you think about where you might want to live while I’m gone? We could buy something in the Northern Virginia area if you want?”
“That might be nice. There are some great areas around there, except for where the zombies are still hanging around.”
“It won’t be too much longer and they’ll be gone. Let’s find a nice, quiet neighborhood and get started on our family.”
Beth pushed herself up so she could look into his eyes, wanting to make sure that she had heard correctly. Right after they had gotten married, she had broached the subject to him about having children. Their age difference had made her think that he might be opposed to the idea. He already had a daughter in her twenties. To Elizabeth’s surprise, Chuck had agreed to her request, not wanting to deny his wife the joy of being a mother. He had only asked that they wait a couple of years due to the zombie crisis.
“You mean we could start trying to have a baby soon?” she asked, excitedly.
“We probably ought to get going. I mean I’m not getting any younger,” he laughed. “How about after I get back from this mission, we make a concerted effort to get you pregnant? Of course, we’ll probably need to practice a few times between now and then.”
She stroked his face with her hand, hope rising in her heart, lying back down next to her husband. “Are you sure? You had originally said we should wait a year or two.”
“Well, things are almost back to normal. That was one of my main reasons for waiting, but I’m willing if you are. I know you want to be a mommy.”
There was no response and after a moment McCain realized that Beth was crying.
“What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?” he asked.
“No, I’m just happy,” she said, quietly. “I love you so much and can’t wait to have a baby with you.”
The big man exhaled in relief. “Oh, good. I thought I’d stuck my foot in my mouth. You wanna practice some more?”
CHAPTER SIX
Fresh Blood
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, Wednesday, 1530 hours
Imam Abdullah stopped by the guest house to pray with his guests before they were to leave on Wednesday morning. Omer had spoken with the cleric on Tuesday asking if he could assist them with obtaining a van or SUV in exchange for the Mercury. Still wary of whom he was dealing with, the imam had politely informed Deniz that he and his team would have to take care of that problem themselves after they left.
One of the skills that Samer had learned from the PLO was how to hot wire a vehicle. It was about a twenty-hour drive to Los Angeles and Omer knew they could find what they needed along the way. Stealing cars was not that difficult. Both Davis and Walters admitted that they had committed carjackings before, although that was a skill that Omer hoped they would not have to use. The goal for the team was not to attract undue attention to themselves.
The guest quarters where they had stayed contained a small television set and the two black men had sat in front of it for hours watching mindless American TV shows. Omer and Samer had spent their time together, talking through every aspect of the plan to bring jihad to the west coast. On Tuesday afternoon, Kimani excitedly called for Deniz to come see what was on television.
The FBI agent-turned-terrorist saw his face on one of the cable news channels, the anchor asking for anyone with information to alert the authorities. The report showed crime scene footage from the rest area where he had gunned down the cop, and then a photo of the Iowa State Trooper. They played the video from the officer’s body cam, showing his shootout with their fallen comrade Qasem. The video stopped just before the trooper was killed.
The onscene reporter continued with his report telling the audience that the suspects were likely driving a mid 2000’s burgundy Mercury Marquis. Deniz felt his stomach lurch. How had they identified their car? It had been parked several spaces away from the CRV. Maybe the cop caught it on his camera before all the shooting, he thought. We have to get rid of that vehicle right away.
There was no mention of how they knew that Omer was responsible but Deniz suspected the dead police officer’s body camera had recorded his conversation with Ali. At the time, he hadn’t given the body cam a second thought. FBI agents don’t use them so it had not really registered on Omer’s radar. This was bad because the FBI had identified him and possibly had audio and video footage of Samer.
Deniz racked his brain for what the two terrorists had discussed after he had put a bullet in the cop’s head. Ali tried to remember the conversation, as well, the adrenaline dump following the shootout making it difficult for them to recall what had been said. All the more reason to get to California as soon as they could, Omer thought.
After the cleric had prayed with the four men on Wednesday morning, Abdullah pulled Omer aside.
“I saw the news, my son,” the elderly man told him, looking into the younger man’s eyes.
Deniz met his gaze, not answering.
“I believe I can help you with your transportation problem, after all. The community center has a delivery van that we use to transport food to the needy among us or to help if a brother in our community is moving. For another donation to the center, I will give you the keys and make sure that your car is disposed of. I’ll wait two days and then I’ll report that the van has been stolen.”
“Baraka Allahu fika!”
“And to you, my son. May Allah guide your steps and give you great success against the infidels.”
Their “new” vehicle did not arrive from its morning’s deliveries until 1400 hours but now the four soldiers of Allah were riding in an older, white GMC work van, the Marquis and another five thousand dollars left behind with the imam. If everything went according to plan, they would be in LA by Thursday morning and could get to work bringing the wrath of Allah on the wicked Americans.
FBI Los Angeles Division, Wednesday, 1530 hours
The FBI’s headquarters in LA was located in Brentwood, on the west side of the city, just three miles from the beach. McCain, Smith, Gray, and FBI agents Joe O’Reilly and Thomas Burns had arrived the previous day. The Atlanta and Washington, D.C., CDC teams were due to arrive Wednesday evening.
McCain had been assigned an office just off the teeming floor of the task force’s workspace. He had trouble staying in it, however, preferring to walk around, talking with the many FBI agents assigned to locate Omer Deniz and his team of terrorists. The room was loud as agents conversed with each other or on their phones. Some stared at their computers, fingers flying
across keyboards, as they all tried to predict where an attack might occur.
Burns, Smith and Gray were currently down the hall, briefing Los Angeles Police Department brass on the situation, making sure the beat cops had all available information. There was no guarantee that Los Angeles would be hit. Of course, the maps of LA, San Diego, and San Francisco had been left behind by the terrorists in their abandoned vehicle in the rest area, but no one except Deniz had the blueprint for their attacks.
Chuck had spent time conferring with O’Reilly and Burns throughout the day. They had both been stunned to hear that after their meeting with Admiral Williams on Monday, the FBI’s Counter-Terrorism Director had been fired, replaced by her deputy director, Clarence Clemons. Clemons had called McCain on Tuesday morning, promising to provide whatever support was needed, asking Chuck to call on him for anything.
Director Clemons had authorized that Agent O’Reilly use any agency resources he deemed necessary. Joe had already the briefed the directors of the San Diego and the San Francisco field offices by video call, directing them to mobilize all of their personnel. O’Reilly assured them that additional agents were on their way to assist in those cities.
The FBI was anxious to locate and stop the terrorists. The Bureau did not want to contemplate the PR fallout if a turncoat agent somehow managed to launch terror attacks on the west coast. McCain felt his own anxiety rising as no new intelligence could be found. For the moment, anyway, Omer Deniz and his team had vanished.
Late on Wednesday afternoon, however, a young agent stood and rushed over to one of the printers, snatching several sheets of paper off of it. The dark-haired woman almost ran to Agent O’Reilly’s office. Chuck and Joe sat sipping coffee as the the agent hurried in.