by Spell, David
“Excuse me, Agent O’Reilly,” she said, eagerly, nodding politely at McCain, “but I have something that you’ll want to see.”
She laid the papers in front of O’Reilly.
“What am I looking at?” he growled impatiently.
“Sir, we just got the DNA results back from that Honda CRV Mohammad Qasem was in. We confirmed that Omer Deniz had been in the vehicle. We also recovered fingerprints and DNA from a Samer Ali. He’s been on our watch list for a long time. I’ve sent a request to DC asking for his whole file.
“Ali is a Palestinian and has traveled back to the Middle East several times to visit family,” she advised, putting air quotes around “family.” “We believe that he was actually being trained by Hezbollah in weapons, tactics, and bomb making. At some point TSA finally put him on the No-Fly List.”
“But, of course, we allow him back in the country,” O’Reilly said, shaking his head, staring Ali’s picture and then passing it over to McCain. “We’re a special kind of stupid.”
“Something else, sir. Ali was connected with a mosque in Dearborn, Michigan.”
“That entire city is a terrorist breeding ground,” Joe grunted.
“In the body cam footage from the murdered police officer, Deniz asks a man we presume to be Ali about a ‘Davis’ and a ‘Walters.’”
McCain and O’Reilly were now listening intently.
“Go on,” Joe said, motioning with his hand for her to keep talking.
“We were able to access the member database for that mosque in Dearborn and we found two matches: Kimani Davis and Marquette Walters. They’re both African-American males who converted to Islam while in prison. I’ve requested their files and photos, as well.”
O’Reilly stared at the young agent, giving her the equivalent of a smile. “This is very good work, Agent…?”
“Torres, sir. Fernanda Torres.”
“Thank you, Agent Torres. Do I even want to know how you accessed a closed database for that mosque?”
Fernanda gave a slight grin. “Probably not, sir.”
“Good enough,” he said, dismissing her. “Let me know when you get those files.”
“That’s a good start,” Chuck, digesting the information on the sheets of paper.
“Yeah but we still don’t know where the hell they are!” Joe commented, the frustration evident in his voice. “Where are these scumbags hiding and where are they going to strike?”
Interstate 40, Arizona, Thursday, 0245 hours
Marquette Walters took his turn behind the wheel with the dozing Deniz riding shotgun. Ali and Davis were both sleeping in the back of the van, their weapons close at hand in case they encountered the police. Walters had gotten a three-hour nap earlier but the dark, empty interstate forced the felon to concentrate to keep from nodding off, as well.
After getting on the road the previous afternoon, Omer briefed his team. The loss of Qasem forced them to modify their plans slightly, focusing only on Los Angeles and San Diego. Deniz hated the idea of letting San Francisco off the hook, but if their attacks on the other two cities were successful, it would just be a matter of days before zombies would be visiting the Golden Gate City, Allah willing.
Omer and Samer were still not completely sure of the commitment level of the African-Americans. The modified plan offered a possible escape route. Tijuana was only an hour from San Diego. Deniz and Ali both expected to become martyrs at some point but the two prison converts did not seem to have fully bought into that mindset. After the virus was unleashed in San Diego, they would race for the border. Once inside of Mexico, the rogue FBI agent would attempt to make contact with the Tijuana Cartel.
Deniz had never had any dealings with the cartel, but his handler Mir Turani had let him know that the Mexican gangsters had been the ones to smuggle previous soldiers of Allah into America. Mir had given Omer the cell number of one of the cartel’s lieutenants inside Mexico. Deniz hoped that he would be able to make contact with the gangster and receive protection from the Mexican criminal organization. The idea of escape seemed to make Kimani and Marquette happy and they laughed with excitement about getting to enjoy some genuine Mexican señoritas. For Samer and Omer, they would be able to live and fight another day.
None of the four men had ever been to the west coast. For that reason, Deniz allotted a couple of days for planning and reconnaissance. He had purchased a road atlas from the last truck stop they had refueled at, studying it earlier with a penlight as they drove. They just needed to find a place where they could hole up for a couple of days on the outskirts of LA, make their final plans, and then release the bio-terror virus on the City of Angels.
Potomac Heights, Maryland, Thursday, 1100 hours
Marco ‘El Lobo’ Gonzalez and his two teammates sat in the safe house, playing cards, drinking beer, smoking weed, and watching television. El Jefe Corona said to wait until they heard from him and El Lobo intended to do just that. Marco knew that Pepe would eventually contact him with further instructions.
This particular location had been chosen by the cartel because of its close proximity to the Potomac River. Before the zombie virus crisis, the house had primarily been a location where large quantities of drugs had been stored before being shipped throughout Maryland, Virginia, or other east coast cities. Now, the hit squad was a just a short boat ride from Fort Belvoir. Gonzalez had been watching the Potomac, though, and had noticed a substantial increase in police and military watercraft patrolling the area.
The call had come in on the encrypted satellite phone at 1110 hours from one of Señor Corona’s lieutenants. El Lobo and his cohorts were ordered to go back to Fort Belvoir and complete the other teams’ mission: killing the woman, her son, and hopefully, a few gringo federales. The caller let Marco know that El Jefe was sending three additional soldiers to join them. The extra guns would arrive Thursday evening, giving Gonzalez a total of six men to infiltrate the base.
The attack was set for Friday night. Two of the newcomers had been a part of the Mexican Cuerpo de Fuerzas Especiales, the most elite branch of the Mexican Army. More and more of Mexico’s specialized troops were being lured away from government service to the much higher pay of the cartels. Now, instead of fighting the drug gangs, Pablo and Nazario were working with them.
The plan was for the two former SF soldiers to slip through the woods, entering the base from the west, approaching the hospital from the rear. El Lobo and the other three men would enter through the forest to the east, making entry to the front. In a perfect world, both teams would be able to gain access and kill as many people as they could in the medical center. By splitting the two teams up, however, Pepe was trying to make sure at least one group got inside.
Corona’s orders were to eliminate anyone who got in their way, but to especially make sure they killed the gringo cop’s family. The caller reminded El Lobo that this was a revenge hit for all the soldiers lost in Atlanta. Marco understood the underlying message: the wrath of the cartel was about to be unleashed.
After the phone call, Gonzalez went back to playing cards and drinking beer.
Humberto spoke up, a defiant tone in his voice. “I don’t know, El Lobo. I think that base is not going to be easy to get into this time. The gringos aren’t stupid.”
Marco glanced up over his cards. “Sí, it’s going to be dangerous. We might all die, but I’ll tell you something, ‘Berto. I’d rather die trying to do what Señor Corona says than to disobey his orders. If you try and defy him, he’ll kill you and your family. Slowly and painfully.”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way,” Humberto said, quickly backing down. “Of course, whatever El Jefe says goes. You know you can count on me.”
Gonzalez looked into his teammate’s eyes and nodded. “I hope so, amigo. The only chance we have to get out of this in one piece is to work together. Señor Pepe is serious about this. He’s even sending two of the Special Forces troops they’ve recruited. These men are so valuable that El Jefe has nev
er sent any of them to America before. The boss really wants to hurt these gringos.”
Fort Belvoir, Virginia, Thursday, 1730 hours
Josh Matthews was trying to take in everything Andy Fleming was telling him, writing on the yellow legal pad as fast as he could. Hadn’t he just been on the phone three days ago with Chuck, expressing his desire to come work with him? Matthews didn’t know what strings his former FTO and boss had pulled but things had happened lightning-fast.
He had received a phone call from the chief’s office first thing Tuesday morning asking him if he was trying to get a job with the Department of Homeland Security. After speaking with McCain the previous day, Josh really hadn’t expected to hear anything for a while and the question caught him off guard.
“Well, I…um…I…,” he stammered.
“Sergeant Matthews,” administrative aide, Jennifer Simpson, interrupted, “I just got off the phone with someone from the Department of Homeland Security saying that we were to release you from having to give a two week notice and that you were needed in Washington ASAP. The chief wants to know what’s going on. Are you leaving us?”
At this, Josh told her that he was, indeed, seeking a position with the feds, working for Chuck McCain.
At the mention of Chuck’s name, Jennifer’s tone changed from annoyance to understanding.
“Okay. This is starting to make sense now. The Chief isn’t happy with how things are being handled but I’m sure I can smooth it over. He and Lieutenant McCain used to work together so I’m sure it’ll be fine. Are you working today?”
“I go in at 1430 hours.”
“Cancel that,” the administrative aide had told him. “The man I spoke with from Homeland said that they were hoping to have you in DC by Wednesday. Pack up your issued gear and bring it and your letter of resignation to HQ. I’ll call the uniform chief and let him know what’s going on. Get down here as quick as you can. I’m sure the chief will want to talk with you.”
As soon as that call had ended, Matthews’ phone rang again, this time with a number he didn’t recognize.
“Matthews,” he answered.
“Hey, Josh, this is Andy Fleming. Do you remember me?”
“Of course. How’s it going?”
Fleming was one of those guys who didn’t stand out in a crowd, Matthews remembered. He wasn’t the biggest warrior or the loudest, but he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had looked death in the eye on more than one occasion. Chuck had told his friend that former Staff Sergeant Fleming had been a MARSOC Marine and was one of the toughest men that he had ever met.
Matthews had seen the former Marine Spec Op warrior in action at Peachtree Meadow High School, just outside of Atlanta, during a horrific terror attack involving the zombie virus. A Somalian terrorist had managed to infect the high school effectively creating America’s worst nightmare. This was one of the first large-scale attacks with the bio-terror weapon and many of the first responding police officers were infected or killed outright by zombie students and faculty.
When SWAT responded, the first eight-man assault team was overrun by the Zs and lost. Josh’s team was sent in to try and help them, only to be swarmed by another, larger group of infected. Half of Matthew’s own eight men were devoured. He and the other three barely managed to escape with their lives.
It was at this point that the local authorities had requested the CDC Enforcement Unit. When the feds arrived, Josh and Chuck were reunited after losing contact for several years. Matthews volunteered to make entry with the CDC agents as he and his remaining men fought alongside the federal officers, rescuing students, teachers, and even a few parents who had rushed into the school, trying to locate their children.
The SWAT sergeant had been impressed by all of the CDC agents but Fleming had especially stood out, as he led their team deeper into the zombie-infested school, calmly confronting and eliminating every threat. Josh remembered one moment when he had frozen, walking point with Andy. A SWAT officer and a student, both turned zombies, had rounded a corner just a few feet away. As Matthews had hesitated at the familiar, but now gore-covered face, Fleming had coolly put a round into each of their heads.
The officer had been a friend. Fleming glanced over and saw the tears in Matthew’s eyes.
“Sorry, man,” Andy had said, clearly meaning it before moving forward again, to save as many people as they could.
Andy’s voice pulled Matthews out of his reverie. “I guess you spoke to Chuck about wanting to come work with us?”
Josh laughed. “Yeah, but I didn’t expect things to move so fast! I just got a call from the chief’s secretary telling me to come turn all my crap in.”
“Well,” Andy grunted, “the boss told me to make it happen so I’m making it happen. I don’t want to cause any problems for you at your department but we really do need you like yesterday. I’ll brief you when you get here tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Man, that’s quick. I’ve got some things I need to…”
“Listen,” Fleming interrupted. “You called and said you wanted a job. We’ve got openings and we’re dealing with a couple of big things. We need somebody with your skill set right now. For the moment, just pack for a couple of weeks. We’ll give you a place to stay. Don’t worry about the salary or benefits; it’s better than what you’re leaving- I promise. We’ll issue your equipment when you get here. If you’ve got any black BDUs, bring them and some combat boots, but other than that, we’ve got you covered.
“There’ll be a DHS Lear jet at the Gwinnett County Airport tomorrow at 1000 hours. Make sure your ass is on that plane. I’ll pick you up when you land.”
After picking him up at the airport and bringing him back to Fort Belvoir on Wednesday, Andy had Josh sign for his weapons and equipment and fill out the forms related to his new employment. Fleming was no human resources specialist, but by the time they were done, Matthews understood his salary and benefits package.
“One more thing and then we’ll head to the range. We need to get you sworn in.”
Andy set up a Skype call with a federal district judge who swore Josh in as a federal law enforcement officer with the Department of Homeland Security. After they disconnected the call, Matthews sat back, amazed at how fast things were moving.
“We’re just getting started,” Fleming nodded. “Come on. Let’s go shoot.”
They spent three hours on Fort Belvoir’s indoor range, allowing Josh to familiarize himself with his new weapons. The Colt M4 was just like the one he had carried on the SWAT Team except that this one was suppressed. He was also well acquainted with his new 9mm Glock 17, having carried one as his primary sidearm as a street cop. The only difference now was that he had a suppressor on his belt that could be screwed onto the barrel.
Andy put Josh through several close quarters combat drills, helping him get comfortable with his guns. Matthews quickly realized that even though he was a seasoned and experienced SWAT officer, Fleming was light years ahead of him in skill and real world experience. He was smart enough to know that he needed to learn everything he could from the former MARSOC operator. Fleming was a man of few words, but Josh could tell Andy was impressed with his shooting.
“That’s it for today. I need to get over to the hospital and check on my family. Come with me and I’ll take you to where we’re bunking when we’re done.”
Since Matthews had no agenda, he was happy to go with Fleming to see his family and perhaps meet more of the team with whom he would be working. At the hospital, Elizabeth McCain had smiled when she saw Josh, chatting with him in the waiting room while Andy checked on Amy and Tyler. Chuck really did OK when he found this gal, Josh thought, enjoying getting to know Mrs. McCain a little more.
A few minutes later, Grace Cunningham walked into the waiting area carrying two cups of coffee, handing one to Beth.
“Hi, Grace,” Josh said, surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you up here.”
Cunningham grinned. “It’s g
ood to see you, Josh. I hear you’re going to be working with Chuck and the guys?”
“That’s right. It’s kind of crazy. I just called him on Monday and asked about the possibility of getting on with his team at the DHS. Three days later, here I am! What about you? What are you doing here?”
The two women looked at each other and giggled. “Chuck asked if I’d be part of the security detail while they’re away. The army has added some more MPs but Mr. McCain wanted to make sure everyone was safe, especially his wife. You’ll meet some of the others who are guarding the Flemings, Beth, and Emily, Scotty’s fiancée. But, really, this is just a good excuse for Beth, me, and Em to hang out, drink wine, and watch movies.”
Forty-five minutes later, Andy and Josh ended up at a townhome on base that belonged to one of the other team members who was already on the west coast with McCain, Fleming explained. On Thursday morning, Andy had Josh up and moving early, letting him know that they had a lot of ground to cover. After breakfast, they sat around the kitchen table as Fleming instructed Matthews in their unit’s SOP and what their primary functions were.
After lunch, they were back on the range, where the agents shot for two hours, Fleming building on what Matthews had learned the previous day. They were the only people on the range so Andy set up two-man drills, having them move, engage targets, move some more, reload, and take out additional targets.
Matthews noted that Fleming only had him taking head shots. Police officers are trained to shoot center-mass so this was a different concept for him. Josh had killed his share of zombies, however, and knew that a shot into the brain was the only thing that put them down permanently.
After the range time, Josh was briefed on the west coast mission, as well as the pending operation against the Tijuana Cartel. The SWAT officer took detailed notes, trying not to miss anything. He really was jumping into a firestorm with the two large active operations. Andy was a skilled instructor, covering the material thoroughly, taking time to answer each of Josh’s questions.