by Spell, David
A large figure fill McCain’s doorway. “We may have gotten a break. A little one, but still a break,” Joe O’Reilly said, passing over several sheets of paper.
Chuck observed that he was wearing the same rumpled suit that he had worn for the last three days. He looked at the copy of a police report from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, that O’Reilly had handed him. The heading on the police form was “Motor Vehicle Theft.” The victim of the theft was the OK Islamic Community Center with the date of theft listed as the previous day.
“The imam reported the van stolen yesterday,” O’Reilly explained. “It’s nothing fancy, just a ten-year old van they used to deliver food or haul things in. This is a very interesting case for two reasons, though. First of all, it’s only a couple of miles from where the local cops found the burned out Marquis.
“But the big thing that you need to know is that the guy who reported the van stolen is Imam Sulaimaan Abdullah. He’s been on our watch list for a long time. He hasn’t made it any secret that he supports jihad against America. We suspect that he’s funneled some money to ISIS but, up to now, we haven’t been able to catch him doing anything illegal. He talks big and preaches about jihad, but, you know, freedom of speech and all.”
“You’re right, Joe, this is a real break! With Deniz having been in counter-terrorism, he would’ve known which imams and mosques from which he could ask for help. That’s sure what this sounds like.”
The FBI agent nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking. I’ve already got this going out to our people here and in San Diego and San Francisco. Every beat cop should have this and a photo of a similar van in the next ten minutes. I’ve also good a team in Oklahoma going to have a talk with the imam.”
“Good work,” Chuck told him, looking into his eyes. “When’s the last time you slept?”
Joe rubbed his hand over face, a thick five o’clock shadow evident. “I’ve grabbed a couple of naps here and there on the couch in the break room.”
McCain shook his head. “Go to the hotel and get some rest. Seriously, this is an order. I’ll call you if anything breaks but your people need you clicking on all eight cylinders.”
O’Reilly glared at the big man, not used to being ordered around by an outsider. After a moment, though, he nodded.
“You’re right. I could probably do with a shower, shave, and a nap. I’ll be back in after lunch.”
Tijuana, Mexico, Saturday, 1230 hours
Pepe Corona sat at his desk staring at the two phones. He felt a growing unease in his stomach. Something wasn’t right. He had not heard from Maria since Monday night. It wasn’t like her to not respond to his messages. It was understood that it might take some time for her to get back to him but twelve hours was the most he ever wanted to wait.
Pablo or El Lobo should be checking in any time, although Jose would be surprised if the Wolf had survived this mission. The cartel leader was anxious to hear about the destruction that his men had caused on the military base. The gringos were so weak that Corona had no doubt that his two elite Special Forces soldiers had accomplished their mission, even if the rest of the team had to be sacrificed.
After a few minutes, Jose sent his niece another WhatsApp text. He also posted on the message board that they used. He then picked up the satellite phone and dialed El Lobo. Nothing. A few seconds later, he tried Pablo. No response. He knew that they took the batteries out to prevent the Americans from tracking them. Corona seldom went to those extremes in Mexico. So many federales and government officials were on his payroll, they would not dare to come after him.
It was almost time to leave and Pepe shoved both phones along with several files into his leather satchel. The three black SUVs and the one gray van motorcade would be lined up and ready for his departure. He was actually looking forward to this ‘business trip.’ Of course, a little pleasure would be thrown in, as well, he smiled lustfully, picking up his Kimber .45 and sliding it into his waistband.
Rosarito was a small coastal city less than an hour southwest of Tijuana, but it wasn’t in the same league as Cancun or Acapulco or any of the others of Mexico’s famous resort towns. Pepe owned homes in several of the nicer vacation spots. The reason that he had bought the large walled home two miles south of this small town was its proximity to Tijuana. The beachside getaway was a wonderful location for the upcoming meetings that he had scheduled with the other two cartel leaders.
American young people loved Rosarito because it was just a short drive from the Mexico/United States border. Some of his best girls had been snatched from that small town, including the two he was now enjoying. What were their names? Tiffany and Holly? Both were just as he liked them: blonde, blue eyes, and buxom.
The two sweet American girls had been crying a few minutes earlier as they were loaded into the van, fearful of where they were being taken. Corona intended to enjoy a few days on the beach and in his hot tub with the young women. It was probably about time to see if he could find a buyer for them on the international market. White girls would make him a lot of money in any of his many brothels scattered around the country. Selling them, however, might be the better business move. Something to think about, he told himself.
Corona’s home in Rosarito, while the largest in the area, was smaller than his other mansions. When he was meeting with his competition, he never wanted to flaunt his wealth. On Wednesday, his guests would arrive and they would get down to business. Ismael ‘Chico’ Pérez, the leader of the Sinaloa Cartel, and Juan Pablo ‘Cara de Bebe’ Fuentes, the new head of the Juarez Cartel would be joining him.
Jose Corona prided himself on being a businessman. While being responsible for many dead federales, judges, mayors, and any others who had opposed him, Pepe had usually tried to reason with them first. This was often in the form of cash. Those who refused to do business with him left the cartel leader no choice.
Corona also preferred to get along with his rivals. The United States was a vast country and there was enough of a demand for cocaine, meth, and women that each cartel could be successful. While Pepe and Chico had met together many times before and shared a mutual respect, this would be the first time for all three leaders of the biggest cartels to meet.
The previous head of the Juarez Cartel had been recently killed in a shootout with the federales and the American DEA. An informant had alerted Pepe that Juan Pablo, or ‘Baby Face,’ had been the one to tip off the authorities as to where his boss would be that day. If that was true, Baby Face had set his former boss up and was now the youngest cartel leader in Mexico at just thirty-two.
The Sinaloa and Juarez gangs had a long history of fighting each other. Baby Face might be young, but Pepe hoped that he was sensible and that the three gangs could come to terms about the different areas of operation. For years, each of the cartels had operated freely inside the US. Corona and Pérez had met two months before, opening the discussion on dividing America into regions. That way, there would be no overlapping and each cartel would have a substantial section to control.
Jose had no idea if Juan Pablo would be interested in negotiating with the other two criminal families. Pepe planned to show the other gang leaders a good time to make them more agreeable. Several of his most beautiful prostitutes would be brought in later in the week to entertain Chico and Baby Face. Hopefully, sex, alcohol, drugs, and the promise of continued financial prosperity would allow them to reach an agreement that would benefit each cartel.
CIA Headquarters, McLean, Virginia, Saturday, 1540 hours
“Director Dunning?”
Sandra’s eyes snapped opened. She had been sitting at her desk working through a stack of intelligence generated by her team. She must’ve dozed off and looked up at her lead analyst, Stephen Chan, with an embarrassed look on her face.
“Sorry about that, Stephen,” she chuckled, wiping some drool from the corner of her chin. “Reading these exciting reports must’ve knocked me out.”
“No problem, ma’am,” the young man sa
id, excitedly. “Can you come look at this? There’s something going on in Mexico that I think you’re going to want to see.”
Dunning followed him to a bank of computer monitors where several of her people were monitoring the Tijuana Cartel.
“What have you got?” she asked.
“The drone shot this video ten minutes ago. Take a look at this, ma’am.”
The stealth drone had been flying high over Pepe Corona’s Tijuana mansion for almost a week, sending back a non-stop video feed. The Mexican government would have been furious to know that the United States was violating their airspace and spying on them with a drone. The stealth unmanned vehicle was almost impossible to detect, however, and sent back crystal clear high definition footage.
One of the screens went from black to showing a four vehicle caravan lined up inside of Corona’s walled compound. It was obvious that Pepe was getting ready to go somewhere. Several of Pepe’s bodyguards were standing around the vehicles, smoking, chatting, and waiting. Two women were hustled out of the mansion by a pair of cartel soldiers. One of the Mexicans opened the back doors of the black van and motioned for the girls to get inside.
One of the young women turned to look at her captors, saying something to him, and glancing up. Her crying face was clearly visible for several seconds. The guard laughed and shoved them both into the back of the van and slammed the doors.
Stephen spoke up. “I sent the girl’s face through our facial recognition software and found out that she went missing three months ago from Rosarito. We got a ninety-five percent confirmation on her identity. Tiffany Mason. She and a friend, Holly Summers, went down there for a weekend getaway between semesters at USC and they both disappeared at the same time. No demand for ransom. Nothing. Poof. They just vanished.”
“Every parent’s worst nightmare,” Sandra said, quietly, staring at the screen. “What were they thinking, letting teenage girls go to Mexico by themselves?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. We didn’t get but a glimpse of the other girl’s face. When we ran her through the system, though, we still got a fifty percent confirmation that it was Holly Summers.”
“This is good work, team. We’ve gone from a retaliatory strike to a possible hostage rescue.”
Dunning glanced at the live feed from the unmanned aerial vehicle. It showed the three SUVs and the van driving in a convoy, heading south.
“Any idea where they’re going?”
An African-American female spoke up. “Our best guess is Rosarito, ma’am. We found out that Corona owns another large compound about two miles south of the city. That’s the direction they’re heading, anyway.”
Sandra watched the vehicles for another minute, turning the information over in her head.
“Let me know whenever they stop or if anything changes. I need to go make a phone call.”
San Bernardino, California, Saturday, 2100 hours
Omer and Samer had both performed the ritual cleansing. They weren’t planning on becoming martyrs tonight but anything could happen and they wanted to be prepared to meet Allah if he so desired. Marquette and Kimani had not been taught the finer aspects of Islam and did not see the need to perform the wudhu. True believers like Deniz and Ali would always perform the ritual washing before a mission, not wanting to take a chance on appearing before God if they were not ceremonially clean.
It was finally time. If things went according to plan, the bio-terror virus would be unleashed on Los Angeles tonight and the four men would escape to the south. San Diego would be their next target and then they would slip into Mexico. Omer had kept ice on the infected blood taken from the zombies. His research had shown him that the virus lived for over a week outside the body if it was kept refrigerated. Now, they just had to find the right victims to spread it.
His team knew what they needed to do as they checked their weapons. Deniz had his FBI-issued .40 caliber Glock and Colt M4. He had given his Remington .12 gauge shotgun to Marquette. The big African-American also carried a 9mm Sig Sauer pistol. Kimani carried a .45 caliber Glock and a Bushmaster AR-15. Ali had a Norinco AK-47 and his Colt .45 government model 1911 handgun. Each man carried plenty of extra ammo but they were all banking that the zombie virus would be the only weapon they would need tonight.
They had discussed the mission over and over. Their two practice runs had shown them the best places to strike. Now, they were about to unleash Hell on the City of Angels.
CHAPTER NINE
When the Nightmare Becomes Reality
Los Angeles, Saturday, 2330 hours
Things were hopping in the city tonight. The black and white cruiser had gone from call to call since they had come on duty at 2000 hours. Los Angeles Police Officer Peter Reed expertly maneuvered the well-used Ford Crown Victoria through the late night traffic. The police radio squawked non-stop, directing cruisers to fight calls, shootings, suspicious persons, drunk persons, vehicle accidents, and everything in between.
“I’ll never get used to this much traffic this late at night,” Officer James Malloy grumbled from the passenger seat.
“Welcome to LA, Rookie,” Reed laughed at his partner.
Peter was the ‘seasoned vet’ of the two, having graduated from the police academy three years earlier. At the age of twenty-six, however, Reed was still four years younger than his partner, but enjoyed teasing Malloy about his rookie status. James had completed the academy just twelve months earlier after taking an honorable discharge from the United States Marine Corps.
James had intended to be a lifer in the Corps but had gotten out in an attempt to save his failing marriage. His multiple combat deployments had taken their toll. At first, his wife had seemed excited to have him out of the Marines and back home. She was less happy about his new career choice of law enforcement, however, and three months into the police academy she had left him, cleaning out their meager apartment and emptying their savings account while he was in class.
While emotionally devastated, the Marines had taught him mental toughness. Malloy had grunted out the remaining months of the police academy, sleeping on a fellow recruit’s couch. At his graduation, James had been ranked number three for academics in his fifty-two person class, second in physical fitness, and had taken the Top Gun trophy for marksmanship.
After completing his field training, Malloy had been assigned to Reed. Peter had already been burned by a couple of bad partners in his short law enforcement career, but after his first shift with James, the younger officer was thrilled. In large departments like the LAPD, officers seldom had any say over who their partners were. You just learned to get along and work together.
Every now and then, though, you ended up working with someone who became your best friend. While Reed and Malloy might not use those exact words, that is exactly what had happened. They were not only together eight hours a night in a police cruiser, they also spent much of their off time together. James came over at least once a week for dinner with Peter and his wife, Christine, they lifted weights together, and went to the shooting range weekly.
Reed had always been an average shot at best. With the former Marine’s help, however, Peter was now qualifying consistently in the high nineties with his pistol. James also helped his partner hone his skill with his department-issued rifle.
Their call sign for the shift was ‘1 Adam 15.’ The ‘one’ signified that they were assigned to the Central Precinct which covered most of East LA. ‘Adam’ was the designation for a two-man unit. ‘Fifteen’ was the area of the city that they were assigned to patrol. In reality, however, when things got busy, they could end up anywhere. Typically, 1 Adam 15 was one of the swing-shift cars for their precinct, working 2000 hours to 0400 hours.
“You think those terrorists might really show up in LA?” Peter asked, thinking back to the sergeant’s briefing before their shift.
“If you want to make a statement on the west coast,” James answered, looking out the window at the busy sidewalks, “this is the place to do
it. We’ve been spared on this side of the country, but I’ve got friends stationed at Fort Beaufort, South Carolina. They survived the attacks over there but said it was like something out of Mad Max.
“The whole east coast was shut down and you had zombies and gangs roaming the countryside. The Marines know how to secure a base and Beaufort was fine. The criminals didn’t want to mess with a bunch of pissed-off Marines and stayed away but my buddies said they killed a lot of Zs.”
Reed was silent for several minutes. “You were over there in Iraq,” he finally said. “Why do these people hate us so much?”
“It’s complicated,” Malloy answered. “They hate us because we live in America and they live in a place that always smells like an outhouse. They hate us because America is friends with Israel. They hate because we are a supposedly Christian nation. They hate us because we’ve killed so many of them. They hate us because they think that we’re evil and decadent so they feel that they’re doing the work of Allah.”
“Why can’t we just all get along?” Peter asked, shaking his head.
James laughed. “Right? If we just put ‘CoExist’ bumper stickers on our cars, they’ll leave us alone. No, the only thing these people understand is force. Is every Muslim an extremist? Of course not. Most of them just want to raise their families and live their lives. The percentage of the crazy ones is probably not that high but it only takes a few to get all the Muslims labeled. The crazy ones don’t want to coexist so I guess we’ll just have to keep killing them.”