by Jack Carr
“Fine, Lorraine, fine. I surrender. I’ll get on a plane and get it handled.”
“You’d better. I don’t want to hear any more about this. If anyone on the Hill even gets a sniff of what we’re up to, we’ll be dragged into hearings for the next two years.”
“I agree. I’ll handle it.”
CHAPTER 30
Coronado, California
REECE HAD BEEN TO ENOUGH specialized schools to handle the basics of electronic eavesdropping and on-site exploitation of data, but he was an operator, not a hacker. A guy like Holder would no doubt have information of this magnitude encrypted and firewalled, and that was outside Reece’s lane. At work, he’d simply hand the cloned hard drive over to the technical guys, who would take it from there, but he didn’t exactly have that luxury now. As much as he wanted to do this completely alone, the reality was that he was going to have to rely on some friends to execute his plan. There was only one guy whom he could really trust who had enough computer knowledge to get it done. It was time to bring Ben Edwards into the fold.
Ben was still in Southern California, doing whatever spook work he did, and had checked in on Reece daily via text or phone call. He’d continually asked Reece if he wanted to get dinner or drinks, but Reece maintained that he wasn’t ready for company. He now sent Ben a text message asking if he could drop by later for some beers. Ben wrote back right away in the affirmative. Ben had been over to Reece’s house dozens of times, so their meeting would be as routine as it got and shouldn’t cast any suspicion onto Ben as a conspirator in things to come.
Ben Edwards knocked on the back door at 8:00 p.m. carrying an armload of Arrogant Bastard Ale and a pizza. You couldn’t show up at someone’s house in San Diego these days without some of the best local microbrews available. They made small talk about the condition of the house as they ate and drank until it was time to get down to business. Reece turned on the TV and raised the volume almost as high as it would go. He pointed to his pants pocket and mouthed “phone?” as he cocked his head to one side.
“No, man, it’s in the car. I’m clean,” Ben responded, immediately understanding what Reece was asking.
Reece turned down the TV volume to a level where they could speak, but didn’t turn it all the way off.
“Remember after the funeral when you told me to holler if I needed you, no matter what?”
“Yeah, I meant it, you know that.”
“I know you did, and I’ve got a favor to ask. It’s a big one, though, and it could get you in a pile of trouble if anyone ever knew you were involved.”
“I was bound to get in a pile of trouble at some point. Might as well be for helping you,” Ben quipped with a smile. “What do you need?”
Reece told him most of what he knew about Josh Holder and his potential involvement in what could only be some type of conspiracy. He left out some key details, including any mention of Katie Buranek. Ben was understanding and didn’t ask too many probing questions.
“Like I said, I did a download of Holder’s laptop, but you know I’m not a tech guy. I need your help in breaking through the encryption and sorting through the data to find something relevant.”
“Easy day, bro, but I don’t have the hardware to mess with it here. If you give me the hard drive, I’ll take it in tomorrow and get it done. Assuming I can find something, I’ll come by tomorrow night and show you what we’ve got. I know what you’ve gotta do, man, and I’m with you, no matter what. And, just so you know, I’ve already got assets working on finding the gangbanger fucks who did this.” Ben motioned to the shattered drywall and plywood-covered front door.
“Appreciate it, brother, I really do. I don’t want to involve anyone more than I have to, but I need the information on that drive to help unravel this thing. Just know that when the time comes, I’m handling the wet work.”
“Well, with talk like that,” Ben said, breaking out a pen and notepad, “I want you to check this folder in a shared SpiderOak room from time to time. Ever use it?”
“No,” Reece replied, “but it sounds familiar.”
“Probably because it gained some popularity when Edward Snowden used it in his escapades.”
“That’s it. I must have heard about it in the debates about government surveillance programs.”
“Yeah, that fucker did incalculable damage to national security by leaking that NSA information,” Ben said with disgust.
“Probably so, but he also made us all a bit more cautious about how we communicate and who may be listening.”
“We are always listening, bro,” Ben added with a smile. “If I need to pass you anything sensitive I’ll leave it in this shared room on SpiderOak,” he continued, writing down a username and a random number/letter/symbol set of twenty-six characters. “Use this to get in. It’s like a very secure version of Dropbox where not even the Company can get access to the file. It drives the NSA nuts. Use a VPN that you buy with a gift card purchased with cash from Wal-Mart or Starbucks or something and it’s about as secure as we can get off the shelf.”
“You’re a lot brighter than you look, you know.”
“Ha! Thanks. Just know I’m here if you need me, brother.”
“I know, Ben. It means a lot.”
Ben Edwards finished his beer and stood to leave. He and Reece locked thumbs in an upward handshake and then gave each other a backslapping hug.
“Remember, my cabin back east is always available if you need a place to go to get away from all this,” Ben offered sincerely.
“Thanks, Ben. I appreciate that.”
“Absolutely. Later, buddy,” Ben said over his shoulder as he departed out the back door.
Reece collected his thoughts and then walked into the garage to start organizing the weapons, ammunition, and equipment that he’d taken from his cage and the armory. He looked like a man preparing for war, which is exactly what he was. Whoever these people were, they had taken everything from him. Everything but his will to fight. For that, they would pay dearly.
• • •
Ben returned the following evening wearing a small backpack and carrying a six-pack of Ballast Point Sculpin IPA, a perennial San Diego favorite, this time supplemented with Thai takeout.
They exchanged greetings and Ben removed a small device from his pack, making small talk with Reece as he walked around the living room. He was sweeping the room for listening devices, his level of caution indicating that he’d found something meaningful on the hard drive. The device showed no sign of a bug, but Reece turned the TV on anyway and pumped the volume up higher than normal.
“Aside from the disturbing amount of ‘babysitter porn,’ I found a bunch of shit that you’re gonna want to see, Reece. I had to get one of the tech nerds to help me decrypt the data but don’t worry, he didn’t have any idea what he was looking at.” Edwards removed a file folder from his pack and placed it on the coffee table.
“Let’s see it,” Reece said, as he took a seat on the couch next to Ben.
“Mainly, we have emails, traffic between Holder and a guy named Saul Agnon. Also some between Holder and another cat named Marcus Boykin. Some email chains with all three guys on them. Those names mean anything to you?”
“Yeah, I think Agnon works for Capstone Capital, some kind of private equity fund. Haven’t heard of Boykin.”
“That’s about right. Agnon seems to be doing the legwork on this thing for someone named Horn, and Boykin appears to be an outside advisor. They keep referencing ‘the Project’ and ‘RD4895.’ Whatever that is, it looks like it’s the basis of this entire thing. Check this one out.” Ben handed a printout of an email to Reece.
From: MBokyin
To: Agnon
Subject: re: our last
Recommend eliminating all evidence of adverse events- manner of death should, if possible, prevent discovery of abnormalities. Leverage IPs to clean the slate and start over.
—MB
Ben took a sip of his beer and handed Reece a se
cond sheet.
From: Agnon
To: MBoykin
Subject: re: re: our last
Got it. Coordinating with frog to take out test subjects while overseas. Will handle any cleanup from our end. Please advise timetable for RD4895-C, boss is impatient.
Reece didn’t have any idea what “RD4895” was, but he was now sure that it had caused the tumors in his men and gotten a lot of good people killed, including Lauren and Lucy. He wasn’t confident of much at this point, but he was sure that more people were going to die before this was over, but this time they weren’t going to be innocent.
PART TWO
THE LIST
CHAPTER 31
San Diego, California
HUMZA KAMIR HEARD the bell and instantly dropped his gloves to his sides, his arms and shoulders exhausted from hitting the heavy bag. Most of the fighters mingled cordially at the end of the workout, but Humza kept to himself. He didn’t share a common culture with any of the other members of the gym; their only bond was a love of boxing and a willingness to suffer. Sure, there were some other men who called themselves Muslims. All were black men who converted during stints in the state prison system, but they treated the religion more like a gang membership than a true belief. Kamir’s beliefs were pure. He did not chase women, he did not drink alcohol, and he read the Qu’ran daily.
The gym’s locker room would be considered dingy by U.S. standards, but to a man who grew up in the slums of Lahore, Pakistan, it was perfectly comfortable. Despite his feelings toward the sins of Westerners, he felt fortunate to live in California, where he and his family could at least be safe. He showered quickly and changed back into his street clothes, a pair of Levi’s and a Manchester United football jersey. He walked through the metal door of the gym without talking to or making eye contact with anyone and climbed into his workplace, his refuge, a yellow taxicab. He pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket to call his dispatcher and saw that he had a text message. The message was not from one of his contacts, but from a number that he didn’t recognize. When he read it, the blood in his veins ran hot, and his neck flushed.
Your mother is sick and needs you to call her.
Kamir’s mother had died twenty-six years ago, during his birth. He was raised by his maternal grandparents and a stable of aunts and uncles, abandoned by a father that he never knew. Uneducated and resentful of the excesses of American culture, he was a prime target for radicalization, which took place for the most part online. As far as he was concerned, his father was the Prophet and the text message was from one of his father’s messengers. The message was from a man whom he’d never met but prayed to hear from each day. His calling in life was not to drive people to the airport and bring drunks home from bars; it was to carry out the word of Allah. The messenger was to help his life meet its purpose. He put the Crown Victoria into drive and headed east.
The U-SHIP store was in a strip mall in a middle-class neighborhood in the San Diego suburbs. He’d come here often, ever since being given the key, and had spent many hours sitting in his cab in the parking lot wondering what his calling might one day be. When his brothers had risen up in the Levant and toppled their puppet governments, he knew his time was near. Soon sleeper cells in the West composed of men like Kamir would do their duty and pave the way for a worldwide caliphate. His moment of glory would soon be upon him.
He watched the storefront for nearly twenty minutes, until three different patrons walked through the doors with objects to ship. He didn’t want to have to answer any questions and he assumed that the busier the store’s employees were, the better. He left the Ford unlocked and strode quickly toward the shopping center, looking around nervously for any sign of law enforcement, knowing full well that he’d never be able to spot the FBI agents if they were on to him.
Only one employee appeared to be working, and she paid him no mind when he entered. She was busy helping an elderly woman pack what looked like children’s gifts into a shipping box as other customers in line rushed her along with their glaring eyes. The post office boxes occupied the portion of the store closest to the entrance and could be partitioned off by a sliding metal gate so that the boxes could be accessed after normal store hours.
He scanned the boxes and quickly located 2102, the number he’d been made to memorize. Choosing the only unused key from his key ring, he slid the key into the lock and opened the windowed brass door. A brown cardboard box, slightly larger than a cigar box, sat inside the rectangular opening at an angle. Kamir reached inside and slid it outward, surprised at its weight.
He closed and locked the box and turned toward the front of the store. What he saw there froze him in his tracks: a uniformed policeman was opening the glass entrance door, looking directly at him.
Panic set in. He wasn’t sure whether to attack the officer and try to get his gun, or run past the counter and hope for a back exit. If he got a hold of the gun, he could at least kill the officer and the other customers in the store before he was martyred. It wasn’t how he’d dreamed of it, but it was better than spending the rest of his life in a small cell, thinking about how he’d failed Allah.
As he stood for a moment, trying to make up his mind, the officer spoke. Kamir’s ears were rushing with blood, like the sound of the ocean, and he couldn’t make out what the man was saying. Finally the officer stood outside the opened door and gestured for Kamir to pass; the policeman was smiling. A feeling of total relief washed over him. He forced a smile and bowed his head at the officer as he passed by into the parking lot.
He hurried back to the security of his cab and thanked Allah for his helping hand. Quickly starting the car, he drove around the back of the strip mall, where dumpsters sat askew along a battered chain link fence. Putting the car into park, he took a cheap Chinese-made pocketknife from the center console. He cut through the tape surrounding the box and carefully opened the flaps, peering curiously inside. Whatever his future held, he would find it here. The box contained two envelopes: a legal-size white one and a larger manila one. He fished the smaller envelope out and cut it open with the small knife.
The envelope contained three folded sheets of paper, which he opened and examined carefully. The first page was a letter from his handler, telling him what he must do. He was to kill a man, a man who had brought about the deaths of scores, perhaps hundreds, of his Muslim brothers. His handler would help guide him, but Kamir was to have the honor of avenging those lives. He was to wait for a text message that would direct him to his objective. The second page was a description of the target: a home address, a list of places he was known to frequent, and a description of his vehicle. On the third page was printed a series of photos: one that looked like a mug shot of a man in a military uniform, another full-body candid shot of what appeared to be the same man, a photo of a small but well-kept suburban home, and a photograph of a white Toyota Land Cruiser similar to those prevalent throughout the Middle East.
After rereading the letter on the first page, Kamir reached into the box and took out the larger manila envelope. He tore open the sealed top and found a heavy black handgun inside along with a spare loaded magazine. He’d never shot a gun before but he’d seen it done a million times in movies. As a Middle Eastern–looking man, he stayed away from the local gun ranges so as not to arouse suspicion. America was a tolerant and diverse place, something that warriors of Islam could exploit. Still, it was better to be safe and keep one’s distance from flight schools and gun ranges.
He felt a mixture of fear and power as he wrapped his fingers around the grip of the handgun. It felt massive. He studied the lettering on the side of the steel slide: PIETRO BERETTA—MADE IN ITALY. Kamir recognized the weapon as a common one, though this particular gun lacked the prominent safety lever or exposed hammer. Clutching the grip with his right hand, he pulled back on the slide with his left hand and was so surprised when a loaded 9mm cartridge ejected from the gun and flew into the backseat that he nearly dropped the pistol. Embarras
sed by his fumbling, he stashed the handgun under his seat, put the cab into drive, and headed toward the San Diego–Coronado Bridge.
CHAPTER 32
Coronado, California
AFTER BEN HAD LEFT, Reece stayed up all night, drinking coffee and sorting through the pages and pages of documents, emails, spreadsheets, and notes that had been retrieved from Holder’s hard drive. Ben had done everything he could to convince Reece to get out of his house and hole up someplace safe, but in the end, Reece would have none of it. He wanted to be close to the memories of his family, and if whoever was behind this came to call, all the better as far as Reece was concerned. He would be waiting.
Reece sat on the couch in the living room with hundreds of pages of documents collated into stacks on the coffee table, love seat, and floor. He began to put some of the pieces in place, but the players were fairly careful with what they put in writing. Like pieces of a giant four-dimensional jigsaw puzzle, bits of information that meant nothing on their own made more sense in context with events of the past month.
Reece’s enlisted rate, or military occupational specialty, prior to going to Officer Candidate School was Intelligence Specialist, which sounded far more interesting than it actually was. Still, that training, along with close to two decades of experience studying obscure information to develop target packages, was helpful. At roughly 4:00 a.m. he’d gathered enough information to start the planning phase. He stood and walked into the kitchen, standing in front of the refrigerator. He pulled a piece of paper held by a magnet from the front of the fridge and held it in both hands as if it were a sacred document. On the paper was a crayon drawing of three figures standing on green grass with a sun in the sky and a rainbow arcing downward. Above the heads of the three figures, in his wife’s handwriting, were “Daddy,” “Mommy,” and “Lucy.” With the drawing in hand, Reece returned to the couch and flipped the paper over. He took a pencil from the coffee table and began carefully writing a list of names on the back: