by T. R. Harris
“And who do you think is behind this operation?”
“I believe it to be the Arm of Allah terrorist organization, and their leader, Abdul-Shahid Almasi.”
“There had to be inside information provided to Almasi for an attack on the RDC to succeed. You also have someone you suspect to be the traitor behind this release of classified information.”
“I do. I believe it to be—”
A low wailing alarm sprang from Billy’s cellphone.
“I thought you turned off the ringer?” said Tiffany, slapping her interview notes against her legs at the interruption.
Billy snatched the phone from the tripod and began to work the screen, his forehead deeply furrowed.
“What’s that?” Xander asked.
“It’s what you think it is, buddy—a security alarm for the estate. It looks like we have company.”
“Are you still recording?” Tiffany asked.
Billy looked at the screen and then pressed a button. “Not anymore.”
“Save it. This is some good stuff!”
Xander and Tiffany now joined Billy, huddled together in the center of the living room looking at the screen on the phone. “I didn’t hear an alarm go off outside,” Xander said.
“Yeah, I prefer to hold my cards close to the vest, otherwise they may go for broke and just barge in. This way I can control the situation. Maria!”
The house servant appeared immediately. “Get to the safe room.”
“Si, Mr. Billy. Are you coming?”
“Not yet. I want to see what we can do to stop these guys before they mess up my carpets.”
“You have a safe room?” Tiffany asked.
“Honestly, everyone in this neighborhood has safe rooms. It’s like having a garbage disposal or a built-in microwave.”
Maria had disappeared, and now Xander looked around at the well-lit living room and glowing backyard. “Shouldn’t we be doing something? If these are the same guys from Idyllwild, they mean business.”
“Follow me,” Billy said. He led them down one of the long hallways before entering a smallish room that looked to be his home office. He slipped behind the outward facing desk, took a seat, and then smiled up at the other two. “I have a command bunker,” he said proudly.
“You’ve been expecting something like this to happen?” Tiffany asked.
“I’m in the weaponized drone business, sweetie. My babies attack anyone, anywhere, and I’m not naïve enough to think I’m immune to the repercussions. They kill thousands of people each year, on all sides.” He noticed the look of disgust on Tiffany’s face. “I don’t intentionally sell to the bad guys, but I can’t be responsible for what the government does with my toys, or where they end up after the black market gets a hold of them. Hey, I get my share of death threats from people who blame me simply because I built the drones.”
Jenkins activated a flat screen monitor on the desk and Xander and Tiffany moved around so they could see. “I also know what my units—and others—are capable of doing. However…” He zoomed in on the infrared signatures of half a dozen men scaling the walls surrounding his property. “In this case I only have people to deal with.”
Chapter 17
Damien Winslow was livid. This was not how he ran an operation, yet events were happening so fast and so unexpectedly that corners had to be cut.
It wasn’t that he doubted the professionalism of his men. It was that they had no idea what they were going up against. Already they had been taken by surprise at the mountain cabin. Two of his assault team were waiting in the SUVs outside the estate with bullet wounds that needed tending. The people in the Idyllwild house had gotten lucky, and after his people had been hit, he’d been tempted to seek revenge. But the real targets had got on the move quickly, and he’d had to race down the hill in plain sight of a dozen gawking neighbors.
That they’d stolen one of his SUVs and taken the keys from the others was the result of poor intelligence and spur-of-the-moment planning. And now, as they scaled the wall surrounding the estate and dropped to the immaculate lawn below, they were engaging in the same reckless behavior that had already cost him time and manpower.
The home was located in an exclusive neighborhood where—undoubtedly—security was a prime concern, yet he had no knowledge what the owner had in store for them. Did he have dogs on the premises or on-call security patrols? Were they on camera right now, with police being dispatched to an area where service would not be lacking because of the power and wealth associated with the area? He had to expect the worst, so time was of the essence.
Basically, all he knew of this location was the address and the name of the occupant. He wasn’t even sure that his primary targets were here. If not, then the other four names in his phone would be located and checked; however, for some reason this name and address had been flagged as a priority.
He had eight men on-scene—the two wounded guarding the vehicles. Scaling the wall around the compound had not been an issue, but now they were exposed in a sea of light, as it was obvious the owner of the property didn’t have to worry about such mundane things as high electricity bills. The house itself was still ablaze, which hopefully meant they hadn’t been detected, not yet.
With all his men in place, he had them spread out across a thirty meter line. Two were sent scrambling for the side of the huge, modern-looking home while the others covered them. If dogs were present, they would have known by now, and to Damien’s relief, his men reached the house without incident and without the sound of an external alarm.
Taking a pair of small yet high-powered binoculars from his tac vest, Damien scanned the roofline of the house, looking for video surveillance. When none was seen, he actually grew more concerned. There had to be surveillance; one didn’t own a home like this without it. The fact that the cameras were so well hidden spoke of a higher level of technology than most other sites.
He sent another two men to the front entrance before he and Jacques St. Claire ran for the few shadows in the huge backyard. From there he was able to look around a corner of the large covered lanai and into the fully-illuminated living room. There was no one inside, yet there were several empty glasses sitting on end tables anchoring a horseshoe-shaped sofa.
He turned toward the backyard when the sounds of the night were interrupted by something new. He relaxed when he recognized it as the rat-tat-tat of sprinklers just coming on.
Damien was equipped with a tiny earpiece and throat microphone so he could communicate with his men. “Any activity out front?” he asked.
“Negative on the street,” was the report from the waiting vehicles.
“Same at the front door. It’s locked, and I can see around to the row of garage doors. They’re all closed.”
“Maintain your positions,” Winslow ordered. “We’re moving to the rear patio doors…”
Damien heard a strange noise through the earpiece, and a sudden groaning as if someone was in intense pain … and then nothing.
“What was that? Report.”
There was a momentary silence. “I heard it, too,” said Nick Daniels at the front door. “Owens, Burke, come in.”
When the two men sent to the side of the house didn’t respond, Damien pulled back the slide on his Beretta ARX-160 assault rifle and fell back against the wall of the patio. “Daniels … check on them. The rest of you, eyes open.”
Five seconds later, Daniels reported his findings. “Two down … Taser fire. They’re out for the duration.”
“Any sign of the attacker?”
“Negative. All’s quiet … except for that buzzing. Can you hear it?”
Damien couldn’t. All he could hear was the rhythmic snapping of the sprinklers … but then there was something. It was just a little off, an extra layer of sound lost in the mix.
“Listen up,” Damien said. “We’re dealing with drone people here, so be on alert for those little bastards. I believe we’re under surveillance and have been since entry.
We’re going in, weapons hot. Take out anything that moves. On my count: Three, two, one … go!”
Daniels had returned to the front of the house by then, and now he and his partner opened fire, shattering the ornately-carved wooden door before lowering their shoulders and crashing through into the foyer. As they took up positions to each side of the room, a brilliant flash temporarily blinded them. As fingers tightened on triggers, a pair of high-pitched pops was heard, and sharp, double spikes struck both men on the skin of their unprotected necks. Fifty-thousand volts coursed through their bodies, stopping all voluntary movement and replacing it with spasms of excruciating pain.
Both men fell to the marble floor, writhing as two box-shaped drones moved up and hovered above them, the wires to the spikes still attached to the UAVs. The units remained on station, although the voltage was reduced. It would be enough to keep the men incapacitated until living beings could come and take possession of the intruders.
Damien, with St. Claire on his back shoulder, slid open one of the wide glass door panels between the lanai and the living room and entered. They came in low and with weapons glued to their cheeks, scanning all angles, looking for something to shoot. No targets were identified, not until four small UAVs entered from the direction of the garage, while another two zipped up from the backyard and shot in through the open patio door.
The two men lit off their weapons, spraying wild gunfire into the vast living room. Walls exploded, pictures fell, and the stone of the massive fireplace sent rock shrapnel cascading into the room and onto the cream-colored carpet. The drones scattered as automatic defensive programming took over.
When one of the hovering drones lined up on him, Damien dove for the leather sofa, just ahead of the pair of gold-colored darts that penetrated the back of the couch not six inches from his head. He fired, shattering the plastic and light-gauged metal drone to pieces.
Then he rolled to his left and rose up off the sofa just as the twitching body of Jacques St. Claire flew over the couch and hit him in the back. Damien fell over the large burl coffee table and onto the carpet, where he instinctively rolled to his side several times so as to avoid becoming a stationary target. It wasn’t enough. The Taser darts struck him in the buttocks.
The pain was excruciating, even if it was something he was vaguely familiar with. All Special Forces were required to experience a Taser hit as part of their training. But that was in a controlled environment while this was combat. Now the fear factor was added to the equation, making the pain seem even worse.
With his face contorted in a mask of gruesome agony, tears escaped from his eyes, and through his restricted vision all he could see was the mansion’s living room ceiling. He had no control over his limbs; it was all he could do to grit his teeth and issue guttural groans from burning lungs. It was as if his entire body was on fire…
Through whatever miracle of consciousness he still retained, Damien began to sense that the effects of the Taser were going on much too long, even if he did notice a slight lessening of the pain. He craned his neck in the direction of the crackling sound, only to see the blurred vision of an obedient and impersonal drone hovering above him. The bastard’s still feeding me voltage, he thought. This isn’t good. Not good at all.
********
Billy, Xander, and Tiffany left the office with Jenkins holding an elaborate controller in his hands. When they entered the living room, Billy’s mouth fell open in a display of unbridled shock. The place was a mess—punctured walls and a shattered fireplace. The once-impressive T.V. was in pieces, and the rest of his furniture lay in ruins. The roar of the propellers from the four surviving UAVs was deafening, especially as they were in hover mode, two of them still feeding a continual stream of crackling high voltage into the writhing bodies on the floor.
“Grab their weapons,” Billy ordered. His tone was tense and his eyes mere slits from the primal ferocity welling up inside.
Tiffany and Xander quickly moved throughout the room, and then to the front door, collecting weapons before placing them in a pile near Billy’s feet. They each retained one for themselves, with Tiffany giving Xander a quick lesson on how to fire an Uzi. When all the intruders were disarmed, Billy cut the power to the Tasers. Even then the men were still lost in the aftereffects of electroshock.
Billy walked over to an intercom on the wall. “Maria, it’s safe to come out. Open the front gate for the police, and then go in the garage and bring out a bale of wire.” He saw the confused look on Tiffany’s face. “Screw rope, we need to wrap these bastards up in wire.”
Fifteen minutes later, all six men in the assault group were sitting on the littered carpet, backs against the sofa and wrapped nearly from head to toe in heavy gauge silver wire. Security cameras showed that the two men in the SUVs had departed the scene posthaste when the ruckus started, leaving their companions to face the music inside the house without them, even as the wailing of approaching sirens signaled the end to a blown mission.
The captives were slowly regaining their senses, and after a brief inspection of their restraints, a silent consensus was reached—they weren’t going anywhere, at least not of their own free will.
Billy walked the line of hard, square-jawed men, scanning their faces, looking for the leader. They were all tough and determined, yet only one had the steely gaze of a leader. He stopped in front of Damien Winslow.
“You’re the boss, aren’t you?”
The man didn’t speak, yet all the others sent furtive glances his way. “Good, now let’s talk b—”
Before he could go further, Tiffany raced forward and shoved the barrel of an HK assault rifle into the man’s chest. She had fire in her eyes. “You tell me right now what happened to the old couple in Idyllwild. Do it now, before I fill your chest with lead!”
Billy backed away—as did Xander—surprised by the intensity in the woman’s voice, along with the conviction her words conveyed.
“Back off,” the man said. “They’re fine. We left them to chase the two of you down the mountain.”
Tiffany glared at the man, searching his face. When she was convinced, she backed away. “You are one lucky son-of-a-bitch,” she said.
“Me? I’d say the two of you are lucky beyond belief.”
“Who do you work for?” Billy asked once Tiffany had retreated.
The man looked up at Billy. “Fucking nerd,” he said. “Who do you think we work for?”
“Duh, let me guess: the bad guys?”
“Bingo. And they pay very well, so I’m sure we’re not the only team out looking for the two of you … and now for you as well, Mr. William Jenkins.”
Xander had the man’s cellphone and was scrolling through his recent text messages. He stopped when he reached one in particular.
“He knows the names of the entire team, Billy, all of us. That could only have come from Jonas.”
Billy focused on the man again. “You work for Jonas Lemon?”
“I’ve heard the name, but he’s not the main guy.”
“Abdul-Shahid Almasi?” Xander asked.
“It’s no secret,” the leader of the assault team acknowledged. “And you should know that he has a lot more men available—and even drones—to get us out of any holding facility the police may put us in.”
As if on cue, three San Diego black-and-white police squad cars entered the grounds through the now open front gate and screeched to a halt at the shattered front door.
“Do you really think Almasi gives a rats-ass about you?” Xander asked before the police entered the house. “Where are they, Almasi and Lemon?”
Just then a pair of weapons-drawn and bewildered policemen entered the living room, aiming their handguns at Xander and Tiffany. By now, they had discarded their weapons and were standing innocently to one side of the sofa.
“Hell if I know,” the man on the floor continued, unfazed by the arrival of the policemen. “Everything is done long-distance these days. They could be in Timbuktu for al
l I know, or right next door.”
“Mr. Jenkins?” one the policemen asked.
“That’s right,” Billy said, drawing the officer’s attention. “I believe you’re going to need a paddy wagon or two,” he said with a smile. “And by the way, these guys are part of the group who attacked the Rapid Defense Center yesterday, so they aren’t your typical, run-of-the-mill burglars. I’d call in whatever agencies you can think of to make sure they stay in custody and provide all the information they can … through polite and humane interrogation, of course. No waterboarding.” He scanned his wrecked living room. “After all, we wouldn’t want to harm them, now would we?”
The police officer—being on his best behavior in the exclusive area of Rancho Santa Fe—took a moment to scan the room himself, including the line of captives wrapped in baling wire, before nodding to his partner. The second policeman began to speak into his shoulder comm. Another pair of officers entered the room. “Are there any other intruders around we need to know about?” one of them asked Billy.
“Two others got away in a pair of black Suburbans. I captured the license plate numbers on video.”
“Okay,” said the lead police officer. He turned to the others. “Let’s get this scene processed as soon as possible.”
“Representatives from Homeland Security are en route,” one of the other officers reported. “They don’t want anyone leaving until they get here.”
Xander approached the policeman with the sergeant chevron on his sleeve and handed him Winslow’s cellphone. “The people listed here are in danger as well. Can you locate them before anything bad happens to them? They should all be in the San Diego area.”
The officer took the phone. He nodded as he fingered the button on his shoulder communicator. “Sergeant Espinosa to dispatch, I have a list of four names requiring their location and protective units to be assigned. This has something to do with the attack on the Rapid Defense Center, so give it priority status. The names are as follows…” The officer turned away as he read off the names.