The boss scared her, too. She sure didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his wrath. In her military career, she’d seen lots of field commanders, softies and bad-asses alike. She’d been sent on lots of missions with her units, pursuing crazed despots or protecting civilians against them, or training third-world soldiers how to fight them.
After her military career, she’d worked as a mercenary for those same kinds of bad men—drug runners, flesh traffickers, hit squads. All those men—military or civilian, soft or hard—had some degree of badness in them. But she’d never truly seen a man as driven as the boss. Johnson was both righteous and evil at the same time—a crazy combination for one who was called a terrorist. He wasn’t bad only to maintain a reputation or only when his henchmen were around. He was bad through and through.
She’d always wondered where bad men—or women—came from, or what kind of kids they were, or how or when or where they learned how to be bad or do bad things. Carl Johnson was a perfect example of the origin of a bad man. She could easily see that he’d been a gentleman and a loving father before. She’d seen him turn. She’d seen him cut his teeth on violence. In the space of a week, he’d morphed into a stone-cold killer. He’d been forged by the actions of the US government.
Then, crazily enough, he launched his team into a rescue mission for the very people he wanted to kill and who wanted him dead. In a month, Johnson was transformed from an ordinary civilian into a terrorist monster. Then in another day, a single day, he transformed into a hero.
Johnson was no ordinary hero. At the exchange site where he’d rescued the First Daughter, he took bullets in the vest for the girl. He’d hugged and kissed Julia like his own daughter, but only two days earlier he’d almost stuck a scalpel in the chest of that FBI agent’s daughter to get her mother to reveal the TER director’s identity. Four had actually held her breath until he pulled the blade away from the girl.
Merc Four shook away the memories and turned her attention to her Barrett M107 sniper rifle. She smiled as she recalled actually showing Julia how to sight through the powerful scope and pull the trigger on the unloaded weapon.
It wasn’t unloaded now. The safety was on, but it was ready for action with a full mag of fifty-cal rounds inserted. It sat ready for use on a fancy brushed steel, bar-height dining table that had been moved into the formal living room. A short bipod was attached under the front end of the long barrel.
Four decided to examine the yacht again, more to discount it as a threat than for any other reason. It was unnecessary since half the patrolling mercenary guards were no doubt watching it also, but she looked it over again anyway.
It wasn’t like a covert kill team could storm the beach from the boat, not even after dark. The mercs at the estate had clear fields of fire across the expansive property in all directions, and the beach itself was an empty kill zone with no cover if someone were to foolishly try that tactic. Any adequately prepared assault force would correctly assume the mercs would also have night vision devices. And the assaulting force had to scale or destroy the sturdy security fence. That wasn’t something they could do covertly.
No, Four thought. An assault will come from the air.
Before she stuck her eye behind the scope of the big sniper rifle, she glanced at the laptop sitting on the table next to the weapon. Its screen showed a circular radar sweep. A USB dongle stuck out of the right side of the machine and was wirelessly connected to a portable radar transceiver the mercs had mounted on the roof of the mansion. The low-power beam only reached out a couple of miles, but it would give a few precious minutes of warning for any impending air assault. A straight line extended from the center of the display to the outer edge and continuously rotated around the center point every two seconds. The screen was empty. There was really no need to monitor the screen as the laptop had several different audible alarms that would indicate an airborne radar return signal, as well as active jamming or interruption of the wireless connection. As Four glanced at the screen anyway, the line continued its rotation, leaving no blips behind it.
Four leaned over behind the rifle and sighted through the scope and the glass panes of the French doors facing a huge brick patio on the beach front side of the house. Trendy sheer curtains hung from two hooks at the top of each door. Earlier Four had pulled back one of the curtains a bit and used a clip pin shaped like a flower to hold the curtain. She had enough clear window to see the yacht.
The boat jumped into focus through the powerful scope. The vessel was mostly dark with only a couple of lights on near the front where she knew the pilot would be. The brilliant yellow-orange skyline marking the setting of the sun just minutes earlier provided a beautiful backdrop for the boat.
Merc Four was just getting ready to activate the thermal imaging lens when she heard the patter of feet and soft voices whispering behind her. She turned just as Mrs. Reyes reached for the light switch.
“Please don’t turn on the light.”
The woman withdrew her hand, then she and her daughter gasped as they realized Four was hovering over the very deadly looking rifle.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m just looking at the boat anchored out there.”
Julia said, “Can I look?”
“Sure, sweetie, come on over and take a peek.” Mrs. Reyes looked like she was about to object, so Four said, “It’s not a bother and it’s perfectly safe.”
She pushed a button on the left side of the weapon and the magazine dropped out into her waiting palm. She made sure the chamber was clear and stepped aside as the girl moved to the table.
Julia looked excited and scared at the prospect of touching the weapon, even though Merc Four had let her handle it earlier. Four showed her again how to balance the rifle on the bipod, raising or lowering the stock with her right eye at the scope so she could see through.
Julia said, “Wow! The boat looks so close. And I see a man looking at us, too.”
“You do?” She didn’t see anyone a moment ago. Merc Four gently nudged Julia aside and said, “Here, let me see.”
She gazed through the scope and saw the man. The sun was just touching the horizon behind a distant hazy cloud, but the sky around the setting globe was aflame in hues of yellow and red. The man was a shadow against the fading sunset and Four felt a chill as she realized the yacht was anchored in the exact position necessary to make it difficult for anyone at the estate to see the boat clearly. Four’s experienced eyes could still see the watcher was outfitted in black combat gear, same as hers. He held a large pair of powerful military-spec binoculars to his face.
By habit borne of many years of combat, Merc Four carefully slid the magazine into place and prepped for a shot, even as she studied the commando on the yacht. The man lowered the glasses and looked over his shoulder like he was searching for something.
In the sky.
“Fuck me!”
There were only two reasons why the man would blatantly study them in the open when he hadn’t moments ago. Either he didn’t care that they knew he was there or there was nothing they could do about it. Or both.
“Cover your ears, Sweetie!”
Julia did, then Four took the shot. The sniper rifle exploded with sound, the glass window shattered, and she watched the commando disappear from the deck of the boat, presumably launched into the water on the opposite side. Then she yelled at the top of her voice.
“Incoming!”
Chapter 26
1702 hours MST Friday
The Reyes Estate, Northern Mexico
A split second later, Merc Four heard the laptop emit a shrill tone. It wasn’t the high-pitched tone reserved for fast movers, like supersonic, high-flying aircraft or missiles. It was the low-pitched tone, indicating a slow-moving target, such as a helicopter gunship, a fighter, or bomber flying a few hundred knots. She saw the single blip on the laptop’s short-range radar screen. It was an inbound cruise missile. It had to be.
We’re fucked!
B
ut that was impossible. The only military force within a thousand miles that could deploy a cruise missile was the US Navy. Why would the navy waste a million-dollar weapon just to destroy a house, when a helicopter gunship could do the same with generic air-to-ground missiles, without risk and for a far lower price tag? Merc Four also knew all missile explosives displayed a distinctive blast pattern and left behind specific chemical residue that could be easily traced and identified. The US government might as well take out an ad on CNN and announce to the world that they just launched an attack against a foreign country—an ally.
Four picked Julia up by the waist and headed down the hall toward the door to the basement, grabbing Luisa by the arm as she ran past her. The two off-duty mercs clamored out of their rooms and raced down the stairs. Both were fastening straps on their combat vests with one hand while carrying assault rifles with the other.
Four yelled, “Everyone into the basement! Now!”
Once Merc Four was well into the hallway, she put Julia down to run under her own power. The two mercs followed the three women to the back of the house. In mid-stride, Merc Four kicked the crash bar and sent the steel door crashing against the concrete wall to the stairwell. She ran down the steps three at a time. Behind her, the Reyes ladies yelped as the two mercs lifted them off their feet because they weren’t running fast enough. The last man through slammed the metal barrier door behind him.
Four’s brain worked overtime. The cruise missile’s speed was maybe four or five hundred knots. The portable radar range was two, maybe three miles max. That meant they had at most half a minute to live.
The guys outside wouldn’t even have time to reach the front door. The evac plan was to abandon the property through the escape tunnels under the house. But, even if the mercs outside knew a cruise missile was coming, even if they knew enough to run away from the house, they had absolutely zero chance of getting out of the blast radius. When the missile hit, the compressive shock wave from the high-explosive warhead would crush anything and anyone within a hundred meters in a microsecond. Good news was that the mercs wouldn’t suffer.
The counter in Merc Four’s head said ten seconds had passed as she hit the bottom of the two-level flight of concrete steps. She saw that the basement really could be more accurately described as an underground garage. Ahead, she saw two armored SUVs parked beside the entrance to the escape tunnel leading away from the mansion.
Fifteen seconds left!
She got in and cranked the key that was already in the ignition and the big engine roared in the confined space. She put the big car in gear and got the nose turned into the tunnel and stopped. While she waited for the others to rush in, she fastened her seat belt.
Ten seconds left!
The last door closed and she floored the gas pedal. A squeal of rubber echoed in the tunnel before the tires caught and the over-powered SUV raced into the darkness, pinning the occupants against their seats.
“Seat belts!” she hollered over the engine noise that seemed to be refocused from the close concrete walls of the tunnel back into the cabin of the SUV.
Five seconds!
The tunnel was only a quarter-mile long, but she knew they weren’t going to make it to the other end. When the blast wave hit, it was going to rip right through their tunnel. Send them tumbling through the confined tunnel. Maybe launch them into orbit out the other end.
She was wrong. They’d gone maybe halfway through the tunnel when the missile hit, and the tremendous blast collapsed the tunnel right on top of them.
Chapter 27
1702 hours MST Friday
Albuquerque, NM
“Right now, I’m minding the shop all by myself,” Spoke said. “Well, me and the guards, but they don’t do analyst work. Monroe is sleeping off his nausea upstairs and paramedics came for McGrath and Peoples about five minutes ago.” He sighed. “I just hope my replacement gets here by dinnertime. I’m starving and day-old donuts and bagels just don’t cut it, know what I’m sayin’?”
Garcia watched the man on his monitor and acknowledged that he was, like the other government geek he’d been talking with, a true multitasker. The man chuckled, did keyboard work, chewed gum, and talked, all at the same time.
“By the way, I’m August,” Spoke said. “So, what’s your first name, Mr. Garcia?”
Garcia found the question a bit curious, but not because the analyst asked it. It was the way he asked. He asked while not looking at the camera, but he seemed a little too insistent—like he was anxious to know, but trying not to seem anxious. And that set Garcia’s spine tingling in warning. Again. He wasn’t quite sure what it was about Agent Spoke that felt creepy. The man had dark beady eyes and his face was hard, with sharp features. Garcia felt like a mouse in front of a snake that wasn’t yet hungry. He felt like the snake was just playing with his food, for the moment.
He thought about the analyst’s question. Garcia wasn’t his real name. On his first meeting with Carl, before he knew the man as Carl Johnson and before Carl was labeled the American Terrorist, they had a quick job interview on the loading docks behind a store at the west end of Central.
“So, what’s your name,” Carl had said almost three weeks ago.
“Garcia. And yours?”
“Smith.”
They’d had a brief chuckle over that irony. Garcia and Smith were two of the most common surnames in Spanish and English. He’d known Carl only as Mr. Smith for the duration of their first operation, until the FBI leaked his real name to the media. In fact, Carl still knew him only as Mr. Garcia. Just yesterday, Garcia asked Carl why he had never asked his real name and had been startled by Carl’s reply.
“Mr. Garcia, we’re still in the fan business and the shit can still hit the fan and splatter. If I get taken and tortured again, you don’t want me giving up your real name. Call it operational security.”
A part of Garcia believed his boss. He still called his mercenaries only by their number designations. Another part thought it might be Carl’s way of not getting too close. Garcia recognized that the man was still trying to come to terms with losing his son. Keeping his distance was part of his recovery process, but Garcia sensed that Carl liked him—sort of like a mentor would feel toward a favorite pupil. He also suspected Carl didn’t want to let anyone get close to him that he might lose again.
In the end, Garcia had never given Carl a first name or even his real surname. He was simply Garcia or Mr. Garcia.
“James,” he said in response to Spoke’s question. He felt pressured to answer, like it was a test or something.
“James Garcia?” Spoke tented his eyebrows like he didn’t believe him.
“Dude, in Spanish. Jaime.” Garcia pronounced it High-meh. Jaime was equally as generic in Spanish as James was in English.
The emptiness returned to Spoke’s eyes and Garcia could tell the man didn’t believe him. None of the other analysts had asked him for his first name. They hadn’t needed to know, and didn’t even care, to whom they were speaking. Why did this analyst care?
Spoke didn’t press the issue. He continued his updates with almost robotic precision. He promised to report again in fifteen minutes, then disconnected. It occurred to Garcia at that moment that Spoke hadn’t given him any more information this time than he had in his two previous updates.
He was being punked. He was sure of it. Something on the government side of the operation had changed. Now he was certain the satellite link with Carl had been severed intentionally, and for some reason the beady-eyed guy named August Spoke—if that was even his real name—seemed to be teasing him along.
Again, the young Mr. Garcia looked over at his small duffel by the door. He thought about Carl. It was time to leave. Right now.
Get out of the fan business.
Still, he hesitated. He had a gut feeling Carl was in trouble and needed him. He couldn’t abandon him. He genuinely liked the man and felt he had to be there for him.
So he waited.
1918 hours EST Friday
Undisclosed TER Op Station, Virginia
Spoke touched the ear piece with his left index finger. “Rainman, this is Spoke.”
“Go ahead.”
“Mr. Garcia is getting suspicious. I recommend eliminating him ASAP.”
“Why do you think he’s suspicious?”
Spoke frowned. It was typical of Rainman to question all assessments, especially regarding security matters. He always wanted all the raw background data as if to see if he would arrive at the same conclusion. The gut feeling of field experience, however, was often hard to translate into raw data. He knew the stakes of the operation and understood Rainman’s need for information, though.
“I asked him for his first name and he gave Jaime.”
“Hmmm. Spanish for James. A very generic name.”
“As is Garcia. I’ve run his face through all national and international databases with facial recognition algorithms and have had no hits. I’ve also begun a scan of the national driver’s license database for a matching photo, but that will take some time. I’m checking Interpol, too. Maybe this man is a Mexican national, has dual citizenship, or is an illegal alien.”
Rainman said, “It occurs to me that for Garcia to have made the kind of financial transactions he has made for Johnson, then he must have access to a network, either here in the US or, more likely, in Mexico, that can move large sums of money electronically, without raising red flags and without traceability.”
“Just like Vicente Orizaga does for us.”
“Except the TER found Orizaga before we could intervene. They could not find Garcia.”
American Terrorist Trilogy Page 47