War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2)

by Jeffrey Wilson

  What if they suspect me? What if they catch me in a lie? What if they figure out that my phone is being used as a body wire? What if they hurt Delilah? What if they turn her against me? What if . . . what if . . . what if . . .

  The door to the house opened and made him jump. He turned to see Delilah’s silhouette in the doorway. Her hands moved to her hips, signaling both her impatience and irritation.

  Just act normal, he told himself. He opened the driver-side door and stepped out.

  “What are you doing out here in the dark, Keyvan?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said and shut the car door behind him.

  “I heard the garage door a while ago, you had to be doing something all this time.”

  “I was just thinking,” he said, approaching her.

  She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him for insincerity, but said nothing else. He leaned in to give her a peck on the lips and she gave him her cheek, something she’d never done before. He was about to ask her what was the matter, but he knew the dreadful answer to this question.

  “Come,” she said, as if talking to a child. “They’re waiting for us in the basement.”

  He followed her through the mudroom, through the kitchen, and to the stairs leading down to the basement. Their basement was finished, with a full bathroom and a guest bedroom. The rest of the space served as a lounge and game room, complete with poker and Ping-Pong tables—both big-box-store whim purchases, and both never used. Never used, that was, until now. Their two guests had transformed the card table into a command center, covering every square inch of surface area with maps and photographs. The Ping-Pong table, on the other hand, was now serving as a weapons staging platform. He scanned the instruments of death and destruction neatly displayed, including two Kevlar vests wired with bombs, two small machine guns whose make he did not recognize, two Glock 9 mm pistols, and several nasty-looking blades of varying lengths. Also, on the table sat a small handheld video recorder.

  Since his last trip to the basement, there was one new addition—a black sheet with the white logo of the Islamic State was now tacked to the basement wall. A stool was staged in front of the terrorist banner. This was where they would shoot their web videos, reading self-serving passages of the Quran and taking credit for the devastation they were about to unleash.

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” the Syrian said, not looking up from where he sat, typing on a notebook computer.

  “I had work to do,” Keyvan replied. “I’ve fallen behind since your arrival.”

  “Is that so?” the Syrian replied, his voice rife with superiority.

  “It is important that I maintain my regular routines and appearances,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You wouldn’t want me to do anything to draw unwanted attention to myself or the house would you?”

  At this the Syrian looked up and fixed his cold, black eyes on him.

  “What?” Keyvan said, nervously.

  The Syrian set his notebook computer on the end table beside the sofa and stood up. He walked over to Keyvan and stepped into his personal space.

  “You seem nervous. More nervous than usual.”

  Keyvan looked at Delilah, but her gaze was fixed on the Syrian.

  “Why are you so nervous today, Keyvan?” the Syrian said, tilting his head.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Keyvan said, willing himself not to take a step back.

  Just then a toilet flushed, and a beat later the Iranian VEVAK operative appeared from the bathroom.

  “Professor Shirazi returns,” he said, with false bravado. “How many papers did you grade? How many American superstars will have to go home brokenhearted with a B today?”

  As much as Keyvan despised the VEVAK operative, he was grateful for the interruption. He chuckled and said, “I gave seven Cs, nine Bs, and five As, if you must know.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” the man said. “Get me a drink of water.”

  “Okay,” Keyvan said, turning toward the wet bar on the far basement wall.

  “With ice,” the Iranian said, glancing at the Syrian with a fox’s grin. “In America, it is perfectly acceptable to treat a man like a woman. See, look at how obedient Keyvan has become. He’s so indoctrinated in his legend that there is no Persian pride left in him at all.”

  Keyvan felt his cheeks heat while he prepared a glass of ice water.

  “Do you still have your manhood, Keyvan? Or has it shriveled away along with your pride?”

  Keyvan felt a surge of anger, and he wanted to throw the ice water in the VEVAK man’s face, but he knew that would be a terrible mistake. The Iranian was twenty years his junior and a tactically trained VEVAK operative. The man was a killer; of this much Keyvan was certain, whereas he had no practical experience in such things. He silently cursed his trembling hand as he passed the water to his tormentor. The Iranian took the glass without thanks, and walked over to take a seat on the sofa.

  “Prove him wrong, Keyvan,” the Syrian said, filling the awkward silence. “I am one man short for the operation. Join me as one of Allah’s chosen warriors and cement your legacy as a hero of Persia.”

  Keyvan glanced at the suicide vests on the Ping-Pong table and felt his stomach tie in knots.

  “That was never part of the arrangement,” the man from VEVAK said from the sofa.

  “Then the arrangement must change.”

  “Keyvan is not your asset. The Suren are tasked with providing support. They do not take orders from you, and neither do I.”

  “I think you misunderstand. This is not my will, but the will of Allah. Without a second warrior, the mission will fail,” the Syrian said, his voice even and calm. “Who are you to question God’s plan?”

  The Iranian wagged a finger at the Syrian. “Now you listen to me—”

  “I’ll do it,” Keyvan interrupted, shocking them all.

  “What?” the Iranian snarled.

  “I said I’ll do it,” Keyvan repeated. He glanced at the Syrian and saw that the terrorist wore an expression he’d not seen since his arrival . . . a smile. Keyvan took a deep breath and brazenly walked over to the card table covered with maps and photographs. This was the closest he’d been permitted to get to the table, which validated the logic behind his decision to volunteer. The only exigency that the Syrian cared about was drafting another suicide bomber. Offering to satisfy that need was the only way to learn the details of the operation. “He’s right,” Keyvan said, looking down at the map of downtown Omaha. He found the Old Market district and quickly scanned the street labels. “I am very familiar with the Old Market. To achieve maximum results, it will take two gunmen. Together, we can herd the infidels toward the intersection of Howard and Eleventh Streets and detonate the bombs on opposite sides of the crowd.”

  “Yes, yes,” the Syrian said, walking over to stand beside him. “This was exactly my plan.”

  The VEVAK man looked at Delilah. “What is your opinion of this?”

  She glanced at each of them in turn, her eyes settling last on Keyvan. “I am surprised at my husband’s decision, but if this is God’s will, then who am I to judge?”

  “Then it’s settled,” the Iranian said, quickly. He walked to the Ping-Pong table and picked up one of the suicide vests. “This will be your vest. Come here, Keyvan, I want you to put it on for me.”

  Keyvan swallowed. “Right now?”

  The Syrian’s enthusiasm darkened. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, no, of course not, I just don’t see why,” Keyvan stuttered, “why I must try on the vest now.”

  The Syrian narrowed his eyes. “I think you misunderstand me. I’m not asking you to try on the vest. This is not a wardrobe fitting. It is time to begin your training, and your first assignment is to wear the vest for twenty-four hours.”

  “Twenty-four hours?” Keyvan exclaimed, feeling all the blood drain from his face.

  “But of course. A martyr must embrace his destiny, and to d
o that you must embrace the vest. It must become a part of you, and you a part of it. Do not be afraid, Keyvan. Allah is watching.”

  Keyvan’s feet suddenly felt like blocks of lead. Even if he wanted to, gravity prevented him from taking a step. He looked back down at the card table. “Maybe after we discuss the operation, I’ll be ready to wear it.”

  There was no way in hell he was going to walk around with bombs strapped to his torso. Not for twenty-four hours. Not for twenty-four seconds. His heart was racing now, beating so fast it felt like he was going into Afib. He clutched the edge of the card table to steady himself. Frantically, he scanned the photographs, maps, and documents on the table for clues about the other target locations. Everything on the table seemed to pertain to Omaha, but there had to be something. Some hint or clue identifying the other two cities. He was almost positive there were two other cities being targeted, because three sedans had arrived that night in Douglas, Arizona, and three sedans had departed in three different directions. A large map of downtown Omaha covered the middle of the table, but he spied a sliver of another map peeking out beneath one side. He folded the Omaha map on itself, revealing a map of the continental United States taped to the table below. Three red dots immediately caught his attention: Atlanta, Omaha, and Seattle.

  “I just think we should discuss the details of the operation as a group. The tactics we use in the Old Market could also be applied to the targets in Atlanta and Seattle.” He noticed that the dot in Washington State was actually located in a suburb of Seattle, not downtown proper. He leaned left to try to read the small black font of the township beneath the dot.

  “Keyvan, what are you doing?” Delilah said, her tone both scolding and fearful at the same time.

  He stopped and looked up at her.

  He saw horror in her eyes.

  His heart fluttered.

  In his peripheral vision, he realized that the Syrian was standing beside him. He turned his head to find the muzzle of a gun leveled at his forehead.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted, trying to sound indignant but his voice cracking instead with fear. “Don’t point that at me.”

  There was a blur of movement, and the center of his face exploded in pain as the bridge of his nose shattered from the blow of the pistol butt. His eyes lit up with a fireworks display of white light and he pitched forward. His knee screamed in pain as it hit the ground. He felt warm blood rushing through the fingers that cupped his ruined nose.

  “My God. Why did you do that?”

  It was Delilah’s voice—frightened and tight.

  “Why is Keyvan asking these questions? Who have you been talking to?” the Syrian demanded.

  “No one. I’ve spoken to no one,” he tried to yell, but his voice was wet cotton. “I’m a servant of Allah. I’ve done everything he’s asked of me.”

  The Syrian scowled and kicked him. Pain erupted in his side and he felt a rib snap. He heard a scream, and realized it was his own, reverberating off the basement walls.

  “What have you told the Americans?” the terrorist asked. His voice was calm now, almost soft. Perhaps it was over, Keyvan thought. He tried to push himself up from the floor, but his left side and chest shrieked in protest. Without warning, another kick landed between his legs, and he thought he would die before he could suck in another breath.

  “What have you told them about the operation? Have you revealed the targets? Tell me and the pain will stop.”

  “Stop it, you’re killing him,” Delilah cried.

  Keyvan heard more emotion in that cry from her than he had in years, and he knew then that she still loved him. That realization gave him the strength he needed. They could get out of this. They could start over. “I am a servant of Allah. I will martyr myself, to see the Mahdi return in all his glory,” Keyvan managed to choke out. The voice, sputtering and begging, was alien to him. The words and promises were coming from somewhere deep and primal, but his plea was only met with another blow.

  He collapsed to the floor again, but immediately felt a hand on his collar, jerking him roughly back up to his knees. The pain was clouding his mind, weakening his resolve. The voice inside his head was wishing for a quick end—in a burst of glorious, explosive light—as opposed to this slow death by bludgeoning. He readied himself for the next blow, but it did not come.

  “What did you tell them about the Old Market? What did you tell them about Seattle and—”

  “Shut up, you idiot. You’re making it worse.”

  “Unhand me.”

  Keyvan was no longer sure who was speaking and to whom. He willed his eyes open to see what was happening, only to find the gaping black eye of a pistol so close his eyes couldn’t focus on it.

  Then there was a flash.

  And terrible pain.

  And then nothing.

  CHAPTER 34

  Ember SUV

  Two Blocks from the Shirazi House

  Omaha, Nebraska

  2015 Local Time

  Atlanta.

  Keyvan had clearly said “Atlanta,” and now Dempsey could think of nothing but Kate and Jake as the word echoed over and over in his head. His throat tightened, and he felt anxiety the likes of which he hadn’t felt since the day he pinned on his Trident. The losses he experienced because he wore the Trident were part of the life he had chosen. But this . . . this was just too much. Kate and Jake were never supposed to be in danger—that was his part of their equation.

  A gunshot snapped him from his emotional fugue.

  “Oh shit. I think they just executed him,” Wang gasped, all the usual flippancy and sarcasm gone from his voice.

  “Quiet,” Dempsey barked.

  The arguing in the Shirazi basement continued:

  “Are you mad? We needed to know what he told them.”

  “Shut your mouth, you fool. We’re not in Raqqa or Ar Rutbah. What were you thinking?”

  “You’re the one who executed him, Persian.”

  “Because you forced my hand. If the Americans actually did tag him, then they’ve been listening from the beginning. In which case, you were sharing more information with your foolish questions than he knew.”

  There was a rustling and then a wet thud.

  “He’s not wearing a body wire. No electronics.”

  “Then you killed him for nothing. You killed my Keyvan, you monster. He was doing what we were trained to do,” the wife sobbed.

  “You saw how nervous he was. The only explanation for his behavior is betrayal.”

  “He’s always nervous, you asshole,” she screamed. “That is how he is. But he’s always been loyal to me and to Persia, and you murdered him for it.”

  Dempsey heard the sound of a slap.

  “Never speak to me that way, woman. And if Keyvan was loyal to you ahead of his country, then perhaps I should be asking what it is that you’re not telling us.”

  “I’ve been sequestered here with you since Arizona,” she cried. “How could I possibly be working with the Americans?”

  “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “Checking his phone.”

  A sudden loud scraping sound caused Wang to dial down the volume on his laptop, which was presently streaming over the Yukon’s speakers via Bluetooth.

  “The phone appears to be off.”

  “Let me see it . . .”

  “Where is the woman? Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know, probably to the bathroom to be sick.”

  “No, she’s upstairs. She’s running. Go after her!”

  Dempsey gritted his teeth. The voice belonged to al-Mahajer; he was certain of it.

  “She’s my problem, do you understand? You don’t touch her.”

  “Just bring her back. Quickly, you fool!”

  Dempsey unbuckled his seatbelt. “She’s making a run for it.”

  Smith whipped around from the driver seat. “Go get her, but John . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you’re seen,
we’re blown. Better to sacrifice her than the mission.”

  “Don’t worry, I got this,” Dempsey said, before slipping out the rear passenger door and heading off into the night to save Delilah Shirazi.

  CHAPTER 35

  Rostami reached the top of the stairs and saw that the door leading from the kitchen into the backyard was hanging open. He cursed al-Mahajer under his breath. The man might be a genius when it came to brutalizing the locals in western Iraq, whipping up the disenfranchised into a religious fury, and hacking his opposition to pieces, but clearly he knew nothing about clandestine operations in a civilized country. This was not Al Qa’im—this was the middle of America. What a fool.

  He sprinted out the kitchen door onto a brick patio, where he paused and scanned both directions for movement. Seeing none, he listened for the sound of a car engine coming to life, but instead he heard the rustle of leaves and the crack of branches straight ahead. Rostami pulled his pistol from his waistband and ran across the backyard toward the wooded expanse that separated the Shirazis’ neighborhood from the east campus. He entered the woods, crouched low, and moved quietly in the dark. Every few meters he paused, listening. He heard a rustle to his right and veered toward the sound, all the while cursing in his head. In a span of two days, al-Mahajer had destroyed two invaluable VEVAK assets who had been operating for two decades undetected in America. Keyvan was a nervous woman of a man—he’d been that way since Arizona—but was he brave enough to betray them? Rostami thought not. Now Keyvan was dead, which dictated the same fate for Delilah. He simply could not let her live. Even if she was loyal, fear and anger would render her useless, and he could hardly leave her behind, knowing all that she knew.

  He heard the sound of feet on leaves, slightly to his left now. He slowed and moved cautiously and quietly. Delilah had gotten her panic under control. She was hiding now. He took a knee, closed his eyes, and listened carefully—all predator. Thoughts of Delilah’s bleached-blonde hair; ample breasts; and thin, fit body flooded his mind. If he had to kill her, he might as well have fun in the process. He would pin her down by her throat on the floor of the woods. He would tear her clothes from her body and fuck her as he dragged his blade across her throat. He would finish as he watched the life drain from her face and then her eyes. Always it left the eyes last.