War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2)

by Jeffrey Wilson

  Dempsey gave them a tight grin.

  “You guys look like Marines on liberty. Untuck your shirts. Relax your shoulders. Try to look casual. When you’re in your sector, you can’t just stand there. Mingle, browse. Buy something in a shop. Order a coffee at the Starbucks. Pretend to text or pretend to be on the phone. If the bad guys see FBI-looking dudes standing on the corner scanning the crowd, we’re blown. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the agents—almost certainly a former MARSOC guy, like Mendez had been—said, and Dempsey winced.

  “All right, get moving.”

  “Don’t worry, they’ll be fine,” Hansen said after the two teams assigned to the southern end of the market wandered off. “But good call putting those teams south.” He laughed.

  The remaining two agents stood beside them, arms folded, waiting for orders.

  “You guys set?” Dempsey asked.

  They both nodded.

  “So, you’re with me,” he said to the shorter one. “We walk together and we talk, we laugh, we bullshit around. We look like guys just heading to lunch, got it? You see something suspicious or anybody who looks like our tangos, you let out a big laugh, and lean and tell me like it’s a raunchy secret. Can you do that?”

  The guy nodded. He was older and looked more confident than his colleagues.

  “You’re the SEAL from New York City, right?”

  “Right,” the guy said without a smile. “You can call me Basher. I was the tactical team leader. And you’re the should I take the red pill or the blue pill SEAL from the Matrix nobody talks about?”

  “Yeah, I’m that guy. I took the red pill.”

  The SEAL laughed. “Morpheus showed you the real world, huh?”

  Dempsey thought about the strange universe of counterterrorism Jarvis had pulled him into. The metaphor fit. He grinned wryly. “Something like that.”

  “Well, you were solid at the UN,” Basher said. “I’ll trust your spooky ass on this one.”

  “Cool,” Dempsey said. Then looking at the other pair, “You guys good?”

  Hansen nodded.

  “We’ll work that northeast sector and stay in touch. I’m keeping the VOX off for bullshit chatter unless we see something, all right?”

  Dempsey nodded.

  “Yeah, same here.”

  Dempsey clipped a small black disk to the button closure of his shirt. The camera was no larger than a button cell battery, but it would stream high-resolution real-time video back to Jarvis in the TOC at Ember. He and Basher hiked in slowly, two friends with some time to kill. Dempsey had spent more hours than he cared to remember recently doing just this drill—scanning the crowd for a target while looking like he wasn’t. They were still a bit early, so he wanted to get the lay of the land and then move back to the north where he expected al-Mahajer and his partner to enter the market on foot. If the phones were still off, the high-altitude drones should, he hoped, track their INFIL.

  Wang spoke in his earpiece as if he had read his mind. “Phones are still off. No movement from the hotel, but it’s getting kind of busy over that way.”

  “Don’t miss them,” Dempsey said harshly, but then turned to his SEAL teammate and laughed. The man chuckled back and shook his head. Basher was a better actor than Dempsey had expected.

  “I won’t,” Wang said. “I’m running the camera and the pilot has control of the bird. I can see everyone leaving the hotel.”

  “Are you in position?” Dempsey asked.

  “Check. I’m on the top floor of the parking deck in the truck. I’m good, Daddy-O.”

  “Is he always like this?” Basher asked.

  “No,” Dempsey said. “Sometimes he’s annoying and immature.”

  The agent laughed for real now.

  They stopped at Scooter’s coffee a block into the Old Market, at the corner of Howard and Twelfth Street.

  “Heads up, JD, I got them,” Wang said.

  Dempsey felt his pulse quicken and forced himself to slow down as he paid for two coffees. “Thanks a bunch,” he said and handed the barista a ten-dollar bill. “Keep the change and have a great day.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, it’s definitely them,” Wang’s voice said in his ear. “Moving on foot. Two tangos. They left together but have stretched out. I think it’s al-Mahajer in the lead and now the other spanky is a half block back. Heading east. Coming your way.”

  Dempsey and Basher loitered in the coffee shop and waited for Wang’s next update. He forced himself to make small talk and sip his coffee casually. They had time. Al-Mahajer had several blocks to cover.

  “They’re turning east on Harney now, the lead guy anyway. Second guy in trail nearly a block back now. The lead guy is wearing a jacket and carrying a bag. The second guy is wearing short sleeves and has no carry. Weird. He can’t be wearing a vest; no way he’s packing anything bigger than a subcompact. He’s texting on his phone now.”

  Dempsey nodded at Basher and stepped outside Scooter’s. He set them on an intercept course, striding casually through the Old Market. “Maybe he’s not the guy,” he said to Wang. “Sure you didn’t see a third?”

  “Negative.”

  That was weird, Dempsey thought. Delilah Shirazi had been clear about al-Mahajer prepping two suicide vests in her basement. Was the other bomber coming in from another route? Was the guy walking with al-Mahajer a decoy? Shit. He had planned to move the two south teams to the mid-Market once they had a visual, but now . . .

  “Alpha Three and Four, stay south,” he said softly, then elbowed his partner and laughed. The SEAL glowered at him instead of laughing, which played to anyone watching. “Two, we’re gonna stage at the bus stop on Harney and Thirteenth on the southeast corner. You guys slip behind us to midblock on Howard between Twelfth and Thirteenth.” He thought a moment. “Actually, Two, split your team—one guy to Howard, the other patrol that northeast corner. The guy trailing al-Mahajer is probably the VEVAK operative, which means there could be a third player we don’t see.”

  Dempsey hated splitting his team, but he had no choice. They only had so many guys, and there was a lot of market to cover.

  “There’ve been no other comms from these dudes, if that helps,” Wang chimed in. “If they met up with another shithead here in Omaha, I missed the call. They’ve been dark since the calls to the other target cities.”

  “Check,” Dempsey said, and then a thought occurred to him. What if al-Mahajer had prestaged explosives around the market? That was exactly the type of devious shit the bastard would think of. “Guys, make sure you’re looking for abandoned bags, packages, et cetera. They may have prestaged IEDs.”

  “You want us to canvass the shops?” one of the patrolling operators asked.

  “Negative. That would keep you out of the game too long,” Hansen said on comms.

  They made it to the bus stop and took a seat on the bench. Dempsey pretended to show something to his “buddy” Basher on his phone, laughed, and started sipping his coffee. He set his bag on the bench beside him and pulled the zipper back halfway. Inside he could see the Sig 556 compact rifle with the stock collapsed to its shortest length. The SEAL in him wanted to take it out, recheck the round in the magazine, and sling it across his chest.

  “Tango almost to you,” said Wang in his ear. “Across Harney and coming to the corner at Thirteenth.”

  Dempsey looked at the corner and spotted al-Mahajer, and his blood went cold. He hadn’t expected to feel such a visceral reaction. Images of Romeo in Iraq and Mendez in Mexico flooded his mind, and he willed the ghastly, grisly memories back into the black lockbox in his head.

  “Contact,” he whispered and forced himself to look away.

  “Crossing the street south, but staying on the west side of Thirteenth.”

  “I have him. Where is the other asshole?”

  “He is in tow, but—wait—he’s turning south now on Fourteenth.”

  “Two—pick up tango two on Howard or if he turns
east toward you. Three and Four, stay alert.”

  He turned to his teammate and laughed and slapped the man on the back, earning a scowl and a fake laugh. He watched in his peripheral vision as al-Mahajer passed on the far side of the Thirteenth street.

  Once he passed Dempsey activated his VOX.

  “Here we go, Alpha,” he said. “Mother, Alpha has the target.” He tapped the camera disk on his shirt. “Streaming to you now and moving south.”

  “Roger, receiving you, Lima Charlie.”

  Hearing Jarvis’s calm voice brought Dempsey into the zone. He tapped the former SEAL on the shoulder, and they stood, gym bags in hand, and began walking. They were twenty-five yards behind the ISIS terrorist he had been hunting for a quarter of his life.

  As he walked, al-Mahajer pulled out his mobile and raised it to his ear.

  “Mother, this is Alpha One. Al-Mahajer is making a call. I repeat, tango is making a call.”

  “Copy, Alpha One,” came Jarvis’s voice. “Interrogating now.”

  Dempsey watched al-Mahajer lower the phone, look at the screen, and then raise it to his ear again. “Mother, Alpha One, tango is making a second call. He’s activating the other cells.”

  “Copy, Alpha. We’re on it.”

  He knew he shouldn’t ask the question, but couldn’t help himself. “Did you get the Atlanta location?”

  After a long beat, the answer came back: “Affirmative, Alpha One. Charlie Team is moving into position. Just keep your eye on the ball. Mother out.”

  Dempsey swallowed hard and tried to cage his emotions.

  They’ll be fine, he told himself.

  And as he watched the ISIS terrorist drop his mobile phone into a trash can, the little voice inside his head reminded him that nothing with his old nemesis was what it appeared to be. Al-Mahajer had one last trick up his sleeve, and Dempsey still had no idea what it was.

  CHAPTER 44

  Ember TOC

  “We’ve got the Infinity just a few minutes from the Fifty-First Street exit,” Baldwin said. “Three tangos inside plus the driver.”

  Jarvis shifted his focus from Dempsey and Omaha to watching the green dot, Bravo One, in pursuit of the blue dot, the Infinity Q70 sedan. Both vehicles were driving north on Route 520 toward Redmond. Smith’s SUV had closed the gap, but was still a mile behind. A missile strike from the drone had become the primary solution. Unfortunately, Route 520 was not cooperating with this plan. This was not some backcountry rural highway; it was the major commuter artery between Redmond and Seattle. A remote stretch suitable for a missile strike without the risk of collateral damage simply did not exist. Traffic wasn’t rush-hour bumper to bumper, but it was heavy enough that an aerial attack at highway speed would result in significant civilian injury—orange numbers scrolled in his head. His best bet, he decided, was to hit them on the exit ramp of 51st Street as they looped east on the exit toward 148th Street and the entrance to the vast Microsoft Redmond campus. If that did not pan out, he would strike the target as they entered the complex on Microsoft Way. Everything depended on collateral damage.

  “Bravo One, keep trying to close the gap. We’re going to need you if collaterals prevent a strike.”

  “I’m doing ninety,” came Smith’s voice. “Three miles to the exit.”

  Jarvis shifted his gaze from the map to the Reaper feed—imagery inside a gray cloud with streaks of rainwater forming and sliding to the bottom corners of the lens. The red triangle in the middle marked the Infiniti—if the clouds weren’t in the way. He looked back at the map and the blue dot and the green dot.

  Too far.

  He made his decision.

  “Bravo One. Be advised we’re going with the aerial solution. We still need you to confirm the kill afterward and assist in the case of collaterals.”

  There was a pause as the words sunk in for his Operations Officer. Finally, Smith said, “You have control of the kill? Can you confirm?”

  “Yes, Bravo One. Aerial attack on the tango.”

  He expected a protest from Smith, but got one from Chip instead.

  “We’re going to launch a drone strike on American soil? Really?” the analyst said, his face going pale. “Is that even legal?”

  Jarvis looked at him and nodded. An attack on American soil by an armed military drone was actually not unprecedented, but he doubted anyone involved with supporting this mission or even their extended chain knew that.

  He turned to Baldwin. “Get me Colorado on the red phone, please. I’ll talk to the boss; you brief the pilot.”

  “Yes, sir. Ringing him now . . . you’re speaking to Colonel Benjamin Price,” Baldwin said softly and handed the wireless phone to Jarvis. Usually wireless was best avoided, but the whole of the Ember underground complex was shielded from any outside electronic interrogation.

  “Good morning, Colonel,” Jarvis said.

  “If that were true, why am I getting a call on this line from an untraceable number?”

  “Sir, my name is Brian Smith. I head a secret Joint Counterterrorism Task Force answering to SecDef and the DNI. DNI is sending you an authority code for this mission. My men are briefing your pilot, who will, in about ninety seconds, need you to release his restrictions.”

  “This is the shit in Seattle, I assume.”

  “Yes, sir. We are going to authorize a missile strike on the target in less than two mikes.”

  “Well, fuck me,” came the tense voice. “I have your authorization code from DNI coming in now. My pilot is ready, and we are secure in our SCIF. Transmit the targeting data.”

  “He has it already,” Jarvis said. “The target is locked.”

  “Roger that,” said the salty Colonel a thousand miles away. “Can you give us a laser designation on the target? A blind shot from cloud cover is one thing in the middle of nowhere Iraq. But this is down-fucking-town Redmond.”

  Jarvis thought a moment. Bravo Team had a Northrop Grumman GLTD II laser target designator. It was not as bulky as the AN/PED-1; it also didn’t have the warm-up time that the larger device needed, but the precision was similar, and certainly good enough to confirm the target already locked by the Reaper. He looked up at the map and saw that Bravo One was five hundred meters and closing. “We have a ground asset. I’ll make the call and try to light the target so you can confirm that you’re tracking the actual target. Then, we wait for a shot that will mitigate any collateral damage.”

  “Mitigate or minimize?”

  Jarvis paused. He understood. No one was going to come asking questions of a task force that didn’t even exist.

  “This mission is critical to saving American lives, Colonel. We will have your back, I assure you.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Not from me,” Jarvis said. He weighed the situation. The Colonel would follow his orders either way. Still . . . “Sir, my name is Captain Kelso Jarvis. You come and find me if anyone comes fucking with you after this.”

  There was a tight chuckle. “You’re all good on our end, Captain Jarvis,” the Colonel said. “We know what we signed up for at this command.”

  The line went dead.

  Jarvis looked at the screen again. The Infiniti was just a few moments from taking the exit.

  “Bravo One, did you hear the last?”

  “Yes, sir. We have the handheld and have a visual on the target. Still closing the gap, but we’ll be good to light the target in another hundred meters. Shit . . .” There was a pause. Jarvis waited. “There’s a car ahead of the tango and a minivan behind it on the ramp.”

  “We can’t see them, Bravo One. The drone is in the clouds. Light the target and call the shot.”

  In his mind, Jarvis could see the three cars tightly packed on his moving map and behind, Bravo Team’s SUV. Jarvis let the two columns of numbers stream through his mind—one representing the collateral damage risk and fallout and the other the targeting opportunities still left.

  “Reaper, do you have the target locked?” J
arvis said to the open room. The link to the SCIF where Colonel Price and his operator controlled the drone was now on speaker.

  The green triangle switched to red.

  “Target is locked.” The pilot sounded tense—maybe even a little scared. “Waiting to confirm with the laser designator.”

  “Hold fire for my order,” Jarvis said.

  “Roger.”

  The blue dot was stopped near the bottom of the ramp. The green dot was at the top of the ramp, decelerating but closing.

  “Bravo, be advised the tango will be turning right,” Jarvis said.

  “Check,” Smith said. “Looks like the car ahead of the tango is turning left.”

  Jarvis watched the screen and saw the blue dot creep forward to the intersection and the green dot come to a stop within a car’s length.

  “Fuck. The minivan has its right turn signal on,” Smith reported. “There are kids in the minivan, boss. I can see them watching a cartoon on the video player through the back window.”

  “We have from now until they reach the entrance to the campus to take the shot,” Jarvis reassured him.

  “They’re probably going there, too, sir. Microsoft has a day care program. Can you hold? We can engage from here. We’re ready to go.”

  The numbers scrolled through his mind’s eye. “More risk of collateral that way, Bravo One,” he said. “Any other vehicles approaching from the north?”

  “Negative, sir,” Smith said. “But the minivan—”

  “I need a visual, pilot. Right now,” Jarvis barked. “Drop below the cloud base.”

  “Mother, Bravo One. Tango is turning. Hold your fire until my mark,” Smith said, his voice rife with tension.

  On the drone feed, the gray haze disappeared, and Jarvis saw the Infiniti sedan turning right. A second later, the minivan began its right turn, but before it could finish, Bravo One’s SUV clipped the van’s right rear panel, spinning the van ninety degrees and perpendicular to the road. The van stopped, still at the corner of the exit. Smith’s SUV then accelerated around the van, veered into the southbound lane, and then immediately swerved back into the northbound lane, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a passing Honda. Smith’s maneuver was genius and executed perfectly—stopping the minivan while protecting the family inside. Jarvis watched as Bravo One accelerated after the Infiniti.