All three Delta teams had hightailed it to the mall, in civilian clothing that hid their weapons, as soon as they had the location. Because of the border crossing, they’d only been able to smuggle in their handguns. Their assault rifles and body armor had been left in Texas, which no one was thrilled with.
Almost every contingency had been coordinated over the past two weeks, so they’d been ready for almost anything. Unfortunately, almost was not everything.
Ghost’s team had gotten there first, while the other two had taken helicopters to a nearby airport where rented vans were waiting for them to drive into Mexico. When they arrived at the mall, everyone was broken up into teams of two or three operatives, covering as much of the interior and exterior of the building as possible. With a mall that size, though, and hundreds of shoppers, they still couldn’t cover every corner of the place.
Behind Frisco, the colonel was overseeing the entire operation, having arrived shortly after being notified. However, knowing his teams could handle the mission without input from him, he let everyone do their jobs. If he was needed, he’d step in.
They had fifteen more minutes before “Mr. Smith” was supposed to approach “Preston Ward” in the crowded food court. The red-haired Reardon, dubbed “Ginger” for the mission, had on the red baseball cap, jeans, and green shirt Smith had instructed him to wear as he sat alone at a table for two, pretending to eat lunch. In reality, the guy looked like he would puke if he put anything in his stomach from the image on one of Haven’s screens. She tried to calm him down. “Kenny, take deep breaths. You’re going to be fine. Carter and Jordyn are twenty feet away, and you’re surrounded by Deltas. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Stop fidgeting and don’t answer me; you’ll give away the fact you’re in contact with someone.” It was the same thing she’d already said to him, several times, through the tiny listening device in his ear since he’d walked into the mall by himself. Jordyn and Carter had followed at a discreet distance, keeping him in sight the entire time.
In addition to his two bodyguards, there were five Delta members scattered around the food court. With their scruffy, non-military appearances, they blended in quite well with the other mall patrons. Since it was very easy for Americans with passports to cross the border, via one of three international bridges, there was a mixed crowd of Caucasians and Hispanics, so none of the operatives looked out of place. The rest of the Deltas were spread out over the entire mall, watching all the entrances and exits to both the mall itself and the area around the food court. The cameras Avery was monitoring included those in the back hallways behind the stores, where someone might question any non-employees seen back there.
Frisco’s knee jiggled up and down. It was killing him not being there to back up his teammates in person, but he still had their sixes, even if it was only through the use of cameras and microphones. “Five minutes and counting. Confirm.” Each two- or three-man team came over the air, giving updates on their locations and statuses. So far, no one had seen anyone out of the ordinary. They had no idea if Smith was coming alone, with a small army, or something in between.
With three minutes left on the countdown clock, Jordyn announced, “Black shirt, black jeans, Middle Eastern, five foot ten, dark hair and beard, carrying a blue knapsack by the elevators, and wearing headphones.”
Sliding her mouse across its pad, Haven moved the camera closest to the food court’s elevators. Finding the target, she zoomed in and took several screen shots of the man before widening the lens view again. Somewhere in the mall, a poorly-paid security guard was probably wondering what the hell was going on with changing camera angles—if he’d even noticed and wasn’t sound asleep at the moment.
As they watched, the man Jordyn had spotted stood in place and scanned the food court, before looking directly at Reardon sitting in the middle of everyone else eating lunch. Examining the screen shots, Haven shook her head and frowned. “That’s not him. That’s not the guy from the wedding.”
“Well, he’s headed toward Ginger,” Jordyn responded. “Kenny, relax—everything is fine. Take a sip of your soda or something. Look to your left, away from him. Do not make eye contact with him unless he stops and says something to you.”
There was silence over the comms while the man they now had under surveillance strode across the busy food court, but instead of stopping, he walked past Reardon and sat at an empty table, facing him. Seconds ticked by. While Carter, Jordyn, and Frisco kept their eyes on both the Deimos geek and the possible suspect, the others continued to look for other potential threats. They had no idea if the guy with the knapsack was the real Mr. Smith, a scout for him, or just some random guy looking to sit for a few minutes. Haven was scanning the crowded mall, zooming in on anyone who might be the man she was sure was behind all this.
Suddenly, there was a flash of bright light on more than half of the monitors focused on different areas around the mall, before they went dark. The sounds of multiple explosions came through loud and clear over the comm units, followed by a lot of cursing, coughing, and screams coming from the panicked occupants of the mall. Then to add to the chaos, shrill fire alarms began to blare.
Ghost barked over the commotion in the background, “Report! Cliff Two or Three!”
For a tense moment there was no response, then Carter coughed harshly into his microphone. “Cliff Three! Smoke canisters in the food court! Lost Ginger . . . repeat . . . lost Ginger!”
Seventeen
“R eardon, acknowledge if you can hear me,” Carter demanded.
After three seconds without a response, Ghost asked, “Who’s got eyes on the principal? Base?”
“Negative,” Frisco replied. “We lost half the cameras.”
He, Avery, and Haven frantically scanned through the few mall feeds they were still receiving, along with those from the body cams. The operatives were fighting their way through the throngs of people who were screaming and running for the exits. The jostling, smoke-filled images made it difficult to clearly see anything or anyone.
“How the hell did we lose only half?” the colonel asked from behind Frisco.
One of the analysts in California, listening in on the operation, came over a speaker attached to Haven’s computer. “Their CCTV is running on two different frequencies. We hacked into both. Only one got knocked out.”
Frisco was trying to figure out if they got lucky or screwed with the setup—not that it made a difference at this point.
“Find him, Base!” Ghost ordered. “Teams, sit-rep! Anyone hurt?” Everyone checked in and denied being incapacitated. If there were any injuries, they were minor and could be dealt with later. However, they did report there were injuries and probable deaths among the mall shoppers. At least four bombs had been detonated in various parts of the 425,174 square foot, one-floor building, while more smoke grenades had added to the panic and confusion. That was probably to disguise any escape route without cutting it off.
“Two tangos who threw the smoke grenades are down and out,” Jordyn announced. “Any sign of our boy?”
Haven brought up the view from Reardon’s hidden camera, which was shaking as he moved quickly in an unknown direction. Through the heavy, white smoke the occasional dark forms of people scrambling for safety could be seen. He pushed open a door and ended up in a corridor where there was far less smoke, but there was no way to tell which one he was in or what direction he was heading.
Frisco gave the intel to the team. “It looks like Ginger is in one of the hallways behind the stores. Unknown direction.”
“Copy that,” Ghost replied. “Teams, cover the corridors.”
The operatives scrambled to find their principal. Since it hadn’t taken long for Kenny to enter the hallway, it was most likely one of four nearest the food court. Each, however, ran in a different direction, with more than one exit along its length.
“Wh-Where . . . cough . . . are we going?”
“Oh, thank God,” Haven said with relief at the sound of
Reardon’s voice which had not received a verbal response. However, when he stumbled forward, it was a good guess he’d been shoved from behind. Since they could only see in the direction he was looking in, it was impossible to tell how many suspects were with him and what weapons they had. “Kenny, cough three times fast if you can hear me.”
A single cough was the only response. She tried again. “Kenny, cough three times.” Again, she didn’t get the correct response. “Shit. His earpiece must’ve come out. Damn it, Kenny, where are you?”
Shifting her gaze to a different monitor, she rapidly clicked through the feeds that were still working. Suddenly, she stopped and went back to one that was from a camera in the parking lot. Hundreds of people were streaming out of the mall, running for their lives, but something else had caught Haven’s attention. Making the quarter-sized, streaming image fill the full screen, she focused on a white van parked in an alleyway, backed up to a loading dock. Frisco kept one eye on the view from Reardon’s hidden camera, and the other on what Haven was doing. She zoomed the camera in on the windshield. Two people were in the front seat, and she focused on the driver first. “Middle Eastern, but not my guy. Ten to one this is where they’re headed, though.”
Frisco agreed since the men seemed unaffected by the bedlam occurring throughout the mall and parking lot. He quickly referenced the building’s floor plan he’d printed out earlier. “That’s what? Loading Dock C?”
She checked the lettering at the top right corner of the feed. “Yeah, Dock C.” She had the other man in the center of her screen, but he was turned in the seat, watching the doors leading in the mall. “Come on, passenger, look at the pretty birdie.”
Not waiting to see if it was the guy she was looking for, Frisco forwarded the info to his teammates. “Operation Cliffhanger. Corridor 8, heading for Loading Dock C. Repeat. Corridor 8, Loading Dock C. White, commercial van. Two possible tangos in the front seat. Unknown if anyone is in the back.”
Ghost and several other Deltas confirmed they copied the transmission. The mission leader rattled off assignments designed to block in the suspects before they could escape with their hostage.
“That’s him! Frisco, look! That’s him!” Haven was pointing at the passenger who had a scar on his left cheek. “He’s a lot thinner than I remember, but it’s definitely him.”
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered before speaking into his microphone. “Operation Cliffhanger, proceed with caution. Tango in passenger seat confirmed. Repeat. Tango confirmed.”
Haven widened the view of the camera lens just as the double doors to the mall flew open. A terrified-looking Reardon was shoved forward by a third suspect, the guy with the knapsack from the food court. Frisco alerted the team as the scarred terrorist climbed out of the passenger seat and approached his comrade and their captive, a little slower than expected. “Ginger on Loading Dock C with third tango. Don’t lose him, boys!”
He hadn’t needed to issue the directive, knowing his team wouldn’t let him down. Before the suspects had any idea what was happening, two dark SUVs raced in from opposite directions and skidded to a stop at the far end of the loading dock’s alleyway, blocking the van’s escape route. Trigger, Lefty, Oz, and Grover climbed out and aimed their weapons at the suspects’ vehicle. Blade, Beatle, and Truck, came running out from a main, public exit, and used the corner of the building at the entrance to the alleyway as cover. Carter, Jordyn, and another Delta did the same on the opposite side. Meanwhile, Ghost, Fletch, Coach, and Hollywood moved into position, just inside the double doors of the mall, preventing anyone from reentering. Up on the roof, several more operatives aimed their guns at the tangos below them. All avenues of escape had been effectively cut off in a matter of seconds.
Beside Haven, Frisco could practically feel the fear rolling off of her as she stared at her unarmed friend. The moment Scarface realized he was trapped, he grabbed Reardon around the neck and put the muzzle of his 9mm pistol to his head. He stood with his back against the outer brick wall of the building and began to shout in Arabic. The gist of it was he demanded they let him and his buddies go or he was going to kill his hostage. Frisco reached over and grasped Haven’s shaking hand in silent support. While he had the same sense of helplessness she had to be feeling, both of them had to trust their teams would bring the standoff to a swift end, with only the tangos ending up in body bags.
They were at a Mexican standoff—pun intended. The good guys just had to find a way to change the status quo in their favor. Scarface was still yelling his demands, but even he had to know this wasn’t going to end well for him and the other two suspects.
Suddenly, there was a burst of automatic gunfire as the driver aimed his weapon through the open window toward one of the SUVs blocking his escape. The attack was immediately countered by the operatives who had clear shots. The tango was riddled with bullets and when he was no longer a threat, the guns went silent again.
On the opposite side of the van, Scarface was still holding his hostage in front of him, banking on the fact his enemies wouldn’t shoot the redhead, as Ghost spoke in Arabic, trying to get him to surrender. Most of the Deltas knew enough of the language to communicate if a translator wasn’t available. Meanwhile, the third suspect had realized he was a prime target, with nothing or no one to hide behind, and dropped to the ground, covering his head as if that would keep him from being killed.
From around the corner of the building, Carter spoke softly, “Someone give me the tango’s height, how far away he’s standing from the wall, and if I have a clear shot.”
Frisco’s eyebrows went up as he realized what the spy was planning on doing, even though he knew it was necessary. If they didn’t act fast, the cops would be there soon, adding to the chaos, and it would be impossible for them to differentiate between the good guys and bad guys.
Oz was in the best position to relay the information as he stood behind the open driver’s door of one of the SUVs. “Six foot one, not slouching, two-three inches max from the wall. Clean shot if you wait for my signal. Ghost, count to three and give him a distraction.”
The six-foot-four-inch Deimos spy stepped away from the brick wall he’d been leaning against and then turned to face it. Bringing his weapon up so it was seventy-three inches above the ground, he patiently waited. About twenty feet into the alleyway Scarface was pissed and getting desperate. When Ghost insulted him by saying “Lick my ass, you shit,” in Arabic, the suspect swung his weapon away from Reardon’s head and aimed it toward the double doors his tormentor was hiding behind.
Immediately, Oz gave the go order. “Now!”
As Avery, Haven, Frisco, and the colonel held their breaths, staring at the screen, Carter took a wide step to the right into the mouth of the alley. As soon as the muzzle of his gun cleared the corner of the building, he fired. Scarface’s head snapped to the left as he was shot about an inch behind his right temple. A burst of blood, bone, and brains splattered everywhere as the bullet exited the other side of his skull. Reardon let out an involuntary scream, as the dead man’s arm fell away from his throat.
The operatives swarmed into the alleyway, as Ghost barked orders. Oz grabbed Reardon, who was frozen in shock, the left side of his face covered in Scarface’s blood, and practically threw him into the nearest SUV. Trigger, and Lefty jumped in, too, and within seconds they were hauling ass away from the scene. After confiscating his 9mm and frisking him for other weapons, Carter and Jordyn did the same thing with the third suspect, who was still lying face down on the ground, begging for his life. With Truck at the wheel, the American spies disappeared with their captive who would be interrogated as soon as they got him to a secure location. Back in California, where he’d been listening in and watching the live feeds, Gene McDaniel ordered his computer geeks to erase the last ten minutes of the recordings from the mall’s security cameras.
Through the comm units, Frisco heard the sirens announcing the approaching first responders. The pandemonium in the crowded p
arking lot, where people were still running for safety and trying to figure out what had happened, would, hopefully, give the operatives a few more minutes before the cops reached the loading dock. Some people undoubtedly heard the gunshots and would point them in the direction they came from. If the team was lucky, no one had been aware of what had been happening in the alleyway or close enough to use their cell phones to record a video during those few minutes. While Beatle took photographs of the two dead men, Blade worked quickly to scan their fingerprints into a small, portable device Jordyn had given him, as Haven explained to him over the comm unit how it worked.
Ghost and Fletch checked the interior of the van for the bomb, even though it was doubtful the suspects had brought it with them. Ghost confirmed that theory moments later. “No suitcase. Repeat. No suitcase. But there are a few more pipe bombs.”
“Copy that,” Frisco responded, before glancing over his shoulder at the colonel.
The older man muttered a curse, then said, “Have them sterilize the van for anything to do with the nuke, but leave the explosives for the Mexican authorities. Then start helping with the injured. It’s a good thing my men decided to have lunch in Nuevo Laredo after a training session over the border, and interrupted the bombers’ escape plan.”
Frisco passed on the orders and cover story to Ghost, as the colonel stepped over to where a secure phone sat atop the wooden desk on the other side of the room. The president and director of Homeland Security were waiting for an update from him.
Pushing her chair back, Avery stood as if the past few stressful hours happened every day. “While you all finish up in here, let me go check on my roast beef.” She glanced across the room, then back at Frisco, who was surprised to see a blush stain her cheeks. She cleared her throat and then said in a low voice, “Um . . . if the colonel wants to . . . um . . . stay for dinner, there’s plenty.”
Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Handling Haven: A Deimos/Trident Security/Delta Team Crossover (Kindle Worlds) Page 13