Against All Odds

by Richard Bard

  “We should hit the freeway in ten minutes,” Ghazi reported.

  Farhad nodded. “We’ll recover Pelican-1 just before we hit the motel and gas stations servicing the on-ramp. There’s an overlook we can use. Amir, inform the others. Tell them to continue on. We’ll meet them at the garage.”

  “Will do.”

  Ahmed’s hands were still bound behind his back. When he was certain nobody was paying close attention to him, he used his fingers to slip the flexible razor blade from inside the waistline of his trousers. He’d assumed he’d be bound with zip ties if he got caught, so he’d also slipped a flattened blade from one of Sarafina’s old barrettes into the hidden seam. Both Tony and their Aussie friend, Becker, had taught Ahmed long ago to be prepared for anything, and the kit they’d helped put together for his grab bag had included the two-inch single-edged razor. When the hands are bound tightly with tape, it was an awkward and tedious process to cut through it. But Ahmed had practiced it plenty of times under Becker’s tutelage until he could perform the task to the Aussie’s satisfaction. Now he twisted his wrists the way he’d been taught, and started to saw.

  Jamal said, “There’s a vehicle a mile behind us.”

  Ahmed tensed but kept sawing.

  “Is it gaining on us?” Farhad asked.

  “Maintaining its distance. Investigating now.” The image on the screen veered as Pelican-1 turned back to investigate, and a pair of headlights was visible in the distance. “Zooming,” Jamal said. The image grew, and Ahmed’s stomach tried to crawl up his throat.

  “It’s the girl,” Hadi said.

  Ahmed stopped sawing when Farhad glared at him. “Damn you and your entire family!” He placed a hand on Ghazi’s shoulder, and without taking his eyes off Ahmed, he said, “Take her out.”

  Ghazi lowered a pair of VR goggles over his glasses. “Prepare for release of Striker One.”

  Jamal made an entry on his console, and the video of Sarafina’s car steadied. “Pelican-1 autopilot enabled. Altitude nine hundred AGL, speed four zero knots. Ready for release.”

  Ghazi wrapped his hands around twin joysticks. “In three…two…one. Release.” The attack drone shot toward the Alfa Romeo’s headlights.

  Ahmed opened his mouth to object, but Latif shifted the muzzle of his assault rifle in his direction, and he was forced to stare helplessly as the screen switched to the view from the diving assault drone. Sarafina’s car grew larger with each beat.

  “Another vehicle two miles back!” Jamal reported.

  Farhad barked an order. “No time to dance around and lay the charge, Ghazi. Just dive straight into her. Max speed.”

  “On it.” The drone shot forward faster than Ahmed thought possible. It was headed straight for his sister’s windshield. At the last second, the car swerved toward the tree-studded shoulder. When Ghazi adjusted the drone’s track to compensate, it impacted with a low-hanging branch before detonating in a blinding explosion directly over the car. The tree burst into flames, and so did portions of the Alfa’s interior as the convertible careened out of view into the woods.

  Ghazi ripped off the VR goggles. “The bitch must’ve spotted the drone!”

  “Not unless she was looking for it,” Jamal spat.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hadi said, his stern voice quieting them both. “The girl may not have survived in any case.”

  Farhad said, “And we’ve outstayed our welcome in this valley. The approaching car will be on her soon. Jamal, coordinate the immediate recovery of Pelican-1 with team three. Amir, tell team one to launch the fire drones, and then detonate all charges at the ranch.”

  Hadi said, “They should also change out the license plates at the first opportunity.”

  “Yes,” Farhad said. “Make it happen.”

  Amir and Jamal issued orders into their headsets, and Ghazi brought up a static view that encompassed the ranch and its outbuildings. Ahmed guessed the camera had been positioned high in a tree. One moment it was a peaceful starlight scene of a cozy ranch nestled in a pine forest, and the next it was a series of explosions that obliterated the structures and set ablaze scores of trees. It was the dead of summer after two years of drought, Ahmed realized, and the wildfire that followed would be devastating. The scene mesmerized Latif while Ahmed resumed sawing through the tape.

  “Fire drones away,” Amir reported. “Two behind us, and two on the ridge on the other side of the freeway.”

  “That should keep emergency crews busy for a while,” Farhad said.

  Jamal turned. “Pelican-1 is on the ground. Team three is recovering it now.”

  They heard the first sirens a few minutes later. Jamal activated cameras that were apparently secreted along the truck’s sidewalls, giving them a three-sixty view of what was happening outside. The truck slowed and pulled to the side of the road as three fire trucks raced by. There was a gas station and Denny’s restaurant on their right, and a motel on the other side of the street, where people milled about, pointing to a glowing ridgeline in the distance. In front of them, a green sign urged traffic to remain in the right lane to go south on the I-5 freeway. No cars were behind the truck, but there was a dozen ahead, including one of the three vans. The other two had already disappeared onto the freeway.

  Two California Highway Patrol vehicles had pulled over just ahead, and the officers were stopping civilian traffic from heading back down the road they’d just traveled along. The last of the fire engines passed by, but just as the truck Ahmed was in started to ease back into traffic, another siren sounded. An ambulance raced after the fire trucks, and Ahmed knew it was headed for the scene of Sarafina’s crash.

  The men responsible deserved to die, and Ahmed wanted desperately to be the one to pull the trigger. He’d learned from their conversations that Farhad’s entire group was in the caravan, and that the attacks earlier in Dallas, Chicago, and New York had been activated remotely. The three-man teams from each of those cities had prepped the attack sites long ago, probably delivering the charges on rooftops and down chimneys using their damn drones. How many other explosive devices were out there waiting to be activated? These men had been in the country for nearly five years…

  Farhad and his teams had gathered in California for the main event, a major attack somewhere in L.A., scheduled for the next day. The other attacks had been a distraction intended to turn eyes elsewhere. Was it too late to do something about it? He recalled the eight attack drones demolishing the lodge, by seemingly following a preprogrammed course through the trees after being launched from a drone magazine. Ahmed connected the dots to the large camouflaged crates they’d loaded in the vehicles, each likely holding similar drones. They didn’t even need to be near the target to take it out. Farhad wanted Americans living in constant fear of the unexpected drone strike. An attack from swarms of drones like those that had assaulted the lodge would do exactly that.

  When Ahmed finally cut through the last of the tape binding his wrists, he tightened his grip on the razor blade and waited for his moment.

  Amir pointed to the screen above the bulkhead door, which displayed the forward view of the ridgeline on the other side of the freeway. “The wind has picked up. The fire’s spreading faster than intended.”

  Hadi slid the door to the driver’s cab open a fraction. “They’ll close the freeway soon. We need to move.”

  “I know,” the driver said. “The last emergency vehicle is coming through now.” A yellow panel truck filled with firefighters appeared on the screen. As soon as it passed, their vehicle started moving. One of the other screens showed several cars waiting in line behind them.

  “Whoa!” Amir shouted, as a copse of trees flared up across the freeway, and glowing embers swirled into the windswept sky.

  “The CHPs are running to their cars,” Farhad said, pointing at a different screen. “They’re going to close the on-ramp. Step on it, Tarik!” There were three cars ahead of them.

  The truck lurched forward. The highway patrol c
ars switched on their emergency lights, and one cut across lanes toward the entrance to the on-ramp. The three cars in front of their truck made it onto the ramp, but the nose of the first CHP car was moving in fast to edge their vehicle out. Tarik stepped on the gas.

  Ahmed lunged and sliced the razor blade across the front of Latif’s neck. The blade cut deep across the jugular. Blood gushed from the wound as Latif dropped his weapon and collapsed to the floor with his hands on his neck. Ahmed’s momentum carried him into the bank of servers. He pushed off with his free hand and sprang back to grab the rear door latch. They were speeding up the on-ramp when his fingers caught the handle, the door swung open, and his socks lost their grip on the blood-slickened floorboard.

  “No gunfire!” Farhad shouted as Ahmed fell hard on his knees. The CHP cruiser had stopped to block the base of the on-ramp. As the truck accelerated, the CHP’s flashing lights receded. Ahmed scrambled on all fours for the open doorway, and was halfway out when someone grabbed his foot. He spun onto his back and kicked, his heel smashing into Hadi’s chin. The big man’s grip loosened. As Ahmed slipped free and pushed off with his hands, the last thing he saw was the glimmer of Farhad’s spinning knife before it impaled itself in his chest and sent him sprawling into the night. He hit the road headfirst, then tumbled and rolled across the tarmac.

  The truck roared away, and everything went black.

  Chapter 26

  Foothills of Mt. Wilson

  AS SOON AS FRANCESCA made it into the cover of the trees on the slope behind the lodge, she dropped her backpack and ripped off the bulky moon suit. She was out of breath, and had to wipe the sweat from her eyes to see the lodge clearly. Lacey and Skylar were crouched low beside her, staring at the open window in the back. They’d carted the kids’ packs and Marshall’s gear up the hill, and still they’d beat her to the trees. Lacey’s face was pinched in fear. Her husband was still inside.

  “Come on, baby,” Lacey said under her breath. “Move, move, move…”

  A buzz came from their left, like the sound of a disturbed beehive. It was faint at first but got louder quickly. When Francesca followed the sound, she spotted a faint line of red LED lights streaking through the trees toward the lodge.

  Drones.

  “God, no,” Skylar said.

  As Francesca’s gaze swept from the lodge to the drones and back again, she saw Marshall launch headfirst out the window. He landed so far outside that he must’ve been running at top speed when he dove through. When he hit the ground he tucked a shoulder, somersaulted to his feet, and kept moving in an all-out sprint up the hill.

  Lacey jumped up. “Run!”

  He was halfway to them when the drones broke into the clearing, split in eight separate directions, and rocketed into all four sides of the lodge at once. The blast wave that followed singed Francesca’s skin and knocked her from her feet. She shook her head, pushed up, and gasped for air. The lodge was engulfed in flames, and Marshall was trudging toward them with smoke spewing from his back.

  Skylar grabbed one of the discarded moon suits, raced to him, and draped the suit over his shoulders. Lacey was right there with her, patting out the embers on the back of his hair.

  “Gotta…keep moving,” Marshall said breathlessly.

  Lacey wrapped an arm around him. “You sure you’re okay?”

  With his drawn expression and smoking hair, he looked like he’d stepped out of hell. But his eyes were alert. He ran his hand over the back of his singed hair. “Won’t need a haircut for a while.”

  Lacey slugged him.

  “Enough love talk, you two,” Skylar said as she hoisted Marshall’s satchels. “We’re not out of the woods yet.” She took off up the hill.

  Francesca marveled at how easily the three of them sloughed off the near-death experience. It reminded her of Jake, and she felt a quiver of hope at the realization she would soon be with him and Alex again. But first they needed to locate Ahmed and Sarafina.

  There was a dirt fire road at the top of the ridge, and when they got there, they found Pete standing outside his stunt-crew truck with an assault rifle in his hands. The broad-shouldered, forty-six-year-old Irishman beamed when he saw them. His thick red hair was swept back from his weathered face, and his trim beard gave him the look of a pirate. He wore his usual multi-pocketed vest over a wrinkled shirt and cargo pants.

  “By God, ’tis good to see yer okay, lass,” he said, sweeping Lacey into a big hug.

  “Yeah, well, it takes a lot more than a big-ass exploding ball of flames to put me down.” She pulled away and smiled. “As you know better than most.”

  “I do indeed,” he said. “I’ve spotted no movement since the explosion, but that doesn’t mean the coast is clear. We need to hightail it.” He opened the rear door of the panel van, which was about the size of a taco truck. It was the mobile workshop Pete and Skylar took with them on film shoots, with a long workbench and shelved cages containing everything from blasting caps to theatrical makeup.

  “That’s my seat,” Marshall said. He shrugged the moon suit cape off his shoulders, grabbed his satchels from Skylar, and climbed aboard to sit at a computer station at the far end of the workbench.

  Pete patted him on the shoulder as he passed by. “Help yerself to anything ye need, Marsh. ’Tis good to see ye, too, though I amn’t gonna say much about yer poor manners in goin’ before the lasses.” He winked at Francesca.

  “He needs to use your system to find my kids,” she said, taking Pete’s hand and climbing in.

  “Darlin’, what is it about them kids of yers? Seems like goin’ missing is becoming a bit of habit for them.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Lacey said, jumping in along with Skylar.

  Marshall was already distributing items from his satchels onto the workbench by the time Pete got into the driver’s seat. “Back to Simi?” Pete asked, referring to his home and stunt training ranch located in Simi Valley, about a thirty-minute drive from Hollywood.

  “LAX first,” Skylar said.

  “Really? Where’re we headed?”

  “Nowhere. We’re picking up Little Star.”

  “The Chinese monk?”

  “Yep. But I need to get Lacey dolled up before we meet him.” Skylar set a tackle box on the workbench and opened its expanding trays to reveal a variety of latex prosthetics. She held up a bulbous nose. “Time to wipe some of that pretty off your face, dearie.”

  Lacey wrinkled her nose. “You call that getting dolled up?”

  “Wouldn’t want anyone recognizing you as one of the Global Terrorist’s crew, now would we?” Lacey was a popular film star, but the world had turned against her just as quickly as it did against the rest of them.

  It was eight p.m. Little Star’s flight was scheduled to land in a couple of hours. Francesca wondered again what the man had traveled so far to bring them. She had her suspicions, and if she was right, it could change everything.

  “Jeeze,” Marshall said, picking up his smartphone. “Voice mail. Must’ve come in when all hell broke loose.” He stared at the screen. “It’s from Sarafina.” He put it on speaker.

  “Uncle Marsh, we’re in trouble,” Sarafina said, her voice raised to speak over what sounded like gusting wind and a speeding car engine. She sounded frightened and her words were rushed. “Ahmed and I came to investigate the ranch near Castaic. We were just going to take a look from a distance, b-but Ahmed went for a closer look, and next thing I know there were a bunch of vans and Ahmed’s not answering. They must’ve found him. I’m following them. What should I…? Wait, what’s that? No!”

  There was a scream, the squeal of tires, and a loud explosion.

  Francesca’s lungs stopped working.

  Chapter 27

  Los Padres National Forest

  THE UPDATE FROM MARSHALL hit Jake like a sledgehammer to the gut. No sooner had he rescued Alex, who was now being escorted to the safety of Pete’s ranch, then Ahmed and Sarafina had been thrust into danger. T
hat his two older children had decided to embark on the very same dangerous mission he himself was on—me with a SEAL team, no less—was nothing short of mind-boggling.

  “Can’t this rig go any faster?” he asked into his headset microphone. He was seated in the back of an MX-H Stealth Black Hawk helicopter streaking over the rolling terrain of Los Padres National Forest.

  “Ten minutes,” the pilot replied.

  The four kitted-up Navy SEALs in the cabin with Jake ignored the exchange. They weren’t accustomed to outsiders in their ride, much less the world famous “Global Terrorist” who was supposedly calling the shots on this mission. They’d barely spoken two words to him since the departure from their base at Miramar Naval Air Station in San Diego forty-five minutes earlier. The civilian contractor sitting to Jake’s left was a different matter. He was loaded for bear like the others, but not in a Navy uniform. Regardless, Sam Caruthers had commanded instant respect from the SEALs, and if he said Jake was okay, then Jake was okay.

  Caruthers leaned his helmet closer to Jake’s head. “Don’t mind them none,” the mid-forties operator said, off mike, with a Texas drawl. “They’re just getting into character for the job ahead. If they look at you sideways now and then, it’s only because the story I told ’em wasn’t an easy pill to swallow. Hell, I still can’t believe it myself most of the time.”

  The former Navy commander had led SEAL Team One when they rescued Jake and the rest of his gang from a terrorist training center in the Venezuelan rainforest almost eight years ago. They’d flown, guns blazing, in three US Marine versions of Cal’s CV-22 Osprey, and they’d witnessed Jake’s superhuman speed firsthand when he’d raced out of the facility after activating the countdown on a nuclear bomb. Jake’s not-so-superhuman heart had given out in the process, and it was Sam’s team who’d retrieved and resuscitated Jake into a comatose state that lasted six years. After the terrorist attacks earlier today, the government had gone all hands on board, and Doc had talked his way out of his temporary detention. That had allowed him to see to it that Sam was present at the airfield when Cal and Kenny had landed the CV-22. Sam had escorted Jake, Tony, and Alex to a remote hangar where Doc and the SEAL team were waiting.