Against All Odds

by Richard Bard

  Jake was still trying to wrap his mind around everything they were dealing with. The terrorists were part of the very same tribe he’d dealt with in Afghanistan eight years earlier. Battista was dead and long gone, but his hatred of Jake had been passed on to his disciples. “Pete’s got a point. The time will come for us to call in help, but not until we’re out of moves. So let’s look at what we’ve got. First off, they’ve got Ahmed, and since he knows where this ranch is located, they’ll likely squeeze it out of him.”

  “No, they won’t,” Tony said. “He won’t talk.”

  “He’s just a kid, Tony.”

  “Not anymore, he’s not. Trust me, Jake. He’d die before giving us up. I’d stake my life on it.”

  Jake stared at him. “Regardless, pal, we should be looking for an alternate spot.” He gestured toward all the others in the room. “It’s not just your life or mine that’s at stake.”

  “Let ’em come,” Pete said. “Better to take ’em down on our home turf anyway. We know what they’re about, right? Attack drones. Ye said yer air force pals had a defense against an airborne drone assault. Amn’t they due to show up soon?” Cal and Kenny were en route in the CV-22 from San Diego, with a drone of their own that could fry electronics with an energy surge.

  Marshall checked his computer. “They’ll be here in about an hour.”

  “So that settles it, then,” Skylar said. “We hunker down here and watch the unfriendly skies, while Marshall pulls a miracle out of his butt and figures out either where the bad guys are hanging out or where they plan to attack.”

  “I need another energy drink,” Marshall said.

  Pete stood up and placed a hand on the pistol holstered at his belt. “For my part, I don’t much like the idea of shooting at bomb-carrying hobby drones with a pistol, but we’ve got some interesting shotgun loads on the rack that might do the trick.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got any EMP grenades like they use in Call of Duty or Halo?” Marshall asked, referring to the electro-magnetic pulse weapons used in the video games.

  “Afraid not.”

  The SWAT officers exchanged looks. Tony noticed and raised an eyebrow. “What’re ya thinking?”

  Walt said, “We tested a unit last week for hostage scenarios. Came to us from Charlie Shanks.”

  Tony scratched his chin. “The whiz kid we arrested for knocking out the purple subway line under Wilshire.”

  “One and the same. Used a homemade EMP.”

  “Stupid stunt but a nice kid.”

  “He never forgot my going easy on him. Since then he’s landed a government research grant around the tech he put together in his garage. Go figure. Anyway, he came to me last week and asked if we’d test it on the EOD”—explosive ordinance disposal—“range. It’s got some problems. It generated the EMP but the range is iffy, and it’s dangerous as hell.”

  “Iffy how?” Jake asked.

  “In SWAT we need a charge that can limit electronic damage to the immediate area around the bad guys and their hostages, like the size of a home or a bank lobby. The kid assured us the device would do just that. Instead it fried anything electronic that was switched on within a two hundred yard radius.”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Jake said.

  “Maybe not for your application, but like I said, the unit’s also dangerous as hell. It utilizes a small amount of explosives to compress the, uh…”

  Alex squeezed into the circle. “To compress the electrical field generated by the ferromagnetic, ferroelectric or superconducting materials packed in the center of the device. The more explosives used, the greater the EMP spread, and vice versa.”

  The cops all stared at him, except for Tony, who shrugged. “Get used to it.”

  “Anyway,” Walt said, “the so-called tiny explosion itself was supposed to be self-contained within the unit. Instead, the charge blew the walls off the testing shack at the range, and the unit itself was destroyed in the process.”

  “Crap,” Tony said.

  Jake’s mind leaped to the possible uses of such a device against a drone attack. “How big is the unit?”

  “About the size of a beach ball.”

  “Like I said before, better than nothing. Can you get another one?”

  “The kid brought two to the test, but after what happened, he took the second one home with him.”

  “Is he close?”

  “Sherman Oaks. Twenty minutes.”

  “Get it. Fast.”

  Walt nodded to one of his team. The man pressed a phone to his ear and headed for the door.

  Sam’s hand went to the earbud he used to stay in contact with the SEALs. “We’ve got company. A lone car just turned onto the drive.”

  Tony jumped to his feet, and the SWAT boys split to each of the entrances with guns drawn.

  “Hold yer horses,” Pete said, tapping his smartphone. A large flat screen behind the table switched on, showing a yellow taxi moving slowly up the dirt road leading to their location. “We’re expecting a few more of your friends, right? Any of ’em supposed to be taking a taxi?”

  When no one answered in the affirmative, Sam spoke over the comm net. “You spotting any drones out there?” A moment later he said, “All clear. Looks to be the driver and a lone occupant in the back.”

  Jake stood at the screen, straining to see past the glare of the car’s windows into the backseat. Francesca and Sarafina joined him. Tony had reached out to their old friends from South Central, the former gangbangers turned military contractors who’d fought with them against Battista’s team, both in Afghanistan and later in Los Angeles. But they wouldn’t be coming in a taxi.

  “Who is it, Daddy?” Sarafina asked.

  “I don’t know.” He locked eyes with Francesca and motioned toward the back offices, in the hopes she’d retreat with the kids. She waved him off and stepped closer to the screen. “Do you see something?” he asked.

  She didn’t reply. When her eyes closed, a chill ran up the back of his neck. Jake wasn’t about to take any chances. He grabbed his grandfather’s Colt .45 off the table and ran toward the exit. “We can’t allow that car to get near the building.”

  Tony and the SWAT guys followed him out of the warehouse and down the drive. With weapons drawn, they joined the SEALs to form a defensive perimeter fifty yards from the building. When the taxi rounded the corner fifty yards ahead, it skidded to a stop. The driver placed both palms on the windshield, and even from this distance, Jake saw the man’s hands shaking.

  “Stay back,” Tony said to Jake. “We’ve got this, buddy.” He and Sam took three steps forward in tandem. Tony projected his voice. “Open the door slowly and get out of the car.”

  The driver nodded frantically. He slowly moved his hand down, opened the door, and stepped out. He was a small man, in his sixties.

  “On your knees! Hands behind your head!”

  The driver complied immediately. Once down, he shouted, “My passenger. He needs help. Please!”

  The rear door swung open, and the tension mounted. One false move and the car would be riddled with rounds. The silhouette in the backseat slid out the door. The man stumbled at first, barely catching himself. But finally he rose to his full height and looked up.

  “Dad, would you please pay the cab fare?”

  And with that, Ahmed collapsed in the dirt.

  Chapter 31

  4:45 PM

  TONY AND THE THREE SWAT GUYS laid Ahmed on a table in the dining area. Jake held Francesca close as they watched Skylar and Little Star examine their son’s wounds. Sarafina and Alex held hands beside them.

  “I prayed it was him,” Francesca said. “As soon as I saw the taxi on the screen.”

  Jake squeezed her. It was the first time his entire family had been together since his plane crash. He’d believed in his heart he’d never see any of them again. Instead, here they were, surrounded by friends and allies. Ahmed had a patient bracelet on his wrist from the Henry Mayo
Newhall Hospital not far from Lake Castaic. He must’ve snuck out of there as soon as he woke up that morning. Jake could only imagine what he’d been through at the hands of the terrorists.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Sarafina asked.

  Jake wasn’t sure what to say. It seemed his son had received medical attention, and the bandages around Ahmed’s skull were relatively clean. But those wrapped around his chest were soaked with blood. Skylar donned a pair of blue gloves and cut through the dressing with surgical scissors from a first-aid kit. When she peeled the edges back, it revealed a sutured wound below Ahmed’s clavicle that was swollen and leaking blood. An irrigation tube protruded from the wound, but when Francesca inspected it, there didn’t appear to be any fluids flowing through it.

  “The tube is blocked,” Little Star said. “We must reopen the wound.”

  Skylar frowned. “We need a doctor.”

  Little Star leaned over and sniffed the injury. “It’s okay now, but if we wait for a doctor, it will fester.” He stripped off his tunic, and a stunning tattooed mural on his back—of a variety of animals peeking from a jungle habitat—seemed to come alive from his movements as he pulled a pair of gloves over his calloused hands. There were several puncture and slashing scars hidden within the colorful scene. Little Star pointed to a bottle of disinfectant. “Splash the wound first, then douse my gloves.”

  “Do ye know what yer doing?” Pete asked as Skylar squirted fluid over Little Star’s gloves.

  The monk nodded. “Blade wounds are…were a common occurrence at the monastery. We all trained in how to deal with them.” Jake saw a flash of sadness in the monk’s expression, and recalled Alex’s story about how Little Star had been left with no choice but to kill his own drug-dealing brother in order to save Jake’s three children. The monk had broken an age-old vow by doing so, and as a result he’d been forced to leave the monastic life behind.

  “Is it serious?” Alex asked.

  Little Star shook the last of the disinfectant from his gloves, and Skylar handed him a pair of suture scissors. “The wound is not minor. I need you to hold him down. In case he wakes.”

  Tony and Pete held Ahmed’s legs, and Jake placed his hands on his shoulders. His son’s bandaged skull and battered face were grim reminders of the fate of those close to Jake. Despite the promise he’d made to himself to never leave his family’s side again, he still couldn’t avoid the guilt. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispered.

  After Little Star snipped away the sutures with practiced movements, blood and fluids oozed from the wound. He handed the scissors back to Skylar, and was about to spread the wound further with his fingers when Ahmed stirred. The monk lifted his hands. “He is waking. Hold him steady.”

  Ahmed’s eyes fluttered open. He winced as he stared up at the faces hovering over him. He blinked when his gaze found Jake’s. “Dad?”

  “That’s right, son. You’re going to be okay. But you’ve got to try not to move. We’re patching you up. Still got a little work to do on your chest wound.”

  Ahmed winced again. “I can tell. It hurts.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Did it work?” Ahmed said.

  “Well, we’re not finished yet. Little Star has to—”

  “No, not that.” Ahmed blinked rapidly. “Did the RAT work?” He looked around and called out. “Uncle Marshall?”

  Marshall pushed into view. “I’m here.”

  Ahmed took two quick breaths. From the way his eyes rolled, he was close to passing out. “The RAT, I placed it on…” He exhaled, and his head lolled to one side.

  Little Star checked his pulse. “He’s okay. Let me finish.”

  “Holy crap,” Marshall whispered, and ran back to his laptop. He dumped the remaining contents of his satchel on the conference table. When he examined a small black box with wiring protruding from it, he grinned. “You’ve got more than one genius in the family.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later Ahmed was resting comfortably on a nearby couch. Francesca cradled his head in her lap, and Sarafina had pulled up a chair beside her. He was still unconscious, but the irrigation tube had been cleared and his breathing was steady.

  Marshall pounded keys on his laptop. After connecting the black box to the machine, he’d dove into his work, giving the team a summary of the prototype remote access trojan device, or RAT, as he did so. Alex stood beside him, engrossed in every entry on the screen, and Jake had little doubt his son was following Marshall’s moves without difficulty.

  “Hell, yes,” Marshall said. “I’m in!”

  The others hovered around him.

  “Well?” Sam asked, but Marshall didn’t respond.

  Jake stood across the table and waited. He had watched his buddy in scenarios like this too many times not to have learned it was best to leave Marshall alone when he was in his element. The moment Marshall had answers, he’d spill them.

  Another minute passed. “No…” Marshall said under his breath, his fingers stabbing the keyboard. Jake tensed. “Awww, crap.” Marshall sat back and banged his fist on the table.

  ***

  Carson warehouse

  “We’ve been breached!” Jamal shouted. Every computer screen in the truck blacked out. A red light flashed on the console, and a shrill alarm sounded. He pressed a button to silence the alarm, and his fingers blurred over the keyboard. His computer monitor flicked on.

  “What happened?” Farhad asked.

  “The network detected a hack. Someone from the outside trying to extract data. Our fail-safe automatically air-gapped the system.”

  “Which means?”

  Ebrahem raced into the truck. “Breach?”

  Jamal nodded. Ebrahem slid into the next station over, logged in, and went to work. Both moved at a feverish pace.

  Farhad was tempted to interrupt but thought better of it. This was not his area of expertise and he needed to wait it out.

  Ebrahem stopped typing and stared at the small screen at his station. “Are you kidding me?”

  Jamal shook his head. “No way. The breach originated from inside the network.”

  The two stared at each other, and as one they said, “RAT!”

  Jamal growled under his breath. The two continued to analyze data on their screens. A minute later, Jamal pushed his chair back. “We’ve confirmed the system contained the breach. Minimal data loss.”

  Ebrahem opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a scanning wand. “I told you it would work!”

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, brother,” Jamal said. “You saved our asses. Although it appears someone had a few seconds of looking-around time before the fail-safe kicked in.”

  “That shouldn’t have happened,” Ebrahem said. “It’s designed to shut down at the onset.”

  “Yeah, well, whoever did this used a trick or two in his malware you didn’t anticipate. That’s something you’ll have to adapt the program to deal with going forward. Even so, your baby kicked in before they could download much.” Jamal turned to Farhad. “Remember when Ebrahem coded that security program a couple years back? Selling it for millions wasn’t an option because of the attention it would have brought, so we installed it here.”

  Farhad nodded. He remembered the excitement his friends had shared over the breakthrough.

  Ebrahem reached over and depressed the red light on the console. It stopped flashing. “When the program detected files being extracted, it disconnected our network from the outside world, shutting down any possibility of further data loss. The incursion was brief, but since it was likely Bronson’s techno pal who created the RAT, we’re fortunate we caught it when we did. He’s no slouch, and he’s probably trying to break through the encryption as we speak.

  “Do you know what they got?”

  Ebrahem rose and began scanning the server bank with the wand. “We know how much data flowed out, which wasn’t much. But we won’t know exactly which data was compromised until after we do a couple hours of
digging.”

  “That will have to wait until after the attack.” Farhad knew what a RAT was, and it was all he could do to keep his rage from boiling over. Ahmed had planned to place it all along. He’d even brought a decoy thumb-drive RAT to throw them off. Farhad flashed to the moment Ahmed had pushed off the server bank after killing Latif. “I should have killed the traitor the moment he showed up.”

  “He got in one final lick before he died,” Jamal said.

  Ebrahem’s wand beeped, and he leaned in to get a closer look. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He peeled something from one of the external drives. He held it out, and Farhad and Jamal examined it. The transparent label was the size of a postage stamp.

  “Ingenious,” Jamal said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “But still not good enough to spoof the program,” Ebrahem said as he moved toward the door with the device still on his finger. “I’ll isolate it and we can study it when we get to Vegas. After a bit of reverse engineering, devices such as this one could prove quite useful.” Before stepping out, he added, “By the way, I was headed this way to tell you the final checks are complete. We’re ready to leave. The teams can be in position in twenty minutes.”

  “Tell them to roll out,” Farhad said. “And congratulations on your foresight. We could have lost everything if not for your ingenuity.” Ebrahem smiled and slipped outside. Farhad looked at Jamal. “We’ll need network access again when we launch the attack. Will that be a problem?”

  “Not at all. With the RAT removed, there’s no risk of further data loss.”

  “So you are certain we’re okay?”

  “Could’ve been a disaster,” Jamal said. “But the actual data loss lasted all of five seconds. Even the best hacker in the world couldn’t gather much in that amount of time.”

  ***

  Stunt training ranch

  Jake shared Marshall’s frustration. Ahmed had risked his life to place the RAT in the terrorist’s control vehicle. But the connection it had enabled lasted for only a few seconds. “Did you capture anything of use?”