by Kyle Mills
The topography gave him and his team excellent cover, an elevated position that afforded unobstructed visibility and numerous options for escape.
Drake scooted forward a few more inches and scanned the cliff band bordering the far side of the clearing, but could see nothing that would suggest that he had snipers strategically positioned at regular intervals along it. Nothing would survive that he didn't want to survive.
Drake looked down at the softly glowing hands of his watch. Nine fifteen. Less than three hours before Carlo Gasta and the Afghans were scheduled to arrive.
"Wait until the last possible moment," he said into his walkie-talkie. "After Gasta's men attack, let them fight among themselves for as long as you can."
The invisible men surrounding him in the rocks counted off again, acknowledging his orders, although they already understood their role. They were to perform a cleanup function--to make sure Gasta and his men didn't survive and, if possible, to capture one or more of the Afghans alive.
Despite the quickly dropping temperature, Drake found himself sweating more profusely as the time drew closer. He told himself again that he had considered every eventuality and that nothing could go wrong, but he knew that something always went wrong. What would it be?
Would Gasta ignore the orders he'd been given?
Inconceivable. Drake had spoken to him again that morning and again expressed his anger at Gasta for exposing him to Chet Michaels. Besides, Gasta had no money to purchase the heroin and needed cash badly.
Would someone hear the shooting and call the police? Irrelevant. He had set up a man with a machine gun a couple of miles away. Any activity on the police scanner and he'd start shooting, leading the police away.
The most likely problem would be that the Arabs' van would be too badly damaged in the gunfight to drive away. A minor inconvenience. He had a tow truck parked a few miles down the highway.
The worst-case scenario was that the Arabs wouldn't show up. But since they were as desperate for money as Gasta, it was unlikely. If they should fail to appear, Drake's men would simply kill Gasta and his people themselves. And when the gangsters' rotting bodies were found, the FBI would be happy to call it a Mob hit and blame Gasta solely for the death of their undercover man.
It left the problem of the launcher being found by the FBI, of course. If he was able to capture or kill the men making up al-Qaeda's L. A. cell, it would put the CIA even further ahead of Laura Vilechi and her investigation. Drake retreated to the cliff wall again and managed to find a marginally comfortable position as the deep glow in the west faded and surrounded him with darkness. He closed his eyes and continued to compulsively run through possible scenarios for tonight and the weeks that followed. It was going to be all right, he told himself.
The sound was so distant and so low that it almost seemed imaginary at first. When the hum persisted and became more defined, though, Drake crawled forward again, trying to identify it. It took only a few moments for it to become obvious that the source was getting closer and for the rhythm of the sound to become apparent. Drake peered around the large boulder in front of him and craned his neck, searching the night sky. Three separate lights had just become visible on the horizon, still distant but quickly approaching.
Helicopters.
It didn't matter: There was still more than two hours before Gasta was scheduled to appear. Even if they flew directly overhead, they would be gone in ten minutes. He struggled to stay calm as the sound of the blades churning the air deepened and increased in volume until it became a pounding in his chest. He watched the helicopters' forward momentum evaporate, leaving them hovering directly over the amphitheater.
Drake suddenly found himself engulfed in the dust and tiny rocks dislodged by the powerful downdraft. He partially covered his eyes as the helicopters began to descend. There was just enough light to pierce the haze around them and make it possible to read the lettering on the fuselage: L. A. P. D.
Drake pushed himself back desperately, ducking behind a large boulder and pressing his back into it. He clawed the walkie-talkie off his belt and shouted into it. "Hold your position. I repeat. Hold your position!"
He had to think. What the fuck were the police doing here? Who had tipped them off? He whipped his head around the corner and saw that the skids of the first helicopter were almost to the ground. It didn't matter: He had to--Powerful hands suddenly grabbed him from behind and dragged him back, prompting a wave of panic to wash over him. He struggled, but despite his considerable strength and bulk, he was unable to break free. Something brushed against his ear and he heard a familiar voice. "We're getting out of here!"
Drake felt the arms holding him slip away and he spun around to face the leader of the team he'd brought there. "No! We . . . we have to complete this operation."
There was just enough light penetrating the rocks for him to see the man shake his head and bring a walkie-talkie to his mouth. Drake lunged but wasn't quick enough. A moment later he found himself pinned against a rock wall with a knife against pressed against his throat. There was nothing he could do but watch helplessly as the man began speaking into the radio.
"Retreat using primary escape paths! Rendezvous at area A! Repeat: Retreat using primary escape paths. Rendezvous will be at location Alpha!"
The man shoved the radio back in his pocket and grabbed Drake by the hair, dragging him into a narrow split in the cliff. Drake wanted to break away, but the sharp blade against his throat kept him from fighting back.
After about twenty yards the gap narrowed and lowered, forcing Drake to his stomach.
"Crawl," the man ordered. He did, moving quickly as the sound of the helicopters grew loud again. "They're going," he said when they came out the other side of the gap and saw the helicopters rising into the sky. "Look, they're going!"
The man shoved him into a shallow ditch and jumped in behind. "They're not gone, you stupid son of a bitch. They were inserting a SWAT team."
"You work for me! If this operation isn't carried out, it will be a disaster for this country. Do you understand? A disaster!"
"I expect that America will still be standing in the morning either way," the man said, sheathing his knife.
"You have no idea what's at stake here! You agreed to carry out this operation and you've been paid."
"I agreed to be involved in the deaths of a bunch of drug dealers--not to execute L. A. cops."
"Look," Drake said, concentrating on regaining his calm. "Just listen to me for a second . . . please. When Gasta and the Afghans get there and find out it's a bust, they'll start shooting. Right?"
The man didn't respond.
"Right," Drake said, answering his own question. "All you need to do is help it along--help escalate it. Make sure that Gasta, his men, and the Afghans all die. You don't have to kill any cops. Hell, you'd be helping them."
"SWAT's already taken up our positions," the man said. "I guarantee you that. And do you think those copters are gone? They're not: They've just moved to a safe distance. They're not going to just let us walk away after we start shooting."
For obvious reasons Drake had been unable to use a CIA team for this operation, and that left his authority completely financial. "I'll double your fee. Triple it. You name your price."
"Shut the fuck up." The knife reappeared and Drake stumbled backward.
"Understand this," the man said. "Me and my guys are getting the hell out of here. You can come with me or I can leave your body here."
"I need my phone," Drake said. He had to call Gasta. Warn him off. He couldn't let him fall into the hands of the police.
The man grabbed him by the arm, spinning him around and pushing him forward.
"For God's sake! If you won't do your job, you have to let me at least use the phone!"
"Shut up and move."
Chapter 33
WITH every minute that went by, the butterflies in Beamon's stomach felt more like a flock of birds from the Hitchcock movie.
/> "One more time," he said into the microphone suspended in front of his mouth. "Come in from a different angle and let's gain some altitude."
The pilot veered the helicopter right and increased power, further agitating Beamon's gastric aviary.
They'd gone over the area twice already and this was the last pass Beamon could risk. He didn't know any Middle Eastern drug wholesalers personally, but he was guessing that they didn't like helicopters buzzing around when they were about to do a deal.
This time the pilot flew south, keeping in line with the moderately traveled highway beneath them. Beamon peered through a powerful pair of binoculars, finding it almost impossible to hold a steady image in the bucking helicopter.
Fortunately, there wasn't much to see, other than the light late-night traffic moving along the road below. No one seemed to be in any particular hurry--no erratic driving, no cops. The most unusual thing he found was a tow truck parked behind an abandoned car about two miles from the dirt road that was the subject of that night's festivities.
"Keep going?" the pilot said.
"Yeah. Just a quick peek."
A little more than a minute later Beamon spotted the almost invisible entrance to the dirt road in the headlights of a passing semi. He scanned it as they passed but couldn't make much out in the darkness. Another minute and he saw a black midsized sedan parked in the median. He brought the binoculars to his face again, steadying his elbows on his knees. The car looked empty for a moment but then was briefly lit by a reddish glow as a big-haired woman inside dragged on a cigarette. Not exactly a highly trained operative, but she and her friends had been cheap and seemed well qualified for the jobs he'd given them.
Beamon laid the binoculars down and rolled his head around on his neck, trying to untie the knot that was tightening between his shoulder blades. He knew that he was playing a game he couldn't possibly win. He was under direct orders to find Carlo Gasta and sic the local FBI on him. Obviously he was interpreting those orders fairly loosely. At this point, if everything went right, he'd probably still get fired. But at least he'd go out with Laura a few steps closer to her terrorists and a really stylish "fuck you." The pilot whacked him on the shoulder and then pointed to the road below. "Is that what you're looking for?"
Beamon followed his finger and saw a decent-sized panel van moving south along the highway below. Judging by the other cars on the road passing it, the van was probably going exactly the speed limit. Beamon picked up the phone sitting in his lap and shouted into it. There was no need to dial. He'd opened the line to Gasta half an hour ago.
"Carlo? Can you hear me?"
"Barely! Go ahead."
Beamon twisted around in his seat and the pilot adjusted their trajectory to give him a better view of the vehicle below. "We've got a possible. Stand by."
The van began to slow even more and Beamon saw its headlights jump as it hit the edge of the dirt road. "This is it, Carlo! They just turned off the highway. ETA approximately four minutes. Stay cool. And remember: no goddamn shooting!"
"We're ready!"
Beamon motioned to the pilot and he put the helicopter into a lazy arc that carried them over a small plateau and would eventually take them over Gasta's ambush.
By the three-and-a-half-minute mark, they were closing from the east, and through his binoculars Beamon could see the tiny swath of desert illuminated by the van's headlights. He began counting slowly to himself and had made it to forty-three when the lights suddenly stopped making forward progress. He signaled the pilot to slow and steadied the binoculars again.
Everything looked textbook. Three men piled out of the van and looked down at the wheels of the stuck vehicle. Unfortunately, the driver appeared to have stayed put, but it was the scenario he'd trained Gasta's men for, so he didn't expect it to present a problem. Beamon watched as the three men put their shoulders to the back of the van and started to push. When they were completely focused on the task at hand, Gasta and his men suddenly appeared out of the darkness.
"Beautiful, Carlo," Beamon whispered to himself. "Just stay cool and hold it together." He motioned the pilot forward, keeping his binoculars trained on the scene unfolding below. Probably less than fifteen seconds passed from the time Gasta and his men first appeared to the moment they had the driver out of the van and all four Afghans lying facedown in the dirt.
"Very nice," Beamon mumbled. It was starting to look like his inordinately stupid plan was actually going to work. In a few minutes Gasta would be calmly pulling the van and the heroin out onto the highway and Beamon would be calling the local FBI office to tell them that there were four Afghan gentlemen in need of a ride home. Then tomorrow he'd turn Gasta over and the Director would get his news footage with the added benefit of a backdrop that included a couple of million dollars' worth of heroin. Everybody wins.
Thirty seconds.
Beamon adjusted the focus on the binoculars.
Forty-five seconds.
"What are you doing, Carlo?"
Gasta and his men weren't towing the van out. In fact, they weren't doing anything other than standing motionless over the Afghans with their guns drawn.
One minute.
Beamon felt the birds in his stomach suddenly start to peck and scratch. He grabbed his cell phone again. "Carlo! Don't even think about it! If you fuck this up, I'll track you down like an animal and put a bullet in the back of your head! Do you understand me!" Beamon made it through his entire tirade before he realized the connection was dead.
The flashes were surprisingly bright, considering the distance. Beamon watched in horror as Gasta and his men emptied their guns into their captives.
"Jesus Christ!" Beamon heard the pilot shout. "Fuck this!"
The helicopter banked hard and the noise of the engine increased as they sped back toward L. A. Beamon leaned his head against the vibrating glass and squeezed his eyes shut. It was suddenly hard to breathe. Maybe he was finally having that well-deserved heart attack.
Probably a minute passed before he was forced to face the fact that he wasn't having a cardiac incident and that he had just helped carry out the execution of four human beings. His stylish "fuck you" had just turned into a moronic "fuck me."
"Jesus Christ! Son of a bitch! Goddamn it!"
Beamon looked over at the pilot, who was emitting a constant stream of obscenities as he tried to coax a little more speed out of the helicopter. Gasta had set Beamon up with the man, but it appeared that he hadn't been quite prepared for the night's events.
"Gasta's gonna kill me. I know too much. Shit!" Beamon bit down on his lip hard, using the pain to clear his head but quickly regretting it. What did he have to think about? The fact that he had just completely and irretrievably screwed himself? That when the FBI got hold of Gasta, he'd be more than happy to tell them all about Nicolai's role in this? That he had gone from FBI agent to murderer in a matter of minutes?
"Damn," he said quietly to himself. He'd been so angry. About Chet, about the FBI settling for Gasta and not wanting to go after the man behind him, about the Director playing politics with people's lives. He'd just closed his eyes. This had always been inevitable.
The phone, still in his lap, suddenly started to ring. Beamon hesitated but finally answered it. Gasta's panicked voice came through the earpiece almost immediately. "Nicolai! Nicolai, can you hear me?"
Beamon stared out into the darkness, not answering. "Nicolai! We got cops coming up on us! You hear me? Cops!"
"I told you not to shoot, you dumb son of a bitch," Beamon yelled into the phone. "Someone heard you."
"Fuck you! It's not one cop. They're coming out of the woodwork! You set me up, you piece of shit!"
Beamon twisted around and looked behind him. In the distance he could see the flashing blue and red lights moving along the highway toward the dirt road that Gasta was just about to come out of. Where the hell had they come from?
"Turn around," Beamon said to the pilot.
"Fuck you."
Beamon looked behind him again. The police cars were still visible but only barely. What did he have to lose now? He pulled another cell phone from his pocket and hit a speed-dial number. When a woman picked up, he said simply "Now" and then dialed another and said the same thing. Next, he pulled his 357 from his pocket and stuck the barrel against the pilot's head. "'Run around."
"Fuck you. You're not going to kill me. We'll crash." "Very clever. You're right. I can't kill you now. But you've got to land sometime."
The pilot considered that for a moment and then the chopper made a sharp turn and started speeding back toward the highway.
"Carlo!" Beamon yelled into the phone. "Are you still there? What's your situation?"
"Why should I tell you, you fuck?"
He'd be heading south on the highway by now--that much Beamon knew. "Carlo, look behind you."
The chopper crossed over the highway and Beamon could see a southbound traffic jam starting about a mile before the dirt road Gasta had come out of. A number of police cruisers were trying to get around it, but their low-slung cars weren't faring well off-road.
"What the fuck? How'd you do that?" Gasta said. "Don't worry about that now," Beamon said, unfolding a map on his lap. "Tell me where you are exactly."
"About a mile from where we got on the highway, heading south at about eighty-five. That's as fast as this piece of shit will go. Where the fuck did all these cops come from?" "I have no idea. Are any of them on your tail?"