Weapons of Mass Deception

by David Bruns

  Liz.

  As he stumbled out of the back of the van, Brendan realized the phone in his hand was still ringing. He pressed the green icon and held it to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  The rasp of heavy breathing. In the background, he could hear an echo of the song Prince was playing in the stadium.

  “Rafiq Roshed,” said Brendan.

  The breathing hitched.

  “I know who you are. If she dies, I will find you.”

  The phone went dead in his hand.

  He knelt next to Liz. Sirens wailed in the distance. Her eyes fluttered open, and a look of panic swept across her face.

  Brendan pressed his hand to her cheek. “I’m here, Lizzie. You’ve been shot. You need to lie still.”

  “The bomb?” Her voice came out as a rasp. Her eyes widened in pain as she tried to draw a full breath.

  “I—I think I disarmed it. I’m not sure.” He could hear tires squealing as vehicles raced up the ramp. A helo thundered overhead. “Just stay still and hang on. I’m going to—”

  She clutched at his arm. “Stay,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Brendan squeezed her hand.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Liz.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Minneapolis JTTF, Brooklyn Park, Minnesota

  Two weeks later

  It still hurt to turn her head. Liz angled her chair toward the front of Tom Trask’s conference room so that she could see Don Riley.

  The grainy video on the screen behind Don showed a stylishly dressed woman wearing dark glasses in the passenger seat of a convertible. She had her hand high on the thigh of an equally attractive man. He was laughing at something and his hand was reaching for a pair of passports.

  “The driver, identified as Jose Carveza, was a Mexican national. He crossed the border into Mexico, with this, um, person, six days ago at Fabens, Texas. Mr. Carveza was discovered twenty-four hours later, shot in the back of the head, execution style. Local police considered the killing to be drug-related, given the MO. We didn’t find out about it until yesterday.” He switched slides, this one a close-up still photo of the woman.

  “After closer scrutiny, and running the picture through facial recognition, we now believe this ‘woman’ is actually Rafiq Roshed.”

  Liz spoke first. “Five days’ head start. He could be anywhere.” It still hurt to take a deep breath, but it was getting better every day. The cut on her temple had healed into a thin pale streak. With any luck, the doctor said she wouldn’t even have a scar. The sling on her right arm was a nuisance, but at least she was out of the temporary body brace for the broken ribs and fractured sternum. Even the bruising on her chest had faded into a pale greenish tinge.

  Don nodded. “We believe he will try to make contact with his family. We have his assets frozen, of course, but we have no way of knowing what he might have set up in untraceable accounts.” He gave an apologetic grimace. “The Tri-Border Region is not known for rule of law, and our intelligence assets in the area are inadequate for a search of this magnitude.”

  “So what’s our next move?” Brendan asked. Liz spun her chair so she could see him. He sat with his back to the window and the afternoon sun cast his face in shadow.

  During the week she was in the hospital, Brendan had come to see her every day. When Liz tried to apologize for the night at the restaurant, he stopped her.

  “Don’t,” he said with a mischievous smile. “I kind of enjoyed it. It’s not every day you get a beautiful woman throwing herself at you.”

  “If I wasn’t in traction, I’d kick your ass.”

  The banter came easily, and they talked for hours. On his second visit, Brendan held her hand. It wasn’t the grip of someone obligated to visit a friend in the hospital; it was the gentle touch of a man who knew what he wanted.

  Liz smiled to herself. Brendan still hadn’t kissed her yet, but they were having dinner tonight . . .

  Don clearing his throat brought her back to the moment. He flashed up a satellite photo of what looked like a sizable ranch.

  “Estancia Refugio Seguro,” he said. “Safe Haven Ranch, Rafiq’s former estate in Argentina. His wife is dead, his fortune is frozen, and we have his kids under surveillance. Long story short, we have one very pissed-off terrorist on our hands. What do we do?” He shrugged.

  “We search. We watch. We wait for him to make a mistake.”

  CHAPTER 61

  Tehran, Iran

  Three months later

  Tehran was a dirty place.

  Rafiq’s nose wrinkled at the smells of the tiny apartment, ignoring the scratching in the walls that could only be rats. He’d only be here a short while. Just long enough to get the final piece of information he needed.

  It had been a long journey into the country. He avoided Lebanon on this trip. No sense in implicating his former colleagues in this mission. This mission was personal.

  The passage through the mountains had reminded him of Argentina, the way the dry slopes swept down to long valleys and the breeze cut across the plain. There were times during the journey when if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was home. He could almost imagine Nadine—or even little Javi—was riding on the horse next to him, instead of some Afghani who smelled worse than his mount.

  Not so little anymore, he thought with a sad twist of his lips.

  Soon. Soon he would be home again. There was just one more job to do before he could put Nadine’s memory to rest.

  One more loose end.

  The phone in his hip pocket buzzed. Rafiq flipped it open. The text was a name, a time, and an address. He stared at it for a moment, committing the information to memory. Then he removed the battery and the SIM card from the phone, and snapped the device in half.

  Rafiq picked up the motorcycle helmet from the floor next to his chair and made his way onto the darkening street.

  The motorcycle was tucked into an alcove under the stairs. He snapped the visor down on his helmet and straddled the bike, the low roar of the engine startling a dog sleeping a few feet away. Nursing the throttle, he guided the motorcycle into the evening traffic, allowing the flow of cars and scooters to set the pace of his movement.

  When he reached his destination, he circled the block twice, slowing as he studied the hookers lining the sidewalk. On his second pass, one stepped forward and nodded to him. She was tall and thin, with the augmented breasts and sculpted nose so common in Tehran.

  “I’m Saffron,” she said.

  Rafiq jerked his head toward the back of the bike. Saffron pulled a long robe and headscarf from her bag and put them on before she climbed on behind him. She pressed her chest against his back and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  Rafiq pulled back into traffic, weaving between cars, heading north, always north. The vehicle exhaust formed a noxious haze around them, making the back of his throat feel raw. The unending traffic slowed again and stopped. He resisted the urge to ride up on the sidewalk.

  Patience.

  When they reached the edge of the north Tehran suburbs, the quantity of cars around them decreased and the quality of the vehicles improved dramatically. They were surrounded by Mercedes, Audis, even a Lamborghini. Once they passed a long section of tony high-rise apartments, the housing spread out into estates; mansions, really. Saffron indicated the exit and he made a gentle turn onto a side street, slowing his speed to match the environment.

  After two more turns, they glided to a stop at a small side gate. Rafiq could see a gabled roof outlined in light over the top of the high stone wall. Saffron hopped off the bike and punched a button on the intercom box adjacent to the gate. She looked up into the camera and waved. When the lock on the gate buzzed, she pushed it open.

  Rafiq shut off the bike and slipped off his helmet, following Saffron into the compound. They made their way across the courtyard to the back entrance, the gravel crunching under Rafiq’s boots. Beyond the courtyard, he could see manicured gardens and the Tehra
n cityscape, hazy lights through a curtain of pollution.

  Saffron knocked at the back entrance and it opened immediately. The man who peered out at them was dressed in a dark suit, the telltale bulge of a handgun under his arm. He gave Saffron a wicked smile. “Saffron, back so soon? He must really like you.” His eyes fell on Rafiq. “Who’s he?”

  “My driver,” Saffron replied. “We’ve had some trouble with girls in this end of town getting picked up by the police.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded. “Okay, but he stays in the kitchen with me. Understand?”

  “Whatever. Where is he?”

  “He said he wants to start in the study tonight. You can meet him there.”

  Using her body as a shield from the guard’s eyes, Saffron flashed her hand open twice toward Rafiq. Ten minutes. She pushed past the guard. “I know the way. Where’s Ghassem tonight?”

  “He’s off. It’s just me here guarding the kingdom.”

  Rafiq stepped into the kitchen, letting the smells of spices wrap around him. Another reminder of a home he would never have again. The guard waved his hand toward the stove. “There’s tea, if you want it.”

  Rafiq sat at the table, facing the clock. Nine minutes to go.

  Patience.

  The guard sat across from him, reading the paper. He slurped his tea.

  Six minutes.

  “There’s tea if you want it,” the guard said again.

  “Thank you, no.”

  The guard shrugged.

  Three minutes.

  Rafiq controlled his breathing, watching the sweep of the second hand around the face of the clock.

  At one minute, the guard looked up at him with a scowl on his face. “Are you going to keep doing that deep breathing all night? She’s going to be at least an hour, maybe two.”

  Rafiq lowered his gaze from the clock to the guard. Then he rammed the table against the man’s chest, pushing him back against the stove and pinning his arms to his sides. The man tried to cry out, but the force of the blow had knocked the wind out of him. Rafiq leaped onto the table and grasped the man’s head, one hand on the back of his neck, the other cupping his chin.

  With a sharp twist, the man’s body relaxed under Rafiq’s hands.

  He slipped his hand into the man’s jacket and drew out his handgun, a Glock 17. It would do the job.

  Rafiq walked swiftly through the halls of the mansion, his feet sinking silently into the plush of the carpet. His heart thundered in his ears.

  Patience.

  In the end, it was Saffron’s laughter that showed him the right room. She’d left the door ajar. Rafiq peered through the crack to see the prostitute, stripped down to her bra and fishnet stockings, sitting astride a fat old man in a leather armchair. An open bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label sat on the edge of the desk next to two glasses.

  Rafiq used the muzzle of the handgun to push the door open, letting it bang against the wall. Saffron looked up, pulling her tits away from the old man’s face. “Took you long enough,” she said, hopping off Aban’s lap.

  Aban looked up in surprise when she spoke. When he focused on Rafiq’s face, the color drained from his own. He reached out and grasped Saffron’s wrist. “Please, go get help. This man means to hurt me.”

  Saffron twisted her arm away as she bent over to pick up her clothes. “That’s the general idea.”

  Rafiq handed her an envelope as she brushed past him. He could hear her tinkling laughter as she made her way down the hall.

  He stood in front of the armchair. Aban, dressed only in boxer shorts, a T-shirt, and dark socks, quailed under Rafiq’s glare. His robes lay in a heap next to the chair, topped by his turban.

  “Do you know who I am?” Rafiq asked him.

  Aban swallowed and nodded.

  “Do you know why I am here?”

  Aban voice was raspy with fear. “Brother, whatever you want, I can give it to you.”

  “On that we agree, brother.”

  Rafiq pulled the trigger.

  THE END

  Ready for more? In Jihadi Apprentice, FBI Special Agent Liz Soroush takes on one of the most complex — and personal — national security issues of our modern world. Available from all major booksellers in print, ebook, and audio. Amazon - Apple, B&N, Kobo, Audible

  Download the FREE novella, Death of a Pawn, about a real-life political assassination in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Exclusively for members of the Two Navy Guys Readers Group.

  A Note from the Two Navy Guys

  The Two Navy Guys writing team is made up of — you guessed it — two former US Navy officers and US Naval Academy grads. Together, we write national security thrillers about the threats of the 21st century.

  Weapons of Mass Deception probably confirms what you already knew: our world can be a dangerous place. It’s always been that way. People like Rafiq Roshed and his (now deceased) Iranian half-brothers really do exist. (JR spent a twenty-one-year career as an intel officer. You don’t want to know some of the things he knows.)

  Thankfully, in real life, there are also patriots like Brendan McHugh, Liz Soroush, and Don Riley to balance the scales in our favor.

  Although all three characters started their careers as Naval Academy midshipmen, their paths led them to different fronts in the ongoing war on terror. As this series continues, Brendan will commit to the CIA and his super-secret SIGINT program. Don will exercise his considerable brain in the service of cyberwarfare.

  And Liz? I’m so glad you asked. Liz takes center stage in our second book, Jihadi Apprentice, a national security thriller that deals with a whole new threat: homegrown radicalism.

  JR and I didn’t look for this topic; it found us--in our hometown of Minneapolis.

  In 2015, our local paper was filled with stories of how the Minneapolis Somali community was the number one recruiting ground for “jihadist mobilization,” or young people being radicalized and leaving the country to fight for terrorist groups such as Al-Shabab and ISIS.

  The idea that an American citizen—these were all American-born young people—could be manipulated in that way was troubling to us. We reached out to our contacts at the local FBI office (yes, there really is an FBI office in Brooklyn Center, Minn) and found some contacts in the local Somali community.

  What we discovered was a fascinating and disturbing story of manipulation, exploitation, and youth identity. (These young people are teenagers, remember.) As Jihadi Apprentice took shape, we decided our favorite FBI Special Agent Liz Soroush should be given the task of figuring out this new threat. What she found will keep you reading late into the night…

  Pick up your copy of Jihadi Apprentice and start reading now.

  Happy reading –

  JR and David AKA The Two Navy Guys

  Visit twonavyguys.com for more information about us and our other books.

  Novels by The Two Navy Guys

  Weapons of Mass Deception

  Amazon - Apple, B&N, Kobo, Audible

  Jihadi Apprentice

  Amazon - Apple, B&N, Kobo, Audible

  Rules of Engagement

  Amazon - Apple, B&N, Kobo, Audible

  The Pandora Deception

  Amazon - Apple, B&N, Kobo, Audible

  An excerpt from Jihadi Apprentice

  Book 2 of The WMD Files

  Chapter 1

  Minneapolis, Minnesota

  18 November 2016 – 2120 local

  The headscarf itched. Hijab, Liz reminded herself.

  She drew the indigo-blue material tighter against her neck as she weaved through the knots of people, food trucks, and craft tables outside the Cedar Cultural Center in downtown Minneapolis. The crowd attending the Muslim-American Arts Festival seemed on the youngish side—Liz guessed most were in their late teens and early twenties—and much more diverse than your average Minnesota crowd. She heard mostly English, peppered liberally with Somali and some Arabic. She even picked up a distant side conversation in her family’s native
Farsi, but didn’t dare show any interest.

  Liz caught sight of her mark entering the theater: Zacharia Ismail, Somali-American, twenty years old, and hopefully their path to capturing Hamza, one of the FBI’s most wanted al-Shabab operatives. Hamza had grown up in the Minneapolis Somali community. Eighteen months ago, without telling a soul, he boarded a flight for Mogadishu and joined al-Shabab. Hamza had stayed in touch with his friends in Minneapolis, using social media to recruit new members to his cause—six in the last twelve months.

  According to their sources, Hamza was back, rumored to be in Minneapolis on a recruiting trip.

  Not for the first time, Liz reflected on how normal Zacharia seemed. When they observed him, listened to his phone calls, read his email and texts, he seemed like a normal young American. Good-looking, too. With close-cropped hair, broad shoulders, and a ready smile, Zacharia Ismail looked more like a starting quarterback on the football team than a potential terrorist. But then again, those were the best kind of terrorists—the ones that hide in plain sight.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, girl. One step at a time.

  She slipped her ticket out of her hip pocket. “Soo dhowow. Welcome.” The attendant scanned her ticket, then held onto it when she tried to take it back. “I like your hijab,” he said with a wide smile. “Very pretty.”

  Liz tugged firmly on the ticket and it came free. “Thank you.” She did not return the smile.

  The dark blue material woven with a silvery thread was beautiful, but Liz wondered if maybe she’d overdone it on style. At the pre-mission briefing, it had frustrated her to no end how much time the men—and they were nearly all men—devoted to whether or not FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Soroush was or was not going to cover her hair.