by Brian Shea
“I will get in when I can, but we may have to do the briefing on the move. I may be sitting at a secondary attack location right now.” Nick had realized this when Declan mentioned the translator’s daughter having been burned alive. He had just witnessed Declan’s daughter almost face the same end.
As Nick ended the call he found himself again staring at the red Toyota belonging to Declan Enright. Coincidence is a plan in disguise.
27
Declan leaned out the side door and called over to Nick who was standing on the sidewalk in front of his house, “I need a few minutes to make a call. Feel free to help yourself to anything in the fridge.” He looked at his two nurses who were cleaning up the bloody mess left in the wake of his in-home shoulder surgery. Val and Izzy were chatting like old friends. War had that effect on people. And that’s what this was quickly becoming.
“DJ. It’s me.” Declan had stepped outside and stood by his girls’ playscape that was out of earshot of the house.
“Holy shit. Declan ‘Ace’ Enright calling me! And to what do I owe this honor?” Alex Morales was Declan’s closest friend and the person he trusted most in this world, besides Val. Alex’s luck with the ladies had long ago earned him the nickname Don Juan from his Teammates but was shortened over time to DJ.
“It’s been too long, my friend. Lots to catch up on, but we’re going to have to leave that for later. Right now, I need your help.”
“Absolutely. What’s going on?” Alex answered without any hesitation. They had not been in contact much since Laney’s birth. The challenges that came with raising her had taken much of his time and energy, leaving little for anything else. But no amount of separation, chronologic or geographic, could sever the bond that Declan and DJ had forged.
“There was an attack yesterday here in my quiet little town. It hasn’t hit the news yet because no one has figured it out. A serious shitstorm is on the horizon.”
“What kind of attack?” DJ knew it was better to ask than assume.
“Bus. Dual-event sequencing. The first event was a fire. That drew in the crowd. The second was the explosion. If I had to guess I would say C4 or Semtex. The blast radius was short range, but the result was devastating. The metal fragments from the bus acted as fléchettes and did most of the damage.” Declan had responded to his friend’s inquiry devoid of emotion. He methodically laid out his assessment using a brevity of words. He had learned the importance of emotionally detaching himself so that his judgment was not clouded.
“What’s the count?” Alex asked. The initial jocularity of the conversation was gone, and his tone was now more serious.
“Thirty-two is what the FBI agents said. That number will probably change. It was bad. Like being back over there.” This last statement needed no further explanation between the two men.
“Jesus! Did you just say thirty-two? The last bombing attack to yield any casualties was in 2013, at the Boston Marathon, and I think the count was around three people. If what you’re saying is true, then this is the deadliest explosive attack in recent history.” Alex sighed quietly after processing the reality of what he had just said.
“I am sure that it will be playing out that way on all the news stations very soon,” Declan said, knowing that a wave of panic was about to befall the nation and somehow, he was at its epicenter. “Do you remember the Boston guy from the village just outside of Choman?”
“Of course. Good guy. He kind of lost it after his daughter died, but who wouldn’t? Why are you bringing him up now?” Alex sounded somewhat confused by this new direction in the conversation.
“I saw him a few weeks ago at a bus stop in town. I couldn’t place him then, but he was there yesterday at the time of the explosion.” Declan’s voice was composed, but the pulsing in his re-injured shoulder activated a deep source of rage, and he could feel his adrenaline kick in.
“He was there?” Alex questioned. He was slowly getting up to speed on what Declan was overtly hinting at. It was a hard transition to make when sitting on his back porch in the Texas sun, drinking sweet tea.
“Thank God I recognized him when I did, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation now. I caught him out of the corner of my eye as I ran to help the people on the bus. He had something small in his hand and kept it down low by his waistline. I realized that it was a detonator with just enough time to drop to the ground and shield myself from the blast.” Declan had been out of practice and could feel his breathing rate change as he retold the events.
“Just like old times. You’re a dang shit magnet.” Alex chuckled. Men in their line of work tended to find humor in the gravest of circumstances. It was part defense mechanism and part genetic makeup.
“Have you seen him out your way?”
“Who? The Translator?” Alex questioned. He still wasn’t connecting the dots that Declan had.
“Yeah. I think it had something to do with me or maybe us. Today, my wife and daughter got trapped in our van. The doors locked, and the power was cut making it impossible to get out. Right in our driveway! Then it caught on fire. The fire was engulfing the van when I came out. If it hadn’t been for the two FBI agents that showed up, Val and Laney would surely be dead.” Declan knew that he was throwing a lot at his friend, but the last twenty-four hours had spun him up and his mind was racing.
“So, wait a minute. You’re saying that he bombed a bus and then attacked your family?” Alex’s tone conveyed the seriousness of the implication in this question.
“Yes. I have no proof that the attack on my wife and daughter was done by the Translator, but the FBI agent, Nick, is in agreement that it is a real possibility. He sent the van off so that the Bureau crime scene techs can take a look at it.”
“You’re asking me if I saw him because you think he might be planning something out here too? Do you think the Translator is coming for me? Is this about his daughter dying? You think he blames us? How the hell would he even know who we are? I mean we’re ghosts. Steak Sauce baby!” Alex’s last comment was made in reference to the nickname given to their unit, Alpha One. Hook had said it one night after many beers, “Do you guys realize that we are named after a steak sauce?” The Team had laughed and from that point forward the nickname stuck.
“There aren’t many of us left to come after,” Declan said.
“I know. Hook’s still in Colorado and Moose is doing his thing in D.C. But that’s it. Eight hard men are now down to four.” Alex didn’t need to list the fallen. Those names were forever etched into all of their hearts. “I don’t have any kids if you think that’s his motive. I have my niece and nephew out here, but that’s it.”
“I don’t know his angle. I just know that a bus blew up and a lot of innocent people are dead. Then one day later my wife and daughter were almost burned alive. Every fiber of my body is telling me that the Translator was behind it.” Declan’s wiry muscles tensed, and his teeth clenched as he continued, “I don’t give a shit why he did it! I am going to make sure he doesn’t have a chance to do it to anyone else.”
“What do you think his next move is going to be? I haven’t seen him out this way, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been here.”
“I don’t know yet. Who knows? Maybe he is still lurking around my neck of the woods. The FBI agent, Nick, is getting the information out through law enforcement channels. The problem is that no one knows the Translator’s real name and we have no picture of him.”
“Moose may be able to help with the name. He and the Translator were pretty close before things went sideways. He might remember. I think I can help with the photo. I’ve got a couple boxes filled with memorabilia from our days in the Teams. Some of the photos are with the natives. I know that I have some pictures from the time when we were in the good graces of the village. I’m pretty sure there has to be at least one picture with the Translator in it. When I find it, I will text it to you.”
“Good thinking. I will reach out to Moose.” Declan thought for a moment and then s
aid, “Maybe I’m wrong about him coming after our team, but just do me a favor and watch your ass.”
“Will do, brother. I know you got your hands full there, so I will call Hook and give him the heads up. Stay frosty and watch your six.”
“Thanks. Good hearing your voice bro.” Declan hung up and returned to the house. Nick was in the kitchen with Izzy and Val. Laney was on the couch in the living room using her tablet with the headphones on, oblivious to the visitors.
Nick looked down at a text message he’d just received. His head came up and he said, “Where’s your TV?”
Declan and the group stood in the living room and stared at the one television in the Enright house. The room was silent except for the voice of the news anchor.
“This video was just received by our agency. Please be advised that what we are about to show you is graphic in nature.”
The video that followed was taken by a cellphone. The user’s unsteady hand coupled with the canted angle created a Blair Witch effect in the production quality. The footage began just as the bus fire initiated and continued until the blast.
The video then cut to a long table with seven men all wearing the traditional ghutra headdress, but their faces were obscured by a black cloth. Only the man in the middle spoke. His English was clear with minimal accent.
“It has been too long that the American people have used their military forces to destroy other countries in the name of national security. Yesterday we demonstrated how easy it is for us to do the same to you. There is more to come, and the timeline has begun. The only way to stop the next attack is the complete withdrawal of the occupying troops in Iraq. There will be no further communication. Your President always says that he doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. We agree with that statement. Your government is the biggest terrorist organization in the world and we will not negotiate with them either. We are The Seven. No place is safe.”
The news cameras faded back to the Barbie and Ken look-a-likes that sat behind the anchor desk. The journalists continued the broadcast with a combination of fear and disbelief. They quickly cut to a press conference. At the podium was FBI Special Agent in Charge, Emily Watson, and behind her stood Jake Nelson with an ensemble cast of the usual characters. This had become a law enforcement protocol in recent years when tragedy struck. A panel of bigwigs would get together in a show of solidarity between state and local law enforcement. They each would thank the other agencies as if receiving an award at a banquet. Usually, after all the pleasantries were exchanged nothing of real importance would be said. The real work was being done behind the scenes by people who didn’t talk to the Press. Sadly, these clips would be repeated and analyzed ad nauseum by panels of experts until the next update. Declan clicked the television off. They had work to do and he needed to pitch something to the agents.
“I reached out to an old friend and he may be able to help us in getting a name and photo of the Translator,” Declan said in the hopes that sharing it would help the investigation, but he was also secretly wishful that they would see his potential value in the manhunt. He needed to piggyback off the FBI if he was ever going to get a chance to personally ensure that the Translator paid for what he did to his family. Nobody had ever attacked Declan Enright’s family. That was a mistake and the Translator would pay a tremendous consequence.
“Fantastic. Should I even ask who you are getting this help from or is that a waste of breath?” Nick said this half-jokingly, but there was an underlying truth to that statement.
“I could tell you, but I would have to kill you,” Declan retorted with the stereotypical line and a smile. “On a serious note, the guys from my former unit would probably only speak with me. They aren’t as trusting of law enforcement as I am.”
“Okay. I’m not going to push it, but as soon as you get any info give me a call,” Nick said as he and Izzy made their way to the door. Nick’s phone began to ring, and Declan noticed that he seemed hesitant to answer.
“Hey. What’s going on?” Nick held up one finger to Izzy and exited out the side door of the house. Izzy stayed behind with Declan. “Where is Patrick now?” Nick said, moving out of earshot of the house’s occupants.
“His boss?” Declan asked, breaking the awkward silence left by Nick when he walked out.
“Ummm. No. His mother. Nick’s got some personal shit going on with her. He’s a great guy. Gave up everything and came to Connecticut to take care of her.” Izzy stopped herself. “I don’t know why I just told you his personal business. That’s not my place.”
“No worries. Everybody has their burdens. It’s nice to see that you FBI guys aren’t all robots,” Declan said, easing the awkward tension that arose from Izzy’s disclosure about Nick’s mother.
“Thanks.”
“I was about to ask Nick before he took the call, but I have an idea that I want to run by you guys.” Declan was speaking in a more hushed tone obviously trying to keep this conversation from Val, who was in the other room tending to Laney.
“What’s up?” Izzy seemed open to suggestion.
“I think that I can really help your investigation. I’ve done investigative work before, but more importantly, I have hunted guys like the Translator. With success.” This last statement carried another message. Success in his old life meant target elimination.
“We read your history and know that it’s both extensive and impressive. I’m not exactly sure what you mean by help though.”
“Your agency hires consultants all the time. People with special skills. The Bureau pays them like the contractors used on overseas security gigs. I have skills and connections that will benefit your investigation. If you really want to get this guy, then you’re going to need me.” Declan realized this last part sounded cocky and tried to soften the blow. “That came out wrong. I just think that if I worked side by side with you and Nick then things would move quicker.”
Izzy was pensive and seemed to be absorbing what he had just said. “I want to get this son of a bitch. If Nick can convince our boss, Nelson, then I’m good with it.”
“I could obviously use the money too. Things have been pretty tight in the Enright house since I got canned from my police department,” Declan said.
He thought that this potential opportunity would remove any suspicion about the robbery money if he could generate a legitimate source of income. The irony was not lost on him that the income would come from the same governmental agency investigating the crime. In light of these recent events, the robbery was recessed in his mind, but he couldn’t allow himself to forget that these two were investigating him… even if they didn’t know it.
Izzy shot a glance back at Laney and Val. “Hopefully Nick can convince Nelson to overlook your termination from law enforcement. It wouldn’t be the first time the Bureau partnered with someone who had a tainted past.”
Declan said nothing.
“Shit, that came out wrong. I meant we’ve worked with criminals to help solve other crimes. Damn. I just keep making it worse.” Izzy shook her head. “Listen, we read your file and for what it’s worth, you should have received a damn medal for that shooting and not a pink slip. Nick feels the same way I do about it.” Izzy blushed, fumbling with her words.
Declan relaxed a bit after hearing what their take had been on his shooting. “I hope that Nick can get this worked out with your boss.”
“Tell you what. Let me bounce this off him when we are alone so he doesn’t feel the pressure. I know him better than most and he always needs a little bit of time to decompress after dealing with his mother.” Izzy put a hand on Declan’s uninjured shoulder and smiled, knowing that he would understand.
“Thank you.”
Nick had ended his call. The Enrights and the agents shook hands and said their goodbyes. The Impala drove off and Declan returned inside his home hoping that the decision on his involvement would be made quickly. Regardless, if he would be officially or unofficially working on hunting the Translator, he neede
d to get his gear. In the partially finished basement, Declan went to an area near the bulky oil-fed steam boiler. He pushed aside some cardboard boxes exposing a large safe. Inside were relics of a past that he never thought he would need again. Especially on his home turf.
28
The drive to Colorado was uneventful. The radio stations were playing The Seven’s manifesto on what seemed like a continuous loop. Fear was spreading as predicted. All the “red-blooded Americans” were using social media and radio call-in shows to make their powerless threats of what they would do to the terrorists. Khaled passed by many cops and state policemen during his three-day road trip from Wethersfield, Connecticut to Colorado Springs. None of these men-of-action had given Khaled a second thought. Some had held doors for him and exchanged pleasantries when at the various gas stations along the way. There was no face put to the monster that lurked their lands and so he was able to move among the people with anonymity. There would be no additional warning. Soon the seriousness of The Seven’s message would be delivered again and the panic to follow would be crippling.
Routinely scheduled events offered up unique opportunities for people like Khaled. The support provided by The Seven enabled him to do things with ease that would have been otherwise impossible to accomplish without exposing himself.
Jeremiah Wilks was the only Golden Man that Khaled had communicated with using his native Arabic tongue while in the village. The others in his group called him Hook. Khaled had once asked him why they called him that and Wilks deflected, telling him that it was a long and embarrassing story. The story of Wilks’s nickname came up again during an impromptu night of drinking with the Golden Men where Khaled had shared a homemade Arak. Wilks apparently had made the mistake of bragging to his teammates that his penis bent slightly to the left and from that day forward he was known as Hook. He recalled how funny it had been that night. How different things were before they took his Sonia away.