by Jack July
Fenian thought to herself, How can that be? I’m kind of new. Then she shrugged and said, “Adele told me I would like you. She was right.” Fenian smiled the cold controlled smile, waited till the latch clicked, turned and walked out the door.
Chapter 30
When it came to patriotism, they didn’t come any more patriotic than Meyer Braddock. An Eagle Scout and an officer in the Air Force Reserves, he was devastated by the murder of the child, but there was nothing he could do about her. However, making the decision to betray his country? There had to be something that he could do about that. There was only one other person he knew he could talk to: Carl. Upon returning to America, still stitched and sore from the operation, he was told to rest. But he couldn’t.
He flew to Carl Stinson’s home in Dallas. He walked gingerly to the front door and rang. A maid answered the door and told Meyer in no uncertain terms that Carl did not wish to see him. He stood back and looked at the security camera next to the door and yelled, each time doubling over in pain, “CARL, SPEAK TO ME! CARL! WE HAVE TO TALK! CARL, TALK TO ME, TALK TO ME OR I’LL TELL IT, I’LL TELL IT ALL!”
Moments later the door opened, and Carl stood staring at him in disgust. He motioned him in, and they walked to the study. Meyer sat down, clearly in pain. “Drink?” asked Carl.
“Water,” replied Meyer, fumbling with a pill bottle.
Carl stared at him for a moment then said, “What do you want?”
“I’m not doing this. I can’t do what she asks. I won’t,” said Meyer.
“You dumb motherfucker, how did you ever earn a dime,” Carl mumbled. Then he said, “You don’t have a fuck of a lot of choice. I WARNED you. God dammit Meyer, I WARNED you.”
“I’ve thought about it. We can go to the FBI. We have friends. They’ll listen to us. We tell the truth. We destroy that evil bitch.”
Carl put his head in his hand and choked out a muted laugh. “Do you have any idea how many laws we broke? Do you think there is a swinging dick in this country that won’t believe a couple rich assholes traded a little boy’s life for our own?”
“It was a girl, a young girl,” said Meyer.
“Does it matter? No. Go home, Meyer, enjoy your family. You have a new liver. Drink the pain away. You’re good at that.”
In an almost pleading voice he said, “The truth, we can tell the truth. What’s wrong with the truth?”
“The truth? The truth is we don’t know anything. Where she is, who she is; what will you tell them? Think! What will you tell them? Do what she says. She doesn’t ask for much, and she doesn’t ask for it often.” Carl paused for a moment, leaned over close to Meyer’s face and said, “And whatever you do, keep my fucking name out of it, got me? Show yourself out.” Carl left the room.
Within three hours at the Toronto public library, Fenian found the information she needed on Nassar. After a trip to the grocery store for Dr. Pepper, a couple of pre-made salads and soup to go, she walked back to her safe house, cutting through the alley and entering unseen. The house smelled strangely of pot. She wondered if it was coming from the outside, but she couldn’t be sure. Maybe another spook liked weed. Certain addictions were not uncommon in that line of work, but usually it was alcohol or some sort of amphetamine. She even kept a few adderalls just in case.
The Melton Islamic center was located just a quarter mile from the end of Runway 23 of the Toronto Pearson International Airport. She noticed in her searches that many of the mosques were built in older industrial areas. After examining the photos, it made sense. There was little to no pedestrian traffic, isolated cheap land, and no real complaints when blasting the call to prayer. It was also perfect for her. A loud jet engine to help muffle the sound of a rifle shot was a good thing.
The front of the mosque was close to the street, with a parking lot wrapped around the building in a U shape. Its large, ornate entrance in the rear included two sets of double doors that opened out onto an elevated half round porch. According to the intelligence reports, Imam Dawud stood on that porch to bid farewell to his flock after evening prayers.
Another three hundred feet behind the mosque parking lot stood a sparse line of trees partly masking what looked like a maintenance shed. It was about the size of two doublewide mobile homes end to end, it had a flat roof with a raised parapet and two air-handling units on the roof. Good place to take the shot she thought. A plan was coming together, but first she would recon the area.
Later that evening she drove to Wildwood Park, across the street from the mosque, and sat in her car until she heard the call to prayer. She knew she had 20-25 minutes to get into position. The park comprised about forty acres with two baseball diamonds and a playground.
She wore warm jogging clothes, a black stocking cap, a backpack and a red/orange jacket that concealed her holster with her .45 Desert Eagle. She stretched and took a lap, jogging around the park to the backside, then crossed the street a couple hundred yards from the mosque. After cutting behind a warehouse, she jogged to the back of the maintenance shed, took off the stiff, heavy jacket to turn it inside out to the black side, put it back on and took a look around.
There was no activity behind her, which meant the factory didn’t run a second shift. In the distance, she saw a small pick-up truck with a yellow light on top. She looked through a small spotter’s scope and saw it was a security truck, apparently a rover. She would have to keep track of that.
There were no ladders on the side of the building, so she took the foldable hook and rope out of her backpack. She flipped it up over the parapet, gave it a hard pull and using a windowsill, a vent and an old pipe bracket as a foothold, she hoisted herself to the roof. After taking another look behind her, she crept to the other side and watched.
Three minutes later, the doors of the mosque opened. Fenian checked her watch and thought only eighteen minutes since the call, gonna have to get here a few minutes earlier. Then the imam stepped out. He took his place and stood still like a statue as the people left and paid their respects to him. Using the rangefinder and the spotter’s scope, she calculated the distance of the shot, one hundred and six yards. Suddenly something occurred to her, Why risk coming back? The lightweight flat black model 25 Savage .223 with the scope, folding stock, flash and sound suppressor was broken down in her backpack. She could have it together in less than a minute. Just then a large jet roared by, oh yeah, she thought, I’m doing this right now.
She put the Savage together, slid the scope on the rail and tightened the thumbscrews. She sat back up with the spotter’s scope and took one last look around. Nothing. She took a deep breath and said a short prayer then brought the rifle to the top of the parapet. She slowly operated the bolt putting a round in the chamber and acquired the target. She adjusted the scope for a hundred yards, put the crosshairs on his head and waited as the distant sound of the jet got closer. It was then she thought about what Danica had said, “I don’t play that raghead bullshit.” Fenian thought, Neither do I, honey, neither do I.
The sound of the jet engine closed in on its crescendo as Fenian let out her breath and squeezed the trigger. The rifle made a small pop as the 77-grain boat-tail hollow point ripped through the side of Dawuk’s head, painting the wall behind him red. Fenian dropped down and began to disassemble the rifle before his body stopped moving. She stowed it in her back pack and moved toward the back wall, when suddenly sirens began to wail and the whole area lit up with spotlights. Time to go she thought. Just then the crack of a bullet passed her head. Uh oh, a sniper on the roof of the mosque and I’m in the open, she realized
She turned and made a dash for the other side of the building, where her rope hung. As she reached for the rope, the 7.62 round smashed into her left shoulder blade, spinning her around. She fell to her back, gasping for breath, as she looked up at the starry clear Canadian night sky.
Chapter 31
GET UP GET UP GET UP, Fen
ian’s thoughts screamed in her head as she heard shouting in the distance. The heavy Kevlar jacket had stopped the bullet, but not the impact. Her left arm was momentarily numb. She grabbed the rope with her right hand, made a quick loop around her forearm and crawled over the side of the wall. She hung there for a moment then pushed off with her foot falling the last five feet to the dirt. She couldn’t go left or right, as the spotlights lit up the clearings on each side of the building, offering whoever was on the roof of the mosque a clear shot. She could hear activity coming from the parking lot, so she used the building as a shield by running directly away from it toward the factory.
The feeling in her arm returned along with serious pain in her shoulder blade. Two hundred yards away sat assorted factory equipment and some semi-truck-size rusted metal tanks. She figured she’d be open to the sniper for about five seconds from 300 yards, and she didn’t like the odds of making it. Then, like manna from heaven, the little white security truck appeared to her left. She waved at it frantically.
The truck skidded to a stop in front of her. As if in panic she ran around the back to the driver’s side door, screaming, “HELP ME! My crazy ex-husband is trying to kill me!” The guard, a thin gray-haired man, lifted his radio to his mouth. She opened the door and drew the .45. “Get over!” she growled, the barrel of her gun against his head. She scanned him for weapons, found none, put the truck in drive and punched the gas, heading for the back corner of the factory building. Immediately she heard automatic fire, and saw a half dozen men rounding the edge of the maintenance building. The truck took some small arms fire, the slugs making metallic thunking sounds.
She knew she needed to put distance between her and her pursuers. She heard another jet scream overhead and had an idea. Once out of sight of her pursuers she stopped, and got out. She turned to the guard and said, “Drive fast, drive far. If they catch you, they will kill you. Don’t stop until you see a Mountie, now GO GO GO!!”
She could see terror in the guard’s eyes. He slid back behind the wheel and peeled away. In the distance she heard car engines and squealing tires leaving the Mosque, but strangely no police sirens.
She had memorized the aerial map and knew that on the other side of the fence surrounding the backside of the factory was a clump of trees, a set of railroad tracks, another fence around another small factory, a four-lane highway and then the fence to the airport. Unfortunately, aerial maps couldn’t show her how tall those fences were. All were six footers with barbed wire at the top. From the pain in her back, she thought she may might have a fractured scapula. This was not going to be fun.
Cars blasted around the back of the factory, giving chase to the speeding truck. She hid until she heard no more vehicles before tackling the fence. She took off her jacket, and laid it over the barbed wired, and started to climb. She heard footsteps behind her. She let go of the fence, dropped and rolled, coming up with the Desert Eagle. The factory worker dropped his coffee and screamed, “NO!!”
They locked eyes for a moment, then she said, “Sorry, I’m running from someone that is trying to kill me.”
Trembling, he pointed 30 feet to her right and said, “There’s a gate.”
She nodded and said, “Thank you.” She retrieved her jacket. The worker took a key and unlocked the gate. She scanned the area to make sure he was alone, removed the full face stocking hat, gave her hair a toss, hit him with a smoldering look from the big green eyes, grabbed him and kissed him on the lips. She whispered in his ear, “I was never here,” and disappeared through the fence. If he did tell the tale, he would have to include the last part about the Bond-esque girl and the smoldering kiss. That would discredit his whole story.
She put her stocking hat and jacket back on and jogged to Airport Road. Traffic was light on the four lanes, but she couldn’t be sure who was in the cars. By now they would know the security guard was alone and no doubt would back-track. She found a wooded area close to the factory, knelt between some evergreens, pulled out her phone and called the pre-programed emergency number.
“Hello?” said the raspy voice.
“It’s Fenian. I need an extraction.”
Mona cleared her throat and said, “In the shits already, huh kid? Are you hurt?”
“Affirmative.”
Mona got serious and said, “Activate your beacon. I’m on my way. I’ll be driving a black Volvo with tinted windows.”
“Got it. Out,” said Fenian. She rotated her shoulder, winced and did something she rarely ever did; she swore under her breath, “Dammit!”
Twenty minutes later the black Volvo pulled into the factory parking lot. Fenian climbed in and said, “Safe house.”
Mona started driving and after a couple of glances said, “Where are you hurt?”
“Fenian stared out the windshield and said, “The back of my shoulder, my scapula. The Kevlar took a round.”
“Ouch, I know that hurts. Okay, let’s get you to a doctor.”
“No!” Fenian barked, “I’m not finished, and they may be watching the hospitals.”
“Yes, I know that. My husband’s a doctor. He’s opening the clinic where he works. We’ll go through the back door.”
Fenian took a deep breath, nodded and said, “Okay.” Then asked “Does he know who I am?”
Mona shook her head and said, “No, but he knows what you are.”
“Why are there no police?” Fenian asked. “This place should be crawling with cops.”
Mona shook her head and said, “Those people don’t call the police. They handle everything on their own.”
An hour later, Dr. Richards put the X-Rays up on the screen and said, “No broken bones, although I’m sure it feels that way.
Fenian nodded and said, “Shoot it up.”
Dr. Richards looked at Mona who nodded to him. “Okay, I can do that.”
A few minutes after the cortisone injection, she moved her shoulder around almost painlessly, nodded and starting putting her clothes back on. Fenian looked at the doctor and said, “I need a couple of syringes and a vile of that.”
Dr. Richards shook his head and said, “Well, I’m not sure I can…”
Fenian cut him off with a menacing stare and growled, “I wasn’t asking.”
Dr. Richards looked at Mona, who gave him a nod. Fenian put her shoulder holster and jacket back on, took the pain killer from the doctor, nodded to Mona and headed for the back door. Fenian grabbed the door handle, then stopped. She turned and walked back toward the doctor, put her hand on his arm, looked him in the eye and said, “Thank you. Thank you for taking care of me.”
He gave a little smile and said, “You’re welcome. Now take care of yourself.”
She nodded, turned and walked away.
Mona and Fenian were on the way to the safe house when Mona asked, “Do you want some help?”
Fenian felt pride creeping in, and pride was one of the things that got operatives killed. So instead of turning it down flatly, she gave it some objective thought and said, “Having you on the other end of the phone feels good. I’m supposed to use Nassar, so I guess I’ll stick with that plan, but just standby. I’m not beyond asking for help.”
“That’s smart and good to know. I’ll be there,” said Mona
Mona pulled into the alley and parked next to the safe house’s garage. Fenian decided to change to a new safe house, since she had made contact with the targets and had to abandon her car. She needed another one, but first she had to collect her stuff. She walked to the gate next to the garage and saw it was unlatched. She knew she had closed it. She drew her weapon and slowly made her way through the tiny back yard to the door. It was locked. She started around the side of the house when she noticed one of the windows open about two inches. Beneath the window was a wooden box about a foot high. She pushed the window up another foot and slowly stuck her head inside the spare bedroom. There was
that smell again, the smell of burning marijuana. She quietly climbed through the window, cleared the room and opened the door to the living room. That’s when she heard the giggling.
Creeping up to the backside of the couch, she could see the coffee table in front of it. On it was a little bag of weed, a small pipe, a lighter and a six-pack of Molson with two missing. Fenian almost laughed when she discovered what she had walked into. Peeking over the edge of the couch, she saw a girl of about fourteen and a boy, maybe fifteen, stripped to their underwear. The girl was busy losing the perfunctory, “No, no I can’t,” argument while the boy was giving his “Yes, yes you can,” rebuttal. How in the heck do I handle this? she thought. Then again, what would Amy do? Amy would teach a lesson.
She pulled the stocking cap back down over her face, grabbed a dining room chair, turned the chair so the back was in front of Fenian, slammed the chair to the floor and sat down. The girl screamed and the two sprung to their feet. Amy gazed at them while they grabbed for their clothes. “Stop!” she commanded with her best crazy eyes while tapping the .45 cal. on the back of the chair. They froze. She gave the boy an evil look and asked, “Who are you?”
“M-Martin,” he said, shaking.
She shifted her eyes to the girl and said, “And you are..?’
“Jennifer,” said the girl.
“Hmm, well M-Martin, where is your condom?”
“My what?” asked the boy.
“Am I speaking Chinese? Where is your condom?”
He shook his head and said, “I don’t have one.”
“You what? You don’t have one? Really?” She looked at the girl and said, “Jennifer, did you hear that?” Jennifer nodded her head.
“But I—” The boy started to speak.
“SHUT UP, MARTY!” Fenian yelled. “If I want something out of you, I’ll squeeze your head!” After staring him down Fenian shook her head and said, “Jennifer, let me show you something.” She took her left thumb and index finger and made a circle. Then she took the barrel of the gun, put it in the circle and simulated sex. “You see this? This is what he wants to do to you. Eventually he will orgasm, spraying the inside of your vagina with his sperm. Then do you know what happens?”