Targeted (FBI Heat)

by Marissa Garner

  “Damn it, Ben. Would you stop? This is me. We can talk.”

  “No, I really can’t.”

  “That bad, huh? Well, I probably can’t find out anything, but I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ben…uh…”

  “Yeah?”

  Another silence. He could feel her frowning.

  “Never mind. You behave while I’m gone,” she said, then disconnected.

  Ben pushed the odd conversation out of his mind and focused on the unanswered questions from the meeting with ASAIC Carter. Waiting was torture. His sense of impending bad news grew with every passing minute, his thoughts frequently drifting to the nightmarish images that had jumpstarted his heart during the night.

  Finally, the call came.

  “Carter wants us,” Rex said.

  “I’m on my way.”

  The two men didn’t talk as they walked through the building to the Counterterrorism leader’s office. Alan was leaning against the wall outside his door. He seemed surprised, and then embarrassed, when he saw Rex.

  “Sorry, old man,” Alan joked. “I didn’t make it clear that they only want to talk to Ben. Don’t bother asking why. They didn’t tell me.”

  Ben started to protest, but Rex tapped his shoulder and motioned him down the hallway. Once they were out of earshot, his boss leaned closer.

  “Don’t let this throw you. You can handle it. I don’t know who’ll be talking to you—just remember: they piss the same way you do. Play your cards close to your chest. You know what I’m talking about.” He arched his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, Boss. Thanks. I’ll be careful.”

  Rex nodded. “Good luck,” he said solemnly and walked away.

  When Ben turned back, Alan’s office door was closed. “Videoconference room,” he explained curtly and led the way down another corridor.

  Two technicians had the equipment and connection ready to go when the men marched into the room. The super-sized screen on the wall displayed an empty conference room with no identifying signs or emblems.

  “Where are we?” Ben asked the techs as he took a seat.

  They answered with blank stares.

  Alan paced for a minute before choosing a seat two chairs away.

  They waited.

  To keep his hands from clenching and unclenching, Ben stuffed them in his pockets. His right leg started to bounce. If I was wound any tighter, I’d need to hit something.

  Finally, ten—he counted twice to be sure—suits filed silently into the room on the screen. Holy shit! The group sat down at the large conference table, and the meeting began. The solemn-faced, middle-aged man on the far left spoke first.

  “Let’s get the introductions out of the way. Gentlemen, that’s FBI Assistant Special Agent in Charge Alan Carter on our left and Special Agent Ben Alfren on the right.” Heads nodded. “I’m John Gardner, Department of Homeland Security, Director of the Domestic Nuclear Detection Office.”

  A wrecking ball slammed into Ben’s gut.

  Gardner turned to the man seated next to him.

  “Bill Marshall, NSA.”

  They continued down the line.

  “Mark Fieldman, CIA.”

  “Tom Evans, FBI, Counterterrorism. Good to see you again, Alan.”

  “Kevin Rawlings, Homeland Security.”

  “Bob Miller, NJTTF.”

  “Rudy Stevens, NNSA.”

  “Steve Thompson, NEST.”

  “Carlos Sanchez, Customs and Border Protection.”

  “Charles Winslow.”

  Ben automatically filled in the blank for the last fellow: White House. There were enough letters in the introductions to fill a bowl with alphabet soup, but it was some of the N’s that worried him. Nuclear. Damn, Marissa, what have you gotten yourself into?

  Gardner moved on. “Let me start by summarizing. I understand that a civilian named Ian Boyd…”

  We didn’t tell Alan her boyfriend’s name, Ben recalled instantly. Someone had already done some checking and probably found Ian’s call to Marissa’s boss.

  “…has contacted SA Alfren about a rumor of an undercover operation in San Diego involving al-Qaeda wiretaps. This civilian believes his former girlfriend, SA Marissa Panuska, is involved in the operation. Something Mr. Boyd said raised concerns about the op. Is that about it?”

  Alan slid his gaze over to Ben, who answered, “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear it. What the hell did he say?” Gardner asked.

  “She’s missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “She’s a week overdue, and there’s been no communication.”

  Gardner paused, disappointment darkening his expression. “Special Agent Alfren, do you consider that a reason for concern?”

  “Not normally, sir. However, based on my full conversation with Mr. Boyd, I do feel Agent Panuska’s behavior is…unusual. But if nothing’s wrong, tell me SA Panuska is safe, and I’ll communicate that one fact to him. Is she safe?”

  Gardner glanced down the line of suits. Most of the men did not make eye contact. The man in charge cleared his throat. “I understand that you were…are…very close to Panuska.”

  Ben tensed. “Is that in my personnel file?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, my personal relationship, past or present, with Panuska is irrelevant.”

  “We disagree.”

  “Sir?”

  “Is your concern personally motivated?” Gardner’s tone revealed his disappointment had turned to frustration.

  Ben glanced at Alan, who refused to look at him. Rex’s warning echoed in his ears. He chose his words carefully. “Because I know Marissa, her failure to communicate or return as scheduled raises significant questions in my mind. Having ten of you in this meeting tells me that my concerns are not without merit.” Ben kept his expression stoic.

  Gardner cleared his throat again. “Has she communicated with you in the past two weeks?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you have any other information relevant to this situation?” More frustration surfaced.

  No way in hell am I mentioning the nightmare. “No, sir. My boss and I didn’t tell ASAIC Carter that we had intel; we said we had questions. And…I didn’t ask for this meeting.” He didn’t much like how this conversation was going so to hell with worrying about insubordination.

  Gardner shook his head, resigned. “Fine. Thank you, Special Agent Alfren, for answering my questions.” He nodded at the nine other men, signaling the end of the meeting, and pushed his chair back from the table.

  “Mr. Gardner, you never answered my question,” Ben said pointedly.

  The man’s cold stare would have rattled most young agents, but Ben refused to be intimidated.

  “I know,” Gardner finally said, and the huge screen went dark.

  “Shit!”

  With only a nod to Alan, Ben stomped out of the room. Obviously, the op was in trouble. The question was how much. They were fishing for information from him. And Gardner hadn’t revealed a damn thing. Not intentionally, anyway.

  Rex was leaving his office when Ben approached. “That was quick. How’d it go?”

  “They’re not talking.”

  “That tells you something.”

  “Yeah. I can’t believe how many agencies—”

  “Stop.” Rex held up his hand. “Did they tell you not to talk?”

  “No. Besides, they didn’t say anything worth repeating.” Ben’s hands clenched into fists.

  “Okay, but remember I wasn’t invited to the party, so be careful what you say to me or anyone else.”

  “Look, Boss, I need your advice on this. Can we talk?”

  “Sure.” Rex checked his watch. “But I should’ve been out of here ten minutes ago. And regrettably, I’m tied up at the Federal building downtown for the rest of the day. You’re first in line tomorrow.” He patted Ben’s shoulder before hurrying away.

&
nbsp; Ben returned to his desk and pounded his fist repeatedly into his other palm. “Damn, damn, damn.” His cell phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket. He frowned at the screen before answering. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing good,” Staci began, but had to stop to catch her breath.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Crap, I’m sorry. I’m just a little spooked.”

  “Calm down and talk to me.”

  “Um, there’s something I didn’t tell you when we talked earlier.”

  Ben scowled. “But you’re going to tell me now, right?”

  “Right.” She drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Before lunch, I was waiting for the elevator with Jamila Zafar. She’s with Counterterrorism in San Diego. Do you know her?”

  “I know the name, not her.” He clearly recalled Carter mentioning Zafar to him and Rex earlier.

  “Okay, well, Jamila’s in DC working on…a special assignment. Anyway, when the elevator arrived, but before the doors opened, we overheard a comment from inside, something I’m sure no one was supposed to hear. But the guy sounded upset and was talking way too loud when he said, ‘Rawlings…crazy…find…radioactive material…agent…missing.’ Then the doors opened, and there stood the Secretary of Homeland Security and the Director of the CIA surrounded by a bunch of suits.” She paused for a breath. “I think they knew we’d heard what they said. I thought they might zap us with one of those memory-erasing things from Men in Black.”

  “Jesus, Staci, c’mon. I’m dyin’ here.” He feared the man named Rawlings on the videoconference call was the same person.

  “Okay, okay. There wasn’t a sound. They stared at us. We stared at them. My friend and I stood there in the hallway, frozen like idiots. One of the guys pressed the button, and they were gone.”

  “Shit,” Ben muttered.

  “Yeah. It just felt too weird. I figured there must be something big going on for those honchos to come here to meet with our Director. But I didn’t think too much about it until you asked me earlier if I’d heard any rumors about a covert op in San Diego. Then I wondered if there was a connection. I mean, fill in the blanks for the words I couldn’t hear, and there are lots of possible scenarios. All bad.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Anyway, I called a couple of old buddies who work in Counterterrorism at the Washington field office. They owe me a few favors. They blew me off until I dropped the name ‘Rawlings.’ Turns out, Kevin Rawlings is a big shot at Homeland Security with a reputation for being a shadows man. Definitely covert ops. My buddies were disgustingly tight-lipped, but they did confirm there’s a high-level op going down in San Diego. If that ties in with the elevator gossip, you’ve got a big problem out there.”

  Ben pondered a moment. “Unfortunately, I don’t know anything specific.”

  “Well, I…” Staci stopped, sighed.

  “You what?”

  She groaned. “Jamila’s special assignment is part of the same op. And she’s real worried about it. So worried, in fact, that it’s making her sick.” Staci paused and swore quietly.

  “Go on. I won’t breathe a word—”

  “You damn well better not. She…we could get—”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t. What did she tell you?”

  “I called her after getting the info from my buddies and…” Her words stalled again.

  “And…?”

  “Damn it. She confirmed that the Rawlings guy sent Marissa to San Diego and pulled Jamila back here. Now she’s totally freaking out because Marissa’s in trouble, and it should’ve been her.”

  This new confirmation of Marissa’s involvement hit him like a second punch in the gut. “Jesus Christ. And I’ve run into a dead end. No one’s talking.”

  “No surprise there.” She hesitated. “Oh God, Ben, do you think Marissa is the missing agent they were talking about in the elevator?”

  He pressed his eyes shut. “Yeah.”

  “Crap. I-I’m sorry. How’d you get wind of this anyway?”

  He rolled his head from side to side before opening his eyes. “Staci, I really appreciate your help, but the less you know, the safer you are. Like in plausible deniability. And you better keep your eavesdropping to yourself too.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Anything else I can do?”

  “Just keep your eyes and ears open. And thanks.”

  “Sure. You keep safe. I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Me neither.”

  Ben set the cell phone down in slow motion. Radioactive material. All those N’s. Domestic Nuclear Detection Office. National Nuclear Security Administration. Nuclear Emergency Support Team. Dirty bomb? Damn! His heart dropped to his gut. Marissa, where the hell are you?

  He sank into the chair and grabbed the computer mouse. A few clicks later, he typed “dirty bomb,” just as his desk phone rang. “Alfren.”

  “Special Agent Alfren, be available for a conference call at this number in ten minutes,” John Gardner said tightly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. And be alone.” The line went dead.

  * * *

  Waves of heat shimmered above the roadway as hundreds of vehicles waited to cross the border into the US. The long delay forced Ameen to shut off the air-conditioning in the truck to avoid overheating the engine. He wiped the sweat from his forehead as another hot breeze blew exhaust fumes through the open window and did nothing to cool his body or his frustration. And his frustration with Baheera was as hot as his body. She’s either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to return to that nest of vipers.

  His foul mood deepened as he surreptitiously surveilled the cell’s car from five vehicles back in the next lane. For the first time since she’d joined Samir’s group, Baheera sat in the front seat. What does that mean? Was she a prisoner being guarded by Masoud from the backseat? What explanation had she given for Samir and Omar’s disappearance? How had she explained her survival? Had the terrorists believed her or blamed her? How much danger was she in?

  He didn’t know what had transpired inside the house after the men arrived so his imagination created horrible scenarios. The memory of Samir’s knife above Baheera’s neck fueled those images. If he hadn’t fired at that exact moment…

  He shook his head to bury the idea and forced himself to think of something other than the dazzling woman with the heart of a lion.

  His thoughts first moved to the boxes of electronic components. An amazing variety of them. When Khaleel had taken the engineering job at Abdul-Jaleel, he’d explained that the company not only designed new electronic equipment but that the maquiladora also provided cheap labor to American companies for assembling anything from toasters to stereos.

  Ameen scratched his head. He couldn’t put a name to the parts he’d seen, but nothing looked like dismantled weapons. He was confident of that. And he’d learned enough about IEDs, improvised explosive devices, in Iraq and Afghanistan so that he could eliminate bomb components as well.

  So what in the hell did a terrorist cell want with a bunch of miscellaneous electrical parts? Khaleel might have an idea—if only he could ask him. If only he could talk to someone about the whole situation. But he couldn’t. Not even his uncle, because the old man was already too upset about the hateful, inciting rhetoric Samir’s group spewed to the other young men at the mosque. If Uncle Abdullah knew Ameen suspected the group was a sleeper terrorist cell, he’d probably have a heart attack or stroke. And Ameen already had too many sins on his conscience to add his kin’s death to the list.

  The line of vehicles shifted and inched forward a few feet. From the new angle, he had a better view of the back of Baheera’s head. Why isn’t she wearing the veil? He watched, mesmerized, as she lifted the weight of her wavy, ebony hair and massaged the back of her slender neck with her small hands. He pictured the obsidian eyes that had tugged at his, trying to pull him into their depths. Resistance had been difficult, but necessary, for him
to maintain control. Incredibly, through the whole ordeal, those amazing eyes had never shed a tear. Courage? Training?

  Her full lips were as enticing as her eyes. Not staring at them when she spoke was a challenge. What had those lips screamed a second before he’d pulled the trigger? Definitely not Arabic or English words. His Spanish was minimal, but the words hadn’t sounded like that language either. What had she cried out? Or for whom?

  He recalled the determination on her face when she’d retrieved Samir’s knife and stood ready to do battle with a stranger holding a gun. A knife against a gun—the odds hadn’t intimidated her. I first felt a connection with this fearless woman at that moment.

  What the hell had happened last night to make Samir and Omar try to kill her? For the two weeks she’d lived with the cell, she had appeared to be their compatriot. Closely watched, constantly escorted, but not a prisoner. He had despised the idea she might share their irrational hate, their ugly goals. Now, after the few hours he’d spent with her, he was convinced she didn’t and never had.

  That was the good news.

  The bad news was Baheera could be just another individual Muslim, like himself, trying to stop the cancer of terrorism from spreading within the Islamic community. Allah help her if she is.

  On the other hand, she might be part of a larger effort to chop off the vipers’ heads. For the past few months, someone besides him had been keeping an eye on the cell. He’d spotted them at the San Diego apartment, the Tijuana hideout, and the mosque.

  FBI? CIA? Homeland Security? Hopefully. Was Baheera working with them? Possibly.

  If so, why had they failed to help her last night?

  Chapter 9

  Ben stared at the phone. What the hell?

  Furiously, he clicked the computer mouse again and again, reading and cramming information about dirty bombs into his head. He needed to be prepared to ask intelligent questions that would gain him the most information. Assuming the asshole Gardner would answer them this time.

  Dirty bombs, as he already knew, was the common term applied to Radiological Dispersal Devices, or RDDs. These nasty creations weren’t nuclear bombs. Instead, they combined radioactive material with conventional explosives. A small amount of radioactive material was generally encased in a lead-shielded container, often referred to as a “pig.” The initial degree of death and destruction depended on the amount and type of regular explosive used. The immediate effect of the radioactive material would be mass panic and terror. The potential longer-term effects included cancer and widespread contamination. Many variables determined the ultimate impact of the radioactive event, including type and quantity of the material, force and location of the blast, weather conditions, and human response. Because the aftermath of a dirty bomb explosion could be the most destructive period, the devices were sometimes considered Weapons of Mass Disruption, not Destruction. A terrified population fit perfectly with the goals of terrorists.