Targeted (FBI Heat)

by Marissa Garner

  A car suddenly appeared at the end of the road. The driver gunned the engine and barreled nearer. Ameen grabbed the rifle. His finger rested on the trigger until the vehicle flew by and turned left into an alley.

  Fifteen minutes. Patience. Movement by a window. The scope zoomed in on Baheera and Juan. She pulled a bundle of bills from her purse and held them out to him. He grasped them, but she didn’t let go. Her face revealed the intensity of the conversation. Juan released the money and gestured angrily. Baheera smiled, spoke calmly, and pushed the money toward him. He snatched it from her hand, and she laughed. They shook hands, and she turned to leave.

  Juan’s arm shot forward and snaked around her waist. She spun around so fast that he didn’t have time to block the open palm that slapped his face. Leaving him holding his stinging cheek, Baheera marched out the door and climbed into her truck.

  Eighteen minutes. Ameen sighed with relief as the truck headed back the way it had come. The Mexican guards popped from their hiding places and joined Juan inside. A quick scan confirmed that the four agents had already disappeared. The white Explorer sped across the access road. He watched for the blue BMW. It didn’t show.

  Ameen couldn’t wait any longer; he had to beat Baheera to the Tijuana end of the tunnel. Because of her lack of familiarity with Tijuana, he had correctly surmised she would return to the San Ysidro border crossing even though the Otay Mesa border crossing was closer and less crowded. He would use Otay Mesa and easily gain at least a half hour on her.

  After repacking the guns and binoculars in the duffle bag, he crawled across the roof to the building maintenance ladder. Before he stood, he scanned the area. Not a soul in sight. He slipped his arms through the straps, slung the bag onto his back, and climbed down the ladder.

  His second foot had just touched the ground when he heard the car. He plastered himself against the wall as the Beemer cleared the corner and stopped less than ten feet from him. The driver lowered the window and saluted.

  Stunned for only a moment, Ameen returned the greeting.

  * * *

  When Marissa parked in front of the Tijuana hideout, the combination of nerves and an erratic air conditioner had left her sticky with sweat. As always, she surveyed the drug-infested neighborhood for signs of trouble, but only the depressing existence of the slum met her trained eyes. Her gaze roamed down the road to the abandoned building where she’d almost been beheaded only two nights ago. Despite the heat, a shiver raced across her skin.

  She drew a deep breath. Her second meeting with Juan—at the Tijuana end of the tunnel—had completed the information she needed about the two entrances. She now knew how the tunnel was constructed, how many gang members guarded it, and how accessible it was for an assault. And the slap in Otay Mesa must’ve communicated a clear message because Juan hadn’t hit on her again.

  She yanked her attention back to the hideout.

  No other vehicles were parked nearby, which meant Khaleel and Nadeem had not yet arrived to work on assembling the bomb. Hadn’t she ordered them to come earlier? Irritation sparked and flared with other emotions, but several calming breaths extinguished the emotional bonfire. Now was not the time for emotions that could distract her or influence her decisions.

  She checked her watch: 8:00 p.m. If all went according to the plan she was devising, the op and her personal hell would be over before this time tomorrow night. If she could just survive the next twenty-four hours…

  The front door of the dilapidated house opened a crack, and Fateen’s anxious eyes peered out. Recognition transformed anxiety into relief and false bravado. He swung the door wide and marched out to the truck, awkwardly carrying the AK-47 at his side.

  “Allahu Akbar. We are glad to see you, Baheera. No one has come to relieve us. And the engineers are not here either.”

  As if on cue, a car appeared in a cloud of dust at the end of the road and came to a stop behind her truck. Their faces and heads covered with scarves, Khaleel and Nadeem hurried past without speaking to her or Fateen.

  “You are late,” she called before they entered the house.

  Neither responded.

  Fateen glared after them. “I do not like the engineers. They are disrespectful. They do not treat us as brothers.”

  “You’re right. And I don’t trust them. Watch them closely. Especially Khaleel, the tall one.”

  By the time she and Fateen reached the back room, the two engineers had retrieved the bomb components from the locked cabinet and spread them on a plastic tarp. The heat in the closed-up house was stifling, and sweat already darkened their shirts.

  Marissa greeted Masoud and dropped onto one of the metal folding chairs. The two minions moved closer to the back door, huddling and whispering.

  Khaleel and Nadeem sat on the tarp, heads together over the diagrams. Wearing latex gloves, they handled each piece with an almost reverent awe. They worked slowly, double-checking each action against the detailed instructions. Their conversation was sparse and in Spanish.

  Tension in the room grew minute by minute. A spring coiled tighter and tighter inside Marissa’s gut. Seeing the bomb take shape created an unnerving reality. Murder and mayhem born of metal pieces.

  After an intense hour, the engineers took a break. It was time for Marissa to act.

  “Good job, brothers,” she said. “Tell me of your progress.” Her eyes lit on Khaleel’s and narrowed.

  “It is going well. Thank Allah, the Mexicans did not steal or damage any of the parts. The diagram and instructions are excellent. Every piece is pictured, and every step explained. We must move carefully, though, and there is still much to assemble,” Khaleel explained, his tone condescending.

  “This is good. Praise Allah, for you must finish tonight.”

  “What? Impossible. You do not understand. We cannot rush this. Besides, I did not bring the explosive, and we don’t have the radioactive material yet.” He jumped up from the tarp and approached her, his demeanor menacing. “I think we should wait until we hear from Husaam again.” He stopped barely a foot away and glared at her. “To be sure there is not a problem with our…original plan.”

  “And how is Husaam to contact us without the sat phone?” Marissa asked sweetly, covering her disgust with a smile. “Losing Samir and Omar was hard for all of us, Khaleel, but we must stay the course with our mission. Samir kept many secrets. If I share them with you, with all of you, will you find the strength to finish the bomb tonight?” Her eyes refused to release his.

  “That is true. Samir was too secretive. We have a right to know the whole plan.”

  As she suspected, Khaleel didn’t like not being in control. He had wanted the position of leader.

  “All right. Let us talk. Masoud, bring us bottles of water from the supplies you bought.” She wiped the sweat from her hairline. “It’s so hot. Khaleel and Nadeem, do you not want to remove your scarves in this heat?”

  “I am fine,” Khaleel insisted.

  “Brother, why are you afraid for us to know you?” she taunted him.

  Khaleel’s gaze darted to Fateen’s and Masoud’s suspicious faces. He swallowed hard, obviously resenting the game she was playing. “You will be gone, but I will remain in Tijuana, waiting to serve Allah again. It is better for me to be careful. My wife does not even know of my…activities.”

  I’m sure Safiya would be appalled if she did. Marissa snickered as if she didn’t believe him but resisted humiliating him further. Her main purpose was to stoke the suspicions of the other men, and when she glanced at them, she knew she’d accomplished her goal.

  She accepted the water from Masoud and drank slowly, reviving her dwindling energy and organizing her thoughts. The men sat on the ground in front of her. Khaleel glared at her defiantly, but Nadeem focused on the floor.

  “You must finish the bomb assembly tonight because the doctor will deliver Allah’s gift from my womb tomorrow morning.” She loved their shocked expressions. “Yes, brothers, I have carried the r
adioactive material as I would a baby. At the Mission Valley Rio Hotel, the doctor will extract the tube from my body, and our brothers will bring it here immediately. The bomb must be completed and ready for that last step.” Marissa turned an icy gaze on Khaleel. “That means you must have the C-4 installed no later than tomorrow morning. It will take several hours for me to recover, but I will spend the time praying to Allah and preparing to die. Tomorrow afternoon, we will use the tunnel of a drug gang to carry the bomb across the border. Then I will deliver Allah’s gift to the American infidels at Petco Park.”

  “Allahu Akbar,” Nadeem whispered, raising his eyes. They glistened with emotion. He turned on Khaleel and said bitterly, “Do you not respect Baheera’s sacrifice?” His fingers found the edge of his scarf, slowly unwound it, and threw it across the room. “I am humbled to be in her presence.”

  Marissa leaned forward. She tried unsuccessfully to produce tears so had to settle for sounding moved. “Thank you, Nadeem. You are a true brother.” She turned to Fateen. “Did Samir share the plans for the rest of you?”

  “Yes, Baheera. Yasir is to hide the bomb in the secret space he constructed inside the delivery truck to get it inside the ballpark. After you meet him to accept the bomb, he will leave and drive immediately to the Tijuana airport. The rest of us will be at the airport already. Samir told us that we would each receive $5,000 cash for our trips. We are to travel separately to different destinations, but meet at the Mexico City airport in a week to fly to London and then to Syria where Husaam waits to reward us. Is this what Samir told you?”

  She lowered her eyes and wrung her hands. “Husaam and Samir told me nothing of the escape plans. I did not need to know because I will be dead.”

  Nadeem scooted closer and looked up into her face. “Baheera, you honor us as our sister. We should all escort you on your journey to the ballpark. Do not fear for us. There will be plenty of time to get back across the border.”

  “Thank you, Nadeem. Allah will smile on you, I’m sure.” She sighed. “But it will not be possible for all of you to come to Petco Park.” She paused for effect. “But if you wish to honor me and give me strength, I have an idea.”

  “Anything, Baheera.”

  “All of you can escort me through the tunnel. In the sunshine on the infidels’ soil, we will praise Allah one last time together. And then everyone, except Yasir and me, will come back through the tunnel and return to the hideout before going to the airport.” Her eyes watered convincingly this time. Not from their support but for the end of her ordeal.

  “I would be honored to walk with you, sister.”

  “The presence of all my brothers will light my way. I will also feel safer in case the Mexican drug gang decides to renege on our deal and steal the bomb from me.”

  “We will not allow any harm to come to you,” Nadeem said.

  She cringed inside at the irony. They would protect her from the Mexicans so she could blow herself to smithereens to kill innocent Americans.

  “We will finish the bomb tonight and come early tomorrow to install the C-4. And I, too, will stay to help you through the tunnel,” Khaleel said, unexpectedly supportive.

  “Allah will bless you all. I must go now so I can talk with our brothers at the apartment before I sleep.”

  She rose wearily from the chair. Her million-pound mission weighed on her shoulders.

  In the dark, the men escorted her to the truck. She glared at them in the rearview mirror as she drove away.

  * * *

  Ameen watched three of the men duck back into the house as soon as Baheera’s truck was out of sight. But the tall man wearing the scarf darted to the rear of the house and stared down the alley. He cocked his head as one engine and then another started and quickly faded into the distance. Something about the guy gnawed at Ameen’s memory.

  If the man had looked up, he might have spotted the shooter on the roof of the house across the alley or the one on the roof across the street in front. But he didn’t. Only Ameen saw them.

  The terrorist muttered curses in Arabic as he trudged past the broken window of the building next door where Ameen hid. The man’s voice sounded familiar. Ameen stiffened. No, it can’t be. Not Khaleel. Not my friend.

  Chapter 17

  Rawlings read the analysis for the third time. The real doctor was another thorn in his side, another wild card in Husaam’s hand.

  The report mirrored his initial reaction, which wasn’t comforting. A doctor capable of performing a medical procedure similar to an abortion was needed to extract the tube. Husaam and his wife may have kept the doctor in the dark, but when he discovered a radioactive tube instead of a fetus, there would’ve been some explaining to do. Or, perhaps, Baheera planned to kill the doctor after he’d served his purpose. But if he knew his role, he was no less a terrorist than the others. And he represented a significant risk, waiting in the shadows, somewhere.

  Did Dr. Terrorist have a way to contact the cell and inquire why Baheera had never shown up for the procedure as planned? Such an inquiry would devastate the op and put Panuska’s life in even greater jeopardy. In the Sunday night conversation between Panuska and Husaam, he seemed to indicate that Baheera was supposed to contact the doctor. Rawlings knew neither of the Baheeras had done that. And the wiretaps hadn’t detected a call between Husaam and a doctor either. If there’d been a line of communication between them, Husaam would certainly have used it to contact the cell once the sat phone disappeared. Weighing those factors and others, the assessment concluded there was a high probability that the doctor had no means of contacting Husaam or the other terrorists.

  Unfortunately, high probability wasn’t one hundred percent certainty.

  The report included a recommendation for the research and surveillance of every Arab and/or Muslim physician in San Diego County. Fifty such doctors had been identified. Of course, the damn doctor could be female, French, and Catholic, for all he knew, but better to start with a smaller pool of candidates. Rawlings twisted his lips and grunted. Only fifty. Good odds. He nodded silently. They would find him. Not today, probably not tomorrow. Maybe not for a week or a month. But they would get the bastard.

  He could only hope the wild card stayed hidden until the op was over.

  * * *

  Marissa sat in a daze as she waited to pass through the San Ysidro border crossing. Stress, exhaustion, and danger pushed her closer to the edge. Fear had bubbled up at the sight of the actual bomb. The temptation to yank the hidden Bureau phone from her purse and cry “Bring me in,” grew stronger with each passing minute.

  Finally, she pulled the truck to the front of the line and grimaced at the prospect of spending another half hour undergoing the additional inspection. She sighed and handed her passport to the female CBP officer.

  The woman compared the picture to Marissa’s face for a long time. “Your name, please.”

  “Baheera Abbas.”

  The agent smiled. “Are you traveling alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any items to declare?”

  “No.”

  “Are you all right?”

  It was not a normal, border-security question, and it caught Marissa by surprise. She glanced around for signs of trouble. “Yes.”

  The officer pressed the passport into her hand and held it there firmly. She waited for Marissa’s eyes to meet hers. When they did, she whispered, “God bless you and thank you.”

  Marissa’s voice disappeared. She blinked rapidly and nodded.

  Instead of directing her to the area for a secondary search, the woman motioned for her to proceed across the border.

  While she drove north on I-5, her tears would not be denied. Impatiently, she brushed them from her cheeks. She was so busy berating herself for being emotional that she didn’t notice the car keeping pace on her left. Only when it sped ahead and cut in front of her did she recognize the BMW. She released a tiny sob and smiled through her tears.

  Ben signaled
twice with his right blinker and shot off the next freeway exit with her close behind. No one followed them, not even her tail. He led her along several winding streets. She didn’t know or care where he was taking her.

  He turned into the parking lot of a Catholic church. Marissa circled the block until he disappeared inside. Then she parked and followed. When she opened the door, she stared for a moment at the large crucifix at the front of the church.

  Marissa spotted Ben in the prayer candle alcove. She rushed into his arms and buried her face against his neck. Fresh tears. Tears of relief, understanding, and thankfulness. He let her cry in the peaceful glow of the candles.

  * * *

  From their three years together, Ben knew Marissa was strong, but she looked so fragile, so vulnerable. He gulped back his emotions. She needed his strength, not his sensitivity.

  After several minutes, Marissa’s sobs quieted. She raised her head from his shoulder, and their eyes connected. Their lips met in an awkward, chaste kiss, a sign they were still learning the parameters of their only-friends relationship.

  Eventually, she simply rested against him. “Miláčku,” she whispered, “I am scared.”

  “I know, Gypsy,” he said, using his nickname for her. “It must be terrifying to live with terrorists.”

  “Yes. The hate and the evil… I’m afraid they’re poisoning my soul.”

  He grasped her hand and led her to the rear pew. They huddled together in the deserted church.

  Ben squeezed both her hands in his, but not nearly as tight as the vise squeezing his gut. “Gypsy, I want you to come in.”

  Her eyes searched his. “You don’t think I can finish this?”

  “Don’t take it that way. I think you have finished. We got the pig. We can grab the bomb and the entire cell at the apartment and the hideout. You did a fantastic job, but you’re done.”

  “They want the C-4.”