Marissa shook her head, shook away the fear, shook off the premonition. She was through waiting. The electricity of adrenaline surged through her. She would finish the op even if it killed her.
She grasped the handrail and descended into the cement-lined shaft. Eight pairs of eyes met hers at the bottom.
The concrete-reinforced tunnel seemed to vibrate with the roar of the generators and the whirring of the fans. A string of small electric lights along the ceiling cast eerie shadows everywhere. Jagged wooden pillars jutted from the walls, but the floor was relatively smooth and flat. When she had inspected the tunnel previously, Juan had described it as seven feet high, five feet wide, and thousands of feet long. As she gazed down the passageway, Marissa knew it would be the longest walk of her life.
Yasir stepped closer, and she recoiled. He looked at her sympathetically. “Are you ready, Baheera?”
“Yes.”
Instead of handing it to her, the men parted so she could retrieve the bomb from the dumbwaiter platform. Cowards. Afraid to even touch it. She struggled to keep the disdain from her expression as she marched forward and lifted the briefcase. Her eyes flicked to an open crate of handguns. The drug lord kept his men well-armed. They had enough firepower in the tunnel to fight a small war. Silently, Marissa prayed nobody started one today, and then she nodded to Juan.
“Let’s go,” he ordered.
He pointed to one of his men to lead and shoved Khaleel up next in line.
Good.
With a jerk of his head, Juan signaled the other Mexican back to the rear of the group.
Not good.
After grinning at Marissa, he moved menacingly close behind Khaleel.
Good.
Fateen, Saleem, Rashad, and Yasir shuffled into line. Marissa watched until they were several paces ahead.
Their footsteps echoed through the tunnel. At times, she couldn’t distinguish the pounding heartbeat in her ears from the sound of marching feet. The pace was maddeningly slow and deliberate, while she longed to sprint to freedom.
No one spoke. The damp, heavy air made breathing difficult. Her brain screamed, How much farther? When will it end? How will it end? The premonition.
They had been walking about ten minutes when Marissa heard loud, angry voices coming from the head of the line. She strained to see what was happening. Her free hand clutched the strap of the AK-47 hanging on her shoulder.
Suddenly, Khaleel and Juan stormed back toward her, shoving the four terrorists immediately ahead of her against the sides of the tunnel. Not one voiced a complaint. The Mexican aimed his rifle at Khaleel while they yelled at each other just a few feet in front of Marissa.
“What do you want me to do with the bastard?” Juan asked.
“What’s going on?” Marissa demanded.
“Let me go back,” Khaleel shouted. “I am scared. I cannot breathe down here. The walls are closing in. Do you not see?” He collapsed at her feet, crying.
“You insisted on coming,” she reminded him sharply.
“I know, I know.” He pounded his fists against his scarf-covered head. “I thought I could do this. I wanted to do it to please Allah. But I am a coward, not brave like you, Baheera.” Forgetting proper Muslim etiquette in his frenzy, he wrapped his arms around her legs. An icy shudder traveled through her. “Please, please, let me go back. I will wait with the two guards. I cannot stay down here. I cannot breathe.”
Juan shifted his rifle. “Let me shoot him.”
The other terrorists gasped.
Marissa’s mind raced. She didn’t believe Khaleel’s claustrophobia act for a minute. But he was scheming something. What was his plan? He obviously suspected she wasn’t going to detonate the bomb herself, so he had planted the cell phone detonator so he could carry out the plot without her cooperation. But wouldn’t he wait until she was at the ballpark? Why would he plan to detonate it in the tunnel or an almost-deserted industrial park?
Her breath caught as an unexpected explanation surfaced. Maybe Khaleel did not want the plot carried out as planned. Was there the slightest possibility he disagreed with it and was trying to minimize the casualties?
That didn’t make sense. Khaleel was the most hate-filled of them all. He’d probably killed Nadeem because his fellow engineer had discovered his ugly intentions.
And Khaleel’s hate for her was also obvious. But he thought she was Husaam’s wife, the deliverer of Allah’s gift, and the suicide bomber. If he opposed the terrorist plot, of course he would hate her. Had she misinterpreted something? Was he actually not a terrorist? Was that why he was Ameen’s friend? No, no, that didn’t make sense either, couldn’t possibly be true. Ameen would’ve told her that Khaleel had infiltrated the cell. Wouldn’t he?
The possibilities spun like a tornado in her head. She couldn’t follow a line of logical thought; she couldn’t determine the truth. Were exhaustion, stress, and fear taking their toll? Was her training abandoning her? Was she making a critical mistake?
Marissa shoved her fingers through her hair. All eyes were on her. She had to be strong. She couldn’t show weakness in front of these men. Think, think!
Whether Khaleel’s intentions were to carry out the plot, or conversely, to thwart the plot, he had devised a way to take control. But she had to control the bomb, not him.
Fortunately, neither cell phone would work in the tunnel. Khaleel couldn’t place the call, and the bomb couldn’t receive it. Since more than ten minutes had passed after the group started walking, Rawlings’s agents had probably already secured the Mexican end of the tunnel. Or would soon. Traversing the remaining distance underground would take another twenty minutes. If she let Khaleel go back, he would be in custody in Tijuana by the time she emerged from the US end with the bomb. He’d never have the chance to use his cell phone.
Or would he? She hadn’t been able to warn her handler about Khaleel’s remote detonation alterations, so the agents might not realize the significance in time to stop him from pushing a few buttons to make the disastrous call. Even worse, what if he somehow avoided immediate capture?
Bottom line? She had no choice but to expose her knowledge of his ability to remotely detonate the bomb.
Juan pushed Khaleel’s head to the ground with his rifle. The man whimpered in the dirt. “Come on, bitch, let me do it,” he spat, growing more agitated by the second.
The situation threatened to spiral out of control. She touched Juan’s shoulder and drew his eyes away from Khaleel. “No, Juan. My brothers will deal with the coward later. Take his gun and cell phone, and let him go back.”
While Juan yanked Khaleel to his feet and snatched the gun from the sobbing man’s waistband, Marissa turned to the four shocked terrorists. Their stricken faces strengthened her resolve.
“Khaleel wants to control the bomb. He has wired it so he can detonate it with a phone call. I suspect Nadeem tried to stop him, and that’s why Khaleel killed him.”
Bewilderment replaced shock on the men’s faces.
“But Nadeem drove away,” Yasir mumbled. “His car is gone.”
“Nadeem is probably still in the car. In the trunk. Dead.” Marissa emphasized the last word. “Did you not notice the blood under Khaleel’s fingernails and on his right shoe?”
“Where’s the goddamn cell phone?” Juan bellowed.
She whirled around in time to see him punch the terrorist in the gut. Khaleel groaned and collapsed to his knees.
Juan turned to her. “No cell phone. I checked. Twice. I did find this.” He held up a bloody knife.
She nodded to the other terrorists. “See? The weapon he used to murder Nadeem.”
They cursed Khaleel in Arabic.
“Pat him down again,” she said to Juan.
The words sparked a flash of suspicion in his eyes. “I did.”
“Again, please, Juan.”
He jerked the whimpering man back to his feet. They all watched as Juan ripped open Khaleel’s shirt and spun him around, slapping at his torso as
though the phone could be hidden under his skin. He smacked all over the scarf covering his head with far more force than necessary. “Drop your pants!” With trembling hands, Khaleel obeyed. Juan attacked his legs and groin but came up empty-handed. “See. Nothing,” he growled at Marissa.
“His shoes.”
Khaleel didn’t wait to be told. Cringing, he bent down and removed both shoes.
Juan picked them up, shook them, and then peered inside before dropping them to the ground in disgust. “Nothing.”
Marissa could feel the suspicion and distrust shifting toward her. She swallowed hard. She needed to discredit Khaleel and get rid of him. “Allahu Akbar. The traitor has lost his phone,” she said prayerfully as she set the bomb down and squatted beside it.
Deliberately, her obsidian eyes captivated each man until she had drawn all of them to her. Still looking from face to face, she unlatched the briefcase and gradually opened the lid. When she dropped her gaze, all eyes instantly followed to the clearly visible cell phone duct-taped inside.
Her proof was met with gasps and curses.
Marissa sprang to her feet, pushed Juan aside, and stomped in front of Khaleel. “How dare you challenge Allah’s will? I wish I could personally deliver your head to Husaam, but my brothers will have to deal with you after I am dead!” She spat in his face. “Juan, have one of your men escort this traitor back to the Tijuana end.”
When he didn’t respond, she turned to find him glaring at her. Realizing she’d usurped his authority, she rephrased her request. “Excuse me, Juan. You are in charge here. Please, I need your help to be sure Khaleel doesn’t escape.”
Juan sneered. “The bastard ain’t going anywhere. My men have orders that no one is to enter or leave the warehouse until I return.”
“But can’t one take him—”
“No,” he barked. “These two stay with me. Send one of yours.”
If she did, it meant another terrorist would avoid arrest in the US and have the advantage of the Mexican extradition hassle on his side. No, she didn’t want to lose another one. Besides, Khaleel would be met immediately by two drug goons or US agents. Either way, he lost.
Frustrated, but unwilling to push her luck with Juan, Marissa conceded meekly. “I accept the wisdom of your decision. I trust Pedro to deal with him.” She turned to Khaleel and slapped him hard across the face. “Go, coward. Run away from Allah’s work.”
Khaleel didn’t hesitate. He pulled up his pants and stumbled away as fast as he could toward the Tijuana end. Fateen grabbed his shoes and threw them at him, a common Arab insult.
The whole group watched until Khaleel disappeared from view. The remaining terrorists appeared so unnerved they looked ready to bolt also. The Mexicans fidgeted, uneasy about the strange turn of events. And Juan studied Marissa through narrowed eyes while she latched and lifted the briefcase.
Facing him, she smiled and whispered, “Gracias, Juan, for your help and for honoring my wishes.” Then, turning to the terrorists, she spoke softly, calmly. “Come, brothers. Let us finish Allah’s work.”
She stood, pensively staring at the floor, until the others remembered how to move their feet and started forward.
Uncertainty gnawed at her confidence. Where was Khaleel’s cell phone? Had he left it in the car or at the hideout to use later when Baheera would be at the ballpark? Her head jerked up. Maybe Nadeem wasn’t dead. Maybe the blood on Khaleel’s knife wasn’t his. Maybe he was a player in this deception with Khaleel. Perhaps Nadeem was hiding, waiting for some prearranged signal from his partner before calling the bomb. Or if he did not hear from his partner, would he remotely detonate the bomb?
Too many possibilities. Too many scenarios.
Marissa peered down at the briefcase, the sight filling her heart with dread. Surely, Rawlings would have someone from a bomb squad at the US end. If not, Marissa would attempt to disconnect the cell phone herself. She just hoped it didn’t come to that.
After a last, cautious look back down the tunnel, she fell in behind the others.
Chapter 25
Khaleel didn’t stop running until he’d almost reached the foot of the ladder. Trembling, he collapsed on the floor and listened for the two Mexican guards in the building overhead. He heard several voices, but they sounded far away, more like people shouting in the street rather than the guards inside. Creeping closer, he peeked up the shaft. No one stared down at him.
His body shook with a violent shudder. He had expected Juan to put a bullet in his back as he ran away from the group, but the drug goon hadn’t even fired at him. What a fool Baheera was. Weak, like all women. She should have let Juan kill him. Baheera will regret her stupid, cowardly decision.
Knowing he could only rest a minute, Khaleel gulped air into his burning lungs. He hadn’t planned to come all the way back here, but when the damn Mexican confiscated his gun and knife, he had no choice.
Despite the tunnel’s natural coolness, sweat coated Khaleel’s body. One hand wiped the moisture from his eyes while the other tugged at his scarf. As he unwrapped it, the wads of toilet paper stuffed on top of his head fell to the floor. After drying his face and neck, he tossed the scarf aside. The duct tape held tight to his hair as his fingers worked frantically to loosen his cell phone. Frustrated and worried about the passing time, he finally clutched the phone and yanked it free. Groaning and grimacing, he stripped off the tape and stuffed the phone into his pants pocket.
His heart hammering and his stomach roiling, Khaleel stood and zipped up his pants.
He selected two handguns from the crate by the ladder and confirmed they were loaded. After shoving his wet hair from his forehead, he took off back through the tunnel toward the US end at full speed.
* * *
Adrenaline rushed through Ben’s veins with such force that his pulse pounded in his ears like a timpani drum. The drumbeat threatened to drown out the critical communications coming through his earpiece. As he struggled to hear and assimilate the words, his gaze darted around the Otay Mesa site, watching for any movement, any change.
When the team first arrived, they’d disposed of the two Mexican guards. Then they’d evacuated and barricaded the sparsely occupied industrial park. Now the area was eerily quiet.
Earlier, Ben had held his breath when the report came in from the Tijuana hideout. After Marissa left with five terrorists, the JTTF agents had staged an efficient assault. No injuries or fatalities. Not one shot fired. Two terrorists had been apprehended and were being transferred into the custody of the Mexican authorities to be extradited at a later date.
Two captured, five with Marissa. Wasn’t there supposed to be a total of eight terrorists: the remaining six from San Diego and the two engineers from Tijuana? At the completion of the report, Ben had voiced his question, but no one had an answer.
One terrorist was definitely unaccounted for.
Ben exhaled loudly and frowned. He swiped at the sweat running from his temples and glanced at his watch. Only a minute had passed since he’d last checked. Goddammit, time was practically standing still. More than an hour—or was it an eon?—had passed since he helped take down the two Mexicans guarding the building. Both had put up a fight and been wounded, but the ambulance was long gone. Thankfully, no good guys had been injured.
Ben crouched behind three empty oil drums at the front right corner of the building. Through the crack between the drums and corner, he peered across the entrance. He had volunteered to be one of the two agents assigned to drop in behind the terrorists once they exited. Wahid was his counterpart, hiding behind a huge metal dumpster at the opposite corner.
If Marissa was successful in getting the Mexicans and terrorists outside, while she protected the bomb inside, his job would be to prevent any of the bad guys from reentering. But if Marissa came out in the midst of the group, the risk factor increased exponentially. He would have to do whatever was necessary to safely extricate her and the bomb from their clutches. She would be working towa
rd the same goal so Ben hoped their training, intuition, and intimate knowledge of each other would meld their individual actions.
Words in his ear yanked Ben’s attention to the latest report. The Tijuana end of the tunnel had been secured. He absorbed the details. Five Mexican drug gang members had met Marissa and the five terrorists when they arrived. Everyone was armed. Shit.
The agents had listened and waited until they heard the group descend into the tunnel. Then two Mexican guards had been captured in less than ten minutes. A subsequent search uncovered no additional occupants. The guards were now in the hands of the local authorities.
Simple math revealed Marissa was in the tunnel with eight armed men: five terrorists and three drug goons. Any one of them would kill her in a nanosecond if they discovered she was a Fed.
* * *
Marissa could tell they were nearing the end of the tunnel. The air smelled fresher and felt warmer. They had been walking twenty minutes since the scene with Khaleel, and Juan had slowed the pace again, probably misinterpreting her lagging behind as fatigue. The guard who had been at the rear moved ahead of her when she leaned against the wall for a few moments.
How many times had she checked back over her shoulder? From the front of the line, Juan had done the same thing numerous times, although he often stared at her, not past her. Once, about five minutes ago, she swore she’d heard running footsteps and had spun around so fast she’d lost her footing and stumbled. But there was nothing in the tunnel behind her except shadows.
She glanced at her watch again. Surely, the agents would have secured the Mexican end of the tunnel by now, which would mean Khaleel was in custody. Surely.
Voices up ahead grabbed her attention. She was so far back that she couldn’t distinguish the individual men in the dim lighting. As she watched, though, someone disappeared through a hole in the ceiling. She slowed her steps even more.
“Baheera, come on. We’re going up,” Yasir called.
“Go ahead without me. I twisted my ankle, so I must walk very carefully. Wait for me outside in the sunshine where we will pray.” She had to get them all outside.
Targeted (FBI Heat) Page 25