The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  He reached the service road and moments later turned onto Gaziantep Airport Way. He accelerated until he hit the D850 highway, and then moderated his speed, matching the flow of the other traffic.

  White and blue Hyundai Accent police cruisers suddenly approached in the opposite lane, lights flashing, sirens blaring.

  Ethan tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He prepared to floor the accelerator.

  But the cruisers raced by, headed toward the airport.

  Ethan slumped ever so slightly. He watched the police vehicles recede in the rearview mirror. He caught his reflection. Clean-shaven. Closely-cropped hair. Moderately bronzed skin. Casual white T-shirt. Black blazer. Just an average Turk returning from business abroad.

  When he reached Gaziantep proper, he stopped in a parking lot near the stadium and switched to a more inconspicuous Honda Civic. He left the sniper rifle in the trunk of the armored Audi.

  He grabbed the throwaway cellphone situated on the dash of the Civic, navigated to the "recent calls" menu, and dialed the only number in the list.

  The line connected.

  "It's done," he said, and hung up.

  He tossed the phone into the open window of the Audi and drove off.

  Ethan left behind the streets of Gaziantep for the pistachio farms that clung to life on the dry steppe outside the city. The plan was to drive to Istanbul, where he would spend a week browsing the local souks and sampling the cuisine. Then he would depart for his next assignment, whatever that might be.

  He touched the thick, ugly scab above his eye. He'd had the stitches removed yesterday. The scar from the Russian's handiwork would probably be fairly prominent. Not that Ethan cared. Well, maybe a little.

  He activated the car radio and tuned to a station playing some Turkish pop song. Though he didn't understand the words, the track was kind of catchy. He cranked the volume way up, drowning out the incessant ringing in his ears. The tinnitus had abated somewhat since the airstrike, but it hadn't gone away entirely. Probably never would, no matter how many specialists he saw. He already had a baseline level of tinnitus from his previous deployments, so it wasn't something entirely new to him. The stronger ringing was just something he'd have to get used to.

  Six hours later he topped up the Civic at a roadside gas station near the town of Aksaray, halfway to Istanbul. He snacked on a simit, the Turkish equivalent of a bagel. The place also had a pay-as-you go Internet kiosk, and after he connected a certain USB stick to the computer, he checked the draft folders of a few email addresses he monitored.

  He smiled wanly when he saw a message from Alzena waiting in one of them. He clicked the blank subject. Inside, the text proved unencrypted—a single sentence that required no answer on his part.

  Fight where you are needed.

  TERMINAL PHASE

  ETHAN GALAAL BOOK THREE

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © Isaac Hooke 2015

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  www.IsaacHooke.com

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9947427-2-8

  ISBN-10: 0-9947427-2-X

  Cover design by Isaac Hooke

  Stock images © flysnow / Fotolia; Aaron Amat / Shutterstock

  PROLOGUE

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  Two Years Ago

  BRETTA THRUMMED her gloved fingers impatiently on the mahogany railing.

  "It's him," she said into the microphone hidden beneath the lower portion of her hijab. "It has to be. Let the team move in."

  "Hold," Sam said over the earbuds.

  The auctioneer struck the gavel. "Sold for one hundred thousand euros."

  Bretta had been working on the operation for twelve months. A terrorist financier, calling himself Al Sifr—The Zero in Arabic—had posted to a jihadist forum on the Dark Web, seeking individuals who could help him convert cash to diamonds. Bretta had responded under the alias Umm Hadara, promising him all the conflict diamonds he could dream of. Her only condition was that she meet him in-person, face-to-face.

  After several false starts, and a no-show in Estonia, finally they agreed to meet at an art auction in Dubai. He told Bretta he would be the one who purchased The Camel Jockey, by Nizar As-Suwaidi.

  Art was a means of money laundering and terrorist financing. The party in need of funding would buy a work of considerable worth, then sell it again to a specific buyer at another auction some months or even years later. Accomplices bid up the price until it reached the level agreed upon in secret by buyer and seller. For terrorist financing, the final buyers were usually representatives from Muslim charities or mosques, the latter being the most common. It was a way for religious institutions in Western countries to secretly donate to terrorist causes.

  She studied the target. He was dressed in a long, black flowing robe. His thick black and gray beard reached just below his neck. His head was wrapped in a black turban. He had arrived alone. His was the only bid on The Camel Jockey, which indicated he had no other accomplices in the crowd. Background checks on the other bidders seemed to support that notion.

  "Go down there and introduce yourself to him," Sam said. "We need to be sure he's our man, and not some stand-in."

  Bretta frowned, then she lowered the niqab—full veil—of her hijab to conceal her face. "Going in."

  She took the stairs to the first floor of the richly-decorated atrium. The niqab made it hard to see in the dim indoor light: it was like she wore sunglasses. She almost tripped on one of the steps.

  When she reached the Persian rug at the bottom, she wended her way through the cushioned seats toward Al Sifr. Some of the audience members—most of them oil sheiks dressed in white robes and black headdresses—scowled at her, this black ghost in their midst. Women were allowed to attend the event, of course, but despite the relative progressiveness of Dubai, many of the auction-goers were obviously conservative and took offense at her presence. Well, too bad for them.

  She sat down beside the target.

  Al Sifr didn't look at her. "So you have arrived," he said simply in formal Arabic.

  "I have," she answered in the same language.

  Al Sifr raised his paddle, putting on an act of bidding on the next piece. "Did you bring the proof?"

  She retrieved a small sack from the pocket of her abaya and held it toward him.

  Al Sifr accepted the sack. Holding it in his palm, he opened the drawstring and then spread the rim of the bag downward, revealing a thimble-sized, two carat diamond at the bottom.

  Bretta leaned forward to shield the jewel from the other auction-goers with her body, though she doubted the gem would be of much interest to the rich sheiks anyway.

  Al Sifr retrieved a 10x jeweler's loupe from his robe and placed the device against his right eye, scrunching the surrounding oculi muscles to hold it in place. He produced a pair of tweezers and picked up the diamond, which shimmered in the light.

  "Not the best light for viewing." Al Sifr studied the clear stone. "Completely colorless. Very slight inclusions. But otherwise an excellent cut. No serial number."

  "As requested," Bretta said. "We can also ship them uncut, if you prefer."

  "No, cut is fine. Your source is conflict diamonds?"

  "Yes."

  He pocketed his tools, then closed the sack and returned it to her. "I will need smaller carats. They need to be easily packed for transport."

  "Of course." Bretta stashed the container in her abaya.

  "I would like to start with an experimental shipment." He raised his bidder paddle again. "I will send you a date and location over I2P messenger. Your courier will hand over the diamonds, and my courier will give yours an envelope of cash in return."

/>   "I can only do the exchanges in the United Arab Emirates and Oman," Bretta said.

  "Yes, I haven't forgotten," Al Sifr said.

  "Then I believe our business is concluded. I look forward to a fruitful relationship." Bretta was about to stand when Al Sifr extended a hand.

  "Wait." He looked at her for the first time. "Before you go, let me see your face."

  Bretta hesitated. If she raised her veil, the microphone and earbuds would remain hidden underneath the hijab that wrapped her head and neck, so there was no problem there. She simply wasn't sure she wanted him to see her features, not until he was in custody.

  Al Sifr smiled widely. "Come now. Dubai is a liberal city. And I am a liberal Muslim. I agreed to meet you, after all."

  Yes, Bretta thought. You agreed to meet a lowly woman to advance your criminal enterprise. How very liberal.

  "There is no need to cover your face," Al Sifr continued. "Unless you have something to hide. Do you?"

  Reluctantly, she lifted the veil.

  Al Sifr appeared thoughtful. "I was not expecting one so young, nor so beautiful. How did you come into this business again?"

  "As I told you, my father is an oil tycoon. We are of a like mind, him and I."

  Al Sifr nodded. "And you have no concern as to what I do with these diamonds?"

  "None whatsoever. But I am sure our objectives align. I have no love of the West."

  Al Sifr smiled sardonically. "Few who post in jihadi forums do. Except those who work for intelligence agencies."

  Bretta merely stared at the man. "I assure you, I don't work for—"

  "I'm not saying you do," Al Sifr interrupted her. "Only that, I wouldn't have gotten this far if I had trusted everyone who offered to partner with me. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  He leaned forward and gripped her forearm, hard. "Those who cross me die. Remember this."

  Bretta pressed her lips together but otherwise didn't flinch, even when her hand began to grow numb from the interruption to her circulation.

  Abruptly Al Sifr released her. The smiled returned. "Now our business is concluded."

  Bretta lowered her veil and stood indignantly. As she walked away, she said quietly into her microphone: "Sam?"

  "Sending in the team," Sam replied.

  Two men dressed in the security attire of the auction house walked past her. She heard a commotion behind her, and knew those men would be restraining Al Sifr. She rubbed her forearm, trying to restore the circulation.

  Got you, bastard, she thought.

  Outside, Bretta removed the veil and entire hijab, shaking out her shoulder-length hair.

  Sam was waiting for her. She, too, was dressed in traditional Muslim attire, minus the veil. "Well done, Ms. Storm."

  "Thank you." Bretta momentarily shut her eyes. "Twelve months. Man."

  "Good thing you had other work to occupy your time," Sam said.

  "You do keep your operatives busy," Bretta agreed.

  Sam smiled. "For what I'm paying you, I want to make sure I'm getting my money's worth." She became serious as a handcuffed Al Sifr was led out.

  The terrorist financier glared at Bretta as he passed. There was such unadulterated hatred in those eyes, as if she were the source of all evil in the world. It made Bretta recoil slightly inside.

  And then Al Sifr smiled, as if it were all some grand joke. Those eyes, however, never changed.

  Three piano-black Lexus LX570s were lined up on the street directly in front of the building. Local company Mezcal Security had armored the SUVs to the B7 level, providing protection from pistols and most armor-piercing rifle rounds.

  Bretta watched in satisfaction as the operatives loaded Al Sifr into the middle Lexus.

  "I'd like you to ride with him to the airport," Sam announced.

  Bretta scrunched her brow. "Why?"

  "I'd feel better knowing someone of your caliber was aboard. Besides, he's your catch. I thought you'd be honored."

  Bretta sighed. "Yeah, you're right. I'll do it."

  "If you don't want to—"

  "No it's all right. Like you said, he's my catch." She simply wasn't all that excited about exposing herself to that hateful scrutiny again.

  Sam bid her farewell and then headed into the auction house to "clean up."

  Glancing at the sky, Bretta took a deep breath. Though it was a clear night, she could see very few stars thanks to the light pollution of Dubai. She hadn't properly gazed at the stars in a long time. Well, she supposed she would have ample opportunity now.

  She sighed, approached the SUV, and entered the rear compartment. The two pairs of seats had been arranged with their backs to the windows, leaving an open space down the middle. She sat facing Al Sifr, whose left hand was handcuffed to the security grill that separated the rear compartment from the driver area. He was already scowling at her.

  Another operative sat to her right.

  "Give me the key to his cuffs," she told the operative.

  The man reached into his shirt pocket and produced a tiny key on a keyring. He tossed it to her.

  Bretta removed her cellphone. She switched it to camera mode and aimed at Al Sifr. She held the key in front of him and snapped a picture.

  "A little keepsake," she said.

  He gave her a hateful smile. "You're a dead woman," he said in broken English.

  Escorted by the other SUVs, the Lexus took to the road.

  Bretta wondered if she should start interrogating him. Someone else would be assigned the actual task later, but she figured she'd take a crack at it while she had him.

  The best way to start any questioning was by psychologically prepping the subject.

  She held up the key. "Is that any way to treat the person who holds your freedom in her hands?"

  Al Sifr smirked. "You will never set me free."

  She shrugged. "I just might. It all depends on what you tell me."

  His lips curled in a rictus and for a moment she thought he was going to spit on her. "I'll not tell you a thing! Not ever! I knew you were a traitor when I mentioned intelligence agencies. I saw it in your eyes."

  Bretta tapped the key with one finger, pretending she hadn't heard. The keyring clinked softly with each touch. Clink. Clink.

  "Which intelligence agency do you work for?" Al Sifr asked. "Iran? Israel?"

  She didn't answer. You have no idea, do you?

  "It doesn't matter." Al Sifr sounded so confident. So full of himself. "I'm not going to prison."

  She smiled. "Aren't you? Guantanamo is still open, you know."

  Al Sifr nodded to himself. "So American, then."

  His eyes focused on the key.

  Clink. Clink.

  "You are so certain I attended the auction alone?" Al Sifr said.

  Bretta's finger froze.

  Ahead, the lead Lexus abruptly launched into the air. A fireball ignited underneath it, just as if the vehicle had struck an IED, or suffered an RPG impact.

  Before she realized what had happened, a loud explosion cut out her hearing. She felt momentarily weightless. A bright orange light flooded the inside of the compartment. The world turned.

  The light faded. The SUV smashed back into the ground, upside down, and slid forward along the pavement. It plowed into the other vehicle and spun to the left before grinding to a halt.

  Bretta was still buckled in, her hair hanging down. Her hearing was muffled, thanks to the blast, and each breath sounded like it came from deep inside her skull. She no longer held the handcuff key, but she had more important matters to worry about.

  She opened the seatbelt and dropped to the upturned ceiling. She glanced at Al Sifr. He remained in place, stunned. She helped the other operative down from his seat and then performed a quick survey of the compartment.

  The left portion of the frame had buckled slightly, but otherwise the armor seemed intact. The B7-rated front windshield had weakened, unfortunately, judging from the cracks in the glass.

 
She heard muted yelling coming from the direction of the lead SUV, then gunfire.

  She withdrew the Px4 subcompact from her Blackhawk ankle holster.

  More yelling, more gunfire, this time from the trailing SUV.

  Then silence.

  A bullet abruptly struck the windshield in front of the upturned driver, right below the deflated airbag. The glass spiderwebbed, but didn't yield.

  Another bullet struck in almost precisely the same place. The spiderweb deepened.

  "Get out of there!" Bretta shouted, barely able to hear her own voice.

  The driver, who was just coming to, struggled to open his seatbelt.

  A third bullet struck. The weakened glass yielded, leaving a small hole. The driver jerked and his arms flopped downward lifelessly.

  Through the security grill, Bretta scanned the street outside. There. A man dressed in black was approaching, carrying a high-powered rifle of some kind. She couldn't see his face. She positioned herself behind the hole in the windshield, ducked low, and aimed through the grill. She jammed a forefinger into her left ear with her free hand, hoping to preserve at least some of her remaining hearing, and fired three times.

  Her first two shots struck the rim of the tiny hole, not penetrating the glass. The third got through.

  The approaching gunman retreated, taking cover behind the damaged lead SUV. She fired a fourth shot, but her gun chose that moment to jam.

  Tap, rack, go, she thought.

  She slammed her palm into the magazine to make sure it was properly seated, and then cycled the slide, ejecting the dud. All sound was still severely muted, and she heard nothing at all in her right ear, which was completely deaf by that point—firing in an enclosed space without a sound suppressor was never the best for one's hearing.

  She aimed through the hole again but the gunman was nowhere in sight.

  She retreated toward the rear of the upturned compartment and glanced through the back window. The remaining Lexus was a smoldering wreck behind them. The front door was open. The driver lay dead on the asphalt, pistol in hand. Maybe another agent was still alive inside. Maybe not. Either way she doubted any help would be coming from that quarter.