by Isaac Hooke
High beams abruptly blinded her as two vehicles shone their headlamps into the Lexus from the side: the attackers were illuminating their targets, probably wanting to ensure they didn't hit the man they had come to rescue.
Amateurs, she thought. When rescuing a hostage from a convoy, you disable the front and rear vehicles to block the target vehicle. You don't blow up the target vehicle itself!
Bullets came in from the direction of the high beams. Countless craters marred the glass as some kind of automatic weapon concentrated on the windows. It wasn't simple AK-47 fire.
And you don't shoot up the target vehicle!
Bretta and the surviving operative dove for cover, but the glass, already weakened by the previous explosion, chose that moment to break in multiple places.
Beside her the other operative was struck in the neck. Bretta meanwhile was hit in the side. She lost consciousness instantly.
She awakened a moment later. She tried to open her eyes, but the lids felt so heavy.
She was wearing a body-conforming bulletproof vest concealed beneath her abaya, with curved steel trauma plates in the front, back and side SAPI pockets. The plates were rated Type III, meaning they protected against all handgun rounds and most rifle bullets, save for armor piercing.
Unfortunately, judging from the terrible wet burning in her side, it looked like she had been struck by an armor piercer. Either that, or multiple bullets had impacted in roughly the same area.
She was vaguely aware as rough hands explored her pockets. She still had some hearing in her left ear, and she heard a man's voice. It sounded distant, but she thought he was shouting beside her.
"I can't find it!" the man yelled in Arabic.
She opened her eyes a crack; through the brightly-colored phosphenes that marred her vision, she caught a glimpse of a broad-shouldered, bearded man searching her.
"Forget the key!" another voice shouted.
Police sirens wailed in the distance, barely audible.
She heard a weapon go off. Someone was trying to shoot through Al Sifr's handcuffs?
Bretta's left ear was ringing after that blast, so when Al Sifr shouted, she caught only a few words: "Fool... ricochet... kill... give... knife."
She wondered, vaguely, if he was able to hear his own words.
"Caliph, let me... again."
"Your knife! I... show you Afghans..."
She blacked out again.
When she came to, first responders were rushing into the Lexus. As they dragged her from the upturned vehicle, she glanced groggily toward Al Sifr.
He was no longer there. In his place, cuffed to the security grill, dangled a severed hand.
Avon Suburb, Indianapolis, Indiana
Two Months Ago
NECULAI SWERVED the Acura to the right, narrowly avoiding an oncoming pickup as he cut in front of another car. The pickup driver honked angrily as he went by, but Neculai had already planted his middle finger squarely against the glass of the driver-side door. Probably a futile gesture: he doubted the man could see him in the dim light of the streetlamps.
"Stupid Americans with their big cars," Neculai said as he tailgated the next vehicle.
Ahead of him a passing lane opened up; unfortunately a slow-moving Ford had decided to amble into the lane, bottlenecking it. Neculai anxiously flashed his brights. When the car didn't move, he left the brights on permanently.
"Americans don't know how to drive!" Neculai cursed, slamming the steering wheel with his palms. "They all drive like old ladies!"
He glanced at his watch. The Western Union location at the Greyhound bus terminal closed at ten p.m. Currently, it was nine fifty five. He wanted to get the cash pickup done that day so he could leave the city behind.
He had already scheduled meetings with different sellers across Indiana. Most were from a Dark Web bitcoin exchange directory, though a few were former contacts he'd traded with in the past. These sellers would allow him to exchange his cash for digital currency. The meetings were scheduled at various low profile locations, mostly coffee shops and fast food joints.
He used a command line tool called joinmarket to mix the blockchain entry of every transaction with random users—an anonymization method called "CoinJoin." Since the blockchain represented the history of a given transaction, if a third party like the FBI wanted to trace his buying and selling patterns, CoinJoin ensured the third party would have an incredibly hard time doing it. The sellers were the biggest risk to him, since they knew the blockchains of the transactions directly associated with him.
The sellers. He preferred those with a good feedback history, but there weren't all that many in somewhere like Indiana in the first place, so he settled for those who sounded the least like government agents. Besides, feedback could be faked, he knew. He capped each bitcoin purchase at under five thousand U.S. dollars, mostly to avoid arousing any suspicion from the vendors. His greatest fear was that one of the sellers would prove to be an undercover FBI agent, though he knew the sellers had similar worries about him. There had been several high-profile arrests of bitcoin sellers in the news lately; they were charged by the FBI with money laundering and the operation of an unlicensed money services business. The recent arrests were another reason why it was getting hard to find vendors.
Via the rearview mirror, he glanced at the gym bag in the back seat. Carrying all that money on his person made him nervous. For the past two months he had lived a nomadic life, driving across the Midwest from one Western Union or Moneygram location to another, collecting cash from naive Americans. Neculai only kept ten percent of that cash as a commission for his services, and he converted the rest into bitcoin, which he sent back to the ringleader overseas. He was always tempted to keep more than ten percent, but so far hadn't dared. The Yellowjacket was not a very forgiving man.
Still, even with his measly ten percent, Neculai was on track to bank a hundred grand that year. Tax-free. Not bad for a boy from a poor town in Romania.
Finally the slow-moving prick moved out of the lane ahead. Neculai flicked off his brights and accelerated past him.
"Cunt!" he shouted as he went by. The driver looked like an indistinct blob under the street lamps.
A plume of smoke drifted toward Neculai from the occupied passenger seat beside him.
"Open the window," Neculai said. "I don't want to smell your secondhand smoke."
No answer.
Frowning, Neculai reached for the controls on the driver-side panel. The skunk-smelling smoke vanished as it was sucked outside by the open window.
Neculai glanced at the passenger. "You're a blinking idiot."
Stefan stared straight ahead. His eyes slowly opened and closed in the dim light. "I'm not blinking."
Neculai returned his attention to the road. "You are. You remind me of a gaping goldfish."
Stefan didn't reply at first. Then: "Maybe I should sell goldfish on the auction sites. The Americans are stupid enough to buy phones and cars that don't exist. Maybe they'd buy imaginary goldfish, too?"
"Okay put that away," Neculai said, nodding toward the bong. "You've had enough. I don't know why I even let you take that out. Who smokes a bong in a car?"
"That's how I roll, homie." Stefan stuffed his lips inside the rim of the mouthpiece and took another hit.
The telltale whoop of a police warning siren cut through the night air.
Neculai glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the flashing red and blue lights. "Shit. Shit shit shit!" He grabbed at Stefan; his fingers found the bong and he wrenched it downward. "Away!"
Stefan leisurely stashed the water pipe under the seat. Then: "Uh, bad idea."
"What?" Then Neculai smelled it—bong water. Some of it had spilled onto the carpet. The stink was unique, halfway between weed, smoke, and feces. "Damn it, Stefan."
He rolled down the windows, hoping to air out the vehicle.
The warning siren pierced the night once again.
Neculai pulled to the shoulder o
f the road. It still stank in the car, though not as bad as a moment ago. He prayed the cop wouldn't notice.
His collar suddenly felt too tight: the skin beneath the fabric throbbed in time to the frantic beating of his heart.
Stay calm, he told himself. His eyes drifted to the rearview mirror and he gazed at the gym bag in the backseat. Stay calm.
But his heart refused to listen.
OFFICER CHET BROWN read the license plate number to dispatch. The female operator confirmed that there were no warrants out for the driver in the FBI's National Crime Information Center database. Good. It was his wife's birthday and he wanted to return home early for once.
Chet exited the cruiser. He was solo that night. When he had first started out, almost every car had had a partner, especially after nine. These days, manpower shortages forced half the cars to go solo.
As he approached the Acura, he placed a hand on the trunk, confirming that it was secure. Passing the left passenger side, he visually scanned the interior of the vehicle with his Pelican 8060 flashlight. He spotted a black gym bag in back. Two occupants in front.
Chet reached the driver side and gazed into the open window. He shone the 8060 in the man's face.
"Evening officer," the driver said, squinting. He shielded his eyes with one hand.
Chet's mind immediately formed suspect descriptions. White adult male. Late twenties. Slender build. Brown hair. Crew cut. Light complexion. Crooked teeth. Ethnicity possibly Russian, judging from the accent. The passenger was a second white adult male. Medium build. Heavy rim glasses.
Chet depressed the 8060's power button, cycling it to "low" mode.
"Hello," Chet said, in a rather amiable tone that he chalked up to the wife's birthday. "Do you have a license on you?"
The man handed over his international driver's permit along with the license from his country of origin—Romania. The "permit" was merely a multi-language translation of the existing license. The driver also presented his registration and insurance documents. Nice of him.
Chet extended his free hand. "Passport," he said expectantly.
The driver flashed a smile. "Of course." He handed over his passport.
The name and address matched the license.
"What's the purpose of your visit to the United States, sir?" Chet said.
"This sounds like customs all over again," the driver retorted, wearing a big smile.
Chet didn't return the grin.
The driver became serious. "We are merely visiting. Tourists."
"I see. Do you have a valid visa?"
"Yes. Here." The driver turned to the appropriate page in the passport, where the embassy had stamped the blue and red United States of America B/2 tourist visa.
"When did you arrive?" Chest asked.
"Two months ago."
"When are you leaving?"
"Another month, probably."
Chet frowned in disbelief. "And you bought an Acura?"
The driver shrugged. "It seemed cheaper than renting. The wonders of Craigslist."
"All right. Do you know how fast you were going?"
"No," the driver said. "I was keeping my eye on the road. Watching the flow of traffic."
Glancing at the quiet road, Chet smirked. "There's certainly a lot of traffic to watch the flow of tonight, isn't there?"
The driver had nothing to say to that.
"You were going sixty in a forty-five mile-per-hour zone," Chet said. He was about to write a ticket when he noticed the man's hands were shaking on the steering wheel.
The driver must have realized what he was doing because his knuckles suddenly whitened and the shaking stopped.
Interesting.
"You play sports?" the officer inquired.
"Excuse me?"
Chet nodded toward the rear seats. "I noticed the gym bag."
"Ah yes," the driver said. "Sports. Yes. We are big soccer players."
Chet cocked an eyebrow. "You don't say. Where do you practice, if you don't mind me asking?"
The driver furrowed his brow, as if pretending he didn't understand. Then he nodded. "Oh! I see what you mean. No, we do not play. We are soccer fans. Sorry, my English, it is not good."
"It was good a minute ago," Chet said. "So what's in the gym bag, then?"
"That is our luggage."
"Do you mind if I take a look?" Chet stepped toward the rear door.
The driver smiled coldly. "I am aware of U.S. law. You cannot search us. Not without reason. 'Probable cause,' I believe you call it. Write your ticket so that we may go."
"Probable cause?" Chet said. "I can tell you a thing or two about probable cause." He pointed his finger at the man, ready to deliver a scolding diatribe, his wife's birthday completely forgotten. That was when an object clattered to the floor in the passenger seat. It glinted, immediately drawing his eye.
Chet shifted to get a better look. He cycled the 8060 to "medium" mode. "What's that there on the floor?"
"Mats?" the squinting driver asked hopefully.
"No, that," Chet nodded toward the legs of the passenger. The water pipe was clearly visible on the floor in front of him.
Possession of drug paraphernalia was illegal in the state of Indiana.
The driver followed his gaze. "Uh, for tobacco use?"
Chet took a step back. He stashed the man's documents in his pocket, switched the 8060 to his left hand, and rested his right hand on his service pistol. "I'm going to have to ask you to exit the vehicle."
1
Lyari Slum, Karachi, Pakistan
Present Day
COMPLETELY NAKED, Ethan lay prostrate on the dirt beside the graffiti-covered apartment wall. His arms and legs were splayed out. The rear of his skull throbbed where it had been struck; a headache at his temples pulsed in sync. Fallen bricks from the dilapidated building dug into his body, with a particularly sharp one pinching his left kidney, providing a secondary, subtle source of pain.
A dead Pakistani, also stripped naked, was propped up against the wall beside him. Blood trickled from multiple bullet wounds in his chest and forehead.
A man wearing a balaclava stood above the two of them. The underarms of his long shirt were wet with perspiration. He had a pistol pointed at Ethan's bare chest.
A third man, also masked, finished stuffing Ethan's clothes into a small backpack.
"Ready!" the third man said in Urdu.
The second man nodded.
Ethan had no idea what the men hoped to accomplish by stripping the clothes from him and the dead man. Perhaps they wanted the police to believe that it was some spat between male lovers.
Ethan had been in the process of infiltrating an Al Qaeda sleeper cell in Pakistan. Unfortunately, the individual who had decided to vouch for him, Zahid Chatha—the dead Pakistani propped against the wall—was apparently a CIA asset. Ethan didn't know that, of course. But try telling that to these men.
The individual with the pistol was Kashif. The accomplice, Hammad.
"You fucking CIA fuck, you!" Kashif said in broken English. "You thought you fuck with Al Qaeda?"
He gave Ethan a hard kick to the leg, hitting the bare ankle with his boot. Ethan nearly yelped from the agony the blow inflicted.
There was no point trying to deny the accusation anymore. If he wanted to save his life, he had to play along.
"More agents," Ethan said in Urdu. His voice was slurred.
"What!" Kashif said. He kicked Ethan again. Same spot.
"I can give you more agents," Ethan tried again, though he doubted they could understand him. His voice was too hoarse. His throat, too dry.
"What's the fucker saying?" Kashif said in English.
Hammad glanced at Kashif, and said, in Urdu: "I think he says he can give us more undercover agents."
"Then give us a name, CIA fucker!" Kashif kicked Ethan again, drawing blood from the same ankle. The pain competed with his headache.
Ethan moved his mouth as if trying to comply.
Hammad knelt, bringing his ear close to Ethan's face.
"Kashif is CIA," Ethan whispered.
Hammad stiffened.
"What did he say?" Kashif said angrily.
Ethan sprung into action, biting into that ear and pulling Hammad over him as a shield.
Kashif opened fire with his pistol.
The bullets riddled Hammad's body, but none of them penetrated through to Ethan. Kashif had already wasted most of his magazine on the CIA asset, and Ethan knew he wouldn't be able to keep it up for long.
The pistol clicked, very subtly. It was the cue Ethan was waiting for.
He slid Hammad aside and leaped to his feet, ignoring the flare of pain in his ankle. The sudden posture change caused his systolic pressure to momentarily drop: pinpoints of light dotted his vision, but he reached Kashif before the man could reload.
He shoved Kashif while simultaneously hooking a foot behind him, tripping the man. Ethan initiated a mount, pinning Kashif to the floor with his knees.
Kashif discarded his pistol and clumsily wrapped his hands around Ethan's neck in a chokehold.
Ethan forced his wrists inside Kashif's arms and thrust outwards, breaking the hold. Then he leaned forward and unleashed three good punches, stunning his opponent.
He noticed movement beside him and realized Hammad was still alive. From the periphery of his vision, he saw the wounded accomplice train a pistol on him.
Ethan rolled to the side, bringing Kashif with him.
Hammad fired twice and the bullets struck Kashif in the back. The latter man went limp.
Ethan waited for Hammad to fire again.
Tense seconds ticked by. Ethan couldn't see the accomplice past Kashif's body, but he had to assume the injured Hammad was lying there, ready to fire the instant Ethan peered past the corpse.
He glanced over his shoulder and spotted Kashif's pistol lying in the dirt not far behind him. An H&K P7. Ethan tilted his body slightly, reached out, and grabbed it.