One Hit

by Jack Coughlin

  Kyle gave a low whistle. Thirteen hundred casualties, estimating on the low side! He slipped the pistol back into its shoulder holster. “You guys look a little beat up. Let’s have some coffee and slice up that birthday cake.”

  Deqo struggled to her feet and looked at the three strong but haggard-looking people in the suite: three people she loved, who had just endured a horrible event. “Did you catch the Cobra?”

  Janna said, “No. He got away, for now. But we will find him, Deqo. That I can promise. A nationwide manhunt is under way. That’s a big net.”

  “Janna girl, you don’t know him. He survived in the slums of Mogadishu for years when he was only a child. He survived the worst prisons in Africa. Now he is back and has spread his poison and has once again escaped. You won’t find him.”

  Kyle had his hands on his hips, and he stretched. His voice was confident. He was with his friends, and they were all safe and warm, at least for the time being. “You’re wrong, Deqo. We will find him, and we will kill him. Now, let’s go have some cake, and I’ll give you your birthday present.”

  BOOK

  FOUR

  THE BEACH HOUSE

  PRINCE FAISAL BIN TURKI bin Naif could not pull himself away from the news shows parading across the big television screen in the entertainment room of his lavish home in Greece. He had never really believed the Cobra could carry out his mad plan of bombing a huge American shopping mall, but here it was, spreading before him in glorious color. Not a bad result for the modest investment made many years ago, the Saudi prince thought. He was barefoot in a dressing gown of black silk, enjoying the soft feel of the fabric against his skin. Beckoning one of his beautiful boy servants, the prince ordered a light lunch to be served poolside.

  He laughed with private humor. If only he could see the faces of the old men who ran the kingdom as they learned of the property destruction and huge loss of life. They will be more shocked, he knew, when the Americans identified two of the attackers as being men from Saudi Arabia. It would rekindle the lingering suspicion held by many Americans that the House of Saud itself was tainted by Islamic jihad. Fifteen of the 9/11 hijackers had been Saudis, and that had taken a lot of explaining from Riyadh. Now this! Faisal clapped his hands with joy and smiled with perfect teeth shining from his slender face.

  The prince had just turned fifty years old and had been exiled by the royal family when he was only eighteen because he was gay. They could not afford to have such an embarrassment around the court, for Sharia law did not permit his chosen lifestyle, although sodomy was hardly an unknown sexual practice in the Muslim world. He was allowed to remain one of an entire unimportant horde of Saudi princes and would have an eternal flow of money, if he left the kingdom forever. It was an easy choice. He had never stood any chance of being king or holding an important title in the family business, which was running the entire oil-rich nation of Saudi Arabia. So the minor prince took what the business world called a “golden parachute.” He set up a new life on a sparkling island in Greece with the generous income that guaranteed his silence and let him indulge his fantasies.

  His hand ran down between his thighs and parted the silk, sexually aroused by the TV reports. Revenge was nice.

  Although the Islamic hard-liners hated homosexuals, they still came around to petition him for petro dollars. The sheikh had proved over the years to be generous to various causes of Allah. The bearded beggars were smart enough to never make a rude comment in his presence, and he privately enjoyed their cowardliness.

  A lifetime ago, almost twenty years, a delegation of such hypocrites had approached him bearing a message from his fiery old friend Osama bin Laden, who had never criticized the sheikh. Both were unwanted by their families. Osama wrote that he had discovered a young man of great promise who was being held in a Kenyan prison after being captured by the Americans in the eternal fighting in Somalia. The boy had merit, Osama thought, and the al Qaeda mastermind was looking for someone to sponsor him. Faisal agreed to develop the prisoner, whose name was Omar Jama, to become a future jihad leader. His nickname was “the Cobra,” which appealed to the sheikh. Money exchanged hands. Wardens and guards were paid to protect and assist the badly damaged young prisoner, and he was trained to discipline his mind, repair his body, and stoke his anti-American fury. A total weapon was constructed.

  They finally met some nine years ago, and Prince Faisal had been pleased with the product. The Cobra had come out of ten years in prison a much more mature man than when he went in; being forcibly removed from the battlefield had saved him for something better. The man from Somalia was a burly beast, blacker than anyone the prince had ever seen, with a deeply scarred face and a burning hatred of the United States of America. There was never a doubt about the Somali’s bravery. Faisal was not even tempted to try and have sex with his protégé; the man was much too ugly.

  The released prisoner had given almost another ten years to the wars in the Middle East to fine-tune his killing skills, before finally striking the United States, just as he had promised. The resulting massacres in Minnesota had been beyond all expectation, and Prince Faisal bin Turki bin Naif had wreaked havoc on the House of Saud, which had shunned him. Omar Jama deserved a fine gift, but the man was already on his way back to Somalia. The prince could think of nothing that would be appropriate for him in that dung pile, certainly not a case of fine champagne. So just some more money then, in that Swiss account.

  • • •

  THE STORM BLEW ITSELF out overnight, so dawn allowed a bit of hope to seep through the departing clouds. The sun cast only feeble rays, as if reluctant to expose the Mall USA carnage, and it did little to expel the frigid temperatures. Kyle, Lucky, and Janna had rotated guard shifts in the living room while Deqo slept soundly with the help of an Ambien. Sunday would be better than Saturday, simply because it couldn’t be any worse.

  Swanson and Lucky were in Washington by noon for a top-level briefing in the White House Situation Room. Every security agency of the government was grinding away on the series of attacks that culminated with the Mall USA bloodbath. The ten men and two women around the table had been studying a river of data throughout the morning; they had a million questions and no answers. The eyewitness accounts of the pair of CIA and FBI agents who had been there jolted them all. The mood worsened even more when Kyle predicted with certainty that the Somali terrorist known as the Cobra was responsible and described the man’s pathology and background.

  “Is it over, do you think?” asked a worn-looking man in a wrinkled dark suit. It was the vice president of the United States, who had been up for almost thirty hours straight. The current meeting had been going on for more than two hours before the government jet carrying Swanson and Sharif landed at Reagan National, where a waiting black limo had met them for the rush trip across the Potomac River to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. There, they had been grilled for almost another full hour.

  “Is it over?” Kyle repeated the question. “Who can tell, sir?”

  “Give us your best guess, then.”

  “He knows that we have identified him, sir, and apparently he is on the run. Without him to supervise the operation, and given the increased police presence and alerts throughout the Minnesota area, this particular set of strikes is probably finished. I could very well be wrong, but you wanted my guess.”

  “Very well. And you are sure it was him? No mistake on that?” That question came from a man he did not know.

  Swanson had a brief vision of Molly Egan and a bloody night in Somalia. “It was him.”

  Lieutenant General Bradley Middleton, at his elbow, knew the background. With a growl, he said, “Swanson can personally recognize the man.”

  Lucky Sharif interrupted to add, “My grandmother also identified him. There is no doubt whatsoever.”

  The vice president said, “Well, ladies and gentlemen, let me summarize. The attacks may be over. We know who is responsible and are sparing no effort to find him. For now, we focus on that
and plan how to take him down without enlarging the crisis. We cannot allow the wanton and horrible acts of this one mad terrorist to lead us into an even larger disaster, or have the nation panic, and the last thing we want is to get snared in the Somalia quagmire again. There has to be another answer. You people find it.”

  The meeting ended, and General Middleton, Kyle, and Lucky walked over to the Old Ebbitt Grill on Fifteenth Street Northwest, a half mile from the White House, for lunch. There was a crisp wind, but after the icebox conditions in Minnesota, Swanson and Sharif considered it to be more like a mild breeze.

  “So where is this son of a bitch?” Middleton asked as they left the gated grounds, watched by uniformed Secret Service guards.

  “Logical thing will be for him to try and get back home to Somalia,” Lucky said. “He will be protected there, and he now automatically is in a position to become the ultimate warlord. Cobra does not think small. I think his primary goal is to take over the government with an al Shabaab revolutionary force.”

  “If he can pull that off, Islamic fanatics everywhere will start considering him to be the new Osama bin Laden, rally to him, and set Africa afire,” Kyle said. “Then he will be in a position to get the other offshoots of Islamic terrorism in the Middle East to deal with him.”

  Middleton tugged at his gloves and turned up the big collar of his overcoat. “The question is what to do about it.”

  “You already know the answer, General. Send Lucky and me after him.”

  Sharif agreed. “The two of us are wasting time sitting in meetings in Washington, General Middleton. This Cobra’s level of barbarism is extraordinary, and he is gaining strength by the minute as the world sees what he has done. I was only eight years old when we caught him before, and I could do it better this time. Give us permission and let us cut the head off of this damned snake.”

  • • •

  THE COBRA, THE MOST wanted criminal in America, strolled in casual comfort along the Venice Beach boardwalk and let the California sun thaw his bones while he took in the extravagant showiness of the busy beachside area. Artists, clowns, muscle builders, girls in bikinis on roller skates, and kids doing tricks on miniature bicycles all existed in their own little bubbles of life. The Pacific Ocean undulated, surfers were out on the waves, sunbathers were on the beach, and a line of tall palm trees lined the sand. The little restaurants were busy. Colorful murals and graffiti decorated the walls. A lone black man wearing a blue Dodgers cap and wraparound shades was not interesting enough to draw the notice of any of the beach denizens. A cop on a bike rode past without a glance.

  He had been walking for some time to find an address he had memorized from the intelligence file that he had had gathered over the years by private detectives, whom he hired anonymously. The details of the place were seared into his brain. The only surprise was that it was so easy to locate—right off the boardwalk. An older couple, both with silver hair, were on a second-floor deck that faced the ocean, leaning on the white railing, joking with each other. The man laughed. This was a wealthy piece of real estate. The owner had purchased two adjoining lots, torn down the existing houses, and replaced them with a single modern home.

  A block past the building, Cobra veered off the boardwalk, found the frontage road, and doubled back. The house had a formal entrance on that side with a manicured patch of grass, some spiky bushes, and evergreen shrubs. He pushed the bell and a pleasant ding-dong echoed through the place. He heard footsteps as someone came downstairs. The woman answered and raised her eyebrows in question. “Yes?” She was an artist and was totally relaxed in his presence.

  Omar Jama held a large white envelope and lifted it to read a label. “Mrs. Larisey Walden? I’m a private courier from the Gallery Falcone.”

  “Yes, that’s me.” She was excited. Several of her works had been sold by the Falcone. Perhaps this was a new commission. She opened the door, and the Cobra punched her hard in the face. Larisey Walden went reeling back hard into the wall.

  He followed the punch inside, shoved the door closed behind him, then kicked the woman in the head. Dropping, he clamped his big right palm over her mouth and pinched her nostrils closed with his left hand. It took less than a minute for the unconscious woman to die.

  The Cobra moved quietly through the living room and into the kitchen, where a rack of cutting tools hung on a wall. He chose a gleaming nine-inch butcher’s knife and waited beside the stairs.

  The man came down, calling out, “Larisey? Who was that? I heard a noise.”

  Omar Jama waited until the target stepped clear of the wall, then smashed the man with a punch to the ear that sent him crashing to the floor. The Cobra stabbed the point of the knife into the back of the neck just below the skull and pushed it smoothly through the spinal cord and into the brain. The body struggled, stopped.

  The Somali terrorist got up and finished the tour of the house, checking himself for bloodstains. He washed his hands. Then he gathered a propane gas tank from the deck, oily rags and aerosol canisters from the garage, and cans of paint and solvent from the artist’s upstairs studio. Most of it went into a neat pile on the king-sized bed, which he soaked with the flammable liquid. The remainder he carried down to the ground floor, splashing the walls and furniture. He lit a set of three candles on the mantelpiece, then went to the kitchen and stripped the gas line from behind the stove. As soon as he heard the hiss and smelled the fumes flowing into the room, he left.

  The Cobra closed the front door behind him, adjusted his cap, and returned to the boardwalk, where he found a bench about two hundred meters away and sat to watch the waves. Within minutes, the pretty house detonated in a thunderous fireball that threw debris in a wide circle and then burned to the dirt. He turned to watch, as did everyone else along that section, and eased away in the growing crowd, whistling a tune. The house had been the property of the Marine Swanson.

  THE COLONEL

  LIEUTENANT GENERAL MIDDLETON WAS known for his iron courage. Today, flocks of butterflies nervously flapped around in his gut. His bold idea could slide sideways in a hurry, but part of his job as deputy national security adviser was to speak truth to power.

  He had been granted ten minutes alone with the president of the United States, who had been catching political hell about the terrorist attacks that had happened on his watch. The most powerful man in the world stood at the paned door of bulletproof glass that overlooked the Rose Garden from the Oval Office, weighted with sorrow and anger. Members of Congress were content to complain on television without offering a solution, whining without responsibility.

  With no time to waste, the general started right in. “Mr. President, we have to take this guy down fast.”

  The president turned slowly. “I totally agree with the first part of your statement. It’s the second part—fast—that has me stumped. We don’t even know where this monster is.”

  Middleton was standing in the center of the carpeted office with his big hands folded. “He’ll turn up, sir. Sooner or later. Somewhere.”

  “Tell me something that I don’t know, General Middleton.”

  “I’ve been mulling this over since you said in your speech last night that all options are on the table.”

  “And I mean it.”

  “No doubt in my mind that you do, sir.” Middleton shifted his body slightly and glanced over at the fireplace, where a few burning logs were casting unneeded warmth into the climate-controlled room. “Let’s say that he surfaces back in Somalia, which I believe is likely. Going after him there is going to be difficult. Full military intervention by the U.S. is out of the question, and any air strike, even a drone attack, will likely result in a lot of collateral damage, meaning that civilians will die.”

  “That madman killed civilians in our country. He cannot hide behind his own people now and expect us to give a damn. We don’t.”

  “And that is the blank space, isn’t it, sir? Somalia did not attack us. One single crazy maniac with a few helpers
and a handful of hired guns carried out the murders. Many of the attackers were not from Somalia at all; some were from as far away as Nicaragua and Saudi Arabia. If we bomb the hell out of that lawless dung pile called Somalia, we will lose the sympathy of the world and our allies, while our enemies would have a propaganda field day. If any of the pilots are captured, they will most likely be executed on television. That can’t be ruled out.”

  The president went back to his desk, where piles of material awaited his attention. “You are just stating the obvious, Brad, so I assume it is only a prelude to why you really wanted this time. You have a suggestion?”

  “I suggest that before we roll out the big artillery, I be allowed to launch a small operation outside the normal chain of command. If it goes sour, then you can deny any involvement and paint me as the rogue general that did it without authorization.”

  “You want to put Kyle Swanson into play, don’t you?” the chief executive replied without enthusiasm, raising an eyebrow. “The answer is no. You want to replace the big artillery with a loose cannon. Your time’s almost up.”

  “Right. Consider, sir, that not only is Swanson the best we’ve got, but he has a couple of personal dogs in this fight. He will push it through and kill the Cobra no matter what is required.”

  The president sat in his big chair. He pressed a button on his desk telephone and said to his appointments secretary, “I’m taking another ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir. The chief of staff is waiting, sir,” she said.

  “Ten more minutes.” The response was firm.

  The president steepled his fingers as he leaned back and closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had to admit to himself he had been more comfortable when Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson could be dialed up to carry out a directive. “Personal? How? Have a chair, Brad.”