by Roger Hayden
The silence between them ended as Burke took a deep breath and continued. “‘Bout five years ago, I lived in Germany with my family. Stationed in Heidelberg on assignment with the CIA. Officially as part of a diplomatic NATO mission. Only we weren’t there to shake hands and go to meetings, we were there to find terrorists. Specifically members of the Ad al Hakim family who were supporting Al Qaeda at the time. Our intel told us they were actively working to create sleeper cells throughout Europe.”
Angela listened with great interest, as Burke had yet to reveal any of his past dealings.
“One night, we got the call. The family had been found, and our orders were clear as day. They needed to be eliminated. My team split up, like we always did, and took positions around an isolated flat in rural Nuremburg. Think we must have waited for them about thirty, maybe forty hours. Later that night, I was told to take the three-hundred-meter shot at the leader of the family, Qadir Ad al Hakim, while he dined with his wife and kids. An actual family. And there I thought they were talking about grown men and women. Terrorists, you know? But from what I saw, they looked… innocent. That, I can tell you, didn’t settle right with me.”
Burke paused and took another breath. “I was a good shot. All the guys knew it. But even with my sniper rifle at the ready, I didn’t like the idea of shooting the guy in front of his wife and kids. I requested a different venue. Another time. Another place. They denied my request. Said that I’d blow the cover of the entire operation. I was told to take the shot, and take the shot I did.”
Burke stopped again as though the entire troubling incident was playing over in his head. “Make a long story short, I took the shot and killed Qadir while he was eating at the dinner table. That was supposed to end it. He was the mastermind, they said. But what I didn’t know was that there were plenty more where he came from. Our ‘message’ backfired and emboldened the terrorist cells more than we could have realized.”
Burke stopped again, but Angela knew that it was only half of the story. For a moment, she had managed to take her mind off the horror of her predicament and listen to someone else’s story. “Then what happened?” she asked.
“About a month after, I came home from a meeting and found my family dead…” He paused and clenched his eyes shut, balling his fists. “My two boys… My wife. Throats slit and left for dead. No one was spared. Investigators called it a home invasion. Completely random. But Qadir had a brother, Samar, who was vengeful, to say the least. I was sold out, Agent Gannon. Either by someone in the German government or ours, but they got to my family to send us a message: no more hit squads.”
Burke went silent again, leaving Angela unsure what to say. “I-I don’t understand,” she said finally. “You still work for the CIA, don’t you? Why?”
Burke stared ahead as though the answer was unknown, even to him. “I had to come to grips with what happened,” he said. “Or else it would have driven me insane. Had to put myself into a job. It was the only way. I knew that the government was never going to let me stray too far. They would always be watching me. So I requested a position with the counterterrorism division, all the while looking for who had sold me out.”
“And did you find them?” Angela asked.
“Yes,” Burke said. He then opened the car door and put one boot on the sandy ground. “But that was a long time ago. The important thing to focus on now is what we can do to save your family. And I think it’s time we paid this British chap a visit.”
Angela followed him to the trunk, where he popped the lock. They heard the familiar click, and Burke lifted the lid. A trembling Omar was curled in a ball, his eyes closed, his gasps muffled, and sweat pouring down his forehead. If his breathing was a sign, he wasn’t too far from death, which worried Angela. She knew it was a bad idea to toss him in the trunk, especially with a sock stuffed in his mouth.
“Are you trying to kill him?” she asked Burke.
“Won’t matter much once we find our guy,” Burke said with a shrug.
She looked at him in a different light after his story of loss—she could even understand him in a way. One thing was certain: Burke hadn’t an ounce of sympathy for his enemies. He was hardened like steel, and though it allowed him to do his work, she hoped that she wouldn’t become like him once everything was over.
Burke grabbed Omar by the collar of his shirt and pulled him out of the trunk, tossing him on the ground. Angela stepped back as a cloud of dust rose from Omar’s flailing and awkward attempts to get free. Burke cut the rope at his hands and legs and then pulled the saliva-filled sock from Omar’s mouth.
As Omar took in the fresh air with tremendous breaths, Burke stood over him with the knife, patient but ready to strike at any moment.
“This is what we’re going to do, Omar,” he began. “You take us to this man’s house, and you better hope that he’s there.”
Angela approached with her own questions. “I don’t understand why he would be home in the first place. Obviously he’s already at the compound.”
Omar remained lying on his side, barely moving beyond his chest deeply rising and falling. “He… he doesn’t live in the compound. He has a family. They-They don’t know what he does. But he can’t stay away too long, or his wife asks questions. He’s talked about this before.”
“A family man, eh?” Burke asked.
“I don’t like where this is going,” Angela said. “Maybe we should just take our chances with Omar.”
“It won’t take much to get him to help you,” Omar said. You don’t have to harm his family. Just show up and threaten to blow his cover, and he’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
“What’s his name?” Burke asked, looking down.
“He calls himself Peter Graves, but that’s just an alias.”
Burke remembered the name. Peter Graves was the man who had called headquarters just before Angela’s husband was killed, claiming to be with the British Intelligence Service, and being held captive by ISIS. Angela remembered the name too.
Burke placed a boot on Omar’s side. “Sounds familiar.” Burke paused and scratched his chin. He then pushed the heel of his boot into Omar’s ribs. “What’s his real name?”
“I don’t know. I-I don’t know him that well. Only came to his house to pick some things up to take to the bunker. Canned foods. Water. Things like that.”
“How thoughtful of you,” Burke said, grinding the tip of his boot into Omar’s ribs. He then stepped over him and knelt, tracing a circle in the sand with a nearby twig. “I’m counting on you, Omar. You’re going to take us to this man’s house, and he’s going to show us where this compound is. The more the merrier.” He then grabbed the back of Omar’s collar and yanked him up, holding him with both arms to keep him steady. “Get yourself together, and get in the car.”
Omar wobbled back and forth with a pained expression on his face. “Just kill me now…” he said in a tired, faint voice.
“Not yet,” Burke said, leading him to the passenger seat. He opened the door and helped Omar get inside as Angela watched, confused, from the rear of the car. Burke closed the front door and then opened the back, taking out the weapon cases he had put there earlier. She came over to help him, and he explained further.
“You ride in the back and have your pistol out and ready. If Omar tries anything, don’t hesitate to shoot him.”
“I don’t think he’s going to do much in the state he’s in,” she replied.
Burke paused then closed the trunk. “Never underestimate your enemies, no matter how sad, feeble, or weak they appear to be. That’s rule number one.”
They got back into the car. Burke cranked the engine and backed out, ending their brief, peaceful foray into the Texas landscape. The Ford Fusion roared off, leaving the serene setting behind as they headed toward the unknown.
***
They drove for nearly an hour with little conversation, nearing El Paso more determined than ever. Against Omar’s pleas, Burke had tied hi
s hands together again, even though he could barely move because of the pain he was in. It was as though Burke had an endless supply of nylon rope on him at all times. A news report on the radio had already detailed the “Carnage on Third Street,” but didn’t go into any more detail other than to describe the scene as a home invasion.
If the sleeper cell got wind of the report and put the pieces together, Angela feared that it would compromise their rescue mission. Burke still wanted to know how the cops had arrived so quickly and with so much backup. They soon pulled off the highway as Omar told Burke when and where to turn in the brightly-lit town.
To Angela’s surprise, they entered a slightly upscale neighborhood with nice cars and neatly manicured lawns. It was strange enough to see a fully grown lawn in Texas, even stranger to see automatic sprinklers spraying puffs of water beyond the small, glimmering yard lights.
“You sure this is the place?” Burke asked Omar.
He drove the residential area’s speed limit, not going over thirty and slowing at every speed bump along the way. Vehicles of all shapes in sizes lined both sides of the quaint, nicely paved road ahead. They passed so many stop signs and turns it nearly felt as if they were going in circles.
“So this guy has money?” Burke asked.
“Yes,” Omar answered under his breath. “Asgar likes him because he is resourceful.”
“What does he do besides helping terrorists?” Burke asked.
“Not sure,” Omar answered. “Hedge funds. Something like that.”
Angela leaned forward, slightly confused. The man hardly sounded like the ideal ISIS recruit—young, impressionable, and fanatic. “How did they find him?” she asked Omar.
Omar turned slightly to answer. “They didn’t. He found them.”
Angela paused, nodding, then hit Omar with the most personal question he had been asked yet. “Why did you join ISIS?”
Omar turned his head and sighed, staring out the window. “Because I believe this country is evil and needs to be stopped. It is my duty to do so.”
Angela stammered, nearly beside herself. “But what ISIS does is the definition of evil. All the torture and brutality and mass murder, for what? Nothing.”
Omar remained calm and steadfast. “All that matters is how we appear in the eyes of Allah. Your country started this war. We are just trying to end it.”
“Enough of your bullshit,” Burke said, coming to a stop sign. “Now tell me where I’m going.”
Omar told him to take a left. Burke turned and proceeded past a few well-lit homes as they reached a cul-de-sac with four impressive houses at the end. “Dead end, eh?” Burke said. “Which one does he live in?”
Omar pointed to the first house on the left, with two large SUVs, one white and one black, parked in the driveway. Burke parked on the curb, facing out, avoiding the driveway, and let the car idle for a moment.
It was quarter past midnight, and Angela worried more as each hour crept by. If things didn’t go as planned, she didn’t know what their next step could possibly be.
As they prepared to approach the house, Burke left Omar with simple instructions: stay quiet. He turned to Angela and explained the plan. They would politely knock on the door and pose as authority figures, which had a sprinkling of truth to it. The moment the British man emerged, they would take him with whatever force necessary.
“Be prepared for a fight,” Burke said to her, opening his door.
“The family is off limits,” Angela said just as his door closed. She got out too and felt the cool night air breeze across her face. The other homes on the cul-de-sac were similar in size and design—nice one-story homes with glowing lampposts set into their freshly cut lawns. Like everywhere else they had been that evening, the area was quiet. The calm before the storm, she thought.
Burke waited for her at the front of the car, inspecting his pistol. He charged the barrel back, loading a round, and then began a casual stroll up the driveway while Angela followed.
Burke turned and whispered to her. “Important thing is to find this guy and take off with him without interference. That means we have to move fast.”
Angela looked up above the garage, where four numbers were displayed: 2051. The digits stuck with her like some kind of mysterious code. “But we don’t even know his name—or the family’s name, for that matter.”
“That’s fine,” Burke said. “Like last time, just follow my lead.”
Angela didn’t like the sound of that.
They moved along the cement walkway to the French doors, flanked by two shining porch lights. Curtains had been drawn at the front windows, and the wooden privacy fence to the backyard was at least six feet tall. The best way in, it seemed, was through the front door.
“Bear with me here,” Burke said, stopping on the AstroTurf welcome mat. He listened against the door, prepared to work his lock-picking magic and get them inside.
“We should have had Omar come to the door,” Angela said. “He can lead Graves out, and no one has to get hurt.”
Burke froze, in deep thought. “You know what?” he said. “You’re absolutely right. He backed away from the door with hurried steps. “Good plan.” They then went back to the car with a new strategy.
Omar stood at the doorway, wobbling but trying to appear unscathed, as Burke watched from behind the SUV, with his elbows on the hood of his car, holding his M4 rifle aimed at the door. The plan, Omar had been told, was to get Peter Graves outside. Once he did that, Burke and Angela would move in. It was a risky plan to be sure, but from the outset, everything had had its share of risk.
Angela was closer, kneeling in the bushes that ran the front window and alongside the corner. She was to watch Omar for any sudden movements. Everything was ready to go, and as Omar rang the doorbell, Angela prepared herself for, hoping at the very least for no more deaths.
“Pound on the door!” Burke said just above a whisper from his concealed position. “It’s an emergency, and you have to speak with him at once!”
Omar reluctantly raised a balled fist to the center of the thick French door and started hitting it.
“Louder!” Burke said. “You’re here on an urgent mission. Remember!”
Omar’s pounding grew harder with each hit. By his third or fourth blow, he was really going at it. Growing tired, he rang the doorbell repeatedly when the door swung open with a fierce swing, revealing a skinny, disheveled white-haired man with his bathrobe swaying in the wind, exposing boxers and a bare chest.
“What the hell are you doing?” the man shouted in a clear British accent.
Burke remained completely still with his rifle aimed, massaging the trigger with his gloved index finger. Angela stayed in position, trusting that Omar—terrorist that he was—would follow through with the plan.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Graves. Here on an emergency supply run. Asgar’s orders,” he said sheepishly, trying to keep his balance with one hand propped against the wall.
“The fuck are you talking about, mate? It’s late, and I’ve had a very long day.”
“I was hoping we could talk outside to not wake your family,” Omar said, inching back down the walkway. The English man seemed out of it and too irate to notice the blood-soaked towels wrapped around Omar’s leg and arm, nor did he seem to care.
“My family?” the British man said, scratching his head. “They’re visiting relatives back home. Now why don’t you tell me what this is really all about?”
As Omar paused, his nervous face stricken with fear, it didn’t seem as though Graves was coming out. And at that moment, Burke squeezed his trigger. The rifle blasted and shook against the pocket of his arm and chest. The shot rang out and split Omar’s head open, blasting the top apart like a watermelon. Angela fell from her squatted position and rolled onto the ground, shaken and frantic.
Blood splattered against the British man’s face as he stood frozen on his welcome mat, looking down at Omar, who had collapsed at his feet. He hadn’t a clue what had
happened. All he could do was stand there with his mouth agape, squinting as another man’s blood ran down his forehead.
“Burke!” Angela shouted out. “What are you doing?”
Without an answer, Burke rushed forward and charged the British man, pummeling him into the foyer.
Angela jumped up and ran from the side of the house to the swaying front door, where she saw two bare, hairy legs sticking out from under the bathrobe into the air. Omar’s corpse lay on the mat, face down, what was left of his head and more blood than she had ever seen drenching the ground in thick, bubbling red.
She peered inside the house to find Burke standing over the helpless and horrified man, aiming his rifle at his face.
“On your feet, you son of a bitch.”
From the floor, Graves held his trembling arms up, barely able to form a syllable.
“Move!” Burke shouted.
All Graves could do was shake and stutter.
“He’s in shock,” Angela said, walking into the foyer. She turned around just in time to catch a light turn on from a window across the street. “Every house on this block probably heard that shot. We have to get out of here!”
Burke slung his rifle around his shoulder as the fire went out of his eyes. The British man on the floor, covered in blood, still hadn’t been able to make a coherent sound. Burke then reached down and pulled him up. “You’re coming with us.”
The man gave little resistance as Burke pulled him out the door, over Omar’s corpse, and down the walkway. He appeared to be checked out, lost in a daze of delirium. Angela walked behind them, watching the house in case anyone else was there. It would have been a great opportunity to search the place for information: contacts, addresses, and whatever else they could find. Except, of course, every minute counted.
Instead, Burke had decided to do things his way—again. He was a loose cannon, and she found herself upset with him all over again. Burke wasted no time swinging open the car’s back door, tying the man by his wrists, and pushing him in like a drunk off the street. He slammed the door shut and looked to Angela urgently.