by Richard Bard
Farhad admired his mentor’s calm demeanor. Hadi had his own reasons to want to see Bronson dead. He had been present in the sacred cavern in Afghanistan when Bronson had triggered the first pyramid, and Hadi and the sheikh had witnessed the ultimate treachery. Farhad’s mentor had shared the story only once with Farhad and the others, and it had troubled Hadi to do so. But he had thought it could provide a valuable lesson about the critical importance of remaining true to one’s faith.
And to one’s allegiance to his tribe and fellow warriors.
Farhad remembered the telling as if it was yesterday.
“Bronson’s grenade had seriously wounded the sheikh,” Hadi explained. “Half his face and neck had been shredded to a pulp. But unlike our brave brothers who’d stepped forward to shield us from the blast, he and I survived. The sheikh fought through the pain of his wounds as we ran for the rear tunnel exit, propelled by the knowledge that Bronson and his allies would soon perish by the bomb that had been secreted onto their plane…”
Hadi took a breath before adding. “By one of our own.”
“He was a young boy, but the sheikh had trained him personally to his purpose, and he had every faith that the young warrior could accomplish his task. The boy had infiltrated Bronson’s ranks, providing intel on the American’s activities as he and his allies planned their assault on our mountain home. We were ready for them, and everything was going according to plan. That is, until Bronson accidentally launched the pyramid into space.”
Farhad could still recall the wrath that had emanated from Hadi as he finished the story.
“We made it to the cliff just as the American airplane lifted from the ground, and the sheik had forced a half smile onto his blistered and oozing face as we awaited the blast that would end the infidels once and for all.” Hadi’s gaze went distant. “But the bomb never detonated. The boy had failed. Bronson and his team survived, and since then countless believers have suffered and died because of it. Including the sheik.” He captured Farhad’s gaze. “And your father.”
Farhad looked at Hadi. “Revenge may do little for the living, but only justice can bring peace to the dead.”
Hadi’s expression tightened. He nodded, and the two of them stared back down at the lodge. The boy who’d failed their tribe was inside.
His name was Ahmed.
***
Ahmed surveyed the assortment of weapons and ammo on the equipment table, including two H&K MP5 submachine guns that were Tony’s weapons of choice from his spec ops days. His gaze stopped on the pistol he’d taken from the biker he’d killed, a shiver reminding him of the sickening sensation of burying the machete in the man’s neck. He didn’t regret it. The man had tried to murder Ahmed’s family. When the biker had yanked the pistol from its holster with the intent to kill him, Ahmed had swung the blade with all his strength. In the eyes of Allah he’d done the right thing, just as when he’d shot the man torturing Dad on the island, or when he’d killed to protect his brother and sister at the arcade, or the biker in the parking lot who was about to kill Tony.
I’ve killed four people, and there probably will be more.
Even so, reliving the moment he’d swung the machete made his nerves feel raw.
Tony stood beside him. “It’s a Glock 22. Used by seventy percent of law enforcement across the country. Pretty much standard issue at LAPD. Forty caliber with a fifteen-round mag.” Tony cleared the weapon and handed it over.
Ahmed liked holding it. It made him feel…different somehow. Stronger. He rotated the pistol, examining its lines and detail. “Where’s the safety?”
“No traditional safety lever. Glocks use what’s called a safe action trigger.” Tony pointed to the slim lever in the forked trigger. “Unless your finger is wrapped completely over the trigger, it won’t fire. It prevents accidental discharge. Plus, it eliminates the extra step of flipping a safety lever.”
Ahmed double-gripped the weapon and aimed it out a window. “So it’s always ready to kill.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed, so Ahmed wasn’t surprised when Tony wrapped his hand over the top of the weapon. Reluctantly Ahmed released it and Tony placed it back on the table.
Tony lowered his voice. “You okay, kid? Things went sideways with those bikers, but you did what you had to do. You get that, right?”
Ahmed nodded. He and Tony hadn’t told the others the details of what had happened, and he liked it that way. His mom wouldn’t be able to handle it.
“Damn it, that’s the last one,” Marshall said behind them. Francesca, Lacey, and Sarafina hovered behind him at his workstation, which he’d augmented with a large desktop touchscreen monitor. Ahmed and Tony joined them.
“Are you sure?” Francesca asked.
“I’ve been through each of them two or three times. Seventy-two cell phone videos posted so far from the scene, but no sign of Alex. I suspect a few more will trickle in over time, but that’s got to be the bulk of them. My search algorithms will continue to notify me if—”
The computer chimed. Marshall opened another window and tapped the play icon. Everyone leaned in. The video quivered as if the person taking it was nervous. It showed the tail end of the attack at the front of the motel: smoke from the two charges used by the bikers to blow open the front doors to their rooms, Tony barreling out one door into two bikers, one of them toppling over the rail to land on the pavement with a sickening sound.
Sarafina gasped. Ahmed’s heart raced as he watched Tony grab a shotgun and blast the second biker in the chest to send him sprawling backward. Two more bikers charged up the staircase and bystanders scattered. “Oh my God!” a girl’s voice exclaimed on the video. The scene spun and scrambled as the girl taking the video fled, weaving through waves of armed bikers running in the opposite direction.
The video ended.
Lacey sighed and took Francesca’s hand to lead her away.
“Wait,” Sarafina said. “Go back to that last part.”
Marshall slid back the progress bar and tapped the play icon.
Ahmed scooted next to his sister to get a closer look. “Did you see him?”
“No, but…” She hovered her index finger near the screen as the video spun around to show the crowd racing away. A slow-moving line of vehicles stretched into the distance on the road beyond them. “There!” Sarafina paused the video and pointed at two tour buses in the distant traffic. “Those buses were parked by the coffee shop earlier in the day.”
Francesca’s voice caught. “Of course. Alex could have—”
“Quiet!” Tony’s command stole the air out of everyone’s lungs. What Ahmed heard next sent him racing to the weapons table.
The sound of a motorcycle engine was unmistakable.
It was headed toward the lodge.
“Douse the lights!”
***
Minutes earlier
“Track laying will be complete in one minute,” Ghazi’s voice announced over the comm net, referring to the quadcopter drone marking an approach through the trees. It had taken off from a clearing on the opposite side of the forested ridge surrounding the lodge, where Ghazi and Jamal were stationed inside a weathered food truck they’d converted into a mobile command post and drone launching platform.
Farhad scanned the tree line surrounding the lodge, and smiled when he couldn’t locate the tracking drone. While they could have used any of the four recon drones currently stationed on tree limbs surrounding the structure, the whisper-silent rotors and tiny size of the drone Ghazi had selected made it a stealthier intruder than the others.
Farhad switched on his wrist display and tracked its progress. It flew a cautious zigzag through the surrounding forest, guided by Ghazi’s deft hands. The drone’s internal GPS and instrumentation recorded its every move in 3D space, transmitting it to Jamal’s master control system via Pelican-1. Once the track had been laid, a fleet of attack drones could follow its path at full speed, making them impossible to target by defenders.
&nb
sp; Each attack drone was programmed to hit different windows of the lodge with explosives. It was a fire-and-release system, meaning once the attack drones were launched, they could complete their mission autonomously.
The simultaneous blasts would obliterate the lodge’s occupants.
The system had been the brainchild of Ebrahem, aka Abe, the team’s computer science genius. Bringing his vision to reality had been a group effort. Ebrahem used his hacking skills to acquire the key algorithms they’d needed, and Aasif, aka Al, who was Ghazi’s brother, had worked with Ebrahem to complete the programming. Amir and Tarik focused on the mechanical and electrical components, and Mahmood, aka Mike, whose specialty was chemical engineering, had formulated the explosive components.
“The track is laid,” Ghazi reported. “Attack drones standing by.”
Eight attack drones, Farhad thought, with a track only a quarter mile long. Child’s play compared to the tracks they’d recorded in the past few months leading to their primary target in Los Angeles.
A single order from him would finish Bronson’s friends and family, including the traitor, Ahmed. Farhad fingered the hilt of his knife, glancing past Hadi to the other three members of his assault team: Latif, aka Larry; Saabir, aka Sam; and Pirooz, aka Paul. All had eyes on him, waiting for him to give the word. But there was something off about them. These were his frontline soldiers, the bravest, strongest, and fastest of their group. They’d ranked far higher than any of the others in their training, but had yet to be unleashed in mortal combat.
Farhad motioned toward them and Hadi followed his gaze. “Look at their glum expressions. They realize once I give the order, they will have nothing to do but sit and watch.”
Hadi cocked his head. It was a tell, and Farhad knew his mentor’s next question would be a test. “And so?”
Farhad’s grip tightened around the hilt of his knife. “The track has been laid, the attack drones are prepped and ready, and we know from countless field tests they will perform as programmed.” He paused and allowed thoughts of his family to mold his resolve. He nodded to himself, and Farhad saw the glint of approval flash across Hadi’s face.
Farhad smiled. He activated his microphone. “Stand down the attack drones. Let’s do this face to face.” His team stared at him, but their initial surprise was quickly replaced by hard determination.
“Hadi and I will enter the front. Latif and Pirooz from the rear. Saabir on overwatch from the northern ridge. Move.” The trio vanished into the trees.
Two minutes later everyone was in place. Farhad’s only regret was that Bronson himself wasn’t present. Nevertheless, he looked forward to dealing justice—and revenge—to those near and dear to the infamous Brainman. He keyed his microphone, and was about to give the order when the sound of a motorcycle echoed from the bottom of the road leading to the lodge.
“Hold. Someone’s approaching.”
Chapter 17
JAKE ACCELERATED out of the turn, crouched low on the bike as he pushed it to its limits up the narrow mountain road. Trees flashed by either side of him, and the pine-scented wind whistled across his helmet. He wore cargo pants and a leather bomber jacket, and his backpack was strapped to the back of the bike. He’d considered renting a car for the forty-minute drive to the lodge, but had discarded the idea because of the GPS trackers that were standard equipment in rental cars these days. Renting a vintage Harley was a different matter. It was triple the price but was pure grit and gasoline. The rental shop had been only a ten-minute Uber ride from the airport, and his fake ID and credit card had sealed the deal.
He was off grid and intended to stay that way.
He slowed as he made the turn onto the private road leading to the lodge below Mt. Wilson. Would his family be there? His friends?
Will they forgive me?
The swing gate was open, and that gave him hope.
***
“One of the bikers from the raid at Lake Tahoe?” Jamal’s voice sounded in Farhad’s headset. Like the rest of the team, Jamal watched from his hidden assault position.
“Perhaps,” Farhad replied, but his racing heart hoped differently. He used his binoculars to get a better look. The helmeted biker stopped in the clearing fifty yards in front of the lodge, one foot on the ground and both hands still gripping the handlebars as he scanned his surroundings. When the man’s attention turned in his direction, Farhad lowered the field glasses and edged behind a tree. “Cover,” he whispered into his microphone.
After a long moment, the biker goosed the throttle and moved forward. The motorcycle rolled up to the front porch, where the rider killed the motor, set the kickstand, and unstrapped his helmet.
Farhad brought the binoculars up, holding his breath as the rider peeled off the helmet. From the poor lighting and his angle behind the man, Farhad couldn’t be sure, but the height and frame were accurate. It must be him, Farhad thought. He could almost feel the excitement surging through the rest of his team.
Jamal whispered over the comm net, “Our prayers have been—” He stopped when the rider turned toward them to set the helmet on the bike, revealing his face.
Farhad looked hard at the man’s distorted features. To the casual observer, the face that stared back was not that of the man who’d become known as the global terrorist. But the disguise—or facial injury, if that’s what it was—couldn’t hide the steely eyes from Farhad’s gaze through the magnified lenses of the binoculars. He’d seen those eyes in his dreams. “Don’t be fooled,” he said, holding his hand over the microphone to keep his voice from traveling. “It’s Jake Bronson. Remain perfectly still.”
“Then it’s finally time to end this.” Jamal’s voice was hushed.
“Yes, it is, but we are not going to underestimate him as so many others have done in the past. Hold your positions for now. We need intel. Ghazi?”
“I launched the bug drone ten seconds ago.”
This was the perfect application for the MAV—micro air vehicle. The nano drone looked and moved like a dragonfly, its wings auto-adjusting to compensate for wind.
Ghazi’s voice was soft. “It’s approaching the east side of the lodge. The second window from the front is cracked open.”
Adjusting the field glasses, Farhad caught a glimpse of the bug drone as it alighted onto the window screen. The curtains were drawn but the open window would allow them to eavesdrop. He exchanged a grin with Hadi.
***
“He’s coming up the steps,” Ahmed said, flattening himself against the wall beside the front door. He gripped the Glock with both hands in front of his chest.
Tony crouched on the opposite side of the entrance, his shouldered MP5 aimed at the door handle. “Steady,” Tony said. “Follow my lead.”
Ahmed nodded, but a part of him wanted to make the first move, to yank open the door and put two slugs in the biker’s chest before the intruder could harm any of them. His heart raced, but the pistol was firm and steady in his hands. He’d already ratcheted a round into the chamber.
His mom and sister were hunkered down in the back room. He’d refused to join them, and had been pleased when Tony succumbed and assigned him to his current spot. Marshall and Lacey were also armed, crouched behind an upturned coffee table. They all knew the stakes. Somehow one of the bikers had tracked them to this location. Was the rider on his own, or were there others hiding in the surrounding forest? Ahmed had risked a glance out a window when they first heard the motorcycle, and he thought he’d caught a reflective glint in the distant trees. But he couldn’t be sure. Either way, I won’t hesitate.
The biker or bikers must not be permitted to leave alive.
He flinched at the knocks on the door, but then adrenaline charged through his limbs. He raised his weapon.
***
As he climbed the steps to the porch, Jake felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched. But all he heard was the rustle of leaves and the buzz of insects. Th
ere was no sign of activity inside. Bracing himself, he knocked on the door.
He heard a faint thud inside, but nobody came to the door. He stepped to one side, wrapped his hand around the grip of his grandfather’s holstered Colt .45, and knocked again.
“Tony? You in there?”
“Are you shittin’ me?” Tony’s voice sounded from inside. “Jake, is that you?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so.”
“You son of a bitch!” The door burst open, and Tony’s roundhouse punch froze inches from Jake’s jaw, the big guy’s eyes bugging out at the sight of Jake’s distorted face. “Jesus,” Tony gasped. He stepped forward and wrapped Jake in a bear hug that lifted him from his feet. “Damn, it’s good to see you, pal.” Tony set him down and grabbed both shoulders as he scrutinized his features. “I think it’s an improvement. Where the hell have you been?”
Before Jake could answer, Ahmed stepped through the door. Jake noted the Glock his adopted son had tucked into his belt. Ahmed winced at the sight of Jake’s face, but when their eyes locked, Ahmed overcame his touch phobia and rushed forward to give Jake a hug. Just as quickly, he pulled back. Instead of the rants that usually flowed from the boy when he was emotionally rattled, Ahmed composed himself and said, “Allah is merciful. He brought you back to us at a time when we need you most.”
“Sorry it took so long,” Jake said. He was taken aback by the maturity of the boy. There was a hardness to him that hadn’t existed when Jake last saw him, and Jake could only wonder at the magnitude of the stress Ahmed and the rest of them had been under in the past few days.
Lacey and Marshall poured onto the porch. Lacey threw her arms around him, and Marshall settled for a high five.
“It’s you. It’s really you,” Lacey said.
Marshall couldn’t stop shaking his head. “I can’t friggin’ believe you did it to us again. Made us all think you were dead.” He leaned forward to study Jake’s face, first one side, then the other. “Does it hurt?”