Although the message was properly formatted and relatively short, Hicks still had to read it three more times to understand it. It didn’t make any sense.
‘Student 1357’ was the official University designation for one of his deep cover operatives: Colin Rousseau. He had assigned Colin an undercover role as a driver at a Somali cab outfit in Long Island City, Queens. The owner, a man named Omar Farhan, and several drivers were on the University’s terror Watch List, which had a lower threshold than most national watch lists. OMNI had been passively tracking their movements for over a year, and Colin had been working at the cabstand for just over five months. Since Colin’s family had originally come from Kenya, he knew enough of the language and customs to blend in without being an obvious plant.
It had been a sleepy assignment and Hicks was thinking of pulling the plug on it. But now, Colin had hit the panic button. When an experienced agent requested an emergency meeting, there had to be a damned good reason.
Hicks wasn’t surprised when his handheld showed his Department Chair was calling him. Other professions had the option of allowing unwanted phone calls to go to voicemail. Hicks didn’t have that luxury. He knew Jason would only keep calling until Hicks answered because, according to the University’s structure, Jason was technically Hicks’ boss.
Hicks tapped the icon to allow the call through and brought the handheld up to his ear. “I just got Colin’s message.”
Jason had never been one for pleasantries or ceremony. “According to your activity log, you had your weekly debriefing with him yesterday.”
“I know. I wrote it, remember?”
“And I read it. I didn’t see anything there that would suggest a sudden need to meet.”
Jason’s tone grated on him, until Hicks remembered the Dean of the University had chosen Jason because he wasn’t field personnel. Jason was a planner and organizer. If it didn’t fall into a cell on a spreadsheet, it held little relevance in Jason’s world. Hicks remembered what the Dean had told him when he’d brought Jason on six months before: Jason is only your superior on paper, James. He’s merely your connection to us. Think of him as a link in the protective chain of command. That’s all.
That didn’t make working with the son of a bitch any easier. “Field work isn’t always predictable. Things like this happen from time to time, but there’s no sense in wasting time guessing why he needs to meet. I won’t know anything until I actually talk to him.”
“I find the sudden urgency of it disturbing. Will you require any assistance?” Jason asked. “Perhaps a Varsity team could be in the area to provide support.”
“No thanks.” The Varsity was the University’s tactical unit, usually reserved for raids or clean up jobs following a hit. Some of them were levelheaded and some were cowboys. He didn’t want them anywhere near this kind of meeting. “Colin’s my man, my problem. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“And if it does?”
“Then I’ll handle it.”
“The Dean is confident that you will. I only wish I shared his confidence. Colin should be sending through the location of the rendezvous in a moment, if he’s still following protocol. We’ll decide then what precautions are best.”
Jason killed the connection and Hicks’ screen went dark. Jason always had been a last word freak.
The handheld vibrated again as the location for the meeting had come through. Despite the security of their network, the University had an elaborate, often cumbersome, security protocol for emergency circumstances. Undercover personnel called emergency meetings and could call the location. They could only go through the Switchboard and weren’t allowed to contact their handlers directly.
Since most University operatives were usually imbedded with sophisticated, careful terrorist groups, this protocol protected agent and handler alike. The agent called a central number, gave the handler’s call sign and message. An operator then transmitted the insisted on often separated key parts of their messages. Locations of meetings were up to the field agent and seldom included in a message requesting a meeting. If the agent was in distress, there were subtle phrases to use that would alert the University that they were being forced to call in. Colin’s message had no such warning, so Hicks assumed he was clear.
A map application with the address opened and showed exactly where Colin wanted to meet. Under a footbridge in Central Park at eight o’clock that night.
During the predicted height of the coming blizzard.
Hicks pocketed his handheld and headed down to the subway. There was no sense in questioning the message or looking at the map any more than he already had. He could ask himself all sorts of questions and speculate all he wanted, but he knew it wouldn’t do a damned bit of good. He wouldn’t know what all of this was about until he spoke to Colin.
Until then, he had plenty of work to do.
20:00 Hrs / 8:00PM
HICKS FELT like the artic explorers of old as he trudged through almost a foot of heavy snow toward Central Park. The streets were unplowed and deserted and there wasn’t a cab in sight. The MTA had recalled all buses and subways hours ago because of the storm, so walking was the only way he could get uptown. He didn’t mind. He’d been in worse weather in worse parts of the world; often with people trying to kill him. Besides, he had short barreled .454 Ruger in the pocket of his parka to keep him warm. He usually preferred the compact feel of a .22 but, given the wind, he went with a higher caliber. Most would’ve gone for an automatic, but Hicks preferred revolvers. No worries about the damned thing jamming at the wrong time.
Hicks thought a lot about Colin and his phone call as he trudged through the snow. He’d spent the afternoon and early evening on the University’s system analyzing Colin’s phone and computer activity. OMNI was tied in to every ISP and mobile service in the world—had been from the beginning—so access to virtually every web-enabled device was only a few mouse clicks away. No other agency had that kind of access. Not even the NSA. The Snowden mess proved that. The Snowden mess also validated the University’s obsession with secrecy, even in the intelligence world.
None of Colin’s digital activity proved suspicious except for the lack of it in the past day or so. Colin was like most people in the twenty-first century: addicted to his phone. He mostly visited sports sights and online Islamic bulletin boards. He scanned Al Jazeera and the New York Times. When no one was around, he watched SportsCenter clips online and porn sites. Hicks knew Colin had a weakness for Asian chicks and his surfing history proved it.
Since he was undercover, Colin wasn’t allowed to have a University device. He went with an independent wireless carrier instead. Just because University devices couldn’t be hacked didn’t mean the Dean allowed their equipment to be put in harm’s way. Operatives were trained, but they were human and humans made mistakes. They lost phones and left them at friends’ houses. They got drunk and left them behind. No need to tempt fate. Terrorists got lucky. 9/11 had proven that, too.
Colin had been a rock since Hicks had taken over the University’s New York office three years before. Colin had joined the U.S. Army when he was eighteen and had shown a capacity for languages and an immigrant’s love for country. He’d found a home in Intelligence and eventually came to work for the University ten years before.
Hicks had worked with him in other parts of the world and was glad he’d been able to talk him into transferring to the New York Office. Colin was a rare breed who could work deep cover or handle the tactical aspects of the job seamlessly. He could imbed with the bad guys or run a raid on a cell with equal efficiency. And Hicks had every intention of nominating him for Office Head next time an opening came up.
Hicks had fully expected Colin to balk at the cab stand assignment, but he didn’t. Hicks had shown him the file and explained the cab stand owner—Omar—was a Somali with some radical tendencies. He mostly hired Somali drivers with equally radical tendencies.
It was the kind of posting some in the University had clas
sified as a cold assignment, but Hicks’ gut said different. Too many rotten eggs in one place always raised a stink and he wanted eyes on them for a while. The cab stand vibed amateur, but it only took one strike to bring a cell into the pros. The tacit digital surveillance Hicks had placed on their phones and computers led him to believe Omar and his boys would pull a job if someone gave them a chance—and enough money—to pull it off.
That’s why Colin’s sudden request for a meeting made Hicks wonder if he’d been right. And he was glad he’d brought the Ruger to keep him company. Trust, but verify.
By the time Hicks finally reached Central Park, the sky glowed purple high above the barren trees. Central Park South was usually filled with tourists and horse-drawn carriages lined up to take said tourists on a ride inside the park. The blizzard had chased them all inside, except for the rare die-hard cabbie looking for a fare.
The weather inside the park was even more severe than out on the street. Snow had been blown into drifts almost shin-high, even on the paths that had once been clear. The wind blew the whole mess in a wild, circular motion.
The park was deserted and Hicks hoped it stayed that way. He hated surprises and a snowbound park wasn’t ideal for surprises. Footprints in the snow betrayed early arrivals. Tough going made it hard to sneak up unannounced. Harsh wind fucked with bullet trajectory. Maybe that’s why Colin had picked it? He certainly hoped so.
The wind picked up steadily the farther he got into the park; with the snow turning into a driving sleet just as he reached the footbridge. Hicks pulled back the sleeve of his parka and checked his watch. He was ten minutes early. He normally liked to arrive a half hour early, but trudging through shin-deep snowdrifts had fouled up his ETA.
But as he got closer to the footbridge, he saw Colin was already there. University protocol was clear: Operatives were never supposed to be on site until their Faculty Member cleared the site first. Colin knew University protocol better than anyone.
Red flag.
Hicks slowed as he scanned the area as best he could through the sleet and snow. There was no sign of fresh footprints in the snow leading to the site, meaning Colin must’ve entered through the west side of the park. It looked like he’d come alone, but he wouldn’t be able to tell much until he was under the shelter of the footbridge. By then, it would be too late to do anything but react
University protocol was clear on this point, too: if an Operative fails to meet exact protocol, turn around and walk away.
Protocol had its place, but Colin was Hicks’ man. He already knew something was off about the whole set up. He gripped the handle of the Ruger in his pocket. Just in case.
The closer Hicks got, the less he liked what he saw. Colin was normally laid back to the point of appearing to be careless. Nothing ever seemed to bother him or upset him or make him happy. Hicks had never known him to betray any emotion other than what his cover required. He was an emotional blank slate, which had made him ideal for the kind of undercover work Hicks assigned him.
But now, Colin was pacing back and forth like a caged animal. He was also constantly blowing into gloved hands. His head was uncovered and his eyes were wide. He appeared nervous and twitchy like a junkie jonesing for a fix. And Colin never drank or used drugs.
Hicks kept his hand on the Ruger in his pocket as he joined Colin under the footbridge. “What’s going on?”
“Things, man. Things.” Colin kept pacing and muttering to himself. “Things you don’t know, man. Things you can’t see. Things you don’t want to know and don’t want to see, see?”
Hicks had only seen Colin two days before, but he looked like he’d aged ten years since then. His eyes were red and his pupils were pinpoints. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days and Hicks wondered if he had.
He looked and acted high. Like coke or heroin high, which was a problem. Because Colin didn’t do stimulants. He hated needles and alcohol gave him a headache. Even beer.
Red flag number two.
Hicks went to grab his arm, but Colin jumped back; slipping on the icy snow that had drifted under the footbridge. He fell back against the wall of the underpass and stared up at him, eyes wild. “You’ve gotta pull me out, boss. You gotta pull me out, now. I don’t have time to explain, but it’s bad, man. Real, real bad. These boys ain’t playing and… and, oh, you’ve gotta pull me out, and you’ve gotta pull me out right now.”
Hicks kept checking both ends of the tunnel. None of this felt right. Colin had always been solid and he never panicked. And he didn’t pace back and forth and babble like this. Hicks had seen panic and burnout in Operatives before. Panic was as a part of Intel life as breathing. People did odd things when they panicked. They were late or they were early or they were hiding near by or they ran to him they saw him. But they never stayed in the open, pacing back and forth like Colin was doing now.
Like a goat tied to a stake in the ground.
Hicks didn’t try to help him. He pulled the Ruger and kept it flat against his side as he kept an eye on the western approach to the underpass; backing up the way he’d come, glancing over his shoulder as he moved. “Let’s get out of here, Colin. Let’s go somewhere warm where we can talk. Just you and me.”
Colin pawed at the stone wall as he crept away from Hicks. “Don’t touch me, man! I don’t need you touching me. I need you to get me out of here, that’s all. I need you to get me the hell out of here and away from these people.”
Hicks kept backing up; the Magnum flat against his leg. He felt the snow and sleet begin to hit the back of his hood. “Then come with me, and let’s get the hell out of here. This way. Right now.”
But Colin kept inching along the wall back toward the western entrance to the underpass. “Wait, man. Just… just wait a second, okay? We gotta talk, come up with a plan, you know? Get this straight before we go anywhere so we can…”
Hicks brought up his Ruger when he saw a shadow move at the western end of the underpass. Someone else would’ve dismissed it as a tree branch moving in front of a streetlight, but not Hicks. He’d spent his life in shadow. He knew the difference.
Colin began to shriek as two men spilled out onto the snowy footpath at the western entrance. The nearest man regained his footing first. Hicks saw a small video camera in his hand. The son of a bitch must’ve been filming the whole thing.
The other man was farther back, next to a snow-covered bush just off to the side of the path. Colin began to squeal as the man aimed at him. Hicks fired twice just as the gun came around. Both rounds hit him in the middle of the chest. The man’s gun fired once as he stumbled back into the blizzard.
The man with the video camera slipped again as he tried to run away; belly-flopping on the walkway but not dropping the camera. He scrambled to his knees, trying to get his feet under him despite the thick snow. Hicks didn’t wait for him to get to his balance and shot him in the temple. The cameraman’s head flinched at the impact of the bullet before he collapsed dead on the pathway. The video camera was still strapped to his hand.
A sharp wind picked up, blowing snow and sleet into the underpass. Hicks didn’t hear a sound, not even the echo of his gunfire.
Not even Colin’s screaming.
Hicks found Colin slumped against the wall; a bullet hole in his neck; a red streak tracking the path he had fallen against the wall. The gunman’s errant shot had caught him in the throat, and he was steadily bleeding out into the snow.
Hicks knew calling for help was pointless. With that kind of a wound, he’d soon be dead if he wasn’t already. Besides, despite everything they’d been through together, the son of a bitch had just set him up.
Hicks crept forward; listening as he swept the area outside the western approach with the Rugerin case anyone else was hiding in the shadows. All he found was a whole lot of snow and the two men he’d just killed. The only footprints he saw showed three men approaching the site and the prints they’d made running away. He lowered his Ruger and listened as the snow and slee
t fell around him. Gunshots usually drove everyone away except for cops. And cops were the last thing he needed just then.
Hicks reverted back to his training. He ignored the wind and the sleet and the snow and simply listened for sirens, a police radio, a barking dog, a stifled sneeze. Anything that would tell him if someone was nearby. But all he heard was the wind in his ears and the sleet hitting his skin. A quiet park on a snowy night. The scene would’ve been postcard perfect if it hadn’t been for the three dead men at his feet.
Hicks took a knee and began patting down the dead men’s pockets; starting with the gunman. He took in everything at once: the thick, hooded parka, the black ski mask, and the sneakers. He took a closer look at the footwear: cheap Air Jordan knockoffs. The cameraman was in a similar getup, too.
Why the heavy coat and lousy footwear in a blizzard they’d been predicting for days, especially for a hit in a park? It didn’t make any sense.
Hicks pulled off the gunman’s ski mask so he could get a clear face shot of it with his handheld. The face was unfamiliar but common: thin and black, between twenty and forty and slack in death. He looked too thin to be American and, judging by where Colin had been working undercover, probably Somali. Hicks had never seen either of them in person or in in any of the surveillance images from the cab stand, either. Whoever these men were, they were new players to the game and they wouldn’t be playing any longer.
Hicks activated the secure features of his phone and took a picture of the gunman’s face. He pulled the ski mask and hood back the way they’d been, then used his phone to scan the dead man’s fingerprints. The man hadn’t been wearing a glove on his gun hand.
Hicks went through the same procedure on the cameraman—also a black man who Hicks had never seen before. He took a picture of his face and scanned his fingerprints, then uploaded the information to OMNI. If their faces or fingerprints were on record with any government in the world, he’d know about it in less than an hour. If not, the network would automatically begin running image checks on every kind of camera available from that spot to see if it could find a match locating where they’d come from. ATM machines, security cameras, traffic cameras, and even images posted on social media would all be scanned by OMNI; thousands of images per second until they had an idea of who these men were and where they’d come from.
Sympathy For the Devil Page 3