Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  Amir tried not to sigh. He had explained this several times already. “It will not be long, I promise. I will look after your wife and your affairs while you are away. You are ready,” he proclaimed, and kissed his brother on the cheek. “It’s time to go. The schedule is tight.”

  “For Allah,” Masoud said.

  “For Persia,” chanted Rostami.

  Then Amir led his brother and Rostami to the driveway where the cars were waiting.

  CHAPTER 32

  Lake Home Estate

  Céligny, Switzerland

  May 22, 0952 Local Time

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Tap, tap, tap went his index finger against the trigger guard.

  A rustle behind Dempsey made him turn. Wang had pulled his headphones off and was packing up his computer. Feeling Dempsey’s eyes on him, he looked up and dragged a hand across his throat. “Leaving,” he whispered.

  “Did we get what we needed?”

  Wang shrugged. “Don’t know. It was really dirty. Zero never streamed anything back. The geek squad must still be cleaning it up.”

  “EXFIL,” came Jarvis’s voice in his ear, sounding calm and confident. “We got everything we’re gonna get. Satellite has Rostami’s rental car on the move. Confirm?”

  Dempsey lifted his compact binoculars to his eyes and scanned the lake-house driveway. He glimpsed the rear quarter of Rostami’s rental sedan turning out of the drive onto Route de Suisse highway. A moment later, he saw a second sedan following the rental car up the drive.

  “Two vehicles leaving the house,” Dempsey whispered. “No ID on the passengers.”

  “John!”

  He looked at Wang. From the pallor of the kid’s skin, he knew they had a problem. Keeping as still as possible, he followed the vector of Wang’s terrified gaze.

  Standing at the edge of the estate property and peering into the woods was an Iranian security guard. He wore dark jeans, a turtleneck sweater, and sunglasses. He held a submachine gun tight to his chest, with his index finger poised and ready on the trigger guard. Even at twenty meters away, Dempsey could make out the compact radio on his belt and a microphone cord clipped to the epaulets of his sweater. The sunglasses made it impossible to tell exactly where the man was looking, but obviously the guard had not seen them yet. Judging from the Iranian’s posture, this was a “Shoot first, ask questions later” kind of guy.

  In slow motion, Dempsey dropped to the ground, disappearing into a patch of brush. Wang crawled in beside him. Dempsey put a finger to his lips and gestured for Wang to stay put. The tech’s eyes widened with uncertainty, and for one awful moment Dempsey thought Wang might bolt. With the calm assurance of a lifelong operator, Dempsey looked him in the eyes and mouthed, “It’s okay.” Some of his confidence must have rubbed off, because the kid nodded and settled down.

  Dempsey looked back at the Iranian sentry. The man was on the move, drifting closer to their position but still hugging the tree line. He paused to listen. Then he took a tentative step into the woods.

  Cursing under his breath, Dempsey slithered backward silently, moving deeper into the woods. He crept to the west, wondering if Smith or Grimes had seen the sentry yet. It could be a problem if two of them made a move against the Iranian at the same time. Since the patrolling guard was now in Dempsey’s area, he prayed that his teammates had the good sense to leave the unpleasant task ahead in his capable hands.

  Dempsey paused in the middle of his flanking maneuver, sighting through the forked trunk of a tree. The sentry took two more steps into the woods, closing on Wang’s hiding place. Dempsey watched and waited, both hunter and prey, given his position. The SEAL in him wanted to drop the asshole with a headshot, but the clandestine operative knew better. Sniping this sentry solved the immediate problem, but gunfire would bring more security guards on top of them, compromising the op and their escape. Radio calls would be made. Rostami and Modiri would know that someone had been watching them, unraveling everything. He couldn’t let that happen.

  Easy was not an option.

  The sentry paused. Clutching his weapon, he scanned the woods in a broad, sweeping arc. Seemingly satisfied, the man turned around. He’d only taken a single step back toward the lake house when a rustle from Wang’s position stopped him cold.

  Dempsey’s heart sank.

  The sentry whirled, training the barrel of his submachine gun on the clump of brush where Dempsey had left Wang. Then the Iranian stepped cautiously forward, moving deeper into the woods.

  Dempsey scowled and silently unsheathed the knife strapped to his left thigh. He moved like a ghost, circling behind the Iranian. Each footstep was a tactical operation in and of itself. The mat of pine needles that blanketed the forest floor was a blessing and a curse—muffling his footfalls, while concealing dry, brittle kindling. A single twig, in snap or silence, would decide the fate of three men.

  As the sentry closed in on Wang’s position, Dempsey’s heart began to race. The geometry wasn’t right yet. The Iranian would be on top of Wang before he got close enough to make the kill. He ducked his torso, pinned his rifle to his chest with his right hand to preserve his stealth, and changed his vector, from flanking to closing.

  The sentry stopped five meters from the clump of brush. He made a move for his radio, but then suddenly changed his mind. He took a half step forward into a firing stance, brought his submachine gun up to his shoulder . . .

  Dempsey closed the gap in a flash.

  The sentry tried to spin left, but it was too late. Dempsey clamped his right hand over the sentry’s mouth and jerked the man’s head back. The sentry reached up with his left hand to key his mike, but Dempsey’s knife was already on a collision course with the man’s neck. The blade threaded the gap between the third and fourth metacarpal bones in the sentry’s hand, exited through the palm, and continued on into the side of the man’s neck. Dempsey yanked the blade free, and hot blood spurted in a high arc, spattering the trunk of a nearby pine. The sentry shuddered and kicked, but Dempsey held firm. He brought the knife down again, this time cutting across the sentry’s throat from right to left, severing both carotid arteries and splitting the trachea in half with a hiss of air. Neck muscles and ligaments splayed as the sentry’s knees buckled. Still gripping the man’s jaw, Dempsey whipped the man’s head back to an impossible angle, ending with a crunch. He squatted and gently laid the dead man on the pine-needle floor, blood still spurting in all directions.

  Dropping to a knee beside the dead man, he scanned the forest for the next threat, lifting his Sig516 into a firing position. Grimes closed from the east, and Smith from the west, but no other threats appeared. After finishing his scan, he spotted Wang lying prone, half-buried in pine needles behind a bush three meters away.

  Wang scrambled to his knees and put a hand over his mouth as if to stifle a sob. He approached Dempsey and the dead sentry hesitantly, eyes wide, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “I thought I told you not to move,” Dempsey growled.

  “I know,” Wang whispered. “I’m not sure what happened. I was scared.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Wang stared at the Iranian’s butchered neck but said nothing.

  “First time?” Dempsey asked, wiping the blood off his knife.

  Wang nodded.

  “The first time is the hardest. You’ll be fine.”

  Smith and Grimes huddled in beside Wang.

  “Did he get a transmission off?” Smith asked.

  Dempsey shook his head.

  “SITREP,” a voice demanded in his earpiece. It was Jarvis.

  “Zero, this is Two. We have one Tango down,” Smith said softly. “No compromise.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Yes. One made sure of that.”

  Dempsey heard Jarvis sigh heavily on the line. “He’ll miss check-in, but that’s all they’ll know. Sterilize protocol. No evidence, no clues left behind. Then, egress to the pickup coordinates,” said Jarvis, his voice
hard and tense. “You have ten minutes.”

  “What’s going on?” Smith pushed.

  “We cleaned up the audio. This is a short fuse. They’re going big.”

  Dempsey and Smith exchanged glances.

  “How big?” Dempsey asked.

  “Big. Now move. Zero, out.”

  Dempsey knelt next to the dead man. “You got duct tape in that duffel, Smith?”

  Smith shrugged the bag off his shoulders, fished inside, and tossed him a roll of EB green.

  “Lift his leg while I tape.” Dempsey turned to Grimes and Wang. “You two, go find as many rocks as you can. Hurry.”

  Smith lifted the dead man’s left leg off the ground by the boot, and Dempsey looped the roll around the bottom, taping the dead man’s pants legs closed at the ankle. Satisfied, they moved on to the right leg and repeated the process. In the meantime, a pile of rocks had materialized beside the dead man’s right shoulder, Grimes and Wang bringing back every-size stone they could find. Without needing to be told, Smith started stuffing rocks down the dead Iranian’s pants.

  “Four, One. Copy?” Dempsey said.

  “One, Four. Go ahead,” Mendez came back, his voice barely audible over the sound of the wind howling and the boat engine roaring in the background.

  “In five mikes, be at the shore, a half-click north of the surveillance point. Have a towline ready.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Is that enough rocks?” Grimes asked, scanning the forest for threats over her gun sight while Dempsey and Smith packed rocks.

  “Should be,” Dempsey huffed, taping a seal around the dead man’s waistband.

  “You gonna sink him?” Wang asked.

  “Yep. I’ll have Mendez tow me out, and I’ll take the body down deep. You guys EXFIL to the road, and I’ll ride with Mendez to the marina. We’ll meet you at the rendezvous.”

  “Someone could spot you dragging him out of the woods,” Grimes said.

  “If you have a better idea how to make this body disappear in the next five minutes, I’m all ears, otherwise it’s Davy Jones’s Locker for this SOB.”

  Grimes chewed her lip.

  “All right, we do it my way,” Dempsey said, taping the dead man’s rock-laden legs together at the ankles. “Smith, help me. Shoulder carry, like he’s a fucking training log.”

  Together, Dempsey and Smith ran the body through the woods to a spot a half-click north of the lake house where the tree line pressed to the water’s edge. Mendez was waiting with the idling Malibu Wakesetter, ideally positioned on the blind side of a small peninsular outcropping, bow out with a towline flung onto the rocky shore. Dempsey moved swiftly, dragging the dead man across the rocky shore into the glacier-fed waters of Lake Geneva. He wasted no time, forcing the dead man below the surface in three feet of water. Holding the body down with his boot, Dempsey looped the towline around the dead man’s torso three times and then knotted the loose end to the line. Bubbles streamed upward from the dead man’s open mouth and air pockets in his clothing.

  Dempsey looked back at Smith, Grimes, and Wang, who were watching from the cover inside the tree line. With a chattering jaw, he said, “You guys owe me one for this.”

  After settling down to his neck in the frigid water, he gripped the towline with both hands.

  “Ready?” Mendez called, looking back over his shoulder.

  Dempsey gave a nod. “Take us out. Nice and easy.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Route de Lausanne, Southbound Toward Geneva

  May 22, 1019 Local Time

  Dempsey cranked the thermostat control in the Mercedes SUV to max heat. He was still in his wet 5.11 Tactical clothes and shivering like mad, but he had nothing to change into, and they didn’t have the time to stop.

  “Your lips are blue, dude,” Mendez said, glancing over at him from the driver’s seat. “You look like a corpse. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Dempsey said nonchalantly. “Hey, do you think if I turn on the seat heater, it will electrocute my ass?”

  “Go for it, bro,” Mendez said. “I know CPR.”

  Dempsey pressed the button for the seat heater and then pretended to convulse in his seat.

  Mendez slammed on the brakes before he realized that Dempsey was kidding.

  “You asshole,” Mendez growled.

  Dempsey opened the dry bag at his feet and retrieved his wireless earbud and mobile phone. “I’m gonna check in. We don’t even know where we’re going.”

  “They sent me coordinates, bro.”

  “Okay, then where are we going?”

  “To the coordinates,” Mendez said emphatically.

  “Like I said,” Dempsey quipped, inserting his earbud. “We don’t know shit.”

  He dialed Smith, who answered on the first ring. “Smith.”

  “Now that my brain has thawed, bring us up to speed,” Dempsey said.

  “How’d it go?” Smith asked, sounding more concerned about the dead guy than whatever “big” event was about to go down.

  “I took him down deep, and he’s not coming back up. It will be a long time before anybody finds him.”

  “How deep?”

  “As deep as this old, fucking Navy SEAL can free-dive, okay. He’s deep,” Dempsey said, irritated. “Now tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “We’re still waiting on the call from Jarvis; he wants to brief everyone at the same time.”

  Dempsey ripped the portable GPS off the windshield mount and zoomed to the coordinates Mendez had entered. “We’re headed to the Palais des Nations?” he said. “What’s that?”

  “The United Nations of Geneva,” Grimes said, her voice more distant. “They’re targeting the UN, Dempsey.”

  “Like the UN itself? The building?” Dempsey couldn’t believe it. Ambassadors or staff in Geneva was one thing, but the UN building itself?

  “Holy shit,” Mendez said. Dempsey saw the Marine’s knuckles go white as he clenched the steering wheel tighter.

  “That’s Jarvis calling,” Smith said. “Hold on, I’m gonna patch him in.”

  After a short, silent pause, all their phones were in conference.

  “The intercept data was shitty,” Jarvis began. “Baldwin is struggling to clean it up, but we have enough snippets to make an educated guess about their plan. We have a positive voice ID on Rostami, and there were two others.”

  “Both Modiri brothers?” Dempsey interrupted. Then he squeezed his eyes shut. “Sorry, Skipper. Go ahead.”

  “Yes, we think so. We have a positive ID on Masoud Modiri, and we’re nearly certain that the other vehicle leaving the estate in Céligny had Amir Modiri inside. We’re hoping to confirm Amir’s attendance with a second run at voice recognition. The first set of data is pretty filthy, but even so we got a seventy-eight-point match.

  “I’m sending you a transcript. You’ll see lots of breaks. It’s not redacted, just dirty. You’ll have it in a second. Everyone look at it; find anything we’re missing.”

  Dempsey reached back to the second-row seat and grabbed the strap of Mendez’s backpack. He pulled the pack up and onto his lap, opened the main compartment, and retrieved Mendez’s 4G-enabled tablet computer—the same one he and every other Ember operative had been given. The tablet showed a push notification from the secure high-side server. Dempsey clicked the notification, downloaded the file, and opened the document. To his mind, it was unintelligible. Strings of random words, seemingly unrelated most of the time. He did see the words UN, infidels, United States, brothers, and Allah rather frequently, but that could mean anything.

  “Looks like nothing but random words.”

  “Hang on,” Jarvis said. “Keep looking and try to imagine filler for the long gaps—common words and phrases, as if you were talking on mobile with a bad connection. This is the raw file. I’ll send you the enhanced version with computer-generated fillers using Ian’s statistical algorithm, but I want you to look through the raw transcript first.”
>
  Dempsey had no idea what that meant but continued to scan the widely spaced words.

  Jarvis continued. “I believe that there is an attack imminent on the UN. It appears to be an Al Qaeda operation, but sponsored and planned by VEVAK. The attack will involve executions as well as hostage taking. This jells with some recent traffic we’re getting from various affiliates we’re monitoring.”

  “Keep in mind that Ambassador Modiri works at the UN,” Grimes said in his earpiece, playing devil’s advocate. “There could be any number of things the UN references could pertain to. Without more data, it’s a stretch.”

  “I’m sending the enhanced file now,” Jarvis said. “Look this over and I will be back online in a moment. I have calls in to Levi Harel, the local CIA station chief, and the Swiss FIS to look for confirming data.”

  “Shouldn’t we alert UN security?” Smith asked. “And perhaps our own State folks in Geneva?”

  “Not yet,” Jarvis said. “Keep looking this over. If we’re wrong and we lock down the UN, we alert Modiri that we’re tracking him. Then both he and the whole op will be in the wind. I’ll be back in a moment, and we’ll talk tactical response.”

  A second push notification chimed, and Dempsey opened the new file. Where the enormous gaps in the text had once been, there was now purple-colored text. Words became phrases. Snippets were now sentences. As he read through the new, more robust transcript, he got a chill up his spine—not the kind related to his hypothermia-inducing swim in Lake Geneva. There were now phrases such as: “Masoud is the trigger for the entire operation,” and “Six inside the UN, two suicide bombers, and three snipers in buildings across the street.”

  As he scanned the remaining five pages, he found more bits of disturbing conversation: “An unexpected development from the victory in Yemen . . . there will be heroes and there will be martyrs . . . fighting the Great Satan . . . those who serve as the pawns of America and the Zionists will be judged and punished in the name of Allah.”

  The evidence was damning, except for one problem: 75 percent of the text was generated by a computer. He didn’t care how good Baldwin’s statistical algorithm was. Before he went charging into the UN with guns blazing, he needed something concrete. Something solid. Something intrinsically irrefutable.