Abbo convulsed in the air, riddled by the stings of the MP-5 submachine gun, before falling twisted on the bed, less half his skull, which now plastered the face of the headboard.
“Why did you have to go say that?” asked Cameron.
“You really think he was going to forget about us?” said Alastair. “He was going to hunt us down for what we did today alone, and once he found out the truth about Feizel.” Alastair shrugged, “Well.”
* * * * *
Chapter 39
Abbo’s Suite, Burj Khalifa Level 105, Dubai
The door of the suite boomed in thwacks and thuds, the hollers of the men on the other side escalating in accordance to their impatience.
“Sounds like they really want to get in,” said Cameron.
Alastair was stowing all of the loose gear back into the duffels. He glanced out into the night past the glass wall. “We have less than a minute to wait for our cue.”
Pepe was setting the final charges around the edges of the glass. “Will that be enough time? As soon as Abbo’s men figure out the card readers shorted they are going to take that door.”
“They will have to have great luck trying,” said Alastair. “ I checked the lock when I sent Antoinette out to the corridor, that door should hold.”
Cameron zipped the front of his jumpsuit, “This fits, and I get a logo as well.”
“They came in a set,” said Alastair. “You know Pepe, if you would have really killed all of his downstairs men like you told him we would not be in a rush.”
“I would have enjoyed the task,” said Pepe. “You were the one that said we should minimize risk by manipulating the camera system. You should have started the fountain sooner.”
Alastair stopped and shifted his gaze to Pepe. “I triggered the remote as soon as I bloody well could thank you. I think all of Dubai is going to appreciate this unscheduled performance.” Alastair resumed zipping the duffels. “You should take a look down at the extravaganza.”
“Hmm,” said Pepe. “Magnific.”
“You’re damn right,” said Alastair. “They haven’t used those extreme shooters since the opening ceremony.”
“They really shoot the water fifty stories in the air?” asked Cameron, adjusting his harness.
“With percussion as loud as thunder. When those babies go off this whole building, that entire mall, hell the whole city, is going to shake. It will be great… Except.”
Pepe too was adjusting his harness. Without looking at Alastair he asked, “Except what?”
“I said they haven’t been used since the opening ceremony.”
“So?” asked Pepe.
“When I went out on the lake this afternoon to calibrate them they registered as engaged on the control screen.”
“That’s fine then,” said Cameron.
“Well that only means they are calibrated for the performance and registering. If they are not set up to receive pressure or something goes wrong this may not work.”
“So then the world knows we are here?” asked Pepe.
“We reduce the element of diversion,” said Alastair.
“No matter,” said Cameron, “we’re leaving. Do you hear them out there? They’re rabid.”
“No worries. There would have to be,” Alastair abruptly paused as the yelling suddenly escalated, flooding the suite beyond the master bedroom, “A secondary mechanism. There would have to be a secondary mechanism. How did we miss that?”
“We need to go now,” said Cameron. “The bolts on this door won’t hold them long.”
Abbo’s soldiers began thumping the bedroom door.
“All good,” said Alastair. “The music is about to crescendo and then we make our exit. Three small percussions then the two larger ones, ready yourselves.”
“What music?” asked Pepe.
“You cannot hear the music from here?” asked Alastair. From beyond the glass wall, they heard a muffled boom. “That’s one. You better back up.”
From inside the suite they heard furniture now thudding against the door.
“That’s two.”
Pepe held the trigger in his hand.
“And three, get ready Pepe.”
The panels in the center of the bedroom door began to break inward yet the door stayed secure in the frame.
Alastair’s focus was intense. His eyes went vacant as he distinguished the outside concussions from the rounds the men beyond the door were firing into the locks.
Alastair yelled, “Now!”
Pepe flipped the charge in sync with the sound of thunder from the extreme shooters of the Dubai fountain below. The glass wall disintegrated into the Dubai night, high above the lake.
Abbo Mohammed’s men broke the door to the master bedroom free from the reinforced bolts.
Pepe, Cameron, and Alastair thrust themselves into the void adjacent to the tower.
Somali soldiers poured into the dead warlord’s room.
Pepe, Cameron, and Alastair separated quickly on launch then tossed their chutes out, their canopies pulled up, and open. The soldiers raced to the perch of the now open level. Alastair’s voice tinned in Pepe’s ear, “Now Pepe.”
Pepe squeezed the second igniter.
To the left of the three commandos, eruptions of fuchsia hued water towered upward, high above the other buildings around them, accompanied by thunder. The series of charges set throughout the suite during the sweep, exploded in a cascade, propelling the unprepared soldiers from the open ledge.
Alastair pointed a green laser toward a darkened parking area to the far right of the fountain spectacle. As the three drew closer, a fluorescent green glow stick appeared, first waving then still. Using the light of the glow stick as their guide the three honed on their target.
The heat of the desert enveloped Cameron.
Though the next steps were clear, go to London and to Dada that left little relief. Their plan was to BASE jump with a fourth. A fourth that was supposed to be held by Abbo Mohammed.
Cameron adjusted the lines of his canopy to swing himself around and into alignment with the green glow stick. Cameron heard a whizzing close behind, another, and then two concussions filled the air. Hundreds of amber and indigo lights filled the heavens above him.
“What the hell,” said Cameron.
Into his ear Alastair responded, “The fireworks are beginning to erupt.”
“Fireworks? Are you nuts?” Another whiz shot behind Cameron followed by another pop, resulting this time in a magenta sky.
“I didn’t think they would turn on,” said Alastair. “I didn’t put them in when I created the show protocol. There must be an automatic override.”
“An automatic override?” asked Cameron.
“Don’t worry. They’re farther away than they seem and we are about to touchdown.”
The next rockets went up with a swish. “Oh, dear,” said Alastair.
“Is that what I think?” asked Pepe.
“Hold on,” said Cameron.
The sky above lit amber again, this time to the sound of popcorn popping, and then the rain began. Surrounded by the pouring lit remnants of giant fire blossoms, the three were ready for the silks to degrade and for airspeed to rapidly increase. None of those things happened. The lightshow was farther away then they perceived, an illusion.
The dim parking lot became illuminated as they dropped close. The only vehicle, a vintage VW van, was parked to the side. The three touched down as they had countless times before and in the same motion began to gather their gear. Rehan, the twelve-year-old boy from the Marmoom Camel track, was waiting next to the open doors of the van. He scurried over to the center of the parking area, scooped up the glow stick, and then buried the light in his pocket. Rehan then ran over to Pepe and, with two hands and a heave of a lift, clutched his duffel. “Let me help you stow everything in the lorry Sayyed. I have the water and food you requested. Where is the other?”
“We have to make another stop,” said Cameron. �
�C’mon let’s stow everything into the van and get out of here.”
* * * * *
Chapter 40
Paris Countryside, Years Ago
The voyeuristic glances of Christine, stolen through the Citroen’s rearview mirror, pleased Cameron. In the backseat was innocent bliss. She had wrapped the chocolate lab in her scarf, cradled the puppy as she would a baby, and now soothed her tiny brown bundle with a maternal voice.
“You are such a cute baby,” said Christine. “Are you a cute baby? Yes you are.”
The miniature muzzle poked up to reach Christine’s chin, so she folded herself toward him, giggling while his tongue basted her neck. “Such nice kisses. You are a darling little one.” Her words appeared to encourage him to eagerly devour his new mistress with a tongue lapping that paired with her further laughter.
“You have a new love,” said Cameron.
“Isn’t he beautiful? What should we name him?”
“What would you like?”
“Oh, I already love him so much,” said Christine. “Maybe little Cameron.”
“Are you serious?”
Christine shifted her eyes up from the pup to the mirror, “Don’t sound like a grump. You will hurt his feelings. I would not name this little darling a grumpy man’s name.”
“Hey, I am hurt.”
“You are not. Besides I want him to keep me company when you are away, not remind me of how much I miss you.”
Cameron had no response to this. His time between missions had diminished with each assignment. His career was unique, allusive, and one he was unable to share with Christine. He could not fool himself. Not too much time would pass before two to four week stints would turn to three and then six month operations. There were operatives he was aware of that had been in the field for years. His special talents had advanced him beyond one and done direct action missions. Christine’s opportunities were advancing as well, having traveled twice to Asia and once to Mexico already this year. A time would soon come when the few brief, fleeting days of the calendar, days when the two lovers could be together, would no longer intersect.
“I know,” said Christine. “He looks like a Moby.” She dipped her chin and the lab lapped at her again. “You like that name? Moby.”
“What is a Moby?” asked Cameron.
“He is a Moby.
“Doesn’t Moby mean immense, enormous, like the whale?”
Christine pushed her nose down into Moby, “Vous avez un immense amour? Yes you do, a Moby heart.” Christine glanced up to where Cameron’s eyes would meet her, “He has an immense love like you.”
Whether the warmth came from her green eyes, or from the words she chose, Christine stoked a fire within Cameron’s core that burned throughout his limbs, and straight up the back of his neck, stiffening his skull with the anxiety of a small boy. She dropped one brow ever so slightly. A quiver shot through him, a nauseas jolt that forced Cameron to widen his eyes and pull his attention toward the road.
“We may still have some luck,” said Cameron. He lowered his head to look out and beyond the bonnet of the Citroen. “The sun has broken through.”
“Marvelous, we can still have our picnic.”
* * * * *
The Somali Deception EPISODE III
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The Somali Deception EPISODE IV
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The Somali Deception THE COMPLETE EDITION
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A Note from the Author
Thank you for reading episode two of The Somali Deception. This story is the second in the Cameron Kincaid series and a favorite of my lovely wife. The original draft of the manuscript, shorter and much different that the final release, was written during November of 2010 for nanowrimo, or national novel writing month. I had planned a different project, and then came an intriguing discussion concerning the misconception of piracy with my friend Margot Kiser, an American reporting from Kenya. Coincidentally I have other friends that had already stirred my curiosity for the region, particularly my good friend Alastair Boyd, who at the time was an eco-lodge director in Laikipia. That was 2010, what happened? Well in January 2011, I was asked to oversee a multinational tech surge, in a hired gun manner if you will, and The Somali Deception was shelved. After the consulting engagement, I returned to writing full time, and did not return to The Somali Deception. Then in April of 2013, The Cathari Treasure connected with an audience and began to climb the Best Seller list, sparking encouragement from my wife to dust off the next in the series. Around the same time, an editor from a New York publishing house inquired as to whether the story could be told as an episodic serial. Up for the challenge, I rescaled the project and the result was a four episode serial with twice the action as the first story in the series.
The are numerous contributors that bring a project to completion, my family first and foremost, a myriad of fellow authors and friends on twitter, and countless others.
Individually I want to thank Chad Ness, Lon Grover, Alastair Boyd, and Margot Kiser all of whom supported the project either through shared research or the diligent reading of first drafts. I would also like to thank the readers that signed up as First Readers for this manuscript as their contributions have helped me to create a better release edition.
If you enjoyed The Somali Deception, I would appreciate if you would share your thoughts in a review. Reviews help other readers that may have similar interest as you decide whether this is a story they would like to read.
And again thank you.
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About the Author
Daniel Arthur Smith is the international bestselling author of The Cathari Treasure. American born, Daniel has traveled to over 300 cities in 22 countries, residing in Los Angeles, Kalamazoo, Prague, Crete, and New York.
Daniel was born and raised in Michigan, graduating from Western Michigan University where he studied philosophy and comparative religion. He has been a teacher, bartender, barista, poetry house proprietor, technologist, and a Fortune 100 consultant across America and Europe. Daniel resides and writes in Manhattan with his wife and young sons.
Connect with Me Online
Discover more at http://www.danielarthursmith.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/authordasmith
Facebook: http://facebook.com/danielarthursmith
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6893816.Daniel_Arthur_Smith
And the serial site: http://thecatharitreasure.com
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The Somali Deception Episode II (A Cameron Kincaid Serial) Page 8