“Oh, a fine young looking man like you does not have to worry about being fat.” She came right back with a little eye motion.
Tucker slightly coughed up his candy in response to her comment. He mumbled with a mouth full of chocolate saying he had a meeting with the director.”
“Well honey, you are going to have to wait a few more minutes because the director is in there with someone.” Smiling in agreement Tucker went and sat at one of the four chairs that waited outside the office. As he sat down, he could not help but notice Mrs. Burton occasionally giving him a quick look. Tucker took this moment to breathe. Since his conversation with Reid, he had been working non-stopping making phone calls and getting people looking in all directions for news of any action by any group in the world. Much to Tucker’s dismay, it was either nothing or he was told he had to wait. How is there no chatter whatsoever? There must be something I’m missing. Tucker prided himself on being top of his game, and to find out that his number one target had disappeared, managed to enter the country undiscovered and get killed without his knowledge was a blow to his ego.
Mrs. Burton paged the director that Tucker had arrived. Instead of a response, a long deep cough was heard from inside the office. “See I told you, someone, has to watch out for him.” Mrs. Burton added. Tucker nodded. After a few minutes, the director asked for Tucker to come in. As he walked into the office, he gave a little wink towards Mrs. Burton, who responded in kind.
Every time Tucker entered Winford’s office he was struck with the authority and power it gave off. It was bigger than most offices in the building, with a table big enough for twelve or so people in the front and the director’s large mahogany desk in the back by a window. One of the walls had large wooden bookshelves with a variety of books.
Adding to the atmosphere was director Anderson Winford sitting behind the desk with the only light coming from a small lamp on the desk. Winford looked up and closed his files while he finished up by tapping some buttons on the keyboard. Tucker could not read what was on the computer but in the window, he saw the screen change to the CIA insignia when the room lights turned on. Tucker had to squint at the sudden brightness. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the director’s silhouette against the outside lights which Tucker felt gave the man an aura of mystery. Tucker had been in this office enough that it did not intimidate him, but he respected the feeling.
On the shelf of the window stood a tilted glass frame with a wooden bottom, in the frame laid three medals. Only one was recognizable to Tucker, the Purple Heart, given to those wounded in action, which sat in the middle of the three. Printed on the frame was the phrase: For A Better World 1959-1975.
The director got up to greet the analyst. He stood about five and a half feet tall and to Tucker he had the facial features and built of Paul Newman with his strong chin and piercing gaze coupled with his grandfather like tone. Although his youthfulness faded years ago, he still retained a strength not commonly seen in people his age. Winford was a very influential man, with hands reaching far and above the presidential staff. To even step into his office for any occasion was worthy of being noted, and Tucker was aware of that.
“Hey, are you getting taller or in my old age I’m getting shorter?”
“Sir you’re not old, just experienced,” stated Tucker as it put a pleasing smile on the gray-headed man.
“How tall are you again?”
“About 6’6 Sir.”
“6’6, that was about the same height of my son? He played basketball for Clemson State and won the National Championship his senior year.” With a confused look on his face, Tucker wondered why the director was telling him such things. Normally the director was very quiet about personal matters. He knew the director’s son had died some years ago in a car wreck and his wife a few years later. “Anyway have a seat Tucker,” he said with a subtle cough then poured himself a glass of scotch; he tilted an empty glass in Tucker’s direction.
“No Thanks, Sir. Sir, you might want to get that cough looked at.”
Winford chuckled at the concern, and took a black pouch out and shook out a yellow pill which he washed down with a sip of scotch. He then cleared his throat, “don’t worry about me, it’s just an old war wound.”
Tucker peered back at the medals on the mantle.
“So what of our friend, Mr. Nezekat?” Winford continued, getting down to business.
Tucker never saw the director in this condition or mood. However he couldn’t concern himself with that for there were more pressing matters to address and began his debrief. “Sir there was an incident in the Florida Everglades three days ago: a quintuple homicide. Normally this is not our concern. However, the one of the men dead at the scene was none other than Gamze Nezaket,” reported Tucker as he opened his notes on the desk.
“You sure it’s Gamze?” Asked Winford.
“I had the same reaction sir,” chuckled Tucker as he handed over photos taken at the scene. “They have identified the other three individuals as his bodyguards as you can see they have tattooed insignia on their neck of the Kilij.” Winford’s eyes fell on the image of the crossed curved swords from the Ottoman Empire and a serpent’s head in between them. “According to DHS the fingerprints are a match to Gamze, they’re still waiting on DNA. But with the tattoos on the other bodies, I’m pretty sure that is him.”
“Ok, let’s go on the assumption that it is him…” Winford started coughing again; this time, stronger than the last.
“You sure you’re ok sir?”
“I'm fine, thank you,” said Winford as he cleared his throat. “Anyway, the Kilij are a radical faction based out of Turkey, and their energy is usually focused on their country. Why are they here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Gamze disappeared and suddenly reappeared dead in Florida of all places. Agent Reid has no evidence that he came into the US via customs or anything of that nature. Which tells me someone snuck him in, however, there is no definitive intel coming in through any of our channels.”
“Agent Reid is with DHS I presume?” asked Winford.
“Yes, excuse me. He was the DHS agent that contacted me about the case.”
“What do we know about him,” Winford continued while studying the pictures of Gamze.
“Former State Trooper with an excellent record. Joined Department of Homeland Security six years ago, was top of his class. He was described as the Golden Child for DHS in Ohio. Apparently, he requested to be transferred to Homestead in hopes of advancing his career. He's green, but he seems to have the right stuff.”
“Dé-jà Vu.”
“Excuse me?” stated Tucker not sure of what he meant.
“This guy reminds me of someone. A hardworking and self-motivated individual,” stated Winford as he took another sip and gave Tucker a look of approval. The room went silent as he swallowed. “Now tell me about this man,” he asked sliding a picture of John Doe closer to him. “He is obviously a different ethnicity, but did he work for Gamze?”
“I know the Kilij have hired mercenaries in the past to cover up their involvement in certain attacks. It would explain how they got close to Gamze and his men, but at the same time, who truly trusts mercenaries?”
“They do love money, and if someone paid them more than he was, it would make sense.”
“But the fact is that his son was with him, so it seems even less likely he would bring that sort in.”
Winford’s face showed a slight bit of confusion. “Now, that is a first. I never heard of a father bringing his son to a terrorist meeting, gives a whole new meaning to bring your son to work day.”
“Oh yeah.” Tucker chuckled “I’ve got to say, sir, this kid is another piece of the puzzle. First, he is found coming into the US under an alias while we cannot find any evidence of his father entering.”
“It’s almost like he did not want the people that brought him in to know that he was bringing his son as well.”
“Or he decided at the last m
inute he wanted his son close by him. Maybe something changed in the plans like a pushed up timetable, or he caught wind that someone was going to betray him.”
“Did the boy survive?” asked Winford as he flipped through the rest of the pictures.
“A miracle, but he did. The boy, Arslan, survived three days in that house and buried his father and the bodyguards. According to Reid he has not spoken to anyone. He appears traumatized by the whole event.”
“I would guess so, being stuck in a house after seeing your father and only remaining parent killed would be traumatizing to any adult, let alone a thirteen-year—old boy. I assume he is under the care of a physician?” Inquired Winford.
“Both medical and psych are keeping a close eye on him at Florida HQ.”
“That’s good. Smart of them to keep him under their watch.”
“This boy has to have seen something. I want to go down there tomorrow and talk to him.”
“Think he will talk? He is the son of Gamze, who was not a fan of our country to begin with, and he’s traumatized.”
“Reid is pessimistic also, but it can’t hurt to try, sir. My suspicions tell me Gamze was working with someone. Someone who has some pretty strong connections and power. My guess is another ultranationalist or terrorist group. Either way sir, I am confident they are aggressive and militaristic in nature. I want to bring someone in to help out with this investigation. Someone who knows the combative mind and will be able to help if things go down right away.”
“We have plenty of those agents right here Tucker. Take our pick.”
Tucker shook his head. “I’ve worked with some of them before; we do not always see eye to eye. I’ve got another person in mind sir.” Winford leaned back in his chair and gave Tucker a look. “Sergeant Nicholas Pierce. He’s on leave currently, and I’ve worked with him before. I like his approach, and I feel that he would be a big help.”
“Spec Ops?”
“Yes, Delta Team.”
“Ok, I’ll make the call and get him out here, and I’m boosting your clearance level so you shouldn’t have any problems in your search. You know most agents would kill to be able to get to go to Florida.” Winford added with a smile. “I will contact DHS and have them instruct the news stations that it was nothing more than what it looks like, murder.”
“Agent Reid has already taken care of it.”
“He seems like a capable agent, but in my experience, I need to make the call. The last thing we need is some yahoo wanting to bolster their ratings with another terrorist attack. Besides, I do not get to throw my weight around much anymore.” Winford joked. “I would tell you to go home and get some sleep before you leave, but I know you. Have you eaten?”
“Uh, no sir,” Tucker replied.
“I’ve got a man at Fratelli’s who can get us with the best T-bone you’ve ever had.”
“Wow, um, thank you, sir. Wait, you’re staying too?”
“Oh yes, I am going to need to get in touch with the other agencies. Can’t do an investigation on an empty stomach. I’ll send it to your office.”
Tucker started to pack up the files. “Thanks for the help sir and the dinner. I’ll figure out what is going on before it’s too late.”
“I know you will. Good hunting, son.”
Tucker nodded before walking out; his mind was already trying to make sense of all the information. Winford sat at his solid desk, finished his scotch, and opened the folder he had closed when Tucker walked in. He then reached for the phone and starting dialing.
۞۞۞۞
Edge took a deep breath. The air was refreshing. The slight warmth of the sun peaking over the trees provided a contrast to the morning chill. The sounds of nature played in the background adding to the peaceful atmosphere. The moment was robbed as a fist flew towards his head. Edge stepped to the outside and grabbed the punching arm while taking his rear leg and sweeping across the attacker's shin. The man hit the ground and rolled as the next two attackers charged in. The first came with a full roundhouse kick to Edge’s head. He allowed a smirk to form on his face as he stepped in and caught the leg with his arms and spun away from the kick. The attacker slammed face down on the ground.
The second attacker teamed up with the first and came at Edge simultaneously. The first lunged towards Edge, who spun to the outside of the punch and grabbed the arm. A seamless transition placed one hand on the man’s neck and the other on the striking arm. One step and a clockwise motion with his arms sent the attacker onto his back after a few moments in the air. The last man grabbed Edge around the neck from behind. Edge had to back pedal to prevent himself from being dragged to the ground. He grabbed the forearm that squeezed his throat and twisted to the outside of the grab. Edge snaked his arms around the choking arm until the man yelled in pain as he suddenly found himself in a reverse shoulder lock. Edge took the man down to the ground and cranked on his arm. The man smacked the ground as hard as he could, the universal sign for submission.
With controlled breathes Edge let go of the man and stood up. “You’re getting better Trident.”
“Ah...huh. You mean I remained standing for half a second longer than last time.” He said massaging his shoulder. Trident was the youngest on the team, by a couple of years. He had joined Delta Team after a few years with the Rangers. He prided himself on holding his own, but against Edge, it seemed as if the man was untouchable. Pitch and Doom started laughing. “I’m so glad you’re entertained.”
“Hey man, before you came along I was the one always getting my shoulder dislocated. I’m just glad to pass the torch.” Pitch replied.
“Oh, I feel the love.” Trident grunted as he grabbed Edge’s hand. “And a rock in my ass.” The team was granted some leave time after a series of operations. Many had left the base to visit with family. Edge and Pitch had come back early to fix up some equipment, Doom lived near the base, so he did not have far to travel, and Trident never went home. The crew knew that military life was tough on families, which is why many had not gotten married. Trident joked that Dust used that as an excuse to cover up his lack of skill with the ladies, which resulted in trips to the bar so Dust could disprove the theory. Doom had taken a chance and married a woman who understood the military life. She complimented his quiet personality and was always sweet and caring. Anyone from the team was welcome in their home.
“Don’t let Pitch bust your chops. He cried the last time I pulled that move.” Edge added.
“That was the sand in my eye.” Pitch defended himself.
“We were training in the snow.” Doom said dryly.
“Thanks, bro. I’ll remember your support at Christmas time” Pitch said with a hint of sarcasm. Doom just smiled back. The team’s sniper had never been able to shake his constant five o’clock shadow. Add in his short black hair and piercing green eyes and even the smile can look intimidating.
Trident cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to straighten his neck which he swore had been bent into a right angle. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“My neighbor was a black belt in Aikido and Japanese Jiu-Jitsu. He and my Dad were big hiking buddies. When I got old enough to start going with them, he and I started talking about the martial arts and one thing lead to another, and I started training. It was rough training, but I loved every second of it. I joined a couple of schools in town to expand my knowledge and keep my skills sharp. Speaking of training…another round?” Edge asked with an eager look. Trident looked at Pitch and Doom, who gestured with their hands as if to say “you’re up.”
With a straight face, Trident responded. “I hate you both.” With that, he took another swing at his team leader. He managed to fake out Edge and changed his attack for a grapple takedown and got into the mount position. His victory was short lived as Edge quickly reversed the position and had his legs wrapped around Trident in a choke hold.
“You got him right where you want him, Tri.” Pitch laughed. Trident responded with
a single finger salute and then managed to slip out of the hold.
Doom looked over his shoulder as a jeep stopped near them, a soldier stepped out of the vehicle and walked over to them holding an envelope in his hand.
“Sgt. Pierce?” The soldier asked.
“That would be the one who isn’t getting his ass kicked.” Pitch joked as the soldier’s eye fell on Trident being choked out by Edge with his own T-shirt. “Hey, Sarge you got a love letter.” Edge let go of Trident and released his grip on the shirt before he walked over to his guest. Trident looked up at Doom, who brought his fingers up to make a zero.
“You almost had him there.”
“Oh yeah. I let him have that.” Trident joked as he fixed his collar.
The soldier handed the letter to Edge. “I’ve been instructed to tell you that this of high importance, sir.”
“Aren’t they all. Thank you.” As the soldier walked away, Edge scanned the letter. His face turned serious as he moved down the paper.
“Anything good Sarge?” inquired Doom.
“It appears my new girlfriend is in Langley,” he said reflecting back on past events.
Chapter 4
Several Years Earlier
Iraq: Operation Nightwolf
The military base was a hive of activity. At first glance, the layout seemed almost random: there were landing areas where helicopters and planes had been coming in and out all day bringing supplies and soldiers to and from various locations. Other areas were filled with mechanics who were repairing all manner of vehicles from tanks to jeeps to fighter planes. Prefabricated modular buildings were everywhere, some serving as office areas, others as barracks where soldiers relaxed in a kiddy pool and played basketball.
Dante Tucker had taken in all these different scenes as he sat in the back of a jeep speeding through the compound. Even though they were moving at a fast clip, the temperature outside was hot enough to make him feel as though he was melting. And the sweat rolling down his neck did not help his frame of mind.
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