Donovan's War: A Military Thriller (A Tommy Donovan Novel Book 1)

by W. J. Lundy

  “I’ll talk to him. I didn’t come here for the women. I came here for Sarah.”

  “And you think the man in the cellar knows where she is?”

  Tommy shook his head. He set the half-empty plate beside him and stretched out his legs. “No, I don’t think so. If he did, they would have already moved her. But he’ll know of some place hard, something too big to hide. A location we can hit them at. I knew this would take time. Every step is just another rung on the ladder. I’ll take them all if I have to. I’ll continue to hurt them until they expose themselves or give her up.”

  “We’ll hurt them together. I’m in this with you,” Elias said, his face turning hard.

  “I know, brother.” Tommy’s eyes searched the safe house. The room was decorated as if a family lived there, but there was nobody in the place with them. “What is this place, anyway? Who does it belong to?”

  Elias frowned. “This was my family’s home. Well, it was until I was forced to send them away,” he said, looking back down at his plate. “When I retired, I moved back here. I had a romantic idea that things would be the same as they were when I was a boy. That I’d take over my father’s café. Start a family. I knew war was coming, but I’ve lived nothing but war my entire adult life, and this is my home too. I have a right to live here if I choose.

  “I don’t know what you think of me, Tommy, but I haven’t just been hiding, sitting aside while my home has been destroyed around me. I still have a warrior’s spirit and the mentality of a lion. I did what I could, Tommy. When the other men fled, I stayed, I organized people to stand with me. I sent my wife and daughter away, but my father and I—we stayed. We’ve done what we could.”

  Tommy smiled and nodded. “I know you did. I never doubted you. When I heard you’d returned to Syria, I knew the reason why. I knew you wouldn’t stand by and let this happen to your home.”

  “And now you’re here. This is my home, my city. What will you do here, what do you think you will accomplish?” Elias asked. “Don’t encourage my people then vanish.”

  “I want Sarah back, and I will keep killing them until I find her. When they pop up, I’ll knock them down. Every one of them will feel pain.”

  “And what if she is already gone.”

  Tommy dropped his head and closed his eyes. Elias could see that the man had already considered this question. “Finding Sarah is the only way to stop the killing. I find her, or they kill me. It’s the only way for this to end. I have no issue with killing them until my end of days.”

  “I see. So, what do we do next? How do we stop the killing?”

  Tommy pushed the plate away as he settled back into one of the large cushions. “How much money is there?”

  Elias looked at the bundles of cash. “Hundred thousand American, another hundred thousand in Swiss francs.”

  Tommy squinted. “We need a secure place in Albahr, something not connected to you, a place to operate from.”

  “Easily done. I know a spot.”

  “We need weapons.”

  “This is a war zone, Tommy; my militia has everything we need. Armor and rifles won’t be a problem. But this isn’t the CIA, and certainly not the Ground Division. The stuff will be chewed up and old.”

  Tommy nodded his approval. “Just get me a bullet launcher and I can do the rest.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I want to build a bomb.”

  Elias smiled. “Of course you do. How big a bomb will you be needing?”

  “One that will get their attention.”

  “So naturally, a really big bomb then. You want fries with that?” the older man said, shaking his head.

  Tommy yawned. “No, but this militia you keep talking about, would any of them be looking to enhance their personal savings with Swiss francs?”

  “If you are looking to raise an army, I think I can round us up a few shooters,” Elias said with a smirk. “But they aren’t mercenaries, just shop owners, mechanics, family men like me.”

  Tommy pursed his lips. “Like you?”

  “Hey, l fry bread for a living, remember.”

  Tommy laughed. “Well, if they are willing to fight, split up the francs between them and put them in orbit around the city. Tell them to raise hell with the Badawi Brigade where they can, but for the most part stay quiet until we call. I want to start making it hard for these guys to live here. And Papa, make sure none of this points back to you or your family.”

  Elias made mental notes then looked back at the locked door. “And the jailer?”

  “This one is different. I’d like to walk in that room right now and kill the bastard for what he’s done, but I need him. We have to let him cook for a while. I’ll talk to him when he’s ready. I have a strong feeling he will point us in the direction of the next strike.”

  15

  Fayed slammed his hands on the desk. He reached for the paper and read the teletyped message again, hoping he had somehow missed some fine detail. He clenched his fists and balled up the paper, tossing it to the wastebasket, then stood, straightening his jacket. Normally his director would call him for an update, but not today. Today the man was waiting for him to personally debrief the situation to him and his staff—in the main conference room of all places, a spot where Fayed would be front and center before all of them.

  It was a mistake. The women were becoming a vulnerability. They held little value in the larger scheme of things. As to why Abdul insisted on holding them, he didn’t know. Leverage only had use when it came with a benefit. Now these women were making them the hunted in a place they should be in control. Fayed looked down at his disposable mobile and scrolled through his missed calls. Several were from numbers he recognized as Abdul. He shook his head, clenching his teeth. It frustrated him to no limits that the fool refused to use burner phones he’d provided to him.

  Fayed gave him a list of rotating numbers and disposable phones to make their conversations impossible to track. Instead, Abdul held the same two to three phones, reusing them again and again. The fool had a greater fear that someone would plant a bomb in one of his mobile devices and blow his head off, the way the Israelis had done to Yahaya Ayyash in 1996. Spies had managed to plant RDX explosives in the terrorist’s phone and monitored his calls day and night until the one time Yahaya picked up; a press of a button, and Yahaya’s head was gone. Now, because of that, Abdul refused to rotate phones, ignoring the greater risk of his calls being traced all because of something he’d read about in a spy novel. The man’s stubbornness was causing him more problems than he was worth.

  Fayed was again damaged, his reputation once again at stake. Now he was in the uncomfortable position of explaining how fifteen hostages were located and recovered alive from a compound in Syria, how all of this was done by local police and without his office having any knowledge of it. His office and the local police were supposed to be working together. Why was Ziya Fayed, the head of Middle East Affairs and a direct liaison to the Syrian and Jordanian Police, left out of the loop on a successful rescue raid? Why? Did they question his loyalty? Fayed shook his head. Of course not. It is because local security forces had nothing to do with it. This was the result of the Americans operating under their noses.

  His phone buzzed and he lifted it, seeing the caller ID was a number that Abdul frequently used. His director was not the only one wanting to know what happened. All of his careful planning and organization was being brought down by a single fool, one arrogant man who could not be reasoned with. For the life of him, Fayed could not figure out how. Moving down the hall, he pushed into the conference room. Instead of meeting with his director and his staff alone, he saw that they were joined by another man dressed in a black suit with a red tie. Watching Fayed enter, the men shifted in their seats and stood.

  Before Fayed could react, his director turned. “Agent Fayed, this is Simon Arnet with Vatican Security. You may remember he reached out to us for assistance in the church kidnapping case,” the director said, th
en waved a hand for the men to re-take their seats. The director pointed to Fayed as he continued speaking. “Inspector Fayed is our top resource in the region. I have asked him here to help bring us all up to speed on the quickly developing situation coming out of Syria.”

  Simon cleared his throat and looked across the table at Fayed. “First, we are very grateful for the release of the Sisters, but—”

  “Sarah Donovan, of course. The American is still missing,” the director said, finishing the man’s sentence. “We are still looking into that; the women are now under police protection and we will have an agent of our own there as soon as he can make the flight from Tripoli.”

  “Excuse me if this is a breach of protocol, but how were the women found? You said it was a local police raid, a rescue of sorts. I was under the impression that they were not very effective in the region.”

  At this, the director turned and looked at Fayed to respond. Fayed swallowed dryly and said, “They are not traditional police. After the rise of the civil war, most of their duties were turned over to government security forces, as many of the police officers were moved into handling conflicts on the front lines.”

  Simon looked down at a spiral notebook then back up at Fayed. “So these security forces, they were able to locate and free the sisters. What was your role in all of this then? Were you given advanced notice of the raid?”

  The director turned to Fayed and nodded for him to continue. Fayed pursed his lip, upset at having to divulge so much information to a relative stranger. There was no point in lying; the statements would be made readily available to the press within hours, and he had to find a way to turn things around. “Early reports of a police raid have been misleading. The freed women—at least in preliminary interviews—have stated that it was two men. Two men with faces covered—”

  “Only two men?” the director said, turning to look at Fayed with surprise. “Are you sure? The initial assessment said there were eight dead hostiles and fifteen hostages rescued. This is an awfully large accomplishment for two men.”

  Fayed shook off the question. “I understand, sir. The women could be mistaken. The attackers’ faces were covered with black hoods and night vision devices. It’s possible they saw multiple men at different times—that could explain a discrepancy in numbers. Also, you must consider they are in shock. It is possible that a local militia group did the initial fighting, and these two were the ones to make contact with the women.”

  Simon nodded in agreement. “That does seem reasonable. But still, it is rather fascinating that a group would take on such an endeavor and then leave empty-handed. Why would two men—or a local militia—go to the trouble then vanish? Are they possibly a special weapons team? Is this something more organized than we are willing to consider?”

  Fayed clenched his jaw. “There is more; they didn’t leave empty-handed. A man was taken prisoner. The women saw him bound, gagged, and taken away by the same men who freed them. The women were left alone for some time before the police arrived.”

  Simon’s head perked up and his eyes tightened. “Who was this man they took?”

  “The women identified him as their jailer.”

  “Ahh,” the director said, his head nodding as if he’d stumbled onto the correct answer of a pub trivia question. “So, it’s possible they were not after the women at all. Perhaps this was a rivalry amongst groups, the jailer was the target all along, and we have just reaped the benefits. That would explain why the women were left unattended.”

  Fayed pursed his lips with a sudden thought of a way out. A way to save face on his perceived intelligence failure. He rubbed his chin and smiled, turning to the director. He would play to his superior’s vanity. “Yes, sir, I think you are correct. This appears to be exactly what is in motion here. A territorial dispute among rival factions, the jailer was the true target, the women nothing more than collateral.”

  The director grinned. “Then we have to take advantage of this, Fayed. I want you to travel there immediately. You must gather everything you can about these people and this location. Do whatever you need to resolve the disposition of Sarah Donovan and the other Western women.”

  “But, sir, Albahr is a war zone. It’s hardly safe for an investigation. Perhaps I could interview the women once they are taken out of the region.”

  The director shook his head. “No, Fayed, this is your case; you should be the one to solve it. Go find Sarah Donovan.” He smiled and looked up at Fayed. “Bring her home to us.”

  “How? There is no structure. We have no legal authority there. I feel it’s best to stay away.”

  “Nonsense,” the director said. “I’ll contact our friends at the UN. We already have some teams on the ground; they’ll make sure you have a full police escort. You’ll be treated like royalty all the way.”

  Sighing and feeling defeated, Fayed bit his lower lip and folded his hands in front of him. He shook off his superior’s offer. Bringing others into the fold would complicate his dealings with Abdul. Fayed raised his hand in surrender. “No, you’re right. This is my area of expertise. I’ll make the contacts and I’ll make the trip. I apologize for doubting your recommendation, Mister Director.”

  The old man smiled wide. “Yes, of course, you are the expert when it comes to the conflict zone. Make your arrangements and travel at once. Do us proud.”

  16

  Jamal was fastened to a hardwood chair—his ankles taped to the chair legs, his arms forced out in front of him and zip-tied to grommets in the table’s surface. After several hours of being confined in darkness, a single light hanging over the table was illuminated, brightening the space. He felt pain behind his ear where he’d been struck during the attack. His neck was stiff, and his voice was hoarse from thirst and the screaming he’d done through the night. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to focus.

  Tommy Donovan and Elias entered the room, Elias wearing a face-concealing black mask, Tommy dressed in a dark shirt. They didn’t speak. Tommy walked to a corner of the room and removed a second chair then dragged it across the floor, allowing the old wood to scrape and scratch over the rough stone surface. Elias walked around and stood directly behind the prisoner as Tommy slid the chair across from Jamal then sat down. Flexing, he folded and placed his arms on the table and stared at Jamal sitting across from his, still not speaking.

  Jamal’s head twitched nervously. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried to swallow through the dryness in his throat. He turned his head to try to see behind him before looking back to his front. “What do you want?” he asked in Arabic.

  Tommy grimaced and asked in English if the man was thirsty. Jamal nodded eagerly, and Elias stepped forward. He draped a towel over the man’s head and yanked it back, dumping the contents of a water bottle over the prisoner’s face. Jamal struggled, choking and gagging as he fought the restraints and the drowning sensation.

  Just before the man succumbed, Elias snapped the towel away and took a step back, holding a position just behind the prisoner. Tommy sat as stoic as he’d been before, waiting for Jamal to recover from his spasms. When the man looked back to the front, he was gasping for air, drool pouring from his mouth. The prisoner lifted his head and looked at Tommy with pleading eyes. Slowly, he focused on the man across from him, his lower lip quivering.

  “The women we rescued told me your name is Jamal. They called you the Jailer. They told us the things you did to them. The things you allowed to be done to them. Do you know why you are here, Jamal?” Tommy asked. “Do you admit to the things you have done?”

  Jamal shook his head. “It’s not me. I’ve done nothing. Abdul is the one you want.”

  “I see,” Tommy said. “Tell me about Abdul, this man whose name you readily speak.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Abdul Nassir, what is there to tell?”

  Elias stepped forward and slapped the man’s head with his open palm. “The Hyena?” he asked. “He’s dead.”

  Jamal turned away, shakin
g off the slap and surprised by the men’s reaction to Abdul’s name, and having heard the Hyena moniker before, the prisoner’s head dropped, knowing he had already made a grave mistake. He’d said too much without even considering the consequences. “I don’t know that name Hyena. Only the name Abdul Nassir. That is who I answer to. I was holding the women for Abdul. I only know Abdul Nassir.”

  “This Abdul, tell me about him. What does he look like?” Tommy asked, leaning in.

  “He’s nobody. He’s old and bald, he’s fat, he wears a scar on his head.”

  “A scar from a bullet?” Tommy asked.

  Jamal shook his head. “I don’t know. I was told that Abdul was wounded during the Iraqi war in a battle against the infidels. Badly wounded, but he survived, killing all of the enemy soldiers.”

  Tommy clenched his fist and glanced over Jamal’s shoulders at Elias, who signaled for him to move on. “The women, where did they come from?” Tommy asked.

  Jamal looked away and shook his head.

  Tommy scowled. “Are you thirsty?” he asked.

  “No, no, no,” the man shouted, leaning forward as Elias pulled the towel over his face and yanked him back. Another bottle was drained and the man began sobbing. His head hung heavily while he coughed and hacked onto his lap. When he looked back up, snot ran from his nose.

  “Jamal, I need you to stop thinking that I don’t know the answers to these questions.” Tommy paused to allow Jamal to stop hacking. “I am only asking you for confirmation and to see if you are being honest with me. Now I don’t have a lot of time.” Tommy paused again and placed his .45 on the table. Jamal’s eyes became fixed on it. “I met an associate of yours recently. He was not cooperative.” Tommy stopped again, taking in a deep breath and exhaling loudly. “Now, let us try again. The women, where did they come from?”

  “From the church in the city center. Everyone knows this.”