by Trevor Scott
“And,” Jake said, “other than your nephew, I’m guessing you also fund the relief group.”
Without answering, Gomez took a long sip of his rum. Then he said, “You could safely assume that. However, you won’t find my name on any donor list or board of director lists. I’m more of a silent partner.”
Yeah, with a private jet, a massive yacht, and who knew what else.
“What do you want me to do?” Jake asked.
Gomez smiled again and picked up the TV remote. He clicked one more time and an image of a woman appeared. This woman had long curly black hair and a stern look on her face. She wore dark sunglasses that hid her eyes. But there was no mistaking who this woman was. Jake knew her only by her first name—Sirena. Well, this wasn’t entirely true. He had read a briefing on Sirena when he worked a case with the CIA. And he had even done some consulting work for her recently when his old friend Chad Hunter was in a bit of trouble. Sirena was a former Israeli Army pilot, an ex-Mossad officer, and now worked special projects for nearly every covert organization in the American intelligence network, from the CIA to the NSA. The two of them had only met in person twice, and only during innocuous briefings.
“Very pretty,” Jake finally said. “Is she your girlfriend?”
Gomez laughed. “No, Jake. She’s an American operative working on loan to our government for the past month. I would have guessed the two of you knew each other.”
Jake shook his head. “I wish. It’s not like all Americans know each other, though.”
“You can select anyone else you desire, but I would like this woman on your team. I understand she speaks fluent Arabic. Not one of your languages.”
Thankfully, no. “Any other reason?”
The billionaire hesitated. “I was under the impression that you have worked with Sirena in the past.”
Damn. This guy had some reach. “Your intel is wrong,” Jake said emphatically. “But I’ll be glad to add her to the team. As long as she checks out.”
Gomez finished his drink and set his empty glass onto a small table. “Good. Have you ever been to Valencia?”
Jake shook his head. “No, afraid not.”
“My pilot will fly you there this afternoon. From there you must go to the Canary Islands. By then I should have more intel for you.”
Jake could get used to this type of transportation. He got up and asked the priest to leave for a moment. Reluctantly, the priest did as Jake said.
Alone now with Carlos Gomez, Jake said, “I don’t agree with babysitting a priest on a dangerous mission, but I understand your reasoning.”
“Perhaps you don’t,” Gomez said. “During the Crusades, the Knights Templar, the Hospitallers and the Teutonic Knights were all men of God who were part of military orders. They took similar oaths as priests. And Father Murici might just surprise you.”
“I had the padre leave not so much because I oppose his presence on this mission, but because I need to know how far you’re willing to take this.”
“That’s easy, Jake. As far as it takes. You will be well compensated for your efforts.”
“I’m not worried so much about my compensation,” Jake said. “I’m concerned about my support from you. I’ll need weapons and free passage to certain countries. Can you handle that?”
Gomez smiled. “My jet is at your disposal. But that will only get you so far. The reason I have chosen this Sirena is not just for her language skills. I understand she was a helicopter pilot in the Israeli Army. That could come in handy. As far as guns go, just make me a list and I’ll have them waiting for you at Santa Cruz de Tenerife in the Canaries.”
Jake reached his hand out and shook the man’s hand. “Deal. The internet has you as a complete asshole.”
“Don’t believe everything you read, Jake. My people have put that disinformation out on purpose. How do they say in America? Keeps out the riffraff.”
Jake left the billionaire alone and caught up with Father Murici on the outer deck near the gangplank.
“Everything all right?” the priest asked.
“Wonderful. Let’s go to Valencia.”
“So, you didn’t get me sent home?”
“No. We just needed to talk some strategy.” Jake had a feeling that Gomez was correct. This priest might surprise him.
5
Atlas Mountains, Morocco
Anna Grasso sat on the dusty soil gazing up at the swirling clouds above the mountains, her baggy sweat pants already showing signs of wear. She was tired and her stomach ached from lack of proper food. Her captors had given the fifteen of them mostly couscous infused with specs of indistinguishable vegetables and possibly meat—anything from ground squirrel to goat, she guessed. She knew she should be eating to keep up her strength, but she didn’t want to accept anything from these animals. The man with the snake tattoo was especially brutal, smacking anyone who hesitated his demands—including his own men.
Her friend, Doctor Morgan Cassidy, was in much worse shape, since he had tried to intervene during the kidnapping and had found the butt of a rifle against his skull. Morgan was still coping with the impact of a major concussion, she knew, and she had done everything within her medical expertise to comfort him. She hoped it was only a concussion and not a subdural hematoma. Without a CT scan there was no way of knowing for sure. She would just have to watch him for symptoms.
This camp was made up of tents spread across the mountainside, their color blending in perfectly to the browns and greens of the terrain. Anna had done her best to count the number of personnel holding them, memorizing their faces and habits. So far she had counted twenty terrorist punks from their early twenties to their fifties. And there was a definite pecking order, from the Arab-speaking leaders to others who spoke some other language. But she had no idea what any of them were speaking unless they switched occasionally to a neutral language like English or French, which she understood somewhat.
She got up and headed back to her tent. Part of her wondered why her captors had not shackled her legs or chained them all to a post. Could she escape the camp? Sure. But where would she go? They had been flown from their ship during a terrible storm, landing only once to take on fuel. Although she had been an Air Force officer, her expertise was in nursing. She had no idea what kind of helicopter had picked them up, or what kind of range that craft had. All she knew was the helo was older than dirt and had sputtered to reach the camp, which meant it was probably having trouble with the elevation. So, yeah, she could technically escape. But to what end? It would be suicide to trip down that mountain. They were obviously in the wilderness somewhere. A training camp, she surmised. Especially with the constant gunfire on the outer edge of the camp. Target practice. Much like the range where she had learned to fire the 9mm handgun and M-16 in the Air Force. But as a nurse that training had been rudimentary at best.
Shuffling into the tent, she glanced at the desperate faces of the other medical professionals. They were all used to working out of tents during their visits to third-world countries, but this was different. Instead of being asked to treat the locals, they were prisoners. And why? That wasn’t clear to any of them at this point.
She sat down on the edge of her cot and looked at Dr. Cassidy, whose head was wrapped with a bandage put on by herself and the Spanish doctor.
Her friend’s eyes suddenly opened and seemed to swirl around with incertitude. “What time is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Anna said. “They took our phones and watches, remember?”
“Yes, of course.”
She was constantly testing Morgan’s memory. “I was just outside, though. And based on the sun I’d say it was late afternoon.”
He sat up and tried to catch himself from falling over, his balance obviously still an issue.
“You have to take it easy, Morgan.”
“I know. The swelling is going down. I need more fluids.”
She glanced at the tin cup of water, which had ants and a dead fly
in it. Anna got rid of the pests and handed the cup to Morgan.
“That’s disgusting,” he said. But he drank down every drop and handed the empty cup back to her.
“Kind of like Libya,” she said.
“That was a shithole.”
“True. The mountains here are actually quite pretty.”
“It must be the Atlas Mountains,” he said. “They’re the only mountains within range of that crappy chopper they piled us into. We’re lucky that beast didn’t crash into the side of the mountain.”
“It wasn’t our time, Morgan. God still has a plan for us.”
He shook his head slightly. “I don’t know how you keep your faith around these barbarians. By the way, that’s what the Romans called the Berbers of this region in ancient times.”
Her knowledge of geography and history was lacking, she knew. But she had studied north Africa a little before her current assignment with the relief organization. None of them expected to get kidnapped on the high seas, though.
“My faith sustains me,” she said. “You have to know this by now.”
Morgan leaned across and put his hand on hers. “You might find a convert in me yet, Anna.”
She wasn’t sure how a man with little faith could take a job with a religious organization, but she was glad he had done so. He was the best surgeon she’d ever observed in the OR.
Anna grasped his hand. Then she whispered, “What do you think they want with us?”
With visible pain, he shook his head. “I don’t know, Anna. We’re pawns of some sort to them. It’s possible they want to use our medical expertise. Let’s hope so.”
“Why?”
“Because the alternative could be certain death in front of cameras and played across the internet worldwide.”
She had considered that option, but dismissed it almost immediately. If these men wanted pawns for their beheadings, it would have been much easier to simply grab western tourists off the streets of Morocco. Or they could have grabbed anyone from the ship. But they had specifically chosen to take the doctors and nurses.
“What do we do, Morgan?” she asked, a hint of desperation in her voice.
Before her British friend could answer, the Spanish doctor, Antonio Cruz, shuffled over and stooped down by them. “Don’t worry, my friends. We won’t be here long.”
“How do you know?” Morgan asked.
“Trust me.” The Spanish doctor smiled and then went back to his own cot.
•
Two tents away, where only the Arab leaders of this group stayed, the man with the snake tattoo studied a map of the region spread across a Berber carpet on the canvas floor. This was the only tent with an actual floor in the camp. Not one man in camp knew his real name. To them he was simply known as Mamba, named after the black Mamba of Africa, the largest and most deadly snake on the continent. Technically, Mamba’s heritage was from a tribal region in western Algeria, where his ancestors had fought for centuries against the infidels.
Dressed in all black from baggy pants to a black T-shirt loose against his dark skin, Mamba distinguished himself from others in camp with a black bandana with white Arabic letters across his forehead that translated to ‘There is no God but God.’ Like Mamba’s brothers to the east, he was a Sunni Muslim. Of course the tattoo of a black mamba on his right arm let everyone know who he was in this splinter group. His only other attribute was his unibrow creased upward, giving Mamba the appearance of constant incertitude. Which was not the case, since he was perpetually focused and driven to the task at hand and the worldwide Caliphate.
Mamba’s second in command, the Libyan, took in a deep breath from one of the hookah hoses, his chapped lips embracing the brass mouthpiece. Then the man let out a breath of smoke. The Libyan could have been Mamba’s brother. Both wore thick, black beards two inches long.
“This will be our first target,” Mamba said in Arabic, pointing to a small enclave in the Atlas Mountains.
“That will be an easy task,” the Libyan said.
Mamba picked up his hookah hose and took in a long draw of the shisha, a flavored mint tobacco. He let the smoke linger in his lungs before releasing almost nothing into the air.
“Is something bothering you, Mamba?”
Nothing truly bothered Mamba except defeat. “The world seems to not care about these medical workers.”
“Wasn’t that the plan?” the Libyan asked. “By taking from so many countries, no country would feel compelled to take control and find these workers.”
“They are all weak,” Mamba said with contempt. He had no respect for the timid. They deserved to lose their heads if they weren’t willing to fight for their survival. The Caliphate was coming and they simply watched their stupid internet videos. They were all like pandas, who were not even willing to breed to save themselves. “Those to die first will be the non-believers,” Mamba said. “No, the homosexuals would die first, along with those sympathizers. Then the Jews. Then anyone who believes in Jesus Christ. And the Germans. I hate those Nazi bastards.”
The Libyan smiled in agreement.
Then Mamba pointed out future targets as their numbers would grow, sweeping his hand across all of Morocco. After that, with his brothers in his native Algeria, only a small strait would stop them from crossing into Spain, where they would take back the land they had lost.
6
Valencia, Spain
The Gulfstream G500 landed at the airport outside the city after a short flight from Barcelona and Jake got a text from Carlos Gomez almost immediately saying where he needed to meet Sirena.
As the aircraft taxied, Jake unbuckled, found his Glock in his bag and then clipped the 9mm auto to his belt. He covered the weapon with his leather jacket. Then he found one of his extra 17-round magazines and put that in a pocket inside his jacket.
“What?” Jake said to the priest, who had watched Jake prep his gun.
“I thought this person was a friend,” Father Murici said.
“She is. But from this point forward I go nowhere without protection.”
Just like in Barcelona, a car was waiting for the two of them. But this time they left their backpacks on the Gulfstream.
They drove now through a more industrial area toward the downtown of Valencia. As they got closer to the central area, Jake could see the older architecture rise up slightly higher than the newer buildings. Like many European cities, construction laws limited the height of buildings so as not to obscure their historical structures.
“Are you familiar with Valencia?” the priest asked.
“Never been here,” Jake admitted. “And you?”
“I did a pilgrimage here almost ten years ago. Things have changed a bit since then.”
“Do you know the area around the bull ring?”
“Of course. I did not partake of that brutality. But it’s next to the north train station, a short walk from the Cathedral of Valencia.”
After ten minutes of quietly riding in the car, the driver pulled the car to the curb a few blocks from the bull ring.
Jake leaned forward to the driver. “Wait here for me.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver said.
The priest unbuckled. “Where do we go from here?”
“You stay here.” Jake stepped out to the curb and leaned back in. “I hope you have some less conspicuous clothes with you. If not, we passed a department store a block back.”
“This is what I wear,” Father Murici protested.
“Do you wear that to the beach?”
“Well, no, but. . .”
“Then get some different clothes,” Jake said. He pulled out his wallet and thought for a moment, flipping through his Euros. He found a 500 Euro note and tossed it to the priest. “That should get you a couple pair of pants, some shirts, and some comfortable shoes. Get some boots with ankle support. And a warm jacket.”
The priest picked up the bill and then glanced back at Jake. “You plan on going to the Alps?”
&
nbsp; “Not that warm. We’ll have to dress in layers. Remember, we need to blend in.”
Jake started to shut the door, but the priest said, “Wait. Blend in with who?”
Shaking his head, Jake said, “I don’t know. Europe. Morocco.”
“When will you be back?”
“As soon as I talk with our contact and convince her to join us,” Jake said.
“Right.” The priest scooted toward Jake and got out to the curb with him. “I better shop right away, since I’m not sure what I need.”
Jake thought about just ditching the priest in Valencia, but he had a feeling Carlos Gomez wouldn’t approve of that tactic. He was stuck with the good padre.
The two of them went in opposite directions. Jake shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket as he drifted through the late afternoon crowd. He checked his watch and knew he needed to be at the café a block from the bull ring in ten minutes. Gomez had told him that Sirena didn’t know it was Jake that she was meeting, which wasn’t ideal. She would understandably be on high alert.
In a couple of blocks he turned down a small street that was more like an alley. Because of the overcast and cold conditions, nobody sat outside under the umbrellas. He stopped suddenly and turned to window shop, checking the reflection to make sure he wasn’t being tailed.
A man and woman with a baby stroller walked slowly on the sidewalk across the street. An older man with a cane approached from the direction he needed to go. The café sat on the corner of the next street, which he could see in the reflection.
Okay, Jake, you’re being paranoid, he thought. He turned and pulled his hands from his pockets, shaking his head and smiling slightly.
As he passed the older man with the cane, Jake’s eyes caught something unusual. Before he could fully discern what was wrong, the man swung the cane, catching Jake in the kidney area. But the handle of his gun caught much of the blow. He recovered and swiveled his hips, swiftly sending a side kick and catching the old man in the knee, buckling him to the ground.