Target America: A Sniper Elite Novel

by Scott McEwen

  Tuckerman got to his knees beside the blonde and saw the bullet hole just above her left eye. He grabbed her up into his arms, realizing that Ma’mun had inadvertently shot her as a result of a motor reflex spasm in his arm.

  Gil kicked the dead girl out of Tuckerman’s arms and hauled him to his feet, shoving a silenced USP .45 into his hands and growling at him to get moving. Speed slammed the door to the bedroom where the other five girls were now flex-cuffed on the bed, all of them still sobbing loud enough to be heard through the door.

  Tuckerman moved to cover the hall where the CIA man was pulling the laundry cart from the elevator. Alpha gave Faisal a shot of sodium pentothal to knock him out, and Trigg tossed him over his shoulder, carrying him into the hall and dumping him into the cart. They covered him with bed linens and began wheeling him down the hall toward the service elevator, with the CIA man leading the way.

  • • •

  MISSY WAS STILL standing in the stairwell debating whether to leave her roommate behind when she’d heard the explosion that took out the door to Faisal’s suite. She grabbed the door handle and opened it a crack, just in time to see what looked to her like an Arab terrorist charging into the room with a machine gun. She was still peering through the crack in terror when the Arabs came back out of the room pushing the laundry cart in front of them, an Arabic concierge leading the way.

  The door to the nineteenth floor burst open one flight down, and six men with pistols in their hands poured into the stairwell. One of them wore a white T-shirt with LAPD—Los Angeles Police Department—on the front. They were in town for their shift sergeant’s bachelor party in the room directly beneath Faisal’s suite. They’d heard the blast and were on their way up to check it out.

  “What the hell’s going on up there?” the sergeant demanded. He was the one in the T-shirt, a barrel-chested fellow with a thick mustache, and, being in his midthirties, the oldest. The others looked like they were probably in their mid- to early twenties, rookies mostly.

  “Terrorists!” Missy blurted, jumping back from the door.

  The sergeant mounted the stairs with the rookies right on his tail. They stopped at the door to the twentieth, and Sergeant Mustache opened it a crack to see men in Arab headgear shoving a laundry cart down the far hall.

  “Fucking towel-heads with machine guns!” he said in a harsh whisper. “Definitely tangos! We’ll hit ’em hard and fast!”

  • • •

  TUCKERMAN WAS LOOKING back over his shoulder toward Faisal’s suite when the door to the stairwell opened and the cops poured into the hallway. Shots rang out, and he was knocked off his feet. He opened fire with the .45 at the bodies coming toward him, downing a big man with a mustache wearing an LAPD T-shirt.

  The rookies panicked and began pouring fire down the hall.

  The SEALs whipped around with their AK-47s and shot down the remaining five out-of-town cops without having time to think about what they were doing. The CIA man was dead with a bullet through his head and throat, and Tuckerman was bleeding out fast through a hole in his gut.

  “It’s the abdominal aorta,” Trigg muttered in a low voice, grabbing a hotel towel from the laundry cart and jamming it against Tuckerman’s belly. “He’s gonna bleed out.”

  A guest dared to poke his head from his room. Gil whipped around with his AK-47, and the guest ducked back inside, slamming the door.

  “We need a fuckin’ AAT!” Trigg hissed, referring to an abdominal aortic tourniquet, a pneumatic Velcro tourniquet that wrapped around a wounded soldier’s abdomen, functioning a lot like a pneumatic pressure cuff used for taking blood pressure.

  “Put ’im in the goddamn laundry cart!” Gil ordered.

  “He’ll fucking bleed out!” Trigg grabbed a sheet from the cart and started to wrap it around Tuckerman’s body. The towel was already completely soaked with blood. “We can twist this tight over the towel. Call for an ambulance!”

  “Get him on the elevator!” Gil took his iPhone from his harness and turned it on. He did not notice that Marie had left him a voice mail and would not have paid it any attention if he had. They got Tuckerman onto the service elevator, and Speed ran back for the laundry cart containing the unconscious Muhammad Faisal. The dead CIA man was left behind in the hall.

  Gil had seen enough men die in combat to know that Tuckerman would be dead before they made it to the ground floor, but he got Crosswhite on the phone and made sure the paramedics would be ready to meet them at the service entrance below.

  “Who were those fuckin’ assholes?” Speed asked ripping the shemagh from his head.

  “Beats the fuck outta me.” Gil knelt down beside Tuckerman, putting his hand beneath his head. “How ya doin’, partner? You gonna hang on for us?”

  Tuckerman reached for Gil’s free hand. “Thanks for not letting me rot in prison,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I disappointed you.” He glanced at Trigg. “You can let go, dude. The pressure’s killin’ me.”

  Trigg’s face contorted with emotion, and he released his grip on the twisted sheet tourniquet.

  Gil squeezed his hand, feeling the dying man’s grip fading fast. “Anybody you want me to talk to when this is over? Anybody you want me to go see?”

  Tuckerman shook his head, his face pallid. “I’m good to go, Chief. You guys are my family.”

  Gil bent down to kiss his forehead. “You rest easy, brother. We’ll catch up to you on the other side. You wait for us there! Hear me?”

  Tuckerman winked. “You know I do . . .” A few moments later he was gone, leaving behind only the faintest of smiles.

  37

  LAS VEGAS,

  Luxor Hotel

  With word of the shooting on the twentieth floor quickly spreading throughout the hotel and casino, Sheriff Moleska’s men were already flooding inside by the time the service elevator reached the ground floor. He stood beside Pope directly outside the service entrance, where the SEALs were now loading the mysterious laundry cart into the back of a white van with US Government plates. They climbed in after it, and Gil slammed the door. Beside the van, two Vegas paramedics loaded Tuckerman’s body into the back of an ambulance.

  Moleska looked at Crosswhite. “How big of a mess did they leave up there? I’m already getting reports of a bloodbath.”

  “Gil?”

  Gil turned to the sheriff. “Five or six unknown gunmen rushed us from the stairwell and killed my man. They’re all dead. A hooker took an errant round to the head. She’s dead too. Also, the hotel concierge. All on the twentieth floor.” He looked at Crosswhite. “We gotta roll.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Moleska said. “What about the gunmen? Were they Faisal’s people or somebody else?” Pope had shared Faisal’s identity, since the sheriff would have learned it soon anyhow. “I need to know whatever you people can tell me right now, because once you disappear, I’ll be on my own to sort this mess out.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but those concerns don’t fall within my mission profile.”

  Gil went around the driver’s side and got in behind the wheel. Crosswhite climbed into the passenger seat, and the van pulled out.

  Pope offered the sheriff his hand. “Sheriff Moleska, thank you. If we find the nuke in time, you’ll be the man this nation has to thank for it—though I’m afraid that’s going to have to remain a perpetual secret.”

  The sheriff only half shook his hand, realizing he was being treated like a schmuck but not really knowing what to do about it. “This is pure bullshit, you know that?”

  Pope walked off, but not before promising that the president would personally be helping clean up the mess.

  38

  LAS VEGAS,

  Airport

  Pope arrived at the hangar only a few minutes behind Gil and the others. He had just received word through one of his informants inside the NSA that Lijuan had been taken into custody at L
os Angeles International Airport, and his guilt was almost more than he could bear. He had not only allowed the NSA to discover that she was a mole, but he had known she was a spy for the Chinese before he had ever even recruited her. Over the past ten years, he had used her as a conduit into the Chinese intelligence network, making her an unwitting accomplice in his grand caper. And though she had performed exactly as planned over the years, he had not. He had allowed himself to fall in love with her, and for a man to allow a woman he loved to hang herself with her own rope was a fiendish act of betrayal—irrespective of his responsibility to his country.

  “So who’s doing the interrogation?” Crosswhite asked.

  “Gil and I,” Pope answered.

  “I’d like to be present.”

  “No.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Pope leveled his gaze, his blue eyes gentle. “Because you lost a friend tonight, and you’re known to fly off the handle.”

  “We all lost a friend tonight,” Crosswhite said, taking exception to what he considered a slight. “These men have known Tuckerman longer than I have.”

  Pope’s expression did not change. “The fact you’ve taken offense only confirms the appropriateness of my decision—which is final.”

  Crosswhite felt Gil staring at him and took a step back, remembering all too well that Pope was the reason he was not on his way to prison. “In that case, I’d better see about making sure we’re ready to move on whatever intel Faisal is willing to share.”

  “Good idea,” Gil said, giving him a wink.

  As Crosswhite walked off across the hangar, Gil could see that Pope was deeply troubled. “I accept full responsibility for everything that went wrong tonight.”

  Pope shook his head. “The mission was a success. Faisal is here.”

  “Civilians are dead and wounded,” Gil said. “Tuckerman’s body will be identified, and he may even be linked with the Chicago killings. I should have insisted we bring his body back with us.”

  “Neither Tuckerman nor Crosswhite were ever in Chicago,” Pope said. “That’s been taken care of. As for the killings at the Luxor, that’s the president’s mess, and his people will have to clean it up. Our job is to find the RA-115.” He took a Red Sox baseball cap from his back pocket and pulled it on. “Now let’s go see what Mr. Faisal has to tell us.”

  • • •

  THE FIRST RULE of enhanced interrogation was never be afraid to lie to the subject. It was important early in the process for him (or her) to believe there was hope of returning to his or her life. It wasn’t always effective, but this gave the interrogator his best shot at getting the information fast.

  This was why the first thing Gil said to Faisal was, “If you ever want to get near that American pussy again, I suggest you tell us everything you know about the RA-115.”

  Faisal was sitting on a bench in the pilots’ locker room with his hands still flex-cuffed behind him. The surgeon had given him a shot of adrenaline to wake him up and declared him to be in good health, save for the broken nose he’d received from Tuckerman’s flying elbow. But a clean bill of health wasn’t exactly good news for Faisal; it cleared Gil to treat him as brutally as he needed to.

  “I don’t know what that is,” Faisal said with a shrug. “I swear to you.”

  “It’s a Russian suitcase nuke.” Gil tore the top from a box of common garbage bags. “We need to know where the fuck it is, and you’re going to tell us—one way or another.” He pulled a bag from the roll and dropped the box onto the bench beside a roll of duct tape.

  “I’m a member of the Saudi royal family.” Faisal’s voice was shaking. “I demand to speak to our lawyer.”

  “The family’s already given you up,” Pope lied. “How do you think we found out about you?”

  For Faisal, that was the worst piece of news he could have received. Not only had the family somehow discovered his ties to AQAP, they had completely disinherited him.

  Gil saw the crushed look in Faisal’s eyes. “Do you think we’d torture a member of the royal family without King Abdullah’s consent?”

  Faisal’s eyes filled with tears. “What do you need to know?”

  Gil smacked him hard across the face. “I already told you, numb nuts! Where’s the fucking bomb?”

  Faisal shook his head, feeling his bladder letting go. “I swear to you, I don’t know! I only provided the money. It’s Kashkin you want—the Chechen! You need to find Kashkin. He brought the bomb from Mexico.”

  Pope recognized the name Kashkin but couldn’t remember from where. He took a satellite phone from his pocket and stepped to the back of the room.

  “So where do I find Kashkin?” Gil pressed.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Listen, fuck stick. This little Q&A is about to get real unpleasant for you.” He opened the black garbage bag and shook it out to fill it with air.

  “Please!” Faisal said. “I don’t know where to find Kashkin or the bomb. If I did, I would tell you! Do you think I want to be here? He was in Vegas on the day of the accident, but I don’t know where he is now.”

  Pope put away the phone and came forward. “Did you speak with Kashkin on the day of the New Mexico Event?”

  “Yes!” Faisal answered. “That was the last time.”

  This told Pope they had a recording of Kashkin’s voice.

  “Names,” Gil said. “Give us the names of everybody you know who was involved.”

  Faisal knew that to admit to helping AQAP would doom him forever with the family. He had to at least try to save himself. “Kashkin was my only contact.”

  Pope stepped forward, producing an ice pick from what seemed like thin air, stabbing it deep into Faisal’s face alongside his busted nose and leaving it there.

  Faisal shrieked in terror, his eyes crossing as he tried to see what had been stabbed into his face.

  Gil took a step back, shocked to see such a vicious act coming from an otherwise very mild-mannered man. They let Faisal scream himself out, which took about thirty seconds before he fell to sobbing like a child.

  Pope took hold of the ice pick handle, and Faisal screamed again.

  “Shhhh!” Pope looked down into Faisal’s horrified eyes. “Listen to me now. Listen to me, Muhammad. I’m going to do that over and over again until your face looks like a tomato unless you stop lying to me. Okay?” He was thinking of Lijuan sitting in a government holding cell, alone and afraid.

  Faisal blinked once, afraid to move because of Pope’s grip on the wooden handle sticking out of his face. “The al-Rashid brothers,” he whined. “Akram and Haroun. Wahhabi fanatics with Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. They came to me for money four years ago. I didn’t want to help them buy the bomb, but they threatened me.”

  Pope knew of the al-Rashid brothers, and to hear their names made him nauseous. “Are they still living in Canada?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where in Canada?”

  “Windsor!” Faisal sobbed.

  “Very good,” Pope said softly. “Now, what other names can you give me?”

  Faisal was sobbing openly now, his upturned face awash in his tears. “I swear to you I don’t know anyone else.”

  “But you’ve already lied to me so many times, Muhammad. How can I possibly believe that?”

  “I’m not lying now!” Faisal wailed. “Please believe me!” He choked painfully on the blood and mucus draining down the back of his throat from his pierced sinus cavity, each convulsion causing the sharp steel probe to contort the musculature of his face. “Pull it out!”

  “Look into my eyes, Muhammad. I’m going to stab you in the face again because I believe you’re lying to me.”

  “No!” Faisal shrieked. “I’m telling you the truth!”

  Pope pulled the ice pick from Faisal’s face. “Hold his head, Gil.”


  Gil reluctantly grabbed hold of Faisal’s head to steady it.

  “No!” Faisal shrieked with such force that it sounded like his vocal cords might snap. “I don’t know anything more! For the love God! I don’t know anything!”

  Pope stood back and looked at Gil. “What do you think?”

  Gil had seen enough, both of the ice pick and of Faisal’s testimony. “I’m pretty sure he’s tapped out.”

  They left Faisal sobbing uncontrollably on the floor of the locker room.

  Gil had some difficulty concealing his discomfort as he stood in the hall watching Pope think things over. He would have personally preferred the bloodless method of torture by suffocation, but he had to admit that Pope had gotten results very quickly after that stab to the face.

  “Should we call the president?” he asked. “We’re going to need to get the Canadians on board to help us find—”

  “No,” Pope said, half lost in thought. “We don’t need their help. I already know where the al-Rashid brothers live. They’re across the Detroit River from Detroit.” He stood staring at the floor.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Pope looked up. “I classified the al-Rashid brothers as low risk six months ago.” He shook his head. “The ultimate failure on my part—absolutely unforgivable.”

  “What are you going to recommend to the president?”

  “Nothing at all. It’s our mission to find the bomb, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

  “Right,” Gil said, “but the president needs to get the Canadians on board.”

  “And risk the Canadians screwing things up?” Pope shook his head. “No way. You and your team are going to cross the river and bring the al-Rashids back to American soil, where we can deal with them however we need to.”