Targets Down

by Bob Hamer

  Matt knew the eyes could betray everything. Could he see recognition in the doctor's eyes? But Matt had to guard his own eyes as well. A year earlier he met the doctor at World Angel Ministry. The FBI never identified the Syrian-born doctor as part of the terrorist cell which infiltrated the Christian ministry, but to Matt's knowledge the doctor was never cleared. You can't prove a negative. You can prove someone is a terrorist. You can't prove he is not. Tonight Matt had circumstantial proof Dr. U was a terrorist or at least a keeper of very bad company. Regardless, if Dr. U remembered Matt as a volunteer at the clinic and read the Times article, it might be best to act rather than react. Matt's weapon was hidden beneath his shirt. He brushed his back to feel the reassurance of the 9 mm in his waistband. He was poised, ready to explode should the situation warrant. Never ignore what you see, waiting for your brain to engage. Watch the eyes.

  "Matt, this is Dr. U. He's a friend of mine who is investing in my fuel project."

  Matt extended his hand.

  "Have we met?" asked the doctor.

  "Maybe so. I hang out at the Veil. You might have been waiting in line behind me for a lap dance." Matt's smile continued.

  Boris laughed. "Dr. U refers to my girls as temptresses and whores. His religion does not allow him to partake of such debauchery."

  "Neither does my wife," said Matt.

  Matt could tell the doctor wasn't satisfied with the response and was sizing up the undercover agent. Life was in the balance.

  "Boris, let me close the garage door. I've got nosey neighbors," said Matt heading to the door. It suddenly hit him. He forgot to activate the video recording devices. Idiot, exhaustion is no excuse. Focus! He needed to work his way back to the hallway. He risked getting caught trying to activate the machine, but he needed Dr. U on tape. It's the best evidence, maybe the only evidence, linking him to the conspiracy. Before Matt took another step, he glimpsed a man out of the corner of his eye.

  A screaming Dmitri rushed into the warehouse brandishing a CZ 75, the Czech Republic's most popular combat handgun.

  "What the . . . ?"

  "Everybody stop, don't move" said Dmitri waving the automatic at the three. Then he said, "All of you over there." Dmitri signaled with the weapon he wanted the three men to move closer together next to the tanker. The intruder was nervous; his hands shaking, his voice quivering.

  "So what is it? Do you want us to stop or to move? Don't give conflicting messages when you're waving a cannon around," said Matt in a calm but confident voice trying to defuse the situation.

  "Move. Now!"

  The three moved closer together.

  Boris said something in Russian and Dmitri responded.

  "Let's keep it in English fellows," said Matt. "I want to make sure everyone is on the same page and there are no more surprises, so English only."

  "Shut up. You talk too much," said Dmitri.

  "Only when some nut comes running into my warehouse waving a gun around. What is it you want?" said Matt slowly.

  "I want him." Dmitri pointing at Boris.

  Boris said something in Russian.

  "English. Say it in English," insisted Matt in a louder than normal voice.

  "He kill my daughter!" shouted Dmitri.

  "Your daughter?" asked Boris.

  "Yes, my Annika. You bring her here from Ukraine."

  "I never brought your daughter here," said Boris lying to a member of his extended family of enemies.

  "Your people convince her you make her big Hollywood star. You trick her to travel to Istanbul, then bring her to United States on work visa. She think she become actress. She tell us how excited she is to come here. Then when she arrive, you take her passport and visa. You say she must work for you before she can work for movies. You say she must take off clothes and sleep with men to pay back all you pay to bring her here."

  Matt heard the story before. Irina painted a similar picture of horror and deceit. Matt saw the focused rage in the eyes of a father seeking not revenge but justice. But let justice flow . . .

  "You are wrong," said Boris, his voice betraying fear.

  "You are liar. My daughter is good girl before she meet you. She call us crying, asking for help, asking for money to buy her back from you. I sell everything I own for my child, but before I get her money, I get call. My daughter dead. They find her shot at bottom of hill thrown from side of road. I promise my wife I come to America to find man who killed our Annika."

  "I had nothing to do with her death," protested Boris weakly.

  The Russian bear's courage was waning, a slight quiver in his voice. Sweat sprouted from his forehead and soaked his collar. The man who surrounded himself with supplicants and yes-men was now on his own, his posse nowhere to be found. His only chance was a Syrian doctor who did not appear eager to martyr himself.

  "Shut up! Do you know what it is like to lose your only child? My wife cries every night. We sacrifice our daughter so men can lust at our most precious gift. We have lost everything because of your lies!"

  "You better listen to him, Boris. I don't understand fuel tanks, but I'm guessing a bullet into that SIXCON, and we are all destined for closed caskets. Crispy critters don't make for good viewings at memorial services."

  "Shut up, all of you!"

  "Now I know," said Dr. U looking at Matt. "You worked at World Angel Ministry. Boris, this guy's an FBI agent. It was in that article in the paper. He's the one who disarmed the bomb at the hotel."

  "FBI?" said Boris looking at Matt with confusion, then contempt.

  Even though Dmitri was from the Ukraine, he understood; the FBI was a federal law enforcement agency. He would take no chances. With the precision of the military training he received years earlier, he fired three shots in rapid succession.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  Boris collapsed to the warehouse floor, his body gasping for life, but even the cool concrete provided no comfort. All three shots were fatal.

  Dmitri stood there, his mission complete, his target down, but his world now imploding.

  Dr. U ran as soon as the shots were fired, and Matt gave chase without concern for Boris or the Ukrainian father. The industrial complex was open, and there were few places the doctor could hide. He ran east toward the street but then headed north into a neighboring complex. Dr. U had no idea where he was running, just away from the man he now knew to be an FBI agent. The Syrian was no match for the experienced runner. Matt closed quickly. Dr. U rounded the corner of a building and disappeared briefly from Matt's view.

  Matt had been in enough foot pursuits to know better than to run without purpose around any corner. Matt stopped short of the building. Although his ears were ringing from the shots in the warehouse, he listened for footfalls or breathing or any signpost his quarry was near. He heard nothing.

  Breathe, slow and deep; relax even in the midst of chaos. Matt did a sneak and peek around the edge of the concrete edifice. Dumpsters in front of each unit lined the alley separating two buildings. Since the pavement was clear, Matt assumed the doctor was hiding behind one of the green metal trash containers on either side of the alley; the rusty oil barrels were too small to conceal the Middle Eastern jihadist.

  "Give it up, doctor."

  There was no response.

  "Give it up. I'm not even sure why you ran. I guess you could always argue you feared for your life. A jury might buy that argument. It's not an indicia of guilt."

  Nothing. Matt was coaxing any response to locate the enemy. Locate, close with, and destroy. The mission of the Marines was now his mission in the industrial park alley.

  "Come on doctor. This isn't some Third-World battlefield. We can't just shoot you. Ibrahim could have had a trial had he wanted one. Why don't you come out, and we can discuss this?"

  "Maybe I don't want to d
iscuss it."

  Keep him talking.

  Flattened with his back against the wall, Matt welcomed the coolness of the concrete through his shirt. "In that case we have a standoff. I can't walk away."

  "Why not?"

  The sounds were echoing off the buildings, and Matt still wasn't clear which container hid the terrorist.

  Matt had been here, in his mind and on the street; not this alley, not this target, but he had been here. He knew the difference between the serenity of the classroom and the explosive setting of an urban battlefield. Violence wasn't just a controlled abstract for the range or the ring; it was a reality. For those who experienced combat, life has meaning the weak will never understand. Matt understood and would once again do battle!

  "Doctor, we both know you are part of a conspiracy to destroy America."

  "America will destroy itself. It is a civilization in twilight unless it submits to the laws of the prophet."

  Matt identified the container.

  "Then come on out. I can guarantee you a pretty big platform. You won't get some military tribunal. You'll get a federal district court, press conferences, truTV, CNN. The Los Angeles Times would love an exclusive. Think of the exposure."

  Matt slowly edged his way down the side of the building outside the view of the doctor hidden behind the dumpster. Matt was seeking cover behind the container on the opposite side of the alley.

  "The word says, 'Prophet, make war on the unbelievers and the hypocrites and deal rigorously with them. Hell shall be their home; an evil fate."

  Matt was behind the container across from the terrorist physician. He remained quiet as Dr. U continued his diatribe. "Only the sword can save us."

  The doctor was ranting the same propaganda screaming from the jihadist Web sites supporting Takfir, a sacred license to kill.

  "Slay the idolaters wherever you find them. Lie in ambush everywhere for them. Accept the word or die."

  As soon as Dr. U said die, Matt moved to a firing position across from the terrorist.

  Matt could see the doctor leaning up against the container, a mini-Glock gripped with both hands, his arms extended. Matt didn't have a clear shot, only of the extended arms. Dr. U shouted out more verses from the Koran. "And if you are slain, or die in the way of Allah, forgiveness and mercy from Allah are far better than all they could amass."

  Dr. U took a quick peek around the container. He spotted Matt across the alley and fired wildly, the sounds echoing in explosive dissonance.

  Before Dr. U could get off a second volley of shots, Matt ran forward, sighting his target, aiming lower than normal, knowing he tended to shoot high in low light. Matt fired twice: once to the chest, once to the head, blood pouring from both wounds.

  The life drained from the doctor's eyes as his body slumped down the side of the trash container, a fitting place for his death. No longer would the Syrian doctor terrorize America. But the plot to destroy the Staples Center died as well, a plot known only to the doctor, Boris, and a few anonymous Shahid who will live to fight another day.

  Matt rushed forward, kicked the doctor's weapon beyond reach, and placed two fingers on the carotid artery. There was no pulse. In a near whisper and with contempt, Matt uttered, "Allahu Akhbar."

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Grabbing the mini-Glock, Matt raced back to the undercover warehouse.

  When he arrived at the open garage door, he took a quick peek around the wall seeking to find Dmitri, knowing the Ukrainian was armed and dangerous. Matt was stunned by what he saw.

  Annika's father was seated on the floor watching Boris lying in a pool of blood, Dmitri's weapon resting on the floor a few feet away.

  "Get your hands up," hollered Matt.

  Dmitri complied immediately, his body in complete surrender.

  Matt carefully approached in a combat-ready firing position, keeping an eye on Dmitri's hands and the weapon. When close enough, Matt kicked the weapon away, and the Czech-made automatic skidded across the floor.

  Matt was confused by the submissive murderer staring at his victim. "Why are you still here?"

  "I wait for you," said Dmitri softly.

  "You waited for me? Why?"

  "The man say you FBI."

  "Right, I'm an FBI agent."

  "Then I wait for you. I come to this country only to kill man who kill our child. I not come to make FBI mad. I do not want to force you to look for me. If you not here in warehouse, I would have run after stopping this man's evil, but now you know me. It would not be right to make you chase me back to Ukraine."

  "You have a strange sense of justice."

  "The only justice I seek is man who kill my daughter."

  "And you found justice?" said Matt as he slowly lowered his weapon.

  "Yes, I find justice," said the now meek Ukrainian.

  Matt saw pain and resignation in a loving father's face.

  Sirens wailed in the background as the FBI agent contemplated his next move. Knowing he never activated the recording machines in the warehouse, Matt slid his undercover weapon in his waistband and said, "Then I think you better go."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You better leave before more FBI agents arrive. You've suffered enough. Go back to your wife and try to find peace."

  Dmitri didn't move.

  The sirens were getting closer.

  "You don't have much time. You've got a thin minute before the people who don't allow choices arrive."

  The Ukrainian stood up and extended his open hand. The two shook hands, then Dmitri pulled Matt toward him, gave him a heartfelt hug, and fled the warehouse.

  After watching the father race into the alley, Matt sat down against the wall and blew a slow breath. When Dwayne arrived, Matt would tell a diluted truth: Dmitri killed Boris; Matt chased down Dr. U and shot him in the alley after taking fire; when Matt returned to the warehouse, Dmitri was gone.

  Matt looked toward heaven as if seeking approval. None came.

  He grabbed his cell phone and punched in Dwayne's number. "The warehouse is secure. Targets down."

  Caitlin said God was a God of second chances who could "erase our failures and betrayals. It's a matter of what you are willing to live with." Matt made his choice. Now could he live with it?

  The words of the prophet Micah echoed in his head. "He showed you o man what is good and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God."

  Matt struggled with humility. He didn't always love kindness. But at least for today he did justice.

  He hoped God agreed.

  Acknowledments

  Thanks to Selma Wilson, president and publisher of B&H Publishing Group, Oliver North, my “Commanding Editor,” and Gary Terashita, my executive editor, for your friendship, support, and confidence in this former undercover agent. Thanks to John Thompson, Julie Gwinn, Kim Stanford, Jean Eckenrode, Jeff Godby, and all the great people at B&H. I’m proud to be part of the team.

  To Bucky Rosenbaum, my agent and friend.

  To Daniel Combs, Chele Stanton, Chris Burgard, Becky Towle, Ryan Wilson, and Monika Baker for your input, feedback, encouragement, and support.

  But most of all, thanks to a gracious God, who blessed me with parents who served as role models and a wife who stood by me through a lifetime of undercover stories. Thanks, God, for the two greatest children a dad could ever want, who married wisely and provided grandchildren who melt my heart and bring a smile to my face.

 

 

 
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