A Touch of Deceit nb-1

by Gary Ponzo

  “Thanks.”

  “One other thing. I’m adding a new security system to your house and I’m having Julie tagged. We have to be prepared. At least until this is over.”

  “I knew you would. Appreciate it. We’ll be in touch.”

  Nick made eye contact with his partner and Matt hustled over to him.

  “What’s up?” Matt said.

  “What do you make of all this?” Nick asked.

  “It’s a setup,” Matt said, like he was answering a simple third grade math equation.

  Nick nodded. “If you were Kharrazi, would you set up a decoy on the other side of town, as far away as possible? Or would you want to keep the law within viewing distance?”

  Matt thought about the question. “This wasn’t done on a whim. I’d say he’s on the opposite end of town, as far away as possible.”

  “You’re probably right,” Nick said. He looked over Matt’s shoulder at a neighbor approaching the van. An older man wearing blue jeans and a robe. “We could have every law enforcement officer in the state canvass the city and come up empty. What would we look for? They’re not going to have a neon sign out front saying, ‘terrorists inside.’”

  The neighbor was nodding as Jim Evans explained the nature of the impromptu command post. The neighbor seemed satisfied with the answers he was getting.

  The man passed Nick and Matt as he headed back to his front door.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Nick said. “You’re wondering what’s going on?”

  “Yeah, the guy over there explained everything,” the man said. “You’re searching for some kind of kidnapper. You think he might be in our neighborhood.”

  “That’s right,” Matt said. “Have you noticed anything suspicious lately, even mildly peculiar?”

  “I can’t say that I have,” the man said.

  Nick was about to let him go when he thought of something. “There hasn’t been many houses sold in the area, has there?

  “Not really.”

  “What about winter visitors? Are there any homeowners in the neighborhood who leave during the summer and rent the place out?”

  The man’s eyes perked up. He began to point at a house directly across the street and Nick slapped his arm down before he could get it halfway up. The man looked perplexed.

  “Please don’t point,” Nick said. “Just tell me.”

  “The Johnsons have a son who lives in Montana,” the man was straining not to look at the house. “They go up there every summer and don’t usually get home until after Thanksgiving. This is the first year I remember them ever renting the place out. I understand they got paid handsomely. Ol’ Norm couldn’t keep from grinning when he told me about how they were approached to rent it. And how the guy told him he’d pay him cash up front, because he was so excited about moving to Las Vegas and needed a place to stay until his home was built. Nice guy, too. I don’t see him very often, but he always smiles and waves to everyone. They seem like a nice family.”

  “Family?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah, well, I guess I haven’t actually met his wife, but he’s shown me pictures. She’s back in Jersey with the kids.”

  “Does he have dark hair, dark complexion?”

  “Sure. I can’t remember his name, though.”

  “He ever have any company? Other men visiting?”

  The man shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever noticed.”

  Nick patted the man on his upper arm, dismissing him. “You’ve been a great help. Thanks.”

  “You think that guy renting the Johnson’s place is a criminal?” the man asked.

  “No,” Matt said. “He doesn’t fit the description. The guy we’re looking for is fair-skinned and blonde.”

  “Oh,” the man said. Then he smiled and wagged his finger at the agents, “You guys are good. Asking me if he was dark-haired, when all along your man is blonde. You guys know all the angles.”

  The man shook his head and mumbled with short bursts of laughter all the way back to his house.

  Instinctively, the two agents turned their backs to the Johnson house. Nick pointed down the block toward the limo house for effect.

  “We can’t tell Evans and the crew about the rental,” Nick said. “We keep everyone focused down the street, the way it’s supposed to look.”

  Matt agreed. They returned to the van where the female agent was screwing her face into a knot trying to decipher the phone calls she’d been tapping.

  Matt tugged on Jake’s arm. “You have a parabolic with you?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Jake said, “but they’ve got one aimed at the place already. You need another one?”

  “Yeah,” Matt said, “Nick and I are going to take a stroll around the neighborhood and see what we can pick up.”

  Jake shrugged, entered the second van and returned with the small funnel-shaped parabolic microphone. “Here you go.”

  Nick told Evans not to move until he and Matt returned, no matter what they heard in the house. Nick and Matt walked toward the limo house, then after they were out of range, they turned right and away from the house, down a side street. They doubled back toward the Johnson rental using a parallel street behind the house. Under the bright moon of the desert sky, they were careful to work within the shadows of shrubs and palm trees. When Matt peeked past a property line wall, he pulled his head back like a frightened turtle.

  “It’s right there,” he said. “Give me the mike.”

  Without exposing anything but his left hand, Nick crouched, pointed the cone toward the house and placed the miniature headset over his ears. At first he heard loud static, the rustling of trees, the sound of a car’s engine in the distance. He twisted a knob on top of the cone, adjusting its focus, narrowing its beam to the Johnsons’ house. He heard a man’s voice speaking a foreign language. Nick was fluent in Kurdish, Russian, Spanish and got along all right with several other Latin-based languages. His eyes widened when he heard an authoritative voice speaking Kurdish say, “Where is Bracco? I lost him.”

  “Forget him,” another voice said. “He went to the other house.”

  Nick went rigid when he heard, “Kill the brother and get out of here.”

  Chapter 8

  Hasan Bozlak peeled away the rug and yanked up on the trap door. He peered down into the dark tunnel. A simple string of lights illuminated the passageway. Working behind drawn curtains, Hasan was assigned four workers, mechanical drilling devices, and instructions on how to build the escape route. Twice a week the dirt was hauled from the backyard by a truck with a pool logo on its doors. A gate in the tall fence slid open and closed abruptly with each departure.

  The American government had its law officers surrounding the decoy house while Hasan prepared to lead his team of Kurdish workers through the tunnel to a house on a street directly behind them. It was only sixty feet to the garage where a car was waiting to take them to Kharrazi.

  He directed two of the men into the tunnel and was waiting for the final member of the team to execute the prisoner when he heard the strangest sound. The doorbell rang.

  The two men in the tunnel also heard the doorbell. The three of them swung their automatic weapons from the strap on their shoulders and assumed an attack position. Hasan held an index finger to his lips and motioned for the men to spread out. He peeked out from the side of a curtain. Standing at the front door as casual as if he were delivering flowers, was Nick Bracco. Bracco didn’t appear to be expecting trouble. His hands were empty and loose at his side. Maybe the FBI was canvassing the area?

  Hasan’s first instinct was to shoot. Kill the FBI agent and his brother. But too many years of following orders prevented him. The shooting would attract attention and cause the house to be invaded by FBI agents. There was a plan for the situation, which was just as deadly and allowed them more time to escape. In fact, Hasan had secretly hoped for an opportunity to use the alternate escape plan. It would send a necessary message to the Americans. The end of their cozy little lives
was near. No one was safe in his homeland, why should America be immune from the danger?

  Hasan stepped silently into the kitchen where a bearded man examined a syringe full of noxious liquid, flicking the syringe to remove excess air bubbles.

  Phil Bracco sat motionless in a wooden chair in the middle of the room. His arms were tied behind him, his legs bound to the chair’s legs, and his mouth taped shut. His sleeve was rolled up in preparation for his silent death. As the man bent over to inject Phil’s arm, Hasan grabbed the man’s wrist.

  “Leave him. We need him alive,” Hasan said.

  The man gave a perfunctory shrug.

  Hasan reached down and unfastened one of Phil Bracco’s legs from the chair. He leaned close to the prisoner’s ear and whispered, “Count to thirty, then make all the noise you wish.”

  Nick Bracco trembled while he waited at the front door. There wasn’t a plan. There wasn’t time for one. He had to interrupt his brother’s execution. He banked on the fact that the terrorists inside might be concerned about gunshots causing attention. Matt was sent to get help while Nick shifted his weight from foot to foot, acting as innocent as possible. He caught himself wiping his sweaty palms on his pants and quickly placed his hands behind his back. Unarmed and harmless. Just checking with the neighbors, that’s all.

  Suddenly, a light came to life from behind closed curtains. Then another blinked on from an upstairs window. To his left another slit of light escaped from a closed drape. The entire house was being lit up. Did he have the wrong house? He considered that for a moment, yet the door remained closed. He rang the bell again. Still no answer.

  He heard the hushed tones of FBI agents and Hostage Rescue experts closing in from a distance. He didn’t dare turn and acknowledge their presence. He rang again, this time hearing a noise. A faint thumping, not rhythmic or in any cadence. Carefully, he held his ear to the door. Again the thumping from inside the house.

  He slowly walked away from the house and headed for a clump of bushes where he knew Matt would be waiting. Once behind the cover of the foliage he asked Matt for the cone.

  “I hear something inside,” Nick said. He slipped on the headphones and listened to the amplified sound through the cone. “Someone’s banging. . I can’t make it out. It’s not hard like steel, more like someone banging their fist on a wall.”

  “We’ve got the place surrounded,” Evan’s said. “Let’s crash this party.” He looked at Matt, “How many do you think?”

  “Five, maybe six,” Matt estimated.

  Evans lowered his head and spoke into the miniature radio attached to his collar, “When I give the signal, you take the rear. We have the front.”

  The team began their inspection from a window on the side of the house where the noise seemed to originate. Others were doing the same thing to each wall of the house. Jake positioned a slender black tube to the side of the window, where only a crease of light showed. The tube was attached to a video device that relayed the image to a handheld screen. With one hand holding the screen, Jake used his free hand to twist the fiber optic tube into position. It allowed Jake to scan the brightly lit kitchen. He maneuvered the tiny screen so Nick could see the image. The camera showed a man tied to a chair, swinging his leg wildly against the floor and the stove and anything else he could kick.

  “Recognize him?” Jake asked.

  Nick examined the image. It was definitely Phil. He was tied to a chair and swinging a free leg against the wall, thumping for attention. Nick realized that Phil was left alive for tactical reasons and it almost worried him more than seeing him dead. His brother’s survival was no oversight. He nodded to Jake. “It’s him.”

  Quietly Evans spoke into his radio, “What do you see on the east side, Cliff?”

  “Nothing,” a voice came back. “I don’t see a thing in either room.”

  “What about the south side?” Evans said.

  “It’s empty over here,” a different voice responded.

  “North?” Evans asked.

  “Zippo,” a third voice said.

  Evans looked at Nick. “The bottom floor is clear. We’re going in.”

  Nick couldn’t put it together, but he knew they were in danger.

  Evans waved for his men to fall in behind him. They moved toward the back door. Nick followed. Everyone had guns drawn except for two of Evans men who stood facing each other, gripping a large door ram between them. They rocked the steel pole, preparing to smash in the door. Evans pressed the button on his radio and was about give the order when Nick held up his hand.

  “Wait,” Nick said.

  Evans seemed confused. “Wait for what?”

  Nick thought for a moment. “The lights,” he said. “There’s a reason all the lights are on.”

  “You think they’re upstairs with night vision goggles?” Matt said. “We go charging in there and they shut off the electricity and ambush us with night gear.”

  Evans radioed everyone to have their infrared gear ready.

  Again Evans wanted to move and again Nick interrupted him.

  “This is what they want,” Nick said. “There’s a reason my brother is allowed to move around in there. They’re using him as bait.”

  This time Evans’ voice had an edge to it. “Listen, Bracco, we’ve got them surrounded and outnumbered. The longer we wait, the less chance we have of saving your brother.”

  “Believe me, I want him out of there more than you know,” Nick said. “There’s something very wrong here. Just give me a minute.”

  Evans eyes narrowed. For the first time since Nick had arrived in Las Vegas he considered who had rank. He could see that Evans was pondering the same question. Evans pushed the button on his radio while looking into Nick’s eyes. “Stand down,” he radioed. “We move in three minutes.”

  Nick returned to the side of the house with Matt alongside. Jake was still playing with his fiber optic toy when Nick asked him to step aside. Without ceremony, Nick took the butt of his gun and busted a hole in the kitchen window. The soprano pitch from the glass shattering sprung a couple garage lights to life. Evans looked thoroughly disgusted as he radioed his team a play-by-play description so they understood the noises being made.

  Nick slid the shade aside with the muzzle of his gun and caught a glimpse of his brother kicking his heel into the oven door.

  “Phil,” Nick called.

  Phil sat still, swinging his head from side to side, searching for the owner of the voice.

  Nick said, “Phil, don’t move.”

  Phil’s eyes frantically delivered the screams that he couldn’t get from of his taped mouth.

  “Do you want me to come get you?” Nick asked.

  Phil closed his eyes and shook his head violently.

  “No?”

  Again Phil shook his head. This time he arched his head toward the back door entrance to the kitchen.

  “What?” Nick asked. “You want me to go through that door?”

  Clearly frustrated, Phil glared at the door, desperately trying to draw Nick’s attention.

  From Nick’s angle he couldn’t see the entire door. He asked Jake for the video device and Jake allowed him to slip the black tube into the opening of the window. Nick scrutinized the back door, but couldn’t see anything unusual. He looked back at Phil. “I don’t see a thing,” he said.

  This time Phil motioned with his free leg. He seemed to sweep a straight line with his foot. An idea grew in Nick’s head.

  “Matt,” he said, pointing to the fluorescent light hanging in the center of the kitchen. “Shoot out the light.”

  This caused some curious looks, but no one ever had to ask Matt McColm twice to fire his weapon. Before a word was spoken, Matt lined up his pistol and fired two shots, knocking out both bulbs without wasting a bullet. The blasts caused shards of glass to rain over Phil’s head. Up and down the quiet neighborhood houses began to light up like an excited pinball machine. Evans feverishly broadcasted every move with the same to
ne used to announce the Hindenburg disaster. Once again Nick slipped the fiber optic tube into the darkened room and steered its gaze toward the kitchen door.

  “There you are, you bastard,” Nick said.

  Matt glanced down at the tiny screen and saw a thin stream of red light across the base of the door. “It’s booby-trapped,” he declared. “Call the Bomb Squad, this baby’s wired to blow.”

  Evans saw the laser beam and immediately gave orders not to touch any doors or windows.

  “Do you see anything around this window?” Nick asked Phil.

  Phil’s shoulders hung low, his head moved side to side slowly, full of relief.

  Nick curled his hand through the jagged opening in the glass and unlocked the latch. He slid open the window and with eight sets of hands training their weapons on the inside of the kitchen, Nick climbed into the house and quickly pulled the tape from his brother’s mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Nick,” Phil pleaded.

  Nick untied him. “Are they all upstairs?”

  “I couldn’t tell, but it sounded as if they left. I heard a door slam shut.”

  Nick hustled Phil back through the open window into Matt’s welcome arms, then followed him out of the house. “Nice to see you breathing,” Matt said with a wide grin.

  Phil collapsed onto the lawn, which was moist from the morning dew. He took shallow breaths and hugged himself tightly, shivering from more than just the night air.

  Nick crouched down over his brother. “You okay?”

  Phil nodded. “They’ve been keeping me pretty doped up, but I think I’m all right.” He grabbed Nick’s arm. “I’m worried, Nicky. I kept hearing them talk about what you did to someone named Rashid. Did you arrest him or something?”