Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  "Your evening begins at six, Mrs. McIver," he said with a wry smile. "While Dr. Kafni probably won't have a lot of time at the gala itself, he's asked to meet us for dinner afterwards. I told him we'd try to find time in our busy schedule."

  "Really?" she said, acting as if she was impressed. "I didn't know you were a man of such connections. Can I touch you?" She held out her index finger and reached towards him, grinning like a star struck teen.

  He shook his head and laughed. "Why yes, you can."

  Gently, he cupped her face and kissed her. Wiping her eyes with her hands, she returned the kiss with passion. She laughed and pretended to protest as he picked her up off her feet and carried her down the hallway towards their bedroom.

  "I just thought of something we can do," he said, kicking the door shut with his foot as they entered.

  "Oh you did, did you?" she asked.

  "Aye, I did."

  Chapter Three

  8:46 a.m. Eastern Time – Friday

  Van Deman Industrial Park

  Dundalk, Maryland

  The brakes of the decaying Crown Victoria ground against the rotors as the taxi cab pulled to a stop at the corner of Ralls Avenue and Van Deman Street in an industrial area just southwest of the city of Dundalk, one of the first suburbs inside what was known as the inner ring of Baltimore. Anzor Kasparov knew he was taking a great risk coming in broad daylight. Dressed in an open flannel shirt over a faded blue tee, and jeans with a hole in one knee, he hoped he looked the part of someone who belonged in and around the manufacturing district at this hour of the morning.

  "You want me to wait?" the cabbie asked as he turned to look over his shoulder. "The cost is twenty dollars."

  "No," Kasparov said pulling a Baltimore Orioles cap further down over his brow in hopes of keeping the man from getting too good a look at him.

  "Okay. The fare is fifty-five."

  Kasparov tossed three crumpled twenty dollar bills into the front passenger seat as he opened the door and exited. His hands in his pockets, he walked south on Ralls Avenue for twenty yards, as the cab drove away and disappeared from view, then he turned and headed back to the corner, this time going north onto Van Deman Street. He walked for two blocks until he reached a building with a rusted sign above the door reading Broughman's Welding Service. He surveyed the vicinity and looked over the odd collection of junk beside the building as he took his wallet out and removed a key.

  Opening the blue metal door, he walked into what had once been the front office of someone's business. Now mildewed boxes sat collecting dust and the air smelled of rotting cardboard. He closed the door behind him and locked it. He could hear the sound of a power tool running in the larger part of the building behind the office and walked that way.

  Inside what he imagined had once been some type of machine room a lone man lay on his back underneath a tattered panel van. The van had been driven onto a pair of mobile ramps for easier access and two red toolboxes sat open on either side of the mechanic. Undoubtedly the van was how their mysterious benefactor planned for them to get around without attracting attention. From such a humble veil, the surveillance, the collection of intelligence, and finally the selection of a target could be accomplished, and there was little chance that anyone would notice. After the target was selected their benefactor would make sure any necessary documents were supplied without hesitation. Blueprints, fire escape routes, mechanical, electrical and plumbing maps, whatever was needed. The plan was brilliant and Kasparov thanked Allah as he approached the mechanic.

  As if the man could sense someone's presence, in one fluid motion he pushed himself out from underneath the car, removed the welding mask that had shielded his face and reached into the coat he was wearing as if he were going to pull a gun.

  Kasparov removed the baseball cap and stared down into the face of Ruslan Baktayev. The frail, skeletal appearance of the man nearly brought tears to his eyes. What had the Russians done to him? Where there had once been dark hair and a thick beard, there was now only pallid flesh with the beginnings of dark stubble. Where there had once been muscles chiseled by the Caucasian winters, there was now a malnourished prisoner. He looked deep into Baktayev's eyes and gloried at the defiant look that stared back at him. Despite even the cruelest treatment the enemy could muster, his friend, his brother in arms, had lost none of his fire. Kasparov opened his arms wide as Baktayev came to his feet, the Chechen's full height of six feet bearing down over the smaller and more robust Armenian.

  "Abu, Abu," Kasparov said, using Baktayev's chosen Islamic name, Abu Tabak, as the two embraced and each clapped their hands loudly against the other's back. "It has been too long. Tell me it's true? Tell me it is all true and we will finally deliver the sword of Allah deep into the hearts of the infidels?" A look of sheer elation spread across Kasparov's face as the two drew apart after their embrace.

  "It is all true, Anzor, it is all true."

  "Glory be to Allah, Allahu-akbar!" Kasparov shouted throwing his arms in the air triumphantly. "I have prayed so diligently for this time to come. Ten years, Abu, ten years it's been since we set out on this journey, but Allah has finally delivered us!"

  "That he has, little brother," Baktayev breathed, "and soon he will deliver up the head of my enemy and I will wash myself in his blood." Baktayev clenched his fists as if he could barely contain the hatred within him. As his knuckles turned white, he continued; "Soon the killer of my brothers, the hated Jewish pig, Abaddon Kafni, will be dead and Allah's vengeance will be mine."

  Kasparov nodded his approval. "He can do it, this Sheikh Kahraman, he has arranged it all? He has arranged for the killers of Vadim and Deni to be brought to you?"

  "Only Kafni, he was the father of the operations against my brothers. His agents may have been the ones doing the shooting, but Kafni made it happen."

  Kasparov continued to nod. "Then glory be to Allah, we shall taste his blood."

  The shrill sound of a ringing phone echoed through the hollow chamber of the garage and interrupted the reunion. Baktayev moved towards a workbench littered with tools and watched as a greasy telephone receiver vibrated against its base with each ring. After three rings the phone lay dormant. Seconds later the shrill sound came again and after two rings, Baktayev picked it up and said, "Broughman's."

  A disembodied voice on the other end responded, "Is this the big blue welding service?"

  "No," Baktayev responded sharply. "It is the big red welding service."

  "Very well then," the electronic voice responded. With their code words spoken correctly, Levent Kahraman continued. "Everything is set. You are to deliver your products to the president's home tonight. Simon and Peter will be waiting for you."

  "Very good, I appreciate your business," Baktayev responded. He hung up the telephone with a satisfied smile knowing that the term “president's home” was code for a mansion near the former retreat of U.S. President Thomas Jefferson and that Simon and Peter were code for Kafni and his chief of security, Levi Levitt. He turned back to Kasparov who looked at him with a question in his eyes.

  "Let everyone else know. Abaddon Kafni dies tonight."

  Kasparov nodded, replaced the Orioles cap on his head, and turned to exit the building.

  Chapter Four

  3:16 p.m. Eastern Time – Friday

  Eastbound on Route 460

  Lynchburg, Virginia

  The late afternoon sun glinted off the passenger side mirror and Declan squinted as he looked left and right over the edges of the four lane highway. Driving east on route 460 heading into Lynchburg, the sprawling campus of Liberty University had just come into view. Covering both sides of the highway, the campus was seemingly in a constant state of construction to keep up with the rapid growth of the student body. In the distance to the right a brand new building stood connected to the main campus by a long parking lot and a string of modern dormitories. The C.H. Barton Center for International Relations and Politics was designed to look like a larger sca
le model of Thomas Jefferson's Poplar Forest retreat, located a few miles southwest of Lynchburg. In a few hours Declan and Constance would be attending the center's grand opening, along with about three hundred other guests.

  "Seriously, I don't see why you put up with this guy," Constance said, from the driver's seat of her late model Nissan Z sports car.

  "He's not that bad," Declan said, with a small laugh. She was referring to Brendan Regan, an employee of DCM Properties and a man Declan had known for nearly fifteen years. To say that Regan was a bit abrasive was an understatement and Declan did at times wonder why he put up with some of the man's antics. In the end, he supposed it came down to feeling sorry for him.

  "Not that bad? He's completely obnoxious and he causes more problems than anyone else working for you. Not to mention every time I'm around him all he does is stare at my breasts. Ugh."

  "I do a healthy amount of staring at your breasts, too."

  "Yeah, yeah," she said, backhanding him on the shoulder playfully and trying to hide a grin.

  "Ow," he said, pretending that it hurt. "They were bouncing up and down last night, you know? It was quite entertaining."

  "Stop it!" she said, turning bright red and covering an ear to ear grin with her hand.

  Declan smiled broadly and laughed. Teasing her was almost the best part of being married.

  "Left exit here to 501," he said, waving his hand across the gearshift to signal left.

  "I know which way left is," she responded sarcastically.

  "Just making sure, you are a Republican."

  She signaled left and slowly glided over into the turn lane. "How far is it from here?"

  "Not far. Go up Candler's Mountain Road then take a quick left onto Edgewood Avenue."

  A few minutes later Constance pulled the sports car to a stop in front of a yellow brick ranch with a faded brown roof and broken out windows. Two utility body work trucks sat parked in the yard, the red and blue logo of DCM Properties ablaze against the vehicles' white paint. In the driveway sat a Ford Escape with a “City of Lynchburg” seal on its door, a grey logo at the bottom clearly identifying the vehicle as a hybrid. While most of the road was residential, the area's rapid development meant that businesses were starting to take over the first block of the Edgewood Avenue and that put this particular property under the purview of Declan's company.

  "Right, then, let's go and see what Regan's gotten us into this time," Declan said, opening the passenger side door and stepping out.

  "Yes. Let's," Constance said through clenched teeth.

  They walked across the small patch of grass that made up the home's front yard and as they arrived at the door a tall black man dressed in white overalls appeared from inside.

  "Hey, boss," said Poindexter Perry.

  "Dex," Declan said, as he stepped up onto the covered front porch.

  The sound of a raised voice with a Boston accent erupted from behind Perry. "I told him to take it easy this time," Perry said in his deep baritone voice.

  "Why don't you have a look around the place with Dex while I go and straighten this out? The back rooms could use a woman's touch," Declan said to Constance.

  "How do you do, Ma'am?" Dex said, tipping the edge of his white painters cap.

  "Fine, Dex. Thanks for asking. How are Sherri and the girls?" Declan heard her say with a smile in her voice as he stepped away towards the basement stairwell.

  Inside, the house looked like it was two different properties. To the left of the basement stairwell, which marked the center of the house, the one story ranch's bedrooms, bathroom and floors had been completely remodeled with new carpet, paint, tile and fixtures. To the right of the steps, where the kitchen and living area were located, were bare wooden subfloors, exposed support beams and loose drywall, covered with a thick layer of settled construction dust. Like all of the properties DCM worked with, this one had been bought out of foreclosure and they were now in the process of remodeling it into commercial office space so that it could be leased out.

  "Hey, listen to me," a loud voice said from in the basement. "Hear the words that are coming out of my mouth. I'm not replacing an entire electrical panel because of a little bit of rust. There's no water in here. Do you see any water?"

  Declan shook his head and descended the basement stairs. The aged wood creaked underneath his weight and the two men standing in the unfinished room looked up as he reached the bottom. Standing in front of an open electrical panel in the musty smelling room was Brendan Regan, an overweight man with a clumsy cluster of blonde hair, a beer gut hanging over his belt and a lopsided expression that gave him the look of a fat kid in an ice cream shop faced with an impossible number of choices. Regan's six foot frame towered over the building inspector in front of him, a stout man in a blue denim shirt with receding gray hair and a bushy mustache.

  "Hi, I'm Declan McIver. I'm the principal for DCM Properties," Declan said, extending his right hand toward the inspector.

  "Howard Terry, Mr. McIver. Lynchburg City Planning and Zoning," the man said, as they shook hands. "Your subordinate here was just telling me you have no plans to replace the electric in this house, but I'm afraid the city is going to require an update before we can issue a certificate of occupancy."

  "I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. We just started this project a few weeks ago. What are we dealing with?"

  "Well, this desk jockey here says the whole thing has to come out because it's rusted," Regan said. "But the only rust I see is the quarter-sized spot there. Here, I'll scratch it off."

  "Easy, Brendan," Declan said. "We're all professionals here."

  "Professionals, my big ass; he's a hack."

  "That's enough. Mr. Terry's with the city and if we're going to be successful in expanding our business to Lynchburg we need to listen to what he has to say. Why don't you wait upstairs while we finish up down here?"

  "Fine, you want to kiss his ass, you kiss his ass," Regan said, as he pushed his way between Declan and the inspector and headed for the steps mumbling, “Stupid desk riding bureaucrat."

  Declan watched the inspector as Regan climbed the steps, the man's eyes followed him with a disapproving glare.

  Declan flashed a smile as the inspector looked back at him. "I've raised him since he was thirty," he said, with a short chuckle as he bent down to take a closer look at the electrical panel. Pulling a multi-tool out of his back pocket, he opened it and produced a Phillips head screwdriver. After loosening four screws, he pulled the face off the junction box at the bottom of the panel. Rust colored water slopped out of the bottom of the box and spilled onto the floor.

  "There's your problem, Mr. Terry, ground water," Declan said, pulling out a fistful of hastily taped wiring. "We'll install a new watertight conduit and a NEMA-4 junction box. Think that'll get us a C.O.?"

  Terry nodded. "Yeah, that'll do."

  "Thank you, sir," Declan said, as he stood and shook hands with the inspector again. "Let me give you one of my cards. My cell number is on there if you run into anymore issues."

  Terry took the card and withdrew one of his own from his pocket. "I'll be by for a final inspection when you're done remodeling," he said, handing his card over.

  Declan nodded and followed the building inspector up the basement steps. As the man left the house and closed the front door behind him, Declan turned and looked into the kitchen. Constance sat uncomfortably on an upturned five gallon bucket, with Regan and Dex standing nearby, Regan grinning ear to ear as he attempted to position himself at just the right angle to get a view down her shirt. Declan grinned as she flashed Regan an annoyed look and pulled her jacket closed.

  "You about ready, then?" Declan asked.

  Constance jumped to her feet and said, “Yes, very much so."

  "Dex, good work man," Declan said, as he opened the door for his wife. "I'll be round Monday to help you secure the back deck. Regan, try not to bring the entire city council down on us in the meantime, will you?"


  Regan grumbled a response as Declan closed the door.

  "You're fired," Constance mouthed inaudibly from outside the house.

  Declan flashed a smile. "He works cheap," he said, as he put his arm around her and led her back to the car. "Let's get to the hotel and get checked in."

  Chapter Five

  6:02 p.m. Eastern Time – Friday

  C.H. Barton Center – Liberty University

  Lynchburg, Virginia

  By six o'clock a light rain had begun to fall. Arriving at the campus, Declan followed the directions of the orange-vested parking attendants and pulled into a spot just big enough for his wife's sports car. They'd chosen to drive her car rather than his truck for that exact reason. College campuses weren't known for spacious parking and the crowd expected for the night's event would exacerbate the problem.

  Opening the door and exiting the vehicle, he looked south along Candler's Mountain Road. He could tell security was tight, just as he had expected it would be. White SUVs with flashing LED lights blocked entrances and men in navy blue security uniforms stood at the edges of every sidewalk, .40 caliber Glock sidearms visible on their hips. Opening the door for his wife, he waited as she stepped out of the car.

  In the distance the indignant shouts of a group of protestors could be heard from a sidewalk just beyond the Campus limits, but in full view of the arriving guests. Some things haven't changed, thought Declan. Like many others who vocally supported America and Israel from their platforms as authors and speakers, Abaddon Kafni was a target of constant protests. Signs reading Free Palestine and Occupation Is A Crime were waved defiantly in the air as chants of “Stop Israeli aggression!” were shouted loudly at anyone who came within fifty yards of the group. The people taking part in the protest were likely the same ones who would protest the appearance of war veterans, members of a Republican administration and conservative personalities, all of whom frequently appeared at the university's many venues.