“The CyberFang of Al-Shabaab. Welcome.” Stanzer reached out and twisted Massir’s face, turned it side to side as if he was inspecting a horse. “No engagement?” he asked surprised to see unblemished features.
“No need.”
“He didn’t fight?” Stanzer asked.
“He had a gun.” McCutcheon reached around to the small of his back and handed the revolver he’d taken from Massir over to the colonel. “But then he didn’t.”
“Was he alone?”
“Two others. Neither on our list. With them there was engagement,” McCutcheon said. “But it was brief.”
Stanzer didn’t ask any further questions about the two others because he didn’t need to. He knew McCutcheon well enough to understand that a couple of bodies lay broken somewhere.
“You take any shots?”
“They took more.”
“Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
The colonel glared. He wasn’t going to ask again.
McCutcheon opened his jacket, hoisted his shirt, and showed Stanzer his ribs. A giant splotch, the size of a dinner plate with streaks of purple and black covered the side of McCutcheon’s chest.
“Those ribs are broken.”
“Maybe not.”
“Cracked for sure.”
M.D. allowed his shirt to fall back down over his body. “I also secured his computer and phone.”
“All right, you,” Stanzer said turning to Massir. “Come.”
The three men walked twenty-five feet down a quiet hallway that gave the impression that nothing of significance went on behind any of its boring brown doors and stopped at Suite 253. Stanzer turned the silver handle to the right and the three entered. The door closed behind them and the quietude of the corridor gave way to a burst of feverish activity.
Agents swarmed. Some wore suits, a few wore jeans or khakis, and screens of laptops, cells, tablets, and desktops glowed like digital fireflies inside of a rectangular conference room.
Two athletic-looking men in navy-blue blazers raced up to Massir and roughly hooded his head with a black cloak. Neither showed a hint of concern about having jammed an accidental palm into Massir’s nose as they secured the bag around his neck. Eyes shrouded, vision eliminated, the disorientation of the Somalian’s senses began immediately.
An office chair rolled up next. It smashed behind Massir’s knees, and arms the North African never saw forced Massir downward by his shoulders into a hard gray seat. Three more agents, efficient and precise, raced to the government’s new prize with urgency. One tied down Massir’s left arm, another tied down his right, and out came a sequence of sterilized hypodermic needles. The first took blood; the second administered a barbiturate. In less than sixty seconds they tubed three blood samples, landed ten fingerprints, and snipped enough hairs from the North African’s forearm to archive his DNA.
Restraints around the waist, a collar around the neck, and a pair of black earmuffs—large and almost cartoonish in size—that muted all sound were placed over the sides of Massir’s hooded head. Just like that the CyberFang of Al-Shabaab had been drugged, vacuum-packed, and readied for transport.
“Spooky, huh?” said a blond-haired, barrel-chested man who’d sidled up next to McCutcheon.
“Such is the fate of those that would fuck with us,” Stanzer answered. “Come on. Let’s go get those ribs looked at.”
As Stanzer walked M.D. over to the on-site medic, a door in the back of the conference room flew open and a team of six agents wheeled Massir off to a place where McCutcheon would never seen him again.
Most, in fact, would never see Massir again. Not his family, his friends, his government diplomats, and most assuredly not his network of online radicals. The only connected device Massir El-Alhou would touch in the next ten years would be a light switch.
A female doctor approached.
“Show her,” Stanzer said. McCutcheon’s eyes answered the request with a look that said I’m fine. “Show her,” Stanzer repeated.
With the grace of a cougar McCutcheon hopped up on a table and lifted his shirt.
“Ouch,” said the doctor in an attempt to be sympathetic when she saw the giant bruise. “On a scale from one to ten, with ten being the highest, what number would you assign to your pain?”
“No offense, doctor, but I’d just like to grab my grub and get some nutrition in me. Beyond that, I’m good.”
“Give her a number,” the colonel said.
“You bring me spinach or arugula?”
“Would you give the doctor a number please?”
“One.”
“An injury like that is only a one?” the doctor asked. Ribs that had been smashed like M.D.’s made it painful to even breathe, much less gracefully hop up on a table. “That’s gotta be at least, I dunno, an eight.”
“No, I would like to start by eating one decent meal, please. It’s been a while since I’ve had any decent food. Plus, I had to smoke. Disgusting.”
“Why do you have to be so difficult?” Stanzer asked. “She’s a licensed doctor; let her treat you.”
McCutcheon rolled his eyes.
“Take a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory every six hours, alternate ice and heat, refrain from heavy lifting, get rest, try not to cough, and if there’s blood in your urine or stool come back for an X-ray immediately. Am I close?” M.D. said.
The doctor nodded. “Young man might take my job one day.”
“Young man might take all our jobs one day,” Stanzer replied. “But until that moment comes I’m still the boss. Can’t you tape him up or something?”
“They don’t really tape”/ “We don’t really use tape any more,” M.D. and the doctor replied at the same time.
“He’s a little old school,” McCutcheon explained to the lady physician. “Now, can I have my salad please?”
“It’s four seventeen in the morning, son. Where in the world am I supposed to get you a salad at this hour?”
“From that green and white Whole Foods shopping bag sitting next to your briefcase on the counter at oh-eight-hundred.”
All eyes turned to the grocery bag sitting on the other side of the room.
“And why would you suspect there’s a salad in there for you?” Stanzer asked.
“Why else would there even be a Whole Foods bag in this room right now?” McCutcheon answered.
M.D. hopped off the counter and crossed the room. “The only thing I am not sure about is if you brought me spinach or arugula.”
McCutcheon opened the bag and removed a fresh green salad. “Kale?” he said popping it open. “Keeping me on my toes, huh?” McCutcheon fished a fork out of the bag and took a nice big bite. “You want some superfoods, Colonel?” he offered, extending a fork. “They’re good for you.”
“Son, if God intended me to eat that shit he would not have invented Philly cheesesteaks.”
“Or nachos,” said the tall, barrel-chested man who’d sidled up to McCutcheon a few moments earlier. “Hello son. Name’s Puwolsky. Colonel Nathan Puwolsky. Nice to meet you.”
Puwolsky extended his arm for a shake. McCutcheon, mid-chew, looked to the colonel before retuning the gesture. Agent ZERO X1 wasn’t supposed to be making friends. Ghosts like him didn’t even exist.
“I’m sorry,” Stanzer said, stepping in front of his soldier. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but who the fuck are you?”
“I just told you, name’s Puwolsky. But I’m not here for you, Colonel. I’m here for the kid.”
McCutcheon remained wordless.
“And unfortunately, son, I bring some very bad news.”
A cold moment hung in the air between the two colonels. Puwolsky owned a strong frame. Looked like a former tight end who played Division I college football at some point in his life. Big hands, wide shoulders, an air of cockiness about him.
Stanzer possessed the skill set to rip the tongue from a man’s head for even thinking about burping in his mug like that. He was a K
rav Maga guy, a real-world situation type of soldier who didn’t give a shit about style points when it came to fighting. Efficiency and brutality guided his strategy for confrontation. Make a threatening gesture toward Stanzer, and his philosophy was “neutralize and pulverize.” McCutcheon knew from the way the colonel carried himself that he’d put more than a few bullets into the back of people’s heads.
Stanzer was a man who knew what he was fighting for and knew why he was fighting for it. If something needed to be done it got done, fuck the collateral damage.
“I’m from the DPERS,” Puwolsky said. “The Detroit Police Elite Response Squad. They call us the Dopers, for short. I know, ironic, right?”
“You’re a long way from Detroit, Doper.”
“Detroit’s what brings me here,” Puwolsky responded. “Demon’s back.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure you understand exactly what I am communicating to you right now, Officer Poo-Fart-Skee,” Stanzer said. “Refrain from addressing my soldier. Immediately. This is the wrong place, this is the wrong time, and unless I give you the right to speak with him, you do not have it.”
“Actually, these little colonel birds I wear on my shoulder give me the right to speak to this young man,” Puwolsky said.
“And these little colonel birds I wear on my shoulder give me the right to say, ‘Eat my ass’.”
The two men moved nose-to-nose, Puwolsky owning a couple of inches in height plus a couple of pounds in weight, but not an ounce when it came to what always mattered most.
Big. Furry. Balls.
“Hmm,” Puwolsky said, not showing much zest to mix it up. “Two colonels, questions of jurisdiction; why don’t we let the kid decide if he wants to hear? After all, it’s his girl they plan to target.”
“What!?” McCutcheon pushed his way around Stanzer. “What do you mean my girl?”
“Do I have your permission, Colonel?” Puwolsky asked.
It was a bullshit move executed in a bullshit way, but Stanzer knew he’d been boxed in. Tell Puwolsky to go blow, and McCutcheon would be a useless operative until the situation was resolved. Allow Puwolsky to spill his story without even knowing what McCutcheon was about to hear, and all sort of cans of worms might be opened.
Cans of worms that might never be closed.
How many times have I told him, You gotta slay that dragon, thought Stanzer. And how many times had McCutcheon replied that it was already dead. Yet at the first mention of this girl’s name he pops his top like a schoolgirl? Stanzer could only shake his head.
“Make it tight,” Stanzer said. “And spare us the fluffy bullshit, would you?”
“Just remember one thing, Colonel,” Puwolsky said to Stanzer. “I’m doing you a favor here, too.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“What, you think this whole thing is still a secret right now? Look around; you had fourteen people in this room tonight.” Puwolsky gave a wide sweep of his arm. “You got NSA, FBI, New Jersey Department of Special Investigations. You think this many folks can keep an operation this significant on the down low? Lid’s been blown on your whole little teenage soldier program since your third high-profile snatch—that wanna-be mall bomber in Portland. Shit, a guy as smart as you thinking Bam Bam Daniels is still under the radar? How delusional are you?”
Stanzer didn’t respond because he knew it could be true. He’d done all that he could to keep the Murk off the grid, but the more impressive M.D.’s work became the harder it was to keep the cat in the bag. Stanzer, like all officers, had bosses, too. Bosses who liked to boast, bosses who liked to drink, and bosses who liked to secure more funds to finance their most successful programs by drinking and boasting in the private clubs of Washington, D.C., where they lobbied for extra funding. More teams with more teens had been floated down Stanzer’s pipeline by the brass above a few times already. If there was one kid from the ghetto who could pull off these sort of missions, perhaps there were more.
“Not so lippy, are you now?” Puwolsky said to Stanzer. “That’s because you know if this shit spins the wrong way, you’ll get slammed so hard it’ll feel like you’ve been gangbanged by federal gorillas.”
Stanzer’s eyes narrowed, but McCutcheon quickly intervened, determined to hear the news. “What’s the situation, sir?”
Puwolsky, knowing he had his audience right where he wanted them, began.“Ask yourself, on the streets of Detroit, who has the most soldiers? Who has the most guns? Who has the largest war chest?” he said. “That’s right, the Priests. And in jail, they have the largest army, too. But one-on-one, they’re getting their asses kicked.”
“What does this have to do with Kaitlyn?”
“Or his father?” Stanzer asked.
“Fuck my father,” M.D. snapped. “Tell me about Kaitlyn.”
“They’re tied together,” Puwolsky explained. “Your dad got pinched and sent for a bid to the same jail where D’Marcus Rose is also serving time. You know the name D’Marcus Rose, don’t you?”
“I do,” M.D. replied. “He’s the High Priest who put out the hit out on my family.”
“Correct,” Puwolsky said. “And they’re both in Jentles State Prison right now, a.k.a. the D.T. Nickname stands for the Devil’s Toilet. Place is downright inhumane, but since nobody has two hundred and fifty million dollars to build a new penitentiary, and no one in society really gives a fuck about what happens to these street animals once they get locked up, it’s a world where anything goes.”
“So?” McCutcheon asked.
“So they got this sick guard staging gladiator wars between all the rival gangs, and some cat from Brooklyn is fighting for the Princes of Mayhem, the Priests’ biggest rivals in the state of Michigan. Can’t nobody touch him. They call him—”
“The Brooklyn Beast,” M.D. said, filling in the blanks.
“You’ve heard of him, I see,” Puwolsky said.
“You could say that,” McCutcheon replied. Back when M.D. was being pimped out by his father to fight in Detroit’s underground cage fighting wars, the Priests had set up a blockbuster fight, Bam Bam versus the Brooklyn Beast, a war to prove once and for all who the best really was. But the battle never happened because the Brooklyn Beast got pinched for armed robbery just before the showdown was about to occur.
“There’s lots of money involved,” Puwolsky continued. “But more than that, a gang lives by its rep, and with the Priests being punked time after time, it’s affecting their street cred. Which could affect their business operations. Which is a multimillion dollar criminal enterprise. And so when Demon gets tossed into the tank, the High Priest doesn’t want the money he’s owed anymore. He wants a fighter who can win for the Priests. In other words, he wants you.”
“But since his father doesn’t have him,” Stanzer deduced, “Demon offers up the next best thing he can in order to save his own ass.”
“Exactly. He tells the High Priest that he knows how to flush you out,” Puwolsky said. “Demon told the High Priest that the way to get Bam Bam is to go after his girl.”
“What exactly does that mean, ‘Go after my girl’?” M.D. asked.
“With the Priests,” Puwolsky replied, “you don’t want to know.”
McCutcheon, lost in thought, rubbed his chin.
“And how’d you find out about this?” Stanzer asked.
“Wave hello, Oscar,” Puwolsky said.
A thick-necked guy sitting in a swivel chair staring at a computer monitor raised his arm and waggled his middle finger at Puwolsky.
“That’s Oscar Larson,” Puwolsky said. “I work with his brother, Dickey Larson, back in Detroit. The Priests floated a balloon to our side of the fence, got a message to Dickey that unless Bam Bam resurfaced within the next seven days they were gonna, well, like I said, you don’t want to know. However...”
“However what?” Stanzer asked.
Puwolsky smiled a big shit-eating grin. “This is fucking perfec
t.”
Top martial artists always operate from a space of inner peace. The world outside can be swimming in chaos, but to the devoted practioner of the warrior’s path, the way is best walked in a calm and balanced manner. Just as seas may rage with waves and choppiness on the surface, underneath the ocean is always steady and serene.
It’s one of the reasons McCutcheon always felt so confident in his ability to ultimately triumph. On the outside he was strong, but on the inside he felt immovable.
Until Kaitlyn. She became the lever that opened a swirling drain.
“Is my sister safe?” M.D. asked. Roughly ten months earlier the FBI had offered M.D. a take-it-or-leave-it ultimatum: your sister or your girl? McCutcheon chose his sister. Was it the right choice? Absolutely.
McCutcheon had raised Gemma, protected Gemma, and sacrificed for Gemma. His six-year-old sister always came first. Her dimpled face, her lopsided pigtails, the way she could make M.D. giggle and smile and laugh when the rest of the world only wanted bone and blood and flesh. Gemma’s well-being was the only thing that had gotten M.D. through all those long nights of training, all those brutal poundings, and all those nasty, gloveless wars on all those violent Saturday nights.
Your sister or your girl? Was his sister the right choice? Absolutely. Then again, he always wondered why it had to be either/or.
He wanted them both.
“I have no idea about your sister,” Puwolsky replied. “Only Stanzer knows your family’s whereabouts. Just a stroke of pure coincidence that I even found you.”
M.D. turned to Stanzer.
“She’s safe,” the colonel affirmed. “Your mom, too. But your use of the word perfect, Colonel,” Stanzer said, directing his attention at Puwolsky, “is a bit puzzling.”
“You’re correct; nothing’s perfect,” Puwolsky admitted. “But this is damn good. Gives us a chance to slip an agent inside the D.T. and break this whole thing wide open.”
Noble Warrior Page 3