by Brad Taylor
Knuckles said, “Two on five. You aren’t fighting.”
“I’m weapons-trained. I can help.”
“You ever shot anyone? When they were trying to kill you?”
She snorted and said, “Have you?”
She saw the intensity on Knuckles’s face, then went to Decoy, seeing the same thing. He said, “It’s not easy, and we don’t have time for a weak link. You get us in. We’ll do the rest.”
She slowly nodded, then said, “Follow me.”
They slipped inside the kitchen, Knuckles taking the lead from her, his gun up and ready. Decoy took the rear, saying, “Man, this is going to be hard to explain to Kurt.”
She said, “Who’s that?”
“Our boss. I’ll probably never go on another cellular contract again.”
They reached the back of the kitchen, and Carly pointed to a large air duct grate. In short order, Knuckles had it open, seeing nothing but darkness. From the main ballroom they heard shouting, then more gunfire, followed by shrieks.
Knuckles snaked inside the duct and began crawling upward, using his hands and feet to give him enough friction to climb. He reached a bend and slithered inside far enough to allow the other two to follow. He heard Carly cursing about her dress and slid his leg out, whispering, “Grab it.”
She did, and he crawled forward, dragging her inside. They waited on Decoy, then began moving, as the sounds of shouting continued.
They reached the far side of the duct and repeated the maneuver, ending up on the floor of the bathroom. Carly said, “The ballroom is just outside, down a small hallway. It leads right in.”
Knuckles thought a moment, then said, “We need intelligence. You still want to help?”
“Yes. Of course.”
He pulled out his Bluetooth earpiece and said, “Pair that with your phone. I want you to walk into the ballroom, then act like you were in here. Show panic or whatever, but feed us the locations and number of the guys in there.”
She hesitated, then took the earpiece. He said, “Hey, there’s one thing here you need to know. You get in there and see ten or twelve bad guys, you’re theirs. We aren’t coming in after you.”
She looked from him to Decoy. He said, “Sorry. We can’t take on twelve guys.”
She pulled out her phone and paired the earpiece, saying, “You are really working hard at not being able to leave your clothes on my floor.”
To Knuckles, Decoy said, “Maybe this is a stupid idea. Maybe we should wait.”
She shoved in the earpiece and dialed Knuckles’s phone. It connected and she said, “You want it, you have to come get it.”
Then slipped out the door.
Knuckles said, “Wow. She’s a piece of work.”
“Yeah. I know. I might go in even if there are twelve guys.”
They waited, and Knuckles heard the noise grow in his phone, then a shriek loud enough to cause him to pull the phone away from his ear, followed by shouting. In a raised voice, as if she were hysterical, he heard, “Five men, five men, all dressed like waiters. People are on the floor blindfolded. All are on the floor. Near-end of the ballroom. Men are there. Standing with pistols.”
Knuckles thought, Perfect.
He said, “Collapse on the floor. Lay down. We’re in.”
To Decoy: “Five hostiles at the near end, armed with pistols and dressed like waiters. Hostages are on the floor, blindfolded. Shoot anyone standing in uniform.”
Knuckles saw a grim smile, the same one he’d seen before a hellacious firefight in Haditha, Iraq, when they’d been outnumbered and needed to break free. A long time ago.
Decoy said, “Let’s get some.”
They broke the plane of the door and moved at a fast crouch to the end of the hallway, seeing the light from the ballroom ahead. They stayed just inside for a split second, Knuckles catching Decoy’s eye. He nodded, and Knuckles flowed into the room, sighting down the barrel of his weapon.
He saw the red of Carly’s dress, a man above her in a waiter’s uniform, holding a weapon. His own spit fire and the man went down. He heard gunfire from his right, a rapid double-tap from Decoy, before he’d even lined up his next target.
He saw a man go down, then the remaining three, one looking at him slack-jawed. He squeezed the trigger seeing a red blossom smear the man’s face, hearing Decoy’s gun spitting death. The final man got off one round before both Decoy and Knuckles rained fire on him, pummeling his torso with rounds.
In the span of three seconds, it was over.
Without a word, both men began clearing the room, kicking out weapons and searching under tables. A minute later, they were done. Carly sat up, eyes wide, a little stunned at the violence that had just erupted around her.
Decoy pulled her to her feet and said, “You okay?”
She rapidly nodded, the voltage of the fear still flowing through her. She said, “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. That was some scary shit, though.”
At the far end of the ballroom, away from the hostages, Knuckles felt the adrenaline subside. He said, “Now what? How are we going to explain this?”
The hostages began tentatively to stir, craning their heads to see, wondering if they were okay. Decoy said, “What do you mean we? You’re the damn team leader. I have a date.”
One hostage began to pull off his blindfold. Knuckles said, “Not quite yet. Carly, shout in Spanish. Tell them to leave the blindfolds on. Act like a terrorist.”
She did so, and Knuckles said, “Grab a blindfold. We’re going to become hostages.”
Decoy said, “You’ve lost your fucking mind.”
13
The plane hit the runway of Charleston International, and Decoy turned on his phone, saying, “Remind me why we flew down here again? Selection starts in DC.”
It had been two weeks since the debacle at the embassy, and Knuckles’s cockamamie plan of pretending to be hostages was holding up. Nobody knew what or who had stopped the attack, and theories ranged from an inside disagreement—a possible female terrorist the hostages had heard—to someone from the overflow room attacking them before fleeing for his life.
Since the terrorists had only half of their forces, most of the diners in the overflow room heard the gunfire in the main ballroom and immediately fled out the front, screaming and yelling. This had brought a rapid police response, and a standoff as they tried to communicate with the dead terrorists from outside.
The police had added to the confusion by taking credit for capturing the van in the loading bay, crowing about their incredible prowess. They’d also captured the German national, describing an intense, months-long investigation. They’d interviewed everyone who’d managed to get out, but none owned up to taking out the terrorists.
It was a mystery, but one thing was sure—it wasn’t any of the blindfolded and mewling hostages in the main ballroom. They were all just grateful to be alive.
Kurt had chastised them for disobeying orders, but his heart wasn’t in it. Knuckles knew he was secretly pleased and was just going through the motions, blathering on about the integrity of the Taskforce and the risk of compromise. He’d then told them he’d made a fateful decision on a particular candidate going through Assessment and Selection, and had detailed Knuckles and Decoy to help run it.
Standing up to exit the aircraft, Decoy repeated, “Why’d we come here? And what are we doing getting detailed to A&S? Turbo’s team is running it this rotation.”
“Kurt wants us to meet the candidate. It’s a special case.”
Decoy’s phone vibrated, cutting off the conversation. He saw the number and his face lit up. “Hey, it’s Carly.”
Walking down the aisle, Knuckles said, “I thought you were the love ’em and leave ’em type.”
Decoy held up his index finger, answering the phone.
Bringing only carry-ons, they wen
t straight to the rental counter and, within minutes, were on the road to Mount Pleasant. Halfway across the Ravenel Bridge, Decoy finally hung up.
Knuckles said, “Wow. That sounded a lot more serious than a one-night stand.”
“She’s okay. The reprimand’s been pulled. Thanks for getting Kurt to help out.”
Knuckles had told Kurt the help Carly had given, along with the punishment she would receive for doing so. He had in turn talked to his deputy, George Wolffe, a career CIA officer now working with the Taskforce. George had made some discreet inquiries, and apparently it had been enough.
“And the story in Lima?”
“Getting more ridiculous. Moving away from the truth. We should be good.”
Knuckles pulled off Coleman Boulevard, into a small office complex next to the marsh at Shem Creek.
Decoy said, “What’s special about this candidate?”
“It’s a civilian. In fact, the company is civilian.”
“You have got to be kidding. You assholes go nuts because I wasn’t in a SMU, and Kurt wants to give a civilian a tryout?”
“Well, the candidate’s partner used to be my team leader. A guy named Pike Logan. Don’t make him mad. He’s got a little problem with anger issues.”
“Never heard of him. A SEAL?”
Knuckles opened the door and said, “No. He’s Army. But he’s a predator, trust me. You don’t want to get into a pissing contest with him. You will lose.”
They walked up the stairs, stopping on a small porch, and Knuckles knocked on the office door. Decoy said, “And the candidate? What’s his story?”
The door opened and Decoy found himself facing a very attractive woman wearing running shoes, Nike shorts, and a simple T-shirt. She said, “Hey, Knuckles!” and held out her arms. Knuckles gave her a hug and kissed her cheek, astounding Decoy.
Knuckles said, “You ready?”
“I have no idea. But it’s not for a lack of Pike’s training. Hang on, I’ll get him. He’s packing, which, you know, means he’s telling me what to pack. Because he’s so smart.”
Knuckles said, “Not as smart as you.”
She smiled and walked away. Decoy tracked her movement back into the office, staring at her bottom and saying, “Who on earth is that?”
“Jennifer Cahill. She’s the candidate.”
Decoy’s mouth dropped open. He exclaimed, “You have got to be shitting me!”
The door jerked wide, and Decoy found himself staring at a man two inches taller and about forty pounds heavier. Sporting close-cropped brown hair and a wicked scar on his cheek, he was staring intently at Decoy as if he were deciding whether to throw him off the porch.
The man said, “You got a fucking problem with that?”
Knuckles grinned and said, “Decoy, this is Pike.”
Epilogue
Three years later, Knuckles sat in silence, the car engine ticking slowly as his mind tumbled over those actions from so long ago. Short in time, but a chasm in memories. The recollections brought a lump to his throat, but were fond nonetheless. He stared at the front door of the town house, trying to gather the courage to approach.
An Arlington, Virginia, police car rolled by, the officers eyeing him. He remained in place. When it returned, the policemen now overtly staring, he waved and opened his car door, his courage forced on him.
He advanced to the small concrete porch at a leaden pace, the entrance growing closer and closer. Eventually, as if of its own volition, his finger pushed the bell.
The door opened and he saw Carly’s face light up. Her hair was a little longer, and she was not as tan, but she still looked good. Now working in the bowels of the CIA headquarters, she was dressed like a typical businesswoman.
Her eyes searched past him, to the sidewalk behind, and he knew why. While Decoy had remained true to his perpetual quest to conquer the opposite sex, he’d also continued seeing Carly, an unspoken agreement between them. She was as close as he’d ever come to a steady relationship, and Knuckles knew how much he cared for her. And she for him.
He said, “Hey, Carly.”
He saw the terror grow behind her eyes and realized she understood what he was going to say.
“It’s about Decoy. . . .”
Read on for an exclusive extended excerpt of Brad Taylor’s
THE INSIDER THREAT
A PIKE LOGAN THRILLER
Available June 30, 2015, wherever books and eBooks are sold
1
Jacob Driscoll watched the four men, fascinated that they showed no resistance whatsoever. Completely resigned to their fate. A fly landed on the forehead of the nearest one—the one he was to kill—and the captive let it crawl about, tasting his sweat.
Jacob listened to the spokesman continue to rail in Arabic, a small crowd gathered in the square, outnumbered two to one by the gunmen. He didn’t understand the language but could guess at what was being said.
These men are traitors. This is the fate that befalls all who oppose the Kalipha. Stand with us, or suffer the same.
Far from cheering, the small grouping of people looked cowed, as if they wanted to be anywhere but here. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. They’d rather be on the outside watching than on their bellies with their necks stretched out.
The spokesman droned on, building toward a grand spectacle, his black tunic covered in dust, the AK-47 swinging about with his body language, and Jacob knew it was coming close. Execution time. His first.
In the four months he’d been inside the cult of death known as the Islamic State, he’d witnessed many, many executions, acting as a gunman on the periphery, but he’d never done one on his own.
Not that he minded killing. It hadn’t bothered him in the past, but the action had always been at the barrel of a gun, and he wondered how this would feel. In a detached, almost scientific way, he wondered if it would be different from carving the carcasses of the rabbits he’d killed in his youth. When he’d literally had to hunt for survival.
He looked at his partners, seeing Hussein fidgeting, the nervous tics growing more pronounced. He wasn’t built for this cauldron, and Jacob thought it ironic that Hussein was the one who had recruited them. Convinced them to come to this faraway land.
Not that they had many alternatives after fleeing the cesspool of “rehabilitation” they’d been placed within. Killing the guard had ensured that.
Carlos and Devon, now known as Yousef and Talib, showed no such hesitation. They had embraced the cult of death completely, changing their names and fervently soaking up the Salafist ideology like a cactus in the rain. They were on board one hundred and ten percent, considering this day a sacred one.
Jacob played the role, but he’d long since lost belief in religion. Any religion. He’d had that whipped out of him by the pious Christian guards in the white house.
No, it wasn’t the religion. It was the power. In this land, from Mosul to Raqqa, all that mattered was the courage of the battle-axe, and he’d found a skill that he didn’t realize he had. He knew he would die here, but it caused no angst. In truth, he had died long ago. All that remained was for him to slip the coils of his mortal frame. The difference was a cause. He wouldn’t end up as a page-two news story, caught stealing hubcaps and gunned down in the street. And neither would the men he had brought.
Hussein may have recruited him, and the other two may have changed their names, diving headlong into the myth of the Islamic State, but he was the leader of their small group. Just as he had been inside.
With that mantle came a responsibility.
A man in black, completely covered from head to toe, like something out of a Star Wars movie, began walking his way. Jacob inwardly grimaced.
His name was Abu Yabba Dabba Do, or some other unpronounceable Arabic crap, but Jacob called him Ringo. As in the Beatles. An Islamic fighter from England, h
e and others like him considered themselves above Jacob and his band because they were of Arabic descent. Ringo was Yemeni. Jacob was a mutt.
“So, Jacob, are you ready for your first kill?”
He drew out the name Jacob, showing his disdain for the Biblical reference and the fact that Jacob refused to take an Arabic one.
Jacob said, “It isn’t my first, you shit.”
Ringo smirked and said, “Death with a gun is not killing. You’ll see. This is absolute control. Absolute. As Mohammad dictated. But your little band of Lost Boys wouldn’t know about that.”
He was being tested, which was what he expected. Ringo had beheaded many men, and had developed a cult following on Twitter and other social media, but he was an ass. A small man who gained importance after the fact. After the fighting was done, using his knife and a camera to become famous. At his core, Jacob knew Ringo felt a challenge from him and his friends.
Four tightly knit brothers, forged by a fire outside the Islamic State, with—except for Hussein—no attachment to any Arabic or Islamic heritage, they were an anomaly. True foreign fighters in a foreign land. They called themselves the Lost Boys because of the iconic ’80s movie, but the analogy was apt. They lived in a world of the shadows.
And they killed better than most.
Jacob said, “Ringo, step away.”
That was all.
And Ringo did.
Ringo had seen the punishment the Lost Boys had endured. With two blond Caucasians, one African American, and Hussein, the one who had recruited them, their arrival had been anything but welcoming. Convinced they were spies or, at best, journalists, the emir had subjected them to inhuman conditions and cruelty. And they had thrived.
Because of the white house.
Ringo said, “You are not the future. We are the future. Kafir.”
Jacob looked up, catching Ringo’s pompous eyes with the dead ones he possessed, and said, “The future is dictated by the man who isn’t afraid to die. Is that you?”