by Rafael Hines
The mysterious hero who saved hundreds of lives was briefly taken into police custody before being released. His name and whereabouts remain unknown.
The story was covered in every major newspaper and news broadcast around the world, with John’s picture front and center right next to Amir’s.
Chapter 12
Return to the Battlefield
Khost Province, Afghanistan
“We found two more mines. One south and one north of the hut. We disarmed and cleared the one on the south side so you can go up there now. My men’ll have the other one cleared in twenty minutes in case you need to go further up, Chief.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant. We’re moving in now. It looks quiet, but the Predator stays on over watch to make sure no one’s hiding under a rock,” Bear Bernstein said.
“Understood.”
“Chief?”
“What is it?”
“We’re all real sorry about Major Burke and the team. Let us know if you need any backup, or if you’ve gotta go off the reservation on this one. We want in regardless.”
“Thanks Loo, I’ll let you know.”
Bear, Able, Bobby, and Mace were the remnants of Team Razor. Traveling up the same dirt road where they fought for their lives two days earlier, they stopped next to Major Burke’s Humvee. It was mangled from the explosion and burned black from the fire. The charred body of Sergeant Dan “DC” Collins had been removed after the battle. What was left of his him.
They all stared in silence, looking on at the wreckage that was also a grave stone for their five brothers.
“Mace,” Bear said.
“Yeah,” he replied, his jaw flexing.
“I couldn’t have done it either.” He didn’t have to spell it out. They all knew Bear was talking about when DC begged Mace to shoot him.
“He did it himself so I wouldn’t have to carry it,” Mace said.
“That’s the type of man he was,” said Bobby.
“Every time I blink I see his face,” Mace said.
“I know, but I’m gonna picture him smiling when we kill everyone that had a part in this,” Bear said.
“We’re gonna find these fuckers,” said Able.
“Find ‘em and waste ‘em,” Bobby said.
Mace didn’t say anything. He just spit in anger and flicked the safety on his M-4 on and off.
They walked across the road to the other two disabled Humvees. Bobby looked down at the engine block of the third vehicle that had taken the two RPG rounds.
“Good thing we welded that front plate on last week.”
“Without that hillbilly armor we all would’ve been dead instead of just put to sleep,” Able said.
“My ears are still ringing,” Mace said.
“Mine too,” said Bobby.
They had all been standing behind the last Humvee when the RPG’s hit. The impact knocked them out cold, but no one was seriously hurt from the blast.
“Let’s see if they left anything for us,” Bear said.
They drove the quarter mile up to the tiny one room shack which remained intact even after the aerial barrage. The pilots had been alerted that there was potentially valuable intel inside and they skillfully placed their ordinance down on everything around it. There were impact craters, blood stains, and bone fragments everywhere, but no bodies. The enemy had come back after the battle to retrieve its dead.
“All clear up there?” Bear said into his headset. The Predator UAV was circling high above and could detect the heat signature of both man and weapon.
“All clear Chief,” was the quick response from the UAV Command and Control Center thousands of miles away back in the States at Creech Air Force base in Nevada. There was no ambush today and no booby traps other than the mines that had already been detected.
“Wish we’d had that Predator when we came up this road the last time,” Bobby said.
“Would’ve saved all our guys,” Able said.
“We didn’t, they’re gone, and we’re still here so let’s stay sharp and see if we can get some info to help track Aziz and his guys,” Bear said.
All heads nodded silently in agreement. There was no joking around now. They were all professionals and war was their business, yet each knew that the fight was now very personal.
Even with the all clear they approached the hut cautiously with M-4’s pressed to shoulders and safeties off. They checked all four sides of the small mud and stone structure that had one entrance with an ancient wooden door on rusted hinges and no windows. Mace kicked open the door and looked in on the dark sparse interior. There was a small wood burning stove and a few old rugs lay over the dirt floor. That was it.
“Shit. This is mission control?” Bobby asked while pulling up the rugs.
Mace looked up at the ceiling: “Jonny said he hid it over the door in the roof. How’d he get up there without a chair or a table?”
“How Johnny Bishop did most of the things he did has always been a fuckin’ mystery to me. Boost Able up past the door frame,” Bear said.
Mace and Bobby each held a leg and pushed him up. Able switched on his helmet light and searched the wall, feeling for anything loose with his hands. Frustrated, he was about to give up when he spotted a small piece of straw stuck between two stones. He pulled on it and the rocks fell away revealing a small hole where the microphone and recorder were hidden. He grabbed it and the guys lowered him down. There was a note wrapped around the recorder.
“Asshole,” was all Able said after reading it and passing it around.
JB was here. Miss you guys.
P.S. How long and how many of you dipshits did it take to find this?
“Fuckin’ Johnny,” said Bear after reading it and passing it to Bobby.
“Wish he was here,” Bobby said.
“Then you’re wishing him dead cause he would’ve been riding lead with Tommy,” Mace said.
“Fuck me. I wasn’t thinking straight. I just miss the guy is all,” Bobby replied.
“We all do,” Able said.
“Play a song Chief,” Mace said.
Bear hit the play button on the voice activated digital recorder. They each listened to the conversation in Pashto from the meeting two days prior.
“Motherfucker,” Mace said.
“Yeah, they were tipped off,” Able said, shaking his head and looking out of the doorway at the ambush site.
“Yeah, we’ve got a mole for sure. No doubt about it. Some other good info here besides that. The nephew in New York must be the one that led the attack. He’s probably the one Johnny shot, so this Amir Rashid may actually be Amir Khan,” Bear said.
They had all been briefed on the Union Square attack and their former teammate’s role in thwarting it.
“Johnny retires and still finds time to kick Jihad ass on the weekend,” Bobby said.
“You gotta love it,” Able said.
“And then there’s this part about a secret passage through the mountain,” said Bear.
“We going up there now, Chief?” Mace asked, eager to be on the hunt.
“Not today. We’ve got leave. We’re all going stateside for a week to attend the funerals,” Bear said. He took a final scan of the hut to make sure they didn’t miss anything. “Okay, mount up. Let’s get this intel to SOCOM ASAP.”
As they headed back down the road they each pledged a silent vow of vengeance and retribution against Aziz Khan for their fallen brothers.
Chapter 13
The Khans
The mountains of Eastern Afghanistan
Aziz Khan sat on an old ammo crate with his elbows resting on a rough wooden table. He was in a small chamber within a large cave high in the mountains. The caves had been ideal for evading the Russians, who rarely left the cities or the main roads. They tried and failed to win the war by air power. The Americans, especially the Green Berets and Army Rangers lived in the mountains and were better fighters than the Russians, though far less ruthless. Aziz had a network of these ca
ves throughout his country and they all had secret passages and escape routes. It allowed him and his men to go through the mountains instead of around them like their enemies.
He knew he needed glasses, but considered them a luxury item he could live without. Although Aziz made millions from his poppy fields and heroin labs in the south, he took nothing for himself. The money bought weapons and was distributed to those in his territory that needed it most. He lived as the poorest of his people did. His clothes were worn and dirty; his boots were scratched and needed resoling. He didn’t smoke, drank coffee for breakfast, and ate little. Refusing to sleep in a bed, each night he lay on his father’s old rug, which had been his father’s before him. Aziz lived only for war.
A portable generator powered the lights that hung on the jagged stone walls and allowed him to read computer printouts describing the failed operation in New York. After squinting at the fine print he stared long and hard at the mug shots of his nephew before re-reading the description of how Amir had been arrested two days before the attack.
Aziz worked hard at staying calm and in control. He had learned from seeing so many men die early deaths by acting in anger and letting their emotions cloud their judgment. He put the papers down and sat for twenty minutes in silence.
His trusted lieutenants sat on thick rugs along the cave wall waiting patiently for orders. They followed him unconditionally and respected how deliberate he was in everything he did. Deliberate in his calculations and decisive in his actions.
He stood up and summoned his men. “Send in Omar,” he said simply.
The curtain at the entrance of the chamber parted and a small figure seemed to glide across the stone floor. Omar the Blade, also known as the Sword of Allah, was Aziz’s top assassin. A killer who focused only on selected high value targets. Omar had never failed to execute an assignment.
The only discernible features were Omar’s black lifeless eyes. Everything else was covered by a turban, mask, thick robes, and soft boots. Even the hands were gloved. Except for Aziz, every man in the room stiffened slightly in the presence of such an instrument of death.
“Assalaam alaikum (Peace be upon you).”
“Waalaikum assalaam (And peace also upon you),” replied Aziz.
“My target?”
“Targets. First, Amir Khan,” Aziz said without emotion. He had already determined that his nephew must die and actually felt annoyed that he was still alive. “And then his second, Khalid Mulan.”
“It will take several days to get to New York.”
“May Allah keep you safe in your travels. This will assist you in finding them.” Aziz handed over a CD that had photos and backgrounds on all of Amir’s known contacts and the location of all his safe houses.
“Is that all my lord Khan?”
“The American Hero,” Aziz added nonchalantly. “We must redeem ourselves from this set back. The media is calling us incompetent and unprofessional. Perception is everything when it comes to public opinion and his meddling caused…” Aziz paused for a moment. “Make an example of him. A bloody public statement as retribution for his interference.”
“Does he not remain unknown?” Omar asked.
“It does for now, but his name will surface in the next few days. Someone will identify his picture and we will have our man.”
“And then so will I. It will be done.”
“May Allah protect you,” Aziz said.
“And you,” Omar said without looking back, gliding silently out of the room.
Brooklyn, New York
With six thousand seven hundred and fifty-five miles between them, Amir Khan had been reading the same news clippings at the same moment that his uncle was. He put the papers down and thought about his Uncle Aziz. Amir knew he was a dead man and figured he had a week to live if that. If he could keep all his local cells insulated and prevent any direct contact with leadership back home then his own men wouldn’t be the ones that killed him. They would send someone though. That would give him at least a week, or maybe more if he was careful. And that was time enough to get even.
The throbbing in his nose was now a minor annoyance compared to the searing pain that made him tremble with every breath. He was fortunate that he had been turned sideways when the bullet tore through the hood of the cab. If he were facing straight ahead it would have killed him on the spot. Instead, it made a deep gouge right below his chest that broke two ribs before it went through the bicep of his left arm.
After being wounded he ran west on 16th Street and jumped into a cab on Fifth Avenue. He’d made it to a safe house in New Jersey where he was patched up before being moved to this hideout in Brooklyn.
He stood up shakily and looked himself over in the full length mirror. He had a broken nose, two black eyes, fifteen stitches in his chest, two broken ribs, his left arm was swollen tight and seeping blood from both the entry and exit wounds and his right Achilles tendon was throbbing steadily. He looked like shit and felt even worse. The only thing that kept him going was his rage and his need for revenge.
It wasn’t until he was alone and replaying the events that he realized the man that shot him was the soldier from his jail cell. It had to be a coincidence, just bad luck, but he had no doubt it was the same man. The pictures in the paper showing the scarred face had just confirmed what he already knew.
Everything was put on hold and the “unknown hero” was his new mission. He now had to kill this soldier before Aziz killed him.
He sent all the cell members out in their cabs in hopes of spotting the soldier in downtown Manhattan and each had a picture of him taped to their dash board. It was a long shot, but it kept all his men busy and out of contact with Aziz. He felt he was due for some good luck anyway after such a string of unfortunate events.
Part of him knew that he should stay on plan and hit the other targets as scheduled, but his need for revenge consumed him. Once the soldier was dead he could then launch the next round of public attacks if there was time. Time, as much as the soldier, was now his enemy.
Amir had taped an enlarged photo to the wall and he hawked a gob of yellow phlegm that hit John right in the face this time. Amir winced in pain from the sudden movement as he watched his spit roll down the black and white photograph of his nemesis.
“I am coming for you soldier,” he said aloud. “I am coming.”
Chapter 14
Planning
Brooklyn, New York
Like Aziz and Amir, Gonzalo Valdez was reading the papers and watching the news.
“Didn’t I tell them to stay out of the papers? They never listen to me,” he said more to himself than to the others in the room. His brothers, Sesa, Carlos, Macho, Victor, Fiero, and Calixto and his nephew Antonio were all sitting quietly in leather seats surrounding a large glass coffee table as Gonzalo watched another report on CNN.
“Okay,” he said.
He turned off the TV, stood up, and walked over to the window. They were in a twentieth floor penthouse apartment with a spectacular view of the East River and the sun setting behind the Manhattan skyline.
“They have his picture, but not his name,” Macho said.
“They will soon. This story is too big and too many people know who he is. By tomorrow, if not sooner, they will name him,” Fiero said.
“Yes, Fiero. One day or less,” added Gonzalo. “Where are they now?”
“John dropped off Maria at her mother’s house and met Felix at his place. They’re still there and Chris is with them,” Antonio said, looking over to his Uncle Macho, Chris’ father.
“How many men do you have watching them Antonio?” Gonzalo asked.
“Six Tio. Three on each of them.”
“Make it twenty. Keep an eye on any cars driving in the area and take down license plates. Let’s not take any chances. If anyone even appears threatening have them taken out. These people are walking bombs so shoot first and ask questions later. Your only job now is protecting the boys. Me entiendes?”
No one spoke on a phone when Gonzalo was present so Antonio got up and walked out of the room. He called Benji Medina who was down the block from Felix’s place and passed on the orders to expand the security team and gave the green light to engage. He came back with news.
“They’re on the way. We’ll have the area completely covered in ten minutes.”
“Good,” Carlos said.
“The Feds are there too,” Antonio said. “Benji said they had cars on Felix and more were following John when he arrived.”
“Interesting, very interesting,” Gonzalo said. “Let’s think about what that means later, but first the main threat. These terrorists worry me. If their leader is still alive he will come at John and Felix with everything he’s got once their names are released.”
“He’s a fugitive. Won’t he just run for home?” Carlos asked.
“He has no home now. He’s a dead man walking,” Antonio said.
“Very good, Antonio. Yes, you see it,” Gonzalo said, while Sesa beamed with pride at his son’s understanding of the situation.
“Not sure I do,” Calixto said.
“He embarrassed his organization. He got arrested right before his mission and his mission failed. In one of two ways he will die shortly. One, his men here will kill him on orders from their superiors. Or two, if his power is very strong here, they will send a hitter from back home to take him out. Either way he’s a dead man. So we must plan for the worst case,” Gonzalo said.