by Harold Coyle
“Very well, Mr. Castillo.” She extended her hand. He accepted it and she squeezed gently, sensing his pulse with her thumb. “Goodbye, then.”
As Espinoza left the lobby, Mrs. Grayson asked, “What do you think?”
She rubbed her chin. “He’s a phony.”
Grayson looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, he puts up a good front. But he’s an imposter. He didn’t know about the DD-214, even though I gave him a chance to correct me on it. But he’s also too smooth for some gonzo wannabe. No, he’s up to something. Trust me.”
“How can you be sure, dear?”
Sallie looked down at the older woman. “I saw it in his eyes and I noticed that he didn’t touch anything — no fingerprints.” She shrugged. “Besides that, I just know, Emily. I just know.”
“Intuition?”
Sallie smiled. “We women do have it.” She grasped a pad and scribbled some notes for Derringer. Uncle Mike probably would want to know of the peculiar visit from the mysterious young man.
QUETTA AIRBASE
With cross-border operations a possibility, Frank Leopole convened another briefing. He wanted to impress the SSI teams with what they might face, and he knew just the man to deliver the message.
Omar Mohammed did not require notes. He lived with his subject every waking minute, which is why Leopole asked him to address the operators. As always, Mohammed chose his words carefully.
“Gentlemen, I believe that you should understand something about our situation, the environment in which we will work. Though we will remain in Pakistan, you should remember that much of what happens there is driven by events across the border. Afghanistan is not only a Muslim nation, it is the Muslim nation. True, there are other nonsecular Islamic countries, but only the Afghans defeated the Soviet infidels. Nowhere else have Muslims defeated a western power in eight hundred years. How many of you ever gave that a thought?”
Mohammed allowed the rhetorical question to hang in midair. Knowing he had made his point, he continued. “You see the importance now? Well, the same point has been absorbed by Islamic peoples for nearly thirty years. They detested the Soviets as atheists who were harsh and tough. But you know what? They regard other westerners as infidels — not quite as bad as atheists — but less tough, even pampered.”
Steve Lee interjected. “Doctor, what about Pakistan? Isn’t that the center of gravity in this movement?”
“Yes, Major. Your war colleges do in fact identify Pakistan as the crucial player. If it goes fundamentalist, the cap is off the genie’s bottle. From that point, it would probably be impossible to stem the rising tide of Islam. At least eighty percent of Pakistanis already are hostile or indifferent to America and the west. Now consider even an uneasy alliance between Afghanistan and Pakistan, with Iran sharing a common border. Imagine Pakistan and Iran with nuclear or biological weapons. I don’t know about you, but that thought keeps me awake at night.”
Seated to one side, Leopole allowed his door kickers to absorb that sentiment. Scanning the audience, he reflected that his squared-away career leatherneck attitude irked many of the operators. They were all technically competent and then some — otherwise they wouldn’t be on the payroll — but several of them flaunted their civilian manners and dress. Neither was calculated to impress a former lieutenant colonel of Marines. He wanted to reinforce the seriousness of what SSI might face abroad, and interjected, “Doctor, I believe you have other intel to share with us.”
Mohammed knew exactly what Leopole meant. “Certainly, Colonel. The following passage was lifted from an al Qaeda training manual found in a safe house in London. It provides as good a summary of radical Islam as I have seen anywhere else:
“ ‘In the name of Allah, the merciful and compassionate.
“ ‘To those champions who avowed the truth day and night…
“ ‘And wrote with their blood and sufferings these phrases…
“The confrontation that we are calling for with the apostate regimes does not know Socratic debates, platonic ideals, nor Aristotelian diplomacy. But it knows the dialogue of bullets, the ideals of assassination, bombing, and destruction, and the diplomacy of the cannon and machine gun.
“ ‘Islamic governments have never and will never be established through peaceful solutions and cooperative councils. They are established as they always have been: by pen and gun
“ ‘By word and bullet
“ ‘By tongue and teeth.’”
Omar looked around the room, meeting every gaze. “I cannot state it more clearly than that.” Then he added, “Mohammed fought twenty-eight battles and organized sixty-four raids, of which he led about half. Therefore, Islam is the only major religion founded and spread by the sword rather than by conversion.”
Breezy raised a hand. “Doctor, I’ve heard that Muslims don’t believe in suicide, like Catholics. So why do all these young guys blow themselves up?”
“That’s a complicated question. The Prophet makes it clear that self-destruction is an offense against God. But He made allowances for the ignorant — those who had never received The Word. I don’t know, but I suspect that the impressionable youngsters who become suicide bombers either have been misinformed by their leaders, or have intentionally been denied that knowledge.
“Either way, my friends, a naive enemy can kill you just as easily as a dedicated one.”
12
SSI OFFICES
Marcus Garvey Jefferson knew very little about the British Army. But he would have appreciated one of Her Majesty’s Forces’ favorite adages: “Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted.”
From the digital photos and Espinoza’s bogus visit, Jefferson and his two accomplices knew much of SSI’s layout before they walked through the doors. It was 10:20—a time chosen to optimize their one-shot option. Presumably most or all of the staffers would still be in the building before any left for lunch.
Jefferson and his brother Hakeem stopped outside the entrance to allow an army officer to enter. They waited a few moments, then pulled the balaclavas over their heads. They already wore latex gloves. Marcus nodded to Hakeem and their accomplice, grinning as he did so. If the imam’s contact was true to his word, they stood to make at least $30,000 for perhaps five minutes’ work. Minimum ten grand for each shooter and everybody splits a grand a head for every corpse.
The raiders strode across the polished floor to the reception desk. They noted that, as before, a uniformed security man sat astride a stool. Rent-a-cop, Hakeem sneered. He had previous dealings with the breed. This one was low-threat — a shade over sixty, more interested in his Field and Stream than doing his job.
Marcus focused his attention on the receptionist. He liked what he saw: pretty, mid-twenties, blue and blonde. Perky. He liked perky, up to a point. But she was not the gate guardian that Carlito had described. That woman was older, obviously more experienced. Miss Perky is prob’ly a temp, he told himself.
Marcus gave a high, guttural bark.
On signal, Hakeem pulled his nickel-plated Smith & Wesson 59 and grabbed the guard by the collar. The third raider, a naturalized citizen of Saudi extraction, produced a small spray can and leapt atop the counter. He quickly coated the lenses of both security cameras with a thick, viscous liquid. Then he unslung his folding-stock AK-47 from beneath his jacket and dropped behind the counter, covering the entrance.
Marcus pushed his Beretta 92 into Miss Perky’s face. He registered her baby blues, now bug-eyed in disbelief, and glimpsed her name tag. Becky Nielsen. In his peripheral vision he glimpsed Ahmed pistol-whipping the guard into submission. With some difficulty the Saudi pulled the man’s revolver from its thumb-break holster and tucked the.357 into his own belt.
Marcus placed himself into his dominance bubble. He knew from experience that violent intimidation went a long way, especially at gunpoint. “All right, bitch! Open that door!” He shoved Becky Nielsen against the wall, beside the keypad.
Speed was essen
tial now. The plan held that if they did not gain entrance to the inner sanctum in two minutes, they would leave.
Becky Nielsen was screaming. She was certain of it. Her mouth was open, but somehow she heard no noise. Marcus knew he had achieved his goal: the girl was thoroughly cowed. Now he just needed to get her to perform a simple exercise. Speaking slowly, enunciating clearly, he said, “O-pen, the dooor.”
In her twenty-three years, Ms. Nielsen had never confronted violence. Her eyes focused on the seemingly huge pistol wielded by the young African American. She had African American friends; she didn’t even like to say “black,” which sounded too much like “colored.” She heard a loud moan and swiveled her gaze to nice old Ray bleeding on the floor. In their brief acquaintance she had learned that they both liked coffee au lait. That was about all she knew of him.
Something stung her cheek. The skin felt suddenly rough, bruised. Nobody had ever struck her. Never. She was stunned and startled, not yet angered. “Do it!” the gunman was shrieking at her again.
“I… I…” She reached for the keypad. Her hands trembling, she tried punching in the five-digit access code: 19199. Twice the nineteenth letter of the alphabet, twice followed by the ninth letter. She missed the one the second time. A red no-go light was illuminated.
“She’s stalling, man!” Hakeem was checking his watch.
Keeping his voice low and controlled, Marcus grasped Becky by the throat. “O-pen the dooor… or I will shoot him.”
The blonde head vaguely nodded. She tried entering the five numbers again, going slowly to concentrate. It was too slow.
“Do him!”
Without hesitation, Hakeem pulled Ray’s Smith & Wesson Model 28 and executed the gray-haired man with one round to the head. The noise pealed off the high ceiling of the lobby. Becky began to scream, but the fear rising in her throat choked it off. It emerged as a desperate cry of helplesness. She realized that she had wet herself.
“You’re next, bitch. Do it right!”
19199. The green light glowed. Hakeem’s watch ticked through the sixty-eighth second.
* * *
“Security breach, main entrance!”
Joe Wolf was the first to notice that surveillance of the lobby had gone blank.
“We never should’ve hired that twinkie,” Sandy Carmichael said. Obviously Becky Nielsen had forgotten the rehearsals for such occasions. She had not even attempted to input the 20000 code that would flash audio and visual alarms to every console in the office, let alone to the security firm that would automatically summon the police.
Eighteen people were present at SSI headquarters that morning. One was dead, one now paralyzed with fear. Several of the eleven men picked up the nearest phone and dialed 911. None of them were armed.
Wolf immediately ran to the rear of the building, intending to open the “toy box.” The walk-in gun vault contained rifles, pistols, and submachine guns. He fervently prayed to Saint Christopher that at least one had a loaded magazine.
In the executive offices, Michael Derringer learned of the threat and stood motionless for an eternal three seconds. Then he strode to his corner gun rack and pulled down a Browning Superposed, the world’s first over-under shotgun. It was a collector’s item, beautifully engraved by a factory artisan in the 1930s. Derringer had only taken it to the skeet range a few times. He would never take it hunting. Now he scrambled to find some twelve-gauge shells — any kind. Four rounds of birdshot beat a sharp pencil all to hell.
Lieutenant Colonel David Main had attended two wars and numerous firefights. He had his army briefcase and a Benchmade knife with a three-inch blade.
Joe Wolf, retired FBI agent, had a Sig 228 in the company safe.
Sandra Carmichael had a compact .45 Kimber Ultra Carry in her purse.
* * *
Things were going well. If Imam Mustafah was true to his word— and he always had been — Marcus and Hakeem stood to make ten grand apiece for a few minutes’ work. It was almost too good to be true: shoot up the place, destroy computers and anything else worthwhile, and split before the heat rolled in. Ahmed didn’t seem concerned with money. He was one of those true believers.
Into the anteroom, Marcus made straight for the door that Carlito had described. The gunman shoved his hostage through the portal, then brought her up short. “Where’s the computer room?” If he didn’t find living targets right away, he would destroy as many hard drives as possible.
Becky had been pushed over the brink. She collapsed in a heap at Marcus’s feet, sobbing loudly, uncontrollably. Without blinking, he shot her in the back of the head and moved on. A twenty-cent bullet gets you a grand. Bitchin’.
At the next door Marcus went left and Hakeem went right. It was the misfortune of a visiting consultant to encounter Hakeem, who shot the man in the chest. Struck by a 115-grain bullet, he staggered backwards, tripped over a wastebasket, and fell to the tile floor. Hakeem stepped over him and continued down the hall.
It was his misfortune to encounter Sandra Carmichael.
Hakeem made the tactical error of leading with his gun hand around the door sill, and the nickel plated Model 59 gave her all the warning she needed. Crouched behind a steel desk, Carmichael raised her sights to chest level and waited, finger on the Kimber’s trigger.
Hakeem Jefferson saw the open door and swung left into the room. He did not realize he had been shot until he found himself on his back, looking up at the fluorescent lights. Two 200-grain slugs had punched through his sternum into his heart; the second round of the double tap had clipped the aorta. He raised his head off the floor, trying to focus on whoever had decked him. He saw a light-haired woman behind a desk about twenty feet away. Then the world went fuzzy, gray, dark, black.
Sandy returned her focus to the door, expecting another shooter. When none appeared, she took stock of herself. She was mildly surprised to find her pulse only slightly elevated, breathing under control. She quickly tested her peripheral vision; little of the tunneling she had been told to expect.
Way down deep she felt a tiny electric thrill. Then she moved down the hall, trying to control her breathing. Her thoughts went to David Main, somewhere amid the shooting.
* * *
In the armory, Joe Wolf seized his Sig 228 and searched ravenously for a loaded magazine. Finding none, he dumped a box of 9mm cartridges on the bench. He scooped up several rounds, dropped a few, and loaded the others into the magazine. Working quickly, he forced himself to concentrate as he thumbed the ammunition into the double-column mag. He stopped at ten and put the others in his suit pocket. Then he chambered a round and flipped the decocker, rendering the Sig safe. He was acutely aware that he had not shot a pistol since retiring.
More gunfire. More screams. The sounds of panicked people running.
Wolf turned into the hallway leading to the financial offices. Two men dashed past him; he recognized them from the research division. More gunshots; a woman shrieked.
SSI’s domestic ops chief flipped off the safety and began checking each cubicle, “slicing the pie” as he methodically searched each wedge-shaped segment that came into view. It was slow going if done properly.
At the third cubicle he found a woman’s body. She was a fifty-two-year-old grandmother named Harriet. Wolf knew her as an excellent accountant. He choked down the anger he felt rising inside him and stepped into the hall.
Forty-five feet away, Marcus Jefferson walked calmly away, pistol raised, ready to shoot.
The cop in Joe Wolf urged him to issue a verbal challenge. Then he thought of Harriet. He put his front sight between the gunman’s shoulder blades and pressed the trigger. The eight-pound double action conspired with lack of practice to force the muzzle downward and left. The first round struck the wall at waist height.
Marcus jumped at the unexpected sound. He pivoted on one foot, turning to face the threat.
With the Sig now cocked, the second round was single action. Wolf stroked the four-pound trigger but th
e difference in pressure spoiled his aim. His next round went as he fought the recoil from the first. It missed Marcus’ right shoulder by two inches.
The raider’s Beretta came around, pointing at the white man’s chest. Wolf knew he had no time for a third shot and threw himself sideways into the right-hand cubicle. A 9mm round snapped past his left arm.
Rolling to an upright position, Wolf leaned toward the entrance, intending to steady himself on the corner when he heard more shooting. Multiple rounds — a prolonged exchange — then momentary silence.
* * *
As Marcus advanced on the latest defender, he sensed that he was winning. This dude, whoever he was, had flubbed a dead-meat setup.
Two blasts impacted Marcus’s back, lurching him forward. He caught himself on his right foot and spun to face the new threat.
Michael Derringer instantly knew his mistake. Dashing to the nearest shootout, he had caught a perpetrator from behind and fired both barrels of his 12-gauge, aiming at the man’s torso. Both patterns of birdshot struck where intended, but they were not lethal.
Derringer ducked behind the doorway. He thumbed the release, bent the barrels downward and saw the empties ejected. He reached for the reloads in his pocket and tried to control his hands. One cartridge slipped into the upper barrel; the other resisted his fumbling efforts. He looked up again. The shooter was still upright, turning toward the late arrival.
The shotgunner backpedalled, removing himself from view and temporarily stabilizing the fight. The damnable second round would not drop into the Browning’s lower barrel. Derringer let it go and closed the action, acutely aware of the fight-or-flight conflict raging behind his eyes. He wanted to turn and run.
Pride and survival fought for dominance of Michael Derringer’s brain while the gunfight continued apace.
Joe Wolf poked his head around the corner of the cubicle. The assailant had turned away from him, slowly advancing on the doorway down the hall. There had been other shots — somebody else had engaged the man — but Wolf saw only the masked intruder.