“Inside man? You’re telling me you work at Brockmoore? You’re the guy? That still doesn’t explain why Jackson’s not here.”
Cyrus offered a smug smirk. “Jackson got himself into some trouble with the M.P.’s. He’s currently awaiting Court-martial.”
Grey-hair’s brow creased, and Cyrus noticed the armed men around him go on heightened alert at this comment. Grey-hair looked back at the truck, and when his eyes returned to Cyrus, they were filled with rage. He snatched his weapon from the holster on his hip and took aim.
“Whoa!” Cyrus bellowed, throwing up his arms in a useless effort to protect his face from a bullet that was soon to come. “Whoa! Wait! What’s the problem?”
“If you led them here,” Grey-hair snarled, “You’ll be the first to die!” He looked to a man over his shoulder and barked an order to check the status of the perimeter team.
“No, wait,” Cyrus insisted. “It’s not like that. Jackson’s locked up on an entirely different matter. It has nothing to do with this any of…of…this!”
Grey-hair looked like he might shoot out of anger alone, causing Cyrus to rethink the way he’d played his hand. He needed the armed men to see him as nothing more than a lab geek, so the mix-up about Jackson had seemed like a good idea at the time.
“Explain,” the man barked. “Now!”
“Well,” Cyrus grinned. “I told you Jackson was a degenerate. The only difference is, this time he got caught. He went on a bender and ended up AWOL. When the MP’s went to collect him, they found him passed out with a big old stash of cocaine, and a hooker named Karl!” He took a breath. “Truth is, I don’t think you’ll be hearing from Jackson anytime soon.”
Cyrus rocked on his heels and offered the satisfied grin of a man taking pleasure in a cousin’s misfortune. He pretended to be oblivious to the appraising stare the man was giving him at that moment.
“No shit?” Grey-hair asked at last. “And you say you’re his cousin? You seem awfully happy to see him in that kind of shit. Doesn’t seem like the sort of response family should have, does it?”
Cyrus shrugged. “Fair enough,” he admitted. “But, first of all, you don’t know what a mess this family is. And, second of all, we’re talking about the rat bastard who was apparently in the process of cutting me out of this deal! Does that seem like a normal, healthy family dynamic to you?”
Slipping his gun back into the holster, Grey-hair scratched his eyebrow and then shook his head. Finally, he smiled for the first time. “Come to think of it, my family’s not much better. And you’re right. Your cousin is a shithead.”
Grey-hair looked at the man with the radio and confirmed that everything was alright with the perimeter team.
“Okay,” he said, as if the matter were settled. “Let’s take a look at the hardware. As long as everything’s in order, you guys can be on your way.”
Cyrus was relieved to see the men around him lower their weapons as soon as Grey-hair gave the word. With a wave of a hand, two men were dispatched to the rear of the truck to check the cargo. As far as Cyrus was concerned, the payload should be in order. He hadn’t been present for the packing of the shipment, but that Jackson and Chuck might have messed with the load in some way didn’t seem likely. Not if they knew what kind of operation they were walking into. Besides, judging by the nervous way that Chuck was scraping the edge of his boot against the dusty concrete floor, he was clearly more concerned with the C4 in his boots than anything that might be wrong in the back of the truck.
“Signal Muntz,” Grey-hair said to the man beside him. “Get him out here to confirm the gear. We need to get this show on the road.”
At the order, the man stepped a few paces away and spoke a few hushed words into his handheld radio. Within seconds, a short, rail thin man emerged from the darkness. He wore thick glasses and looked horribly malnourished. But his clothes were clean—spotless, in fact—and he moved with a disconcerting confidence. The dark skin and thinning black hair likely made him of some Middle Eastern descent.
Cyrus realized that the new arrival, the one they called Muntz, must be the group’s technology advisor, which made his real name Azim Bazzi—the ultimate target of the night’s operation. Cyrus knew that, while the mercenaries on the floor around him were a dime a dozen, they were only a small, expendable part of a single terror cell. Bazzi was a much larger prize because he handled the technical needs of multiple cells, therefore, he held vast knowledge of the larger organization.
The local cell knew the man only as Muntz, which made sense. Until now, no one had been able to positively identify the man. Until that moment, he’d been a reputation without a face. When Hondo originally contacted Cyrus, he’d explained that an operation was in the works that would finally cause Bazzi to surface. Bazzi wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to take possession of the plasma weapon firsthand. It was the first, and perhaps only, opportunity any agency had at grabbing the elusive terrorist, and Hondo’s Delta team was tasked with the takedown. The only snag in their plan was that they needed someone onboard the transport truck—someone who didn’t look like law enforcement. And at only twenty–years-old, Cyrus was a perfect fit for the operation.
Bazzi walked past Cyrus without giving him a second look. From the gleam in the man’s eye, Cyrus could tell that he was fixated on the treasure in the back of the truck.
Another man stepped out of the darkness and approached Grey-hair. His appearance startled Cyrus because, up until that point, he had counted five armed men inside the building. The presence of a sixth man with an M4 wouldn’t be an issue, but it made him wonder if there might be others hidden away.
“We’re out of here in twenty,” Grey-hair said to the newly arrived man. “Alert the perimeter team. We’ll be using the primary exfiltration plan. I want you standing by at the door while we move the load to the civilian transport.”
That explained it, Cyrus realized. The newly arrived sixth man had been standing post at the retractable exterior door. He’d been the one to close it as soon as the truck was inside the building, and he must’ve stayed in position watching for any signs that they’d been followed.
Six armed men to deal with, Cyrus thought, correcting his plan to allow for the extra gunman. It didn’t change the odds, just the geometry, he reasoned. He would just need to move a little bit—
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Grey-hair was glaring at Chuck who had been neurotically grinding the side of his boot against the concrete.
Shit…
Chuck looked at the man like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. He stopped moving his foot mid scuff across the floor. “Huh?” was his only response.
“Why do you keep doing that?” Grey-hair demanded an answer to the annoying movement.
Chuck only shrugged in response, but that wasn’t the real problem. What was, was the guilty look he gave Grey-hair that spoke volumes, creating instant suspicion where there should’ve been none.
His eyes narrowed on Chuck, and Grey-hair slowly slid his sidearm from his holster. He didn’t seem to understand the threat that Chuck posed, but he seemed certain that something was off. “What. Are. You. Doing.” He demanded in slow, concise words.
Oh, shit…
Cyrus stepped forward and did his best to defuse the situation, though he was pretty sure it was too late. “Dammit, Chuck. Are you fooling with your feet again?” He looked over at Grey-hair. “Don’t mind him,” he said. “He’s been bitching about athlete’s foot all the way here. Going on and on about it,” Cyrus explained, rolling his eyes as if Chuck was an idiot making a big deal about nothing.
The suspicious shift of Grey-hair’s eyes made it clear he wasn’t buying the act. He brought his gun fully to bear, pointing it squarely at Chuck’s chest. “Just the same,” he said. “Why don’t you take off those boots? I’d feel better if I had a look.”
Chuck shot a panicked glance at Cyrus and, with that single gesture, Cyrus knew they were su
nk. Grey-hair’s gun spun round to take aim at him.
“Better do what he says,” Cyrus urged. “Show the man your nasty feet, Chuck.”
Chuck’s eyes looked like silver dollars. He shook his head emphatically. “Hell no!” he insisted.
In response, Grey-hair’s gun shifted back to Chuck. Cyrus didn’t waste the momentary reprieve. Stomping the heel of his right boot down on the floor, he ground it hard into the concrete. An instant later he heard the gentle clank of multiple pieces of metal moving across metal and felt a smile spread across his lips.
“Yee-haw,” he muttered under his breath. It was the signal for Hondo’s perimeter team to move in. It would take 30-45 seconds for them to clear the hostiles at the exterior of the building before breaching the structure.
“Just take your boots off, Chuck,” Cyrus insisted in a conversational tone. “Look, I’ll take mine off, too.”
Cyrus bent down to touch his hiking boot. From the corner of his eye, he saw Grey-hair looking at him in confusion. At the same moment, he heard the sound of half-a-dozen small hollow metal strikes on the distant concrete. He’d just ducked his head tightly to his knee and jammed a thumb into each ear when he heard a man yell in the distance.
The man’s scream was cut off as the confines of the parking garage ignited in a blinding rapid succession of white strobes. Even with his eyes scrunched tight and pressed into the fold of his flannel shirt, Cyrus could still see the blasts in his peripheral vision. But the light was nothing compared to the concussive roar of the accompanying explosions that literally shook the distant walls and ceiling of the cavernous structure. The rapid detonation of stun grenades, or flash bangs as they were more typically known, had a devastating effect. Since they had triggered within a half-second of each other, the effects were amplified. Adding to that was the reverberating nature of the massive empty building, and although he’d taken precautions, Cyrus still felt his ears ringing as he climbed to his feet.
Since flash bangs had no destructive payload, the perimeter of lights had remained largely intact. Only one of the tripod based stands had given way to the force of the painful sound waves. The men around the truck, however, were a different matter. The violent sound and light show had toppled the six armed assailants, as well as Chuck. But the blind and deaf men were already making efforts toward forming an armed response. Unfortunately, while they were effectively senseless, they were still armed with automatic weapons and still had the wherewithal to use them.
Grey-hair was doubled over on his hands and knees trying to pull himself from the floor. Cyrus kicked the man in the side of the head, knocking him out cold, before snatching up the discarded weapon and turning to the gunman closest to Chuck. The man had his rifle in the air and was fighting with the charging handle. Firing a single shot into the man’s favored shoulder, Cyrus sent him sprawling to the floor and the rifle clattering off into the darkness.
Cyrus turned in time to find three more men within his field of view. One had just slipped the stock of his M4 under his arm to brace it against his ribs. Cyrus realized that blind and deaf, the man had no intention of taking aim. What he did intend was to use the rifle and shoot from the hip, spraying the entire room with automatic fire. It was insanity, given that there were more of his men in the room than there were actual hostile forces.
Without a second thought, Cyrus raised his weapon and fired a pair of kill shots into the man’s chest, only a breath before the gunman could pull the trigger. The blood spatter made it clear that the man wasn’t wearing body armor.
Realizing that any of the remaining men could easily attempt the same move, Cyrus raced quickly through the room, his gun barking twice upon each hostile he encountered. In the span of twenty seconds, he had disabled four men and killed two.
At the rear of the truck, he found Bazzi. The little man was lying on his back and clamoring like a turtle beached on his own shell. He cradled his right arm across his chest, a broken shaft of bone clearly protruding through the flesh of his arm. The man had been in the truck’s cargo bed when the flashbangs detonated, Cyrus realized. He must have stumbled from the vehicle and fallen to the floor.
“Let’s go,” Cyrus muttered.
He grabbed the small terrorist by the back of his collar and dragged the man across the rough concrete to the front of the truck where he deposited him, unceremoniously, beside the shell-shocked Chuck. Suffering the effects of the rapid detonations, Chuck wasn’t doing much better than Bazzi. He lay on his side, pawing feebly in the direction of his own feet which he could neither see, nor feel. Apparently, even in his stunned condition, he still retained the desire to pull the explosive-lined boots off his feet.
It was funny to Cyrus, considering the gunk he’d shoved into the toes of Chuck’s boots wasn’t C4 at all—Chuck had nothing more than a couple of wads of silly putty that had been picked up at a nearby truck stop before the action had begun. The trigger Cyrus kept in his boot had been rigged to the flash bangs the entire time. He just used a little misdirection to help keep Chuck in line during a critical stage of the operation. The entire mission would’ve fallen apart without Chuck’s cooperation, and he needed incentive to play along.
When the small service door beside the closed overhead door detonated in a shower of splinters, Cyrus quickly placed his weapon on the floor and kicked it away. He stood in the open circle of light with his hands held high. Two more small explosions sounded in distant parts of the warehouse as additional breaching charges were used.
Men in dark fatigues flooded through the small door closest to Cyrus. They swept into the room, the red dots of their laser sights rapidly probing every surface and crevice of the vast structure.
“Clear,” Cyrus called out in a casual tone.
The armed breaching team had poured through the expanse of the large room with impressive precision, but they parted around Cyrus as he stood stock still with his hands in the air. The men treated him as if he were invisible…nonexistent.
“For God’s sake, you can put your hands down now.”
Turning at the sound of the voice, Cyrus saw a tall man with dark face paint and a floppy, green jungle hat step from the darkness. Pulling the hat from his head, he ran a hand through his short bristle of dark hair. His scalp was thick with sweat; yet another ‘tell’ that the team’s rapid assault on the building’s outer perimeter had been brief, but aggressive.
“Hondo,” Cyrus smiled. “Good to see you. I’ve got your bad guys right here. I believe you ordered a six-pack?”
Laughing, the man shook his head. “Bloody hell,” he said with a trace of an Australian accent as he looked at the destruction around them. The commandos were in the process of shackling the still-addled hostiles. “You didn’t leave much for me and the boys to do,” he grinned.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Cyrus shook his head and took a look at his handiwork for the first time. “I’m actually not that used to having backup waiting in the wings. Still, I guess you guys can do the clean up.”
Hondo laughed and smacked Cyrus on the shoulder. “That we can!”
They walked outside and into the warm night air where Cyrus could finally take a deep breath of fresh air. His body still tingled from the adrenaline surge, and his ears continued to ring from the grenades.
“Thanks for helping us out with this,” Hondo said when they had walked a short distance away from the warehouse. “I owe you one.”
“Not at all,” Cyrus gave a dismissive shrug. “Just do me a favor and keep my name out of the reports. I don’t think my people would appreciate my moonlighting for another outfit.”
Hondo laughed and took a long look at him. “Just like that? Do you have any idea what you did here? Do you have any idea who Azim Bazzi is? We’re talking about a high-profile collar. This is big! He’s got ties that span multiple terrorist cells—some on U.S. soil! With the information in his head, we’re going to clean up.”
Cyrus shrugged again. “That’s great,” he admitted. �
��You’ll be able to use him to take more of these thugs off the streets. I killed two of the grunts, but the Grey-haired guy is still in working order. He seemed to be the one calling the shots. Hopefully you can get something useful out of him, too.”
“You can bet on it,” Hondo said in a very serious tone. “But that’s above my pay grade. Still, I wouldn’t want to be where these guys are going. They’re sure to get everything they have coming to them.”
He followed with a grin, “I knew you were up to something when you asked for a half-dozen flash-bangs, but holy hell! I didn’t see this coming.”
“Yeah, neither did they,” Cyrus smirked. “I rigged four of them off the top crossmember of the truck’s canopy,” he explained. “Then one more from under the front and back bumpers. Since we didn’t know how many men I’d be dealing with, I had to make it big. I’m pretty sure my ears will still be ringing this time next week.”
“I’ll bet! The coms cut out and saved us from the blast. If they didn’t have built-in noise suppression, you could’ve deafened the entire team.”
That wiped the smile from Cyrus’s face. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Sorry about that. The truth is I’m not the best team player. Most of the time, in a pinch like that, I’m on my own. It was actually nice having the cavalry swoop in for a change.”
“Just say the word and you’ve got my support anytime, anywhere. It’s the least I can do.”
Cyrus laughed. “Speaking of which…Do you have someone who can drive me to the airport? I’ve got a plane to catch if I’m going to make it to work on time.”
Walking away, Hondo called back over his shoulder. “Follow me,” he laughed. “I’ve got just the ticket.”
Chapter 5
Hennings, South Carolina
Dangerous Minds: A Cyrus Cooper Thriller: Book One Page 4