Patriot

by M. A. Rothman

  Wagner hesitated, then looked down at his bare feet. “You’re just going to kill me anyway.”

  “Not if you tell us what we want to know,” Annie said.

  Connor wasn’t sure if he believed her. He tried to imagine a scenario where Wagner spilled every bean he had, and then they simply shook hands and he went on his way. It didn’t seem plausible. And Connor didn’t think the Outfit was the kind of organization to maintain a prison.

  “You’re not an olive oil guy,” Connor said. “That’s beneath you. I doubt this guy Müller would set you up with a menial job like that. What do you know about olive oil? It has to be something special, and I’m sure Müller trusted you with that information. Tell us what you know about it, and it’ll save your life.”

  Wagner’s eyes lit up, and Connor knew he’d hit the right switch.

  The man straightened slightly in the chair. “The olive oil.” He roughly blew air through his nose, sending a large clot to land at his feet. A new trickle of blood began to pour from his nose. “The olive oil,” he repeated. He shook his head, hesitating. Then he glanced at Annie, spinning the knife in her hand, and his shoulders slumped. A sure sign of a broken man.

  “The shipments have nothing to do with the olive oil,” he said at last. “It’s what’s in the olive oil that’s important.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “What could this mean?” Connor asked as he stared at his phone. The chilling text message from Aliyah said a lot of things, none of them good.

  * * *

  Bashir,

  I have to leave. Maybe someday, we’ll have that coffee. Be careful.

  Aliyah

  * * *

  Thompson, who was driving the Tahoe, frowned. “It sounds like the sheikh sent his baby girl away for safety.”

  Connor shrugged. “I can imagine him doing it right after the bombing, but why now? This has my Spidey senses tingling.”

  “I don’t know, but take a look at this,” Annie said. holding up her cell phone.

  It was playing a live newscast from one of the local stations, discussing the influx of police officers from surrounding states to assist with security. Bomb squads from multiple agencies were arriving to assist with post-blast processing and detection.

  “We’re running out of time,” Thompson said. “We need to nail this down, and we need it done by tomorrow.”

  Connor leaned forward between the two front seats. “Nail it down? We don’t even know what we’re going to nail down. Wagner says they’re robbing a bank, but he doesn’t know which bank it is. Do you know how many banks and credit unions and depositories New York has?”

  “Too many to set a bomb off in every one,” Annie said. “And don’t forget about the rest of the bombs. There’s been three so far, and if twelve trucks left today …”

  “I don’t even want to think about twelve more bombs going off all up and down the East Coast,” Thompson said. “It’ll be worse than 9/11.”

  “Why the hell set off that many bombs in the first place?” Connor asked. “It doesn’t make any sense to draw extra attention to where you’re trying to pull off a heist. Right? You don’t want more cops in the area, you want less.”

  Annie crossed her arms. “He said it was going to be a big hit, the biggest one they’d ever done. What are they going to do, hit Wall Street?”

  “No cash on Wall Street,” Connor said. “It’s all ones and zeros. Digital. Nothing to steal.”

  “The Federal Reserve has the largest stockpile of gold bullion in the world,” said Thompson.

  Connor couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you going all Bruce Willis on me now?”

  “Huh?”

  “Bruce Willis, Sam Jackson, Die Hard, the third movie?”

  Thompson shook his head. “Never seen it.”

  “German terrorists bomb the hell out of New York, steal a whole bunch of gold, and get revenge for the leader’s dead brother. Great movie. Of course, that movie was made before 9/11 was even a thought in some asshole’s mind. I guarantee you it wouldn’t have been made after that day. No way.” A thought hit Connor, and he laughed. “Goddamn Bruce Willis.”

  “What?” Thompson asked.

  Annie rolled her eyes. “He’s said this already. Die Hard. We get it, you watch a lot of movies.”

  Connor leaned forward from the back seat. “With all the cops on standby and everyone looking for suspicious activity, no one’s going to get away with robbing a bank. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Thompson tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Well, we’ve picked up some chatter about some cells operating out of DC and New York over the last couple of days, but nothing specific. And we’ve even had a couple people on the no-fly list sneak into the country under false identities. But they’re nowhere near New York.”

  “You let people into the county that are on the no-fly list?” Connor asked.

  Thompson shrugged. “All the time. We keep tabs on them, see where they go, watch who they talk to. We’ve developed a lot of good leads that way.”

  Connor shook his head. “All the years I’ve spent keeping these people out of the country and you just let them waltz right in.”

  “We don’t exactly let them waltz right in,” Thompson said, “but knowing who they’re talking to, that’s important. Especially when the person they’re talking to is a legal citizen who we might not have had eyes on beforehand. Keeping them out is easy; knowing where the attack is going to come from on the inside is what’s difficult.”

  He had a point, and Connor was actually surprised the CIA hadn’t started running operations like that. Yes, operation within the States was technically against the agency’s mandate, but it wasn’t like the CIA had never done anything questionable. He was sure if the public knew about all the black bag operations they’d run against terror groups and their financiers in other countries, the average Joe would have a fit.

  The price of freedom, Connor thought.

  Thompson’s phone rang. “Yeah… oh crap.”

  Connor and Annie exchanged worried looks.

  “Hold on.” Thompson switched the phone over to Bluetooth, and Richards’ voice came through the SUV’s speakers. “Repeat what you just said.”

  “Two more bombs have gone off in Manhattan.”

  “Where?” Annie asked.

  “Columbia University Hospital and St. Michael’s Church on 99th Street.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Annie said.

  “Casualties?” Connor asked, leaning forward.

  “Still coming in.”

  “What the hell are they doing?” Annie said. “Wagner’s full of crap—they aren’t stealing anything, they’re just blowing stuff up. How that hell is that going to make anyone rich? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m getting reports that the NYPD stopped a suspect on his way to a third location, and the bomb squad is en route to deal with the situation.”

  “They’ve got him in custody?” Connor asked.

  “That’s what it sounds like. I’ve got Brice already working on patching us through to their data centers. We should know what they do shortly.”

  “We need to talk to that suspect. Do we have any idea who he is?”

  “What I’ve been able to pick up over the radio is that he doesn’t speak English and he’s possibly Arab.”

  “One of Hakimi’s guys?”

  “I don’t know yet—oh, wait a minute. Just heard that he had a slip of paper with Abdullah Khan’s name and address in his wallet.”

  “We need to snatch Khan up,” Annie said. “Before we lose him.”

  “Agreed,” Connor said.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” Thompson said. “The sheikh is on the FBI counterterrorism watch list. We need to grab him before anyone else does.”

  “Let’s get the son of a bitch,” Annie said.

  “We’re going to need more than just a couple Glocks and some extra magazines,” said Connor. “The sheikh’s security forces are wel
l equipped and the mosque’s security isn’t too shabby either. Speed and stealth will get us in, but if it comes to a knock-down drag-out, we’re going to want to go in hard and heavy.”

  “Look in the back.” Thompson jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  Connor twisted in the seat and found two black Pelican cases. He popped off the clamps, opened the first one, and laughed. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Come on, Mom, please?” The boy tugged on his mother’s blouse and pointed at the colorful candy hanging on the rack.

  Mohammad watched as the mother swatted the boy’s hand away. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five; the boy was probably about seven. There was no father that he could see.

  “Stop,” the woman said. “I said we’re not getting candy this time.”

  “Mom!” the boy said, pleading. “Come on, I swear I won’t ask again. I promise. Please.”

  Mohammad forced his jaw muscles to relax. He would’ve throttled the young boy for speaking with so much disrespect, and in public no less. But the mom merely sighed, her shoulders drooping, and nodded. The boy clapped his hands and pulled the bag off the rack, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Can I have a drink too?” he asked, following his mom to the cash register.

  “No!”

  Mohammad had seen the exact same scene play out several times over the last couple of days. Each time he stopped for gas, food, or restroom breaks, he witnessed a new infuriating aspect of American life. These people thought it was a hardship to lack Wi-Fi in the restroom, or to not have their favorite selection of soda available in the drink aisle. These people were soft, and the worst part was, they didn’t know it. The people in Mohammad’s country didn’t even have electricity, much less the ability to choose from fifteen different brands of water.

  Mohammad shook his head at the rows and rows of bottles, selected the cheapest water, and headed for the register.

  A TV in the corner was playing news footage, and he moved closer, squinting at the text on the bottom of the screen. Fourth bombing in Manhattan, suspect in custody.

  Mohammad felt his stomach turn as he read the words. Who did they capture?

  The footage showed a burning building surrounded by fire engines and firefighters. Police officers were ushering people away, and the female reporter standing in front of the camera was trying to clear the bystanders out of her shot. The building wasn’t familiar to Mohammad; he didn’t have a list of their targets, as part of the operational security he himself demanded. And now, with someone in custody, he was glad that he’d insisted on compartmentalizing the plan.

  No one, not even Khan, knew his final destination. So nobody could disrupt his plans.

  “Crappy deal, isn’t it?”

  Mohammad turned to an older man standing beside him, wearing overalls and a stained red-and-white cap.

  The man nodded at the TV. “Can’t believe people would do such a thing.”

  For a brief moment Mohammad was worried the man might’ve seen through his clumsy disguise, his horribly uncomfortable jeans and ridiculous T-shirt. He thought perhaps the man was trying to call him out. But as soon as the thought hit him, he dismissed it. If this man had actually thought Mohammad was one of the people responsible for the bombings, he wouldn’t have started up a conversation with him. He would’ve called the police.

  Mohammad hid the smile that threatened to give away his thoughts and forced a somber expression as he shook his head. “It’s horrible.” He chastened himself for not masking his accent more. Americans might not be the most perceptive people, especially out here in the middle of nowhere, but most kept a wary eye on strangers.

  “It’s like they’re trying to start a war or something, huh?” the old man said, sliding his hands into the top opening of his overalls. “Can’t we just all not fight, I swear. I mean, I don’t give a good daggum what someone else believes, you know what I mean? To each their own, I say. You mind your business, I’ll mind mine. Simple as that.”

  “I agree,” Mohammad said.

  But Mohammad didn’t agree, and as he watched the footage play out, he felt a peace wash over him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. His benefactors—infidels, yes, but necessary—had enabled him to carry out his holy work, and standing here, in a small convenience store in Nebraska, he felt closer to being fulfilled than ever before. The pain on the faces of the people on the TV invigorated him.

  Allah doesn’t suffer insults softly, he thought.

  He purchased his water and stepped outside.

  As he walked back to the truck, he smiled at the thought of the trucker he’d hired. The man’s body was now hidden in the woods not far off the highway a few hundred miles west of here. Getting rid of the man had made things much simpler schedule-wise, and it had allowed him to begin prayers once again without being questioned by an infidel.

  Despite his reaffirmed zeal for his mission, Mohammad’s backside pleaded with him to wait just a few more minutes. The truck’s seats were not made for comfort, and after days of driving his body was stiff and sore.

  He wondered at the truckers who drove all day. Mohammad was on the road only five to six hours each day—he needed to give Abdullah Khan time to do his work. The rest of his time was spent in prayer and meditation. But now he was close, and the urge to simply press on and finish was great. Still, Mohammad refrained. The impact of his mission would be greater if he let this play out.

  He walked around the truck, making sure all the lights were operational and no tires were low. He didn’t want to give anyone any reason to pull him over. Finally he climbed into the cab and winced as he settled into the seat.

  “You were wrong, my friend,” he said aloud, thinking of the old man in the store. “We’re not starting a war. We’re ending it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Connor blew out a long breath and flexed his fingers over the steering wheel as he pulled to a stop at the final light before the mosque. It was almost midnight. He shifted in the seat, giving his new tactical vest a once-over and memorizing where the extra rifle magazines were, the flashbangs and pistol magazines. It felt weird wearing the gear over a simple T-shirt and jeans, having worn similar gear for years in BDUs. He hadn’t had the time to set up the vest exactly like he’d had it during his tenure in the special forces, but it was close.

  If there was one thing a life of weapons training and operations had taught him, it was that stress crippled the unprepared. You always defaulted to your training. Muscle memory took over under fire, allowing your mind to focus on the active threats. Connor had experienced this phenomenon multiple times, where after an operation or battle he couldn’t remember reloading or throwing a grenade or switching between his rifle or pistol. It all just happened without even thinking.

  In the passenger seat next to him, Annie slapped the heel of her hand into the bolt release, and the bolt slammed forward. She looped the sling over one arm and let the rifle hang, barrel down, between her legs.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Connor said, “but are you ready for this?”

  “Ain’t my first rodeo, stud.”

  “Didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just used to running with—”

  “What?” Annie scowled. “With other guys? Not a woman?”

  “Doesn’t have anything to do with being a woman. It has to do with you and I never actually trained together before. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. Which means we don’t know each other’s capabilities. In my experience that can lead to liabilities during the operation. Liabilities we can’t afford.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”

  “Of that I have no doubt,” Connor said. He meant it, but it didn’t alleviate his apprehension. During special forces operations he knew what his teammates were capable of, knew what kinds of shots they were able to make, knew what they were feeling by the tone of their voice. He knew one hundred percent that he cou
ld trust the operator next to him with his life. He didn’t have any of that when it came to this Black Widow.

  “Look, all battle plans go to hell anyway, right?” Annie said. “So why even bother? You can shoot, I can shoot. We’re good. We just shoot the bad guys and call it a day. We get our guy and get out. Simple. It’s not complicated, Connor. You ex-military types are all the same. Took a while for me to break Richards down, but I did, and I’ll do the same to you. You’ll get there.”

  “What about Thompson?”

  “Still working on him.”

  The light turned green, and they started down the street.

  “There may or may not be a guy at the back door,” Connor said. “If there is, we’ll need to take him out fairly quickly. But don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

  Annie shifted in her gear, grinning. “Ooh, sounds kind of kinky. Do you always talk to girls this way on a first date?”

  “I’m serious,” Connor said, not taking the bait. “They have video surveillance all over that place. They’ll see us coming as soon as we make our move. If we stop or slow down, the guys upstairs will have a chance to fortify their position.”

  “Three on the door, right?”

  “At least,” Connor confirmed. “Maybe more. With the escalation of attacks, it wouldn’t surprise me at all. Here we go.”

  Connor steered the Tahoe into the alley, pulled through to the back lot, and stopped parallel to the building.

  “One on the door,” Annie said, nodding.

  “That’s one of the sheikh’s guys,” Connor said. “He’s definitely armed. Definitely a threat.”

  She drew her silenced Glock pistol from the holster on her right thigh and held it in her lap as she tapped the button to roll down her window. “You’re pulling right up to the door, yeah?”

  Connor nodded, immediately understanding what she planned. “Don’t forget.”