Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected

by Vikki Kestell

  Then she walked. From one end of her cell to the other, sticking close to the wall in case she faltered. She made six crossings before sitting down to rest. Before nodding off yet again.

  THE GATE TO HER CELL crashed open. Bula appeared, and he was angry. Apparently, the last guard had reported on the broken jug—as Laynie had hoped he would.

  “What is this?” he shouted, pointing to the shattered jug on the floor. “You think you can defy General Sayed’s orders? You think you can waste what costs the blood of our martyrs? What is the meaning of this?”

  Laynie stayed calm and answered as she’d rehearsed. “You should ask the boy Doku what happened to the jug—and the water I was supposed to drink.”

  Suspicion bloomed on Bula’s face. He studied her and said nothing for a long moment. “What is it you accuse him of?”

  “The boy you call Doku tried to assault me. He forced me to defend my honor. When I did, he broke the jug. Out of spite.” It was partly truth and partly lie, but she didn’t flinch under Bula’s scrutiny or at his mirthless laugh.

  “You defended your honor?”

  It had been months since Laynie had conversed in Russian, but the language and all its subtleties and inferences flowed from her with ease. “I am a woman of the Book. A follower of Isa, the Christ. I am a new believer with much to learn, but of two things I am certain: Isa has washed me clean of all my sins and has removed the guilt and shame of my former life.”

  Thank you Jubaila and Soraya for your many insights into Islam, including the name of Jesus in Arabic, Laynie said within herself.

  Bula’s gaze never left Laynie’s face. Finally, and without another word, he left her. Minutes later the guard who had brought her lunch returned. He bore another jug of water, which he set on the bench. He said nothing and kept his eyes averted.

  I see Bula has warned his underlings not to harass me—as I had hoped would happen. I wonder what sort of chastisement Bula laid on Doku?

  Laynie spent the afternoon consuming half the water in the jug. She swallowed careful, measured amounts between a steady regimen of leg exercises and walking up and down the length of her cell. She also massaged her leg muscles to work out their painful knots and spasms.

  Following the small meal provided for dinner, Laynie drank all but perhaps a cup of what remained in the jug. She saved the last little bit for first thing in the morning.

  That evening, before she lay down to sleep, Laynie pulled her legs up on the bench and spent thirty minutes stretching. When she’d completed sitting stretches, she stood and worked on her calves and the front and backs of her thighs. She did three slow and careful sets of squats before moving on to her arms, chest, neck, and back.

  Gonna be really sore tomorrow. Doesn’t matter.

  Sayed’s words rang in her head. “Feed her and care for her needs . . . I will see her again after the recovery period, say, four mornings from now.”

  “Lord Jesus, my Savior. I have two days more to regain my strength. Thank you for helping me, my Lord.”

  Two more days to prepare herself physically and mentally for what came next.

  To prepare spiritually.

  “Ah, there you are. Much older than the kafir women I usually choose, but defiant and godless, as I presumed. Good. I shall enjoy breaking you—once you are cleaned up.”

  “Sayed believes I am godless, but whatever it costs, I won’t submit to him without a fight,” Laynie whispered aloud.

  Whatever it costs? That declaration, dredged from her training days, the genesis of her sordid past, rang with new meaning. Holy meaning.

  “Yes, Sayed believes I am kafir, a godless woman. I pray, Lord God, that I might show him otherwise . . . before I die.”

  The seed had taken root in her heart—the notion that she would die in this place. The seed had put down roots and sprung up, and had already sprouted, flowered, and borne fruit. Armed with that conviction, every apprehension, every dread and worry perished with it.

  After all, if one is already dead, what is there to fear?

  LAYNIE TRIED TO CURL up on the bench to sleep that night, but the bruises over her hip bones were too tender. She wrapped up in the blanket and again leaned against the wall to sleep sitting up. Before she gave herself to slumber, she finally allowed herself to think. About Mama and Dad. About Kari. About Shannon and Robbie. About her friends on the task force.

  About Tobin . . . and the heavy weight of pain and grief he must be carrying.

  Oh, Quincy, I promised that I would come back to you, God willing. I guess my situation isn’t looking good for that. I don’t understand the “why” of his plan, but I know that it is his will that I, by his grace and the leading of the Holy Spirit, glorify the Lord in all I do and say, whichever way this goes—by my life or by my death.

  She sighed. That is my goal, to acquit myself well on behalf of the Gospel. Doesn’t mean I don’t long to be back at Broadsword with you and with our team, but I accept that this may be “my time.” And so . . .

  Words and phrases from the book of Philippians dropped easily from her lips. “I thank my God every time I remember you, Quincy Tobin. In all my prayers for you, I always pray with joy . . . being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. The Lord will carry it on to completion in you, and he will carry it on to completion in me . . . just not us together.”

  Laynie’s breath hitched. “Yes, Lord. You will finish the work you’ve begun in Tobin and in me, too, because I know . . . I know you. And I know that you are faithful.”

  She choked down the lump in her throat, but she could not hold back the tears. “And this is my prayer for you, Quincy, that your love for our God may abound more and more . . . and that both of us will be found pure and blameless on the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes only through him—to the glory and praise of God.”

  Chapter 17

  WOLFE, SERAPHIM, AND the task force assembled in the bullpen at 5:00 a.m. the following morning. Official sunrise wasn’t until 7:18 a.m., but HRT planned to breach the house at 5:48 a.m., an hour and a half before sunrise.

  Richard joined them in the bullpen after he’d arranged a table laden with pastries and coffee. Task force members stood in line for a turn at the coffee urn. Despite having worked around the clock for two days with little rest, few on the team had slept well the past night.

  They were nervous.

  Keyed up.

  Anxious.

  Too much rode on the outcome of the morning’s actions.

  Some of their angst was due to not being read into HRT’s plan. With the exception of Wolfe, Seraphim, and Tobin, the task force members were largely unfamiliar with HRT’s weapons and tactics. All the team knew was that Sherman’s wife and young son were being kept prisoner in a house guarded by an unknown number of hostiles and that HRT would strike with the intention of taking down the hostiles while saving the hostages.

  Tobin knew full well how easily things could go wrong. With one hand cradling his coffee mug, the other laid across his eyes, he leaned back in his chair and prayed.

  Lord, I’m calling on you. In the mighty name of your Son, Jesus, I am asking for your help and your protection for the Hostage Rescue Team and for Sherman’s family. Lord, I’m even asking for mercy for the men holding them captive. They are blind, my God. Please open their eyes and show them Jesus before it is too late.

  And Lord? I acknowledge what your word says—that you are mindful of your people, that your eyes roam back and forth across the earth, that you bend low to listen to us. O Lord God! You have also said that you are faithful to a thousand generations of those who love you.

  So Lord? You know that I love you. You know that my Marta loves you.

  He laughed aloud softly. Marta. Bella. Elaine. Laynie—whatever name she goes by, you already know her by it, my God. You also know that her family loves you and has served you faithfully for generations. Generat
ions!

  You are Lord of all the earth, so I call upon you, Father, to show yourself faithful to my Marta and lead us to the place where she is hidden from us. Amen.

  Tobin watched the clock. Its forward motion was slow and tiresome, while tensions in the bullpen ratcheted higher. Finally, at 5:25, Wolfe received a call.

  When he closed his phone, he addressed the assembled team. “Listen. I know we’re all on edge this morning, and I fully understand—the stakes are high. What I can tell you is that the Hostage Rescue Team, using thermal imaging from the air, completed its final reconnaissance of the target a few minutes ago. They know how many hostiles are in the house and where they are positioned. And because of the smaller size of Sherman’s son, they were able to determine the room where he and his mother are together sleeping.”

  Wolfe paused a moment before continuing. “At 5:48, when the kidnappers are judged to be in their least watchful state, HRT will breach both entrances to the house. Sherman’s wife and son are alone, sleeping in a back bedroom. If all goes well, HRT will neutralize the hostiles without harm to the hostages.”

  Hopeful murmurs wafted around the bullpen.

  Lord, I am asking you to help the rescue team, Tobin whispered within himself. Guide them in this operation and keep them safe.

  Wolfe concluded, “Let’s gather around now and listen in while HRT does what it is best in the world at doing.”

  Bo and Harris had placed two chairs and a small table in the center of the bullpen. Wolfe and Seraphim, both of them somber, took the seats closest to the table. On the table sat a military-grade field radio—their line to the HRT’s command center. Bo switched on the radio and tuned it to the proper channel. Adjusted the volume.

  Tobin observed as task force members inched their chairs closer to the radio, every ear intent on the drama about to unfold. Except Jaz.

  JAZ REMAINED AT HER desk and had only one ear attuned to the radio chatter. She was busy on her laptop, working on her part in the operation. She glanced at Sherman’s phone, Burner Zero, lying on her desk beside her keyboard. She had wormed her way into the company that provided cell service to Rosenberg’s four burner phones and uploaded a software program of her own design to the provider’s system.

  At 5:30 a.m. she opened a command prompt and called up her program. She typed in a command and pressed Enter.

  Done.

  She had altered or “spoofed” Burner Zero’s outgoing number. From this moment on, any phone receiving a call or text from Burner Zero would see Burner Three’s number—the kidnappers’ number—on the caller ID screen instead of Burner Zero’s. It meant that when she texted Rosenberg from Sherman’s phone, the incoming message would appear to have come from the kidnappers’ phone—not from Sherman’s.

  Next, she prepared to shut down service to Burner Three, the kidnappers’ phone. She would lock it down just as the Hostage Rescue Team’s vehicle entered the kidnappers’ neighborhood.

  At 5:35 a.m. the HRT team leader keyed his mic. “Command, Team Leader. Approaching drop.”

  “Acknowledged, Team Leader.”

  Jaz killed service to Burner Three. The kidnappers’ phone could no longer make or receive calls. She had severed their connection to Rosenberg and inserted Sherman’s phone in its place.

  Tense minutes passed until, at 5:45 a.m., a voice from the radio said, “Command, Team Leader. HRT in position. Perimeter secure.”

  “Roger that, Team Leader. Stand by for go.”

  “Copy, Command. Standing by for go.”

  Jaz watched the clock on her laptop count down the minutes and seconds to 5:48 a.m.

  “Team Leader, this is Command. Execute, execute, execute.”

  “Command, Team Leader. Execute acknowledged. Go! Go! Go!”

  Until now, the only sound over the radio had been the murmured exchange between the command center and the Hostage Rescue Team leader. Now they heard team members’ heavy breathing and the launch of flash-bang grenades followed by doors splintering, shouted commands, and the pop-pop-pop of semiauto weapons.

  Then, silence.

  No one in the bullpen spoke. Jaz stared at the radio as they all waited, holding their collective breath.

  “Command, this is Team Leader. Three hostiles in custody—one casualty. Two hostages safely recovered. No team injuries.”

  “Acknowledged, Team Leader. Congratulations. Sending backup.”

  A shout rose in the bullpen, rising and rising as the team whooped and hollered, danced and hugged. No one was exempt.

  It was a breathtaking moment, one that caught Jaz blinking back tears—even as Tobin plucked her from her chair and swung her around in a crushing bear hug.

  “One step closer to finding Bella,” he shouted in her ear.

  Jaz pulled away. “Yeah, thanks for that. I’m gonna need that ear, you dork.”

  She and Tobin grinned with mutual joy.

  Then Wolfe calmed them down. His eyes shone with satisfaction as he spoke. “This team, each of you, are the reason we’re here. Your hard work has brought us to this morning’s victory. You should be very proud. I know I am—but we’re not done, are we?”

  He found Jaz with his eyes. “Miss Jessup, you are authorized to execute the next step in Operation Whack-a-Mole.”

  Wolfe’s words elicited another shout of laughter and more congratulations.

  “One last announcement before I let you get to it,” Wolfe added. “I’m taking Seraphim with me into DC. I have a few tasks for her. She will be back, but Miss Jessup and Marshal Tobin will keep things running on this end for the time being.”

  The gathering broke up. Jaz and Tobin returned to Jaz’s desk. It was time to send the text message that would, they hoped, set Rosenberg’s hair ablaze.

  Wish I could see your face when your house of cards starts to collapse, Jaz grinned to herself. She looked to Tobin.

  He was grinning, too, but it was a disconcerting and scary grin. “Time for Operation Flush-a-Mole. Let’s do it.”

  As Jaz prepared to key in the contents of the text, she first unwrapped three fresh sticks of Black Jack and stuffed them into her mouth—one-handed. As she chewed and keyed in the message, she smirked.

  Oh, you can run, you ugly little varmint—and we really, really want you to. The thing is? Wherever you go, we’ll be on you like stink on a skunk.

  Jaz reread her text. She’d sprinkled in a few typos that she, Tobin, and Seraphim believed would inject a sense of panic into the message.

  Caught armed individ

  cheking out house

  looking in window

  Advise pleze

  The response came three minutes later.

  ID?

  Jaz waited five minutes before typing.

  FBI

  Jaz closed her eyes. Imagined the shock on Rosenberg’s face. Sighed with satisfaction. The reply was instantaneous.

  OPTION B

  Option B, according to Rosenberg’s text log, meant “kill the hostages, kill the phone, then get the heck outta Dodge.” It was an all-around bad-news text for the phone—not to mention the hostages. Rosenberg didn’t want the phone telling tales any more than they wanted the hostages identifying the people who took them—or their boss. Jaz was relieved Sherman’s wife and son were safe.

  “Why do people always think that breaking a phone’s SIM card will erase their call and text logs?” Jaz snickered to herself.

  She checked her laptop. She was watching Rosenberg’s phone ping off a DC cell tower, hoping it would soon start to move. Not that her oversight was necessary. Wolfe had a team of two watching Rosenberg’s home and vehicle, and they had already planted a tracker on the vehicle. Two other operatives, based out of Italy, were already en route to Grozny, Chechnya, Rosenberg’s destination—if Rosenberg’s travel arrangements were to be believed.

  “Any movement?” Tobin asked.

  “Nothing yet. Wish I were a fly on the wall watching Rosenberg’s perfectly ordered life exploding into itty bitt
y pieces.”

  “I feel ya.”

  “But you don’t have the same vengeful bloodlust I have, do you?”

  Tobin smiled, and Jaz saw the sadness behind the smile.

  “Guess I don’t. I have to work at it, but I try to keep my heart from . . . going there. It’s kind of a one-way trip, y’know?”

  Jaz’s jaws slowed. “Not sure I agree. I mean, I understand the whole ‘vengeance is mine, says the Lord’ bit you follow because you’re a Christian, but I don’t get the ‘one-way trip’ part.”

  When Tobin glanced up and his eyes locked on to hers, Jaz was shocked by the depth of pain in them. She was more shocked when he answered her.

  “Vengeance and bloodlust are easy, Jaz. Easy to give into, easy to follow, easy to justify. Getting out? That’s the hard part, and most people who go there don’t ever escape. Because once revenge gets its hooks in you, you aren’t running the show any longer. It’s running you. You have to ask yourself a tough question: Do I want the rest of my life consumed with making someone pay for what they can never give back or fix? Because that’s the deal.”

  He put his ham-sized palm on her shoulder. “I wouldn’t wish that for me, and I wouldn’t wish that for you.”

  WHEN THE TEAM’S CELEBRATORY mood tapered off, Tobin walked across to the house and headed for the library where Sherman was being kept under the watchful eye of a Broadsword guard. Tobin knocked.

  The guard opened the door. “Marshal Tobin.”

  “Hey, Manny. May I have a minute with the prisoner?”

  The guard stepped out of the room and left Tobin and Sherman alone.

  “I have good news for you, Sherman.”

  Hope ignited the man’s weary face. “News about my family?”

  “Yes. HRT has them. They are safe. Since we are still operational and need to keep a lid on their rescue, they are being taken to a military hospital where they will be evaluated and kept under wraps.”

  “Will I . . . will I be able to see them?”

  “That’s up to Director Wolfe and the powers that be. You have a lot to answer for, including the lives of the guards who died protecting us when the Ukrainian assassins hit us at our apartments.”