Relentless Pursuit: A Kelly Maclean Novel

by Hawk, Nate

  Inside the van, Angelo dialed Stan. Kelly opened the box that had been shipped to him. It was full of Airsoft rifles. But down below, there was one rifle that wasn’t Airsoft. Kelly had painted the end of the barrel to match the others, before he shipped the box. He pulled the upper receiver out and then located its corresponding lower receiver. He pushed them together and secured them with the two pins that held the firearm together. He pulled out a black paint pen from the box and quickly colored over the orange tip. He was kind of surprised that his plan had worked but apparently nobody in customs had noticed the real rifle in with the nearly identical toy ones. Kelly set the gun aside. He didn’t intend to eavesdrop but there was no way to avoid hearing Angelo and Stan’s phone conversation.

  “Yo, Stan. Where you at?”

  “Just boarded for Munich. My wife would be jealous, if she knew.”

  “Headed to Munich for some R&R?” Stan inquired.

  “Oh yeah! Nothing but gorgeous women, bratwursts and German beer,” Stan said sarcastically.

  “Alright, we’ll stay close. Do you think Munich is just a layover or is it their final destination? Best guess.”

  “Best guess?”

  He thought about it for a moment.

  “I’d say final destination. They’re clearly trying to pull off something big so I think they’ll want the population density of Munich for two reasons. One, it will make for more potential victims and therefore a larger psychological impact. And two, they would blend in better with a larger and more diverse crowd. There’s just too many of them for any real charades now.”

  “Ok. Let’s run with it. Stay safe out there and we’ll pick you up in Munich.”

  “Roger that,” Stan said in a tone that came from having done this type of thing a hundred times, because, well… he had.

  Stan knew there was more risk now that he would be riding on the same vehicle with them. He had decided to load after the third ISIS operative had climbed aboard. He knew he was in a tight spot. The sooner he loaded, the fewer of them he would have to walk by on the bus. Niko had already spotted him back in Hamburg. Stan had known he had to load before Niko did or he would surely be made. But where was Niko? The last time Stan had seen him was back at the mosque. His curiosity was soon satisfied. Stan watched from the rear of the bus as two passengers straggled on during the final moments of boarding. Recognizing Niko, he pulled his collar up and adjusted his hat lower across his forehead, lest his own identity be revealed.

  The bus made three stops on its journey to Munich. German buses had garnered an admirable reputation for their cutting-edge suspension engineering, so the ride was predictably smooth. The trip didn’t prove to be the fastest but it was steady and comfortable. The bus’ speed and its layovers had allowed the CIA group to catch up.

  Following a hundred yards behind the bus was a white Mercedes van with four occupants. Three of the men were in the rear of the extended van, lounged in uncomfortable positions in an effort to obtain some last-minute rest. The bus was full and most of its occupants were lounging as well. It was a mostly relaxed atmosphere but there were a few men in the larger group that were too restless to sleep. All of the men were silent.

  The team of ten men knew they would be busy the following day. In fact, there was no exit strategy for most of them. They planned to die for their cause. Niko had dedication but he was smarter than to throw his life away. Additionally, he had a skill set that would continue to prove useful to ISIS in the future. After all, the organization was rapidly becoming a regional Islamic powerhouse within the Middle East. Niko did not see his death the next day being a viable option.

  Stan and the team that was following behind the bus viewed their own options identically. The PAG team knew that they would be busy too. Rolling foothills raced by through the rain-spotted windows outside. The bus’ interior aisle lights were eventually turned on as another rainy day had waned another early evening. In the van behind the bus, Owen dialed Rick Quinn to see if any further intelligence was available.

  ***

  Chapter 58

  At the same moment a tall, eccentric man who was more than 3800 miles west of Munich, was considering his options. He’d been choking on the same towel and a seemingly endless stream of water for nearly fifteen minutes. The High-value Interrogation Group had been assembled with Hands Wheeler behind the helm of the water hose. The detainee’s hands had been secured and he was immobilized with ratchet straps to the table where he lay. The man had insisted that his name was Abbas Zaki for exactly one minute and twenty-eight seconds into the questioning. At which point, his suffering became so intense that his loyalty to himself, and to his terrorist organization, was washed away.

  It began with choking and gargling. That sensation gave way to a complete lack of air movement through the drenched towel. As the water made its way throughout his nasal cavity, he felt his consciousness fading in and out. There were bursts of bright light as the water was turned off and the oxygen returned. Then the fusillade faded into a wretched darkness as the bucket tipped and the water that was drowning him returned. The men behind the procedure had much experience in determining each subject’s outer limits of suffering and consciousness. They knew it was important to take the questionee to the edge of unconsciousness without quite traversing the Rubicon into the calmness of unconsciousness that the man so desired in the moment. He willed for anything to make the misery stop. He welcomed death. He begged for it.

  The men found confidence in the fact that if they did, however, push it too far, there was an entire medical staff standing by to usher the fortunate man back to life. Thus there was no escape, implied or otherwise. He only had the promise of unrelenting terror and suffering until the questions were honestly answered.

  Intel had come in that a small squad of ISIS terrorists had successfully bombed a high-speed train in Germany. The man who now admitted that he was not Abbas but rather Mohammad Vargas. He also eventually admitted that he was an associate of Niko. So, Mohammad had been extracted from his cell and shuffled in restraints to the awaiting interrogation team. The three men who made up the team were an eclectic bunch. They were products of three individual and competing intelligence agencies, all pretending to be working together for the United States’ best interests. Reality was that each of the men’s superiors had given a standing order that specifically dictated that the most minimal amount of Intel be shared with the other two groups. What this did in turn was add inefficiency to the process therefore elongating the window of time needed to extract the relevant information from the prisoner.

  Adding to inefficiency was the fact that the CIA had sent in a new interrogator. The other two men did not know him so no level of trust had been established. Owen Tucker’s transfer to the PAG team had opened the much-coveted vacancy within the Agency on the HIG team. Wheeler didn’t object to the revolving door of CIA representatives on the team, because he was in control. Hands knew career paths could alter directions quickly. He was confident in his own ability to interrogate as none of his own subjects had been able to remain unbroken on his water-board. Wheeler and Ron Baldwin from the DoD though, had a different expectation of the type of individual that would replace Tucker on the team. They envisioned a stout, jock type that had paid attention in class and studied hard. Special Agent Winston Becker didn’t fit that profile at all. He looked as if he was deep undercover as a CIA operative. Perhaps so deeply that he had forgotten his Agency allegiance.

  The man had shabby black hair that brushed against the stubble on his face. If the other two men had not read his dossier, they might have assumed the man was looking to score some black tar. In actuality, Winston Becker had one quality that made him great at his position at the Agency. He chose to dedicate every waking hour to his work. Winston Becker had no girlfriends. He had no hobbies. He worked and then he slept a few hours. That was it.

  In his obsession to consistently push his career forward, stress and insomnia was taking its toll on his body. His
mind however, seemed to stay sharp and most importantly, he kept delivering for the Agency. Since his achievements meshed well with the Agency’s agenda, his career continued to rapidly move forward. He had committed himself to getting results as a member of the HIG team and he was expected to quickly grow into the position.

  The interrogated man went from flailing around wildly to giving no noticeable resistance. The team knew a break from the water was in order lest the man keel over on them. The water spigot was turned off and the towel was removed from the man’s face. Trent Wheeler and Ron Baldwin thought that meant easing up for a few minutes. Winston however, strolled over to the other tools of torture that were on display a few feet away. He picked up a set of sharp looking knives. He eyed the knives and then he eyed the restrained man. Then back to the knives.

  Unsatisfied, he set them down. He picked up an innocuous looking car battery and a set of jumper cables. Walking back to the man, he stared deep into his eyes. Mohammad Vargas was trying to survive the water board technique and now this deranged looking man was going to start shocking him. Mohammad Vargas kept his mouth shut. Winston clipped one end of the black wire to the battery and clamped the other end down on Vargas’ good ear. Then he began to repeat the process with the red wire. As he raised the red clamp to Vargas’ half severed ear, the man let out a shriek.

  “I will talk,” he said. “I tell you anything you want to know. Please, please, I can’t take any more.”

  Winston was in the mood for results. This had gone on long enough. He attached the sharp metal claws of the jumper cable to the man’s other ear. Instantly, the man’s eyes lit up and his body arched backwards. It would have been one thing having a circuit flow through his busted fingers or his toes. A circuit running through his head was unbearable agony. He wanted to talk. He begged to talk.

  He realized that trying to be strong and silent for a cause that he could no longer fight for would only continue to get him tortured. The pain was unbearable. It was like having a mischief of rats eating away at the grey matter of his brain. He rolled his head side to side as his spine maintained a crescent shape. The clamps felt as though they had been on his head for an hour.

  The second clamp had only been on for three seconds. Winston’s confidence surged as he saw the genius of his method working. He pulled off the red clamp and left the black one.

  “I tell you. I will tell you,” Mohammad stammered, scared that his miserable life might end at that second.

  “What is the primary target in Germany?”

  “Munich.”

  “I didn’t say where, I said what,” Winston specified as he began to raise the red clamp back to the man’s bleeding ear.

  “Yes, yes… OK,” he began in haste.

  ***

  The German bus pulled into the Munich Hauptbahnhof. The white van no longer followed behind. After a quiet third stop, the van had sped ahead to position itself in for the bus’ arrival in Munich. The team had seen no reason to follow behind at that point as positioning themselves in front of the terrorist cell was the best strategic maneuver. Stan was sitting calmly in the rear row of the bus as he ever-so-slightly adjusted his suspenders for comfort. He’d kept his hat low and was careful not to make eye contact with anyone on the vehicle. During the trip, a couple members of the group had gotten up to use the toilet in the back of the bus. Nobody seemed to pay any attention to the man in the flat cap.

  As Stan Lubensky began processing how he would exit the bus cautiously, Niko stood up. He eyed the restroom and began walking down the narrow isle to the rear of the bus. Stan glanced down at the folded magazine that covered his right hand. It was cliché sure, but only because it was so effective. His snub-nosed, .357 Smith and Wesson five-shot revolver was carefully hidden there with his hand placed firmly around the grip and his thumb on the hammer. Stan was in the window seat and the aisle seat next to him was vacant. Niko purposefully eyed the toilet area and reached his hand out to open the door. Glancing around and seeing that nobody was looking, he diverted his attention from the door. He slid his hand into his pocket and glided into the seat next to Stan.

  ***

  Chapter 59

  The CIA had a variety of assets in Munich. There was a safe house there that included a good selection of vehicles. Any one of them would be better for pursuits or urban travel than the van that they currently had. The van’s driver was exhausted. He hadn’t slept for quite some time and the steady stream of caffeine that had been entering his body for the last thirty-six hours was becoming less and less effective. In the team’s absence, Rick Quinn had organized the delivery of a different vehicle. He always came through and this time was no exception. He’d left a black BMW X6 with dark tinted windows parked right out front of the station. The keys were left on top of the front passenger-side wheel. The team had arrived at what they estimated to be fifteen minutes earlier than the bus would arrive. Another five to get everyone unloaded and to disperse their luggage stored below the bus should give them a safe twenty minutes. Stan had told the team that the guys had held on to their golf club bags so they weren’t counting on any more than fifteen minutes total.

  Angelo removed the keys from the tire of the SUV. He used the key fob to unlock the doors and pop the rear hatch. Inside was a wet-work team’s wet dream. Four jackets covered the contents of the trunk. There were four Heckler and Koch MP5s, all black with collapsing stocks and shortened barrels. The men knew that the added features weren’t great for long-range accuracy but they would help conceal the firearms in the populated region of Munich. Besides, there was usually no need for long-range shots around the city. Each short-barreled rifle had a corresponding battle vest with a full helping of support gear and extra mags. Per Kelly’s request, there were three hundred 5.56 match grade cartridges with 77-grain projectiles. They were preloaded into three, one hundred round beta mags.

  Kelly was impressed at the gear that had been provided on such short notice. He wasn’t sure though if he would end up using the rifle that he had gone to all of the trouble to ship. He removed it from the van and subtly transferred it to the BMW. He entered a beta mag into the magazine well and gave it a smack. For safety considerations, he didn’t chamber a round. Then he set the rifle down into the BMW and grabbed one of the two remaining MP5s. Kelly knew the other rifles were more practical than his own. They would be much easier to conceal with the folding stocks and the shorter barrels. All of the rain that spring had cooled off any hope of warmth in late May, which was good for the men. The lightweight jackets that had been cast aside were utilized. In addition to warmth, they were worn to cover the sub machine guns that were dangling from a sling over each operative’s corresponding shoulder.

  “The rifles are internally suppressed,” Angelo told Kelly. “It makes a huge difference with the noise in the city.”

  “There isn’t much recoil from a nine millimeter parabellum in this set up, either,” Owen said from experience. “These are real cool customers.”

  Kelly shook his head in understanding. He’d fired all types of guns at one time or another but there was no need to elaborate. The gun wasn’t new to him and neither was the type of situation that they all found themselves facing. The three men readied their rifles by chambering a round and engaging the safety.

  “All right,” Kelly said without fanfare. “Let’s go meet-up with your other guy and go take out these assholes.”

  “I’ll be out front,” Angelo said.

  The three of them split up and made an effort to secure appropriate vantage points for the bus’ impending arrival. Angelo stayed with the SUV. As he got in, he placed his MP5 on the passenger seat next to him and covered it up with the fourth jacket. There was a drop off and pick up queue near the main door. Angelo moved the vehicle there and parked in an area that was designated a fire lane. Kelly took a position inside where the arriving passengers entered through a bottlenecked hallway before dispersing into the crowds of the main station. Owen took a more aggressive posi
tion. He walked to a support beam that held a glass roof at an angle in an effort to protect the passengers from foul weather.

  The bus had already arrived and the travelers were unloading. The group of men with golf bags walked mostly in singles towards the main area. But where was Stan? A couple of the last stragglers clambered down off of the bus as the operator finished unloading the baggage. Stan was still nowhere to be found.

  The bus driver made his final check and Owen watched him as he walked down the aisle checking for any lost or misplaced items. His head raised up when he saw a passenger in the back row, slumped over. He walked towards him with concern.

  ***

  Stan had seen a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. It had happened so fast, right as Niko was poised to enter the restroom. Knowing how dangerous the man was, Stan could not afford to continue diverting his gaze away from the man. He quickly turned his head towards the aisle and saw it was too late. He knew there would be no time for talk.

  He began to tighten his finger around the trigger of his pistol as the muzzle started to raise from the magazine. To Stan’s surprise, there was something else moving towards the magazine. Niko had thrust his hand down on the backside of Stan’s hand and had pulled backwards on his trigger finger with all of his force. What happened simultaneously was so fast that Stan never knew what had happened. Niko’s second hand was in movement at the same time as his first. It was done with a boxer’s speed, in one fluid movement. It was similar to a piano player’s individualized hand movements working together to achieve something greater than either hand could do on its own. The knife penetrated directly under Stan’s sternum, twisting in an ascending motion. Niko dug it in deep. He sliced upwards and down and then left to right.