It took a little over ten minutes to cover the distance to the warehouse. They parked a few hundred yards out and advanced on foot. Both men were equipped similarly: combat body armor worn over their shirts and Nomex balaclavas covering their faces. They carried suppressed weapons; the last thing they wanted was to alert the local authorities. Ice favored a UMP45 submachine gun and Vance a M4 CQBR carbine.
They hugged the shadows as they moved stealthily to the twelve-foot brick wall surrounding the target warehouse. The only entry point was a well-lit steel sliding gate.
Crouched in a ditch beside the wall, Ice pulled a compact screen from his vest. He uncoiled a flexible camera and plugged it into the device. With Vance scanning for threats, he stood and held the setup at arm’s length, allowing the camera to see over the wall. He panned it back and forth, recording imagery.
Seconds later he was back in the ditch reviewing the footage with Vance. “There’s the Mercedes. No sign of anyone; they might be all in bed.”
“I doubt it. They’re probably going over their recon footage.”
“We should drop in for a critique.”
“Any wire on that wall?” Vance peered closer at the screen.
“Negative. Your balls are safe.”
Ice packed the camera away and followed Vance over the wall. He slid across the top of the brickwork and dropped onto the gravel parking lot in front of the warehouse. The Mercedes was parked in front of a roller door. A smaller entrance was off to the right and Ice guessed it led into the building’s office.
They followed the wall around, avoiding the light from above the front gate. As they neared the entrance, Ice signaled to halt. He left Vance in cover and crawled to the office door. The tiny camera snaked under the rubber seal at the bottom, giving an insect’s view inside.
It was unoccupied with a single light illuminating a desk and chairs. An AK assault rifle was on the desk; Ice could make out the distinctive stock, along with a pair of night-vision goggles and a laptop. He relayed his findings to Vance over the radio.
“It’s your call, big man.”
“Silent entry. I’ll lead.” Ice turned the door handle. It wasn’t locked. With a click, the door popped inward. He pushed it open and crept inside.
He froze. At the other side of the room, standing in the next doorway was a young man in white robes. They stared at each other for a moment, until the youth dove for the AK on the table. Ice’s UMP spat twice and the heavy slugs tore into the target’s torso. The body smashed into the table with a crash.
“Shit,” whispered Vance as he stepped into the office.
Ice was already moving. He stepped around the body and through the next door. Bright overhead lighting caused him to squint as he entered the open space of the warehouse. He sensed a tall figure lurch at him from the side. A blow knocked the UMP from his hands and it dropped onto its sling. He reacted by swinging his right arm in an arc, pushing his assailant's pistol up against the wall.
He turned his face away as a blow impacted on the side of his head. His vision flashed red and he staggered. With his right arm pinning the pistol to the wall, he spun his left elbow, driving it into the face of the attacker. There was a crunch and a crash as a man fell backward against the sheet-metal wall. Before the body hit the floor, Ice swung his UMP up, and fired a burst into its chest.
In the few seconds it had taken Ice to dispatch his assailant, Vance had calmly stepped past. Deeper into the warehouse another man in white raised a pistol. Vance shot him twice in the face, his suppressed carbine making a sharp, slapping noise. The 5.56mm bullets punched through soft bone and tissue. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
The warehouse was new, shelves on the walls still empty. A white minivan was parked facing him. Vance noted it was sitting low on its axles. The smell of fuel hung in the air.
Faintly, above the hum of the fluorescent lighting, Vance could hear chanting. It was coming from the van. He padded cautiously toward the vehicle, his weapon tight against his shoulder. As he approached the rear with a series of shuffling side steps, the red dot of his Aimpoint sight came to rest on the forehead of another young man. This one was sitting in the back of the van, eyes wide, chanting softly to himself.
“Ice, we’ve got a big fucking problem.”
“Moving.”
In the back of the van, the teenager was sitting on a layer of small bricks wrapped in wax paper. He was clutching what looked like a slot-car controller.
“Release-activated detonator,” Ice stated from behind Vance, “and probably at least half a ton of C4.”
“I've seen this before,” said Vance. “You see how he’s clean-shaven, head and all. I’ve seen this before in Yemen. He’s been purified for the big bang. Poor bastard’s well and truly been brainwashed.”
“None of them are Arabs, except maybe the big one by the door. At a guess I’d say this guy’s Pakistani.”
Vance lowered his carbine and pulled off his balaclava. “It’s OK, son. You don’t need to do this. Just hand me the clacker, alright?” He reached out with one hand.
The boy’s eyes grew even wider and his chanting more earnest. He threw his hands in the air with a scream, “ALLAHU AKBA—”
There was a thud as Ice shot him cleanly through the head. The body fell backward, blood splashing across the bricks of C4.
Both of them waited for the flash that would send them to the afterlife.
“How the fuck are we still alive?” Vance asked in a low voice.
Ice climbed into the van and picked up the remote from where it had fallen. He traced the cable, lifting blocks of explosives to reveal the detonation system. The wire ran into a simple circuit with a battery and a cell phone. Electric cables like the arms of an octopus snaked out to half a dozen detonators embedded in the C4. Ice cut the circuit board free and held it up to the light. “The remote’s a dummy. Whoever set this up didn’t trust his bomber. The phone’s the only way to activate it.”
Ice tore the phone from the circuit and passed it to Vance. It began vibrating and a buzzing filled the air. Vance spun around, eyes searching the room. He sprinted across to the man who had attacked Ice earlier.
Unlike the three youths, this guy was big, at least six feet, with a heavy build. His face was dark and angular with a hawk-like nose. Ice’s bullets had torn into his chest and he was lying in a growing pool of thick blood, a cell phone clutched in his hand. Vance crouched over him and held out the other buzzing phone.
“Looking for this, motherfucker?”
The man coughed. Blood ran out of his mouth and down his neck. He wasn’t going to last much longer.
“Who do you work for?” Vance growled as he grabbed the Arab by his shoulders and effortlessly propped him against the wall. If he could stop the lungs from filling, maybe he could keep him alive a little longer.
“You—you should have gone home, CIA pig,” coughed the man. “You're a dead man now.”
“You and your buddies had your chance, pal. Now how about you tell me who you're working for and maybe I won't go after your family.”
“Maybe... you should... ask your friend, Tariq.” With that, the man’s head slumped against his chest.
Vance checked for a pulse.
“Dead?” yelled Ice from the next room.
“Yep.” Vance scrolled through the man’s phone. It only had the one number saved in the contacts. He emptied the corpse’s pockets and pulled out a wallet. “You’re not gonna believe it, Ice. He’s Emirates Police. One Yussuf Bishara.”
“That makes sense. Check this out.”
Vance walked into the office where Ice was standing over the desk, scrolling through a presentation on the laptop.
“Pretty damn slick,” observed Vance. The slides showed a detailed plan for the attack on the WHO clinic, complete with surveillance photos.
“Whoever put this together was a pro: definitely military, cops, or intel,” agreed Ice.
Vance stared at the scree
n for a few seconds, then looked up. “Grab the laptop. I’ll take some photos and we’ll get the hell out of here. I want to have another chat with our man Tariq.”
CHAPTER 5
By the time Vance located the head of Special Tasks Branch, the sun was peeking over the desert horizon. One of his contacts had a source in the Hotel La Capiard, a favorite breakfast spot of Tariq Ahmed. The opulent establishment was owned by none other than Tariq’s father, Hussein Ahmed, CEO of Lascar Logistics and security adviser to the emir.
The wheels of the Land Cruiser screamed as Vance sped around the roundabout at the front of the hotel and screeched to a halt next to a Rolls-Royce. The owner, a sheik dressed in traditional Arabic robes, glared at the two grubby Americans as they ran up the entrance stairs.
Even without their weapons and body armor, the two big men looked menacing. Hotel security stood shocked as Vance and Ice barged into the lobby. The two Special Tasks agents guarding the door to the hotel restaurant were not as compliant.
The larger of the two recognized Vance and walked forward, gesturing for him to stop. Vance dropped him with a punch to the face.
Seeing his partner felled with a single blow, the other man reached for his pistol. Ice grabbed the weapon as it left the holster, twisting it out of the officer’s hand. He spun the man into a headlock and pressed the weapon up against his temple.
There was only one customer actually dining in the restaurant; the exclusive venue was only open to the public in the evenings. The half-dozen men on the other tables reacted quickly, drawing a variety of weapons. The two CIA officers found themselves looking down the barrels of no less than two submachine guns and four pistols.
Tariq glared at them from his table. He took a napkin from his lap and wiped the corner of his mouth. “Let them in.”
His men lowered their weapons and Ice released his captive. A waiter appeared and guided them to the table.
Tariq waited for them to sit. “I thought I might be seeing you gentlemen again.”
Vance threw a bloodied ID card onto the table. “We got caught up. Ran into someone you know.”
Tariq glanced at the card and waved his men out of the room. “As you can see, Vance, this problem of mine is complicated.”
“No shit!”
“You put me in a very precarious position. You have no idea how powerful these men are.” He gestured to the ID. “They have people everywhere.”
“I got a pretty good idea who the fuck they are, Tariq.” He glanced at the ID card. “Our mutual buddy here’s one of the emir’s personal bodyguards.” Vance’s face was expressionless as he stared across the table.
A waiter deposited a tray of pastries and scurried away. Ice picked up a chocolate croissant and bit into it. “Vance, you really should try one of these, they’re great.”
Vance selected one of the pastries. “Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell us, Tariq?”
Tariq sat upright in his chair. “If we take on these men and we fail, we lose everything. If you want a part in this, you must understand that rules no longer apply.”
Ice finished his croissant, wiping his hands on a napkin. They left a black smudge on the pristine white cloth. “I don’t know you very well, sir, but it seems to me that the only person you would fear in the whole of the UAE would be the emir, or maybe one of his most trusted advisers.”
The Arab’s face hardened.
Vance stared at him in disbelief. “You’re shitting me. We’re right, aren’t we? Your father, Hussein Ahmed, is a goddamn terrorist.”
Tariq considered his words carefully. “I have always known that my father harbored animosity toward the Western world. It is only recently that I have become aware of his extra activities.”
“Jesus! Your father is a billionaire with access to the ear of one of the most powerful Arabs in the world. He makes Bin Laden look like a pauper.”
“Yes. Now can you understand why we must be so careful? If we are to defeat him we must—”
“Hang on a second,” said Ice. “‘We?’ I thought ‘we’ weren’t invited to this little party of yours.”
“Not at all. I extended your organization an invitation from the beginning.”
“You sneaky bastard,” said Vance. “The initial tip-off on the terrorist cell. The link to the immigrant workers. That was you!”
Tariq nodded. “I needed external support.”
“And the meeting in the stairwell. You knew I wasn’t gonna fly home. You knew I’d go after them.”
Tariq smiled. “I needed you. I am not sure how deep the infiltration into my own organization goes but many of my men are loyal to my father. He continues to surround me with his followers.”
“How did you know the CIA would send me?” Vance asked.
“That, my friend, was Allah’s will, or perhaps it was because I asked for you personally. It depends on what you believe.”
“So what are we going to do now?” asked Ice. “Do we take this to Langley?”
“And what will they do?” Tariq asked in return. “Do you think the CIA will approve his assassination? That is the only way to stop him. You are either a fool or naive, Mr. Ice. Your masters are more than aware of my father’s ties and they would not dare risk killing him. Hussein and the Emir are like brothers, and men like Howard Beecroft will not jeopardize their precious oil.”
“I don't give a shit about Beecroft,” said Vance, glancing at Ice.
The big man nodded.
Vance continued. “No doubt you have plans of your own, Tariq?”
There was silence at the table as Tariq made his decision. “As you know, my father is the sole owner of Lascar Logistics. The company is legitimate, worth over 1.2 billion dollars, and has nearly two hundred aircraft across the globe.” Tariq waved over the waiter and ordered another coffee before continuing.
“I have recently become aware that within the structure of my father’s company is a small department called Priority Movements Airlift. What is interesting about this department is it consumes capital but doesn’t create revenue.” Tariq paused as the waiter brought out his coffee. “What is also interesting is that, despite having five aircraft on paper, the department actually has no physical fleet.”
Vance interrupted. “It’s a front.”
“Correct. It is how my father channels funds into his many extremist ventures.”
Tariq took a sip from his coffee. “Eventually, when I inherit my father’s fortune, I intend to use this funding to finance an independent counterterrorism capability.” He stretched out his hands. “Turn the tables, if you will.”
“Your own private army to track down Al-Qaeda?” asked Ice.
“No. An independent organization to target evil and bring those who perpetrate it to justice, regardless of religion or politics. Men like my father cannot be allowed to bring misery to the world and go unchecked.”
Vance could see where this was going. Tariq knew the CIA operatives were jaded and he was offering them a job, a unique opportunity to start a new organization, one dedicated to making a difference. There was only one obstacle. “So, no love lost between you and your father?”
The Arab’s features darkened with rage. “I watched him beat my mother till she could no longer stand. Why? Because she dared to look him in the eye. When she died, my loyalty to my family died with her. My father and I share a very different view of the world and I owe him nothing.”
“And now you want him dead,” Vance said.
“That would be my preferred outcome.”
Vance looked across at his partner. Ice nodded.
“That we can probably help you with.”
***
When Vance and Ice returned to the terrorist warehouse it reeked of death; death mixed with the stench of high explosives. They piled the bodies in one corner of the room and covered them with a plastic sheet. Fortunately it was air-conditioned; in the desert heat the corpses would decompose rapidly.
Now they were focuse
d on the job at hand, Vance working on a laptop in the office while Ice chatted to a third man, an associate they had hired, a man that possessed a set of skills neither he nor Vance had.
Mitch Freeman had a background in aeronautical engineering and weapons development. The ultimate geek, he could fabricate almost anything and modify everything else. Having long left service in the British Defence Science and Technology Laboratory, he was now a contractor seeking thrills and adventure. The CIA officers had used him previously on a number of sensitive missions.
“Those nutjobs would’ve blown up half the bloody town,” Mitch exclaimed as he examined the contents of the van with Ice. “There’s three-quarters of a ton of bang in here.”
“Yep,” said Ice.
“You’re lucky buggers, that’s for sure.” Mitch gave Ice a solid thump on the shoulder. Despite being a geek, the engineer sported a powerful frame, the result of hours lifting Olympic weights. It was his second great love after gadgets.
“I think we’ve got more than enough for two bombs,” declared Ice.
“You might be right,” Mitch agreed. “So that’s the plan, yeah, two bombs. One in the van and one in the Land Cruiser?”
Vance walked out of the office and joined them. “That gonna be a problem, Mitch?”
“Nah, dead easy. How much time do I have?”
“Ah, that’s the hard bit,” said Vance. “Tariq just e-mailed me Hussein’s movements for the next few days. We’ve got a small window tomorrow. That means you’ve got just under 24 hours to make all the mods.”
“Not a problem, my good man. Not a problem at all.”
CHAPTER 6
The three armored Mercedes swept out of the Presidential Palace at precisely 0700 hours. They left the Ras al-Akhdar peninsula with a police escort, speeding past the Emirates Palace hotel and the expensive foreshore developments. The escort cleared the morning traffic with wailing sirens and flashing lights.
Tariq’s father, Sheik Hussein Ahmed, was in the first Mercedes. As security adviser to the emir, he preferred to travel with a police escort. It helped deal with the peak-hour traffic.
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