“Well… I had just stepped into the restroom, but when I came out…”
“You sound just like that French train crew when that Muslim terrorist opened fire with an AK-47 on the Belgian border last year,” Stansky countered. “It took three Americans to take him down, and that’s where the train crew was too, hiding in the crapper, like you.”
Bob didn’t wait. Adkins was standing directly in front of him, blustering, and he couldn’t help himself. He hit the big man flush on the button with a straight right. That was unusual for him, he thought later. Normally, he would have delivered some exotic Israeli, Korean, or Thai blow with a foot, an elbow, or maybe the heel of his hand. This time, an old-fashioned fist, straight from the shoulder, seemed more appropriate. The colonel’s knees buckled, and if the two MPs hadn’t grabbed him and held him up, he would have been on the floor. It took a few seconds for Adkins to get his feet underneath himself. He raised a hand to his mouth, spit out a tooth into his palm, and sputtered. “He… he hit me. My tooth! He knocked out my tooth! You all saw it,” Adkins screamed as he looked around at the others.
“I didn’t see a goddamned thing,” Stansky glared at him.
“Neither did I,” Sharmayne agreed.
“And that wouldn’t be whiskey I smell on you, would it, Colonel? Making a false statement, failure to obey a lawful order, while drunk and disorderly?”
“No, no, I stopped by the club, but…”
“But you lost another tooth, didn’t you, Colonel?” Bob said to him. “I guess that makes a matched set, doesn’t it?”
“You little twerp,” Adkins gritted his teeth. “I’m going to…” he said as he tried to break away from the MPs and get at Burke.
“Hiding in the restroom?” Bob cut him off. “I guess that fits right in with the rest of your stellar combat record, doesn’t it? Well, wait until that one gets around.”
Adkins opened his mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out. He looked at Burke and then at Stansky and the others, freed himself from the MPs, and backed away. He must have decided he didn’t want any more of this one-sided confrontation after all. He turned and headed quickly toward the front doors.
Bob turned, looked at Stansky and O’Connor and shook his head. “He’s like the Energizer Bunny. He keeps coming back, and coming back.”
“Don’t get too cocky, Ghost,” Stansky warned him. “He was dead wrong tonight, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to stop trying. If I were you I’d give him a very wide berth from now on… And for Christ's sake, leave his teeth alone. You got two of them now.”
The entire group began to laugh, only to be interrupted by the ringing of Bob’s cell phone. He pulled it out and saw the Caller ID was “KGB Spymaster Data Center,” so he answered it. “Jimmy, you got something for me?”
“Zdravstvuyte, Boss! Hello. Ees Sasha. We got dat scumbag by heees testicles!”
“Great, Sasha, but put Jimmy or Ronald on the phone. I’m putting this on speaker and I don’t want to scare anyone,” he said as he pressed the speaker button.
“Hokay, Boss, I geeve you to Loverboy. Jeemie, here, ees Boss.”
“Is that the hairy Russian?” Stansky asked. “The one we scared the hell out of. God, that was a lot of fun up in New Jersey, wasn’t it?”
“The Genovesi and Lucchesi families didn’t think so,” Bob reminded him. When Jimmy came on, Bob told him, “I’ve got you on speaker, kid, so tell Patsy to keep her hands off you until the call’s over. You got that.”
“Very funny,” Jimmy’s droll voice answered. “All eight of the photo and fingerprint sets you sent over match some combination of Shaw’s classes at the college, or at Bragg…”
“We’re calling him ‘the Toad’ now.”
“Sheesh! What is this? Some crypto Wind in the Willows shtick?” Jimmy giggled.
“Let’s just say this is not a secure line.”
“Rii—ight. Anyway, they all have links to him through the classes, the mosque, or the Muslim Student Center. We have multiple hits on all of them. Two were foreign-born. All eight had military service and five are still on active duty. The campus also has an extensive video security system, and we also have your ‘Toad’ meeting with most of them. We’re still drilling down on the details in their service records, passports, and all that stuff…”
“Great. Shoot all those matches back to the same text number you got them from, okay?” Bob told him as he looked over at Sharmayne Phillips. “That should be more than enough to get you some search warrants.
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” Jimmy said. “Sasha says ISIS just took credit for the attack at the commissary. It’s all over the internet. Be back to you when we have more.”
“ISIS? Already?” Sharmayne said, disgusted. “They don’t waste time, do they.”
“Christ, we’re about to be up to our asses in CNN. Pardon me, folks, but I’ve got to get on the line to the CG and the JCS. And you best shut down the gates, Sharmayne.”
Bob turned to Stansky and said, “He’s out there planning something right now, and we need to pull his plug before he strikes again.”
“Agreed,” Stansky said. “The Irishman and I are headed back to the office. If you need anything just holler.”
“Roger that,” Bob and Sharmayne said in unison.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Fort Bragg North Commissary
Sitting in the last row of the parking lot, Henry Shaw continued watching the developments around the front doors of the commissary, his anger unabated. They had destroyed his cell; killed his men, in whom he had placed so much hope; and shattered his dreams. There was no end to the things and people he could blame for the failure, from poor training, an obvious lack of discipline, no motivation, and incompetent leadership from George Enderby. With surprise and automatic weapons, tonight’s attack should have been a cakewalk. Enderby should have been able to destroy the commissary and everyone inside in a matter of minutes. Back in the day, Henry Shaw and eight Marines could have destroyed this entire candy-ass Army post in that time, so what could’ve gone wrong? Was it a trap? Had they been tipped off? In all likelihood, he would never know the truth. As he sat and watched, a small army of MPs and that damned female CID agent arrived in their cars, emergency lights blazing, followed by that g
eneral he saw earlier, who drove Burke home. Enderby told him he had been in there too. Somehow, Shaw knew the three of them were at the bottom of this. Well, they would pay a dear price for their meddling, as Enderby had.
That reminded him, he only had one bomb left and he needed more C-4, a lot more. Even if Mergen Khan had grabbed al-Karman, his books, his notes, and all his other stuff were still in the Student Union. That he intended to come back. Shaw was about to give up and go find him, when he saw that damned “Two-Star” march back out through the commissary’s front doors, followed by that Sergeant Major. They were headed for the General’s sedan, so Shaw took out his cell phone, turned it on, brought up his Speed Dial list, and waited. The General, Stansky was his name, according to the driver, was in the lead and did not slow down, even though he was walking, talking, and making exaggerated gestures with his hands all at the same time. When he reached the sedan, Stansky did not stand on rank or formality. He opened the rear door himself and jumped inside. The Sergeant Major suddenly paused by the front of the sedan, perhaps surprised that the driver had not gotten out to open the general’s door. The Sergeant Major gave a sharp rap on the car hood with his knuckles, and then leaned forward to peer inside the car through its front windshield. Shaw knew that all the man could see was the driver slumped against the passenger side window, his hat pushed down over his eyes as if he were asleep. Puzzled, the Sergeant Major turned and walked around the front of the car toward the driver’s side.
That was when Henry Shaw pushed the phone number for the C-4 charge.
Bob, Sharmayne Phillips and Ace stood huddled over one of the produce tables inside the commissary looking closely at the la
st of the crime scene photos, when a thundering explosion and bright flash of light shook the front of the building. It lit up the large food store like the crack of a lightning bolt striking the parking lot. In seconds, they heard pieces of metal crash down on the roof and smack the front wall of the commissary, until a flaming car tire smashed through one of the front plate-glass windows. Like everyone else, they ducked and held their breath until the crashing and banging died away and things inside grew eerily quiet.
“That was another bomb!” Bob said, and he and Ace sprinted for the front doors. Outside, he paused to take in the scene. There were a dozen or more wounded people in military uniforms and civilian clothes sprawled on the sidewalk and in the parking lot, all around the burning wreck of a car. It lay about a hundred meters from the commissary’s front doors, and one look told Bob it had once been an Army sedan. It was now black instead of olive-green, and was missing several doors and the tires on the passenger side. Through the dying flames, he saw what was left of a pennant with two stars on the front fender; and immediately knew what that meant.
Ace ran up next to him and they could barely make out two figures sitting inside the car, one in the front behind the steering wheel, and one in the back. Neither was moving, and from the shattered condition of the car and the roiling flames, it was obvious neither of them ever would. However, on the asphalt in front of the sedan, the blackened figure of a large man crawled toward the car on his hands and knees. It was Pat O’Connor, battered and bloodied, the remnants of his uniform hanging off him in smoking tatters. They raced forward, grabbed him under his arms, and pulled him away, kicking and screaming, “No, no, I’ve got to get him out. I’ve got to get him out!”
“It’s too late, Pat,” Bob tried to explain. “You’ve got to get back, there’s nothing you can do now,” but O’Connor wasn’t listening, even if he could after that deafening explosion.
“Medic! Medic,” Ace looked back at the commissary and shouted as they half carried and half dragged O’Connor back to the sidewalk and laid him down.
In seconds, Sharmayne Phillips and five medics who had been treating people inside quickly joined them and took over. “That’s Command Sergeant Major Pat O’Connor,” she told them, in case the medics couldn’t recognize him or needed any additional incentive. While three of them began to examine his injuries, the other two dashed to their ambulance which was parked a short distance away. One came running back with a gurney, while the other started the truck and drove it over. In less than a minute they had O’Connor loaded in the back of the ambulance and were racing through the parking lot toward Womack Army Hospital.
Bob, Ace, and Sharmayne turned and walked over to the sedan as the flames began to die out and one of the post’s fire department pumper trucks finally rolled up. They were usually dispatched as back-up to any serious accident on post, and had been waiting further back in the parking lot when the bomb went off under the sedan. Even so, the flames were already beginning to die down by the time the first two firemen in full protective gear began spraying flame retardant chemicals on them. The firemen directed everyone to stay well back as two others began spraying water on the chassis and body parts to cool the car down before they dared get inside, not that that was going to matter. It was obvious the two men inside were dead, and Bob, Ace, and Sharmayne Phillips knew full well who sat in the back seat.
Fort Bragg had now had more crime scenes in the last two days than in the previous year or two put together, and Sharmayne directed her MPs to keep everyone back as they set up a wide protective perimeter with bright yellow tape. Bob looked at the sedan. From the wreckage, he could immediately tell that the worst damage was under the passenger-side rear seat. He nudged Sharmayne Phillips and pointed. “That’s where the bomb went off,” he told her, “right under Stansky. He was the target.”
“I suppose you’re Explosive Ordnance qualified, too?”
“No, but I’ve seen enough IEDs in Iraq that I might as well be.”
“You think it’s Shaw again? More C-4?” she asked.
“No doubt about it. You can run all the tests you want, but I’ll bet he stayed out there at the back of the parking lot when his men attacked, watching and waiting.”
“And when Stansky drove up in his sedan, he became a new target of opportunity.”
“Bingo,” Bob answered as he stared at the shattered sedan and the two charred bodies inside. His eyes grew cold and hard, knowing that this was turning into an old-fashioned, biblical blood hunt. He had served in Afghanistan long enough to understand what tribal revenge meant. Well, this was going to be his revenge; it was going to be Burke’s revenge.
“Be advised,” he turned toward Sharmayne Phillips and glared at her. “Shaw’s all mine. I’m going to catch that bastard and I’m going to kill him.”
She stared back with eyes just as hard and replied, “And just so you know, I didn’t hear that.”
“Good, so long as you understand and don’t try to get in my way.”
“Get in your way? How can I help?” she answered as she glared back at him and Ace.
Bob nodded and then looked back at the sedan. Pat O’Connor’s hat was lying on the pavement between its left front fender and the cars in the adjacent row. They had been dented and scorched from the explosion, one of them had a broken headlight, and one of them had a large dent in its hood. Bob pointed at them, trying to envision what had happened. “O’Connor must’ve been standing over there when the bomb went off. The way Stansky marched out of the commissary, he’d have been in the lead, as usual…”
“And the Old Man opened his own car door, as usual,” Ace agreed.
“However, for some reason, instead of helping him or jumping right in, O’Connor went around to the driver’s side. Maybe the guy was sleeping or something, but that was when the bomb went off,” Bob added.
“It’s a good thing for him that Stansky never stood on formality,” Sharmayne added. “If O’Connor had opened that rear door for him and been standing back there when the bomb went off, he’d be dead too. Having the engine block and the bulk of the car between him and the C-4 probably saved his life.”
Bob quickly scanned the rest of the parking lot. Civilian cars, more emergency vehicles, and MP patrol cars were streaming in and out through all the exits now. He saw a half-dozen white cars of every size and shape parked in the lot and thought he saw several others leaving or driving away on the adjacent road. Shaw’s Peugeot was white, if that was what he was still driving, but it was too late now. No doubt he had been here, but he was long gone now.
“I’m putting out an APB on Shaw and his car,” Phillips said.
“No harm in trying, and have your men search the lot; but he’s been one step ahead of us the whole time, and he’s too smart to get caught in that old Peugeot. While you wrap things up here, Ace and I are going to the hospital and see how O’Connor is doing.”
Bob and Ace had been sitting in the crowded Trauma Center waiting room at Womack for almost an hour before one of the surgeons finally came out and talked to them. He was dressed in his hospital greens, but Bob recognized him from the week he spent in the field hospital in Kandahar several years before with two bullet wounds. They both smiled and shook hands.
“Major Burke! One of the nurses said there was a moron out here beating on everyone, wanting to know how Pat O’Connor’s doing. We’ve had a full house tonight. With everything that’s happened over at the commissary, I should’ve figured it was you.”
“Guilty as charged, Doc. How’s he doing?”
The doctor looked around the room. “Since you aren’t his wife or next of kin, I probably shouldn’t be telling you squat; but I know how you Special Ops guys are. He’ll make it, although his wounds take me back to a time and a place I had hoped not to revisit. He’s had thirty-seven stitches and lost a lot of blood, but he should be back to his old ornery self in another week to ten days. But, how are you? How’s the left arm and shoulder?” he asked as he took Bob’
s arm and began examining him.
“Just fine,” Bob answered. “It makes a matched set with the other one now, so I don’t walk around listing to the right anymore.”
“One of the nurses told me it was a car bomb that got O’Connor and General Stansky. Here, at Bragg? What the hell’s going on, Bob?”
“Whatever it is, somebody needs to stop it, Doc.”
“I sure as hell hope they do. Look, I’ve got to get back inside. We’re still stitching up a lot of gunshot wounds.”
They shook hands again, which was when Sharmayne Phillips stepped in and joined the group. “The Doc says Pat’s going to make it,” Bob told her as the doctor walked away, but she did not look a whole lot happier.
“That’s great, but you’re not gonna believe what just happened,” Sharmayne told him. “They found Special Agent Pendergrass’s body in the bushes behind the FBI offices about twenty minutes ago. He’d been shot in the head.”
“Pendergrass?” Bob asked, completely shocked. “You gotta be kidding.”
“Van Zandt called me. There was no ID on the body, and with him being from out of town, God knows how long it would’ve taken them to identify his body through their normally slow fingerprint system. Fortunately, Van Zandt and Greenfield were the ones who rolled on the call. Needless to say, the Feebs in the Hoover building are going nuts.”
“It was Shaw. With everything else that’s happened tonight, it was Shaw,” Bob said.
“Oh, and you haven’t heard the best part. He was lying on top of the body of a young blonde woman. She’d been shot in the head too, and both of them had their pants pulled down. Van Zandt and Greenfield immediately recognized her as Shaw’s secretary at the College. Can you believe that? He shot them both, execution style, and then took the time to pose the bodies as if it was all some big joke to him. I’m telling you, Burke,” she said as she glanced around. “If you don’t kill that bastard, I will.”
“Let’s get out of here, Sharmayne,” Bob motioned to her and Ace and led them out of the Trauma Center into the parking lot. “Did you get your search warrants yet?”
Burke's Revenge: Bob Burke Suspense Thriller #3 (Bob Burke Action Adventure Novels) Page 36