Besieged
Page 26
As he swam and nudged Layne along the tidal waters, the recent developments ran through his mind. Darius Mirza had known quickly that his two-man assault team was not returning, meaning he probably had real-time video and streaming capability via satellite, unmanned aerial systems, or both. Also, the power of the explosion meant that they didn’t care if Misha was dead or alive. Their last-gasp effort to capture her had failed, and now they were bent on executing their grand scheme, whatever it was. Finally, the Cefiro car bomb was a lethal weapon.
After paddling and swimming about a half mile up the sound, they pulled into a boathouse, stored the kayaks on the rafters, lifted Layne—still connected to her surfboard—onto the pier, and waited an hour. While Mahegan was certain that they had not been followed, he could not be certain that they had not been watched. In fact, he had to assume they had been. In his view, their only saving grace might have been leaving Tess’s place when the explosions were occurring. The fires might have kept the satellite and aerial system operators who were watching the house for “squirters,” as he’d called them in Afghanistan, from noticing their repositioning. Squirters were people who ran from a house after an attack.
“How did you know?” he asked Tess.
“We’ve got a hell of a neighborhood-watch system. Two race cars blew past the gatehouse, and we all received a blast text on our phones.”
“Where are we now?” Mahegan asked.
“Friend of mine. He’s got weapons. Smart guy.”
“Might be smart, but we’ve got an army attacking us.”
“Steve McCarthy is our safest bet. He’s eccentric, rich, and my good friend,” Tess said. “Let’s not mess up his house, too.”
Mahegan nodded.
After a few minutes, Tess said, “Steve says we can come in, but I want to wait. Plus, he needs some time to prepare.”
Casey pointed at Misha, who was now sitting up on the pier with them. “Look who’s awake,” Casey said.
Misha looked at all of them one at a time. Mahegan guessed she was taking each individual in, absorbing her location and the people around her, checking boxes in her mind, affirming that all was as okay as it could be. She held out her hand, the signal she had developed for Mahegan to give her his burner smartphone. She typed a single sentence.
I know how to stop the attack.
CHAPTER 25
DARIUS MIRZA
NEVER BEFORE HAD MIRZA SEEN HIS MEN FAIL ON SUCH A LEVEL: THE gunfight in the tunnel and their inability to capture the girl after she escaped, the failed mission to snatch the girl from her mother’s home, and now the botched mission at the beach and waterfront mansion. He had sent the two Cefiro bombs to the mansion out of anger. He knew that he should not have, but his frustration had reached its maximum level.
He was being aggressive, not careful. He had developed the plan, and if the plan began to fray, he would personally stitch it back together. Hands-on leadership was his style, but he had not been hands-on here. He had been in the command center, watching, like a spectator at a football match.
But at this very moment he was reassured again, as he was standing on the roof of the research and development facility, watching the first of Iran’s merchant vessels passing by, less than an hour from the Port of Wilmington. Within a few hours Iran would have the equivalent of a combat brigade of one thousand men and dozens of tanks and missiles at the port, ready to secure the lodgment and provide a launching pad for their siege of Washington, DC.
The 180 Cefiro cars were moving to their targets for a sunrise attack. Most, but not all, would attack simultaneously, as some had missions for the final attacks in Arlington, Virginia, and the capital.
He could visualize Iranian tanks sitting atop the bluffs of Arlington, staring down at the American seat of government, close enough to threaten, but far enough away to avoid the impact of the fifth container’s contents.
Seeing those future successes was important in allowing him to overcome his mental anguish at losing so many of his men to this one man, Jake Mahegan. He had felt powerless sitting in his command center, watching the Cefiro cars attack the waterfront mansion. The first car had breached the gate as the second car had demolished the house. If the Americans did not know they were under attack before, they would now.
Nonetheless, he wanted to find Mahegan and bring him to the compound. With the arrival of Iran’s forces from the ships, the mission would transition to the main ground forces. His goal now would be to find Mahegan and kill him, not in retribution for his men, but because he made him look bad. If his men were so incompetent that they couldn’t recapture a girl, then he would have to do it himself.
The Iranian Fasr satellite had gone blank with “whiteout” for about two minutes when the massive explosions occurred at the gate and in the house. Whether anyone was in the house or had survived the blasts was another question. The only bodies he had been able to see on the satellite monitor were those of De La Cruz and his two men floating in the water.
He had used the satellite to follow Mahegan and the girl back to the waterfront mansion, which was when he had launched the Cefiro cars. Then, in his anger, he had come up here to the roof of the compound to pace and get fresh air. Used to fighting up close against his enemy, he was growing less comfortable commanding from afar through satellites and radios.
Personal leadership on the battlefield made a difference to Mirza. His men followed him, not a satellite. Just as seeing the Persian flag on the battlefield was a rallying point, his presence on the field of combat was motivational to his men. He had wasted their lives in these piecemeal efforts. With even half of his original thirty men remaining, he would lead them against Mahegan as the combat brigade attacked Washington, DC, using I-95 as an axis of advance. He had done his job to establish the base of operations. His fellow commanders could take it from there.
He held his AK-47, his trusty battlefield weapon, and rubbed its wooden stock like he might caress the face of a lover. The Iranian troop carrier disguised as a merchant vessel passed by, moving silently along the river. He looked to his right, the south, and could see the twinkle of a second vessel’s lights.
Franco, in all his insubordinate incompetence, had readied the Sparrows, which Mirza would launch in the morning, in concert with the Cefiro car attacks blocking the interstates. The cyber team had successfully pushed the code over the satellite to each of the vehicles and the Sparrows. The attack drones on the ship twelve miles at sea had not been readied yet, so once they were ready to launch, they would quickly receive the Cefiro Code and be able to swarm with the cars and the Sparrows. The asphalt test track in front of the R & D Compound doubled as an airfield for Mirza’s small airplanes, which would take off, fly to a specific destination, and then release the Sparrows, all programmed to communicate and attack specific targets. Some flocks would all converge on one target, while others would attack in limited numbers. There were many targets at the Marine Corps bases, and Mirza’s plan called for the destruction of all of them.
Mirza’s cue from Iranian command to launch the attack was the successful off-loading of the first ship. Once the combat brigade was ready, the mission would belong to that commander.
He would find and kill Mahegan, then would join in the fight to destroy America.
But first, he had Fazir unlock the third mound for him. He summoned him from the roof with a hand wave. Mirza stared down at the five mounds, knowing he had three victims left, including one very special person.
He exited the roof and walked past the eco-pod that had held the girl. Two of the mound doors now remained open, like cavities in rotten teeth. Looking in one, he saw three raccoons devouring his first victim. Good for them.
“She is the mother of four children, Commander,” Fazir said, shining a light on the woman lying prone. She looked up at him, her face contorted in terror. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was open in a silent scream. Her hands were suddenly up, defending.
After four children, she probably co
uld not provide him the satisfaction the college girl had, so he grabbed her hair and slit her throat.
Then carved his Z.
CHAPTER 26
JAKE MAHEGAN
THE LAST PERSON MAHEGAN EXPECTED TO SEE INSIDE STEVE MCCarthy’s compound was Detective Paul Patterson, but there he was in his dirty tan trench coat, an unlit cigar in his hand, cooling his heels in a chair that had probably cost more than Patterson made in a year.
Mahegan and the others had entered through the basement of McCarthy’s mansion and then had taken Layne and Misha into a subbasement safe room. Inside the safe room were a variety of television monitors and, much to Misha’s delight, computers connected to a satellite with lightning-fast speed.
“Are these secure?” Mahegan had asked, waving at the Internet equipment.
“I hope so,” McCarthy said. “It’s my satellite.” McCarthy motioned to Mahegan to follow him, so he had, leaving behind Casey and Tess to tend to Misha and her mother.
They’d entered the room where Detective Patterson was sitting.
“Mahegan,” Patterson said as he walked into the vast room. The heads or full bodies of every type of animal were catalogued in this room. There were over one hundred deer, elk, moose, lion, tiger, crocodile, fish, goose, duck, pheasant, zebra, gazelle, and wild boar heads and bodies stuffed and preserved and displayed on a wall and around the perimeter of the room, as if they were standing in some sort of faux nature preserve.
Mahegan felt their eyes on him and closed his own for a minute. His easy presence around live animals sometimes created an inverse reaction around game that had been killed and stuffed. He didn’t worship animals the way his ancestors might have, but he certainly cared about them from an environmental standpoint. He felt connected to the red wolves of northeastern North Carolina, their species having once been whittled down to just sixteen wolves. Perhaps as a Croatan Indian, he, too, understood what it was like to have his bloodline pressured to near extinction. None of the killed animals in this room were rare, but nonetheless, he felt uncomfortable. He understood killing for food and certainly hoped that Steve McCarthy ate what he killed. He sensed that he might.
McCarthy was a big man, taller than Mahegan and probably his size in bulk. He looked exceptionally fit, and Mahegan got the impression he was an extreme sports junkie. Thick red hair was combed straight back across his head and managed to stay that way without any gel, or so it seemed. He wore a goatee that matched his hair and was dressed in a paisley blazer atop a light blue cotton dress shirt, white slacks, and Italian shoes with no socks.
Eccentric might have been the right word for him, but he seemed too wealthy and successful for that to be a complete description.
Looking back at Patterson, whose feet were crossed on a zebra-hide rug, Mahegan said, “Detective. What brings you here?” He stood at one end of the vast space, about the size of half of a basketball court, and waited for Patterson’s answer.
“Seems we’ve got some convergence going on, Mahegan. You’re wanted by a dozen different agencies in connection with the sinking of those ships. Something to do with the Occupy Wall Street gang, though I don’t sense that you’re into that so much. I’m thinking you were set up by somebody who wants you off their ass. Am I correct?”
Mahegan walked closer, avoiding stepping on the bear and gazelle rugs, and leaned against a stair railing that was maybe ten feet from Patterson. Directly above him was the head of a water buffalo taken from somewhere in Africa
“You’re correct in that I’m not involved in anything to do with Wall Street or its Occupy movement.”
“So why would we be getting ‘Be on the lookout for Mahegan’ instructions?”
“It’s not the first time a BOLO has been put out on me, probably not the last.”
“What I can’t figure out is how you got involved in all this to begin with. Why Promise White? Misha Constance? And now everything else that’s going on?”
“Right place, right time?”
Patterson laughed, causing his belly to jump out from the tan overcoat.
“Let me ask you, Detective,” Mahegan said. “What’s your role in all this?”
“Good question, Mahegan. I like your style. I could make a phone call and have you arrested in five minutes, but here you are, grilling me. Takes some cojones.”
“Then answer my question.”
Patterson stood and wiped his rubber-soled shoes on the zebra head as he walked toward Mahegan. The man was no taller than five feet six inches.
“I’ll answer your question, Mahegan. Ever since those Cefiro pukes started building in downtown Wilmington and across the river in Brunswick County, I have smelled a big, giant rat. Cubans right here downtown?” He pointed his stubby fingers and his short cigar to his right, upriver to the north. “A lot of cops left the force to go work security for Cefiro because they were paying three times the salary of a regular cop. Me, I don’t give a rat’s ass about money. I got a small house in downtown that’s worth ten times what I paid for it. I’m tighter than a ram’s ass with money, and while I’m not the millionaire next door, I’m close.
“What busts my nut is justice. Finding bad guys and making them fry. So then I get assigned the Constance case, right? I’m all over that like a cheap suit, and every time I find a lead, I lose it. Every sighting of the body was a dead end. But I worked my ass off on that case and found blood, guts, personal belongings, a frigging boat, and video and eyewitness accounts. All that should be good enough, but me, I’ve been doing this thirty-five years now, and what I can’t figure out is you. Are you a good guy or a bad guy? Are you affiliated with those assholes across the river or not?
“That’s what I’m doing here. Steve is one of the few guys you can trust around here, and he sent me a text message that he wanted me to be here. He thinks that I can help you and that you can help me. Because you know what? I’m still not satisfied with the Constance case. I don’t have a body. I don’t have a closed case. And I know that the sharks have probably already swallowed any hope I have of finding a body, but I never give up. And you know what else? And as I thought when I saw you that first day at the school, I don’t think you ever give up, either.”
Mahegan was wondering if he was ever going to shut up. But Patterson paused, and Mahegan spoke.
“What’s to keep you from making that five-minute phone call?”
“Because I’d cap his ass and mount his head right there between the possum and the beaver, three varmints in a row,” Steve McCarthy said from behind Mahegan.
“Yeah, yeah, keep threatening the law, Steve, and I’ll have your ass tossed in jail for importing exotic species.”
“You talking about the strippers at the Lucky Twenty Club or some of these?” McCarthy asked with a crooked grin, pointing at the wall.
“Both, if you’re not careful.”
Watching and listening to them, Mahegan got the sense that they had known each other for a long time, perhaps even since childhood.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Captain of the basketball team and manager.” He pointed at McCarthy first, then Patterson.
“Actually, baseball, but good assessment,” McCarthy said. “I was a pro prospect pitcher, played for UNCW, and spent two years in the minors before deciding to make some money. Patty Pat here was the scorekeeper for the baseball team.” McCarthy pointed at Patterson.
“So what is going on here?” Mahegan asked.
“Tess, whom I adore, by the way, alerted me that you guys were coming into her compound. I started tracking her security system and watched the action unfold. It was my idea that y’all come over here. I’m close enough to get here quickly and far enough to throw them off. Plus, I’ve got weapons and safe rooms downstairs and upstairs. I could keep y’all here for days, weeks, without anyone knowing. I can feed you, the whole works.”
“Thank you,” Mahegan said.
“Don’t thank me yet, because Paul’s a different story. We saw that Homeland and the loc
al police were getting your name over the BOLO network, and I called him to keep a lid on this thing.”
“Do you know everything that’s going on?” Mahegan asked.
McCarthy finished descending the steps and stood next to Patterson, his imposing frame accentuating the fact that he had been the all-star pitcher and Patterson had been the bookkeeper.
“I’m still bird dogging Roger Constance’s murder,” Patterson said.
“Who do you think did it?” Mahegan asked. He had to admit the man was dedicated. The country had Iranian terrorists attacking up and down the Cape Fear River, and Patterson was focused on the death of one man. Though Mahegan agreed that Misha’s father had played a central role in the plot that was now unfolding.
“Follow me,” Patterson said.
Mahegan and McCarthy followed him into a den off the animal room. The den had mostly largemouth bass of all sizes mounted on the walls, with what Mahegan assumed were the snaring lures hanging in their open mouths. The three of them sat down in front of a forty-inch monitor connected to a series of computers.
“Here’s the video from the night Constance was killed. One of our cameras was aiming along the riverfront, at a warehouse,” Patterson said.
The detective hit a button, and a black-and-white digital video began playing. He sped up the playtime with a remote until about a minute into the footage, when he slowed it to real time. On the monitor was a large warehouse, mostly gray and still. The camera was aimed at an open garage-style door. It appeared as a black cavern on the screen. A light flickered in the back of the warehouse, somewhere deep, and cast a minor glow toward the opening.
A man and a small girl were walking hand in hand along a trail that extended from the riverfront boardwalk into the warehouse through the door. They came into view, holding hands, and it was obvious that the girl was Misha. Though he had never met Roger Constance, Mahegan assumed the man with Misha was her father.
They stopped just inside the dark cavern, where Mahegan could see two figures approach them from inside the warehouse. One was holding a bag, perhaps with the money for the code, he thought. The footage was not clear enough to make out the faces or even the body sizes of the men inside the warehouse opening. A struggle ensued in which it appeared that Roger Constance reached in his pocket, presumably for the flash drive, and Misha grabbed what looked like a pistol from his pants pocket. The two men drew pistols, and a series of flashes lit up the dark hole. Roger Constance dropped to one knee, and the pistol Misha was holding continued to fire until she ran out of ammunition.