Direct Fire

by A. J Tata

  Dupree was left nearly penniless once that fund was raked. Bagwell, he was certain, would be fine unless exposed. Sitting alone in his Mosul compound, Dupree could feel the Arab Spring tightening its noose around him.

  But then the Bulgarians had contacted him. He had been given instructions to fly to Burgas, Bulgaria, to meet with three men named Gavril, Zakir, and Malavdi. They had “located” his money and determined who had “stolen it,” they reported. But they could not provide him an online report. He had to visit them in person.

  He flew into Burgas after connecting from Sofia. From the airport, he took a short taxi ride to the Lazuren Briag Hotel on the Black Sea. He had waited patiently in the sand dunes across the street as he watched two men enter the café in the hotel. After ensuring they had not been followed, he walked into the café and sat at their table.

  “Gentlemen, the Black Sea is as beautiful as they say,” he had said.

  “I think you will enjoy it more after our conversation,” the man named Gavril had said.

  “Shall we go for a walk?” Dupree said.

  “A ride,” Gavril said.

  They walked to Gavril’s car, a ten-year-old Opel Astra. Sitting in the backseat, Dupree checked to make sure the locks were operational from inside the car before closing the door. They drove about five kilometers before arriving at a small apartment building. They walked into the ground floor and then took the stairs to a dark basement filled with servers and small wall-mounted air conditioners.

  In the middle of the basement was a semicircular, elevated command post that had wires running beneath the raised access floor panels. Six forty-inch monitors sat side by side, with a keyboard for each.

  “Before we show you who has your money, we need a guarantee from you that you will help us with something,” Gavril said. “In exchange for your cooperation, we will not expose that you and General Bagwell had a Swiss bank account worth nearly seventeen million dollars.”

  Dupree studied the short, bald man. He seemed to be no threat. The one named Zakir, though, was over six feet tall and silent. His shirt was tight along the arms and chest. The man was strong, and Dupree had no desire to fight him, though he had no doubt he could kill him if he had to. Ever since Dupree’s assignment in Syria with the French DGSE, he had been an efficient killer. Malavdi was smaller and wiry and could have been a threat, but less so than Zakir.

  “Of course I need to know what the favor is,” Dupree said.

  “It is painless for you,” Gavril said. “Zakir here will do all of the hard work.”

  “I’m no stranger to hard work, Gavril. What is it you want me to do? And when do I get my money back?”

  Zakir spoke up, finally.

  “We need the UN High Commissioner for Refugees to hire me,” Zakir said.

  Dupree coughed. “What makes you think I can do that? I’m French,” he said.

  “Please, Mr. Dupree. We ‘found’ your money. Do you not believe we can also find out who you really are? Before Mosul, you served in Syria posing as a midlevel manager with the UN High Commissioner for Refugees. You had a call sign named Jackknife. Shall I continue?”

  Dupree shook his head. “I’m convinced. Why do you need a position with UNHCR?”

  “That’s not a relevant question, Mr. Dupree,” Zakir said. “Just get me a job in Syria. I’ll take it from there.”

  Dupree nodded. “That can be arranged. Now let’s get on with it.”

  “Just be assured that you will not see any of your money until Zakir is assigned to UNHCR in Syria.”

  “I understand. Now please show me who has my money,” Dupree said.

  And they did.

  All of his money was resident in an account under the name of General Bagwell.

  “Bagwell has my money?”

  “Perhaps. This is our leverage. We let you off the hook, because now it is just his bank account, implicating him fully. We hold this until we have what we want.”

  “I can get you visas to the United States,” Dupree said.

  “So can we. Zakir just needs a job,” Gavril had said. “Malavdi is to marry soon, and we may want to relocate his fiancée, who is Syrian. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No. Consider it done,” he had said.

  “And, perhaps we like your business model,” Gavril had said, coughing and laughing. The two younger men had smiled. Dupree figured that was the play, to take over where he and General Bagwell had left off in their funneling of Syrian refugees. The crisis was growing worse by the day, and more and more wealthy Syrian citizens were fleeing, which of course overwhelmed the system and would drive prices on the “travel agent” black market through the roof.

  Dupree had ultimately pulled the appropriate strings, and soon Zakir was working with the UNHCR in Damascus.

  Dupree left Burgas that day with $500,000 more in his bank account than he had when he arrived. So it had been a worthwhile trip.

  After returning to his Mosul compound in 2013, he met one last time with General Bagwell before the man became the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in America.

  CHAPTER 30

  SPECIAL AGENT TOMMY OXENDINE COULDN’T BELIEVE THE REPORT he just received.

  When he stepped off the helicopter to use the men’s room and make some phone calls at Mission Health Center in Asheville, he learned that somehow he had missed the report that the two military police who had been shot in Moore County and dumped in the Uwharrie were Syrian terrorists.

  He stood outside the emergency room watching the injured being trucked in by old pickup trucks and some new ambulances.

  The document he was holding said that the fuel situation was becoming dire because fuel trucks had to navigate their way to dozens of airports and thousands of gas stations, just in North Carolina. While the patch to the automobile Trojan was effective and working, the mechanics still had to input it on every vehicle, one at a time, except where over-the-air rekey worked, which was in about ten percent of the cars. People had drained most of the fuel stations in the area, expecting Armageddon, and raided the supermarkets, which were now barren.

  He looked up at Setz, who was staring at him through the cockpit window of the helicopter sitting on the hospital helipad. Oxendine held up a finger as he finished reading the report. He called his boss, the director of the SBI, Winston Black III, whom he awakened at this early morning hour.

  “Calling me at home, Oxendine?”

  “Sir, there’s a national crisis going on, we’ve got two wounded, and there’s a murderer on the loose.”

  “Don’t lecture me, Oxendine. I assume you haven’t caught your man, so get to your excuse,” Black said.

  Oxendine could visualize his boss in his inside-the-Beltline mansion in Raleigh sleeping in a room with a high ceiling and perfectly matching chintz. Nothing about Black’s life in any way paralleled Oxendine and his hardscrabble upbringing, his modest living, or his aggression in the field.

  “We have indications of a terrorist cell operating in North Carolina. When I piece together the facts that we found two Syrian terrorists dressed as military policemen in the Uwharrie and my helicopter has been fired on by a surface-to-air missile and a drone, something larger than hunting down Mahegan is going on. Don’t get me wrong—Mahegan is still good for the murder. I just felt like you should know so you can tell the governor.”

  “Why would I call the governor to tell him you haven’t caught Mahegan?” Black asked. “You have an entire SWAT team at your disposal.”

  “And we’re close. They’re on the ground about to capture him,” Oxendine said.

  “Well then, you’ll want to talk to Yves Dupree,” Black said.

  Oxendine racked his brain. “The bank guy?”

  “Yes, the bank guy, as in the heir apparent to the throne at United Bank of America. The acting CEO. He has provided some useful information to the governor. Apparently, he’s a donor.”

  Oxendine rolled his eyes in frustration. Setz was pumping her arm up and down,
the signal that they needed to move quickly. There was probably another medevac coming in, and Setz needed to open the helipad for inbound traffic. Oxendine also found it instructive that Black had not asked about the two wounded SWAT team members. One was gut shot and the other had metal shards in his face and eye from the bullets striking the side of the aircraft.

  “Can’t you just tell me what he said? I need to get back on the chase of Mahegan and get into that valley to see what is there. It may require more than one SWAT team,” Oxendine said.

  “Under no circumstances will you gather any more forces than you already have, Agent Oxendine. Is that clear?” Black said.

  “I’ll let you handle it, then,” Oxendine said. “We may even need the governor to call out the national guard on this.”

  Black roared with laughter, causing Oxendine to hold the phone away from his ear.

  “The National Guard? The governor’s already got them out in the streets helping to move cars, pick up stranded motorists, and secure sensitive locations. Where have you been?”

  “I’m making an official report, Director, that I believe there are terrorists in a valley twelve miles west of Asheville, North Carolina,” Oxendine said. “Oh, and we’ve got two wounded, one critical, seeing how you’re so concerned.”

  “You recording this for your records, Oxendine? Well, record this . . .”

  “I’m sorry, we’re losing the signal,” Oxendine said, and shut off the phone. He jogged out to the helicopter and boarded through the open cargo door.

  “We’ve got two inbounds trying to bring in critical patients, Agent. We’ve got to move,” Setz said.

  “Roger. Let’s head back up to provide support to the team.”

  As Setz lifted off and began the short flight into the mountains, Oxendine pressed the UHF channel to speak to McQueary, who by now should have cornered, captured, or killed Mahegan. But first his phone rang.

  * * *

  Yves Dupree called the number he was told never to call, not even in case of an emergency.

  “Yes?”

  “We need to meet,” Dupree said.

  “You don’t call me. Ever,” the voice on the other end replied. Dupree could hear wind coursing through the microphone of the receiver

  “There’s a problem,” Dupree said.

  “It’s not my problem and I’m rather busy.”

  “It could be your problem,” Dupree said. “This is bigger than me now. Something I never expected or intended.”

  “There’s no way it could be my problem.”

  “You’ve forgotten something,” Dupree said.

  “Yes? What is that?”

  “I know where you are,” Dupree said.

  “Do you?”

  “I’m looking at you right now, as a matter of fact.”

  He heard the pause. Dupree knew his listener would most likely interpret his comment as intended, that he was following the listener on the Internet somehow using a tracking device.

  “If that’s the case, then good for you. You’ve got your money. I’ve got what I want.”

  “You’re forgetting something,” Dupree said.

  “Not on the phone. Meet me,” the listener said.

  “I’m glad you agree with me. I’m coming to you. We have very little time before we are done. See you in a bit.”

  Dupree hung up and called out to Gail, who came rushing through the side door. United Bank of America was at full operations, lights on, information technology team at full throttle, public relations people brainstorming potential solutions on the whiteboard, and operations personnel staring at computer screens watching millions of dollars disappear.

  “I’m heading out for a bit. I’ll be back before sunrise,” Dupree said.

  “That’s four hours, sir. We’re in crisis mode. I’ve got CNN, Fox News, and every major network wanting interviews.”

  “Then give them an interview. Tell them I’ve got my sleeves rolled up and am fixing the problem,” Dupree said. “Which is exactly what I’ll be doing.”

  “But you were hosting the governor at the Tar Heels ESPN game of the week tomorrow at the stadium,” she said. “Or today, I guess.” She looked at her watch.

  “College football game? You think they’ll be playing football with all of this happening?”

  “A lot of the cars are getting fixed already, and the NCAA put out an announcement that to show the terrorists that America will not be stopped we will have NCAA football. This is a special game, as you know, between the Heels and Clemson on neutral turf to draw a big crowd from both schools. Stadium is sold out. Seventy-five thousand tickets sold.”

  “In other words, they don’t want to take the financial hit. They make nine billion a year. So that’s a billion a month, which equates to two hundred fifty million a weekend. Everything’s about money, Gail. Everything.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gail nodded, her brunette hair slipping across her face. The hair and the pout on her lips gave Dupree a temporary rise, but he resisted the urge to waste another fifteen minutes on her. He needed to leave now.

  He had done something at the Sledge crime scene that he remembered could come back to haunt him and he needed to resolve that issue immediately.

  He took the elevator to the parking garage, hit the key fob on his Mercedes-Benz Maybach S600, and slid into the driver’s seat.

  As he turned out of the garage, he knew that he would never return to this building, the tallest in Charlotte. He wondered if it would even be standing if he were to return.

  As he passed the gate to the stadium, he recalled four years ago leaving a meeting with Captain Cassie Bagwell in a Mosul souk and establishing a one-man checkpoint on the outskirts of the small village the wedding convoy had to pass through to get to the compound. Dupree was dressed in the olive drab uniform of a Syrian police officer. Wearing a keffiyeh, he hid his light brown hair. His deep tan was enough to fool those in the convoy. And those that weren’t fooled certainly respected the AK-47 strapped across his chest and the pistol tucked into his holster.

  He used a mirror to inspect beneath the vehicles of the wedding convoy. Already they were self-absorbed with happiness, inwardly focused, little patience to worry about the tedium of an all-too-predictable checkpoint. One of the drivers laughed and waved a wad of Syrian pounds in his hand saying, “Eajilu! Eajilu!”

  Hurry up!

  Under the third of five vehicles, where Fatima and Malavdi were in the backseat kissing like lovebirds, he discreetly placed a magnetized box. In the metal box was a cell phone that was transmitting to another burner cell phone he had hidden a few miles away. The two phones were playing a recent recording of an al-Baghdadi conversation he had intercepted.

  He snatched the money from the driver immediately after and said, “Adhhab, adhhab.”

  Go.

  As if he was doing them a favor by releasing them.

  Release them he did.

  CHAPTER 31

  MAHEGAN HELD HIS RIFLE AS FAR OUT AS HE COULD SO THAT Cassie Bagwell could hang on and not fall to almost certain death into the rocky crevices below.

  A shot belched from a pistol about fifty yards away. Mahegan heard the report at the same time sparks flew in his eyes when the bullet pinged off the weapon.

  He instinctively looked up and saw Alex Russell standing on a ridge in the moonlight. She was framed by pine trees jutting upward and by the moon casting its glow upon her as if she were the lead in a Broadway show.

  Alex was in her balanced shooter’s stance, the same one he had seen when he had returned to the Land Rover after dumping the terrorist bodies. Her feet were evenly spread, knees flexed, arms outstretched, hands securely gripping the pistol.

  Fifty yards across a windswept mountain ridge was a tough shot, but he didn’t want to give her a second chance. The wind tossed her hair from his right to left, from the north to south, typical for this time of year. At this distance the wind and altitude would impact the flight of the bullet.

  He w
as holding the weapon with his left hand and grasping the edge of a rock crevice with his right. He was bearing Cassie’s full weight on the ripped and shredded left deltoid. His face contorted in agony with every pull of Cassie’s weight. He didn’t expect Alex to miss again. He expected her to learn from her mistake and aim a little higher and a little farther to the left, allowing for the curve and fall of the bullet with the altitude and the wind. It was still a tough shot, but not an impossible one.

  “Don’t do it, Alex!” Mahegan shouted.

  In his periphery he noticed the drone spiraling, trying to stabilize. It had one rocket hanging from the rail.

  “Cassie, you’ve got to pull up,” Mahegan whispered.

  A second shot jumped from Alex’s pistol and grazed Mahegan’s calf. He felt the bite, knowing she’d aimed too far left and too high. She overcorrected. She had him bracketed.

  Cassie was almost to the lip of the cliff, one hand on the rifle and the other now pulling at her rucksack, which was hanging from the tree stump. It was a rookie mistake to grasp something that was not rooted into the ground. Then three things happened at once.

  The drone launched a missile wide, Alex fired again, and Cassie’s rucksack broke free of the tree stump and caused Cassie to lose her grip on Mahegan’s rifle. Simultaneously, Mahegan flipped backward from the impact caused by the impact of the rocket.

  And then everything went black.

  * * *

  Alex Russell fought Ameri Assad, but lost.

  Alex’s pistol fired at Mahegan, who was extending his rifle so that Cassie could hang on.

  The bullet pinged off the weapon, creating a spark. She realized she was too far away and had to correct for the wind, so she adjusted up and to her left. Her second shot kicked up dust behind Mahegan, or maybe it was a fine spray of blood.