Leaving it concealed under the table, Ahmed opened the bag. His practiced hands found the safe to arm switch by feel, and he moved it forward into the arm position. Pulling the bag out from under the table, he slid out of the booth and walked away from Raghad and her baby with the heavy diaper bag on his shoulder.
Ahmed could feel Raghad’s eyes bearing down on him as he emerged from the restaurant and navigated his way through the heavy crowd toward the stage. He expected Raghad would wait until he was near the stage, where the densest cluster of people could be found, before triggering the explosive device. He could tell from people’s reactions that they were starting to notice the growing panic that was reflected on his face. No longer able to feign calm, Ahmed began to hurry, crashing into people as he scurried toward the stage.
With her baby in her arms and a remote control designed to look like a baby toy in her hand, Raghad watched Ahmed through a window. Seeing Ahmed’s panic, she ducked behind a nearby support pillar and triggered the device. Twenty meters from the stage, all six daisy-chained claymore mines, arrayed in a horseshoe inside the diaper bag, exploded. Each claymore, containing one and a half pounds of C4 explosive, launched seven hundred steel balls into the crowd with lethal force. In seconds, every person in the tiny square went from vertical to horizontal. The concussive force trapped inside the square shattered the windows of the Hard Rock Café and all of the surrounding buildings.
Raghad reappeared from the protection of the pillar to witness the devastation. The flying glass had lacerated the exposed and thinly covered skin of the people sitting closest to the windows. Screams and cries for help filled the restaurant.
Worst hit were the Earth Day protestors who had been gathered around the stage moments before. The activists inadvertently served as human shields as they absorbed the brunt of the lethal projectiles before they could reach the larger crowd. A Chinese tourist group was killed in its entirety when the focused spray from a single claymore hit them head-on while they were lining up for a picture.
The damage done by the blast was grotesque. In the first fifty meters fanning out from the stage, few of the bodies remained intact. It was a macabre sight of blood and dismembered bodies. When the last fatality was recorded nine days after the attack, the death toll would reach 174, with another 269 wounded.
Chapter 2
New York City
Michael Genovese felt the familiar burning in his lungs as he once again ratcheted up the pace. His target was less than a hundred yards in front of him, running with a steady, even gait that was deceptively fast.
Michael ran the same six-mile Central Park loop every day. At thirty-eight, he kept himself at the same peak level of fitness he had enjoyed while playing point guard on the basketball team at Harvard. The man he was chasing had passed him two miles back, and now his only goal in life was to retake the lead before his route ended.
His narrowing vision registered the Strawberry Fields marker off to his left, meaning he had less than a mile left to make his move. Michael took great pride in never having allowed anyone to beat him on his daily run. The pain intensified as he nudged the pace. With only a quarter mile to the finish point, he pushed it even harder. His legs were on fire, and there was a searing pain in his lungs. He could feel his vision narrow further as he forced his breathing and pumped his oxygen-deprived legs.
When he closed to within twenty yards of the interloper, he noticed it was a younger man in his twenties. The runner was oblivious to Michael as he effortlessly glided along the course, listening to music through his earbuds. Michael’s breath grew even more ragged, and he was saturated in sweat as he transitioned into a full sprint for the last hundred meters to the imaginary finish line.
Barely passing the runner in the last few feet before reaching the end of the course, Michael slowed to a walk and ducked off the trail before falling to his knees. It was a full ten minutes before he was recovered enough to stand and make his way back to his apartment. Tired, but euphoric from his victory, a triumphant Michael gingerly walked across the street and made his way into the private elevator that delivered him to his penthouse apartment.
The elevator opened into a large open foyer. When the doors slid open, the first thing that met his eye was Katrina, sitting on a bench along the side of the entryway. Her bottom lip was swollen and red, and she had a large purple welt on her left cheek. Surprised to see Michael, the skittish Ukrainian withdrew from the foyer and moved behind a couch in the living room. Michael ignored the willowy young blonde and stepped around her two suitcases on his way through the living room to the hallway that led to his bedroom. He made a mental note to contact his personal assistant and request a replacement.
Despite his money and good looks, Michael’s penchant for rough play with the ladies had earned him a certain notoriety within his social circles. An unfortunate dating incident with a fiercely resistant actress who happened to maintain an enormous social media network had made him radioactive to the local ladies. That event had spurred him to get creative and discover a website that advertised itself as matching “sugar babies” with “sugar daddies.” Michael found that for a nominal fee, he could import some of the most beautiful and willing creatures in the world directly to his doorstep.
When he’d started to find the constant internet searching and endless chatting and messaging needed to ensnare the prospective sugar babies to be time consuming and tedious, he’d pioneered a way to outsource the work. He’d expanded on the information age mail-order concept by hiring a virtual personal assistant from India.
Shahab’s daily responsibilities included uploading and managing Michael’s profile on several relevant websites. His virtual PA also had the use of a shared WhatsApp messaging account and a shared email account to line up girls for delivery on demand. Michael considered his unique outsourcing method of acquiring mail-order girls to be a textbook case study in optimizing efficiencies through offshoring. Once he’d gotten his system going, he found he had created a pipeline of beautiful girls who not only bolstered his image at social events, but also accommodated his carnal needs. It was pure genius.
On his way to the shower, Michael caught his reflection in the mirror array inside the master bathroom and had to stop. He removed his clothes and posed in different positions as he flexed his well-defined muscles. With the classic Italian good looks of a young Tony Bennett, Michael never tired of studying his reflection. His rigid diet and exercise regimen were rewarded with a single-digit body fat percentage. His six-pack abdominals were his pride and joy and the focus of his gaze. As he flexed with his hands clasped in front of him in what bodybuilders referred to as the crab pose, he thought back to last night with Katrina and he swelled with pride.
After showering, Michael drove to Long Island to have lunch with his brothers. The family home was a twenty-two-thousand-square-foot estate that had been built by his father in 1969. His grandfather, Vito Genovese, had been the Don of the Genovese Crime Family until his arrest in 1957. With roots tracing back to Lucky Luciano in the 1930s, the Genovese family was sometimes referred to as the Ivy League Mafia.
After Benny “Squint” Lombardo had taken the reins following Michael’s grandfather’s death in prison, Michael’s father, Salvatore, had used his sizable inheritance to concentrate on enterprises other than the family staples of loan sharking, drugs, gambling, prostitution and protection. At the beginning of the Vietnam War, a prescient Salvatore Genovese had invested in defense companies. He’d sent his three sons, Gino, Michael and Louis, to the best prep schools and the best colleges. Gino had attended Fordham, Michael, the scholar-athlete, had studied at Harvard, and Louis had gone to Columbia. After graduating from college, the three sons had worked with their dad and, by the mid-1990s they had assembled a strong portfolio of minority positions within the defense industry.
After Salvatore had succumbed to cancer in 1999, the three brothers had worked to secure majority shareholding positions and to unify their defense portfolio u
nder a single management team. G3 Defense had been founded in 1999, and by 2017, the company had revenues exceeding seventeen billion dollars, twenty-seven thousand employees, and sixteen fully owned subsidiaries. In only eighteen years, G3 had become one of the largest defense firms in the United States.
Despite being the middle son, Michael was the chairman and CEO. Gino served as CFO, and Louis was the COO. The board of directors included the three brothers plus the external financiers, which included two private equity firms and Nicky Terranova, the second cousin of Barney Bellomo, the current head of the Genovese mob.
The family estate was Gino’s birthright as the oldest son. He and his wife graciously hosted the extended family gathering every Sunday. Gino and Louis were both married and had five young children between them. Michael, the bachelor was a favorite uncle and despite his birth order a patriarchal figure within the family.
Michael parked his Mercedes behind Louis’s Range Rover in the driveway. He was barely out of the car before being swarmed by three of his nephews, Louis, Joey, and Danny. The boys moved as a pack, attempting to submit their uncle, imitating moves learned from televised wrestling and UFC MMA. After fifteen minutes of roughhousing, he declared a draw and the joyful boys allowed a disheveled and grass-stained Michael to continue on his way to the main house.
He was met at the door by Gino’s wife, Stephanie, who greeted him with a hug.
“Why do you encourage them, Michael? They ruined your good shirt.”
“I don’t care about the shirt. It’s how boys play, Steph,” said Michael.
“One of these days, they’re going to hurt you.”
“I think I have a few years left when I can handle them,” said Michael as Stephanie led him into the kitchen by the arm.
After dinner, the three brothers retired to the home theater to watch the Yankees play the Orioles. The brothers were seated in leather recliners, drinking beer in front of an eighty-inch plasma TV and waiting for the start of the game.
“Have you been following the news about what’s going on in Belgium?” Michael asked.
“Yes, that was terrible. Those Europeans need to get serious about those immigrants,” said Gino.
“I bet we see a spike in our Security and Detection revenues. Nobody sells body scanners better than those jihadis,” Louis said.
“That’s not the only good that’ll come of it. That guy from Abu Dhabi isn’t going to be a problem anymore,” Michael said.
“What guy in Abu Dhabi? What are you talking about, Michael?” said Gino.
“Nothing… just that I heard a rumor about that guy who was digging into our business a while back. Seems he might have some bigger things to worry about,” Michael said. Gino and Louis looked at each other with puzzled expressions and then switched the subject back to the NBA Playoffs.
Chapter 3
Eleuthera, Bahamas
Pat straddled his surfboard and positioned himself so that he could watch the incoming swells over his right shoulder and see the beach over his left shoulder. It was a sunny spring day. The rolling waves were turquoise until they broke into a white foam and raced onto the blushing pink strip of sand.
Beyond the beach, Pat could see the top floors of his beach house peeking above the gently swaying palms. He shifted his gaze downward and surveyed the surf line, looking for Diane. He spotted her in a sea of white, working her way out through the surf. Every seven seconds she would vanish under an incoming wave and then reappear without missing a stroke. She moved fast, with the grace and power of an elite athlete. Diane smiled as she reached Pat. It was a dazzling smile accompanied by emerald-green eyes set in a stunningly beautiful face.
“Are you a tourist or a surfer?” asked Diane.
“I’m enjoying the view while I wait for the perfect wave.”
“The tide’s starting to go out, and it’s only going to get worse. You better take what you can get.”
“Yeah, you’re right. One last wave, then it’s time for lunch.”
Pat and Diane carried their surfboards under opposite arms as they walked to the house. Between the beach and the house was a narrow trail encroached by lush ground vegetation. The two threaded their way through the narrow trail, past the guesthouse and the pool house until they reached the main house, a three-story peach-colored stone mansion with eight bedrooms.
Pat had been staying at the beach house for almost five months, and the daily surfing and regular workout routine had him in better shape than he had been in a long time. The beach house was his retirement dream home, everything in it built to his specifications. The second-floor deck was his favorite spot, offering a view of the Atlantic Ocean to the east and the Caribbean to the west.
Diane was a surfer girl from Florida. The two had met a year ago when she was waitressing at Tippy’s, the neighboring beachfront restaurant where he was a regular customer. Over a period of months, the relationship had progressed from customer and waitress to surf student and surfing guru, and then to soulmates. Pat was head over heels in love with Diane, and for the past three months, the two had lived a honeymoon existence at the beach house.
Pat was just stepping out of the shower when he received a call from Jessica, his office manager. The Trident headquarters were located three miles up island in Governor’s Harbour. Trident was a CIA subcontractor that had a single contract with the US government to supply military goods to US allied forces in Syria and Iraq.
Pat answered the call, and before he could even say hello, a panicked Jessica interrupted.
“We have a serious problem.”
“What’s going on?”
“All of our bank accounts have been frozen, and our export license requests, purchase orders and payments have been put on hold by the government contract office,” said Jessica.
“Any idea why?”
“They didn’t even give me notice. I was trying to transfer money from the CITI account online and it rejected every transaction. I tried the same with the accounts in the Bahamas and got the same thing. Then I received a notice from DCMA that our contract is suspended, still with no explanation.”
“Give me a few minutes to make some calls, and I’ll get back to you,” said Pat.
Using the secure app on his CIA-issued smartphone, Pat called Mike Guthrie, a friend from his days as a junior officer in the Second Ranger Battalion. The two had gone their separate ways after Delta selection and had been reunited seventeen years later in Afghanistan, when Mike was a CIA agent and Pat was a down-on-his-luck defense contractor working as a military advisor to the Afghan National Army. Mike had recruited Pat as an asset, and the two had been working together professionally for last five years. Mike was currently assigned to Langley in the Clandestine Operations Directorate, while Pat’s company, Trident, was part of a black operation that was managed by the Department of Defense. Trident was the conduit for military supplies to the Peshmerga and other forces fighting against ISIS in Syria and Iraq.
When, after ten rings, Mike did not pick up, Pat terminated the call. He looked across the table to Dianne. “I don’t have time to explain this. Just pack a bag. We need to be out of here in five minutes.”
Pat stood from his chair at the kitchen table and sprinted up the stairs toward his office on the third floor. He quickly opened his safe and removed two packages. One held passports for both him and Diane, and the second contained cash and cell phone SIM cards. Next, he went into a storage closet and withdrew a duffle bag. With the bag filled, he ran downstairs and entered the garage through the kitchen entrance, throwing the heavy black nylon duffel bag into the back of the Tahoe. Diane entered the garage a few seconds later, and they both jumped into the Tahoe and sped off.
Less than a mile away, on the Caribbean side of the island, was a small marina that was home to a small local fishing fleet. The sole recreational vehicle in the marina was Pat’s sixty-four-foot motor yacht. The Azimut 64 Flybridge had been his home for three years when he’d lived in Abu Dhabi, United Arab E
mirates. Since his relocation to the Bahamas, beyond the occasional fishing trip or quick day trip to Nassau, the boat had largely been ignored.
Pat detached the external power connection and untied the boat from the slip while Diane went to the wheelhouse and started the twin Caterpillar 1150-horsepower engines. Runway Cove Marina had a very narrow access point designed for the smaller fishing vessels. Navigating the narrow passage and the sharp dogleg turn was a tricky maneuver that would have been impossible without the bow thrusters. Once through the gap and into the Caribbean, Pat gradually increased the speed to twenty-eight knots and set a heading for Nassau, fifty miles to the west.
Diane approached Pat while he was sitting at the helm station on the flybridge.
“What’s going on?” asked Diane.
“Honestly, honey, I have no idea. All I know is that the US government has suspended my IDIQ contract, and all of my business and personal bank accounts have been frozen,” said Pat.
“Are you in trouble with the IRS or something?” said Diane.
“You’ve seen the scars on my body, and you have a general idea of what I used to do for a living. The government contracts Trident supports are so sensitive I’m not even allowed to discuss them, but they’re essential to US policy, and they aren’t something that can be casually suspended without serious cause,” said Pat.
“So, what does that mean?” said Diane.
“It means anything big enough to cause the government to shut down my business operations is serious enough to make me want to disappear until I can get ahold of the people I work for and figure out what the hell is going on,” said Pat.
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