by Rachel Brune
SOFT TARGET
Rachel A. Brune
Copyright 2013
Published by Rachel A. Brune
Cover Design Copyright 2013 Marcy Rachel Designs
Thanks for buying Soft Target! This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Please do not re-sell this ebook, or copy it and give it away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please do so with a vetted ebook loaning program. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please consider supporting an independent author by purchasing your own copy. Love and good karma!
Chapter One
The slush from a late-March snowfall piled up along the sides of the flightline. A lone snowplow made its trundling way down the tarmac, clearing the last remains from the path so the birds could take wing again. Scott Mabry sat, watching the plow make its way to the end of the airstrip and slowly turn to repeat the process all over again.
Albany International Airport was uncharacteristically crowded with the human detritus of a day and a half of cancelled flights. Listless passengers alternated between listening hopefully to the announcements coming over the public address system and zoning out, watching the morning news. The newsreader’s incredibly perky voice grated on Scott, waiting to hear if he was going to make it home sometime in this century.
Finally, he stood, stretched, and headed over to the customer service counter, giving up his coveted seat facing the large glass windows. His uniform was wrinkled from a straight forty-eight hours of travel, but he pulled down on his jacket anyway, trying to tug it into some semblance of neatness.
The attendant winced when she saw him coming. “I’m sorry, sir; like I told you before, the next flight we have to La Guardia doesn’t leave until three p.m.”
“I’ve been here since last night,” said Mabry. “Are you sure you don’t have anything earlier?”
“The next flight to La Guardia doesn’t leave-”
“Right, right,” said Mabry. “What about to JFK?”
The attendant frowned. She was a short woman and had to look up at him. “I’m sorry, there won’t be any flights there until tomorrow.”
“Newark International?”
The attendant frowned even more deeply. “There is a flight, but I’m not showing any seats available…”
Mabry sighed, adjusted his uniform. “So it looks like I’m on the La Guardia flight?”
“Yes, sir, you got the last seat,” said the attendant.
“That’s great.” Scott realized his voice had been too curt when the woman recoiled. He forced himself to smile at her. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sorry, I meant to say, thank you, ma’am. I appreciate your efforts to get me home.”
She smiled back at him, the same society-polite smile that meant nothing. “Thank you for your service.”
“It’s a privilege to serve,” he said automatically. Mabry folded his boarding pass in half, tucked it into his breast pocket and smoothed the Velcro back down over it. He looked around to find someplace away from the blaring news station.
The newsreader had moved on to a story about another bombing in a central Iraq marketplace, and once again he felt acutely aware of both the U.S. Army uniform he wore, and the gulf that stretched between him and his fellow travelers. Seventy-two hours earlier, he had turned in his weapon and boarded a flight in Kuwait. Now he waited in an airport and watched his previous life on television.
His stomach growled. There was a food place open and he thought he could eat an airport omelet. He headed for the counter.
The woman standing behind the counter was unimpressed by Scott’s uniform. She took his order, then shouted back over her shoulder. “Granger!”
The strident soprano of Mark’s boss’s klaxon warning broke him out of his reverie. A tall skinny kid in his early twenties, he wore a University at Albany tee-shirt under his food-stained apron.
“Yeah, Sara?” He wiped his eyes, then swept the onions he was chopping into a plastic container.
“I need an egg white omelet, ham, no veggies!”
“You got it.”
He wiped his knife on the edge of the container and pulled out the egg whites. For an airport dining experience, this restaurant was not bad. At least, the omelets were decent.
“That’ll be ten fifty-seven,” Sara said to Scott.
“I’ll take care of that.”
Scott turned. The woman behind him was in her fifties, wearing a pantsuit. On her lapel, a flag pin proclaimed her patriotism.
“Thank you, ma’am, but that’s not necessary,” he said.
“No really, I want to thank you for everything you do for this country,” she said.
“I can’t accept gifts when I’m in uniform.” The words came out harsher than he intended. Before she could speak, he handed Sara eleven dollars.
Mark finished whipping the omelet in shape, slid it onto a plate and handed it to Scott, who walked away without another word.
He had forgotten what it was like to be around civilians. He knew that the transition period had just begun, but already he found that being back in the real world made him want to punch someone in the face. Even sweet ladies who only wanted to buy him breakfast.
* * *
As the intercom began calling for passengers to board for La Guardia, Mark hung up his apron, pulled on his sweatshirt and grabbed his bag, slipping the knife from the counter into it as casually as he could.
“Sara! Smoke break!”
“Make it quick, Granger.”
Mark headed out the front of the café into the airport proper. He waited until the boarding line for his flight shortened before joining the queue. He clenched his hand around the boarding pass he had printed out earlier that morning. Entering the plane, he headed to his seat, pleased to find that, even with the delays and reroutings, the seat next to him was still empty.
* * *
Scott Mabry jerked awake and realized he was about to miss the flight for which he had been waiting over twelve hours. He had lost his window seat and had found a place to sit against the wall. Now, his butt and legs were half-numb as he grabbed his bag and hustled to the gate.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” said the attendant as he ran by. “Thank you for your service.”
Mabry hurried down the walkway, reassured to find that there was still a small queue at the door.
The flight attendant smiled at him as he entered the plane. She recognized the captain’s bars on his chest, and also thanked him for his service. “Are you coming back from Iraq?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mabry.
“Welcome home,” said the attendant. “Let us know if there is anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Mabry. He appreciated the well-meaning assistance, but dreaded the attention. “I think I’m just going to try to sleep.”
“Have a good flight,” said the attendant.
Mark flushed red below his collar as he saw the big soldier making his way down the cabin. He looked around and realized that the only seat left was the one next to him. He pulled his hood up to disguise the heat creeping across his face, crossed his arms, and settled down in his seat.
As often happened in Albany, the sky had cleared around mid-morning, and the sunlight pierced in through the window. As soon as the plane cleared the runway, Scott leaned over.
“Would you mind closing the window?”
“Uh, no problem,” said Mark. He closed the shade.
“Thanks.” Scott leaned back, trying to get comfortable in the space available. He closed his eyes, and was soon snoring lightly.
* * *
The flight to La Guardia was not long, and the knife hidden i
n Mark’s bag burned a hole in his imagination. He slid a hand into his jacket pocket, felt for the small digital camera there, and casually slipped it into his lap. He had bought the camera when he got accepted into the university’s journalism program. It wasn’t the best one out there, as far as lens speed and what you could do with it, but it was perfect for taking pictures unobtrusively. He had already put it to good use in a number of situations. Mark Granger was one of the stars of the journalism department at UAlbany.
Mark looked at Scott, who rested, eyes closed. Casually, Mark leaned over to his bag and unzipped it.
Looking around, Mark put down his seat tray. He grasped the large kitchen knife hidden in his bag and transferred it to his lap slightly under the tray. He lifted his camera up to take a picture. He snapped the shot and looked at the display to see if the picture came out. It was slightly blurred. He raised the camera to his eye to try again.
The freight train came out of nowhere.
Mabry had noticed his seatmate’s furtive movements, attuned to the fact that something was not right. He watched as the man pulled the knife out and began snapping photos. He eased his seatbelt out of the way, clenched his fist, and landed a full-force blow in Mark’s face.
Mark’s head bounced off the inside of the plane. His nose broken, blood began pouring down. Mabry grabbed for the knife, and Mark made the mistake of trying to push his hands away. Getting his feet under him, Mabry pulled him out of his seat and threw him down in the aisle. The knife flew out of Mark’s hands and skittered down under the seats.
“Get down, you little punk!” Scott pushed him down, grabbing his wrists and crossing them behind his back.
“Let me go, I’m a reporter!” Mark squirmed under Scott’s weight, but the larger man’s knee in his back immobilized him.
Passengers stared at the scuffle. A few of the men began to stand.
“I’ve got this.” Mabry’s uniform and dominant position returned them to their seats.
The flight attendant stared, halfway down the aisle with the drink cart.
“Ma’am!”
Blank stare.
Mabry repeated himself. “Ma’am! I need you to alert the captain. Tell him to call—have security meet the plane.”
“Dude, you are making a mistake, I’m a reporter!” Mark tried to push him off again.
Scott grabbed his hair and pushed his face down onto the floor. “Shut up.” He returned his attention to the attendant. “Ma’am. Are you with me?”
“Yes. Yes, sir.” The attendant retreated with her cart.
“Let me up, dammit!” Mark’s voice was muffled, and he choked slightly on the blood from his nose. “I’m just a reporter. I’m working on a story.”
“Don’t make me tell you to shut up again, punk,” said Mabry. He looked around. “Don’t worry folks, this is under control.”
* * *
Hiding from the news crew was an exercise in futility. Upon landing, Mabry turned Mark over to the NYPD, which had sent an entire SWAT team to the plane. They rolled up to where the plane sat alone on the tarmac, sirens and lights flashing, bristling with gear and good intentions. Mabry walked Mark out and down the stairs, somewhat anticlimactically.
After the transfer, members of the media were allowed near the small commuter plane. The story from each of the passengers and the flight attendant was that Mabry was the hero of the hour. He was overwhelmingly described as a stone-cold and slightly scary hero, but the consensus was that he had seen the threat of a man with a knife and had immediately acted to save the plane. Getting a quote from the soldier was impossible, as he prevailed on one of his fellow officers to help him get away from the scene. After a year and a half in Iraq, the last thing he wanted on his first day home was to have to deal with a horde of swarming journalists.
Mark was immediately placed on the federal no-fly list and eventually released from custody, given his total lack of ties to any terrorist organization whatsoever and a glowing character reference from his journalism professor at the University at Albany. He sold the story of how he was able to circumvent a flaw in airport security as his first piece in a major New York City tabloid. He decided not to pursue legal action against Mabry. Except for the broken nose, things basically turned out as he had planned.
Chapter Two
Scott lit a cigarette with his favorite lighter, a silver Zippo with the Iraqi eagle engraved on one side. The lighter had been a present from Brigadier General Abdulhady, police chief of the Iraqi police district where Mabry had served as the head of a Police Transition Team for fifteen months. Six months later, the lighter was a touchstone that brought back memories of early morning training raids and late afternoon sessions over tea, discussing police tactics and security in the sector.
His pocket buzzed and he fumbled for his cell phone. He opened it, too late to catch the call. He leaned on the rail and finished his cigarette, punching the buttons to listen to the voicemail.
Scott recognized the voice. Before the message had progressed, he already knew what the Major in personnel was telling him. He had heard it more than once in the six months since he’d been back.
“… even if your dwell time was up, you’ve just started command time, so we don’t want to mess with your timeline like that. There’s a unit heading out next year that might have a slot in ops I could get you into. Let’s see where we are then.”
He leaned his forearms on the steel fence that still surrounded the ongoing construction where the World Trade Center used to stand. He was not the only person at the site—several onlookers joined him at the memorial. A few laid flowers; others stood for a moment and walked on. Across the chasm, some politician made a speech to a crowd.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Scott turned around to find a young woman holding a camera out to him.
“Would you mind?”
She gestured to her family at the rail, smiling, their arms around each other. Our trip to Ground Zero!
Mabry flicked his cigarette and walked away. He had forgotten it was the anniversary of the terrorist attacks when he hopped the subway into lower Manhattan. But someone had hung a memorial banner across the exit of the station, and as he walked by, a small group of war protesters waved signs. The realization of what day it was hit him then like a brick to the chest. Last year on September 11, he had been too busy to think about it much, but on this day, safely back in New York, he had time to spend on remembering. The footprint where the towers had stood struck him once again with how deep and immense their absence was. The tall buildings surrounding the site seemed taller now that the towers were gone.
He thought about lighting another cigarette. He had been meaning to quit ever since he returned from deployment, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. It had only been six months. He checked his watch and continued walking. If he skipped his morning coffee and bagel, he would just make it into the office on time.
“Hey, superhero.” The desk sergeant greeted him with a smirk as he entered the cramped offices of the NYPD/FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force Eden.
“Shut up, Maldo,” Scott replied genially.
“Hey, your favorite reporter is on TV again,” said Maldonado. “He’s got another hard-on for some terrorists.”
“Maybe I’ll go beat his ass down again,” said Mabry.
“Make sure you get it on tape this time. You can improve the NYPD’s image on the street.”
“Fuck you, Sergeant.”
In the conference room, the small gathering of police officers and FBI agents crowded around a staticy television set. Mark Granger, the World Trade Center site over his shoulder, was reporting live. A few of the group turned to say hello to Scott as he came in, then turned back to the screen.
“Check it out,” said Dan Sanchez, a detective Scott had known for years. He shook his head. “Your boy’s on TV again.”
“He’s not my boy,” said Scott.
“His nose looks better than it used to,” said Sanchez.
“All right, turn that shit off.” JTTF commander Nina Morris entered the room, followed by a man Scott recognized. He had ridden with Kyle MacAllister on a previous deployment, and knew him from around the force. The two men exchanged nods, but there was no time to catch up.
“Let’s get started, people.” Special Agent Morris was a short, compact woman with the lean muscular fit of someone who could still sweat her way through a sub-21-minute 5K run. She had parlayed four years of service as an Army military intelligence officer into a fast track rise through the FBI ranks. She was abrupt enough to level the gender playing field, yet played the game with enough people skills to weld together an effective counterterrorism task force comprised of FBI agents, NYPD detectives, and various sundry technicians, DEA liaisons, and any other agency that wanted to be part of defending the homeland in New York City.
Morris was a good commander to work for. She trusted her people—most of her people. She tread warily around Mabry. Scott wasn’t sure where the scorn came from, unless it was a lingering discomfort at his dual role as NYPD detective and Army Reserve officer, or whether she felt threatened by his combat experience. He sometimes wondered why he didn’t feel angry. Since returning, Mabry hadn’t been able to shake the numbness. Mostly he wrote it off as crap, and tried to roll with whatever came along. Thinking back to his morning pause along the fence, Mabry realized that even there, he still hadn’t felt the anger that had once compelled him through his work.
Everyone around the long, rectangular table hated PowerPoint, but that didn’t stop them from using it for every briefing session. The intelligence liaison officer brought up the slides and turned on the projector, displaying a satellite picture of a square city block. As the junior person in the room, it was his job to drive the laptop.
“This is the Santorelli Brothers warehouse,” said Morris. “As you can see, the warehouse is actually a complex of buildings taking up the entire city block. Our interest lies here, in this corner building.”
Morris motioned for the next slide and continued. “As of this afternoon, the Patriot Act boys and girls will have our warrant. At that time, Sergeant Wright will be taking in our team. Sergeant?”