by Jack Mars
Maria scoffed. “Please,” she muttered.
Fitzpatrick ignored her and turned to Strickland. “Anyhow, my guys have a perimeter up, keeping eyes and ears open. You can catch me on the squawk-box when y’all are done standing around.” He nodded to each of them in turn, and Reid definitely noticed that his gaze lingered on Maria for several seconds too long. “Ma’am.”
“Who was that, and why is he here?” Reid demanded as soon as Fitzpatrick was out of earshot.
“The Division,” Maria explained. “And who they are depends on who you ask. They call themselves a private security organization. Others might call them mercenaries. Still others might call them a bunch of guys high on testosterone and gunpowder.”
Reid’s brow furrowed. He had heard that name before, the Division, though he was struggling to recall if it was a memory of his or something he had read somewhere. Then it came to him: “I heard about them in the news, what, last year? They helped put down a rebel uprising in Liberia?”
“A ‘rebel uprising’ to one is an underclass sick of the established regime to another,” Strickland said as he watched Fitzpatrick stride away. “Every member of the Division is former military. You need to have done at least two tours in a hostile zone to even be considered.”
“You don’t commiserate?” Maria asked. “Aren’t you a former Ranger?”
“Yes I am,” said Strickland, “but that doesn’t mean I like the way they do things.” He shook his head. “I didn’t even know they would be here until I landed. I was expecting an outfit of Rangers, and instead I got them. What do you think? Why the change?”
Reid could think of a few reasons why, and every single one of them ended with Riker and the higher-ups in the CIA being up to no good. “I don’t know,” Reid said, not offering his thoughts aloud, “but we should assume they might have a slightly different agenda than we do.”
Maria nodded her agreement. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to request Kent to come along on this op,” she noted to Strickland.
The young agent frowned. “I didn’t request him. Like I said, I couldn’t believe it when they said you were coming. You know I wouldn’t have asked you to leave your daughters.”
Reid scoffed and ran his fingers over his hair. This felt wrong and was getting more so by the minute. And if Riker lied about Strickland, then she might have lied about the other part too. Had he actually ever encountered this Brotherhood before? Without his memory, he wouldn’t know—and Reidigger, the only person he was allegedly with, was too dead to ask.
“Maybe you should go,” Maria said as if reading his mind. “Get out before this starts.”
Reid shook his head. “That would look suspicious. It might prompt someone to act rashly. Besides, I’m not leaving you two with those guys.”
“Is there something I should know?” Strickland asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Nothing you’d want to know, trust me,” Reid told him. He wasn’t about to implicate Strickland into the “who-knows-what” ordeal of the still-shrouded conspiracy. “Look, for now, we’re here to do a job, so let’s get it done. We’ll watch each other’s backs. We’re not responsible for whatever those mercenaries do, as long as they’re not doing it to us. What do we know so far?”
“Well,” Strickland said, turning his attention towards the rubble of the former embassy, “we know the explosion was centralized, likely in the maintenance level just under the first floor. It was strategically placed to take out load-bearing walls; you can see how the outer walls crumbled inward.”
Reid’s mind flashed onto a memory—not a new one, but one from the previous week. He had just used almost the same words when he had given the lecture about the Gunpowder Plot, the attempt to blow up the House of Lords with thirty-six barrels of powder just to kill one man.
“Anything known yet about the type of explosive?” he asked.
“Bomb techs have been on scene since it happened,” Strickland told them. “All evidence points to C-4, and a lot of it. They’re estimating about a hundred and forty pounds’ worth.”
“Jesus,” Maria muttered. “Sounds like overkill.”
“Sounds like hedging a bet that they got their targets,” Reid corrected. A hundred and forty pounds meant that it wasn’t a suicide bomber or an unwitting participant that carried the bomb in; it would be far too heavy and conspicuous. “So the explosives were already here, and since C-4 is detonated with an electrical charge, it’s a good bet it was set off remotely.”
“Or someone set it and ran like hell,” Maria offered.
“Not necessarily,” said Strickland. “The embassy’s cameras live-feed to an off-site database. Footage shows that one of the missing Israeli journalists was discovered only minutes before the explosion.”
Reid stroked his chin. “You think he carried the detonator in for them?”
“Not willingly,” said Maria, “but it’s possible they put something on him that would activate the bomb.”
“So they could have smuggled the bomb in earlier,” Reid thought aloud, “and then waited for their moment… waited for the congressional delegation to arrive before sending the journalist in to set it off.”
“But how would they have gained access to the building?” Strickland asked. “Unless it was an inside job.”
“Maybe.” Reid doubted that, or rather he didn’t want to believe that, but it was a viable notion. “A place like this keeps logs of who comes and goes, right? Maria, let’s get on the phone with the agency and have a tech look into that list, and find out if anyone doesn’t belong.”
Her phone was already in hand. “On it.”
While Maria called in the analysis, Reid folded his arms and looked out over the horrible scene again as rescue workers with excavation equipment attempted to extricate any potential survivors. He found himself wishing he could do more to help—but preventing something like this from happening again elsewhere was the best thing he could do, he realized.
Not unlike Maya’s own thoughts about her future.
Reid rubbed his temples. He wondered what they were doing at that moment, Maya and Sara. Moreover, he wondered what they were thinking. Maya would forgive him, in time. It was Sara that he was more concerned about. She told him that he should go, but how much did she mean it? What if she had only said that to call his bluff, to see if he would keep his promise?
He pulled out his phone and opened the application that showed him two overlapping yellow dots, the tracking devices that had been implanted in each of his daughters. According to the app, they had made it back to Engelberg just fine in the company of Agent Watson. He was relieved to know they were safe; the implants were proving useful.
Then he looked up, and was jarred from his thoughts as he caught sight of a bearded man in all black, the Division leader called Fitzpatrick, hefting his AR-15 with his elbows out. It looked as if he was watching Reid, staring right back at him. Perhaps he was. Perhaps that was his entire purpose for being here, to watch Agent Zero… and act if necessary.
“Guys,” Maria said suddenly. “Got something, listen to this.” She put the phone on speaker as Reid and Strickland huddled closer. “Go ahead.”
“I’m reviewing the embassy’s maintenance records of the last several days,” said the lilting female voice of a CIA tech. “Electrical, HVAC, plumbing, and the like. Their logs auto-updated to government databases every twenty-four hours. It seems that the last contractors to access the maintenance level was two days before the bomb went off—three men from a plumbing company there to fix a burst pipe. There’s nothing else for a whole week prior, save for the cleaning crews.”
“And they had no reason to go into the maintenance level unless it was an inside job,” Strickland noted.
“True,” said the tech. “But something struck me as odd about that job from two days prior. The work order was time-stamped in the system only thirty minutes before they arrived. So they’re either the fastest contractors in the Middle East, or…”
“Or it was fake and entered into the system so they could get into the embassy,” Reid interjected.
“Precisely,” the tech agreed. “At a glance, everything checks out. They would have rolled up to the gate with a legitimate work order. Their company was vetted, their identification was in order, and background checks were fully updated in the embassy’s archives. There were no red flags. But I dug a bit deeper… there’s no actual contract on file with this company, and no evidence that they’ve ever done work at the embassy before.”
“I’m willing to bet no one has ever worked with them before anywhere,” said Maria. “But how did they get the explosives inside? Wouldn’t their truck have been searched?”
“The work order called for a twelve-foot section of pipe to be replaced,” the tech explained. “Eight inches in diameter.”
“Big enough to hide a hundred and forty pounds of C-4 inside,” Strickland noted.
“So someone entered all this information into the embassy’s database,” said Reid. “Can we find out who did it? That’ll give us a starting point.”
“That is admittedly a bit beyond my ability,” the tech said, “but I know a guy. There’s a Danish hacker on retainer with the CIA. Let me reach out; if he’s available we could have a name and location in minutes.”
“Thanks.” Maria ended the call. “We’ll need transport ready when we get an answer. Something fast.”
“I can have a Black Hawk here in fifteen minutes,” Strickland said.
Reid nodded. “Let’s update INIS. Then radio Fitzpatrick, let him know we’re heading out as soon as we get a call back.” He looked out past the wreckage to the tall man in black carrying the AR-15.
There was no doubt about it; the mercenary was definitely watching Reid. He had the distinct feeling that Fitzpatrick and his men were going to spell some sort of trouble.
He added to Strickland, “And I’m going to need a gun.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Twenty minutes later the wheels of the Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter lifted off from the grounds of the former US embassy in Baghdad, carrying three CIA agents and six members of the private security group the Division.
Each of Fitzpatrick’s men was as heavily armed as their leader, Reid noted, and hardly distinguishable from the next. It was as if the men of the Division enjoyed perpetuating the stereotype of the post-military mercenary; scruffy beards, blacks caps and bandannas stretched over their heads, rifles ever present in hand.
Not one of them seemed all that enthused about being there, and much less about taking orders from CIA agents.
Reid fit a clear plastic earpiece into his left ear, the wire of it trailing beneath his shirt and to a small radio clipped to his belt. “Check,” he said reflexively. “One-two. Confirm?”
Maria and Strickland each flashed him a quick thumbs-up. Fitzpatrick grunted and jutted his chin as confirmation.
Maria passed Reid a tablet, the screen of which displayed the grainy photo of an old bearded man wearing a white crocheted taqiyah, a rounded Muslim skullcap. Reid turned the tablet for all to see. “Listen up,” he said, the radio broadcasting his voice over the roar of the Black Hawk’s twin engines. “This is Abdallah bin Mohammed, age sixty-seven. He’s the son of farmers, but managed to make himself a small fortune running guns after the Gulf War. He’s also the one that bankrolled the bombing of the embassy.”
The CIA tech had been right; the Danish hacker took mere minutes to discover the culprit behind the falsified documents. The trail led to a Tunisian cybercriminal with outstanding warrants in eight countries, who had also recently received a substantial sum of money wired from the account of Abdallah bin Mohammed. While the agency alerted local authorities and sent resources to collect the cybercriminal, Reid and his team had gained a different objective.
“Bin Mohammed has known ties to Hamas dating back to the mid-nineties,” he continued, “but about six years ago, he fell off the radar. Military intel says our guy here retired to a compound in the desert near Albaghdadi, an alleged self-segregated religious sect. The compound has been raided several times in the last few years, but nothing suspicious was ever found.”
“We believe the compound is a front for the Brotherhood’s operation,” Maria picked up. “While bin Mohammed is the financier, our primary target is the proclaimed leader of the organization, someone named Awad bin Saddam. We don’t have any information on him, but a change in leadership could be the reason they suddenly decided to become active.”
Reid passed the tablet off to Strickland. “It’s your op, so it’s your plan.”
Strickland nodded as he took the tablet and navigated to a real-time aerial view of the desert compound. “This is a satellite image of bin Mohammed’s compound,” he explained as he turned the tablet. “It’s about four hundred yards long and half that wide, with six structures inside the wall. This largest structure appears to be main housing; that’s likely our best bet of finding one or both of our targets. The three of us will be Alpha team. Fitzpatrick, split your guys into Bravo and Charlie teams.”
Fitzpatrick grunted his assent again without looking up.
“Alpha team will clear the main building,” Strickland continued, “and move counterclockwise. Bravo will start here,” he pointed, “at this southwest structure and clear clockwise to meet us. Charlie team is on the perimeter. I want one man posted at the main gate, and the other two patrolling the wall for anyone trying to escape. Any questions?”
No one spoke. The men of the Division nodded stoically.
“We keep this clean as possible,” Strickland ordered. “Bin Mohammed is an old man, and we don’t know what bin Saddam looks like, so our goal is to incapacitate and detain. No kill shots unless absolutely necessary. Understood?”
Fitzpatrick sniffed. “Look, I get that this is real exciting for y’all,” he said evenly. “But for us, this is just Tuesday. We’ll get it done, don’t you worry.”
“I’m sure we’ll get it done,” said Strickland. “I’m worried about getting it done right.”
Fitzpatrick smirked with one side of his mouth. “We’ll find your man, Agent Strickland. And we’ll do our very best not to gun him down.”
Strickland handed the tablet back to Maria. He reached under his seat for a black duffel bag and slid it over the helicopter floor to Reid. “Gear,” he said simply.
“Thanks.” Reid unzipped the bag. Inside was a black Kevlar vest, a Glock 22 in a nylon holster, a small Ruger LC9, spare clips for each, a tactical folding knife, three stun grenades, and a flashlight.
He almost laughed at himself as he secured the tactical vest over his chest. He was still wearing the clothes he had on in Zurich, a striped button-down with khakis, loafers, and a brown suede jacket. To the roughnecks of the Division, Reid probably looked like a suburban dad tagging along for a raid on a terrorist compound.
You are a suburban dad on a raid on a terrorist compound. But this was no tag-along. If the heavily-armed men seated opposite him in the Black Hawk had any misconceptions about who Agent Zero was or what he was capable of, they’d see soon enough.
*
It took thirty-six minutes for the Black Hawk chopper, at a top speed of two hundred and twenty miles an hour, to reach the desert compound. The sun had set behind the mountains in the distance and dusk settled in, enveloping the desert below in a dark bluish haze.
“ETA two minutes,” the pilot announced through the radio.
Reid triple-checked his Glock and the LC9 holstered at his ankle. He clicked the safety off and slid the stubby nine millimeter back into place, and then glanced up to see Fitzpatrick grinning wide at him.
“You watch yourself with that now, soccer dad,” the mercenary chuckled. “It may be small, but it’ll still put a hole in a head.”
“I’ll be careful, thanks,” Reid said flatly.
Fitzpatrick turned to his men. “Ripper, Reaver, you’re with me. Rhino, Razor, Ruger—you’re Charlie team.”
> Reid had to put a hand over his mouth to stifle his grin at the ridiculous codenames.
“Cute,” Maria muttered beside him.
Fitzpatrick leaned forward with his leering grin. “And what do they call you, darlin’?”
She smiled sweetly. “Marigold.”
“Well.” Fitzpatrick sniffed. “Ain’t that adorable.”
“That’s enough chatter,” Strickland ordered. “Satellite imaging is showing the courtyard as empty. I want radio silence from here on out unless necessary.”
The pilot turned off the lights on the Black Hawk as the chopper whirled in an about-face and descended quickly into the courtyard of the compound. Reid took an even breath and drew his Glock. His palms were slightly sweaty, but his hands were steady. His heart thumped in his chest, both anxious and excited. No matter how much he tried to tell himself that he didn’t miss it, his rising pulse and the growing knot of anticipation in his sternum told him differently.
The members of the Division leapt out of the Black Hawk’s cabin single-file before the wheels touched down in the dirt. Strickland followed, hefting a Heckler & Koch MP5 automatic rifle. Maria, Glock in one hand and flashlight ready in the other, followed after him and Reid brought up the rear.
The Black Hawk immediately lifted off again to avoid damage, set to return in ten minutes’ time, Strickland’s estimation of how long it would take to clear the compound. As a veritable maelstrom of dust and sand swirled around them, Fitzpatrick waved a series of complicated hand gestures to his men, the meaning of which was completely lost on Reid, and the Division separated into their respective teams.
Meanwhile, Strickland led Maria and Reid quickly towards the main building. They kept their heads low and their barrels pointed downward as they ran towards the three-story structure, boxy and beige. There were no lights on, not in the entire compound, it seemed; every window was dark and the large floodlights that Reid could see perched atop the stone wall were unlit.