Between Destiny and Duty: A Chuck McCain Novel- Book Two

by David Spell

  Chen had attempted to keep his identity a secret from the Pakistani. Khan, however, had been one of his nation’s top operatives at the Inter-Services Intelligence. All of his missions for Pakistan had been without the protection of the diplomatic immunity that Chen enjoyed. A little investigation revealed the Chinese spy’s name and allowed Musa to probe into his background, looking for something to use against Wang if he ever tried to double-cross him.

  Khan had been forced out of the Pakistani intelligence service after an operation had failed through no fault of his own. Almost a hundred civilians had been killed or injured in Baghdad when the bomb that Musa planted had exploded early. It was intended to be detonated by remote control when an American military patrol made their daily pass near the market.

  He was still angry at having been made the scape-goat for that fiasco. He hadn’t created the bomb. One of the ISI’s bomb technicians had made it. Khan’s job had been to plant it near the market and then back off to set it off when the infidel soldiers came through. There had been enough explosive packed inside to have completely taken out the American patrol. Instead, for some reason, the device had gone off an hour early. Musa wasn’t even touching the remote detonator at the time. The images of the dead and wounded were soon being blasted on news channels all over the world.

  The radical group within the Pakistani government who had ordered the attack would not have said a word about the civilian casualties if the explosion had taken out the Americans as well. Since the mission had failed, the ISI needed someone to blame. Khan was fired and the bomb technician was never heard from again. Musa surmised that another operative had eliminated the explosive maker.

  As it turned out, Khan’s skills were in high demand from other groups throughout the Middle-East. He had stayed busy for several years until he was contacted by the Brotherhood. Now, he worked exclusively for them as a problem solver, as well as recruiting and building cells in several key cities on the eastern coast of the U.S. Now, he was being ordered to hit the Americans hard in a series of strikes as part of the ongoing jihad in the United States.

  Several months earlier, one of the inner circle had invited him to New York City, where he was introduced to Chen. Abdallah told him that the Chinese spy was going to provide weapons and finances to assist the Brotherhood in waging their holy war on the streets of America. Musa realized that it was finally time to put the Brotherhood’s plan into action.

  Khan had been instructed to focus his attacks on police officers and government buildings. American police had been under heavy scrutiny and criticism for several years due to a number of highly publicized shootings of black suspects. Assaults on police officers had been steadily on the rise and with many cities calling to defund their law enforcement agencies, his attacks would fit right in with that agenda.

  Stupid Americans, Musa thought. They have no idea how good they have it. Defund the police? Who are the infidels going to call when need help? It just makes my job easier, the Pakistani realized. This was where Saleem Bashir would play his part, holding press conferences to argue that the attacks were the result of continued provocation by law enforcement against peaceful Islamic groups in the U.S. They would push that narrative as far as they could. It had worked for Black Lives Matter and Antifa. Now it was time for Islam to do its part to erode America’s trust in those sworn “to protect and serve.”

  Chen had just given Khan the contact information for an American Special Forces soldier who had worked for the CIA. The man had been terminated by the Agency and was now looking to sell his services to whomever would pay him. Musa had no desire to call this Aaron Richards. He had never trusted the Americans any more than he trusted the Chinese or the Jews. Was this a trick? he wondered. It is interesting, though, the former Pakistani spy mused, that the infidel and I have so much in common.

  Musa needed someone who could provide basic weapons training to the soldiers he had recruited. After creating groups in Philadelphia, Washington, D.C., Detroit, Trenton, and New York City, he had over fifty men and women who were true believers and were willing to become martyrs for their faith. These recruits had been carefully screened and selected from some of the mosques in each of the cities. The group in D.C. was ready to go, Khan having spent three days with them at a safe house, training the warriors of Allah on how to use the AK-47s that Chen had provided.

  With the first attack scheduled for the nation’s capital next week, Musa now needed to focus on the details for subsequent operations. He had operated solo since launching out on his own. Very few people made it into Khan’s inner circle of trust.

  The imam in Philadelphia had been someone that Musa thought he could trust. Whether on purpose or inadvertently, the cleric had led the FBI to Khan’s safe house. The Pakistani had killed one of the agents before escaping, returning later to Philadelphia to pay the imam a visit. The cleric and his wife had paid the ultimate price for their betrayal.

  While not prepared to completely trust the American, Musa knew that one of the job skills American Special Forces possessed was that of training raw soldiers in the art of war. Most of my recruits are very raw, he thought. Musa only had a few who had served in the military or had any experience with weapons. Hopefully, this infidel can turn them all into killers before their martyrdom.

  If this was a setup by the Americans, Aaron Richards will be the first to die, the terrorist mused. Khan was willing to give him a try, though, knowing that the worst-case scenario would be the loss of just one cell of soldiers. If Richards had truly turned away from his allegiance to America, however, he would be a tremendous asset in the upcoming holy war. Ishmael will be able to keep an eye on Richards and can give me honest feedback on the man. While the American trains the cell near Trenton, I’ll be preparing the vehicle for a very special delivery, the terrorist smiled to himself.

  The other thing that the Chinese spy had told the Pakistani jihadist was that another shipment of weapons was ready for pickup. Hopefully, Abdallah could provide someone from his network of PLO supporters to transport the AK-47s, magazines, and ammo to Detroit for him. The Palestinian diplomat would include explosive vests in that shipment, as well. For the moment, this was the only cell still awaiting their weapons. In just a few weeks, those rifles and suicide vests would spill more infidel blood.

  WOODHAVEN, MICHIGAN, WEDNESDAY, 1325 HOURS

  Aaron Richards watched the prostitute as she dressed, taking a long swallow from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey as he sat propped against the headboard of his bed. The light-skinned black girl wasn’t bad looking and the hundred dollars she had charged him had been well worth it.

  “Hey, let’s hook up again some time,” Richards said, with a crooked grin.

  The hooker glanced over her shoulder at the muscular man, sitting nude in the bed. He was nice looking, had paid her upfront, and hadn’t hurt her.

  “Sure, honey, anytime. You know where to find me.”

  In reality, the girl was just one of the prostitutes who lived in the same extended stay motel as Aaron. It wasn’t the former soldier’s first choice of places to hide, but they took cash and the clerk had accepted his story that he had lost his ID. Richards was registered under the name of John Simpson, his best friend from his high school football team.

  He needed to get back to the D.C. area where he had cash, another passport, driver’s license, and a credit card. Aaron had had these created during his time at the CIA. Thankfully, he had used the services of a forger that a Special Forces buddy had recommended so that the alias wouldn’t be flagged by the Agency. He also needed the extra firepower he had stored with his other documents.

  The cell phone on the bedside table suddenly beeped and vibrated. This was the phone that the Chinese spook had given him. It hadn’t made any noise up to this point and the beeping startled him. Richards reached to answer it but the hooker was just pulling her jeans up and buttoning them.

  “Hey, can you hurry up? I need some privacy here.”
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  The girl glanced over at her client and rolled her eyes. “Give me a minute to get my shoes on.”

  Aaron was already out of the bed, still unclothed as he roughly took the prostitute by the arm, guiding her towards the door.

  “Get your hands off me, you son-of-a-bitch! And I thought you were a nice guy!”

  The muscular man opened the door and shoved the young woman out onto the breezeway as she clutched her small silver purse and black stilettos.

  “Sorry,” he grunted, with a shrug, “I gotta take this call. I’ll pay extra next time.”

  “Asshole!”

  After shutting and locking the door, he swiped the screen to answer the phone, hoping this would be an opportunity to make some more money.

  “Hello?”

  “A mutual friend gave me your number,” a heavily accented voice answered.

  “Okay. What do you need?”

  “I’m in need of your skills. I have some people who need training. I understand that is one of your specialties.”

  Is this what I’ve degenerated into? Aaron wondered. Am I really going to be training terrorists? He took a deep breath.

  “Give me some details. How much is this going to pay?”

  “The first session should take three and a half days and we’ll pay you twenty-thousand dollars. If things go well, I’d like to use you several times for the same amount. I’ll need you to start next Monday.”

  “Where at and how many people am I training?”

  “New Jersey. I will text you later this week a location where one of my people will meet you and bring you to the location. You can stay there the entire time. You’ll have a room of your own. As for the number, all of the groups are small. In this one, you’ll have eight people.”

  “I understand your reluctance to speak freely over the phone,” Richards said, “but I want twenty-five thousand for each group that I train. Also, I need to know what it is you want me to teach these people so I can prepare.”

  Now it was the other man’s turn to take a deep breath, clearly contemplating how to answer.

  “I need you to teach them basic weapons handling and to give them some tactical training. There’s no place for live fire and I know that three days isn’t very long, but this only needs to be very basic training. And, I will make sure you get the price you asked for.”

  So, I’m gonna be training some martyr-wannabes to go out and kill Americans, Aaron thought. At twenty-five grand a pop, though, I’m willing to do pretty much anything.

  “Sounds like we have a deal. I’ll wait to hear back from you,” Richards replied, disconnecting the call.

  Things were finally starting to look up, the former Green Beret contemplated. Uncle Sam had invested a lot of money, training me to be a killer and to teach others those same skills. There’s definitely some irony, he thought, in that I’m going to be prepping terrorists in the U.S. to kill Americans.

  He thought back over the last several days. Aaron still hadn’t been able to figure out how the CIA had known about his meeting with the man he knew as Joseph Lee. Had they cracked my email and burner phones or those of the Chinese spy? Obviously, the Agency is looking for me now, he thought. If they recovered that recording from the smart phone he had smashed, they knew exactly what he and Lee had been discussing. He had hated to leave the phone behind, but taking it would have just led them right to him with the sophisticated GPS built into it.

  Richards also speculated that they had hacked into the mall’s security cameras, watching as he sat with his contact. Knowing that all malls have some type of CCTV system had prompted him to park where he had, near the loading docks. He hadn’t seen any cameras inside the service entrance he had used.

  After recognizing that black girl and fleeing, Aaron had ducked back into the Dollar Store, leaving the same way that he had come in. He paused at the exit, not seeing anything out of the ordinary in the parking lot. Just as he had gotten into the van, a white SUV had come roaring around the mall, heading towards Entrance Six. The former soldier waited a minute and then drove in the opposite direction, leaving the mall and heading deeper into Canada.

  Knowing the CIA was after him and knowing an apprehend or terminate order would soon be forthcoming, Richards had decided to find another way back into the U.S. He wasn’t going to take his chances in trying to get past the immigration authorities of Canada or the United States. It had been a three-and-a-half-hour drive from Saint Catherines to Amherstburg.

  One of the best things that being in the Special Forces had taught him was to always have a backup plan. Before ever slipping into Canada to meet with Lee, Aaron had carefully studied maps for just this reason. Amherstburg was a small town on the banks of the Detroit River. The city was located near the widest point of the body of water, over two and a half miles wide. He would have preferred to cross where it was narrower, but Amherstburg seemed to offer the best opportunity for stealing a boat.

  It was still daylight when he arrived, giving Richards the chance to cruise up and down Dalhousie Street scoping out the beautiful riverfront homes, but more importantly, the boat docks behind them. Twenty minutes later, Aaron had spotted just what he needed. It looked like a newer twenty-one footer that probably doubled as both a fishing and recreational craft.

  Richards still had an hour before it got dark and remembered passing a WalMart less than a mile up the road. I might as well take the opportunity to buy some food, clothes, and other supplies that I’m going to need, he thought. While inside the SuperCenter, Aaron also spent some time in the hardware section selecting several items to make it easier for him to hotwire the boat or any other vehicles he might need from here on out.

  After paying for his purchases, he parked his van in the corner of the parking lot, climbed into the back and took a two-hour nap. When he awoke at 2010 hours, it was dark. Aaron ate a sandwich and checked his gear, loading his supplies into a black backpack.

  The fugitive thought through what he had needed to do. The goal was to get onto the boat, hotwire the ignition, and then get across the river without being detected. The last thing he needed was to confront someone who might alert the police, so he would wait until the lights were off in the home. Hopefully, its occupants were deep sleepers.

  Next, he had to get across the Detroit River and back into the U.S. without getting caught by either country’s border patrol boats or being rammed by one of the massive cargo ships that moved up and down the busy waterway. Thankfully, as a Green Beret Richards had received extensive training on how to operate behind enemy lines. Most of the missions conducted by Special Forces were in hostile territory, so their soldiers were given extensive survival training. Things like hotwiring a car, or a boat in this case, were skills that all team members possessed.

  For Aaron, his training had paid off. At 2210 hours, he had parked in an empty lot a quarter of a mile from the target location. By 2240 hours, he had managed to get onto the boat unobserved, get the engines started and was on his way across the river. Twenty minutes later, he maneuvered the craft up the Huron River and beached it in a small cove.

  While he was relieved to be back on U.S. soil, Aaron had no transportation and no place to stay. He was on foot, there was snow on the ground and the temperatures felt like they were in the mid-thirties. His luck continued to hold as he pushed inland from the river. A Papa Mario’s pizzeria sat in front of him, a hundred yards away. The lights were off but Richards didn’t need a pizza. He needed a vehicle.

  He moved stealthily through the shadows until he was behind the business, observing several cars in the rear parking lot, probably employees cleaning up for the night. Aaron picked out a nice Ford F-150 pickup that looked like it would suit his purposes. Just as he reached the pickup, however, the back door of the business had burst open, light pouring into the back lot. The former spy had quietly dropped to the pavement next to the Ford, his pistol in hand.

  “I’m just gonna to grab my bag of weed so we can have a smoke before we
go home,” a male voice said.

  The door closed, plunging the area back into darkness as footsteps made their way across the lot. The figure stopped next to an older Toyota Corolla, parked two vehicles over from the F-150. As the pizza employee unlocked the driver’s door, a hand clamped over his mouth and he was pulled to the pavement next to his car. A powerful arm slipped around his throat and neck, squeezing before he had a chance to cry out. Aaron quickly put the man to sleep, but knew that was only temporary. A violent jerk of his victim’s head snapped his neck with a loud crack, silencing him forever.

  Richards grabbed the keys out of the driver’s door and dragged the dead man to the rear of the Corolla. Within seconds, the body had been stuffed into the trunk and Aaron was driving out of the parking lot. Even though he now had to dispose of the car and a dead body, stealing a car with the keys was always a better option than having to bypass a vehicle’s ignition.

  The fugitive had not thought twice about killing the guy. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and merely an obstacle for the former soldier to remove. When he had glanced at the body in the trunk, the kid didn’t look a day over twenty. Sucks for him, Aaron shrugged.

  While preparing his backup plan, he had chosen Woodhaven, Michigan, as his primary place to lay low if the meeting had gone bad. The suburb of Detroit was big enough to hide in but close enough to the interstates that he could keep moving if he needed too. The extended stay hotel that Aaron had designated as his bug out location was less than a mile from a truck stop. The muscular man backed the stolen car into a parking space on the large lot, removed the license plate, wiped down all the surfaces, and walked to the hotel. The tag and the dead kid’s wallet, minus its thirty-two dollars in cash, were dropped into a sewer grate.