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

by David Spell

  Chuck scanned the map finding the area Tu was talking about.

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Let’s meet there. It looks like there’s only one way in and one way out of that business complex and the bad guy will have to drive right by there. Do you have the drone?”

  “We do. Kevin had it on the plane for us. Chloe knows how fly it.”

  “Cool. See you soon.”

  A few minutes later, Andy led the two Sequoias into a new development off of East Flat Rock Road on Venice Island where construction sounds filled the air, crews at work on every facet of the new buildings. The south end of the hundred-yard wide island already housed one apartment complex, with this new one almost completed. On the northern end, half a mile away was the industrial park where a possible terrorist was located. Beyond the office buildings and warehouses was another few hundred yards of forest before the island ended at the river.

  A large flatbed partially blocked the entrance into the new development, waiting its turn to be unloaded. A cement mixer was dumping concrete just inside the construction area into a form for a sidewalk.

  “This isn’t going to work,” Fleming commented. “What the hell are these guys doing working on a Saturday? I thought this was a union state?”

  “Yeah, head towards the target location,” McCain shrugged. “The warehouse is supposed to be all the way in the back. We’ll find some place near the front where we can set up.”

  Chuck called Tu to alert him to the change of plans. Andy led the two vehicles into the Schuylkill Business Center, turning left between two brick office buildings just inside the complex, pulling around to the large parking area in the rear. There were no cars at the location and everything appeared to be closed. The other Toyota SUV pulled to a stop next to them as McCain quickly barked out orders.

  “Jimmy, figure out the best way to get eyes on the road we came in on. I’d hate for this bastard to leave while we’re back here getting organized. Chloe, get that bird into the air. Gabby, set up your computer so we can watch the drone video. Andy and Scotty, get our weapons and gear organized.”

  Jones nodded, walking to the rear of the SUV and grabbing one of the suppressed Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns from a duffel bag. He inserted a thirty-round magazine of 9mm hollow points, chambered a round, and set the selector to “Safe.” The former Marine officer tucked two additional magazines into the side pocket of his cargo pants. He collapsed the folding stock, slung the sub gun and tucked it under his jacket before trotting over to the corner of the building to keep watch.

  Smith and Fleming loaded the rest of the MP5s, leaving them in the back of the Toyota. They placed extra mags next to each gun. Each team member was already wearing a sidearm, concealed under their windbreakers. The two men also withdrew walkie-talkies and body armor from the other duffel bags and laid it all out with the subguns.

  Wilkerson pulled the four-engine commercial drone out of the rear compartment of the other Sequoia and sat it on the pavement. It had been worked over by the Science and Technology Directorate increasing its battery life from thirty minutes to three hours of flight time. They had also added a more powerful camera system.

  After checking that everything was functioning as it should, Chloe fired up the engines and sent the drone into the air. McCain had given her a set of satellite maps earlier and within minutes, Wilkerson had the aircraft over the target warehouse, less than a quarter of a mile away. She pushed the video button on her controller.

  “The video is live, Gabby. I’m hovering at five thousand feet.”

  Vargas set her laptop on the hood of one of the Sequoias, quickly bringing up the feed from the drone’s cameras.

  “I’ve got it, Chloe. Can you confirm the coordinates?”

  Wilkerson pushed another button on the controller, watching as a set of coordinates, provided by the drones internal GPS, scrolled across the screen. She read them out to her friend.

  “That’s a confirmation on the location, Chuck,” Gabby said. “The drone’s over the right building.”

  McCain watched the computer screen as the aircraft’s camera relayed crystal-clear footage from a mile above the target.

  “Nice work, ladies. Chloe, take us around the building slowly. I want to see where the entrances and exits are.”

  After three times around the stand-alone warehouse, Chuck had a good idea of the building’s layout. One end faced the road, a single gray metal door providing access for the main entrance. Halfway down the left side, a set of steps led up to another steel door. There were three loading docks along the side of the building for tractor trailers to load or unload. On the far end of the facility, nearest to the river, a ramp led upwards to a roll up door, providing easy access for a vehicle to be driven inside. The last entrance was at the top of flight of stairs next to the ramp, where another heavy door provided access to the warehouse area.

  There were no vehicles parked outside and no clues as to whether or not someone was inside. The drone was equipped with a thermal imaging system but that technology would not allow them to see through the walls. They were going to have to get closer.

  A black Yukon suddenly appeared stopping between the two buildings as Jimmy flagged them down. A minute later, it pulled to the right and parked next to the Sequoias as Tu, Hollywood, LeMarcus Wade, and Terry Hunt climbed out, shaking everyone’s hands. At the sight of McCain, Estrada felt the loss of Matthews again, knowing how close he and Chuck were.

  The two men embraced, both still hurting from the loss of their teammate.

  “I’m sorry, Chuck,” Hollywood said softly, stepping back and wiping his eyes. “There was nothing I could do. I’d just taken out one of the bombers and Josh saw the last guy coming and went after him.”

  “I know, buddy. There’s no telling how many lives you guys saved. I’m proud of you.” The big man cleared his throat and addressed the others standing nearby. “We’ll mourn for Josh later. Right now, we need to try and take down this scumbag or scumbags in that warehouse. Hollywood, can you go keep watch with Jimmy? I don’t want anyone sneaking in behind us.”

  Estrada grabbed an MP5 and trotted over to join his friend as McCain brought Tu and the newcomers up-to-speed on what they had done so far and pointed out what he had seen on the drone video. Donaldson was in charge now, being an actual employee of the CIA. After staring at the computer screen for several minutes, the former Green Beret pulled his satellite maps out, putting his finger on their location.

  “At the back of this parking lot is that strip of woods that borders the river,” he said, moving his finger up the map, through the trees to an area near the warehouse.

  “What do you think of LeMarcus, Terry, and two of your guys working their way up through woods along the river to do a sneak and peek at the target location?”

  Chuck nodded. “Andy and Scotty, you guys up for a crawl through the woods?”

  “Always,” Fleming answered with a grin.

  “Sounds like a good time to me,” Smith agreed.

  Donaldson quickly briefed the four men, showing them on the map where he wanted them to go.

  “See what you can see. We’ll cover you from here. LeMarcus, you’re in charge. We’ll decide what’s next after you get eyes on the target.”

  At 1110 hours, the four men quickly donned their body armor, checked their walkie-talkies, and conducted a final weapons check before jogging to the back of the parking lot and disappearing into the trees.

  WYNNEWOOD, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY, 1055 HOURS

  Musa had left his hideout at 1015 hours, going through a McDonald’s drive thru to order some breakfast. He avoided going into a business or restaurant whenever he could, not wanting to take a chance on bumping into a police officer or an alert citizen who might have seen his picture on the news. After getting his order, he pulled into a shopping center parking lot on Haverford Avenue to eat and think.

  Over twenty-four hours later, Abdallah still had not responded to his texts or
voicemails. The Palestinian had never gone this long without answering him. Musa made a point not to communicate too often with the leader of the Brotherhood, knowing that he was a busy man. When Khan did send a message, however, it was always important.

  If something had happened to Bamya, there was no way that Khan was going to wait another week to launch the jihad in Philadelphia. The Pakistani wanted to keep the infidels on their heels, to not give them any time to recover from the previous two attacks. At the same time, he knew that Bamya had a strategy and a script that he was following. Musa didn’t want to ignore the man’s orders, understanding that there was a big picture that he did not have access to.

  The FBI’s takedown of the Brooklyn Cell, as they were being dubbed by the media, was another major concern of the former intelligence officer. What if the FBI or the DHS had managed to infiltrate his other two cells? What if the six-man group he was about to visit in Wynnewood contained a traitor? Or the recruits in Detroit?

  Did this operation by the Federal Bureau of Investigation have anything to do with the fact that Abdallah wasn’t responding to his communication? A sudden thought occurred to the Pakistani and he accessed the internet on his encrypted smart phone. After locating a phone number, he typed it into his phone and hit “Dial.”

  “Good morning, Empire Luxury Apartments,” a pleasant male voice answered. “How may I direct your call?”

  “Yes, I’m concerned about a friend of mine who lives in your building. I wanted to see if you’d had any contact with him. His name is Abdallah Bamya. I’m not sure of his apartment number but he’s a diplomat and works at the United Nations.”

  “Can you hold please?”

  The sound of numbing elevator music filled his ear as he waited. A minute later, a woman’s voice greeted him.

  “Good morning. I understand that you’re calling about Mr. Bamya?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. I haven’t spoken to him in some time and he won’t return my calls.”

  “We don’t give out any personal information about our residents over the phone, however, in the case of Mr. Bamya, the FBI has asked us to direct any inquiries to them. Do you have something to write with? I’d be happy to give you their number.”

  A cold chill ran down his spine but he forced himself to stay calm.

  “The FBI? Has something happened to my friend? Why is the FBI involved?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. All I can tell you is that if you want any information about Mr. Bamya, you’ll need to call them.”

  Musa disconnected the call, his worst fears confirmed. Abdullah had a diplomatic passport. Surely, if he had been arrested it would’ve made the news. The terrorist accessed the internet again and searched for any news about Bamya. The only stories that popped up were related to his work as a delegate for the PLO with the most recent posting being from two months before.

  What had happened to the leader of the Brotherhood? Khan had the contact information for Mohammad Yusuf and Saman Shirazi, the other members of the Brotherhood’s inner circle. He normally allowed Abdallah to be the intermediary for them. The former intelligence officer understood that the NSA and the CIA would be scrutinizing any communications to Egypt or Iran much more closely than any within America.

  He quickly computed the time difference and decided that he could wait a couple of hours before risking a text or email. One more phone call, and then I’ll go meet with the team. This was the biggest risk that he had taken so far. Originally, he had not planned on meeting Aaron Richards in person. With the complications that were popping up, though, Khan needed to get a feel for the American in person. Could he be trusted and at what level?

  He dialed Ishamael’s number and waited.

  “Hello,” he answered.

  “I’m on my way to the location. How’s everything going?”

  “He’s got them down in the basement where there’s more room. He said that he would spend half the day on finishing weapons familiarization and then start working on tactics.”

  “Very good,” Musa responded. “How are the recruits? Are there any problems with anyone?”

  There was a hesitation on the other end of the call. After a moment, Ishmael spoke up.

  “One of the guys seems to be having second thoughts.”

  Khan took a deep breath, trying to control his emotions. “Which one?”

  “Corey, the one that goes by “CoCo.” He started grumbling as soon as he got here yesterday. He said that he’d seen the news clips of the other attacks and felt like it was bullshit that they had to die to make their point. He kept asking, ‘Why can’t we just go kill some cops?’”

  The Pakistani knew exactly who Ishmael was talking about. CoCo was a tall, skinny African-American with a huge afro and beard. He had also become a Muslim in jail, serving a sentence for armed robbery.

  “I see,” Musa answered calmly, quickly deciding how he would handle the situation. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Ishmael opened the garage door for Khan to pull his rented black Hyundai Santa Fe inside and park next to the white van. After the garage was closed, the two men went inside. Ishmael carried a cardboard box of 7.62x39 ammo as Musa handled a green duffle bag containing the extra AK magazines. He left his backpack in the vehicle, not expecting that he would need his computer here. Ishmael would give out the ammo and mags at the proper time, but Khan thought it best to begin getting the pieces in place.

  “They’re still working,” Ishmael said.

  “How’s the American doing?”

  “He’s good, Boss. Really good. I don’t think many of these guys have handled a weapon before but he knows how to teach and is very patient. He doesn’t talk much apart from training and in the evening he goes to his room and stays there.”

  Musa shrugged. “I don’t understand people who would betray their own country but I’m glad to hear that he’s earning his pay. Now, we need to go downstairs and handle our problem. Here’s what we’ll do.”

  Aaron Richards was at a point where he felt that each of the six men could load, fire, and reload their AK-47 rifle. They might not hit what they were shooting at but his contact had not been particularly interested in their accuracy. He would drill them for another half hour before breaking for lunch. After that, he would begin instructing them on tactics, emphasizing movement to cover.

  The open, unfinished basement contained no furniture. Aaron had had the cell members bring down some kitchen chairs and some large cardboard boxes that he had found in the garage. The items had been set up around the room to simulate parked cars. After lunch, they would begin working on fire and maneuver drills. The former Green Beret had also placed several life-size silhouette targets against the far wall.

  The sound of feet coming down the stairs got his attention. Maybe it was Ishmael letting them know lunch was ready. Sure enough, the older black man appeared at the bottom of the stairs followed by a second man. Son-of-a-bitch! Richards thought. That’s Musa Khan, one of the most wanted terrorists in the world. He doesn’t look that menacing in-person, but looks can be deceiving, the former Agency operative knew.

  The Pakistani locked eyes briefly with Aaron and gave him a slight nod. The six men that he was training all seemed to know Khan, smiling or waving at him.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” the bearded man said, looking back at Richards. “I’ve heard that everyone is learning a lot from you. May I borrow CoCo for a few minutes?”

  Aaron recognized the accented voice as the one that he’d been speaking with on the phone. I’m working for one of the CIA’s and FBI’s most wanted criminals, he realized.

  “Of course,” he answered.

  The former Green Beret felt a momentary sense of panic, wondering what the terrorist was doing here. Up to this point, he had kept his distance. And then it clicked as Corey left the group with the two men. Ishmael led the way up the stairs followed by CoCo, with Musa bringing up the rear. Aaron saw the outline of a pistol under the terrorist’s windbreak
er. Richards’ own Springfield Government Model .45 ACP pistol was in plain-view in a holster on his right hip.

  Aaron had heard some of the negative comments that the CoCo had been making. He had even asked the former soldier what his opinion of martyrdom was. Aaron thought that killing one’s self for a cause was one of the stupidest ideas that he’d ever heard. At the same time, he wasn’t going to say that. If these dumbasses wanted to go blow themselves up, he didn’t care as long as he got paid.

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Richards had answered brusquely. “I’m being paid to train you men. How you use that training is none of my business.”

  As he watched Corey walking up the stairs, the muscular man sensed that it was a one-way trip for the African-American Muslim. If Aaron had been in charge, he would never allow a team member to poison the others.

  “Okay, guys, let’s get back to work,” he said, holding up the unloaded AK. “Show me how to make it ready to fire.”

  The five men inserted an empty magazine, locking it into place. They pulled the charging handle to the rear, simulating chambering a round. They then pushed the selector to “Safe.”

  “Very good,” Aaron said, stepping behind the cell members. “Now, we’ll do some dry firing. Shoulder your rifle and push the selector to ‘Fire.’”

  After hearing the metallic snap of the safeties being deactivated, Richards started to give the command to pull the trigger but a piercing scream sounded from upstairs. It was quickly muffled as the sound of something, probably a body, slammed to the floor above their heads. The startled recruits all turned to their instructor.

  “It sounds like CoCo just learned that this is a very serious business,” Aaron commented, with a shrug. “Back to what we were doing. Put the front sight over one of those targets on the far wall and pull the trigger.”