by David Spell
Wang also knew of agents in place at various levels of the federal government in America. These men and women had carefully and slowly worked their way through the system and were now in positions of influence, some even having the ear of key congressional or senate leaders. It would take another decade or two, but Chen was convinced that America would fall, destroyed from the inside out.
In the meantime, it would probably be good to visit the U.S. and check in with my friend, Captain Huang, at the Chinese Embassy in Washington, D.C. He’s still peeved about not having more of a role in this latest operation. I’ll throw him a bone, as the Americans say, and give him some of the intel that we developed from the files that Aaron Richards provided. There are several potential recruits there that Huang and his team can start working.
ROXBOROUGH MEMORIAL HOSPITAL, PHILADELPHIA, MONDAY, 1220 HOURS
Khan stared in disgust at the food in front of him. I might as well already be in prison, he thought, forcing himself to take a bite of the flavorless spaghetti. The standing orders were that one of his hands was always handcuffed to the bed. Up to now, he wasn’t even being allowed to go to the restroom on his own, suffering the indignity of having a female nurse hold a urinal while he pissed.
For meals, the attending police officer would switch out the handcuff to his left hand, allowing him to use his right to feed himself. Maybe I can eventually take advantage of that, he hoped. For the moment, I must get my strength back and heal up. There’s no way that I’m staying here, he thought, already plotting his escape.
He had even been more cooperative when the Jewish surgeon had come by this morning. Dr. Weinstein had patiently told Musa that if he didn’t perform the surgery on his shoulder, his left arm would be useless. The last thing that the terrorist wanted was a Jew working on him, but if he did manage to get out of here, he needed to have the use of both arms. The surgery would take place the next day.
“Mmm, that looks good,” Detective Lieutenant Harrison commented as he entered Khan’s room without knocking.
Instead of the big burly detective, his partner this time was a young black man wearing a navy blue suit.
“How you doing today, John?”
Musa stared at the detective, confusion on his face. “Why did you call me “John?”
“You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” the lieutenant answered. “In the US, people without a name are called “John Doe.” You’re going to be seeing a lot of me over the next few weeks, so we might as well get to know each other. You know my name but I don’t know yours. You said you wanted a lawyer before giving me a statement, but you can’t have counsel unless we get a name.”
That black detective looks familiar, Khan thought. Where have I seen him before? His mind was still in a haze from the drugs that they were pumping into his system. He was tempted to throw his plate at the older cop but thought better of it. I need to appear as non-threatening as possible.
“I’m sorry, I can’t seem to remember my name. Maybe it was from being attacked by that police dog and then beaten by the officers, but I seem to have lost my memory.”
The two detectives glanced at each other and smiled. “That’s a pretty good story, John. Of course, it’ll never work. For all your bullet holes and injuries, one of the things that you didn’t have was a concussion. How’s Dr. Weinstein treating you?”
Khan glared at the detective but didn’t answer.
“You got any special diet requests? Bacon, ham, pork sausage? No? And for the record, John, I don’t care if you talk to me or not. You’re going away for a long time on these charges. We’ve got a great case, so keep playing Mr. Hard Ass. It’ll just make it easier whenever we do go to court. On the other hand, if you want to cooperate, we might be able to work out some kind of a deal.”
“Cooperate? I don’t understand.”
“You think about it,” Harrison said, climbing to his feet.
He nodded at his partner and they left the room.
Musa sighed. He sensed that the detective was toying with him. Khan knew that he was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. Surely, they had run his fingerprints by now. How did this idiot cop still not know who I am? he wondered. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of the painkillers and other medications that he was on. After a few more bites of food, Musa pushed the tray away and lay back against his pillow.
Harrison, Louis, and O’Reilly stood outside the main entrance of the hospital, comparing notes.
“So, your superiors are good with how we’re handling this?” Joe asked the Philadelphia PD investigator.
“They are. This is definitely not our usual way of investigating and prosecuting a case, but this also not a run-of-the-mill home invasion, either. We’ll keep our charges primary against John Doe until the FBI alerts us that, finally, they’ve been able to identify our suspect as the notorious terrorist, Musa Khan.”
“Give us another week, two at the max, to work this other cell in Detroit. After they’re dealt with, we’ll plan a big press conference and pat each other on the back and talk about mutual cooperation, etc, etc. The attorney general will probably be there and announce that he’ll be seeking the death penalty for Khan, although that’s probably too good for the bastard.”
Harrison smiled. “I’ve got to admit. I’ve been a cop for twenty-plus years and this is the first time I’ve had a pleasant experience working with the Bureau.”
“Sorry about that. I know we can be assholes sometimes. At least we’re trying to change how we work with other law enforcement agencies.”
The lieutenant nodded. “In the meantime, I think we need to go find some lunch. Could I interest you gentlemen in a Philly cheese-steak sandwich?”
“Iconic, yet so ordinary,” O’Reilly answered. “Sounds great.”
RESTON, VIRGINIA, MONDAY, 1935 HOURS
Chuck hadn’t been home for almost two weeks and was looking forward to sleeping in his own bed with his wife. After flying back to Virginia, the team had spent several hours at Langley, the ops director clearing his schedule to hear firsthand what McCain and his team had encountered in Pennsylvania. Kevin was thrilled that Aaron Richards had been dealt with, another terror cell eliminated, and that the team had gotten away before the police had arrived.
The big man had stopped to pick up a pizza and a bottle of wine and he and Elizabeth had enjoyed a quiet dinner. Little Ray had been excited to have his dad home, using Chuck as a jungle gym as he let the toddler crawl all over him on the living room floor. As Ray wound down, his father scooped him up, carried him into his room, prayed with him, and put him to bed.
Now, Chuck and Beth sat snuggled up on the couch, catching up on their time apart. She held a glass of white wine and he sipped from a tumbler of Jefferson’s Bourbon. Even though McCain only worked for the CIA as a contractor, he was still limited in what he could talk about. His wife, while not always enjoying the secrecy, understood the importance of operational security.
“Were you with Josh when he died?” she asked.
“No,” he sighed, looking down at the floor.
He had called Elizabeth after finding out Matthews had been killed but he hadn’t been able to give her all the details over the phone.
“I was on an assignment for Kevin. Josh and Hollywood were in Trenton getting ready to teach a SWAT class for Century. They just happened to get caught in the middle of that attack. Of course, they jumped right into the fight. They took out several of the players before they could detonate their suicide vests. Hollywood told me that Josh charged the last bad guy to keep him from getting any closer to the crowd of people standing in front of the courthouse where the car bomb had gone off. Hollywood said Josh made the shots but the bastard still managed to blow his vest.”
“I’m so sorry, Chuck,” Beth said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “He was such a great guy. Have you called his ex-wife yet?”
“Not yet. I’ll have to try and track her down. The general told me Josh’s two boys will be
taken care of. Their college will be paid for and he said he’ll be setting up a trust for them.”
“That’s really nice of him to do that.”
Chuck nodded. “For sure. If I had to guess, the president will probably be involved in that, as well.”
“Does Kevin have any more assignments for you or is it back to teaching?”
“I think I’m done for the moment. I’ll be back into the office at Century in the morning and see what the schedule looks like. I’m hoping that we’ve seen the last of the terror attacks, but with all that’s been going on, Kevin has had to pull in a lot of the old guard. He’s trying to get his division back up to speed but that takes some time. What about you? Is that conference in London with Dr. Martin still on?”
Beth’s eyes lit up. “It is. They pushed it back a few months to later in the year. I think it’ll be the second week of September. Evidently, the terrorist incidents here raised the level of threat in England, too. “
“Makes sense. What kind of conference is it?”
“It’s all about bio-terrorism. The brightest minds from around the world are going to be coming together to talk about what we learned from the zombie virus crisis. And guess what? Dr. Martin wants you to come with us. He asked me to ask you if you would be on a panel, discussing law enforcement and military responses to the crisis. Dr. Martin said that he couldn’t think of anyone more qualified than you. Of course, I agreed with him.”
McCain stared into his glass of whiskey, pondering the offer.
“Tell Dr. Martin that I accept, with a few conditions that he and I can work out. There’s a lot of things that happened that I wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about, but I’d be happy to be a part of the panel.”
“That’s great! I’m so glad that you’ll be going with me. The conference is only three days. Maybe after it’s over, we could see some of the sights?”
“I’d love that,” he smiled. “What about Ray?”
“I’m still working on that,” his wife replied. “I’m just happy you’ll be with me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DEARBORN, MICHIGAN, THURSDAY, 0030 HOURS
The Center for Islamic Studies in Dearborn, Michigan, was a single-story, non-descript red brick building situated in the middle of a working-class neighborhood. The white, full-size van sat two hundred yards north of the center in a parking lot at the corner of Hemlock Avenue and Chase Road. The lot was half-full of vehicles, mostly from people who lived nearby and didn’t want to park in the street. Tu and Jennifer had spent the last three hours watching the mosque through high-powered, night-vision binoculars.
In the surrounding area, they had observed multiple drug deals, three prostitutes plying their trade up and down Hemlock Avenue, and a steady flow of traffic into the Center for Islamic Studies. The intelligence that Stephen had developed from digging through Musa’s phone and computer indicated a terror cell of twelve people, eight men and four women, who had been recruited from this Muslim community. Hughes snapped photo after photo with a long, telephoto lens with a night-vision attachment.
Jay and Chris were a block south of the mosque, parked in the Kitty Club parking lot. After an hour, a muscular bouncer with a shaved head had approached the SUV with dark, tinted glass. Walker put the window down and nodded at the man. The strip club employee did not mince words.
“Look, bud, this parking lot is only for our customers. If you’re not coming in, you’ve got to leave.”
The bouncer glanced in, noting the two men sitting by themselves in the corner of the lot and drew his own conclusions.
“I mean I don’t care what you guys are into, but if you aren’t customers, take off.”
Walker gave a nervous chuckle, suppressing the urge to teach the bouncer some manners.
“I understand but we’re private investigators. We have a straying husband who’s supposedly gonna be here later with his girlfriend. The wife wants some photos and then we can get paid.”
Norris held up a camera with a tele-photo lens to verify their story. Shaved head started to protest but Jay held up a fifty-dollar bill.
“I think this should cover our parking charge for the night?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the muscular man nodded and took the money.
“You guys aren’t gonna cause a scene if this guy shows up?”
“Of course not,” the former SEAL Team Six member assured him. “We’ll just snap a few pics and be on our way.”
“You think Tu would get mad if we went inside for a while?” Chris asked, after the man had sauntered back to work. “We do get a break every hour, right?“
Walker smiled. “Yeah, he probably wouldn’t go for that and I doubt the girls here are anything to write home about.”
Norris raised the camera, snapping several photos of three young black men entering the mosque.
“You think this is going to work?” Chris wondered, handing the camera to Jay.
“I hope so. Stephen said this is definitely the right mosque that Khan has spent some time at. The imam is a “Death to Israel, death to America” type and has been on the FBI’s radar for a while. We’ve got names of the cell members, but now we’ve got to build a case.”
“Any sign of bouncer boy?” Norris asked, glancing over towards the entrance of the strip club.
The parking lot was only half full, evidence that most people preferred to frequent the establishment on the weekend.
“I’m sure he’s inside making sure no one is handling the merchandise without paying first,” Walker answered.
Chris pulled on a tattered denim jacket and a black stocking cap. He reached into the floorboard and retrieved a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Scotch Whiskey. He twisted open the cap and poured some onto both sleeves of his jacket, took a swallow, and offered the bottle to his partner.
“Want a sip?”
Jay rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You just had to get Johnny Walker, didn’t you? I doubt many winos could afford that.”
“I bought it in honor of you, Johnny Walker!” Chris laughed, slipping the bottle into a paper bag, pushing the door open and moving off into the night.
“Bravo One to Alpha One, Bravo Two is moving,” Jay notified Tu.
“Alpha One is clear.”
Chris stumbled down the sidewalk, just another drunk trying to make it home after blowing some money at the Kitty Club. A block later, he turned left down an alley between a closed mom & pop grocery store and the Islamic Center. Like so much of Detroit and its suburbs, the area was rundown and crime ridden. There were few working street lights and the alley reeked of overflowing dumpsters.
A single metal door opened into the alley from the mosque. There were two windows set into the brick, one on each end, both covered with burglar bars, dark drapes preventing anyone from peering inside. This was the back of the building, the front facing Tu and Jennifer’s position. Norris listened at the first window, hearing nothing. He withdrew a disc the size of a quarter from his pocket, peeled off an adhesive backing and pressed it against the lower right corner of the glass.
The former SEAL paused at the second window, pulling out another remote microphone. Voices could be heard inside as Chris carefully pushed the device against the window. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, trusting the microphones to do their job as he continued down the alley, his mission accomplished.
After moving away from the windows, Norris transmitted softly, “Bravo Two, devices attached. I’m on my way back.”
“Alpha One clear. We’ll call it a night after you’re back in the vehicle.”
As Chris stepped out onto the sidewalk on the opposite end of the mosque, he was back in character, taking a drink from the bottle of scotch and stumbling in the direction of the Kitty Club. Suddenly, two figures appeared out of the shadows, closing in on him.
“Hey white boy, you in the wrong part of town,” a low voice growled. “Gimme your wallet and your cell phone.”
Norris slow
ly turned, faking a stumble backwards to get a better look at his new friends. The male who spoken to him was standing three feet away, the glint of a blade highlighting the knife in his right hand. The thug appeared to be about eighteen but held the blade like he knew how to use it. His partner didn’t appear to be armed but was taller and built like a linebacker.
“Whas’ wrong?” Chris slurred, holding up the whiskey. “You want a drink?”
Less than a block away, Jennifer and Tu watched the drama unfold through the night vision scopes. The former Green Beret shook his head.
“Damn, can we not catch a break here?”
“Should we go and help him?” Hughes asked, concern in her voice.
“Help who? Those dumbasses are about to realize they just grabbed a tiger by the tail.”
Even as Tu was speaking, Chris swung the thick glass bottle catching the knife-wielding thug on the side of his skull. The heavy container shattered against his temple, slicing his head open, and dropping him unconscious, facedown onto the pavement. Before the second thug could perceive what was happening, Norris surged forward and struck the bigger punk in the trachea with the web of his left hand.
Chris wrapped his fingers around the man’s windpipe and squeezed, snapping a right kick into his testicles. Norris kept moving and even before the pain in the robber’s crotch had fully registered, the former SEAL grabbed his head in a Thai clinch, jerking it down into a powerful knee strike to the chin that put him to sleep, as well. Norris spun to make sure the first thug was still out, grabbing the robber’s knife just as he started to stir.