Authors: Stephen England
A couple passed on the sidewalk and Abu Kareem waited for them to disappear into the darkness before continuing. “For a man to be moral is praiseworthy, but his morality…benefits no one but himself. Do not allow doubt to fill your heart toward Tarik and the others. Allah has a mighty use for their strength.”
He turned as if to go back into the club, but Omar reached out, catching him by the arm. “Call me weak, if you will, but I cannot go back in.
Never
.”
Abu Kareem paused. “What are you saying?”
“On the appointed day…give me another task.” The black man’s eyes brightened. “Give me the missile, my father. I can still do my part for the jihad—I can bring the Americans down from the sky…”
2:28 A.M. Central Time
Police Headquarters
Dearborn, Michigan
“You could really use some sleep.” Marika looked up from her desk—or rather the desk she had commandeered—into the eyes of the negotiator.
She snorted. “Now look who’s talking, Russ.”
He leaned forward, resting both hands against the desk. “And you know that I’m right. Particularly when you’re not even supposed to still be on this case.”
“That’s a matter of perspective.” She shoved the stack of printouts to one side, picking up her cellphone. “As long as Nasir abu Rashid—or whatever his name is—remains our only lead, I’m indispensable. This is the only contact number he has, and there’s no way D.C. wants to spook him by having a stranger pick up the phone.”
There was that. And it was the only card she held.
“You can only stall for so long, Marika.” The negotiator’s voice was soft, as always. “And we both know it—particularly as sketchy as this CI’s info is.”
But it was a lifeline—back to the career that she had spent her life pursuing. Back to the career that she had, for all intents and purposes, ended the moment she broke into the mosque. “Look at this,” she announced, tapping the screen of the laptop. “Nasir’s CDL—the one we secured for him—was used to rent a tractor-trailer on the 18
th
. Right before they skipped town.”
Russell’s eyes lit up. “Does the company use GPS to keep tabs on their fleet?”
“Can’t tell,” Marika responded, reaching for her phone. “Do me a favor and get the S-A-C in here. He’s going to want to see this.”
1:30 A.M. Pacific Time
San Francisco, California
It wasn’t a tactical environment he was comfortable in. He preferred to control the situation—staging an assault took time.
Korsakov lowered the binoculars, staring through the tinted windows of the Suburban at the front of the townhouse across the street.
Their target, dimly lit in the faint, cold glow of a streetlight. The door and windows were reinforced with iron grates, ruling out just about anything except an explosive entry. Beside him, their driver took picture after picture, the soft
click
of the camera shutter the only sound breaking the silence.
The Russian ran a hand over his day-old beard. “Are you sure it’s that building?”
“
Da
,” Viktor replied from the back seat of the SUV, looking up from his laptop. “Our target is…maybe eight feet from the—the outer wall.”
It was a two-story building, a garage underneath the living area. The front door was on the second level, ten concrete stepsto the top.
They couldn’t linger for the extended surveillance Korsakov would have preferred. Not in this neighborhood.
He glanced in the rear-view, spotting a young Latino leaning against a car about a hundred meters back—saggy pants nearly down to his knees, the glow of a lit cigarette between his fingers. And he was giving them the eye.
“Let’s drive, Misha,” Korsakov announced softly, tapping his driver on the arm. “Our friends are due into San Francisco International within the hour. I need to get Valentin on the phone.”
1:39 A.M.
The abandoned mansion
Beverly Hills, California
“You don’t know how much I regret those years…” Her father’s face, drifting before her eyes. Old before his time. So different from her dim memories. “All the time we lost.”
Lost
…
Somewhere a door closed, a draft of cool air billowing into the kitchen. Carol jerked awake, struggling for a moment to place her surroundings. The dream had seemed so real. As if he was still alive.
But it was only a dream. A mirage of what could have been.
She raised her head from the granite countertop, instinctively checking the surveillance feeds open on the laptop. Nothing. Everything looked right.
But the door hadn’t been part of the dream.
Where’s Han?
Movement in the shadows of the living room—her hand flew outward, fingers closing around the butt of the Kahr.
“Hold it, hold it.” Han stood in the doorway, his hands out. Open. “Easy.”
Of course, she remembered, all of it coming back. He had gone out. “Find anything?”
He shook his head, tossing his jacket on the island. “They’re having a party five houses down. You can hear the music from here, if you’re outside. Andropov has a few lights on. No movement. Any word from Harry?”
“Nothing.”
The former SEAL swore under his breath. “This feels just like the old days. All of it. Except we never worked in the US.”
She saw his fist clench as he stared off into the darkness, his jaw moving, but no words coming out. “And you know the sick part? I enjoyed it. Despite all the deployments. Despite all the times I left in the middle of the night. Despite all the time I spent away from Michelle and kids. I loved every minute of it.” He paused, as if uncertain whether he dared continue. “I was living my dream—never realized how I was hurting her until it was too late to do anything about it. Not a day’s passed since that I haven’t regretted the time we lost.”
Lost
…
2:07 A.M.
The club
Las Vegas, Nevada
The girl stirred beneath his arm, her thin fingers running down over his chest.
She had been good, Nasir thought, opening his eyes. Almost good enough to make him forget his peril.
Almost
.
He reached out a hand, stroking her dark hair. She was gaunt, her ribs showing as she lay there on her side.
In the semi-darkness, he could see his brother’s form sprawled over the white leather sofa near the other end of the lounge. The champagne bottle had been emptied in the course of the night. And replaced. And emptied again.
Nasir shook his head, attempting to clear away the fog. His eyes picked out the figure of the shaikh, his body almost concealed by cushions. He was still moving.
The Russian’s bodyguards still flanked the door, undistracted by the bacchanalian scene around them. He had to find a way…
He lay back, forcing back the wave of panic that washed over him. Willing his breathing to slow.
Calm down
. He had to contact the American FBI. Somehow.
He stared down at the prostitute in his arms, as if his solution lay with her. Maybe…
Her name? His brow furrowed as he tried to remember. The women had been paraded before them, like prize heifers in the market, the Russian calling out their names as they passed.
“Ileana,” he whispered, a finger passing along her cheek. She raised her head from his chest, fear and surprise visible in those dark eyes.
He couldn’t trust her, couldn’t trust anyone. But he had no other choice. His left hand went out, groping around in the darkness for his discarded shirt. He pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of the pocket, extending it toward her.
“I need…a phone.”
2:15 A.M.
“We have a problem,
tovarisch
.” Harry perked up at the sound of Alexei’s voice in his headset.
“Just when I thought things were getting boring.”
“I received a text from my man at the safehouse. Korsakov made a surveillance run through the neighborhood.”
“Your man, Alexei? I thought you were just the consulate’s head of security. The personnel at a safehouse…they would fall within the purview of the FSB, wouldn’t they?”
The Russian swore in exasperation. “You know who I am, Harry. You’ve always known. But I’m not risking the lives of
my
people for your op. I’m going to order him to evacuate the safehouse before Korsakov returns.”
“You knew the risks when we began playing—and you have more to gain from this than I do. If the tracker stops moving, Korsakov will know he’s being conned,” Harry retorted, his tone cold as ice.
“If I have to start shipping FSB officers back to Moscow in black body bags…” Alexei growled. “There’s no, how would you say it, ‘upside,’ to that.”
There would be no budging him, that much was clear from the sound of the Russian’s voice. “I think there’s another way to accomplish our ends.”
“And that would be?”
Harry was about to reply when he looked over the railing, down to the club floor below him. Ileana had just emerged from the VIP, standing there in the midst of the crowd, buttoning her blouse.
Their eyes met through the flashing strobes and she put her head down, working her way through the boisterous crowd.
“I’m about to make contact, Alexei,” Harry intoned, watching her ascend the stairs. “How did she escape your notice?”
“I was texting.”
Harry stifled a laugh. “Heaven help us, you sound like my nephew. Eyes on the prize,
tovarisch
.”
The young prostitute’s eyes were downcast as she moved toward his table, steps furtive. Her pale skin was covered with a thin sheen of sweat, her hands trembling as she took a seat across from him.
“I did…as you asked,” she began hesitantly. “But I learned only a little. They did not want to talk in front of us, I think.”
It had been a long shot—a hope that the men would neglect operational security in the presence of the women and the liquor, as so many men had done, throughout the history of mankind.
Apparently not this time.
She cleared her throat. “The man who took me asked me to come out here, to bring him something. And I don’t know how to get it.”
“What is it?” Harry asked, leaning forward, taking in the look on her face.
“A phone.”
5:30 A.M. Eastern Time
Graves Mill, Virginia
The sound of a door opening and shutting reached Thomas’s ears through the cold morning air, an alien sound in the stillness. His head came up, scanning the ground through his binoculars.
Nothing.
“LONGBOW, I have movement.” The Texan paused. “Someone’s starting the car.”
The information was so unexpected that it took Thomas a moment to react. They hadn’t planned for this. Not now.
But it wasn’t his decision to make, and Richards never hesitated. “Move in, move in. Prepare to execute on my signal.”
Thomas pushed himself up, the loose folds of the ghillie suit flowing around him—a white ghost arising from the stubble of the snowy cornfield.
The dark muzzle of the Beretta led the way as he moved forward, clutching the pistol in both hands.
The moment when a surveillance mission went hot…
“The car started, David,” Rhoda announced, the screen door of the double-wide slamming shut as she reentered the trailer. “No severed wires, no flat tires. No bombs.”
Her voice betrayed her skepticism. He looked up from where he sat at the kitchen, an open box of .38 Special cartridges in front of him. The Ruger GP-141 in his hands was well-worn, the bluing almost entirely gone.
It had been years since he had held a gun, and his fingers trembled as he slipped a final cartridge into the chamber.
“I know you think I’m paranoid,” he acknowledged, pulling himself to his feet. He swayed slightly and reached out for her hand to steady himself. “But I can’t afford to underestimate him. Not again.”
The Jamaican woman smiled finally, wrapping his left arm around her shoulders. His right hand hung down by his side, holding the Ruger. “Remember, David, the world’s thought me dead for a long time. I know these fears. They’re natural. Now, if we’re going to go…”
Click-click
. Nothing more over the radio, but it was enough to tell Thomas that Richards was in position, out there in the darkness. He found himself holding his breath, his body pressed against the siding of the trailer, the Beretta held low in front of him.
Safety off.
The light inside the double-wide went off, the parking lights of the Honda Accord the only illumination remaining.
Click-click.
Get ready.