Project StrikeForce (26 page)

“Deion? Are you hit?” Nancy yelled.

He peeked around the car, bullets pinging and
ricocheting, as the man in the car peppered his location. He saw the backs of
the two Arabic men running down an aisle of cars before they turned the corner
and were gone. He hated to admit it but Eric was right, things had spiraled out
of control. “Roger, meet up with Martin. Block the exit.”

“We’ve got another car,” Martin breathed. “And
another one.”

In the distance, Deion heard gunfire, a mix of
different weapons, and knew the operation had gone to shit.

The wiry man stopped firing. Deion glanced around
the corner and saw the man get back in the Crown Vic, rev the engine, then
throw it into gear and plow diagonally into the pile of cars where Nancy hid.
He jumped out and sprayed the car with gunfire, but it was too late. The stack
collapsed backwards.

“Nancy!” He rushed forward and yanked open the
door to the Crown Vic, only to find the wiry man a bloody mess, shredded by his
MP5SD. The smell of death stuck in the back of his throat, and he choked on the
smell.

“Deion?” Nancy yelled from the stack of cars. “I’m
stuck. I’m in the floorboards of a car on the bottom. I can’t get out!”

Thank Christ.
“Hang on,” he hollered.
“You’re safe for now. I’ve got to help Roger and Taylor.”

“Don’t you dare leave me, you asshole!”

I’m going to catch hell for this.
“Just sit
tight, I’ll be back in a minute.” He pictured the junkyard from overhead, the
way he remembered it from the drone video, then ran toward the front.

He heard more gunfire.

“Man down,” Martin gasped.

Man down?

“Deion,” Eric said. “Fall back and regroup. You
can’t stop them if you’re dead.”

“Martin, get your ass to the south east, near the
entrance.” He waited, but there was no acknowledgment. “Martin?” He threw
caution to the wind, racing down the empty row of cars and turned the corner,
almost stumbling over Roger’s body.

He was too late. Roger’s head was slick with
blood, a clump of hair dangling from the back, and when he turned him over he
saw the small hole in his cheek. The bullet had gone slightly to the left of
Roger’s nose, under the eye, and exited through the back of the head.

Fuck!

He didn’t have time to mourn. As he stood, he
heard a noise behind. He turned as the older Arabic man fired at him with an
AK-47, the younger Arabic man joining in. In a flash of insight, Deion wondered
whether the older man was Abdullah.

The bullets slammed into his chest, like a
sledgehammer, and his world erupted in pain before everything went black.

* * *

Abdullah wasn’t surprised by the
man’s unwillingness to sell them the caesium. The two Federal agents were
another matter. He watched as Jakobs was cut down in a bloody hail of gunfire,
and then the woman opened fire on the bald man, killing him instantly.

Ahmed grabbed the AK-47’s from the Camry and
yelled at Abdullah to run.

He was stunned, but Ahmed’s voice broke the spell
and he tore off through the junkyard, leaving the gunfire behind. If they were
captured, his plans would be for naught. He heard Ahmed yelling behind him and
he stopped to let Ahmed catch up and hand him one of the AK-47’s.

They ran through the stacks of cars until they
came to the entrance. The scene was chaos. Several Latino men lay on the
ground, their bodies riddled with bullet-holes. Two cars had entered and were
now abandoned as a group of Latino men fired at a lanky black man with a
bullet-proof vest like the other Federal agents. The agent ran between the
junk, bullets pinging madly around him, but was hit by the combined gunfire and
fell to the ground.

He recognized the dark blue Taurus, and saw Manny
standing next to it, eyes wide, raising a semi-automatic pistol. Abdullah beat
him to it, pulling the trigger on his AK-47, the gun barking in his hands.
Manny screamed and dove to the side, barely escaping as the bullets chewed up
the ground where he had stood.

Before he could aim, Ahmed shoved him out of the
way and dropped to his knee, firing at Manny. Ahmed missed, but caught several
of the men in the chest. They fell, and Ahmed took the opportunity to yank
Abdullah up by his shirt and they headed back through the junkyard, seeking
shelter.

As they rounded a corner, a white man with thin
black hair and a bulletproof vest burst through. Abdullah pulled the trigger on
his AK-47, and the man’s eyes widened, one of the bullets catching him in the
face. The man’s head snapped back and he dropped like a stone, lifeless.

Ahmed grabbed his arm. “Hide,” he hissed. Abdullah
saw a rusted metal fuel tank, cut in half, and he ran to it, pulling Ahmed with
him. They took shelter behind the tank just in time as the first Federal agent
rounded the corner and stumbled over his teammate’s body.

Abdullah pressed against the tank, then carefully
eased around the side, his denim shirt catching against the rusted steel. The
Federal agent was hunched over, checking his teammates body, and Abdullah
aimed, slowly and with great care. The man stood and turned as Abdullah emptied
his gun into the man.

The agent staggered forward, then sprawled over
his teammate’s corpse.

He turned to Ahmed, who stood wide-eyed. “We have
to get the caesium.”

Ahmed shook his head. “We must leave.”

“Allah is protecting us.” He saw the fear in
Ahmed’s face and smiled. “We have not come this far to give up.”

Ahmed nodded and they headed back to the middle of
the junkyard. As they approached the pickup truck, they heard the roar of an
engine. The Taurus spun around the corner and he registered Manny in the
driver’s seat, his face contorted in rage, as the car blew past. The driver
spun around the next corner, moving too fast to stop, then they heard the car’s
tires sliding through the loose rock and the squealing impact of
metal-on-metal.

He spied a stack of oxygen tanks not far away. He
pointed to them. “Help me!”

Ahmed nodded and they ran to the tanks. Abdullah
grabbed the top of the first brown cylinder. “Lift on the bottom,” he
commanded.

With Ahmed’s help he set the oxygen tank on a car
frame and Abdullah searched wildly until he found a sledge hammer with a broken
handle.

There was a squealing of metal and the engine
roared as the Taurus backed around the corner, front tires spraying rock.
Abdullah motioned for Ahmed to duck. When the car was next to them, Abdullah
stood and swung the hammer, knocking the valve assembly off. With a mighty
whoosh the tank shot forward, striking the car in the driver’s side, smashing
the door like a tin can, then bouncing off. It spun wildly, bouncing around the
aisle, knocking into car frames, finally coming to rest in the dirt.

Ahmed emptied his AK-47 into the car. Manny
screamed as the bullets tore through him, his screams turning to wet gurgles.
Ahmed’s gun ran empty and he stopped, panting from adrenaline and exhaustion.

Abdullah calmly emptied the rest of his AK-47 into
the passenger, Rafael, the short Latino man who helped ferry him through the
underground tunnel in Nogales. The little man jerked to the rhythm of the
gunfire, then slumped forward, blood staining his white undershirt.

Abdullah turned at the approaching footsteps. His
gun was empty, so he held it by the barrel, like a club. When Darrell came
around the corner, Abdullah took a deep breath and smiled.

“We have to go,” Darrell shouted. “It’s a war in
here. The cops will be here any minute.”

They hurried back to the F-150. They heard a
woman’s screams from a collapsed stack of cars.

“What about her?” Darrell asked.

Abdullah shook his head. “She’s trapped like a rat
in a cage. Leave her.”

Darrell nodded and searched Jakobs’s pants for the
keys, then started to the driver’s side of the truck.

“No,” Abdullah said, grabbing Darrell’s arm. “They
already know about the truck.” He took the keys from Darrell and opened the
truck’s topper. “Get those out,” he directed.

Ahmed and Darrell struggled to unload the two blue
barrels from the truck while Abdullah opened the trunk of the Toyota Camry.
When they had both barrels unloaded, Abdullah opened the tops and withdrew one
of the stainless steel cylinders, like the metal thermos that he used for
coffee when he lived in New York City. “Take these canisters and load them in
the trunk. Put whatever remains in the back seat.”

He found a blanket in the back of the F-150 and
within minutes they were pulling out of the junkyard and heading south, Darrell
and Ahmed in the front and Abdullah in the backseat, the rough brown blanket
covering the stacks of stainless steel containers next to him, the rest safely
stored in the trunk.

He heard sirens in the distance as they took the
on-ramp to the Lyndon Johnson freeway, and breathed easy. Allah truly was with
them.

Area 51

ric knocked before entering Smith’s
office. Smith sat at his desk, Eric knocked before entering Smith’s office.
Smith sat at his desk, shuffling the worn playing cards.

“My daughter is safe,” Smith remarked, without
looking up.

“Fire and Rescue finally cut her out. I think she
was more angry than upset.”

Smith continued his game, his fingers surprisingly
delicate as he shuffled through the cards. Eric noticed the many fine white
scars, faded almost to invisibility, covering the old man’s knuckles. Smith
glanced up, his pale blue eyes fixing intently on Eric. “Mr. Johnson’s death
was unfortunate. How are the others?”

“Deion’s in rough shape,” Eric said, “but they
stabilized him in Dallas. His vest took the brunt of it, but a round got
inside, bounced around, and chewed up his liver and pancreas. Doc Elliot is
consulting with the doctors in Dallas, he wants to move him here as soon as
he’s safe to travel. Martin’s got multiple bullet wounds to his arms and legs,
nothing serious, but one creased his skull. They think he’ll pull through, if
they can relieve the pressure.”

Smith nodded. “Don’t blame yourself. You weren’t
there.”

“No, but I should have been. They should have
waited.”

“Mr. Freeman took a risk,” Smith said. “What about
the caesium?”

Eric’s stomach knotted. “Gone. It was Abdullah,
I’m sure of it. Now he’s in the US and we have no idea where he went.”

“Then find him,” Smith replied. “Have you given
any further consideration to my offer?”

During the mission to Afghanistan, he had hardly
thought of little else. Until the conversation with John. “I’m not sure I’m cut
out for the position.”

Smith picked up the cards, shuffled them, and
placed them in a neat stack on the desktop. “I was hoping you’d accept the
position willingly.”

Willingly? “And if I don’t?”

“It’s who you are,” Smith said, eyes glinting in
the reflected light. “I won’t insult your intelligence by calling on your
patriotism or your sense of duty. The truth is, the world is a scary place and
it’s getting scarier. The technology that Doctor Oshensker used to reprogram
Mr. Frist’s brain has far-reaching implications. We are twenty years ahead of
the best research, but make no mistake, that technology will become available.
Can you imagine the implications? What if every soldier could be Implanted?
What kind of power would an army of such men wield? The VISOR? The Weave?
Imagine an army of nanobots programed to strip the flesh from bone, dropped in
the heart of an enemy country. Or worse, a shopping mall. Things are spiraling
out of control. I need someone who will never betray their country, or the
Office.” Smith shook his head wearily. “Truman told me I was a man of high
moral character. I’ve been tempted over the years. I am human, but I never
crossed that line. I need the same in my successor. I need you.”

Eric digested that. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Smith bowed his head. “How is Mr. Frist?”

“Well above expectations,” Eric lied.

“This project is vital to national security. We
need to get ahead of our enemies, Eric. We need an advantage. Mr. Frist served
his purpose but we won’t have that advantage for long.”

That gave him pause. “Why is that?”

Smith sagged back in his chair. “Did you really
think we could do those things to him without consequences? There’s been no
long-term human trials studying the effects of nano-particles. The nanobots
that performed the Weave? It’s never been tried in a human being. The process
is killing him. Do you know what cancer is? Unregulated cell growth. The very
drugs we used to heal him will eventually fill him with tumors.”

Eric felt sick. “You knew this from the start.”

“Oshensker’s frequent MRI’s aren’t evaluations,
they’re diagnostics,” Smith said, eyes narrowing. “We can’t keep him alive
forever.”

“I’ve been his mentor. His friend. You should have
told me.”

“What would that have changed?” Smith asked. “His
life ended when he bombed the Red Cross.”

“I’ve lied to him! I’ve looked him straight in the
eye and told him that we would be there for him.”

“We will. He’s of no value to us dead. If the
project fails, however, then all this must be shut down. Loose ends cleaned
up.”

“You mean the people?”

“Yes,” Smith said. “The circle of trust must
remain small. Too many know too much.”

Surely he misunderstood. “What about Nancy?”

Smith leaned forward, his palms on the table. “She
will be looked after. The low-clearance employees will be shuffled back into
the defense department. The rest? Oshensker and Elliot? Mr. Freeman? Or
yourself?” He paused, watching Eric with hooded eyes. “You’re a bright young
man, Eric. I need you. They need you.”

His stomach sank. “I can’t—”

“You have forty-eight hours.”

* * *

New York City, New York

Abdullah followed Ahmed into the
coffee shop and spotted Muhammad al-Hamid waiting for them. Abdullah smiled at
the man’s neatly trimmed beard, black slacks and long-sleeved white dress shirt.
Muhammad appeared as sophisticated and respectable as Abdullah remembered. He
glanced around at the other patrons, men of varying ages with dark skin, black
hair, and well-trimmed beards. The coffee shop was popular with the Islamic
Brotherhood, but they all maintained a respectful distance from Muhammad.

Muhammad returned the warm smile. “I am glad to
see you, dear friend.”

Abdullah hugged the man. “I have missed you, my
friend.” They sat and Ahmed left to get them coffee. “You know my plans?”

“Yes, I know your plans,” Muhammad said, shaking
his head. “I am sorry, Abdullah, but I cannot agree to this.”

Abdullah nodded. It was as he feared. Muhammad had
grown soft. “I am sorry you feel that way, but it is the will of Allah.”

Muhammad frowned. “I know that losing your wife
was a great blow, but the Islamic Brotherhood is moving in a different
direction. We want to find a political solution to the problems facing Muslims
around the world. Jihad still continues, but the fight will be political.” He
shook his head sadly. “I remember when you first arrived in the city. You were
so eager to learn. You loved it here. Then you met Diwi. You were so happy. You
should not have left.”

Abdullah bristled. “She wanted to return home.
What was I to do?”

Muhammad took Abdullah’s hand and squeezed it
tightly. “I know you wanted to make her happy. What you’ve faced is terrible,
but you place all the blame on the Americans. Who betrayed you? It was not
them.”

Hearing Muhammad voice it filled him with cold
anger. “Someone betrayed me, but it wasn’t the Taliban that bombed my house. It
was the Americans. A man I trusted. Do you know why? Because the Americans are
evil.” He pointed to the window. “This shop? This city? It is against Allah.
That is why these terrible things happen.”

Ahmed returned and sat two coffee cups carefully
on the table, glancing between the two men, watching in silence.

Muhammad eyed them sadly. “I’m afraid your grief
has turned you mad, my friend. These people have done nothing against you.”

He wanted to scream at Muhammad. “These people
will pay for their affront to Allah.” He wanted to make his old mentor see the
truth, but realized the man’s cowardice ran deeper than expected.

“Is this what you intend?” Muhammad asked quietly.
“To strike them down? I thought you were going to attack their military.”

“I have seen too many young men die,” Abdullah
said. “Too many have martyred themselves. This is the only way. Allah demands
it.”

“Please do not do this,” Muhammad implored, clutching
Abdullah’s hand. “Attacking the Pentagon would be bad enough, not only for
yourself, but for Muslims everywhere. If you attack this city, they will strike
us down. Legitimate reforms are coming. Don’t let your wife’s death harden your
heart. Think of the young, of what it means to them.”

Abdullah yanked his hand away. “I’m doing this
for
them,” he insisted. “Allah demands justice.”

Muhammad shook his head. “No, my friend. Allah
would not condone killing innocents. I cannot agree to this.”

Abdullah took a deep gulp of the hot coffee. It
scalded his lips, his tongue, burning all the way to his stomach. “The Islamic
Brotherhood is split. The young want to fight.”

Ahmed turned to Muhammad and bowed his head. “Sir,
with respect, Abdullah is right. We must strike now.”

Muhammad drew back, his eyes narrowed. “Do you
really believe this? Do you even remember growing up in your village, Ahmed?
You complain of how America treats Muslims, but you have benefited from this
city. It sheltered you, educated you.” Ahmed started to speak but Muhammad
raised his hand. “Would you so willingly throw away your life for this man?” he
asked, pointing to Abdullah. “He is overcome with grief. Do not do this, I beg
you. This is not the will of Allah. This is the will of Abdullah.”

Abdullah rose and shoved the half-empty coffee cup
across the table. At least he had tried to reach Muhammad. He loved the man,
but Muhammad had grown soft living in the decadent city. “Goodbye, my friend. I
hoped you would bless this operation. I hoped that you still believed in Jihad.”

Muhammad rose and grabbed Abdullah’s arm. “Allah
will not bless this operation, and the Islamic Brotherhood will not help.”

Ahmed spun on his heel, his face filled with
disgust. “Some will.”

* * *

Newark, New Jersey

bdullah glanced around the inside
of the rundown brick building near downtown Newark, not far from a massive
construction project Ahmed assured him would mask their comings and goings. The
warehouse was a beehive of activity as Ahmed showed him the final preparations.

“We stole the truck a week ago,” Ahmed said
proudly.

Abdullah nodded. The truck
did
look
passable. Inside, two black men finished wiring the detonation cord around the
last of the stainless steel containers bolted to the bottom of the roof. The
young men looked up from their work and smiled, nodding at him. He smiled back
and motioned for them to return to their work. “How much longer?”

“Only a few minutes,” Ahmed said. “Then they will
load the rest.” He pointed to metal drums of improvised explosives made from
fertilizer and diesel fuel, much like Abdullah had worked with in Afghanistan.

“Excellent,” Abdullah said. “The cord will cut
through the containers and the explosion below will spread the caesium up and
out in a cloud.”

“You are sure we should change the target?” Ahmed
asked uncertainly.

Abdullah tilted his head and sighed. “I was a fool
to think anyone in this city is innocent.” He pointed to the young men milling
about, including Darrell. “They have been helpful?”

Ahmed nodded. “Without them, we couldn’t have
acquired the caesium. The APR thought they were selling the caesium to a street
gang from Los Angeles.”

Abdullah smiled and watched as the men finished
with the last of the detonation cord and started placing the loaded barrels in
the back of the truck. He turned back to Ahmed. “Did someone check the manhole
cover?”

“Yes,” Ahmed said. “Nazer checked yesterday. It is
still there.” Ahmed’s phone rang and he answered it, then turned to Abdullah.
“It is Muhammad.”

Abdullah nodded. “Go. Talk to him. Perhaps he has
changed his mind.”

Ahmed stepped away, speaking rapidly. His voice
rose in frustration, then he keyed off the phone and returned. “He has not
changed his position.”

“It is of no concern,” Abdullah said. He turned
back to the truck as they finished loading the last barrel. “I only wish we had
time to repaint the truck.”

“Do you think it will be a problem?”

Abdullah shrugged. “It would be better if we had
time to paint it correctly, but this,” he said, waving to the PEPCO label,
“will have to do. Are you ready?”

Ahmed nodded.

“Good,” Abdullah said. “Let us strike the
Americans. For my wife. For Naseer. For Koshen. For all the young men who have
died in the name of Allah.”

* * *

Area 51

John watched Eric mechanically chew
his food. Nancy stared off into space, head down. The failure in Dallas weighed
heavily on them all.

He tried to reconcile his current feelings. Deion
tortured him and yet he felt the man’s failure as his own. He hoped that Deion
would soon be stable enough to return to Area 51. He worried about Nancy, her
eyes downcast, the light gone from them. Even Eric appeared deflated.

On the other hand, he half-expected Eric to pull
his sidearm and calmly shoot him.

Then he remembered Taylor Martin and Roger
Johnson. Martin was in critical condition, but finally stabilized. Roger
Johnson had died for the Office. John felt the loss sharply. He had liked
Roger. They had only worked together in Denver, but Roger’s grin was
infectious.

Nurse Tulli entered the cafeteria, caught his
gaze, and scowled as she poured hot water into a cup. She placed a teabag in
the steaming water, dipped it, then glanced at him again, utter loathing in her
eyes.

She knows.

He could not put his finger on it, but he knew it
to be true. She knew what he had done. With all the time he spent in the
infirmary, how had he never noticed?

He turned back to Eric. “Is there going to be
anything for Roger?”

“No,” Eric said. “No wife, no kids. His parents
are still alive so they’ll get a letter. They’ll know he died a hero.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” John said. “We ought to do
something for him.”