Read The Beltway Assassin Online
Authors: Richard Fox
“Shannon, whatever is going on right now with the authority and that nuke is…worse than anything al-Qaeda can do. For the nation, for our way of life, I’m in this until the end,” he said.
“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me,” she said.
****
Zike stood beside Assistant Director Cox and Admiral Gage, head of Special Operations Command. The trio had been on the receiving end of ass chewings before, but this day was something special.
“How do you expect me to believe that the plan in still on track? One target was eliminated. One,” their leader said.
“All the directors who could go underground did so within hours of the first death. We didn’t anticipate that, but it works in our favor. Now we know their methods, and we will take the rest out in one fell swoop…when we can catch them in the open,” Admiral Gage said. A veteran SEAL, Gage’s black uniform boasted medals from three decades of service and his face bore scars from a firefight gone bad in the Afghan mountains.
“They don’t know? They think that Jefferson idiot did this by himself?”
“The move on Hawker fits that pattern. We’re planting more evidence to strengthen the lone-wolf scenario. The director we have under out thumb will dissuade the rest from thinking otherwise,” Cox said.
“Fine. The plan moves forward. Where are we on the Iranian and his team?” their leader asked.
“He’s retrieving them from the border now. The supplemental package will arrive by sea in a few days. Phase two and three will be ready in two weeks,” Zike said.
Hector Benson, president of the United States of America, looked over his lieutenants. His dark eyes had a way of making Zike’s skin crawl when he was angry, and this was definitely one of those times.
“Our plan must succeed for this great nation to endure. You all understand that. Eliminate the Caliban Program before the final phase by any means necessary. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” they said.
****
The Iranian pulled onto the side of the dirt road ten yards from two idling Border Patrol trucks. The transponder guiding him to his team was in one of those two trucks. The coyote, local parlance for a human smuggler, had been paid a ridiculous sum to bring the Iranian’s team from Mexico to Phoenix to prevent this exact scenario.
Yet, here he was, deep inside the Coronado National Forest northwest of Sierra Vista.
The Iranian came to a stop quickly, using the cloud of dust his truck had kicked up to conceal himself as he got out of the truck. The Glock in the side of his door was already cocked and loaded. He’d need only a few seconds.
“I’m from the Tucson field office. Do you have those special interest aliens in custody?” the Iranian said as he approached a pair of Border Patrolmen, both in the deep-green uniforms of their service. He held an ID open at eye level, meant to distract from the pistol held behind his back as he approached.
The pair, Liu and Contreras by their name tags, exchanged a glance.
“We called that in maybe half an hour ago. How did you—”
The Iranian put two round in his chest before he could finish, then two rounds into his partner’s head. He sprinted forward to the lead vehicle. He found another Border Patrolman in the cab, fumbling for a radio and his sidearm. Two rounds through the glass ended his life.
The Iranian reloaded a fresh magazine and opened the prisoner cabin on the green-and-white truck. There were five terrified men, their hands over their heads. Fear turned to joy on four of the faces.
“What part of ‘Don’t get caught’ didn’t you understand?” the Iranian said in Farsi.
“We tried to come over during the night, but the guide thought we might get lost,” said Farid, the oldest Iranian in the truck, his bald head at odds with his bushy beard.
The coyote, spouting off nonstop and rapid-fire Spanish, jumped from the cab and backed away from the Iranian, hands in the air.
“What’s he saying?” the Iranian asked. He bent down and pulled a pistol from a dead Border Patrol agent’s holster. He slid the upper receive back to confirm there was a round in the chamber.
“‘So sorry. I’ll get you a refund.’ That sort of thing,” Soheil, a studious young man just out of his teens, said.
The Iranian shook his head and shot the Mexican in the chest with the Border Patrol agent’s weapon. He dropped the smoking gun next to the uniformed corpse and tossed his Glock next to the dead Mexican. The next person on the scene would find the Border Patrolmen and the Mexican smuggler killed in shoot out, the byline practically wrote itself.
“Get out. We have work to do,” the Iranian said. The four men were some of the best bomb makers and engineers in the Quds force. The Iranian needed them in Washington, DC immediately. It was their time to shine.
THE END
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