The Team (6 page)

Chapter 15

From Riyadh to Paradise

Tariq walked through the loud, crowded market street in an ancient section of the city, south west of Riyadh. The dusty streets were packed with merchants and their customers, children and beggars, goats and dogs. He pushed his way through the hot, narrow street towards the address he had been given. Crates of chickens were stacked six feet high, and they squawked and clucked incessantly. Spice merchants mixed their secret concoctions and swapped brown bags of spices and herbs for cash with women in burqas. The spices, chickens, goats, and sweaty people combined to create a very special local perfume. It was a busy day.

He stopped and looked up at a building, wondering if he was at the correct address. The buildings and streets were all almost the same color, blending into an endless maze of non-descript light brown that was only broken up by an occasional painted door or sign. A large hand squeezed his bicep and a gruff voice said, “Come.” Tariq was then guided through the crowd with a large man on each side of him, moving him quickly down small side alleys. There was another man behind them, and they walked faster than was comfortable through the crowd. Tariq was again pulled down a side alleyway where a small car was waiting. The car took up almost the entire width of the street, and Tariq was told to get into the back seat. The other three men got in and started the car with a cough of black smoke, and then began moving through the labyrinth of streets as they headed out of the city.

“Where are we going?” asked Tariq.

His question was met with a hood being pulled over his head and instructions to shut up. Tariq was terrified, but he tried his best to show courage. This was most likely just standard operating procedure when dealing with powerful men who had huge bounties on their heads. The car jostled and whined as it worked its way out of the old section of the city to a highway. Tariq didn’t know where he was, but when he felt the car hit smooth pavement and pick up speed, he knew he was on one of the major highways. Headed to
where
, he had no idea.

After an hour and a half of silence, one of the men up front instructed the man next to Tariq to remove the hood. Tariq blinked a few times and glanced around. He was on a major highway, which most likely meant Route 10. The highway cut through the orange desert like a road on Mars. As far as Tariq could see, there was nothing but wasteland and occasional steel towers from which hung heavy voltage wires. They allowed him to see, because there was nothing to be seen.

After another hour had passed, the men spoke in whispers up front, and the car slowed and made a right turn onto a smaller roadway. They snaked along a narrower two lane road, through rocky ravines and scrub grasses with herds of camels roaming freely through the desert. Tariq tried his best to get his bearings, knowing they had been heading east by the morning sun in his face. It had to be either Highway 10 or 40; they were the only major highways from Riyadh through the desert. Now that they had turned off, he was truly lost.

The car began bouncing again on squeaky shocks as the road became more primitive. As they came over a rise, a few farms with circular irrigation systems came into view—green circles on a Martian landscape. They drove off another road, and as they reached the area of irrigation, the wasteland came to life. Fields of crops appeared next to fields of solar panels. Barbed wire fences enclosed herds of cattle and sheep that roamed through fields of grass planted just for them. A large, well-maintained house appeared, and the car drove past it to another smaller house in the rear. They stopped, and Tariq and the others got out of the car.

There was no reason to speak. Tariq followed the men to the house, and they let themselves in. It was neat and comfortable inside, but they walked through the house and out the back door. Tariq found himself in the rear yard, which was enclosed by six foot stone walls. Dozens of sheep carcasses hung from a wire strung between two poles, the bloody sheepskins in a pile nearby. Alone at a small table sat Abu Mohamed, sipping tea under the shade of an awning.

He motioned for Tariq to sit with him, which he did. The men that had brought him stood silently nearby, out of the way.

Abu leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Fifty million dollars is quite a promise. What you asked for was also quite a large undertaking. I laid out millions to acquire your shipment. Millions of my own, as well as associates—investors, if you will. And now everyone needs to be paid. There was to be a truck.”

“Of course. The truck was sent. The fifty million is yours,” said Tariq nervously.

Abu leaned back and stroked the small chin beard. “The time and place was quite specific, Tariq. That was two days ago.”

Tariq felt his mouth go dry. “The truck was sent. I don’t understand?”

Abu looked over at his men, who immediately grabbed Tariq and had him up on his toes, one large man holding each arm very tightly. Abu walked over to the pile of sheep skins and picked up a long bloody knife.

He walked over to Tariq with the blade in his hands. “I’m only going to ask you one time. Where’s the money?”

Tariq’s face had turned white. “It was sent! Let me make a call!”

Abu studied him for a moment, and then spoke to his men. “Let him make his call.”

Tariq pulled a cell phone from his pocket with a shaking hand. He had been given a number to call in case of emergency, but
only
in case of emergency. Tariq stared at the knife and dialed.

A gruff voice said, “Who is this?”

“It’s Tariq. I came to pick up the shipment, but there’s a problem.”

A pause. “What problem?”

“The money. It never arrived.”

“Of course it arrived! Don’t let them double-cross us!”

“They say it didn’t, and he has a knife,” said Tariq, his voice trembling.

“I’ll call you back in one minute,” said the voice, which hung up before Tariq could protest.

Tariq relayed that back to Abu, who walked over to the skins and picked up a sharpening stone. He eyed Tariq and tossed the stone back in the dirt. “No, a dull blade will be better.”

Tariq’s eyes flooded with tears. He considered himself a brave Jihadist, prepared to die for Allah, but not like this. He had a mission to carry out.

An eternity went by, and the cell phone rang. Tariq answered.

A serious voice said, “The driver doesn’t pick up.”

“What do you mean?” stuttered Tariq.

“We’ll get more money. Two days.”

Tariq looked at Abu with pleading eyes. He managed to say, “Two days.”

Abu Mohamed took the phone from Tariq’s hand and spoke to the man on the other end. “You will call me about the money in two days. But you won’t speak to Tariq. I want you to listen carefully now.” He handed the phone to one of his men, and the two other men grabbed Tariq by the arms, holding him so tightly he couldn’t move. The man with the phone held it towards Tariq and began shooting video. Abu grabbed Tariq’s hair with one hand and began cutting his throat with the other. Tariq managed a long scream before he gurgled and blood squirted all over everyone. Abu kept cutting and sawing with the dull blade until he eventually severed Tariq’s head. He dropped it on the ground and walked back to the table to pick up a cloth to wipe off his hands.

“Send the video to that number. Tell them
two days
, or I’ll find every single one of them.”

“What about him?” asked one of Abu’s men.

“Bury it in the desert,” sneered Abu Mohamed, and he walked back into the house.

Chapter 16

Palace of Prince Abdul bin-Mustafa Awadi

The prince was just back from racing in the desert. He had taken his 3.9 million dollar Lamborghini Veneno out for some fun. He had topped out at three hundred kilometers per hour and enjoyed quite a thrill. Now he was back at his palace, ready for a swim in one of his pools before his afternoon massage.

One of his assistants walked out of the house when he heard the Veneno roar up the circular driveway towards the fifty-car garage. He walked very quickly to the prince, his face showing his concern. The prince had enjoyed his morning, and he was angry before the man even spoke.

The assistant bowed slightly and showed Abdul a disposable cell phone. “There’s been a serious problem,” he said quietly. “The truck never arrived.”

Abdul’s face went pale. “What do you mean? That was two days ago. We’re just hearing about this now?”

“The driver was told to deliver the truck and return home. He was only to call if there was an emergency. He never called, so it was assumed everything was fine. Just now, Tariq called. He was at the exchange.”

“And?” asked Abdul.

“Abu Mohamed believed he had been double crossed. The money never arrived. He took it out on Tariq.” He showed Abdul a picture on the cell phone from Tariq’s number. It was Tariq’s head on the ground near a pile of bloody sheep skins.

Abdul’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He finally managed to whisper a quiet prayer. “He was a loyal man,” said Abdul. “Abu had no right.”

“Fifty million dollars is missing. The package is out there somewhere. What do you want me to do? Abu Mohamed said he was giving us two days to replace the money, or he was going to come looking for all of us.”

The prince looked at Tariq’s head. He had a huge security detail, but he also didn’t need any problems from the Islamist groups. “Get it done,” was all he managed to say as he walked away.

Chapter 17

CIA Training Facility

The team had started their morning in a small classroom, with Kim Elton teaching Middle Eastern politics. She was a bright lady and had the ability to take something extremely complicated and “dumb it down” so that a room full of jarheads, SEALs, and rangers could understand it. A two hour lesson on who was trying to kill whom, who was in power with what organization, and which organization was operating where, went very quickly.

When the team was mentally fried, it was time for some physical ass-whooping. They were dismissed, and an instructor led them to a mulched path in the woods behind the building.

“I usually run the training exercises here. Quite frankly, you don’t need me. Follow the trail for a mile. Once you get to the confidence course, I’m sure you’ll know what to do. Have fun.” He turned and walked away.

Cascaes barked at Moose. “You heard the man. Turn this Little League parade into a column of twos that resembles a fighting force!”

Moose smiled and happily began screaming. “The only easy day was yesterday, ladies! Column of twos and everyone stays tight. Move!”

The men shuffled around and magically transformed from a group of men standing near each other, to a platoon of Special Forces in perfect order. As soon as they were in a tight column of twos, with the two Chrises in the back and Moose alongside like the Drill Instructor, Moose yelled “double time!” and they began running the trail. Five and a half minutes later, they were a mile down the path staring at a confidence course similar to the one affectionately known as “The Yellow Brick Road” in Quantico used by the Marines and FBI.

“Six miles of fun, ladies. Get busy!” barked Moose as he increased his speed down the hill towards the course. The six miles included a ten foot wall to scale, which was only accomplished by team work, several tiny foot bridges and poles to move across, a series of rope ladders and, of course, the three story tower to climb and rope over. For Marine recruits, it would be considered a challenging confidence builder—for these special operators, it was like being allowed out to the playground after class. They pushed themselves and each other, climbing, roping, running, and screaming at each other. Mackey and Cascaes went through just like everyone else, and even though Mackey was clearly a step behind, the fact that he could handle the course at his age was nothing but inspirational to everyone else.

After crawling under rope obstacles, climbing over mounted poles and bars and sprinting through the mud, the team reached the three story tower. Eric Hodges, the team Marine sniper, and Earl Jones, another Marine Recondo, were the first two to reach the base of the tower.

“I fucking hate the tower, man,” whispered Earl as he grabbed the bottom rung and hoisted himself up.

“Don’t like heights?” asked Eric, pulling and climbing alongside him.

“No. I hated this shit at Parris Island, and I hate it now.”

Eric laughed. “Snipers are always looking for a tower to climb. Just keep looking up!”

Earl grunted and climbed, moving with tremendous speed and agility. “I didn’t say I don’t know
how
to do it, I said I don’t
like
it!”

The two of them led the others straight up the tower without stopping. It wasn’t until they got to the top and had to throw their legs over that Earl’s face showed his apprehension. Eric patted Earl on the back, threw his own leg over, and grabbed one of the ropes he’d be using to work his way down. He handed a section of rope towards Earl and said, “Keep moving, Marine!”

Earl grabbed the rope, looked up and mumbled some obscenity, and threw himself over the top. He grabbed the rope, and he and Eric began climbing down, section by section, passing their team ascending on the other side. Moose never shut up the entire climb, pushing the team to move faster. By the time everyone was over and they were reassembled at the base, they were all soaked with sweat. Mackey was huffing and puffing, and managed to cough out his usual, “I’m getting too old for this shit…”

Moose had everyone back in formation, screaming to “finish strong” and the group ran all the way back to the beginning of the course. There was no way for them to know they had just set a new course record.

Once back at the main building, the men showered and changed clothes, then ate lunch and took a bus to the shooting range located about a mile from the building in the middle of the property.

At the range the men assembled weapons and set up targets. Eric Hodges spent extra time assembling his new toy, a prototype sniper rifle known as a PSR. The Precision Sniper Rifle had been issued to Special Forces snipers over a year ago as the replacement sniper rifle for American forces.

While the other men blasted away at targets, relentlessly hitting bulls-eyes, Hodges took his time assembling and admiring his Remington. As he began snapping the large rounds into the clips, Moose walked over.

“New toy fires mortar rounds?” he asked, eyeing the large shells.

“Lapua .338s,” he replied in his heavy Oklahoma drawl.

“Lapua. Why does that sound familiar?” asked Moose.

“Higher velocity at long range. These are what that British sniper was using in Afghanistan when he set the record for longest confirmed kill. Twenty-four hundred and seventy-five meters. That’s a little over twenty-seven hundred yards.”

“Jesus. Yeah, I think I remember that. He must have fired the round on Monday and hit the guy on Wednesday.”

Hodges smiled. “Muzzle velocity is three thousnd feet per second. I’m guessing the Taliban dude had enough time to hear the shot and say, ‘
What was that?
’”

“Snipers. Sit around all day waiting for one shot,” mumbled Moose. “Give me a belt-fed weapon any day.”

“Spray and pray, Moose? Nah. I’ll wait all day and fire one round. And you can be damn sure I’ll hit what I aim at.” He glanced around. “Shame about those kids, though.” He clucked his tongue and spit. Eric had seen the windshield explode when he killed the driver of the truck. He didn’t have enough time to see that the other occupants were children, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway—Cascaes was in danger, and he had acquired a target with an AK47 at the ready.

Moose nodded but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t there at the ambush, but he knew what had gone down. Eric snapped the five-round magazine into his rifle and hoisted it on his back along with his field pack, and then began walking further away from the range. Moose looked back at the target, which was barely visible in front of a large earthen berm.

He shook his head and decided to follow Hodges. They walked for five minutes before Eric stopped and dropped his pack gently on the ground. Moose could see the large berm off in the distance, but not the target.

Eric opened his pack and rummaged to find a box with a spotter scope in it. He handed it to Moose. “Earl’s busy trying to learn to shoot straight. You can play spotter.”

Eric knelt down and pulled his rifle from his shoulder, then pulled the covers off his scope. He laid down on his stomach and made himself comfortable. Moose laid down next to him and opened the small tripod on the spotter scope, then looked through it.

“Wow. These are powerful.”

“You mean to tell me you never looked through a spotter before?”

“Why would I?” asked Moose.

Eric shrugged. “I figured everyone in the world wanted to be a sniper or a spotter. Don’t worry about wind speed or range. I’ll do everything. Just look through and watch the vapor trail after I fire. You should see the round impact the target.”

“How far is that?” asked Moose.

“Range is eighteen hundred meters. Or, if you want, I can hit Ripper from here. He’s only about fifteen hundred and a much bigger target.”

“Leave my catcher alone. Now let me see you hit that thing. I can barely see it even with this thing.”

Eric pushed ear plugs into his ears, and Moose did the same. He adjusted his scope for a few seconds and then quietly said to Moose, “Heading downrange.”

The sound was louder than Moose anticipated, and he was even more surprised when he was able to see the round’s vapor trail before impact. Eric hit the target dead center. He repeated the shot four more times, about ten seconds apart, each round within an inch of the preceding round.

“Jesus,” whispered Moose.

Eric placed the covers back on his scope. “Dad was a Marine and Grandpa was a Marine. Gramps was a sniper in the South Pacific during World War Two. He had me shooting squirrels and gophers by the time I was five. I grew up in the middle of nowhere. Keeping varmints off the crops was a daily chore. Gramps always said a sniper needs patience, steady hands, and a good rifle. This here rifle is a game changer.”

Moose was standing, squinting at the berm. “And some God-given talent. No one else on the team would have made that shot, Eric.”

Eric started walking out even farther.

“Where are you going now?” asked Moose.

“Twenty-five hundred.”

“You shitting me?” asked Moose.

“Don’t worry about the mule, you just load the wagon,” replied Hodges, quoting two generations of Hodges men.