He grabbed al-Abadi by the shirt front and lifted him to his feet. “Back to the bunker, goat fucker.” He shoved the smaller man in the general direction of the compound and fell into step behind him. “Target secured.”
Jay breathed a sigh of relief and stood from behind the outcropping. He crawled over the rock and slid down the face, rifle in hand. “I think that’s the last of them.”
He fell to the ground face first as the AK round shattered rock beside him.
35
Camp Deric, South of Dallas, TX
“WHAT THE FUCK is going on over there?”
Gregg cringed as the voice screeched in his ear. “We’re just cleaning up a few loose ends.” He glanced to Chesterfield, who had suddenly gone pale. “Apparently there are a few hajis out there that wanted to crash this little party.” Slippy slumped in his seat then turned back to Darren. “Where were we? Oh yeah…you were about to tell me how this shit storm came into being.”
Darren watched him click the record button again and he swallowed hard. “It was your basic black operation. We stir up the locals and sway their opinion to side with us over the illegal weapons smuggling.” He sighed and wished he could wipe the sweat from his eyes. “We had to have a patsy in case things went sideways.”
“That’s where Bridger came in.”
Darren nodded. “He had a federal flag on him—”
“Explain a flag to our listening audience, please.”
Darren shrugged. “It’s like a…a flag. It lets other agencies know that this guy is working for us.”
“You mean his work for the FBI and going undercover in those online patriot group boards.”
Darren nodded, blowing his breath out slowly. “The flag was removed by somebody above me. They felt that he was too good of a patsy not to use.”
Gregg leaned in closer. “And who is this person?”
Darren felt his mouth go dry. “That would be Marine Colonel Martin Nelson. He works within the Agency as a military attaché.”
Gregg waved him on. “Continue.”
“So we set up Bridger. We doctor photos and a flight itinerary that shows him going to Pakistan. We doctor up a few more documents that indicate that he had help from other patriot groups…and chemical supply warehouses.”
“To frame him for the mass killing in Karachi.”
Darren nodded again. “Yeah.”
“Except you didn’t expect him to fight back. You didn’t realize that he’s not your average Joe-schmuck veteran.”
Darren shook his head. “I don’t think anybody could have predicted him.” He looked up at Slippy and his face hardened. “Or you people.”
Slippy smiled. “Mess with the bull…”
“And that crazy-assed Russian you work with. Where did you find that guy?”
“He was Spetsnaz. Eventually worked with the Foreign Intelligence Service. Well, until we found him.”
Darren narrowed his gaze at the man. “How the hell did you recruit a man like that?”
Slippy grinned at him. “Promised him all of the vodka he could drink.” He snapped his fingers at the man. “This ain’t about us. It’s about the shit you pulled. Carry on.”
Darren sighed and shook his head. “Where was I?”
“Doctored documents.”
“Oh yeah.” Darren blew his breath out hard. “Apparently you have somebody on the inside. Got you copies of the original documents. We had others drawn up for you to hack and steal but you beat us to the punch.”
Slippy held a finger up. “Wait one.” He picked up the headphones and slipped them back on. “Go for Mister Slippyfist.”
“We’re pinned down, Mother. I need a heat signature on the shooter.” Jay sounded out of breath as he spoke.
“Wait one.” Slippy slid to his other computer and brought up the infra-red cameras. “I have one signature to the southwest. Right at the tree line. At your…eleven o’clock.”
“Copy that,” Jay replied. “Bridger, I’m going to flush him out.”
“Jay, NO!” Bridger yelled.
Camp Deric, South of Dallas, TX
ALI BIN-HAMZA crouched on his good leg and leaned heavily against the tree. He scanned the area where he had seen movement with his spyglasses, his rifle at the ready. What I wouldn’t give for a decent set of optics right now.
He caught a muzzle flash and heard a round rip through the woods deep to his right. He smiled to himself and brought his rifle to bear. He fired three rounds in the vicinity of the muzzle flash.
He slowly lowered the AK and brought the binoculars to his face again. He looked for blood spray or flailing limbs where he had fired.
A brief movement to the right of his target pulled his eyes from the area he had fired and he saw the dark silhouette of a man standing beside a large tree. It almost looked like he was pointing something in his general direction.
Ali bin-Hamza would never climb the ranks of his chosen profession. He would never find glory by detonating a bomb in a crowded market, nor would he ever be one to order others to do so.
Ali bin-Hamza met his fate in the shadows of a great oak in the heart of Texas when a 7.62MM full metal jacketed round entered his cranium and sprayed bits of whatever had made him human into the red Texas soil behind him.
His body slumped and collapsed without him ever uttering the words that were forming on his tongue. His rifle clattered to the ground beside him and what was left of his face stared up and into the canopy of the trees.
Camp Deric, South of Dallas, TX
“COPY THAT.” THE new team leader lowered the satellite phone and turned to face what was left of his team. “I just got word from Langley. Nobody leaves that bunker alive.”
One of the men in the rear stepped forward, “You mean of the terrorists, right? What about Agent Chesterfield?”
The team leader shook his head. “NOBODY.” He slipped the phone back into the pouch on his belt and sighed.
