SAFE HAVENS: Shadow Masters (A Sean Havens Black Ops Novel Book 1) (7 page)

Then when the men would go downstairs to the man cave, she could hear their laughs, chiding, and camaraderie that could only be described as a fraternity or, in some cases, a family bloodline.

As the night would go on, the laughing would get louder, the empty bottles would clank more often in the garbage can, the profanity would increase, then hush down in a constant flow of party party shhh shhh party party shhhh.

By two in the morning, they would be gone.

And oddly, so would all the trash. It struck her on more than one occasion that when Sean would hand a man a beer, they would take it from the bottle cap, slide it into their own coozie, open the top and put the cap in their pocket. It was as if they never wanted to touch the bottle or leave them behind. It would have been easier if they just wore gloves.

She never asked her husband much about it as it was indeed a rarity for him to have these men over. Her husband was not really like them. Most had military training. He did not. Not formally. Not that she knew of. She knew he had been to a number of trainings over the years that could extend beyond a week but never more than two.

Sean didn’t have that same look either. He was much more casual and had much more levity about him. He didn’t have that hawkish look for prey; he had a constant look as if he wanted to make a new friend. Anywhere the Havenses would go as a couple, he could chat someone up. Weddings, restaurants, taxi cabs, Sean was chatting away. He was interesting to others and yet exuded that he was more interested in others and in their interests. She liked that about him, knowing that really he was an introvert.

Every now and then Sean would even surprise her as she eavesdropped on the conversations he was having outside of her likely earshot. He would throw out some foreign language phrases to the person he was speaking with—often of a foreign heritage. When she asked him about it, he would reply it was just a different type of Arabic but basically the same. She was a speech therapist and had an ear for subtleties in language. It was not always just a different Arabic dialect. Sean knew stuff that he didn’t share with his wife, and she was OK with that but never gave him too long of a leash.

He said that he was more of an intelligence analyst, who would help the military on some out-of-the-box plans and stuff, or so he would describe to her when he could, so she let him keep his little secrets so he could play James Bond with the big military boys.

He was her little Cliff Clavin know-it-all geek. A geek that was trim and chiseled with lean muscle mass—athletic but not brawn. Even his “martial arts training,” as he would call it, didn’t seem like the tough guy type. She would sometimes tease him when a Mixed Martial Arts commercial would come on the television.

“Sean, isn’t that what you do, oh, no sorry your cage matches are with cranes and tigers and snakes. Do you guys hissss and grrrr when you make animal hands? Do they turn out the lights so you can make shadow characters?”

She would start to giggle, mocking his Kung Fu. Some days he would give her a protective glare, defending his hobby. Other times he would play along and start to go after her. Sometimes when he would come up from the man cave she would jump out at him in a karate stance and caw like a crow with hand pincers or meow like a cat and gesture slapping a pretend air toy. She would playfully slap at his face.

“C’mon toughie. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Of course, there was that time when he actually did do some crazy whirlwind move that ended up crossing her arms, twisting her around, and putting her on her back with him bracing her fall before she knew what had happened. She was a bit taken aback. Not sure if she was scared or impressed. Maybe there was something behind that quiet, friendly husband of hers. Soft power, she thought to herself as he gently kissed her lips and released her wrists.

But despite that one incident she knew the real action heroes in the basement left when the drinking was done. They would cut through the shadows to their cars, usually pickup trucks and rental SUVs. She assumed they drove or flew back to their lairs with their bags of empty bottles and trash, while her husband came up to bed drunker than he should be at that age.

He probably had a harder time keeping up with his ‘bubbas’ who didn’t have so much family baggage. Although she was secure in herself that Sean never saw his family as baggage. He was genuinely happy to be at home.

And on those nights that he would stumble up the stairs after a night with the boys, she would kiss his forehead and let him snore it off as she nestled on his arm and rocked as his chest rose and fell in deep slumber. She would whisper to him hoping he may wake and take her. She felt so secure in his presence.

As her mind raced in sleeplessness she would shift to wondering what she was thinking. After all, he was a consultant, a volunteer coach for the Park District, and a guy who just reads a lot and makes a bigger deal about traveling to third world countries than he probably should. She wondered if he even knew how to shoot a gun.

Hurry home, Sean. I miss you.

You also left a sandwich downstairs just sitting out. But you will never know that I find that endearing about you and it makes me feel that you are still here with us when you are away. We have a lot to talk about and a young woman who really misses her dad. Safe travels, my love.

Chapter 8

H
avens had consolidated his non-travel gear in the apartment and left it for the cleanup crew who would sanitize the safe house sometime after his departure. They would not come too soon in the event he had to return for some supplies or safety. Someone else would run the countersurveillance and technical security checks this time to make sure the hide site was reusable for the next dark pilgrim.

Sean was bugging out and would be all eyes in front at this point.

He would mail his other passport to an address by his home in the event he was detained for some reason. In his experience, it was never good to be found with another passport depicting another identity. It was much easier to get out of a situation by having too little information than too many identities.

As a business consultant, his best weapon when confronted was Joe Average attitude, frustration, and open threats. An individual acting too calm and too patient under duress was a red flag to those looking for behavioral clues of deceit and subterfuge.

Havens had identified a FedEx location where he would send off his triple wrapped contents. It was lucky for him that UPS and FedEx had lifted their recent ban on package service from Yemen. It had been suspended after two explosive devices originating from that country were found on cargo planes.

After his conversation with Ethiopian John, Havens didn’t feel comfortable going to the U.S. Embassy in Sana’a and having his creds sent back home in a diplomatic pouch. It sounded like they were having an interagency human resources mess.

Hell, they will probably tape another guy’s picture over mine and give the passport to him for a quick fix cover for action or status. Unbelievable.

He made a quick call to a friend who did not pick up the phone.
He’s probably in a SCIF and left the cell in the car.

Havens left a message asking a small favor to keep an eye on the house for a day or two until he got home. Christina may be opposed, he had said in the message, so if she doesn’t let you in, camp out until my return. Please park out front and you will be graciously rewarded in the future.
Please get this message.

Sean grabbed some small benign items that he would need, showered for the first time since his arrival, and put on the clothes John had brought for him.

My belt, where’s my belt? I need my Bat Utility Belt so I am not completely screwed if I get pinched.

A friend and colleague who had spent a career in DoD special projects and a bit of a gadget guy, thus earning himself the name of “X” (a dirtier James Bond “Q” he would say), had sent Havens a present for his fortieth birthday.

Havens had opened the shipping box to find a nylon-ish belt with nice leather detailing to dress it up a bit beyond completely camping casual. The leather trim in the front made it appropriate for slacks or casual khakis. It was a nice belt. But it was a belt. Who sends another man a belt?

At the time it seemed odd that he would just receive a belt with a note ‘Happy Hunting,’ but a nice gesture nonetheless. Maybe X realized that Sean liked to travel light and may need a belt for all travel occasions. Doubtful. There had to be more to it. Was it from a country that X was in? No, it had a little white tab near the buckle that read ‘Made in USA.’ What was he missing?

He had pulled the tissue out of the box. Nothing. Shook out the tissue. Nothing. It was like shaking an opened Hallmark Happy Birthday card from Grandpa and Grandma hoping money would fall out.

Shake the card like there is money hidden. Shake the belt. Rub the buckle and the genie will come out. X didn’t just send me a cutesy GQ Orvis belt.

Upon closer inspection, Havens noticed three four-inch hidden compartments—two on each hip side and one nine-inch internal pocket where the small of the back would be. Inside the first front compartment was a black ceramic razor blade. The second pocket held two quarters and a fifty-cent piece. Havens wondered if this low profile survival kit included change for a pay phone, but the fifty-cent piece would not work. He continued to play with them and realized they were all laser cut male and female ends that secured a small compartment that could fit a SIM card or other micro data card.

Nice, X!
He smiled every time he looked at it.

The back compartment held two key style handcuff shims and two black plastic nylon handcuff keys.

The belt itself proved to be constructed of Type 13 webbing with forged steel buckles and had been sewn with parachute weight thread to yield a probable 5,000 lb. breaking strength.

Good ol’ X, always looking out for me, Havens thought at the time.

Now in Yemen he knew it. X had been the one to increase the dosage of the tranquilizer. Enough to put a big man down but not enough to be lethal. The last silencing cocktail Sean had used overseas, supplied by Science and Technology, wasn’t enough of a dose. It cost a fairly innocent man his life when Havens had to finish the job with the only thing available. A deathblow. Chin punches and sleeper holds only worked in movies to knock a guy out. When seconds counted in a game playing for keeps, lethal choices had to be made. Choices that would stay with a man for a lifetime while the rear echelon gadget guys slept peacefully with clean hands.

Sean would let a guy like X come over to watch a football game any day. Even if X might bring a shitty six-pack and drink all the Black Label scotch or the good beer Havens kept in the fridge. X was a brother and they had one another’s back. He could have a real friendship with a guy like that. Lifetime bonds tended to come easy, but enduring personal friendships were hard to come by. It was a close hug but arm’s length community.

Sean found the belt still in a drawer from the night before. He whistled a sigh of relief.

“Don’t want to forget this bad boy,” he said, weaving it through the belt loops of his pants, and left the apartment.

Havens was hoping for it to be the last time.

What else am I forgetting?

Chapter 9

A
s two young men walked down the sidewalk of a middle-class Chicago neighborhood, the residents of the block slept peacefully with the belief that their higher property taxes were enough to keep the riffraff out. Among those sleeping were Maggie and Christina Havens.

It was quiet on this street. No police cars with flashing lights racing past responding to calls of violence and criminal activity. To the two men, it was eerily quiet. They were accustomed to the constant commotion of gunshots and sirens in their neighborhood less than a mile away.

Two different worlds only a matter of blocks apart.

The tall mature trees added to the young men’s cover of darkness by providing a canopy of oak and elm leaves to block out the crescent moon. The moon shone with its fullest intensity as if trying to illuminate the area in anticipation of the imminent threat, but to no avail.

“Sixth house here, yo. Turn lef. Gotta cut through here.”

Donald and James Hayes may have been out of their gang’s territory, but this initiation phase was a breeze. Rivals would pose absolutely no street threat to their quest to full membership. Reward was in their grasp.

They had been informed that one of their “homies” was locked away on the third strike by a female judge who lived at the address given to them.

To climb to the next tier in the organization, they were to kill her and her daughter to make a statement and throw off further prosecution of their crew under her watch. The judge, they had been told, was also a closet racist and was trying to get a few new housing developments built over the public basketball courts that Donald and James played on. More turf encroachment from rich whitey condos.

“Man, fuck this bitch, bro. Gon’ cap her sorry ass like a muthafucka.”

“Fuck yeah,” Donald countered, pumping himself up. “Cold bust this shit.”

They were told that alarms could sound upon entry so they would have to move fast. They each were given two nine millimeter handguns and were supposed to split up in the house. Above all they were to make sure the victims were dead.

Failure was unacceptable if they were to keep progressing in the food chain to more wealth and power on the street.

“Ready to get in the mix and light these bitches up, yo?”

“Let’s do this.”

Donald picked up a patio bench and threw it through a double long window. They athletically jumped in with both weapons now drawn in each hand and raced through the house guided by the dim light of appliance clocks and a neighbor’s back porch light casting a narrow path of light on the kitchen floor. Both men moved swiftly towards the stairs leading to the second floor bedrooms.