The Assassin's List (17 page)

Barak was concerned about the developments in Oregon. It was where he had chosen to make his first strike, and he couldn’t afford to fail. As he made his way to the Las Vegas Executive Air Terminal and his private Gulfstream G650, he knew he would have to do something about the attorney Kaamil had allowed to live. He could not be permitted to jeopardize their plan. He would have to find a way to throw the man off their track.

In four short days, when the Secretary of Homeland Security was assassinated, the world would learn that the jihad could reach everywhere. Then, those on a list of twelve of the most influential American leaders and celebrities would receive an invitation to convert to Islam—or face the consequences. He had the means and the ability to make sure they understood that opposing Allah meant a swift and sure punishment. He smiled, as he thought about headlines announcing the beheadings of Hollywood stars, television anchors, politicians and a few billionaires. People who thought they were above the violence their government’s bombs had brought to so many in Arab lands.

As his plane took off for the flight to his training facility outside Hood River, Barak stared down at the flat land that reminded him of his homeland, and the life, war with the Jews had taken from him. He had vowed at his father’s funeral that he would avenge his death a thousandfold. With Allah’s blessing, and the Brotherhood’s support, he was close to keeping that vow and getting his revenge.

Chapter 28

As Drake left the Crown Plaza Building, he ran through his options. He didn’t have anything but his suspicion that ISIS was behind Janice Lewellyn’s murder. He didn’t have evidence the three gunmen sent to his farm were connected to the murder, and nothing that linked Kaamil and ISIS to either. He understood that. The FBI investigated federal crimes and domestic terrorism, and neither of those two categories appeared to be involved. The Secret Service had come to his aid only as a favor to his father-in-law, and they had no reason to help him any further.

The only thing he could think to do was to take a closer look at ISIS. To do that, he needed some help. A little help from someone who thought like he did, someone who had some of the same skills. Someone he trusted, a friend.

When he got back to his office, he found he had the place all to himself. Margo had left for the weekend with her husband. At his desk, he called his friend.

Mike Casey was a brother in arms, as loyal a friend as a man could have. They had served together in Delta, where Mike was the long gunner, or sniper. He’d saved Drake’s life more than once when an enemy unexpectedly stumbled onto their mission. Drake always felt more confident when Mike was providing him cover from a rooftop, a building, or a ridge, even a half mile away. Tall and gangly at six foot six inches, with red hair, he drew too much attention in their assigned fields of operation to be at Drake’s side. But from a distance, he was always there as his unseen partner.

Before Mike became a Delta operator, he flew helicopters for the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne). Its sole purpose was to deliver and pick up Special Operations commandos. Because they often flew at night, the unit was known as the Night Stalkers. They were the aces of military helicopter pilots. Mike was a natural pilot who flew by the seat of his pants and made landings and evacuations other pilots wouldn’t attempt. He was quickly picked up by Delta Force for its own aviation platoon. When they learned he was a great sharpshooter, a tribute to his misspent youth in Montana hunting varmints, he was also accepted as one of their snipers.

After leaving the Army, Mike settled in Seattle, working for a small security firm. Five years later, he was chosen by the firm’s retiring founder to run the operation. He became the major shareholder, by virtue of stock options he’d earned and had been given with his promotion. Married, with a wife who adored him and three young children, Mike Casey remained a close friend and confidant.

“Casey residence,” Mike said when he answered. In the background, children were splashing in a backyard pool and something was sizzling on a grill.

“I take it I’m interrupting one of your deck parties,” Drake said, “want me to call back later?”

“Hell no. I don’t know how I get stuck doing all the cooking around here, on the weekends anyway. Give me a minute to find someone to burn these burgers,” Mike said. “Megan, honey, could you take over for a minute? Drake’s on the phone.”

Drake smiled, listening to the sounds of his friend’s normal life. There were times when they both thought such a life was too much to hope for. They had lived so far beyond normal they thought they would never make it back. They both had, though Mike’s normal life was lasting longer than his had.

“When you coming up to see us again?” Mike asked, after a minute or so. “The kids keep asking when they get to see Uncle Adam.”

“I was hoping I could talk you into coming down and spending a day with me. A new client’s secretary was murdered in his office and a couple of yo-yos came gunning for me on the farm. I could use a friend to help sort things out. Maybe get out of town, go hunting some varmints like we used to.”

From the tone of Mike’s voice, Drake knew his friend understood what he was saying.

“Nothing I’d like better. Varmints, you say. What would you like me to bring along for this little outing? I have an M24A2 I picked up from one of our old friends. Will that do?”

The M24A2 was an improved version of the M24 sniper weapon system Mike had used in Delta Force. With a detachable 10-round magazine and barrel modifications to accommodate a sound suppressor, the rifle had proven itself in Afghanistan and elsewhere.

“If you think you can hit anything with it, bring it along. We might get to do some hunting at night, so if you have any of those special binoculars or scopes, they might come in handy as well,” Drake suggested.

“Can do. When do you plan on having this here soiree?”

“Tomorrow night,” Drake said, and listened patiently for his friend to calculate the domestic damage his request was sure to cause.

“Tomorrow night, huh,” Mike repeated. “If I’m able to make arrangements for this adventure, when would I be able to get back to burning burgers?”

“If your kids like burned burgers for breakfast, I’d say sometime Monday morning. Is that soon enough?”

“A man ought to be able to get out of the house once in a while. It’ll just have to be. Do me a favor, go out and buy a box of chocolates I can take back to my wife. I’d like to have a bed to sleep in when I get back,” Mike chuckled.

Drake put the phone back in its cradle and swiveled his chair around to look out over the marina below. Weekend boaters were moving up and down the river. He’d accomplished as much as he could for the day, it was time to go home and get some work done on the farm. Get on his old, red Massey Ferguson tractor and pull out another row of the dead grape vines left to rot by the previous owner. The work would help his mind settle into a planning mode for tomorrow night’s soiree, as Mike called it.

Chapter 29

It was an hour before sunset when Barak felt the nose of the Gulfstream dip. The white snowcap on Mount Hood glowed pastel pink out the window as the plane banked to the left. When it straightened out for the runway below, Barak could see the nearby Columbia River off to the right. Pretty country, he thought, just the right place to teach America how ugly war is.

He had regional training facilities like this one in four other areas around the country. They were all legitimate training centers and respected members of their local business communities. They also secretly served as quarters for the finest assassins assembled under one banner in a thousand years. With ISIS offices around the globe, there wasn’t a person of significance anywhere in the world he couldn’t reach.

After twenty years, he had created a privately-held corporation worth a hundred times the twenty-five million he’d been given. His resources were as great as the armies of half the countries in the world. The best arms and munitions, a fleet of private jets, armored vehicles, state-of-the-art communication systems, his company had it all. But his plan didn’t rely on any of that.

One dedicated, well-trained assassin was all he needed to terrorize any nation he wanted. Blow up fifty people in a shopping mall and America would mourn for only a moment, just as Israel had learned to do. But kill the leaders and icons of a nation, and the white flag of surrender would be raised before the first funeral was held.

When his plane rolled to a stop at the west end of the runway, Barak saw that Kaamil and Roberto Valencia were standing next to one of the company’s black Suburbans. The sprawling ranch house he stayed in whenever he visited was only a short walk away, but he appreciated the respect their attention provided him.

“Kaamil, Roberto, I hope you have good news for me. Bad news spoils my appetite, and right now I am very hungry,” he said, as he stepped out of the plane. “Come, let’s relax and eat, you can tell me of your progress.”

When he was in the Suburban beside Kaamil, he remained silent. The silence would serve as fertile ground for nervousness to grow, which is what he intended. Kaamil had made mistakes, and he needed to know if there had been more. Calm men can tell lies, but men who are afraid tell you the truth. Both Kaamil and Roberto were afraid of him because he gave them reason to be. On separate occasions, in front of each of them, he’d shot one of their men for a mistake the man had made. Neither of them had the courage to tell him their men weren’t responsible for the mistakes.

Of his training facilities spread throughout America, this ranch was his favorite. The mighty river and the vast gorge it ran through were spectacular. Something about the majestic mountain that seemed to hover over the ranch made him relax. It would be a pity if he could no longer come here, he thought.

After Kaamil pulled up in front of the ranch house, Barak led them in past the massive river rock fireplace to the game room. He called it the game room because it had a bar, a small fireplace, leather chairs and a poker table. The scent of good cigars permeated the knotty pine paneling. It was easy to imagine neighboring ranchers sitting around the poker table drinking whiskey and swapping tales. It was the only room in the ranch house he hadn’t remodeled.

Barak took a new bottle of Herradura Anejo tequila off the shelf behind the bar and poured two fingers in each of three crystal tumblers he set on the bar.

“Join me, gentlemen, in a toast to our success. While we eat, you will tell me what a fantastic job you are doing. But allow me to relax a little first.”

He saw that both men were still nervous, Roberto more than Kaamil.

“So, Roberto, how are you finding life in this little paradise by the river? Have you found the women here satisfactory?” he asked. He knew from his investigation of the man that young girls were his weakness.

“Girls seem surprised when the goods they offer find a taker,” Roberto said, with a small smile. “They wear cut-offs and bikini tops everywhere. It’s like going to market. The shopping has been good.”

“And how is your father’s business doing? Is he still number one in the Northwest?”

“Don Malik, I can assure you we are. The old warehouse you lease us down by the river has worked out well. We hide our product in the farm materials and supplies we ship out of there. None of our shipments have been intercepted. My father asked me to thank you for your assistance,” Roberto answered.

“I am glad to hear it. Tell your father, I look forward to working with him on the matters we discussed. Kaamil, how are you doing? Are you having the same success as Roberto with the ladies?” Barak asked, more for Roberto’s benefit than any real interest in Kaamil’s love life. Kaamil preferred prostitutes and, while there were several favorites, he was discreet and careful in that respect.

“I’m not complaining. Women are sometimes necessary, but who could keep up with Roberto,” Kaamil said with a shrug.

“Well then, let’s go see if our chef is ready for us. Leave your drinks here. We’ll have some wine with our meal.”

Barak led them to the dining room, where a platter of steaks sizzled next to a large bowl of mashed potatoes and a Caesar salad on the table. A decanter of red wine sat in front of Barak’s plate, and the chef stood with his chair pulled out. When he had tasted the wine, he dismissed the chef with a wave of his hand.

“Now, gentlemen, I want to hear about each of your assignments,” he said, as he forked a large steak onto his plate and waited for the bowl of mashed potatoes to be handed to him.

Kaamil went first. “The men are prepared and know what to do. We have trained for two years, the last two months in the mock-up of the Emergency Center. They are proficient with their weapons and anxious to fight. You’ll see when you meet them.”

Barak accepted his report with a nod of his head, and turned to Roberto.

“Roberto?”

“The men you require are ready. The civilian security guards at the chemical depot are customers of mine. They are black, like your men, and about the same size. They have each given me one of their uniforms in exchange for a month’s supply of my product. They won’t live long enough to use that much, of course.”

“Are you positive we can trust them?”

“As positive as I can be. I have compromising pictures that would cost them their jobs. They have all received pictures of their wives and children to remind them how serious I am. One man I approached refused me. He and his family suffered a most horrible fire in their home that consumed them all. No one else will trouble us. They think I just want to steal from the depot.”