Trident's First Gleaming: A Special Operations Group Thriller (21 page)

_______

C
hris woke up hungry for breakfast, despite the nausea he felt when he considered that today Professor Mordet would attack. They still didn’t know where or at what time, but no matter what, he’d need his energy. His movements were sluggish, which he attributed to the Wild Turkey, but he expected to be able to shake it off after eating. He’d just finished dressing when Hannah walked in through the bathroom door without knocking. Her hair was damp, and her skin glowed. She smelled like vanilla and oranges.

“I had the strangest dream last night,” she said.

“What was it?” he asked.

“I dreamed that we kissed.”

Chris smiled. “Is that so strange?”

“Surprising is a better word. A good surprise.”

Chris smiled. “I had the same dream.”

“You hungry?” she asked.

“Like a tiger.”

“Then let’s go, tiger.”

“I have a feeling that today we may not have much more time for eating,” Chris said.

“Me, too.”

They exited his room and checked on Young, but he was already eating and working. Chris and Hannah descended the stairs and made breakfast. The refrigerator and pantry were well stocked, and he made himself salmon with fresh fruit and orange juice.

Hannah only wanted a waffle, topped with fresh fruit and whipped cream.

“Your parents are diplomats, aren’t they?” she asked.

They sat down at the kitchen table and ate. “Service is important to them,” he said. “What about your parents? I don’t know anything about them.”

“My mother’s family was quite well-to-do, but her clan was weak, and the other clans persecuted her family—in the name of Allah. My mother’s family wanted to stay in Iran, but their lives were in danger, so they tried to get out. Only my mother survived. She was rescued by a case officer working for the Agency. His cover was blown, and he left the country with her.” Hannah ate a bite of her waffle.

“He sounds like a special man,” Chris said.

Hannah finished chewing.

“He was my biological father.”

Chris didn’t know what to say, so he waited for her to speak again.

“He died when I was young,” she said, “so I hardly knew him. But I knew I wanted to be like him. My whole life I’ve wanted to be like him.”

“Must’ve been hard.”

She leaned over the table. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand the half of it.”

“I can only understand what you share with me, Hannah.” Chris said softly. “How did he die?”

“Every time I ask around the Agency about how my father died, I hit a brick wall with the same old you-don’t-have-a-need-to-know BS.”

“It sounds like they want to cover something up,” Chris said.

“More like someone.”

Chris ate another morsel of salmon. The feeling that something bad might happen to her rushed over him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Your face says something is wrong,” she said.

He focused on finishing his meal, but he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his gut.

What sounded like a stampede of feet pounded down the stairs then. Startled, Chris, Hannah, and the agents drew their pistols and aimed.

It was only Young, who promptly froze and threw up his hand. “Hey, guys, it’s me.” In his hand was a piece of paper. When they lowered their weapons, he extended the paper to Chris. “This is an address for the phone number you found on the tango in my living room.”

“You want to go hard or soft on this address?” Hannah asked Chris.

“Hard as woodpecker lips,” Chris said.

_______

C
hris and Hannah left the safe house and drove a rental SUV fifteen minutes to a neighborhood called Seven Corners. Chris turned north off Arlington Boulevard and entered a residential area filled with spacious two-story homes.

“I can see why the tangos chose this location,” Chris said. “So many trees here, and each house sits on a large lot to provide separation. Nobody can see what his neighbor is up to.”

“You just going to do a drive-by first?” Hannah asked.

“Probably. If the situation looks good, we’ll pay this guy a visit.”

Chris drove past the house, and there was only one vehicle in the driveway. “Looks good so far,” Hannah said.

No one seemed to be home at the neighbor’s house, so he pulled into the neighbor’s drive and parked. “We’ll enter the target building through the back, so nobody coming to the front will see evidence of our entry.”

“Roger,” Hannah said.

They wore civilian clothes but carried assault rifles. Leaving the neighbor’s property, they passed through a cluster of white cedar trees and walked around to the side of the target building. They looked inside the windows, but there was no sign of anyone. At the rear of the house, Chris kicked in the back door. Hannah entered first and peeled left. Chris followed her and peeled right. She was moving too fast, putting herself in Chris’s firing lane—if he had to shoot, he might end up shooting her, too. A more experienced operator would be careful not to get too far in front of his mates. Chris could speed up, but he might miss covering his area properly and get them both killed.

When they reached the kitchen, the dishwasher door was open, and there were dishes and eating utensils in the rack. The house appeared lived-in, but no one was on the first floor.

Chris and Hannah met at the stairs. “I’ll go first,” he whispered. “When we clear the rooms, be careful not to get too far ahead of me.”

This time, Hannah kept pace with him as they searched bedrooms, bathrooms, and closets. The master bedroom contained the usual furniture except for one thing: a coffin-sized wooden box. Combination locks secured it near both ends. The surrounding carpet was wet and smelled like an unflushed toilet.

Chris pulled out his lock picks, and as he worked the lock, something—or someone—stirred. After he picked the other lock, he motioned for Hannah to stand at an angle covering the box without standing in front of it. Chris stood off to the other side. He didn’t want to be in front when something blew up or when Jack-in-the-Box popped out shooting.

He quickly opened the box, and a fist-sized stench of piss and shit punched him in the face, making his eyes water and throat gag. Inside lay an Arab man clothed in a straitjacket and bound with leg irons, lying in his own filth.

“Please, help me,” the man cried in English, squinting his eyes against the light.

But Chris didn’t know if the hostage was friend or foe, and Chris didn’t have time to deal with him, so he left the man where he was and searched for more clues before taking any action.

“Please, get me out of here,” the hostage called out in Arabic this time.

Chris noticed a cell phone on a nightstand and pocketed it.

“He’s coming back any moment,” the hostage said.

“Who’s coming back?” Hannah asked.

“The Grave Man,” the hostage answered.

She looked at Chris, then back at the Arab. “Who is the Grave Man?”

“He works for Kalil.”

Chris’s senses heightened, and he looked out the window. “Do you know exactly when he’s coming back?”

“Soon!” the hostage shouted.

In the corner of the room, there was a computer on a small desk.
Jackpot.
He’d have to work quickly. He pulled out his burner phone and called Young to tell him about the computer. At Young’s instructions, Chris turned on the computer, opened the web browser, and found one of Young’s web pages. Young gave him an ID and password to log in.

“Now I’m going to access the computer by remote,” Young informed him. The cursor on the screen moved seemingly on its own, windows opening and closing. Young was in.

Chris let the hard drive continue to run while he manually turned off the monitor, so anyone who happened to lay eyes on the computer wouldn’t immediately notice anything unusual.

Chris braved the stench to approach the hostage. “Who are you?”

“My name is Mohammad,” the hostage said.

“That’s original.”

“Really, I’m Mohammad. Mohammad Haq.”

“Who do you work for?” Chris asked.

“Freddie Mac.”

“What do you do at Freddie Mac?”

“I’m a computer programmer,” Mohammad replied.

“How do you know Little Kale and the Grave Man?”

“They invaded my home and took me prisoner,” the man said. “I don’t know anything else about them.”

“So if I call Freddie Mac, they’re going to know who you are, but you’ve gone missing?”

“Yes!” Mohammad said.

“Then you can stay here until Freddie Mac tells me that.” Chris closed the box.

“Please, don’t close the lid,” he begged. “Please.”

Chris looked up Freddie Mac’s phone number on his phone and called. They put him on hold first.
Figures.
Then when the operator picked up, she transferred him to human resources, who put him on hold again. Finally, a human resources rep answered the phone, but she said she couldn’t give out personal information. Chris discreetly ended the conversation.

He turned to the closed box and said, “I’m having trouble verifying your story. You got any evidence better than your word?”

“I work for Hezbollah!” he shouted. “I keep this safe house for Hezbollah, and Grave Man wanted to use it for him and his men, but when I didn’t cooperate, he put me in this box. Grave Man works for a guy named Kalil, but Kalil has never been here.”

Chris opened the lid. “What about Professor Mordet? Has he been here?”

“I don’t know anything about any Professor Mordet.”

Hannah stood with an eye on the window. “A brown Range Rover just pulled in the driveway.”

“It’s him,” Mohammad exclaimed. “Grave Man!”

Chris hurried to the window. “What does he look like?”

“His hair is grey—beard, hair on his head,” Mohammad said. “Even his skin has a greyish tint.”

“How many men are with him?”

“Two or three.”

Chris whispered in Hannah’s ear. “We’ll stay hidden downstairs until they’re all inside.”

She nodded.

“Maybe we can take Grave Man alive.”

“What about me?” Mohammad asked.

Chris walked over and aimed his rifle at Mohammad. “Shut the hell up.”

Hannah smiled. “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I like it.”

Chris hurried down the stairs, two at a time. At the bottom, he took a position behind a love seat flanking the sofa, and Hannah posted behind the other love seat on the opposite flank of the sofa.

The sound of car doors closing jolted Chris’s heart with a burst of speed, and adrenaline saturated his arteries. Moisture emerged from his palms, and he worried about his rifle slipping in his hands, so he gripped it tighter. His breathing came warmer and faster. He took a deep breath in an attempt to control himself. He visualized popping up from the couch and aiming.

The doorknob rattled. Someone inserted a key and turned it. The door squeaked open. He waited for it to close. But it didn’t.

Do they sense something?
They seemed to be waiting.
For what?
Grave Man and his men were quiet.
Something is wrong.
Chris popped up from behind the couch.

Grave Man and two beefy guys with pistols, who looked like bodyguards, had entered the house and aimed their pistols at Chris. Another person stood behind Grave Man and hadn’t entered the house yet.

The bodyguards fired first. One of the rounds hit the love seat, and another snapped somewhere above his left ear. All he could do was focus on survival. The noise of the bodyguards’ pistols inside the house was loud, but Chris didn’t have a sound suppressor, and his rifle was louder. He fired as soon as the first bodyguard appeared in his sights. Chris’s shot tore into the pistol side of the bodyguard’s chest, and his pistol dropped to the ground. The second bodyguard squeezed off another round, and Chris felt its heat on his neck. Chris shot him in the middle of his chest, but the second bodyguard hung on to his pistol. But before the second bodyguard could fire again, Chris popped another hole in his chest and fed him a bite of hardwood floor.

The first bodyguard frantically reached for his lost pistol, and Hannah’s rifle blazed, knocking him down.

Grave Man and his third bodyguard did a desperation dance in the doorway: Grave Man tried to exit as Third Bodyguard tried to enter. One of Chris’s rounds struck the doorframe, but the other two hit Third Bodyguard, who remained standing and looked down at the bullet holes in his chest.

Grave Man made a sprint for his Range Rover. “Moving forward!” Chris shouted to Hannah, hoping she heard and wouldn’t shoot him by accident. He trusted that she would make sure the downed bodyguards stayed down. Chris sprang to the door, and his shoulder smashed into Third Bodyguard, knocking his swaying body out of the doorway.

Grave Man was closer to the driver’s side of the Range Rover than Chris, so Chris made up for it with a hail of bullets through the driver’s side of the window. The glass exploded. “Stop!” Chris commanded in Arabic.

Grave Man jumped away from the vehicle. His feet were planted solidly on the ground like a tree trunk, and he held up his arms like branches in a breeze.

With his right hand, Chris continued to aim his weapon at Grave Man while gesturing with his left hand. “Get down! On your stomach! Hands behind your back!”

Grave Man dropped to the ground and did as he was told.

Chris slung his rifle on his back, pulled some zip ties out of his pocket, and secured Grave Man’s hands behind his back. Then he frisked Grave Man from head to feet—and retrieved a cell phone. Chris jerked him to his feet and pushed him toward the house. “Walk!”

Grave Man stumbled at first but then steadied his legs.

Chris escorted him inside, where his three bodyguards had fresh bullet holes in their skulls. Hannah had ensured they wouldn’t cause more trouble. As Chris prodded Grave Man up the stairs, he became reluctant. “What’s wrong,” Chris asked, “you don’t like where we’re going?”

Grave Man didn’t reply.

Chris made him lie down in the stinking master bedroom next to the box and zip-tied his feet. “We’re going to play a game,” Chris said. “It’s called
trading places
. These are the rules: you tell me where Little Kale and Professor Mordet are, and I don’t put you in the box. If you don’t tell me where they are, you go in the box.”

His arms trembled, but he didn’t speak.

Hannah assisted Chris in helping Mohammad out of the box. His legs wobbled and were too weak to stand. Chris and Hannah steadied him, guided him to the wall, and sat him down.

Mohammad spat at Grave Man and shouted an Arab insult: “My shoes are better than you!”

Chris looked at Grave Man. “Now it’s your turn.”

Grave Man’s trembling intensified. “I don’t know anything about Little Kale or Professor Mordet, I swear!”

Chris motioned for Hannah to grab his head, and Chris reached down for his legs.

Grave Man kicked his bound feet and thrashed his head.

Hannah used her fist as a tenderizer for his face, knocking him out. They picked up his heavy, limp body and dropped him on his back in the box. With his hands zip-tied behind his back, his arms would quickly become uncomfortable. The stench had dissipated somewhat, but it still made Chris gag. He didn’t know how Hannah could stand it without choking.

Within seconds, Grave Man came to. He gagged once. Twice. The third time, he gagged harder, turned his head, and vomited inside the box.

“That really is disgusting,” Chris said.

Grave Man trembled. “I don’t know who Professor Mordet is, and I can’t tell you anything about Little Kale, or he will kill me.”

Mohammad screamed at Grave Man. “I’ll kill you!”

“Right now, Grave Man,” Chris said, “I think Little Kale is the least of your worries.”

“I’ll give you money!” Grave Man shouted. “Twenty thousand dollars.”

Chris chuckled. “Money. You just don’t get it, do you?” He closed the lid and fiddled with the latches to make it sound like he was locking them.

Grave Man’s voice strained more, but the box muffled it, and Chris and Hannah descended the stairs. With both men secured upstairs, Chris called Young. “How’s it going with that computer?” he asked.

“Did a cross-drive analysis, and two words are significantly more frequent than others: Washington and Dallas,” Young answered.

The word
Dallas
made Chris’s heart sink. Reverend Luther and his congregation could be in danger. “We suspected an attack on Washington, but what do they want with Dallas?”

“Not clear,” Young said. “Maybe they’re going to attack both.”

“We’ve got another cell for you to hack,” Chris said.

“Go.”

Chris used Grave Man’s cell phone to log into Young’s website. Seconds later, Young was hacking the phone. Chris returned it to his pocket, turned to Hannah, and asked, “Any idea what their target is in Dallas?”

Hannah shook her head. “Not a clue.”

“Me, neither.” He took a deep breath. “Ready to blow this joint?” Chris asked.

“Blow as in boom-boom or bye-bye?”

He smiled. “It’s tempting to blow these guys up, but we better leave them for the FBI. We can call Trinity from the car.”

“As you wish,” Hannah said.