Update (06/02/2017): Changed a few words and phrases, per feedback. I also realized that I made a few plot errors with this chapter, and they have since been corrected.
Chapter Three - "Now it Begins"
En Route to "La Perla Blanca", Ibiza, Spain
0130 hours (CET)
Five days after Bartlett
...
It's rave night. As usual, the world-famous hotel-and-club sitting at the easternmost tip of Vila d'Eivissa was a full house. Debutantes, hormone-addled teens, and haughty socialites. Ryad Ramirez came to this conclusion simply on account of the loud party music, blaring from the distance. The rough waves and strong winds of the night weren't enough to mute the noise.
Kids these days...
He peered into the lenses of his Steiner 10x50, keeping his hands steady even as the sea rocked the boat. La Perla Blanca, 'The White Pearl', was absolutely bristling with lights, even from half a mile away. The partyplace looked like an anomaly, a little piece of the 21st Century beside the ruins of a medieval watchtower. Ancient walls draped in moss were also covered with flat-screen TVs and neon sparklers. The old courtyard was converted into a swimming pool, where all kinds of revelry take place. And the palm trees looked imported- they most definitely didn't grow at the rocky cliffs of the island. The magnificent Castillo de Ibiza, perched on the distant hill, dominated the background.
Putting the binoculars away, Ryad lowered the Eyenox Model III resting on his crown and hoisted the custom C7E across his torso. He hoped that the party would distract everyone from the commandos approaching from the west. His inflatable Zodiac was among a small fleet of five boats, carrying a total of 40 men, speeding its way towards the coastline. The assault teams didn't have any ship support or helicopter cover, and so they had to use the starless sky and quiet humming of the boat engines to conceal their movement. Another company of special forces police was also en route, on a convoy of at least ten vehicles, several kilometers away.
God-willing, tonight would be the biggest drug bust in Ibiza for the Policía Nacional this year.
"Treinta segundos. (30 seconds.)", Ryad told his men.
Everyone performed a last-minute weapons check in response. Actions were cleared, scopes were inspected, and laser sights were activated. The team was armed with a mix of suppressed SMGs and assault rifles for this mission, all loaded with hollow point rounds to minimize collateral damage. Flashbangs and tear gas would be used for crowd control, when needed. With their guns checked out, the masked commandos proceeded to inspect each other's black wetsuits and tactical vests. The eight members of Team One were expecting a lot trouble tonight, more so given the number of non-combatants waiting for them on the shore.
*Yawn*
A man let out a whiff of air. It was Ryad's second-in-command.
"Oye (Hey), Garza...", he snapped a finger in front of the man. "…No te duermas ahora (Don't fall asleep now)."
"*sigh* Soy un madrugador, señor, no como tú... (I'm a morning person, sir, unlike you...)", he grumbled, much to his superior's amusement.
Everyone went past their bed time tonight just for this mission. For the team leader, this was nothing more than another day in the field. To be fair, a part of him also wanted be elsewhere rather than to be risking his neck; he still had some case files to review back in Madrid.
The party music became louder as their boat reached the southern dock, completely undetected. Perfect timing. Using hand signals, Ryad ordered his team to disembark, one man at a time. They hopped ashore, as quiet as mice, and hugged the wall near the stairs leading to the ruins. The last commando towed a line from their Zodiac to one of the docking posts, tying the rope firmly to prevent the boat from drifting away. Everyone kept to the shadows to avoid detection. Heedless of the teens and yuppies having a good time on the floor above them, the commandos entered the next phase of the mission.
"Cero-Uno a Comando Central… (Zero-One to Central Command…)", the leader called in. "…En posición y esperando órdenes (…In position and awaiting orders)."
"Entendido. (Understood.)", the GEO dispatcher replied.
The other assault teams followed suit, filling the encrypted channels with status reports.
Their target for tonight was a man named Priego. A tall, chubby fellow, somewhere between his early to mid-forties. Interpol described him as a low-level drug dealer with a clientele spanning much of the Mediterranean. Early this year, he rose to prestige after striking a good deal with some powerful group in America. In exchange for a huge sum of money, he was given a slice of the lucrative, cross border drug trade wracking the United States, sinking his teeth into some high-quality cocaine that would otherwise be too expensive to import. Needless to say, he was a top dog now. And he just painted a big bright red target on himself for the cops.
The intelligence reports say that the man was due to close a major cocaine transaction tonight at La Perla Blanca. Ryad wondered why Priego opted to hold this deal at a public place, in the middle of a crowd, and tonight of all nights. Hubris was in play, most likely. But on the other hand, the club was essentially a giant human shield; anyone who'd come after him tonight would need to be extra careful about killing innocent kids, lest they end up on the morning news in the worst possible way.
As the music blared on for the seemingly-oblivious partygoers, a female voice spoke in the radio. It was Elena.
"Cero-Seis (Zero-Six) a Comando Central. Estamos a un minuto del objetivo. (We're one minute from the target.)", she told the dispatcher.
"Entendido, Seis. Copiamos (We copy)."
Officer Elena Álvarez was in the lead vehicle of the police convoy, presumably speeding its way to the club. She and the rest of Team Six would come in from the northeast as a distraction, allowing Team One and the others to strike from the south and the west simultaneously. The sudden, pincer attack should catch Priego and any other bad guy off-guard. While panic would undoubtedly ensue, everyone had strict orders to keep the crowd contained during the advance. Nobody was to open fire unless they were cleared to do so. The show of force should be enough to prevent needless violence, hence the large number of GEO commandos involved in this mission.
Fifteen seconds left. Ryad took the brief downtime as a chance to clear his mind, put his game face on for the task at hand. Drown out the obnoxious noise of the party. Forget about the cold case files, he told himself. Forget the decades' worth of notes and leads that needed his attention back in Madrid. After this mission, there would be plenty of time for the grizzled cop to resume his personal quests. He just needed to get this job done and get his men back home safe. With luck, he might actually get a good night's sleep this time as well.
That's probably what his brother would've said...
"¡Trujillo!", Elena radioed to her driver in a louder voice. "¡Rompan la puerta! (Smash the gate!)"
Team One looked to the direction of the noise. There were sirens ringing from the distance, slowly getting louder and louder after each heartbeat. A roaring engine came after, drawing closer. Then, the screeching of tires…
*CRASH!*
A speeding armored car rammed the club's front gate. Metal bashed into metal, and the crowd collectively gasped at the commotion. Many of them hurried outside, abandoning the revels of the club, to see what had happened. It sounded like a traffic accident. But to their surprise, it was actually the cue for an entire fleet of police vehicles to barge in. Dozens of officers, clad in masks and tactical gear, emerged from their cars. Another dozen stepped out of the mobile battering ram, weapons drawn.
It was time.
"Avancen. (Move in.)", the dispatcher ordered.
In response, Ryad and his team ran up the stairs in complete sync with the other commandos, just like in training. Within a few seconds, 40 heavily-armed men swarmed the club's pool area and outdoor lounge by the ruins, to the absolute dread of the young partygoers. With weapons drawn and their faces covered, they looked more like hardcore killers than cops. A lot of boys and girls, some of whom donning the most inappropriate clothes possible, began to cower and cry where they stood, as if they saw demons fresh from the pits of Hell itself.
The commandos ignored their bawling, and started barking orders instead.
"¡Policía! ¡Al suelo! (Get on the ground!) ¡Al suelo!"
"¡Al suelo! ¡Manos en su cabeza! (Hands on your head!)"
The civilians had no choice but to do as they were told, wracked in terror. The armed cops proceeded to their designated rally points, shouting at every poor sap and dame they came across to lie down on their bellies and clasp their hands overhead. As per procedure, each commando did a quick, visual inspection on all potential suspects, to ensure they weren't packing any guns or drugs. All they found were sobs and shivers. It was pandemonium at La Perla Blanca, but the GEO did a great job at containing the panic.
"Cero-Uno: en posición en la terraza del sur (In position at the southern terrace).", Ryad radioed in.
"Entendido.", the dispatcher answered back. "Proceder al patio (Proceed to the courtyard)."
That was where Priego intended to conduct the transaction. Team One needed to move fast; if their quarry was about to make a run for it, the other teams positioned at the southern promenade might not be able to cut the bastard off in time.
"Garza...", he called his second-in-command. "…abrir el camino. (You lead the way.)"
With a nod, the commando brandishing the ITA12L took point and went inside the office, tailed by two more men. The rest of Team One followed closely, just a few paces away, with each operative checking his sector. The air was rife with shouting and crying, amidst the uninterrupted techno tunes and police sirens.
They entered the first-floor office with a shotgun blast to the door knob. They found the well-furnished room to be vacant, with the shift manager nowhere in sight. Team One then dropped off three of its guys to check the security room to the right, while the rest proceeded to the adjacent Blue Bar. The place was as the name implied: walls and floors illuminated in neon azure, with all sorts of cocktails at the little tables and bar counters. The handful of people at the joint, still incredulous to the on-going commotion, gasped in surprise at the sight of the GEO. The commandos immediately ordered them to drop and put their hands on their heads, with the rest of the partygoers. With the civilians subdued, Garza led his team onwards and out of the bar, while another group peeled off and secured the nearby 'Sunrise Bar'. Soon enough, Ryad and his remaining men were bearing down on the hallway that led to the courtyard.
By the time they arrived, Elena and the rest of Team Six were already at the other end of the hall. As usual, she was leading her men from the front, donning heavy armor, a riot helmet, and a suppressed Vector SMG. She made eye contact with callsign Zero-One.
"En posición.", she reported, softly.
"Estamos listo y esperando… (We're ready and waiting...)", Garza also whispered to him.
A dozen cops were just a few meters from the outdoor courtyard. Satisfied with the set-up, Ryad raised his right hand for his comrades to see, and produced three fingers. Then two. Then one. What followed was the shuffling of a swift, silent advance. The adrenaline was pumping...
"¡Vamos!" ("Go!")
…
You've got to be kidding me.
Rather than find an on-going sale of contraband, the commandos stumbled across an empty couch and a table with an overturned tray of cocktails. The drinks had soiled the wooden floors and the grass beyond. There were condoms and shattered glass spread around. Priego was not there.
"Mierda. (Shit.)", Elena cursed. "El sospechoso ha huido. (The suspect has fled.)"
It was an unexpected upset. The perp scampered off when Team Six rammed the gate, no doubt. But Ryad, not missing a beat, knelt and set his rifle down on the ground. With a toggle on his visor, he activated the Eyenox footstep-scanner mounted on his head, presenting himself with a blue overlay of his surroundings. Immediately, the courtyard floors revealed a mess of prints from boots and shoes tangled with each other. They glowed in various hues, indicating how recent they were. All of them led away from the outdoor area. But one set, shining in a bright green hue, had a peculiar foot pattern. Frantic and wide-spaced. As if they were from someone running away.
"Creo que sé a dónde fue… (I think I know where he went…)", he smiled.
The Eyenox Model III, inspired by technology developed by the American Federal Bureau of Investigation, allowed the GEO to hunt down high-priority targets by tracking their footprints. It was the perfect tool for the self-styled prowler. For the Jackal.
"…Él está en el segundo piso. (…He's on the second floor.)", he told everyone. "Equipo, sígueme (Team, follow me). Álvarez, vayan por el otro lado (go around the other way)."
The commandos dispersed, wasting no time. Ryad led his men from the courtyard and back to the hall, his eyes focused on the set of bright footprints that his visor marked out for him. They needed to climb the staircase. If they remembered the club's floorplans right, Team One was about to make a detour to the hookah bar and the billiards lounge. The veteran officer was leading the way, with his second-in-command just a few paces behind. There were about a total of five men in this group, headed to the next floor...
*Brrrrrrrt! Brrrrrrt!*
Bullets from their right flank greeted them before they even got across the bright hallway. The gunfire came from the hookah bar. Garza was hit in the right arm, and he immediately crumpled down, wincing in pain. The commandos were caught off guard, but they didn't forget their training. They dropped to the ground in unison, as one man grabbed the wounded commando and pulled him away.
"¡Enemigos a las tres!" ("Enemies at three o'clock!"), Ryad shouted.
He quickly tossed a flashbang into the room. When it exploded, he barged in with vicious abandon, followed by the rest of his team. They stumbled across two men, each brandishing a flimsy MAC-10. Priego's bodyguards; screaming and disoriented thanks to the stun grenade. A few civilians were also on the ground, eyes closed and ears covered, screeching in complete terror. Human shields for the armed men. Without hesitation, Ryad double-tapped the nearest gunman while the other was put down with a shot to the head by a fellow commando.
*Thwoop! Thwoop! Thwoop!*
Just like that, blood was spilled tonight. A drug bust had devolved into a shootout.
"¡La zona es segura, señor! (The area is clear, sir!)", shouted one of his men.
Before they pressed on, Team One gathered the civilians at the bar and escorted them downstairs. Meanwhile, the leader resumed his hunt for Priego, using nothing more than the suspect's fresh footprints to guide him. He went outside and followed the trail of signs. They seemed to be headed into the lounge next door…
"¡Mierda!", a man cried out.
Ryad looked ahead. There he was, emerging from the door. A tall, chubby fellow, in his mid-to-late forties. He was wearing a collared, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of summer shorts. Terribly inappropriate business wear, but not too out of place in a club like La Perla Blanca. His eyes were wide in surprise and fear, and his round, mustached face was positively drenched with sweat. The man had a briefcase in one hand and a pistol in the other.
"¡Priego! ¡Alto ahí! (Hold it right there!)"
As expected, the man ran away, firing his pistol at the GEO to no avail. The commandos ducked to avoid the bullets, but they restrained themselves from firing back. They knew their orders. The proper course of action was to give chase, with the team's best hunter leading the way.
Deep inside, Ryad was pissed. He wasn't in the mood for a foot pursuit, and he certainly didn't expect to be the one doing the running. His youthful vigor had left him long ago; his legs had been weakened by time. Or maybe this was just the price of staying up late, six nights out of seven almost every week. Yet the mission parameters kept hammering his brain: the suspect must be captured alive, unharmed if possible. Even though he was eager to cap the poor bastard in the leg and be done with it.
Luckily, Le Perla Blanca was a small place. The entire club was completely surrounded, and so Priego had very little chance of shaking off his pursuers. Even as the perp darted from the hall and into the entertainment lounge, the Jackal and his friends were right on his heels. They weren't chasing the target to prevent his escape. They were keeping him from doing something incredibly stupid, like jumping out of a window and breaking his legs, or shooting a cop or a bystander then get himself shot in return. Or maybe even turning his pistol on himself and pulling the trigger, like every other coward before him.
Priego led the commandos to the penthouse, where all sorts of personal effects were scattered around. He tossed the briefcase away and set his eyes on another prize.
"¡Ven aquí! (Come here!)", he yelled.
Ryad was shocked. There was a woman, cowering behind the queen-sized bed in the room. Clad in nothing more than her undies, she was probably sleeping when the GEO launched their attack. Needless to say, she was now gripped in absolute dread as the tall, desperate man grabbed her by her long black hair and pushed a pistol muzzle to her left cheek.
In just a few seconds, the chase turned into a hostage crisis.
"¡Suelta la arma (Drop the gun)! ¡Suelta la arma!", the cops shouted at him.
Priego's response was to mumble unintelligibly, like a frightened child, demanding the commandos to lower their guns. He pressed the pistol closer to the poor girl's forehead, causing her to sob even more. To take an innocent person hostage… it was such a low blow. Pathetic, even.
"Ni siquiera lo intentes, amigo. (Don't even try it, buddy.)", Ryad spoke, his voice hinted at barely-held anger.
"¡Van atrás o la mataré! (Get back or I'll kill her!)"
The commandos weren't having any of that. They took another step closer, guns aimed at Priego. The laser sights made it painfully obvious to him that they intend to blow his head off if he did something stupid. It was more of an intimidation tactic, really, but the frightened man didn't get the message. Instead, he took a few more steps back, with gun and human shield firmly in his grips. A few inches more, he stumbled out of the penthouse and into the adjacent theater room. He stood beside a couch, flanked by tall speakers and a wall-mounted TV.
Directly behind the hostage-taker was another TV, with a jet-black screen, surrounded by a few cracks at the wall...
…
...What?
Ryad quickly blinked his eyes. It wasn't what he thought it was. The black screen was inside the wall. It was a one-way mirror. It only meant one thing.
*Thwoop!*
A suppressed gunshot came from the wall behind Priego, piercing his left hand, causing him to drop the gun and scream in excruciating pain. Heedless of the blood splattering her cheek, the hostage broke free and ran to the safety of one of the cops. The rest immediately converged on the wounded suspect. Ryad, following standard operating procedure, kicked the errant weapon away and brought out the handcuffs from his belt. Then, he shoved the poor man down into the ground and forcefully clasped his hands together. The blood from the mangled limb didn't bother him one bit.
And just like that, the crisis was over.
"Cero-Uno a Comando Central...", he reported to his radio. "...El sospechoso en custodia. (...The suspect is in custody.) Repito (I repeat), el sospechoso en custodia... "
The self-style hunter of men could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Right after snapping the handcuffs in place, he was approached by a short woman in commando gear, who entered the theater room with two other men. The coveted leader of Team Six. She had an incredibly bright smile on her face, and the barrel of her Vector was still smoking.
"¡Ryad!", Elena called to him with a high five. "Bien hecho, ¿eh? (Job well done, eh?)"
"Ti también. Buen tiro." ("You as well. Nice shot.")
The two cops smacked their hands together, laughing. The man was impressed by the policewoman's initiative and quick thinking. He didn't expect her to place a Black Mirror on the room and wait for Priego. More to the point, he didn't expect her to bring one of the damn things in the first place. Each of those bulletproof panels weighed a crap ton, and Elena would have lugged it into the room from the armored car, parked outside.
But she got results, so nothing else mattered. And why else wouldn't she and Ryad congratulate themselves? Priego, the self-styled player in Spain's illegal drug trade, was left defeated and crippled. He was led away a sobbing wreck, as the rest of Team One and Team Six converged into the penthouse. They immediately went to work searching for evidence and locking everything down. The partygoers, still in shock at what had transpired, were left in GEO custody- to be guarded until the all-clear was given. Unfortunately for them, the rave night, their one source of fun, just became a traumatic experience. Surely the news would have a field day about this later.
It was at this moment when the Jackal saw his wounded Number Two, being helped to his feet by one of the commandos.
"¡Garza! ¿Estás bien? (Are you alright?)"
"Hijo de puta… (Son of a bitch…)", the man cursed while clutching his right arm. "…voy a estar adolorida mañana. (...I'm gonna be sore in the morning.)"
Instinct immediately told Ryad to radio for an ambulance. He was saved the trouble when a pair of paramedics entered the room and tended to the wounded police officer.
In less than ten minutes, La Perla Blanca turned into a crime scene, cordoned off from the rest of the world. More special forces cops poured in- half of them proceeded to comb the club of illegal goods, while the other half kept the civilians in check. Priego, as much of a big guy he boasted himself to be, was only half of what the GEO was after tonight. The next piece was the contraband: tons of coke, bags of cash… whatever that could set back the traffickers and dealers in Ibiza. No such luck, unfortunately; there were only laptops, cellphones, and a couple of illegal firearms. It was what the cops feared: the coke was being shipped elsewhere. Priego's little business deal tonight only involved a wireless money transfer.
At least there was the bastard's briefcase, casually tossed aside. With luck, the case would be a treasure-trove of evidence, even if it would take the cops weeks to sift through and analyze…
*RING! RING!*
The commandos in the penthouse immediately stopped what they were doing. It was a cellphone, tucked into one of the briefcase's pockets.
"¡Jefe! (Boss!)", a Team One commando called to his leader.
He went to the source of the noise and opened the case without any second guesses. Wresting the device from the pouch, he brought the screen to his face. He was stunned: it was an international call. It provoked a curious thought. Was this one of Priego's associates? A benefactor? It would be highly irregular for him to answer the phone without a wire-tap team, but the GEO might lose another lead if they ignored it. Elena looked at Ryad and shook her head. Unfortunately for her, he already had his mind set. There was only one way to be sure.
"Hola…"
"Priego, are you there? It's me."
The English words were an unexpected response. It was a man. Probably an American, judging by his accent. His voice was deep and gruff, with a slight hint of tension. Ryad, quickly thinking on his feet, started to recall everything he knew about the foreign language.
"…What? Who is this?", he played along.
"Stop fucking around! It's Leonard Fausse."
The name rang a bell. It was dropped at one of the late-night international news stories he watched over the weekend. Leonard Fausse. A known terrorist leader, believed to have masterminded the attack at a university in Boston almost a week ago. Or was it Cambridge? Regardless, it was a surprise to hear from him. Why was he calling Priego? Was he with the 'powerful group in America' that the small-time drug dealer had partnered with?
"Ah, Señor Fausse!", Ryad greeted, masquerading in his natural accent, "It's nice to hear from you!"
"Cut the shit.", the caller spoke rudely. "Did you get me the money?"
"What money?"
"Jesus Christ, the money for the crack! Shipment's already headed to Valencia!"
The cop smiled in his mind. Unbeknownst to the caller, he just gave the GEO an incredibly valuable piece of intel. Elena took the hint and motioned her hands to Ryad, urging him to keep talking.
"I'm still working on it, hombre. Relax."
"Relax!?", Mr. Fausse yelled. "Did you forget I am the most wanted man in America right now!?"
"Chill, my man. I'll get you your money in no time."
"Chill? What are you… What happened to your voice?"
There was a pregnant pause between the two. Not even a minute into the conversation, the cop realized that his cover was already blown. Leonard Fausse smelled something fishy, and his next words were suddenly cautious and hostile.
"…Who is this?"
"What do you mean 'who is this'?", Ryad toyed with him. "It's me, Priego."
"No. No. Fuck you. FUCK YOU!"
With that, the line went dead. An abrupt, disappointing end for a chance to hunt another criminal.
"¿Cómo te fue? (How did it go?)", Elena asked him.
There was a look of disappointment in the Jackal's eyes. But his efforts weren't for naught: he now had intel that the drugs were being shipped to the Port of Valencia. That was too far away for the GEO to deal with in time, but the Guardia Civil might be able to intercept the cargo before it reached the docks. It's their turf anyway. The masked cops only needed to relay this information to Central Command.
But first things first: Leonard Fausse. While Spain didn't have a problem with this man, the Yankees certainly did. A wanted terrorist, responsible for the murder of dozens, now gone to hiding. And to the man's misfortune, he had just given away his location to the police by calling Priego. Ryad was not entirely certain of the connection between the two, although some people would care less about that. They'd rather have his head. Pity that the GEO didn't bring their signal-tracking equipment with them tonight, as that would've made things far easier.
But there was another way. The American Embassy.
"Tengo que volver al Madrid... (I need to get back to Madrid...)"
...
"The Compound", Outskirts of Redmond, Oregon
0920 hours (PST)
…
"Leave a message at the end of the beep.", said the voicemail in a coarse, male voice.
*Beep*
"*Sigh* Mr. Fausse, this is Caleb. The Bossman wants to talk, but he can't reach you. Probably stupid of me to call your landline, but I just wanna give you a heads-up…"
He closed the cellphone with a lingering breath of boredom. Another task was done.
He always hated these dull moments. Ever since Bartlett, much of his waking hours had been about mundane things: checking inventory, practicing at the range, or doing the odd errands. Some of the men, especially those who lived in the burbs, took quite a while to adjust to this ascetic lifestyle. Rise, eat, train, and toil. This morning wasn't any different. Right after breakfast, the bald man proceeded to the second-floor armory and began reviewing the list of weapons and ammo that they have stockpiled so far.
Assorted small arms bought from the black market or from Army surplus sales. Bullpup PKP machineguns obtained from arms bazaars in Eastern Europe. RPGs and Stinger missiles from the ATF's stockpiles. Boxes of C4, either shipped from the Balkans or stolen from military installations across the Midwest. His coveted M40A3, among the other rifles in the gunrack. And lastly, a few bottles of ethylene and sulfur dichloride- crude components for IEDs and the basic ingredients for Compound Z. The rest of the bottles were stored in secure cases at the basement, for The Engineer's perusal.
With everything matching the manifest, it was time to head downstairs. See what the White Masks' resident egghead was up to today.
'White Masks'. The name had been a source of mild entertainment for some of the men recently. They read the leaked Homeland Security documents not too long ago, and they were amused at the government's unimaginative choice of name for them. It was as if that the authorities were still grasping at straws, despite what happened to Bartlett. The truth was far less complex: the group didn't have a name. Everyone simply referred to themselves collectively as 'The Group', 'The Outfit', and such. The lack of name was a textbook example of operational security; cloak-and-dagger stuff to confuse their foes. As for identity, the ballistic masks were the closest thing they got to a uniform, and even that one was a doozy.
Their 'face', however, was the ATP. America's True Patriots- one of the most prolific militia groups along the West Coast. In exchange for their bravery and sacrifice, they would be paid handsomely and supplied with the best black market gear: two things they would need to further their cause once this shit about Bartlett had died down. They would lose a lot of their members, certainly, but that also meant less competition among themselves to share the money with. No more peddling with drugs, guns, and other contraband from half a world away.
Alas, none of this meant anything for one man. He climbed down the basement stairs, and was greeted by the bright fluorescent lamps of the laundry room. He saw The Engineer engorged in his work. The table was turned into a makeshift chemistry lab.
"Hey, you need anything?", he asked.
The man with the tan skin and the black mullet didn't bat an eye. 'Mohandes'. Arabic for 'engineer' or 'academic'. He was mixing a few vials of a potent green liquid, careful not to spill any of it. For protection, he donned a pair of latex gloves and a medical mask. With the concoction blended to his liking, he placed the vials into a compact, electrical circuit that in turn was placed inside a business suitcase. The case was hollowed out with custom compartments, one of which contained a solid block of reddish plastic. Caleb couldn't make out the contraption, as he had limited technical experience, but even he himself could tell that the mechanism was a self-contained system.
A bomb.
"And… that takes care of that.", the chemist sighed, content at his handiwork.
It was still a bit odd to The Engineer speak English fluently. Everyone assumed that his accent would be incredibly thick, but he dropped the façade. It was a well-practiced talent; yet another surprise from his repertoire since he joined. Given his real nature, however, this was to be expected.
"What's the blast yield?"
"Enough to kill everyone in an auditorium.", was his answer.
So tenacious. Freedom Day was still weeks away, but this guy was already picking secondary targets. No wonder the Bossman bailed him out from the Middle East all those months ago.
"Impressive.", Caleb gave a genuine praise. "I hope I don't need to remind you that-"
"Yes, yes. 'This thing better work'…", the man cut him off, finally raising his eyes to him. "…'or I'll put a bullet in your head'. You think I am not aware of that?"
"Good. We're on the same page."
"Heh. Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night…", he smiled sarcastically.
Caleb remained cool, even as anger began to build in his chest. He always could never stand an arrogant know-it-all. The feeling was mutual. Unfortunately for them, they had no choice but to work together. 'A vicious killer and a mad scientist'. Success on 'D-Day' hinged on them performing their functions to the utmost, otherwise the plan would fall apart. They already raised the ire of the most powerful nation on Earth, and that would complicate matters moving forward. Worse, a band of elite, international killers were looking for them as well, out for blood. Team Rainbow.
But they would be sorted out, sooner or later. The next few days would certainly be bloody and hectic, but not even the finest group of warriors on the planet could stop them. Rainbow already proved its resolve at Bartlett, when they wasted their time rescuing men and women, rather than catching the culprits. In time, they would be forced to abandon their solemn duty. After that, checkmate.
*Ring! Ring!*
The silence was broken by Caleb's cellphone. Annoyed, he brought it out of his pocket with a frown on his face. He didn't recognize the number.
"Hello?"
"Caleb! Are you there?"
The frantic voice was a dead giveaway. It was the ATF's illustrious leader.
"Mr. Fausse? What are you-"
"I DONE FUCKED UP MAN!", the caller screamed. "You gotta help me!"
…
Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia
At the same time
…
Emily Jacobsen started her shift with a cup of coffee and her fingers on her laptop. Her desk was strewn with papers and folders, leftovers from last night's crunch time. A part of her sorely didn't want to come to work this morning.
"Fucking hell…", she mumbled to herself.
Nursing a splitting headache, the spook soldiered on. There were still plenty of files that needed sorting. This was perhaps the more sordid aspect of her work: every hour she spent in the field also meant a bagful of paperwork waiting for her back home. But she had already come to terms with her lot in life. It was far too late for her to quit now. She willingly thrust herself into a world of secrets and intrigue, following her father's footsteps.
Then she followed a… different road: from the day she accepted the offer, she knew that her actions would have major consequences from here on out. But she was willing to do anything; everything just to keep her country safe. Even if it meant getting herself killed. Even if it meant committing ignoble acts.
One of which, among a list of many, was the lie she told Ethan. As far as he's concerned, she was kicked downstairs after Operation Witch Hunt, demoted to a desk jockey from her position as a case officer for the Special Activities Division. On the contrary, the SAD kept her in the payroll. Sure, she was suspended for failing to bring the terrorist 'Mohandes' back to the US, but her superiors saw enough reason to give her a second chance. The lie was for operational security. Mohandes, the rogue chemist, was pushed further down on Langley's shit-list, now that America's True Patriots had the top spot of the country's Most Wanted.
The threat these bastards posed was much greater than everyone feared. Emily scrolled the mouse, sifting through the archived intelligence reports that she had gathered over the past few weeks. As expected, the Army Intelligence detachment at Fort Sam Houston had a file on the ATP. Theirs described a 'high correlation' between the ATP's more recent militant activities and an uptick of surplus military hardware sales across the Southern United States. Many of these old guns and equipment came from one of the Fort's armories, hence why the clerks there had a copy of the sales records.
Other bases, like Barstow, Fort Lewis, and Quantico, had similar documents as well. They covered everything from supposed transactions that the ATP conducted in secret at these bases to a list of enlisted servicemen suspected of having ties with the terrorist group. Regardless of their contents, the files only proved the negligence plaguing the chain of command for quite some time now. As if it was too much to ask of them to keep their ranks clean of dissent and treachery. Nothing was proven yet, but the mere suspicion of these acts was real enough for Homeland Security to be considered 'truth'. It would be a serious scandal if these papers saw the light of day.
Such a stressful way to start the morning. Emily leaned back on her chair and closed her eyes, letting it wander for a while. So much ineptitude and carelessness. How the hell did Ethan put up with this bullshit for years? Was it because of some misplaced sense of honor or brotherhood? The dedication was admirable, to say the least. Even though he was shafted by his superiors, time and again, he remained true to his duty. Pity that it took him more than a decade to call it quits. Maybe, if she'd met him earlier, she would have convinced him to work with her, full time. She could sense that he too was tired of the system, tired of having his talents wasted. Alas, it was not meant to be…
I wonder where he is now?
One day the world will change. Until then, she had to play her part.
Emily was just about to get back to her computer when her cellphone rang. She pulled it out from her pocket and read the text. Her eyes narrowed: it was an encrypted message from the SAD case officer at the American Embassy, sent over a closed channel.
...
"/ Spanish Police relayed Madrid Station with possible lead to HVT-Priority One: Leonard Fausse / Los Angeles-area, California / Notify all SIGINT branches immediately /"
...
The most wanted man in America had finally revealed himself. Normally, any CIA agent would scramble to their boss and tell him the good news. The redhead, sadly, had lost the enthusiasm for the job a long time ago. There wasn't a tinge of surprise and excitement on her face when she read the message. There was only a series of calculations and predictions, running in her head. In a way, she was not quite amused that it took the authorities this long to get the ball rolling.
"Hmph. Now it begins…"
The first order of business would be to follow the message's instructions: call the nerds on the fourth floor, give them the information, and notify her supervisors. Then, perhaps phone the National Security Agency in Maryland and give them a piece of the pie. All in the spirit of 'mutual cooperation'. It was only natural for them to work together, given how much flak they've been getting from the public over the past few days.
But that left Emily with the intelligence reports on her computer. If she crunched the facts right, these files were no longer relevant to the bigger picture. Fausse's days were already numbered and the guy would undoubtedly spill the beans once caught. At this point, all she had on the laptop was sensitive information about the CIA, doing what they do best. Information that a lot of people would kill to get their hands on. And so, she typed a few commands on the keyboard, gritting her teeth in disappointment. Her screen replied with one dialogue box.
"Delete all selected files?"
She never enjoyed seeing her work go to waste. But she needed to cover her tracks.
*click*
...
Author's Notes/Comments: I hope I got the Spanish right (lol). I wanted to try something different with Jackal and Mira, i.e. portray them as GEO operators, rather than as members of Team Rainbow. I like to think that at this point in the story, they haven't been recruited yet. The Year Two operators will definitely be showcased in later chapters once they come out (maybe as part of joint missions with Rainbow?).