Sleeper Cell Super Boxset (45 page)

Dylan leaned back on the couch, resting his head on the cushion, and closed his eyes. He felt the weight of sleep press down upon him, but for the first time in a very long time, he no longer felt the burden of doubt and fear. His family was safe. His friends were safe. He was safe. He knew it would still be a long time before everything was truly back to any type of normal, but for now, the simple fact that he was under the same roof as his children worked just fine.

Sleeper Cell

Closing In

I'm only here to make sure we get these bastards. And to make sure it's done right. Too much time and too many resources have gone into this case to screw it up now. Patterson is driving like a maniac. He's nervous, I can tell. He's got that look. Silent and focused. I have to admit, I'm a little nervous, too. We’ve got our SWAT team following us and after them, about a dozen unmarked cars trailing behind. With any luck, no one has tipped them off already. With any luck, we take 'em without a fight and find out who's funding them. With any luck, the money leads us to the big fish. Easy as that.

But it's never that easy. With all the data mining and agencies and bureaucracies and politics and money, these terror cells still grow and thrive. You take one group out, another moves right in and takes its place. I want to think I'm making a difference—that when it's all said and done, the terrorists will lose and we will win. At least I want to believe that.

Special Agent Craig Davis sat in the passenger seat of an unmarked Dodge Charger, barreling down the road at least twenty mph over the posted speed limit. He ran his hand across his short, brown hair then reached for his handheld radio. Instructions to the FBI agents and SWAT team members trailing behind had to be kept short, but even so, his mind raced with thoughts about the approaching raid. There was little room for error. Then again, that was always the case with anything in his job.

For six months, the FBI—in conjunction with Homeland Security—had been building a case against a suspected terror cell of Syrian refugees in a Minneapolis safe house on the outskirts of the city. Both departments had a vested interest in the outcome, but the case belonged to Agent Davis. He had fought to investigate and he had fought to keep it.

He didn't fully trust Homeland Security either. They were, after all, the agency currently allowing Syrian and Libyan refugees temporary asylum with the press of a stamp. They were the agency aware of American citizens traveling abroad to the Middle East and returning back home. And they were the agency that seemed least concerned about it. But at the moment, the FBI and Homeland shared a common goal: taking down a Syrian sleeper cell with links to ISIS.

“We move on my command,” Craig said into his radio. “No one goes in until I say the word.”

He held up a map of the neighborhood and focused on the area in question. A city block was circled on the map in magic marker, pinpointing the house where the suspected sleeper cell operated: 1513 Sandhill Drive. The owner of the house, an elderly man who lived out of state, had gone through many tenants over the years, but the current occupants were a mystery, even to him. There was only one name on the rental application: Saaheb Najmul.

Craig had his doubts that the man even existed. There was nothing on Saaheb in their database. No record whatsoever. Through surveillance, they had discovered that at least ten men were living in the house. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Intel, however, suggested an imminent attack in the works.    

“Remember your points of entry,” Craig continued. “Stay alert to movements from nearby residents. We want to bring as little attention to ourselves as possible.”

Agent Patterson shook his head in disagreement with his eyes concealed behind black aviator lenses. His mop top of gray hair down to his ears and thick mustache made him look like a relic from the 1970s, but he, like Craig, was only in his thirties.

Craig looked at his partner, taking notice of his disapproving head shake. “What?”

“We're gonna bring attention to ourselves no matter what we do,” Patterson said.

Craig glanced out the window as they passed cars parked along the sidewalk. Run-down houses passed by, packed too closely together, with small yards surrounded by chain-link fence. Drugs and crime were evident in the area. It was early morning, but the neighborhood operated on its own terms. The residents knew when the police were coming, and they knew when to flash signals, run, or hide. 

Craig spoke into the radio. “This is going to be a quick, clean bust. I don’t want any casualties. Not from us or them.”

“Count me out, then,” Patterson said. “I’ll wait in the car.”

Craig lowered his radio. “That’s very funny.”             

“Not as funny as traveling all the way from D.C. to Minneapolis to find a sleeper cell.”

Craig gave him a puzzled look while loading the magazine of his 9mm Beretta. “I thought you’d be glad to get away from D.C. for a little while.”

“I am. But Minneapolis? Come on.”

Craig slapped the magazine into the 9mm and pulled back the slide. “Tell you what, if I hear of any in Costa Rica, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Fair enough,” Patterson said.      

The Dodge roared down the street as a convoy of unmarked vehicles followed. Patterson swerved the Charger to the left through an intersection just as Craig turned on the switch for the siren lights atop the rear-view mirror. The car jerked to the side. Craig gripped his armrest. Tires squealed against the pavement. He looked to the GPS on the center console. They were three and a half miles from the house with the convoy remaining steadily behind. Craig slouched over and picked up a blue bulletproof vest from the floor. He raised his arms and put the vest on, pressing the Velcro into place. He was ready.

On the corner, less than a block away, they came upon a small one-story, faded-yellow house surrounded by a banged-up fence bent in on all sides. The lawn on both sides of the cracked cement walkway leading to the front door was filled with weeds and sporadic patches of dirt.

The gray sky above showed signs of an approaching storm as they continued to close in on the desolate house. The only two windows in the front were covered by thick curtains. There was no garage, no driveway, and no definitive way of telling which cars on the street belonged to which house.   

“All right, slow down,” Craig said, signaling toward the corner. “Pull up right along here.”

Patterson, already wearing his vest, coasted the car to a halt and jammed it into park. A SWAT team van pulled to the side of the house in front of them. A line of three unmarked black SUVs systematically followed, covering the rear of the house on the other side.

Craig gripped his radio tightly in one hand and his pistol in the other. Patterson scanned the house from the driver's seat. There was no one outside and no signs of life from inside either. The neighborhood was fairly quiet as well, though it was still early morning, and they hoped to catch the men off guard.

“All teams go,” Craig said. The back doors of a police van swung open and several SWAT team members jumped out, rifles in hand, in uniform: ammo vests, gloves, helmets, goggles, kneepads, elbow pads, and boots. “SWAT” was affixed across the back of their vests in large white lettering.

Two team members held a battering ram. They advanced to the house in careful tactical movements, past the front gate and onto the lawn, as the other half of the team split up and went to the back. They knew their points: the front and back doors. Several plainclothes FBI counter terrorism agents surrounded the house.

Patterson looked at Craig in anticipation. “You ready?”

Craig looked around. For a moment he thought about his wife Rachael and their son Nick. They were always on his mind right before a bust; a reminder to not get shot.

“Let's move,” he said.    

They stepped out of the Dodge simultaneously as a gust of wind blew through their hair. A rumbling in the sky followed. Dark clouds coasted above like floating blankets concealing the sun. The storm was close. Craig spoke into his microphone. “Hold your positions.”

The first SWAT team advanced to the front door while the second team held tight in the back. They briefly listened for the sound of movement inside and then searched the doors for wires and explosives. Craig drew his gun and moved along the sidewalk with Patterson following. A woman in a bathrobe walked by with two young children, observing the scene with curiosity. Craig waved her past and told her to keep moving. Once she passed, Craig and his partner moved in lockstep through the gate with their pistols aimed forward.

The dilapidated house was just ten steps away. It looked vacant. Once both teams confirmed that the doors were free of wires, Craig spoke into the small mic attached to his headset. “All teams move.”

The first team knocked the front door open with one thrust of the battering ram, splitting it from its frame like a matchstick. Following the crash, the team rushed in with the beams of their rifle lights moving wildly around the room. They were quick to notice a man lying on one of two couches in the dark and stuffy living room.

“Down on the ground. Now!” the lead SWAT member shouted.

“Get down!” another officer commanded, with his rifle poised, ready to fire.

The bearded man jumped up with eyes wide and his face stricken with panic.

Suddenly, the back door to the kitchen busted open. More SWAT members rushed in. The lights on their barrels moved across the room systematically. Shouts came from every direction.

“Move, move, move!”

“Three o'clock! Suspect at my three!”

The confused man leapt off the couch and tried to run down the hallway. Two bulky SWAT team members rushed him like Spanish bulls, tackling him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. Their knees and elbows dug into his frail, skinny body just as he felt a pop in his arm. His muffled screams drained into the green carpet. His hands were pulled behind his back and zip-tied as the rest of the SWAT team rushed past the living room and adjacent kitchen, into a short hallway with three closed doors. 

“Moving!”

“Entry points on my nine, twelve, and five!”

The FBI agents searched the kitchen as Craig took a quick glance around. The counters and sink were full of dirty dishes. A kitchen table sat in the middle of the vinyl floor, littered with fast-food wrappers, empty pizza boxes, and Styrofoam cups. The place looked no different than a trashy college dorm, until something in the living room caught his eye.

As he moved to follow the SWAT team, he saw a flag pinned to the wall in the center of the living room, directly above the television stand. It was the black flag of the Islamic State. Craig knew its symbolism well. He had been studying the extremist militant group for some time. Adorned with white Arabic lettering, the top read, “There is no God but Allah,” while the center seal in the middle read, “Allah, Prophet, Muhammad.”

A part of him held on to the hope that the suspects in the house were little more than wannabes with no real association with the Middle Eastern terrorist organization. He had no time to contemplate his concerns as more shouting came from down the hallway.

The SWAT team had split into smaller groups and lined themselves against both sides of the hallway. In unison, they kicked open the flimsy doors to each room in startling succession.

“Get down!” the officer shouted into the first room. 

As they entered, two men jumped up from their slumber from mattresses on the floor, pistols in hand, and went immediately for a nearby window.

“Down on the ground now!” another officer shouted.

The room was barren aside from some clothes strewn on the carpet next to three thin mattresses. An old air conditioner rattled against the window sill. Realizing that they couldn't escape the room in time, the men held their pistols to their heads, but were pummeled into the wall and thrown to the ground at breakneck speed. Their weapons flew onto the carpet as they cried out in Arabic, alerting the others in the house.

Craig ran down to the first bedroom, trying to get a glimpse inside. He heard the shouts of the subdued men—repetitive chants calling on Allah to take them away.

The other SWAT officers stormed inside the other rooms, only to find more men scrambling to get away. The noise, shouting, and flashlight beams sent the startled and confused men jostling into each other in a desperate attempt to get away. The SWAT team subdued them immediately.

“I want them taken alive!” Craig said into his mic as he strolled past the rooms with his pistol raised. At the end of the hallway was a small bathroom.   

The SWAT members continued to communicate with each other.

“Suspects down, room clear!”

“I got two males in the first room. Both were armed.”

“Second room clear. I've got three males. One had a knife.”

Craig made it to the third room just as some officers knelt on the backs of two struggling men. Next to them, on the floor, were prayer rugs and open luggage. The place, if anything, looked to serve primarily as a transient house. The cries of the captured men grew louder until one of the officers stuffed balled-up T-shirts from the floor into each of their mouths, muffling them.

Patterson searched through the living room and kitchen just as the first suspect was being escorted out of the house.

He opened some curtains, letting light into the room from the cloudy skies outside. The agents stared at the ISIS flag pinned to the wall in the center of the room. No matter how many times they had seen the flag in the news and on TV, it was just as unsettling to see one hanging in front of them.

As he approached the bathroom, Craig could see white fabric of a shoulder poking out behind the bathroom wall on the other side, near the door.

“Step out of there! Hands up!”

The shoulder disappeared into the bathroom. There was no response.

“Do it! Now!”