Sleeper Cell Super Boxset (91 page)

He glanced in his mirror and then turned around. Keagan shrugged. Thomas opened his door slowly. The sound was getting louder—multiple engines coming up the hill.

Craig continued. “I was saying, if they’re not here, I’m going to have to call this one in. Tell headquarters everything.”

“That won’t be necessary,”
Patterson said.
“Just promise me that you’ll watch your back out there, and stay low to the ground.”

Craig hopped out and could see a line of motorcycles, cars and trucks approaching, kicking up a thick trail of dust on the dirt road.

“I gotta go, Patterson. We’ll be fine. You get better. I’ll let you know as soon as we stop this thing.” He hung up the phone as Keagan and Thomas exited the van and met up at the rear.

“Looks like we have company,” Thomas said. He opened the back of the van where their gear and weapons were stacked.

Craig looked out along the bumpy dirt road at the approaching convoy. There were ten motorcyclists—all Harleys, five cars of various models, and three trucks—all American made.

The leading motorcycles drove up the hill and circled around with their engines booming. For insurance, Thomas pulled out a rifle and took cover on the other side of the van as Keagan followed. Craig remained where he stood and held his hand in front of his face to block the dust. The group was heavily armed, and strapped with belts of ammo over their shoulders. They varied in age from thirties to late-forties, many with bushy, gray beards, bandanas and sunglasses.

They looked reasonably fit and ready to go. Craig noticed the array of black POW/MIA shirts, “Don’t tread on me” jackets, and small American flags affixed to their bikes and cars. They were the very men the federal government was often suspicious of. They were classified as “subversives, radicals, and extremists” in many reports he had read in the past. But none of that mattered at the moment. All Craig cared about was if they were brave and if they could shoot.

One of the men hopped off his bike after parking it and walked right over to Craig with his hand extended. He was tall and stocky and had a goatee. He wore a leather vest with a number of pins attached, blue jeans, and boots. His bandana had a bald eagle on it.

“Hi. Name’s Hank Edmonson,” he said extending his hand to Craig. “And I’m here to kick some ass.” He laughed wholeheartedly at his own joke.

Craig waved the dust out of his face, coughed, and greeted him. He remembered speaking with him on the phone. Hank was the president of his chapter of “Patriots” from St. Louis, Missouri, reminding Craig as they shook hands.

“Retired sergeant first class, twenty-five years infantry. Lot of these guys are vets just like me,” he continued.

“Wonderful,” Craig said. “Can’t thank you enough for coming.”

More vehicles drove up the hill: a Jeep and recreational camper. And for Craig, it was a grand relief to see their numbers growing.

Hank rocked back and forth with his hands in his pockets. Tattoos covered both of his bulky arms. “When I heard these terrorists scumbags were trying something like this so close to my home state, I told my guys we had to take action.”

Thomas and Keagan came around the other side of the van to join the huddle. The dirt lot soon became filled with cars and bikes, most of them with out-of-state license plates, but some from within the area.

When everyone had parked and gotten out of their vehicles to stretch, Craig counted thirty-five men. Perhaps just enough to take on Omar’s water plant. Their battle attire varied. Some wore old green military combat uniforms and bandanas tied around their foreheads like head bands, others wore tan combat uniforms, while some simply wore civilian attire under protective vests and helmets.

Everyone was armed with at least one weapon. Some had two. There was a variety of rifles, shotguns, pistols, and machine guns. Some even had silencers on their rifles. Everyone looked prepared and ready, and Craig hadn’t even gotten to the full details of the operation yet.

Leaders of other chapters introduced themselves to Craig. There was Louis from the San Diego group. Karl from the Texas bunch—which had the most numbers. Alberto, from the Arizona chapter. James from Georgia, Tank from Utah, Terrance from Tennessee, and Bruce from the state of Nebraska. Some of them knew one another. 

They boasted of their desire to see some action. Most of them were military veterans, and they knew, even without Craig having to explain, the severity of the cause and the job they had to do. ISIS was nearing the beginning of its third phase, and Craig didn’t have any idea what was to come after that. Whatever it was, he was sure ISIS wouldn’t stop killing Americans.

After introductions and a brief on the mission at hand, the thirty-four Patriot Riders locked-in their magazines, and hastily guzzled water from their canteens. Excitement and anticipation were in the air, along with an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. Craig didn’t have to say much to rile them up. He only needed to lay out their battle plan.

Craig donned his flak vest while tying a protective mask carrier around his waist. He had warned the Patriot Riders of the dangerous chemicals ISIS possessed, and most had brought some kind of protection—even if only a surgical mask. He put on a black SWAT helmet that was a tad too big, but better than nothing. Craig strapped his pistol to his side and did a function check on his M4 carbine rifle. Thomas and Keagan met up with him, armed to the teeth and dressed up for combat.

“We finally ready to do this?” Thomas asked.

Craig looked at his watch. It was 4:35.

“Ready when you are,” Craig said, locking the bolt of his rifle to the rear.

Keagan stared ahead quiet.

Thomas slapped on the shoulder. “You good?”

Keagan looked at him. “As good as I’ll ever be.”

Sensing his apprehension, Thomas stepped closer. “We’re doing the right thing. If we weren’t, I never would have agreed to this.”

“I know,” Keagan said. “I just hope to see my fiancée’s face at the end of this thing.”

“You will. Just remember your training, and keep your head clear.”

At twenty-five, Agent Keagan was probably the youngest person there. But he was no less prepared to put everything on the line in order to stop ISIS.

Craig called the entire group over to form a circle under a nearby tree. As they gathered, ready to fight, he explained the layout of the water plant and the placement of the lookout posts he believed surrounded the gated perimeter.

“That’s why, from here on out, we move on foot. We use the trees and anything else for concealment while creating a diameter offensive around the entire plant. We move-in on all sides and meet inside. Many of them will probably flee, but just as many will stay and fight.”

As Craig spoke, Thomas handed radios to the leader of each squad.

“I’m grateful to have you here today. I called, you came, and I’ll always remember that. America will remember it too. There’s little we can ask of others right now. Little we can ask of our agencies and leaders who are bogged down and overwhelmed by the ISIS attacks against us. I’ve been after these sleeper cells for a long time. I’m not a military man, I’m a federal agent. But I’m just as dedicated to destroying the enemies of our country as you.”

The men cheered, pumped up and ready for action. With the group riled up, Craig ran down the hill toward the water plant. The squads followed, splintering off in different, pre-planned directions toward their main objective, waiting for them on the horizon.

Craig ran alongside Hank’s group from St. Louis. About ten men in all. Agents Keagan and Thomas had gone with other teams. If they could identify and neutralize the lookout posts before the ISIS alerted their headquarters, Craig believed they had a good chance of breaching the water plant.

Off in the distance, on a clearing that acted as a road, he saw a large eighteen-wheeler chugging by and spewing black smoke into the air. The truck was headed straight for the factory, and Craig knew exactly what that meant. He told the group to move faster.  

They had to intercept the truck before it was too late. Hank cradled a six-shot grenade launcher borrowed from the FBI like most of the equipment Craig had brought. One of his riders, tasked with getting them through the chain-link fence, carried large clippers over his shoulder. If the fence was electrified, they had a plan for that too.

They soon encountered a post about forty feet high not far in front of them. Craig pointed it out and everyone hit the ground. Craig looked up with his binoculars. There were two men, staring out. They apparently hadn’t noticed his group yet, but they were alert and attentive. Craig lay on the ground next to Hank, planning their next move.

“I need your man with the silencer to get in position and take them out.”

Hank turned and signaled the man with the silencer over to them. “Johnny, get over here.”

Johnny belly-crawled to them, digging into the dirt with his elbows and grunting all along the way. Once he was in position, Craig pointed to the tower ahead and told Johnny to take the shot.

The two men posted continued to look outward. One of them suddenly picked up a pair of binoculars.

“Shoot ’em!” Hank said.

Johnny hesitated, taking his time aiming, it seemed.

“What are you waiting for?” Hank said in a harsh whisper.

“Damn, Hank. I’m trying to get my shot. If I miss we’re screwed.”

“It’s okay,” Craig whispered. “Just make sure you get them both.”

Johnny took a deep breath and fired. His rifle popped faintly as a shell casing flew out. Craig watched with his binoculars as one of the men took a bullet through the throat and fell over the railing surrounding the tower. At first, his confused partner didn’t seem to know what had happened. He looked over the railing as the other guard fell and hit the ground, head first. He then panicked and grabbed his rifle and radio.

Johnny fired again. Another soft pop. The second man’s head blasted out the back as he slumped down over the railing. His rifle did somersaults toward the ground. Craig watched through his binos. He told everyone to stand fast. They waited. No additional movement came from the tower.

“Let’s move forward,” Craig said. “Coast looks clear.”

Hank signaled to his men. They jumped up, moving quickly in spaced intervals, ducking behind trees along the way. The water plant was in sight. They advanced steadily, low to the ground as Craig led the way. Light beamed out from between gaps in the trees as the sun grew fainter, lending a purplish tint in the vast sky. During their careful ascension up another hill and closer to the fence, Craig radioed the other teams to check on their progress.

“Bravo, what’s your status?”

Thomas had the radio for Team Bravo. They were supposed to go through the south side of the plant, while Craig’s own team was taking the west side, closest to them.

Keagan was Team Charlie, the north side, while Louis from San Diego, a retired Navy Seal, was leading Team Delta to the north, front entrance. They were using military terms suggested by the Patriot Riders. Everything was in place and ready to go, or so Craig hoped.

“Team Bravo, good to go,”
Thomas said.
“Just took out two tower guards.”  

The news was encouraging.

“Charlie, what’s your status?” Craig asked, halting his group fifty feet away from the surrounding fence. There was no immediate answer.

“Charlie, you hear me?” Craig repeated.

“Charlie here,”
Keagan’s said.
“We got a problem.”
Hank gave Craig a concerned look and signaled his team to go low to the ground with the drop of his hand.

“What is it?” Craig asked.

“We took a shot at the first guard and took him out. The second guard got spooked and took cover. We can’t see him.”

Anything was possible. The guard could have escaped or he was hiding low for cover and calling the base to alert them. 

“Find him!” Craig said. Take him out before he blows our entire operation.”

The eighteen-wheeler was in view again. It pulled to the front gate of the water plant one hundred yards to their left.

“Son of a bitch,” Craig said under his breath.

“They got a problem over there?” Hank asked.

“I’m not sure,” Craig said. “Charlie, what’s your status?”

The air was sticky and hot. Gnats began flying around them as the sounds of crickets grew louder. Sweat poured from Craig’s forehead under his helmet and from under his thick flak vest. He took a swig of his canteen while waiting for an update from Charlie team.

“Can’t see him,”
Keagan said.

“Find him, damn it!” Craig said, his voice rising.

Just as soon as the front gate opened, letting in the semi-truck, a siren sounded throughout the water plant. Panic struck Craig like a bucket of cold water. They had been exposed.

“Put on your masks!” Craig shouted to his team and in the radio. He donned his protective mask and as Hank and others followed. 

“Move out!” Craig shouted with his voice muffled. The time to move had never been more critical. There was no telling what artillery ISIS possessed, or what hell they were willing to unleash.

Blow Out

Craig’s team hustled to the fence. The man with the cutters, Hopkins, ran forward and started tearing into the links.

“Hurry the hell up!” Hank shouted as the siren continued to blare. Militants swarmed the outside of the water plant, armed and looking determined to defend it. They hadn’t yet noticed Craig’s team, but gunshots rang out from somewhere. Everything was happening too fast, and Craig was losing control of the situation.

Hopkins continued to cut the fence as Hank shouted him on. “Hurry up with those skinny arms. You’re gonna get us killed out here!”

From the confines of his protective mask, Craig’s field of vision was severely limited, and every breath echoed in his head. Despite the discomfort, he pushed on and looked through his binos to see who was advancing towards them. At least twenty militants were in plain view, spooked and ready to attack. But they had yet to see Craig’s team.