The Insider Threat (5 page)

I
paced in a tight circle, waiting on either Jennifer to call or Retro to tell me she was coming back out. Neither happened.

Knuckles said, “Easy, slayer. No news is good news.”

“I know. I know. But this is killing me.”

Retro came on the earpiece. “Security chief just came running out holding his stomach.”

Knuckles smiled. “See. Told you. Let her go.”

The words brought great relief. Somehow Jennifer had managed to separate the two, and was driving on with the mission.

I paced about for another five minutes, then heard Retro say, “One of the three remaining went to check on the security chief. The other two are getting antsy. Standing up and pacing. Staring at the door. They don’t have the courage to go in yet, but it’s building.”

I looked at Knuckles and said, “Get ready. Which one do you want?”

“I’ll take the Arab.”

Brett said, “I’ll take the white boy. Kick some cracker ass.”

I said, “Okay. This goes bad and I’ll jump in to help either one of you that’s losing.”

Retro said, “He just came back out. He’s shouting in Arabic. They’re moving to the door.”

Knuckles understood the same thing I did. He said, “It just went bad.”

I flicked my eyes to the men outside and said, “Get to it.”

Brett and Knuckles started walking toward them, me falling in behind. They glanced our way and Knuckles said, “Hey, we got a question about the timeline here. We got some boozing to do. How long does your boss take?”

The Caucasian smiled and said, “He’s quick. Trust me. Even with the Viagra, he can’t last more than thirty minutes. Your girl will be making easy money.”

Through the earpiece, Retro said, “They’re in. . . . Buffalo, buffalo, buffalo. She’s calling buffalo.”

I said, “Execute.” And unleashed a little bit of hell.

Brett darted inside the reach of his target and drove his knee into the man’s groin before he could react. The European doubled over and Brett grabbed his hair and redirected his knee to the man’s face. He collapsed.

Knuckles’ man saw the movement and had a split second more time to react. His brain realized a threat, but his reaction time was nowhere near what was necessary. Knuckles came in full bore, forgoing any submission holds for total destruction.

The man snarled and snapped out with a jab. Way too late to do any good. Knuckles blocked the ineffectual blow and slammed his fists forward like a pile driver, one, two, three, four, snapping the target’s head back so hard it hit the wall and left a dent. I saw him slide to the floor, his face a bloody mess.

Doesn’t have the callsign
Knuckles
for nothing.

I moved to the door and said, “Get their weapons. Give me an up. Hurry.”

I held the keycard from Retro, ready to swipe. They ripped through the clothing and pulled out two SIG 226 pistols. They nodded and I said, “No killing unless necessary. We can still get out clean.”

I swiped the card and nothing happened. I swiped again. Nothing.

Retro said, “She’s screaming. Get your ass in there. She’s in trouble.”

I said, “You fuck! The card isn’t working.”

Brett went back to a body and started ripping through pockets. I felt the fear grow, my imagination running wild. He found a card and tossed it to me. I swiped, and the door light went green. We flowed in.

I entered on the run and saw the size of the room, a bedroom on the right. I said, “Brett, hit the bathroom with the security chief. Knuckles on me.”

We ran to the back bedroom, exploding in and seeing Jennifer on the bed wearing nothing but a black lace bra and panties, three men on top of her.

I lost my mind.

I reached the first man before he realized I was there. I snatched him by the collar and the groin, hoisted him in the air over my head with rage alone, and threw him directly into the mirror on the wall, shattering it. I turned to the next man and saw Knuckles applying a submission hold, the man screaming in pain, bent over with his arm in the air, his wrist locked up. I took a hop, gaining speed, and kicked him in the face as violently as I could. His head snapped back, a spray of blood blooming.

Knuckles dropped him, looking at me in shock. The mirror man was rolling around on the floor, and I returned to him. Giving out a little rage.

He held his hands up, woozy from the impact with the wall, and I whipped my leg, catching him just behind the ear and laying him out. I whirled to the final man and saw that Jennifer had wriggled out and was now standing on the side of the bed, breathing heavily.

The man rolled onto the floor, holding his stomach, groaning. Then I noticed the odor. The man farted, his bowels letting loose a wet sound. Jennifer said, “He’s no threat.”

Knuckles said, “What the hell was that? Why didn’t you just shoot my guy? Easier than beating him to death.”

I said, “Hey, like you said, she’s a teammate. You fuck with my team, you get my heat.”

He shook his head and said, “Uh-huh. Yeah. Right.”

I turned to Jennifer. “You okay?”

Brett entered the room, weapon at the ready. He nodded at me.

Jennifer said, “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

Brett sized up the situation and lowered his weapon, saying, “Oh, you’re better than good. All sweaty and wearing lace. Pike’s not going to sleep tonight.”

I snapped my head to him, not believing what had come out of his mouth. He said, “What? Are you blind? Am I wrong?”

Knuckles gingerly picked up her dress and said, “No, you’re definitely not wrong.”

He handed it to her and said, “I’m not touching the zipper. No offense.”

Brett moved to the laptop and said, “I got green. We have it.”

Jennifer wriggled into her dress, using her gloves on the zipper, and I said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

We started to the door, with Jennifer still rummaging around the room. I said, “Jenn, get a move on. What are you doing?”

She looked up at me, in between one body with significant damage and another rolling around on the floor voiding his bowels, the odor almost overpowering.

She said, “I’m not leaving my Jimmy Choos.”

K
urt stopped his Oversight Council briefing at Kerry Bostwick’s outburst, not wanting to believe what the director of the CIA had just said.

The room went quiet, and Kurt’s triumphant update on the successful mission in Nairobi crashed against the very data that Pike had obtained. On the screen was a graphic uncut video of the beheading of the CIA source known as BOBCAT, found on the Saudi facilitator’s computer, but that wasn’t what had the room shocked.

President Warren said, “You’re telling me that the man holding the knife is LEOPARD?”

“Yes. I believe it is.”

“But their faces are blurred out. How can you be sure?”

“Before LEOPARD was inserted, he bought a shirt for the rock band AC/DC. It said ‘Back in Black,’ just like the one that man is wearing. He thought it was funny. And LEOPARD had a tribal art tattoo on his forearm. Just like that man.”

Kurt thought,
That’s not good
.

President Warren said, “So a source who was recruited, trained, and vetted by the CIA was inserted into Syria and never reported. Instead, he ends up beheading the one CIA source that
was
reporting? BOBCAT?”

Kerry swallowed and said, “It appears so. And that’s not the worst. He’s an American citizen.”

The room broke into a buzz, cut short by President Warren waving his hand for silence. He said, “Lose the crypt. You’re not protecting a source anymore. Tell us the story.”

Kerry took a deep breath and said, “We had no penetration of ISIS. No way to determine what was going on inside the organization. At the same time we were scouring the Middle East and finding BOBCAT and COUGAR, someone came up with the idea of inserting an American. I mean, we’ve had plenty of US citizens go over and join the fight, so we decided to cloak an asset in that mantle. We conducted research and found LEOPARD in Florida. His real name is Ali Jaafar Hussein, and he’s basically a hood. His father is Jordanian and his mother is a crack addict. The father left the family when Hussein was only four, going back to Jordan, then his mother went to jail. He’s been in and out of foster homes and reform schools ever since. He was perfect. No familial ties and he had handed us leverage in the form of some charges he was facing for shoplifting. We offered to get them dropped and he accepted.”

Jonathan Billings, the secretary of state, said, “And you thought this was a good idea?”

Kerry bristled. “It
was
a good idea. Actually, a
great
idea. Intelligence work is never perfect. We couldn’t predict this.”

“Couldn’t predict it? You sprung a guy from jail and expected him to become James Bond? Really?”

Kerry said, “We knew the risk of him fleeing once he was in Turkey, and we were comfortable with that. Worst case, we figured he’d just disappear, but best case, he reported, and that far outweighed turning free a small-time hood in Europe. We never expected him to join the fight. He had no jihadist background. He knows more about Christianity than Islam. We conducted a thorough background on him. He was vetted. He had not a shred of anti-American sentiment.”

“Or he hid it well, playing you much better than you played him. Did you hear what was said before he started carving?”

“Yes.”

The secretary of defense said, “I didn’t catch it. What was it?”

Kurt pulled out a transcript from a folder and said, “The man known as LEOPARD appears to hesitate, and the man on the right says, “For the White House. Do it for the White House.”

Kerry said nothing, knowing the evidence was damning. President Warren said, “Is he the leak? The reason that BOBCAT was exposed?”

“No. The two were completely separate. LEOPARD had no knowledge of BOBCAT. None.”

“Well, with that statement, we have to assume he’s doing the killing because of the US government. And so is the man who spoke on the right. Any idea about him?”

Kurt said, “All we know is he’s Caucasian. He’s not an Arab.”

Billings said, “And that he hates the United States. Great. The CIA just trained a terrorist to come back home and blow up the White House.”

Kerry said, “LEOPARD won’t get one foot into the United States. As soon as I leave here, his passport information will be out to every government in the region.”

President Warren said, “Okay, okay, this isn’t Taskforce business. We’ll deal with the fallout later. Kerry, get ready for a blistering from the intelligence committees.”

Easton Beau Clute, the chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, said, “Yeah. I’ll do what I can, but it’s not going to be pretty.”

President Warren said, “Continue, Kurt. You were saying something about ISIS oil?”

“Yes, sir. We have enough evidence on Panda to convince anyone in the royal family that he’s doing things antithetical to their interests. We pass it to the Saudis and he’s a goner. Unfortunately, Panda wasn’t just a financial facilitator. He was in Nairobi coordinating for actual expertise. Manpower for ISIS in the form of technical experts in the oil industry.”

“He was smuggling men?”

“Yes. ISIS has captured several oil fields in both Syria and Iraq, but they don’t have the expertise to make them operate at full capacity, so they’re losing money. They already sell the oil at a steep discount on the black market, and they need the income to maintain their hold on the terrain.”

“So we stopped that as well?”

“Yes and no. We have a name on the far end. A guy in ISIS called Adnan al-Tayyib. We think he’s some finance minister and the man coordinating for the technical skill. Panda’s going to be gone, but not soon enough. He’s arranged for the passage of five Nigerian Muslims who worked the oil fields near Lagos. They’re set to travel in three days, and the Saudis won’t do anything to Panda until he returns to the kingdom. They aren’t going to arrest him in Kenya. Which means the men are going to make it into Syria.”

“So what do you recommend?”

“Take them off the board. All five. We can’t remove Panda because of the repercussions it will cause, but these guys are nobodies.”

“How can you do that? We’ve never executed a problem set that large.”

“Pike’s working the issue now. All he needs is the authority.”

J
acob heard Ringo’s familiar voice and thought,
Great. They had to bring that asshole here as well?

“Looky here. The little Lost Boys. They must need you to carry my luggage on this mission.”

Hussein gave a weak smile. Carlos and Devon hooted, as if it were the funniest joke in the world, not even understanding that they were the butt of it. Jacob said nothing.

Ringo sidled up to Jacob and said, “Do you really think they’re going to use a ‘Jacob’ on this mission? This is the Islamic State. The caliphate.”

Jacob bit back his words, remembering the warning the Chechen had given. Not so much the words, but the way they were delivered. Omar was not a man to trifle with. Unlike Ringo.

But not here. Not now.

After the killing of the snitches, the Lost Boys had been pulled out and loaded on a truck, Ringo laughing at their fate. They’d driven for hours in a convoy of four trucks, out of Raqqa and into the desert. Jacob knew they were heading east. Toward Iraq.

They’d passed the town of al-Mayadin and had veered south, the rest of the convoy heading to al-Qa’im and the Iraq border.

Now on their own, the dust and wind growing tiresome in the bed of the Toyota HiLux, Jacob had recognized the terrain. They were going back to the training camp where they’d learned to fight. Where they’d also had to prove their fealty to the Islamic State. He questioned if it was more punishment or more training. They still had their weapons, so he was hopeful it was the latter.

He saw Hussein trembling against the cab, and began to wonder about the man. On some makeshift parole for good behavior, Hussein had been freed from the school and the punishment of the white house, and had—according to him—traveled to Syria, then spent six weeks in the embrace of the Islamic State. When he’d come home, he’d visited Jacob, Devon, and Carlos, still inside. He’d told wonderful stories about Syria and life in the Islamic State. He’d begged them to return with him, and looking back, Jacob wondered if he just didn’t want to go alone. If he had been afraid to go alone.

Jacob had listened, and had liked the idea. After Hussein’s visit, he’d researched the Islamic State, and seen what they were. Carlos and Devon had begun watching YouTube videos, consumed by the violence and the absolute law of the sword. In short order they’d converted to Islam, reading everything they found on jihadist websites, falling headlong into the siren call of the biggest gang on the planet. Forget about the Crips and Bloods. The Islamic State was taking the concept and making it span the globe. And they were doing it for a greater purpose than just money or drugs.

The kicker for Jacob had been the total control over his own destiny. He knew life would be brutal, and possibly short, but it would be his choice. No more dealing with authority. No more trips to the white house. When he died it would be on his terms, for a cause. Not for some sadistic guard’s pleasure.

Jacob had faked the interest in Islam well enough, and all three decided to make the trek. They’d set a plan in motion for escape.

The reform school was, at its base, a prison, but it was privately run by a supposedly Christian institution, and as such, it fell outside of any federal oversight. A contract money mill that served the state as a dumping ground for malcontents who weren’t worthy of flooding the real prison system, it wasn’t very secure. Fear of the guards kept everyone in line, the white brick building in the center of the courtyard a daily reminder of the beatings and molestation administered for any breach of protocol.

When that fear ceased to exist, though, it was easy enough to escape. Especially if, like Jacob, you were willing to kill to do so. He only wished the hated captain of the guards was on duty the night they had fled. He would have enjoyed beating him to death with the pipe-legs he’d pulled from the dormitory bunk bed. As it was, he had to settle for a lesser guard. One who’d been somewhat kind, and had never taken him to the white house.

As he slammed the pipe into his head over and over, the skull splitting open and the brain matter staining the concrete floor, he reflected on how the smallest bit of scheduling had defined the guard’s fate. And the fact that the guard had done nothing to stop the others from using the white house.

They’d fled into the woods and met Hussein, waiting with a pickup. He’d taken them to an abandoned hovel in the slums of Miami, and they’d waited for the door to be kicked in. It had not. The closest thing had been their names and faces spread across the news for a day and a half. After that, they were forgotten, at least by the slavering twenty-four-hour cable channels.

Even so, they lived like hermits, not daring to venture out except for the one risk they needed to attempt to leave: applying for passports. A scary prospect, they’d ventured to three separate post offices and made the applications, the bored postal employees dutifully taking their information for a trip to the Cayman Islands.

They’d lived in the dark, eating junk food delivered by Hussein, for four weeks. Miraculously, the passports had arrived without the police delivering them in a SWAT van, and they’d purchased tickets to Turkey, fleeing with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

Hussein had said that IS was paying for the flights, and Jacob had believed him, but now, due to Hussein’s behavior, he was having doubts. The three of them from the school had flown together, connecting through JFK in New York. Hussein had flown separately, going through Dulles airport in Washington, DC. He’d stated at the time that he’d already purchased his ticket, and it seemed to make sense, as they linked up just fine in Istanbul, but watching Hussein tremble gave Jacob questions.

He said, “Hussein, you all right?”

“Yes. Just tired.”

“Tired? Or scared?”

Hussein huddled against the wind and said, “A little of both.”

“Why is it different to you now? Syria seems exactly what the news reports said it would be. What’s changed from when you were here before?”

Hussein said, “Nothing. I don’t know.”

“Did you come here before? Did you really travel here?”

Hussein’s eyes slid to the desert for a moment, then came back. He started to say something, then thought better of it. He said, “Yes, of course. How do you think I got the money to pay your way here?”

“Hussein, I don’t know, but we’re tighter than the Islamic State. We lived through the white house. There is nothing stronger than our brotherhood.”

Hussein said, “The Islamic State sent me. That’s what happened.”

Jacob said, “Okay. Okay. But if you want to run, I’ll help you. We’ll stay.”

Jacob glanced at the pair in the back of the pickup, the wind preventing them from hearing. He said, “Carlos and Devon have found a home. A reason to exist. And so have I, but I haven’t forgotten what you did for me inside.”

Hussein said, “I can’t run. I wouldn’t make it back to Turkey. Have you seen what they do to anyone who turns their back on them? They’ll torture me. Kill me.”

Jacob looked out at the setting sun, the red rays scorching the desert sand. He said, “We’re all going to die sometime. Better to do it on our feet.”

Hussein put his head into his hands and began to weep.