Treason (35 page)

“It is my great honor to represent you in Washington. What you believe and what you want is what I believe and what I
deliver
.”

Cheering and clapping interrupted him.

“Thanks to you, I have been your public servant—and I do believe that I am your servant—for eighteen terms, but I'm here this afternoon to tell you that I am not done yet. Our nation is not safe, and I am determined to continue working in Washington to make it safe.”

Someone began chanting his name and others joined in, repeating it over and over, until he waved them quiet.

“Today, I have brought a colleague with me. He's also become my friend, and he's the only practicing Muslim in Congress.” Afraid that someone might boo, Stanton added, “He's an American first, and he's here because both of us believe Muslims and Christians can and must work together to create a better and safer America. He's supporting my efforts to identify radical extremists in our country. This is not about persecuting anyone because of his or her individual religious beliefs and values. It is about identifying radical Imams and other terrorists who are poisoning our young people's minds on our American soil in mosques where hatred toward our beloved country is preached. What's being taught is not religious instruction and training; it's radical political dogma and indoctrination. It is hate mongering, and as such, it should have no place in any legitimate religious group, and it shouldn't be protected simply because its proponents want to hide behind the Quran.”

Once again the crowd began to cheer.

“I do not fear my American brothers and sisters who are followers of Islam. But I do fear extremists who twist that religion into an excuse to steal, maim, attack, torture, rape, and destroy anyone who doesn't blindly accept their beliefs.”

Stanton rarely used notes, but as the crowd applauded, he glanced down at the podium, where his aide had left biographic information about Mohammad Al-Kader. Stanton intended to name Al-Kader specifically as an example of a dangerous Imam. As he raised his eyes to re-engage with the crowd, a round from Akbar's sniper's rifle struck the Chairman in his head.

Stanton political rally, vacant lot

Smithville, South Carolina

R
epresentative Stanton collapsed.

Standing near him, Rudy Adeogo dropped to his knees to help Stanton. That kind move saved the Minnesota congressman's life. Akbar's second shot whizzed inches above his skull. The two FBI agents who'd helped escort the congressmen from the motor home to the stage leaped forward and crouched over Stanton and Adeogo, shielding them with their bodies.

The sniper's two rounds ignited a stampede. Panicked rally-goers bolted in every direction. Several were knocked to the ground and risked being trampled. Smithville police officers standing watch along the field's perimeter were shoved out of the way by a frantic mob that ripped through the yellow
DO NOT CROSS
tape.

Akbar did not risk firing a third shot. Instead, he placed his rifle next to him in the base of the steeple's lantern section and grabbed a black remote control. A quad-copter drone hidden outside the Smithville Medical Center nearly a half mile away soared upward from where he had placed it earlier near a large green dumpster. Its arrival above the hospital roof shocked the three FBI agents stationed there. They had been watching the pandemonium at the rally grounds through field glasses and had not noticed the drone approaching until one of them heard its four propellers and glanced upward just as Akbar touched a button on his controller. The hobby aircraft had been built to hold a camera for aerial shots, but Akbar had reconfigured it to carry an explosive device the size of a hockey puck. He detonated it.

The mini bomb was designed more to create noise and smoke than to maim or kill, and it exploded with a thunderclap that could be heard at the rally grounds. A black cloud instantly rose from the hospital roof.

The explosion set off a new round of screams as rally-goers continued to scatter from the field. Several police officers pointed toward the black cloud. Television crews documenting the panic turned their cameras toward the rising smoke. A few onlookers raised their cell phones to document the chaos. Thinking the hospital was being bombed, the FBI agents inside began evacuating the building, causing even more panic.

The drone attack had created the diversion that Akbar had expected. It would be too risky for him to continue hiding in the steeple after firing two shots from it. At some point, the FBI would calculate the trajectory of his gunshots. He needed to escape while everyone was focused on the rally grounds and hospital. For a moment, he considered leaving his Dragunov sniper's rifle behind in the lantern. But like many soldiers, he felt a kinship with the weapon and foolishly slung it over his shoulder as he stepped over the lantern's knee wall and leaped down onto the church's roof.

Mason Jeffrey Lee happened to be in the church's parking lot when Akbar appeared on the sanctuary roof with his rifle. The forty-year-old Smithville plumber noticed the terrorist scampering across the shingles toward a corner drain spout. Lee had intended that afternoon to be part of the crowd inside the roped-off area where Stanton was speaking. But when he'd reached the one-mile perimeter where police officers were turning vehicles away and everyone had been required to proceed on foot, he'd read a poster warning him that rally-goers would have to be cleared by metal detectors before they could enter the assembly. Anyone who was armed would be arrested. Initially, he'd ignored those warnings, much like the rednecked Smithville resident who'd been wrestled down and stunned with a Taser near the field's heavily guarded entrance. But as Lee walked closer to the field, he'd lost his nerve and had stopped at the church parking lot a half mile away from the metal detectors. He'd been afraid to go nearer because of the 9mm Glock hidden under his wool shirt. Instead, Lee had elected to watch a simulcast of the rally on his Apple iPhone. Within seconds after seeing Akbar, Lee connected the dots and realized that he was watching the assassin attempting to escape. Drawing his Glock, Lee ran toward the corner of the church where Akbar was now shimmying down a drainpipe.

Akbar saw Lee coming for him, but could not unsling his rifle because his hands were grasping the drainpipe. He let loose and fell the last ten feet from the brick wall to the parking lot pavement. Akbar was quick with his rifle, but Lee already had his pistol raised and he began firing. The first two shots missed, and for a second Akbar thought he might be able to kill the man rushing at him.

But Lee stopped and emptied the clip in his handgun. Three of the shots grazed the terrorist and one hit his abdomen. A veteran of Desert Storm, Lee charged in an adrenaline-fueled panic and threw himself at the now bleeding terrorist, knocking him down onto the asphalt. Lee slammed his empty Glock against Akbar's skull, striking him again and again until he was satisfied that Akbar was either unconscious or dead.

Tucking his pistol between his pants and boxer shorts, Lee snatched Akbar's Dragunov rifle from him and hoisted it into the air with his left hand. With his right, he took hold of Akbar's shirt and pulled the ragdoll-like terrorist into a sitting position. Waving the rifle above his head while gripping Akbar's collar, Lee hollered: “I got the bastard! I shot him!”

A young couple who were fleeing from the rally grounds saw them and reached for their cell phones. One dialed 911 while the other began taking video of a triumphant Lee holding Akbar as if he were a prized hunting trophy.

FBI Special Agent Parker and Brooke were moving through the last throng of panicked rally-goers toward the stage when Parker learned through his earpiece about Akbar.

“We got the sniper!” he exclaimed, stopping midfield.

Along with Brooke, Parker had been watching Stanton speak on stage from the rear of the rally near the metal detectors and Parker's unmarked car. After Stanton was shot, they had been unable to reach the stage because of the fleeing mob. They were now about twenty yards from the stage.

“The sniper—is it Akbar?” Brooke yelled.

“It could be,” Parker called back.

Just then the two ambulances from the strip mall parking lot cut between them and the stage. As they watched, a lifeless Stanton was carried into one of the emergency rescue vehicles and Adeogo was escorted into the second. With lights flashing and sirens wailing, both vehicles raced from the field en route to a nearby town's hospital that, unlike Smithville's, was not being evacuated.

“I got agents heading to that church,” Parker told Brooke, raising his right hand and pointing it toward the white steeple to their immediate east. “That's where the sniper is. We think he's the only one.”

“Is he dead?” Brooke demanded.

“Apparently a local good Samaritan saw him climbing off the roof and did us all a favor by killing him.”

A look of horror appeared on Brooke's face. “Where's Jennifer?” she asked. “Was she with him?”

“Come with me,” Parker replied, turning and now running away from the stage toward his parked unmarked sedan.

She rushed after him and reached the passenger's side after he'd already slipped behind the wheel.

“Where are we going?” she asked, entering the sedan. “Is it Jennifer?”

He started the car, turned on its sirens and flashing lights, and then turned to face her.

“She's been spotted. My people can mop up here. Let's go get her!”

Outskirts of town

Smithville, South Carolina

W
here's Jennifer?” Brooke demanded, her voice a mixture of excitement and trepidation. “Is she okay?”

“She was spotted five minutes ago by a woman riding through some woods on a trail bike. She saw two men pulling a girl from a car at a farm on Bell's Road not far from here.”

“Backup?”

“Haven't called any yet. Let's check the scene. We don't want to rush in and spook the two men holding her.”

Brooke had a horrible thought. “Do you think they're watching the news?”

“I would be.”

“If they hear Akbar is dead, they might decide to hurt Jennifer and run.”

Parker turned their car onto Bell's Road and accelerated. He switched off the vehicle's flashing lights and siren, and when they had gone about three miles, he pulled to the side of the road. “The woman said the house is about a hundred yards through these woods. Let's walk.”

They moved rapidly through the foliage.

“There it is,” Parker whispered when they reached a clearing.

The old farmhouse was about fifty feet from the woods where they were hiding. It was in rough shape. Shingles were missing from its gray roof. The upstairs windows in the two-story house were covered with plywood sheets. Trash littered its unkempt yard. The only evidence that someone was inside was a silver Chevy Silverado truck parked near the back door.

Touching his earbud receiver, Parker whispered, “The media just reported Akbar has been killed.”

Brooke fiddled with her earpiece. “Why are you getting this and I'm not? I haven't heard the last three or four messages you've told me.”

Parker gave her a blank stare. “I'm going to call in the HRT,” he said. “I don't trust anyone else. It will probably be two hours before they can get here.”

They heard Jennifer scream inside the house.

“We can't wait,” Brooke said, drawing her pistol.

“No. Stop!” Parker called out, but he caught himself. “Go ahead, I'll come after I call for backup.”

Brooke was already dashing across the clearing toward the farmhouse. She threw herself against the building's back wall and hesitated in order to catch her breath and focus. She slowly edged her way to the house's back door, where she peeked through a sagging wire screen door and dirty window in the upper half of the door. She didn't see anyone inside the kitchen. Brooke gently opened the screen and tried the knob. The door was unlocked and creaked when she opened it. As she entered the house, she heard the sound of footsteps. A man was running down a hallway toward the kitchen with a raised pistol. He fired and Brooke could feel the shock wave caused by the bullet as it sailed by her left ear. Ducking, she shifted her weight and fired her handgun. Her aim was better than his, and he hit the floor and didn't move again.

Jennifer screamed.

Her voice was coming from upstairs. Brooke hurried from the kitchen, down a hallway into the front foyer of the house where a staircase would take her up to the second level. But she paused at its first step. Parker had mentioned two men, and she assumed the second terrorist would be waiting upstairs with Jennifer. He would have heard the gunfire.

“Ayub, did you kill her?” Brooke heard a male voice call down.

He would know when there was no answer that his partner was dead. He would also know that she would have to climb the stairs to reach him and Jennifer. Brooke didn't have a choice. She raced up them as fast as she could.

She reached the top step at the same moment the second terrorist appeared on the landing. Before he could fire, she threw her shoulder into him, hitting him in his groin with such force that she lifted him off his feet. He tumbled backward and instinctively lowered his hands to break his fall.

Now towering over him, Brooke fired twice. The terrorist gasped and began gurgling from the wounds in his chest. He glared at her. She fired a third shot into his forehead.

Only one of the upstairs bedroom doors was open, and Brooke darted through it. She spotted Jennifer sitting on the floor. Gray duct tape was wrapped around her wrists and her right leg was chained to an old-fashioned steam radiator in the room. The terrorist had taped Jennifer's mouth after her last scream.

Dropping to her knees, Brooke laid her pistol on the floor and drew a pocketknife from the pocket of her denim jeans. She removed the tape from Jennifer's mouth and freed the girl's wrist.

Jennifer grabbed Brooke with both arms and burst into tears.

“I've got you now!” Brooke exclaimed, squeezing the teen as they hugged. “You're safe. Those men aren't going to hurt you anymore.” Jennifer held on tighter.

“I knew you'd come,” Jennifer whispered.

As they held each other, Parker entered the room, causing Jennifer to flinch. “A man!” Jennifer said in a frightened voice, unsure who Parker was.

“What?” Brooke asked, turning her head to look behind her. “Oh, don't be afraid, Jen. That's FBI Special Agent Parker. He's one of the good guys.”

“Yes, I am,” Parker declared, as he walked closer.

Jennifer's traumatic brain injury had robbed her of many cognitive abilities, but it also had forced her to develop new ones. She remembered voices, even ones that she'd only heard once. It was as if voices became recordings in her brain, much like old LP records that could be pulled from a mental shelf in her head, dusted off, and played.

Jennifer knew instantly that she had heard his voice before, and she knew where she had heard it. She had been locked in a car trunk, still a hostage. It was when Akbar had parked his car and stood outside the trunk talking to another man. It was the same night when Aludra had disappeared. The voice of the other man belonged to Agent Parker.

“He's one of them,” Jennifer cried. “A bad man.”

“What? What are you saying?” Brooke asked, clearly confused. She was still on her knees facing Jennifer with Parker standing behind her. When she turned to look up at him, she noticed that he was holding two guns, and one of them was aimed at her.

“Lower that gun,” she said. “You're frightening her.”

Parker didn't respond, and she saw that he had put plastic surgical gloves on his hands. She also realized that the pistol he was pointing at her was not his service weapon. It was the handgun from the dead terrorist at the top of the staircase.

“What's this about?” she asked, slowly turning on her knees to face him.

“The Falcon asked me personally to kill you. Both of you.”

“The Falcon?” Brooke stammered.

“You didn't have a clue, did you?”

“You're a traitor?”

“Let's just say I recently decided to switch teams. You should feel honored. The Falcon called me directly. Always before, I've gotten my orders through an intermediary. But he called me personally because he really wants you and this girl dead.”

She glanced at Jennifer, who seemed paralyzed, and then returned her gaze to him.

“You bastard!” she said. “You're the Viper. All this time, you have been right in front of my eyes.”

She shifted her eyes to look at her handgun lying about a foot from her reach on the floor. He noticed and said, “Go for it. I can shoot you here, but I'd rather do it at the top of the staircase.”

“Why?”

“Because then I won't have to drag your body there. I'll admit, it's not the most original plan, but it's a plausible one. I'll tell them that I was on my cell phone in the woods calling for backup when you ran ahead. You have a reputation for being impulsive. I discovered your body at the top of the stairs where you'd been shot with this handgun.” He raised the pistol slightly to make certain that she realized that he had taken it from the terrorist whom she'd killed. “Regrettably, I found Jennifer fatally wounded as well.”

“You're the reason my headset doesn't work, aren't you?” she said. “You are why I've not been getting messages and you have.”

“There's nothing wrong with your headset.” He snickered. “I was making up those messages. I knew Jennifer was being brought here. I lied to get you to come with me. Now we're on a bit of a schedule. I can't have our backup storming in while you both are alive.”

“You actually called them?”

“Of course. But don't get your hopes up, Major Grant. I can tell what you are thinking. If you can stall long enough, they'll arrive in time to stop me from killing you. Not a chance. Now, it would be easier for me if you would stand and walk to the staircase. I'd rather not risk having someone noticing drag marks on your skin during your autopsy.”

“You're asking me to help you cover up my own murder? Go to hell!”

“Perhaps you need an incentive.” He pointed the pistol at Jennifer. “Do you want to see her die first? Getting shot in the stomach, I've heard, is especially painful.”

Brooke glanced at Jennifer, who was clearly terrified.

“Why?” Brooke asked him.

“Now, now, do you really want your last thoughts to be about such trivial matters as my motivation? In a few moments, none of this will matter to you—not even Jennifer. Ticktock, ticktock. We're on a schedule, remember?”

“You owe me an explanation.”

Parker burst out laughing. “Owe you? Okay, how's this. Cold, hard cash. Short and simple answer. Lots of it, and I have you to thank for it.”

“Me?”

“Remember when you returned from Somalia? You'd stopped the Falcon from exploding a bomb in Mogadishu that would have killed hundreds, and I got to thinking, what would this new Islamic mastermind terrorist have been willing to pay for inside information? If I had been providing him intel about you in Somalia, he would have been able to set off that bomb.”

“You contacted him and offered to spy?”

“No, I offered him a business deal, my information services for cash. Why do you seem so surprised? John Walker Jr., Aldrich Ames, and Robert Hanssen were all Americans who sold secrets to the KGB during the Cold War. Wake up, Major Grant. Terrorists are the new marketplace for information—the new enemy—and for the right price, I have been willing to sell that information to them. Do you know why jihadists have been able to avoid detection in Europe and the U.S.? Edward Snowden. That young, naïve American posted information on the Internet that exposed our secret communication system and showed them how to evade detection. Many Americans call him a whistleblower, a hero.”

“You're not a hero. You're a Judas.”

“Oh, Major Grant, sticks and stones, really? Trust me, the Falcon paid me much more than thirty pieces of silver. And before you get too melodramatic, don't forget that Osama bin Laden was once on our side fighting the Russians in Afghanistan. Once upon a time, we hated Iran but we ended up fighting with them in Syria against ISIS. One day our enemy, the next day our friend. That's how international politics work.”

“Stop trying to minimize what you are doing. What's the going rate for betraying your country?”

“Why, you interested in joining the team? Ha. Two million dollars as a retainer, plus another million for eliminating you and the girl. A million-dollar bounty—you should feel honored.”

She glared at him. “With you, it's more than the cash, isn't it? I've been around you long enough to know that it's ego too. You get a kick out of going to work each day fooling everyone around you, don't you? It makes you feel important, doesn't it? It makes you think you're special, smarter.”

“Enough psych 101. Enough stalling. Raise your hands and walk to the top of the stairs, or I'll shoot the girl first so you can watch her die.”

Brooke turned and positioned herself between Parker and Jennifer as a shield as she slowly rose to her feet.

“No heroics,” he warned.

Brooke lunged at him. He fired at the same moment her body struck his. She had never felt anything as painful as the slug that ripped into her abdomen. It was as if she had been hit by a speeding car. Despite the intense pain, she grabbed Parker around his neck with both hands as they tumbled onto the floor.

He landed hard on his back, with Brooke now lying prone on his chest. She felt the air escape from his lungs when they hit the floor, and she tried to tighten her grasp to choke him. But her fingers failed her. The initial shock of being wounded caused her entire body to shake as she fought to remain conscious.

Parker momentarily gulped for air but quickly regained his composure. He released his grip on both handguns—his FBI service weapon, which he was holding in his left hand, and the terrorists' pistol in his right—so he could pry her locked fingers from around his neck. He shoved her from his chest and rose up on his knees so he could face her, turning his back on Jennifer. He stared down at Brooke, who was now immobilized by her wound.

“Had to play the hero up to the end,” he snarled, mocking her.