A Long Gray Line

Simon Gervais

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Studio Digital CT, LLC

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Copyright © 2016 by Simon Gervais

Cover design by Barbara Aronica-Buck

Fiction Studio Books E-book ISBN: 978-1-943486-90-8

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All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by US Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.

To all my readers who took the time to let me know how much they enjoyed my debut novel The Thin Black Line, this novella is for you.

CHAPTER 1

Miami, Florida

Mike Walton’s knees buckled under him, and the three Coronas and the two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc he had ingested weren’t the reason why.

“Say that again?” he said into the receiver.

“We have a lead on your father,” Charles Mapother repeated from his office in New York.

Mapother was the director of the International Market Stabilization Institute, a privately funded organization operating outside official channels but sometimes in concert with the needs of the United States government.

“Where is he?”

“Somewhere inside Syria. That’s all we know for now.”

“I’ll jump on the next—,” started Mike before Mapother interrupted him.

“No you won’t. What you’ll do is stay right where you are and enjoy some time off with your wife. I’ll call you as soon as we have something more substantial.”

Mike sighed. Mapother’s right. There wasn’t much he could do until they had more intelligence. Ray Powell, his father, the former Canadian ambassador to Algeria, had been kidnapped by the Sheik three years ago. Mike closed his fist as he remembered the grief the Sheik had forced his mother to endure for more than two years. By sending her pictures of her tortured husband, the Sheik had gotten into her head and had made her life miserable. Since the kidnapping, the Sheik’s network had gained wide notoriety within the terror community. Known to be merciless, the Sheik had been able to climb the terror ladder to the point that he was now—one of the top three most wanted men on the planet.

The good news was that Mike was now convinced his father was still alive. They had proof. Being totally honest, spending another couple of days in Miami could really do him some good. The last operation hadn’t been an easy one and they had lost a colleague.

And a damn good one at that.

There was no doubt in Mike’s mind that Jasmine Carson’s death would come back to haunt him at night, just like his two-year-old daughter Melissa did.

That’s not fair. She isn’t haunting me. She’s visiting my dreams.

Melissa, his mother and his wife’s parents had been killed in a terrorist attack orchestrated by the Sheik at the Ottawa train station last year. The unborn child his wife Lisa had been carrying in her belly for eight months had also been stolen from them. An IMSI team led by Mike had conducted a raid on the Sheik’s mobile headquarters —a large Azimut yacht— two weeks ago in Benalmádena, Spain. Thinking they had cornered the terrorist mastermind, they had launched a pre-emptive strike against the yacht. Even though they had failed at killing or capturing the Sheik, Mike’s team had delivered a devastating blow to his terror network by killing his right-hand man, Omar Al-Nashwan, as well as Mohammad Alavi, the man responsible for the assassination of the Canadian environment minister. Searching the yacht for additional intel, the IMSI team had successfully retrieved a ton of information pertinent to the Sheik’s upcoming terror attacks. Charles Mapother had quickly shared the newly acquired intelligence with the Director of National Intelligence, Richard Phillips, President Muller’s close friend and one of the only federal officials to know exactly what the IMSI actually was. Mike knew Mapother had kept some of the good stuff for himself, though, and wouldn’t be surprised if he’d hear from his boss soon regarding a follow-up operation.

“Mike?”

His wife’s voice brought him back to the here and now. Lisa was looking at him, her curiosity apparent.

“It was Mapother,” Mike replied. “He has a lead on Dad’s whereabouts. He believes he’s in Syria.”

“When are we leaving?” Sanchez asked. His friend was standing next to Lisa. He drank the last of his wine. “I’m ready.”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Mike said. “At least not yet. Mapother doesn’t have much information for us to work with at this point.”

“When then?” Lisa asked.

“He’ll let us know,” Mike replied, accepting the fact he might not have the chance to go after his father for a while.

“So that’s it?” Sanchez said. “That doesn’t sound like you, brother.”

“We have nothing to go on. Syria is such a mess that it won’t do us any good to head out there looking for him if we don’t have any clues of where he is.”

His phone chirped in his hand before his friend could add anything. It was Mapother. Again.

“Come back to New York, Mike,” the IMSI director said.

“What changed in the last thirty seconds?”

“As you know, our analysts have been combing over the data you retrieved from the laptop seized aboard the Sheik’s yacht.”

“And?”

“We’ve pinpointed the location to one of the Sheik’s associates.”

“Where?”

“He’s in Syria.”

Mike hung up and said to his wife, “Pack your bags, honey. We might head to Syria after all.”

CHAPTER 2

Split, Croatia

The Sheik had changed his appearance. His hair was now white and he had cut his beard in order to fit with the younger crowd frequenting Split’s seafront promenade’s restaurant scene. Contact lenses gave him brown eyes and cotton wads inserted into his lower cheeks made his jaw appear more square.

The pressure his enemies had put him under did nothing to brighten his mood. Whoever had stormed his mobile headquarters in Spain and killed Mohammad Alavi and Omar Al-Nashwan hadn’t stopped there. His network attrition rate was getting out of control and most of his funds were gone. And in order to continue his operations, he needed money. Lots of it.

Luckily for him, the Russian government had proven itself to be a great ally. The Sheik congratulated himself for never going against Russia’s interests in the past and for keeping an open dialogue with the Kremlin. Since his recent setbacks, the Russian president had been quite accommodating when it came to financing the Sheik’s operations.

But he needed a win. Soon.

One that would put him back in the game. With ISIS latest successes, it was getting harder and harder to recruit competent men willing to join him. Mouin Bashi was a man he trusted. Bashi was a true believer and someone who hated the United States as much as he did, but more importantly, Bashi had the resources to implement the Sheik’s plan. A plan that, if successful, would stop dead in its track the economic growth the Europeans were now enjoying. Still, being twenty minutes late to a meeting wasn’t something the Sheik appreciated. Three months ago, he would have walked off and asked Al-Nashwan to deal with the miscreant brave enough to make him wait.

Was Bashi’s lateness a way to make him understand he had lost his status? That he wasn’t the big player he used to be? He clutched his fists, his short-temper threatening the calm demeanor he was showing to the outside world.

The Sheik was finishing his third cup of coffee when he spotted Bashi across the street. Bashi had supposedly sworn allegiance to ISIS but the Sheik knew this was a smoke screen. Bashi was his man inside ISIS, even if Bashi wasn’t aware of it. He had been the one to volunteer ISIS fighters to the Sheik.

“I’m so sorry for my tardiness, Sheik,” Bashi said in hush tones as he stood across the table. “I had to make sure I wasn’t followed.”

“Thank you, dear friend,” he replied, keeping his anger in check. “Please have a seat.”

Bashi pulled the chair and sat. He caught the attention of the waiter and ordered a double espresso.

“How’s Croatia treating you, Sheik?”

Never before had he set foot in Croatia but he had to admit that Split was a marvelous city. The café they were at was facing the Riva, Split’s seafront promenade that ran the length of the old town. The view across the harbor to the islands beyond were magnificent. The Sheik understood perfectly why the Roman Emperor Diocletian had chosen this spot to build his lavish retirement palace in AD295.

“How could one complain with such views?” the Sheik said.

“Very true, Sheik. That is very true.”

“You have news for me, I presume?”

The fact that whoever had ransacked his yacht and left with everything that was inside didn’t mean the Sheik was out of options. With the current Syrian refugee crisis, there was a wealth of opportunities just waiting to be seized.

“Zebar Selam has the plan,” Bashi replied. “He will dispatch his men and four days from now, you shall see the results. I’m wondering how Zagreb will respond once the Israeli embassy goes up in flames.”

The Sheik’s plan wasn’t a complicated one. With Hungary closing its borders to the Syrian refugees, tens of thousands were redirected through Croatia. Zagreb opened a transit camp in hopes of inserting some order into the chaos while providing food, water and medical attention to the refugees. Seeing this, elements within the Serbian government decided it would be a good idea to encourage all the refugees to continue to Croatia. It was felt this would remove the need to provide any type of assistance themselves. This decision accentuated the already tense relationship between Serbia and Croatia, and the acidic tone of exchanges between the two countries was something the Sheik wanted to exploit.

The Sheik smiled. Visions of chaos and mayhem had this effect on him. “Zagreb’s weak, my friend,” he explained. “They’ll only respond with some kind of economic measures. It’s the Israelis’ reactions I’m looking forward to.”

This was the plan after all. He would leak just enough information to ensure the investigating authorities would place the blame on the Syrian refugees. The Israelis would then go to its two closest allies —the Americans and the Canadians— and ask them to use their influence within the United Nations to close the borders within the European Union. The Sheik was confident that Berlin and Vienna would support the motion.

Especially Germany. With tensions developing between migrants and some German political activists, Berlin would be looking for any excuse to close its border without losing face.

“What if the Israelis don’t respond the way we expect?” Bashi asked.

“Then we activate the second group, Mouin,” the Sheik replied. “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll send another and another until they do exactly what we want them to.”

CHAPTER 3

Ar Raqqah, Syria

Zebar Selam allowed himself to relax. For the first time in the last five days, he wasn’t in immediate danger. With the adrenaline and excitement of combat gone, his whole body longed for sleep. He had earned it. At twenty-nine years of age, he was still at the top of his physical prime but the hardships he had imposed on his body during the last week had taken their toll. He read the operational plans he was about to dispatch to his teams one more time. It was a masterpiece. Mouin Bashi was a genius. Turning their enemies’ hospitality and generosity against them was brilliant. They’d never see what hit them. With most heads of state fighting over who would accept the most refugees, security and screening measures had been left behind leaving the door wide open for a strike that would mobilize ISIS like never before. He pressed the send button and waited for the confirmation that his message had been encrypted and sent. He’d send the next set of orders to another team in the morning. He then turned off his MacBook and retrieved the flash drive before tossing it in his nightstand drawer.

Zebar had joined ISIS while it was still in its infancy. Born in France from Nigerian parents, Zebar’s teenage years hadn’t been easy. Charged for manslaughter at age twenty, he bolted out of France the moment he made bail. Not a religious man, he looked for a purpose. And the Sheik’s network had offered him one. Training at the Sheik’s camp in Pakistan hadn’t been easy but Zebar had quickly discovered that he was good at fighting. The instructors noticed it too and in 2007, someone close to the Sheik asked him to join his own group of fighters.

“We want you,” the man had said.

Flattered, Zebar hadn’t even asked who he was and accepted on the spot. It was the first time in his life that someone had complimented him. It was only days later that he learned the man’s identity.

Mouin Bashi.

A close friend of the Sheik, his job at the time was to act somewhat as the Sheik’s foreign secretary. He was also closely associated with a new group that had appeared in Iraq: the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. The Islamic State was in dire need of fighters and Zebar quickly proved himself on the Iraqi battlefield. His cruelty and combat effectiveness had pleased the higher echelons. Within a year, he was named commander. As ISIS influence grew, so did Zebar’s. He now led a team of over one hundred specially trained fighters. He was proud of his men and he knew they’d follow his orders. They wouldn’t think twice to sacrifice themselves for the greater good of the new Islamic State.

Exhausted from days of fighting, he placed his feet on his bed and sighed. Before he could settle his head comfortably on his pillow, he saw a large spider coming down from the ceiling. It stopped its descent fewer than two feet away from his mouth.

His knife was on the nightstand to his right. Without breaking visual contact with the arthropod, he picked up his knife and severed the silk line. The spider fell into his waiting hand. He loved spiders. They were sneaky. He had read somewhere that humans were hard-wired to fear them. He didn’t fear anything. Or anyone. He used to though. But Omar Al-Nashwan was dead. News of the Sheik’s right-hand man’s death had traveled fast. There were plenty of rumors about what the Sheik would do next. But it wasn’t his concern. His allegiance was to ISIS now and to Mouin Bashi, not to the Sheik.

Someone knocked on his door and Zebar gently released the spider on the floor. “What is it?” he barked. He needed a few hours of sleep.

Khaled Rabin’s head slid in between the door and its frame. “They’ve arrived. Just thought you’d like to know,” he said.

Zebar’s mind filled with basic, primal lust. The girls. They were his reward for a job well done. Sleep would come later. Pleasure first. Conscious of his obtrusive body odor, he briefly considered taking a shower. But what would be the point of that?

A muffled scream accentuated his excitement. He hurried out of bed afraid Khaled or one of the other fighters with whom he was sharing the apartment had started without him. He calmed down when he saw they hadn’t. Khaled and another fighter were in the process of tying down one of the girls on the table. They were having a hard time. Two other girls —one in her late teens the other well into her twenties— were tied back-to-back on the floor. Plastic zip ties held their ankles together. They looked at their friend in horror. They moaned softly, tears rolling down their pretty faces. Zebar appreciated the fact that Khaled had probably urinated on the rags before tying them over the women’s mouths and noses. Nonetheless, Zebar found them to be too agitated for his liking. He liked his girls to be obedient.

Seeing that Khaled was still struggling with the girl, Zebar grabbed her hair and smashed her head on the table. Twice. Spasms shook her body. The other girls fell silent.

Khaled looked at him and said, “You killed her.”

Zebar shrugged. “So? That doesn’t mean she can’t fulfill her purpose.”

CHAPTER 4

Ar Raqqah, Syria

Mike Walton and his wife had been inserted in Ar Raqqah five days ago. The intelligence retrieved on the Sheik’s yacht last month had proven to be golden. It had allowed the International Market Stabilization Institute—IMSI—to stop a number of terror attacks dead in their tracks. This was the final lead; the one they hoped would bring them closer to the Sheik. The terrorist mastermind had disappeared following the raid on his mobile headquarters and Mapother feared he would vanish for good if they didn’t catch him soon.

Mike doubted the Sheik was in Ar Raqqah but one of his close associates was.

Mouin Bashi.

Everybody back at IMSI headquarters knew how risky it was for Mike and Lisa to be so deep inside ISIS-held territory, but time was of the essence and there was simply no other way. Their original plan had been to conduct a full reconnaissance of the area and to build a pattern of life for Bashi. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been possible. After two days of surveillance, they had concluded that the apartment where Bashi was supposed to live was unoccupied.

Charles Mapother had ordered him and Lisa to get out of Ar Raqqah but Mike had refused. He pleaded to the director to give them five more days. Mike knew Mapother hadn’t been happy about it but the director had nevertheless acquiesced to give him an extra forty-eight hours.

“If you haven’t spotted Bashi by then, you’re done,” Mapother said.

The next day, Mike and Lisa deployed two sticky cameras to cover the entrance to Bashi’s apartment building. They set up their equipment—the laptop and their communication devices—in an apartment three blocks away from where Bashi was supposed to be hunkered down. The apartment where Mike and Lisa were staying belonged to an IMSI undercover asset who had joined ISIS four months prior. He was the only asset the IMSI had in ISIS-occupied territory. His real name was Frank McArdle but here in Ar Raqqah, he was known as Mustafa Kuftaro. Mike had never met the guy before but Mapother told him he was a former NCO with the 75th Ranger Regiment that had gone through the IMSI training program a couple months before he and Lisa did. He was a low-key fighter, tasked with transporting ISIS combatants in and out of the different war zones.

“Most guys know who I am and they leave me alone,” McArdle had told them when he picked them up in Lebanon. “I always carry cold water and juices. They like that.”

“What about cigarettes?” Lisa asked.

McArdle shook his head. “Can’t do. You get caught smoking here in Ar Raqqah, you’ll be given forty lashes.”

“Didn’t they behead one of their own commanders for being caught with a cigarette in his mouth?” Mike asked.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” McArdle replied. “They’re savages. Never seen anything like it.”

_________________________

The three of them were eating a weak soup made of vegetables and cereal grains when a small gray SUV stopped in front of Bashi’s apartment’s building.

“We have movement,” Lisa said, her eyes on the monitor.

She watched four heavily armed men climb out and go up the stairs.

“Bashi isn’t among them,” McArdle said. The IMSI had no photos of the Sheik’s associate but McArdle had assured them he would recognize the man. He had also drawn a sketch of the man.

“Where the heck is he?” Mike asked, his voice betraying his impatience.

Lisa was getting worried too. Their window of opportunity was closing fast.

“He sometimes disappears for days,” McArdle said. “What do you want to do?”

“You know any of them?” Lisa asked.

“The tall one’s name is Zebar. Nobody really knows what he does, but he’s somewhat of a big deal around here.”

Lisa looked at her husband expectantly. He shook his head. “We’re waiting for Bashi. He’s the one we’re after.”

“Frank says he’s a big deal, Mike,” Lisa said, hoping her husband would change his mind.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mike replied. “Bashi’s the one with the connection to the Sheik. We wait.”

Lisa was about to push the issue but McArdle’s phone started to vibrate. He signaled them to stay silent.

She couldn’t hear what the caller was saying but McArdle hung up without saying a single world.

“I gotta go,” he said. “I have no idea how long I’ll be gone.”

“Do you know where?”

“I got to pick up a couple of guys. They’ll tell me.”

“Can we reach you if we need to?” Mike asked.

“Call me on this,” McArdle replied holding his cell phone. “But only if it’s an emergency. And let me speak first. I’ll let you know if I can’t reply.”

“Understood.”

Lisa watched McArdle gather his stuff. It really took someone special to do what he did. She prayed silently for him.

“Take care,” she said.

He waved back and with that, he was out the door.

CHAPTER 5

Opatovac Refugee Camp, Croatia

Samir al-Julani felt the smartphone vibrate in his pocket. He didn’t pick up. There was only one person who knew his number and no words between the two men needed to be exchanged in order for al-Julani to know what he had to do.

It was a relief, really. Traveling with the hordes of refugees hadn’t been a pleasant experience. In al-Julani’s opinion, the refugees were all cowards. Unfit to live. They could have stayed in Syria or Iraq and helped the Islamic State in building a strong and fearless society where they could all live under Sharia law. But they had run instead. Run directly into the arms of their enemies. For what? A false promise of peace? Free food? Free accommodations? Al-Julani couldn’t stand them anymore. If they weren’t fighting for Islam, they’d die by his hand.

But Zebar Selam’s phone call changed everything. He and his team had been activated. Breaking free of the camp wouldn’t be a problem. He had an escape plan ready. Al-Julani headed to the cafeteria where his men were waiting for him. The cafeteria was a large open-ended green tent where a number of picnic tables had been set up. His men looked at him expectantly as he grabbed a seat in between two of them.

“We leave tonight,” he said. “We have our orders.”

He sensed a wave of excitement pass through his men. As brave as they were, it wasn’t difficult to see they were fed up with living amongst weaker men. Together, they would help shape the future of the Islamic State. Soon, they would show the world that the Islamic State could strike anywhere it wished. At anytime.

CHAPTER 6

Ar Raqqah, Syria

Mike Walton had no idea how long he’d been napping but he woke up instantly when he felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder.

“That’s Frank’s SUV,” she said. She turned the monitor toward him so he could see.

She was right. It was indeed Frank’s truck. It had stopped in front of Bashi’s building. What the hell?

One of the ISIS fighters they had seen enter the building earlier appeared next to the truck and opened one of the rear passenger doors. Mike couldn’t be sure —the video feed wasn’t of the greatest quality— but he thought the man smiled as three young women exited the vehicle. The man exchanged a few words with the driver. Mike couldn’t confirm if it was Frank or not, but the SUV left soon after.

“He’s bringing the girls up,” Lisa said. “Two of them looked very young.”

Mike could see his wife was worried. They both knew of the atrocities ISIS was capable of. These girls were going to be raped. He couldn’t fathom what pushed these young women to the mercy of the Islamic State. Some of them had no say in the matter, of course. They were born at the wrong time, in the wrong place. But what about all these Western young women traveling from Canada, England, France and even the United States who were joining ISIS? Why were they so drawn to the terror group? Whatever the reasons were, it made him sick. One thing was clear though. ISIS propaganda was designed to charm people who felt like outsiders in their own homes. These young women imagined the Islamic State to be a world in which there was no poverty or inequality and that it was ruled with fairness by clear-cut, divine laws that worked to the advantage of all.

Islamic utopia.

Unfortunately for the Western women falling for this—Mike had read there were more than a thousand—their vision made no allowances for the ambiguity of traditional Islamic legal interpretations. By the time they realized they had been lied to and taken advantage of, it was too late. They were stuck in ISIS land. The Islamic State’s well-oiled social media propaganda machine was efficient and terrifying at the same time. If Mike could play any role in stopping, or at least diminishing the magnetism the Islamic State had on some women, he’d do whatever it took.

He dialed McArdle’s number and put the call on speaker phone so Lisa could hear the conversation.

“I knew you’d call,” the undercover asset said. “And yes, it was me.”

“Any word on Bashi?”

“He’s out of town.”

Damn! All these risks they had taken… All for nothing.

“You know what they’ll do to these girls, right?” McArdle asked.

Of course, he knew. So did his wife. Her eyes were burning with anger. She’d never look at him the same way if he didn’t move a finger to save these women. But as good an operator as she was, Mike was convinced she didn’t fully understand the big picture. They couldn’t jeopardize their exit strategy by going after an unknown number of ISIS combatants. Plus, they couldn’t risk compromising McArdle.

Lisa grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Mike,” she said, her voice a whisper. “We can’t leave them. I’ll go by myself if I need to.”

Mike sighed. Maybe I’m the one who doesn’t understand the big picture.

Lisa was right. Again. There was no way he could live with himself knowing he’d left these women behind. Mapother would throw a fit, but that was fine by him.

“We’ll get them out,” Mike finally said to McArdle.

“I was getting worried. I’ll be there in a minute,” the former Ranger replied before he hung up.

Mike turned toward his wife and they shared a long look of understanding. “Thanks,” she said. “For Melissa.”

Yes. For Melissa.

CHAPTER 7

Ar Raqqah, Syria

Mike climbed out of the SUV a block away from Bashi’s apartment.

“If everything looks good, I’ll meet you at the front entrance,” McArdle said.

“Sounds good,” Mike replied. “If you aren’t there in three minutes, I’ll walk back to your place and we’ll call it off.”

McArdle nodded and drove off.

They had left Lisa in charge of monitoring the video feed coming from the two sticky cameras. She had bitched and moaned about it but had nevertheless accepted her role. It was much easier for two men to move around Ar Raqqah then it was for a woman.

“Nothing to report,” his wife said over their secure communication network.

“Okay, thanks,” Mike said. “I’m heading toward the target building.”

Seized in the Spring of 2013 by jihadists from the Al-Nursa front, a terror group affiliated with al-Qaeda, ISIS gained control of Ar Raqqah a few months later. It was believed that the hills surrounding the Islamic Caliphate capital were the location where the beheadings of journalists James Foley and Steven Sotloff took place. With a population just over two hundred and twenty thousand before the Syrian civil war broke out, Mike had no idea how many people remained in Ar Raqqah. Looking at the dusty streets and half-demolished buildings around him, he couldn’t blame anyone trying to leave this godforsaken place. But there was a big difference in between what someone wanted and what the person could do. McArdle had pointed out that the Islamic State made it very difficult for civilians to leave the city.

“They’re using the civilians as shields against the airstrikes,” McArdle had explained. “These pour souls are caught between the iron fist control of ISIS and the bombardments from above. It fuckin’ sucks.”

Mike’s blood ran cold as a group of four men wearing black clothes from head to toe turned the corner fewer than ten meters in front of him and walked toward him. One of them was armed with a Kalashnikov while the three others had sticks in their hands. Mike’s Arabic was basic at best and he didn’t dare reach for his MK23 pistol holstered in his back.

Hoping for the best but preparing for the worst, Mike decided he’d strike first the moment any of them tried to speak to him. He’d need the element of surprise if he wanted to have the slimmest chance of surviving an encounter against four men. His beard wasn’t as long as he wanted it to be but he hoped his clothes would convince them he was a combatant too. A gray coat over a black t-shirt and a pair of camouflage pants was pretty standard attire for the fighting men of the Caliphate.

Mike senses were on high alert but he continued walking. He made an effort to control his breathing and wondered if he should make eye contact or not. He decided against it and stepped aside to let the men pass. They didn’t stop but Mike could feel he had aroused their curiosity. Maybe I should have looked at them in the eyes after all.

As he kept going toward Bashi’s building, he spoke in the small microphone attached to his lapel. “Group of four men, one of them armed, walking eastbound.”

“Are you clear?” Lisa asked.

Mike didn’t want to look back and said so to his wife.

“I got a visual on them, Mike,” came in McArdle. “You’re good. They entered another building right behind you.”

Good. “Copy,” Mike said, not allowing himself to relax one bit. He was still in the danger zone. “I’m fifty meters away.”

“I’ll park the truck about one hundred meters west of the entrance,” McArdle said. “Wait for me.”

“Will do.” He had no intention of going up without a backup anyway.

CHAPTER 8

Ar Raqqah, Syria

Zebar Selam looked at the lifeless body tied to the table. Her head was twisted unnaturally and a small pool of blood had formed under her left ear. But more importantly, the spasms had ceased. Zebar let his left hand wander on the soft naked skin of the woman he had killed while his right hand slid inside his pants.

The two other girls who were tied together on the floor had started to cry again.

“Jealous?” he asked them as he stroked himself. “You’re next, so stop crying.”

Khaled and his friend had left the room to get the two other ISIS combatants with whom they were sharing the apartment. Zebar had also given them permission to call four more fighters who were living close by. They had fought well over the last month and they deserved a little gratitude, courtesy of the Islamic State.

As long as I’m the first one, they can do what they want with her. Plus, they have two other live ones.

It felt really good to know that there were no consequences to his actions. Where else in the world could one rape and murder without any chance of retaliation from the authorities. Here in Ar Raqqah, he was like a God.

He let his pants slide down to his ankles and positioned himself behind the dead woman. He then lifted himself on the table and lay down on top of her. It would be his first time with a dead one, and knowing he was the one who had killed her excited him to no end.

Allahu Akbar!

_________________________

Mike Walton had his back on the wall, his eyes on McArdle. The former Ranger really did look like an ISIS fighter. Infiltrating a group like ISIS wasn’t something Mike would have signed up for. He would have gotten caught right away. Of that he was sure. There was no way he could veil the anger and hatred he felt toward them. They were cowards. He despised everything they did and it showed. Even Lisa had told him that he’d better not look at any ISIS fighters in the eyes because they would see right through him. But McArdle was of a different breed. Mike could tell. The guy was a born undercover operative and would have been a great asset for any police organization. Mapother was lucky to have him.

“We’re good?” McArdle asked.

“We need one alive,” Mike said. “This is our last lead to the Sheik.”

“I’ll lead the way,” McArdle said, like a true Ranger. “They know me and that might give us an extra second or two.”

Mike couldn’t argue with the man’s logic. He screwed the sound suppressor to his MK23. McArdle already had his Sig Sauer P226 in front of him. Even though Mike was a big fan of the P226, here in Ar Raqqah, he felt the need for something with a little more knock-down power. The MK23 was a bit heavier and less wieldy than the P226 but Mike was happy with the tradeoff. If the need to engage a target farther away materialized, he was confident the MK23 would do the job with better accuracy.

Mike touched McArdle on the shoulder to let him know he was ready.

“We’re starting our assault,” he said to Lisa.

“Go get these bastards,” she replied.

Tough girl. With Lisa, there was no “be careful, honey.”

After a quick look behind him, Mike followed McArdle up the stairs leading to Bashi’s apartment. The apartment was on the first floor and Mike hoped there’d be no children or innocent bystanders in between them and the door they wanted to go through. He kept his MK23 at the low ready, close to his body. He scanned his rear one more time halfway up the stairs.

Clear.

His relief was short lived as Lisa’s voice crackled in his ear. “Four men are approaching from the east. They’re forty meters or so away.”

Mike and McArdle had reached Bashi’s door.

“I think they might be the same ones you came across, Mike,” Lisa continued. “At least one of them is armed.”

“Copy that, Lisa,” Mike replied. “Four men approaching from the east.”

“Damn it!” McArdle said. “Door’s locked. They never lock their door.”

Shit! They were running out of time.

“How secure is it?” Mike asked. His back was now to McArdle and his MK23 was pointing down the stairs.

“Very. There are two deadbolts. We won’t be able to gain access unless someone opens it from the inside.”

That wasn’t good. Mike didn’t want to stay too long in the staircase. It was the only way out of the building and they were bound to arouse suspicion if one of the tenants saw them.

“Ten meters away,” Lisa warned them.

There was no way they’d gain access to Bashi’s apartment before the men marched by. Chances were they would simply keep walking but Mike didn’t want to be caught in the open if it wasn’t to be the case.

“Let’s move up to the second floor,” he said to McArdle. “Now.”

The way the building was configured, there were two apartments per floor and their doors were facing each other. Mike had just turned the staircase’s corner when he heard the building’s door open.

“They’re coming your way,” Lisa’s voice came in.

“We’re good,” Mike whispered back. For now.

Mike and McArdle were now back-to-back in between the first and second floors. They had few options, none of them good. If the four men continued their way up the stairs, they’d be caught like sardines. Would McArdle be able to bluff their way out of this? For that, they’d both need to re-holster their weapons now. Could they gamble on it and risk being cut down if they were wrong? On the other hand, if the men entered Bashi’s apartment, they would add a lot of firepower to an already tricky situation. He could live with a two against four encounter, as long as they had an element of surprise, but a two against eight was borderline suicidal.

The laughs coming from the four ISIS fighters told Mike they weren’t aware of their presence. His Arabic wasn’t good enough for him to pick up what they were saying but McArdle’s was. He’d follow his lead.

Any moment now, they’d know what the ISIS fighters would do. Mike was about to turn around in order to face down the stairs when movements on the second floor caught his eyes. A young man, dressed in black and holding an infant tightly against his chest, appeared out of the doorframe of one of the second floor apartments. He closed the door behind him and started down the stairs.

Mike’s heart caught in his throat as the man’s eyes locked onto his.

CHAPTER 9

Ar Raqqah, Syria

Lisa Walton didn’t waste any time. As soon as she saw the four ISIS combatants enter Bashi’s building, she grabbed her own Sig Sauer P226, the spare key to McArdle’s truck, and headed out the door. She was halfway down the steps leading to the building’s main entrance when she stopped.

Shit! My burqa.

She raced back to the apartment and took two minutes to put on the black burqa McArdle had set aside for her. The moment it was on, she felt like she had entered an isolation chamber. It was as if an invisible force had taken away all her senses and only left a strong claustrophobic feeling around. It didn’t take long for her anger to surface though. She scowled at her reflection in the mirror. What a shame.

If there was one advantage to wearing a burqa, it was that it made concealing her P226 less problematic. Thirty seconds later, she was in the street heading toward Bashi’s building.

She forced herself not to run. She had a feeling her husband and McArdle were going to need her real soon.

CHAPTER 10

Ar Raqqah, Syria

Mike placed his fingers to his lips, signaling the man to stay silent. He then gestured for him to go back inside his apartment. The man didn’t hesitate and took two steps back. Mike had no doubt the man would call a certain phone number and report what he had just seen. Still, it could take a while before anyone showed up to check on the man’s story. Mike watched the man and his infant vanish inside the apartment just as he heard Bashi’s deadbolts slide back. It seemed that the four men were joining whoever was already inside Bashi’s apartment.

McArdle looked at Mike, waiting for his order to proceed. McArdle wanted to go in. Was it bravery or stupidity? In combat, the two often get mixed up. If they were going to do this, now was the time. The door was open and the enemy didn’t expect them to strike.

Mike’s mind raced back to the raid on the Sheik’s yacht in Benalmádena. He pushed back the negative thoughts that threatened his concentration and checked that his spare magazines were still in place.

“Lisa,” he said, “we’re moving in.”

He didn’t wait for her reply before he nodded to McArdle.

_________________________

Mike was fewer than two seconds behind McArdle but the former Ranger had already dispatched two men by the time Mike fired his first shot. The silencers attached to their pistols muffled most of the noise and Mike fired round after round into the Islamic State fighters fewer than two meters away. Pieces of skulls and bits of brains splattered on the staircase walls as Mike and McArdle emptied their magazines. Within seconds, they had eliminated the four terrorists who had just entered the building plus the two who had come to the door to let their friends in.

Mike quickly inserted a new one and was the first to enter the apartment. He lost his footing on a patch of blood and fell on his back, knocking his head heavily against the wall just as a man armed with an AK-47 came out of one of the bedrooms to his right. Mike raised his pistol and fired three shots, all of them hitting the ISIS fighter in the upper-body. The man crumbled but not before he fired a long burst. Stray bullets hit the wall just above Mike’s head before moving to his left toward McArdle. Mike watched in horror as he saw the AK-47 rounds punch holes all around McArdle. The former Ranger froze in place, his mouth opened in disbelief.

How he didn’t get hit, Mike would never know. There must have been half a dozen holes on each side of McArdle but the IMSI asset was still standing. He gave the thumps up to Mike half a second later and Mike jumped back to his feet. From his position, he could see that out of the four bedrooms, there was only one with its door closed. Mike took the lead and they rapidly cleared the three other small bedrooms.

The assault had started fewer than fifteen seconds ago when they kicked the last door open. What Mike saw next appalled him like nothing he had ever seen before.

CHAPTER 11

Ar Raqqah, Syria

The unmistakable sound of the AK-47 broke the trance Zebar Selam was in, but being mere seconds away from orgasm, he had no time to react. He had barely gotten up from the dead girl when the door burst open. He turned around, consciously aware that he was naked with an erection.

His heart sank when he realized that the two men standing next to him weren’t his. He recognized one of them though.

Mustafa.

But it was the other man who made him anxious. He looked and dressed like one of his men, but his eyes betrayed his hatred and revulsion to what he had just witnessed. The man’s eyes moved from him to the dead girl to the two women tied on the floor. Zebar thought he was about to get his head blown off. The man’s finger moved inside the trigger guard.

“On your knees,” Mustafa yelled. Zebar looked at the man he didn’t know. His finger was still on the trigger but the spell had been broken. He might live after all.

_________________________

Mike Walton used all his might not to throw up. He watched as the pig in front of him got to his knees before getting kicked in the groin by McArdle. The man’s hands shot to his genitals and then he collapsed to his side.

“Mike,” McArdle said, “you okay, brother?”

“Yeah,” Mike replied. Get a fucking grip. “We probably have less than five minutes before someone shows up.”

“Shit! This one’s gone,” McArdle said, after taking the pulse of the woman Zebar Selam had been on top of. “What do we do with these two?”

Mike couldn’t leave them behind. They weren’t his mission, and they’d be a major burden to their extraction. He knew that. But how could he not take them after what he had just witnessed? Impossible.

“I’ll take care of them,” Mike said. “Check the rest of the apartment while I have a chat with this piece of shit.”

McArdle stared at him.

“Don’t worry, I’m good,” Mike said.

Once the Ranger was out of the room, he kneeled down next to Zebar Selam. “You’re in luck, you fuck,” Mike hissed in his ear. “We’re short on time.”

_________________________

Zebar Selam was on his side, breathless. Mustafa’s foot had hit him right under the scrotum with such force that he felt like he had been stabbed with a white-hot knife. The pain went all the way to his stomach and a wave of nausea washed over him. He started to retch and just when he began vomiting, his back was pinned to the floor. Worse, he couldn’t open his mouth. Mustafa’s friend had clamped one of his hands over it while the other one was pinching his nose.

“You don’t get to be sick, you fuck,” the man roared. “Not after what you’ve done.”

Zebar’s body convulsed as the vomit entered his lungs. Eyes opened wide, he looked at the man on top of him. There was no pity in his eyes, only resolve. Drowning on his own bile, Zebar struggled to escape the man’s powerful vise but he had no strength left. Suddenly, he was jerked back to his side and allowed to retch. But that brought no relief. The tightening in his throat and stomach were like grips wringing him dry.

The moment he stopped puking, the man grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and lifted him up. With his pants still around his ankles, he quickly tripped over them and fell on his back. The man fell with him and the next thing he knew, he had a knife to his throat.

“Where’s Bashi?”

_________________________

Mike Walton lost it when Selam tried to play the “I speak no English” card. He whacked Selam twice in the teeth using his knife hand. Then he hit him one more time for good measure and personal satisfaction.

“Where’s Mouin Bashi?”

Selam turned his head to the side and spat a mix of teeth, blood and bile. Mike slapped him. “I won’t ask again. Where is he?”

“I do not know.”

Mike cocked his head and pushed the blade against the ISIS fighter’s skin. “Really?”

Tears rolled down the rapist’s cheeks. “I do not know,” he repeated. “I swear.”

“What were you planning to do with the other girls?” Mike asked, staring into Selam’s soul.

Selam averted his eyes but it was too late, Mike had seen the shame, the guilt, and the fear associated with what he would have done with the girls. Keeping his Glauca B1 knife to Selam’s throat, he used his left hand to pull on the man’s already bruised scrotum so hard that he literally tore it off.

Selam’s screams could be heard across the apartment and probably much beyond.

“How does that feel?” Mike yelled, showing Selam his balls. “How does that fucking feel?”

_________________________

White-hot pain exploded where his testicles had been. Zebar had never felt anything like this before. Seeing his testicles, detached and in another man’s hand, was surreal. He wanted to die.

And he was about to.

CHAPTER 12

Ar Raqqah, Syria

For what he had done to the poor girl, Mike Walton wanted Zebar to feel the same degradation, the same humiliation he had wrought on the dead woman. He would have pushed the physical and psychological torture further if it hadn’t been for McArdle.

“For Christ’s sake, Mike, what are you doing?”

Mike looked around him, there was blood everywhere, and the two girls were crying. They were probably as afraid of him as they were of Selam.

“Did you find anything?” Mike asked, still holding Selam’s testicles.

McArdle appeared confused for a second. “I…”

“Did you get any intel on Bashi’s whereabouts?”

“Sorry… I’ve found a couple of laptops and a bunch of flash drives. I think—” McArdle started but was interrupted by Lisa’s voice.

“I’m two hundred meters from the vehicle,” Lisa said. “And you’ll have company in less than a minute. Four men, all armed.”

That couldn’t be right. His wife was supposed to be at McArdle’s apartment. How could she be two hundred meters from their vehicle?

“Say again, Lisa?”

“Wake up, Mike,” his wife replied. “I’m here to give you guys a hand. And it looks to me like you’ll need one soon.”

Mike made the executive decision that they would leave immediately. “Grab the gear,” he said to McArdle. “We’re getting out of here.”

Then without warning, he plunged his knife into Selam’s gut. He twisted it a few times before pulling it out. He fought the urge to slice off Selam’s penis; the man certainly deserved it, but there was no time left and he was certain the terrorist had already received his message loud and clear. Instead, Mike stabbed Selam in the throat. Blood gushed out of his mouth as he started choking.

“You didn’t deserve such a quick death,” Mike said, wondering if he would regret not cutting the rapist’s dick off. “Consider yourself lucky.”

A moment later, he took a knee next to the two girls. Using his knife, he cut them loose and removed the dirty rags covering their mouths.

“Speak English?” he asked them.

Both girls nodded.

“Okay,” Mike replied, relieved. “You stay here until we tell you to move. Understood?”

“Yes,” one of them said, just loud enough for Mike to understand. The other girl was shaking like a leaf.

“We’ll get you out of here,” he said, getting up. “I promise.”

Mike exited the room frustrated that he had no idea what they would do with the girls. Leaving them here was out of the question. But so was bringing them back to the United States. He made eye contact with McArdle, who was already positioned at the apartment front door and peeking into the staircase. McArdle motioned him to stay where he was.

“They just entered the building,” Lisa said. “And I’m in the truck.”

McArdle signaled him that four men were coming up the stairs.

“Copy, Lisa,” Mike replied. “Be ready to pick us up at a moment notice. And there will be four of us.”

“Four?” Lisa replied but quickly added, “Never mind, I’ll be ready.”

McArdle closed the apartment door slowly.

“You ready?” he asked Mike.

Mike’s MK23 was already up. It wouldn’t be as easy as it had been when they had rushed into the apartment. The discharge of the AK-47 only minutes ago had changed the whole tactical situation. Yet, Mike didn’t believe the ISIS combatants had the same training he and McArdle had, and he gambled they didn’t have stun grenades with them.

Because we’re fucked if they do.

The two IMSI assets positioned themselves in a way that would allow them to engage the same target from different spots. Armed only with pistols, it was imperative that their arc of fire overlapped each other.

From where he stood, Mike saw the men’s shadows moving under the door. They were all gathering in front of the door prior to making their move. Mike cursed himself for not grabbing the AK-47. With all of the ISIS fighters bunched together behind a wooden door, he could have taken them all out in one long burst.

Shit.

With his senses on alert, Mike heard one of the men try the door to see if it was locked. Knowing it wasn’t, Mike prepared himself for what he knew was coming next.

_________________________

The first man entered the room the same way Mike would have. He briefly scanned his immediate vicinity before moving to the corner to his right. Mike first shot went one-inch-wide but McArdle’s bullet hit the man behind the head. The man collapsed and Mike engaged the next assailant who was still in the doorframe.

His second and third shots hit the man in the chest and pushed him back against the two remaining ISIS fighters still outside the apartment. He and McArdle couldn’t afford to let them take this position from where they could “spray and pray.” They’d be trapped.

“Cover me,” Mike yelled. “I’m getting the AK.”

“Covering,” McArdle shouted back while pulling the trigger of his P226 again and again.

“Moving.”

Mike sprinted toward the AK only a few feet away and picked it up. Just when he was about to fire, he remembered that the previous user had fired on full automatic. Instinctively, he put the selector to semi-automatic.

Damn it! How many rounds are left in the magazine?

“Reloading,” shouted McArdle.

With no time to check the magazine, Mike pulled the trigger of the AK-47. Please go bang, not click.

“Covering,” he replied even though he couldn’t see where the two fighters had gone. He concentrated his fire on the left side of the doorframe, hoping that the penetration power of the AK-47’s 7.62 millimeter rounds were sufficient to go through the walls of the old building.

Getting the AK-47 had been the right call. The sight of a falling ISIS fighter rewarded Mike. The man fell on top of the guy Mike had shot with his pistol. A second later, the last ISIS combatant threw his weapon on the ground and showed himself, hands in the air.

“Please don’t shoot,” he said in English. “Please don’t shoot me.”

What the hell? Who’s this guy?

“You have him, Frank?” Mike asked. He hated not knowing how many rounds he had left.

“Got him.”

Once he was sure McArdle was covering him, Mike checked the magazine.

Three rounds left. He would need to grab a few more magazines from the dead fighters. And they had to go now. They had no time left. Yet, he was curious to know who this man was.

“Who are you?” Mike asked the only surviving ISIS assailant.

“My real name’s Keith,” he replied, taking small steps toward McArdle. “You guys are Americans, right? Me too.”

“Stay where the fuck you are,” McArdle warned him, his pistol pointed at Keith’s head.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Keith said while continuing to advance toward McArdle. “I want to go home—”

McArdle took a few steps back until he had his back against the wall. “I won’t say this again, asshole. Stay where you are.”

Keith stopped. He was fewer than ten feet away from McArdle. There was something odd about the man.

“Do you know where Mouin Bashi is?” Mike asked. He had the sights of his AK-47 aimed at Keith’s torso.

“Mouin Bashi? Yes, of course. I know where he is. I can take you to him right now if—”

McArdle’s bullet hit Keith right in the middle of the forehead. “Bullshit,” he looked at Mike and added, “Bashi’s not in town. This guy just wanted us to waste time. That means more fighters are on their way.”

Mike nodded. He was in total agreement with McArdle’s assessment. He pressed the transmit button. “Lisa, we’re ready now. What’s your ETA?”

Lisa replied immediately. “I’m fifteen seconds away. Lots of people are starting to gather in front of the building, Mike. You guys better hurry.”

“Thanks, Lisa. We’re on our way,” Mike replied while grabbing some magazines from the fallen ISIS fighters.

Turning toward McArdle, he said, “Go downstairs and make sure we’re clear. I’ll get the girls.”

When Mike entered the bedroom where the girls were, he thought they seemed relieved to see him.

“If you want to live, follow me.”

CHAPTER 13

Ar Raqqah, Syria

“We’re coming down,” Mike said into his mic.

“You’re green but it’s getting busy down here,” McArdle replied.

Even though the sound of gunfire was a frequent occurrence in Ar Raqqah, rarely did it last for so long at the same location. Within minutes, if not seconds, armed men attracted by the violence would fill the place.

“Stay close to me,” Mike said to the two women behind him.

Mike reached the ground floor and saw McArdle—an AK-47 in his hands— standing on the side of the road scanning for potential targets. Lisa had parked the SUV a few meters off to his right.

“We’re coming out,” Mike said. He reached the SUV and opened the rear passenger door to let the two women in. “Let’s go. In here.”

Tires screeching nearby attracted Mike’s attention. A pickup truck had turned onto their street. Its high engine revolutions told him all he needed to know.

“Hostile, black pickup truck, two hundred meters back,” Mike warned.

Mike heard McArdle’s AK-47 go off. The pickup truck veered hard to its left and crashed into a parked car. Two men got out and started returning fire from the middle of the street. Mike brought the sights of his AK-47 onto one of the ISIS men’s torso and pressed the trigger. The man dropped his weapon and clutched his right side with two hands. Seeing this, his companion took a few steps back before turning around and sprinting toward safety, leaving his friend behind.

Coward.

Mike took an extra second to adjust his aim before shooting the running man in the back. The man collapsed face first onto the street.

“Time to go,” yelled Lisa from inside the truck.

Mike sat next to the girls and closed the door at the same time McArdle opened the driver’s door.

“Move over, Lisa,” McArdle said. “I know the area best.”

Lisa tried to slide over to the passenger seat but Mike saw that her burqa limited her movement.

“Damn thing,” he heard her say as she reached the passenger seat.

McArdle accelerated down the street and took the first right.

“We can’t go back to your apartment,” Mike said.

“I know,” McArdle replied reaching into his pants. “I was tired of the place anyway.” He gave Lisa his phone and said, “Dial star-zero-zero-zero-eight.”

“What will that do?” she asked.

“If they don’t know I’m a mole yet, they’ll know soon enough,” McArdle replied, as he once again pressed on the accelerator. “That will make sure we haven’t left anything compromising behind us.”

“How big of a boom?” Lisa asked.

Mike knew what his wife was thinking. If the apartment went up in flames, how many innocents would be killed? It was a valid question.

“It doesn’t matter, Lisa,” McArdle replied. “The whole building is occupied by ISIS fighters. No families live there. Trust me.”

Mike could see his wife was debating what to do. She turned around and looked at him. He nodded. You can trust him.

Fewer than thirty seconds later, a loud explosion split the air behind them. From the back window, Mike saw a plume of smoke go up.

“Holy shit, Frank!” he said.

“That should buy us a few minutes,” McArdle replied.

“Where are we going?” Mike asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” McArdle said, taking his phone back. He dialed a number. “But I have an idea.”

CHAPTER 14

Ar Raqqah, Syria

“What did you just say?” Lisa Walton asked. “Are you nuts?”

“It’s our only chance,” McArdle replied. “Your primary extraction plan is a bust and so is your secondary.”

Both plans assumed that McArdle would have been able to keep his cover. But that hadn’t happened. With his cover blown, or at least partially blown, McArdle’s death would have been certain if he had gone back to his ISIS handlers. They had managed to get out of Ar Raqqah without any other incidents but Lisa was convinced that some ISIS elements were pursuing them. It had been too easy.

“I’ve already contacted their area commander,” continued McArdle. “The Kurds will help us.”

Lisa was worried about the two women at the back. They hadn’t spoken much since their rescue, but with gentle probing, she had learned that their names were Mira and Sonia. Mira was an American citizen while Sonia was French.

“What will happen to them?” she asked.

Even though he was driving fast, McArdle glanced at her. Lisa sensed the former Ranger was a little annoyed with her.

“Trust me, Lisa,” McArdle said. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Frank’s right, honey,” her husband said. “The Kurds are different; they’re a little bit like us actually.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“The Kurds are somewhat liberal when it comes to women’s rights. They have women acting as commanders in some of their field units,” Mike explained.

That was news to her. She had no idea.

“So the plan is to join them? Why would they help us?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing with ISIS?”

Lisa assumed McArdle had been collecting intelligence and passing it along back to the IMSI headquarters. But she wasn’t sure. All Mapother had said was that the IMSI had an asset within ISIS, and that this asset would help them catch Mouin Bashi.

“What don’t you enlighten us?” she asked.

“Mapother believes the Kurds are our safest allies in Syria. My mission is to feed them as much actionable intelligence as I can.”

“That’s why you know they’ll help us?” her husband asked.

“I’ve only been in the country for a short while but my intel has been good. They’ve used it more than once,” McArdle replied.

Lisa studied the map she had pulled out of the glove box. She placed her index finger where she thought they were and then said, “We’re about twenty kilometers north of Ar Raqqah. Aren’t the Kurds at least sixty kilometers from here?”

“There has been a lot of fighting in recent weeks,” McArdle explained. “The Kurds have been really aggressive and they were successful at gaining some ground.”

The northeastern part of Syria was controlled mostly by the Kurds. Lisa knew the United States had helped them much by providing weapons, training and even air strikes to back some of their ground assaults.

She wasn’t a Syrian specialist but she knew not everyone agreed with Washington when it came to the Kurds. Some people thought that supporting the Kurdish forces in Syria was actually undermining the American government’s strategy for Syria by raising Kurdish hopes for a self-governing zone, thus antagonizing Turkey, another ally.

Her heart skipped a beat when her husband yelled, “RPG! RP—”

The RPG round hit short, just in front of the front left tire of their truck, but slammed the vehicle with shrapnel, dirt and rocks. The front tires were shredded and Lisa saw McArdle fight to keep the vehicle going. But they were going too fast and he lost control. The truck swerved to its left and was hit by a vehicle coming from the opposite direction.

The impact shattered all the SUV’s windows and sent it spinning into a ditch at high speed. The last thing Lisa saw was Mira, her body acting as a projectile across the SUV, her head blasting through the already smashed windshield.

_________________________

A strong odor of gasoline jolted Lisa awake. She looked behind her but her husband was gone. Directly to her left, Mira was halfway through the windshield, her neck twisted in an impossible angle. In the driver seat, McArdle was regaining his senses.

“Frank, you okay?” she asked.

“I think I’m good,” McArdle said. “What’s that smell?”

“We need to get out of here,” Lisa said. She tried her door but it was jammed. She couldn’t get it to move an inch. She used her elbow to remove the last pieces of glass left from her window.

She had her head and shoulders outside the vehicle when someone grabbed her and helped her out. It was Sonia.

Lisa nodded her thanks. “Stay here. You’ll be safe.”

An AK-47 started firing. The sound indicated the shooter was close. Mike? The ditch they had crashed into was about three meters deep and quite large. She took off her burqa and started to crawl out. Her husband was on the edge, firing the AK-47.

He must have sensed her movements because she saw him glance back.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I’m good and so is Frank.”

“Keep your head down. There are at least half a dozen hostiles less than one hundred meters to our front,” he advised her. Her husband reached for his pistol and placed it to his left. He fired a few more shots of the AK before leaving two spare magazines next to the MK23. “Take this, Lisa, and protect our left flank in case they manage to cross the road.”

She continued to crawl until she was next to Mike. She took his MK23 and checked the magazine. It was full.

“Where are they?” she asked, as McArdle reached their position.

“They’ve taken cover in the ditch across the road. I saw at least six of them but there could be more of them I didn’t spot,” Mike said.

McArdle jumped in and said, “They’ll need to cross the road if they want a direct shot at us.”

They all ducked as bullets whipped the air just inches above their heads. The crescendo of fire increased and Lisa said, “They’re making a move.”

Lisa estimated there were at least three or four Kalashnikovs firing at a high rate. And she knew why. The enemy wanted them to keep their heads low as they outmaneuvered them. They needed to do something. She raised her head just enough so she could see above the edge of the ditch and saw two men dashing across the road eighty meters to their left.

She shouted a warning to Mike and McArdle and engaged the two men, even though she knew they were most probably out of range of her pistol. Mike fired his AK-47 in their direction and she saw one of them fall.

“I’ll take the other one,” McArdle said.

“Go with him,” Mike told her. “Leapfrog together until you get into contact. I’ll hold the rest of them from here.”

Lisa crawled down the ditch and followed McArdle.

_________________________

“He can’t be far,” Lisa said, putting a knee down. Her pistol was up as she covered McArdle’s advance.

McArdle sprinted past her and crouched about fifteen meters from her position.

Where is he? The next leg up would be tricky. The ditch curved to the left and even though McArdle would be covering her, she’d be advancing blind once she passed him.

Behind them, the firefight was still raging. It was hard to know who was firing as everyone was using AK-47s. She hated that Mike was by himself but she understood the need to flush this guy out. Being flanked was never a good option.

“Go slowly, and slice the pie just like you’d do in a house,” McArdle said as she passed his position.

Her heartbeat accelerated and her hands trembled slightly. She felt so vulnerable. She knew McArdle would go up the ridge a little in order to provide some covering fire if needed, but she still didn’t like it.

The sudden clatter of two AK-47s right behind her made her jump. She turned around in time to see the jihadist’s body being jerked around as McArdle emptied his magazine into him. The jihadist fell into the ditch, his body riddled with bullets.

She looked at McArdle, startled. He had just saved her life.

“He climbed over the ridge,” McArdle explained while inserting a fresh magazine into his AK-47. “He probably guessed we’d be approaching using the ditch as cover. He wanted to surprise us.”

“And he almost did,” Lisa said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” McArdle replied. Then he collapsed and fell to his side.

Lisa ran to him. “Are you hit?” But she knew the answer before he even replied. His pants were soaked in blood.

Shiiiiit! The wound didn’t look good. So much blood in so little time meant at least one bullet had hit a major artery.

“I’ll be fine,” he said waving her off. “Get to Mike—he’ll need all the firepower he can get.”

McArdle was right, but at the same time, she couldn’t leave him there to die. His wound was too high for a tourniquet to work and direct pressure was inadequate to stop the bleeding from such an injury. What she really needed to do was clamp the artery.

“You can’t,” McArdle said, his voice wavering. He had probably seen the desperation in her eyes. “Stop wasting time and go to Mike. He needs you.”

The AK-47s were now firing on automatic.

“I’ll be back,” Lisa said to him.

He grabbed her arm. “Take it,” he said, pointing to his Kalashnikov. She picked it up and ran to Mike’s position. “Friendly,” she yelled as she approached her husband from his left side.

Mike was in the process of reloading when he saw her. “Where’s Frank?” he asked her.

“He’s badly injured,” she replied.

Her husband didn’t say anything for a few seconds and Lisa knew better than to interrupt his thoughts. Instead, she risked a quick look across the road. She quickly dropped back when rounds flew mere inches above her head.

At least they’re not trying to cross the road, yet.

When her husband spoke, it was in a decisive tone. “Listen, Lisa, there are at least four of them left and they’ll get reinforcements soon. When this happens, we won’t be able to hold them back.”

“What are you saying?”

“We’ll run out of ammo in no time,” Mike said.

There was no contest there. She had fewer than two full magazines left.

“We have no vehicle,” Mike continued, “but they do.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“It’s five or six hundred meters behind them. A white pickup truck.”

She was beginning to understand what her husband wanted to do. It was suicidal. But so was staying put. At least, if they gained access to a vehicle, they had a slim chance at saving McArdle.

“You want to lead a cavalry charge of two across the road?” she asked.

“If we don’t do it, they’ll try to flank us again, but with more men the next time around.”

They had two AK-47s and two pistols. Worse, they were two against at least four known enemy combatants.

“How do you want to do this?” she asked her husband, smiling.

CHAPTER 15

Twenty-three kilometers north of Ar Raqqah, Syria

Mike couldn’t believe how fierce his wife was. She’s a true warrior.

She had accepted his plan without batting an eye. She must have known that the odds were stacked against them but she didn’t seem to mind. From what Mike could see, the only things that mattered to her were to save McArdle and to kill the bastards across the road. But for his plan to work, he needed Sonia’s help too. Good sport, and probably aware Mike and Lisa were her only chance, she had agreed to lend a hand.

Keeping their heads low, the three of them ran to McArdle. The former Ranger was still breathing but it was evident he hadn’t much time left. Nevertheless, he managed to smile when he saw Mike.

“I’m about to pass out, brother,” McArdle said. “We’d better do this now.”

Mike wasn’t even a bit surprised that McArdle knew exactly what he wanted to do. The man was a fighter.

“You and Sonia will provide us cover fire from this position. Lisa and I will dash across the road and kill them all.”

“She knows how to fire this thing?” McArdle asked.

“I’ve watched videos,” Sonia replied, crouching down next to McArdle. “I point and I shoot, yes?”

“You got it,” Mike said. “Control your fire. A round or two every second will do the trick.”

She didn’t need to hit anything. His hope was that the ISIS fighters across the road would keep their heads low when Sonia and McArdle started shooting. They only needed a few seconds to cross the road. If they were lucky enough to survive the passage, Mike’s plan was to slaughter the ISIS men at close range.

“We’ll be back for you,” Mike said, locking eyes with McArdle.

“I know, man,” McArdle replied, his voice getting weaker.

Mike looked at his wife. She was checking the P226 McArdle had given her in exchange for her AK-47.

“You ready?” he said, his MK23 at the ready.

Her answer couldn’t have been clearer. She got up and started sprinting toward the other side.

_________________________

Mike caught up with Lisa in five strides. No way he was going to let her take the lead on this. The good news was that they hadn’t been fired upon yet. For a second, Mike understood how Captain Winters must have felt when he led the charge against the Germans in Holland. It was terrifying to be in such a vulnerable position. That was pure craziness.

Three quarters of the way through, the AK-47s fell silent. Had they run out of bullets? Did McArdle pass out? It didn’t matter. He and Lisa were all-in. They couldn’t stop so they ran faster. Mike thought he saw some kind of movements a couple of hundred meters past the ditch but a head suddenly popped out right in front of him. The eyes of the jihadist standing in the ditch—now fewer than five meters from him—opened wide as he realized what was happening. Mike instinctively fired three rounds point blank range before jumping over him feet first into the ditch. The landing didn’t go as planned and he fell hard on his shoulder next to the fallen man. A wave of pain reverberated through his side. Lisa’s landing was more gracious and she immediately engaged another jihadist ten meters away. Her bullets hit their mark and the man’s head snapped back.Mike painfully got up and scanned their rear. There were no other ISIS men in sight.

“Where did they go?” his wife asked.

He had no idea. Did he really see four of them? There was a curve in the ditch twenty meters to their front. Mike would have given anything for a grenade or two.

“Stay a few steps behind me and to my right, Lisa,” Mike instructed his wife. “We’ll try to flush them out.”

His weapon up and in front of him, Mike carefully approached the bend. If the jihadists were going to ambush them, this is where they’d do it. He used the slice-the-pie technique to clear the bend. To his surprise, two more jihadists lay face down at the bottom of the ditch. Mike squatted next to them.

“They’re dead,” he said. “Bullet wounds to the head.”

“Maybe they got hit by McArdle’s or Sonia’s fire?” Lisa said.

“Not possible,” he said. “The wounds are at the back of their heads.”

Out of nowhere, three men wearing desert ghillie suits appeared on top of them shouting, “Raweenee edeek. Raweenee edeek!”

They were covered for all angles. Lisa looked his way, silently asking him what to do. There was no way they’d be able to take down all three men without being killed. Mike dropped his pistol and raised his hands.

Things weren’t looking good.

CHAPTER 16

Twenty-three kilometers north of Ar Raqqah, Syria

The flex cuffs around Mike Walton’s wrists were so tight they cut into his skin. He and Lisa hadn’t been in the ditch for more than two minutes when a pair of small SUVs came to a halt right behind them.

“You go. You go in truck,” a soldier wearing a ghillie suit said. “You go now. Both you.”

Mike turned around. The rear passenger door was open. “Go now,” the man repeated. “Or die here.”

“What did you do to our friends?” Mike asked. “The ones that were on the other side of the road.”

The three men looked at him like they didn’t understand. Then one of them asked, “Mustafa?”

Mike was about to say that he didn’t know anyone named Mustafa when he remembered that McArdle’s cover name was Mustafa Kuftaro.

“Yes,” he said. “Where is he?”

“Gone. Mustafa gone. There,” the man said, pointing to a third SUV accelerating away. “Need medical.”

“What about us?” Lisa asked. “What will you do to us?”

“No time. Talk later,” the man replied. Mike could see the man was getting nervous. “We go now.”

Mike made up his mind and said, “Let’s go, Lisa. I think they’re with the Kurdish forces.”

“What if they aren’t?”

“What choice do we have?” he said, standing up. “Let’s go.”

He hurried up and climbed into the waiting SUV. Lisa did the same. Someone closed the door and the driver punched the gas pedal as soon as one of the ghillie-suited men sat in the passenger seat.

“Took you long enough,” the driver said in perfect English.

That surprised Mike. The man sounded like an American. “Who are you?”

“Captain Burke. United States Special Forces,” the man said.

“We need to go back there,” Mike said. “There’s something we need from the smashed SUV in the ditch.”

Burke reached for something at the feet of his passenger. “You looking for this?” he asked, holding Mike’s brown leather satchel.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Mike was relieved. If they were to lose the laptops and flash drives, all of this would have been for nothing.

“These are your guys in the desert ghillie suits?” Mike continued, his chin pointing toward the man in the passenger seat.

“Depends,” Burke replied laughing. “Did they do a good job?”

“They know how to use these,” Lisa replied, showing him her tied wrists.

Mike saw Burke look at Lisa in his rearview mirror. “Too tight?” he asked, but continued before they could reply. “Sorry about that. His name’s Vian.”

The Special Forces officer issued his passenger an order in Arabic. Vian pulled out a small knife. Mike offered his wrists and Vian cut the flex cuffs. He then did the same to Lisa.

Mike massaged his wrists. He could see they had cut through his wife’s skin, too, but she wasn’t complaining.

“Where’s Mustafa?”

“Mustafa’s en route to receive medical attention,” Burke replied. “When we found him, he was unconscious. We have our best medic with him.”

“He saved my life,” Lisa said.

“He’s a good man.”

“What about the girl?” Lisa asked.

“She’s with him. She refused to leave his side,” Burke said. “Spirited girl, she is.”

“You know Mustafa well?” Mike asked. He wondered how much the Special Forces officer knew about McArdle’s mission. Did he know anything about the IMSI?

“I know his real name isn’t Mustafa,” Burke replied. “He’s been feeding valuable intel to the Kurds for a while now. As far as I know, he’s with the CIA and the Kurds owe him. So here we are.”

“Can you get us out of here?” Mike inquired. “People in Washington need what’s in the bag.” It was a white lie; nobody in Washington knew where they were.

“I didn’t know the CIA had assets in Ar Raqqah,” Burke said.

If Burke thought they were with the CIA, that was fine by Mike. He wouldn’t say anything to change the soldier’s mind. “So? Can you get us out of Syria or not?”

“Yeah, I can,” Burke said, clearly disappointed Mike didn’t offer more info. “The Kurds will get you across to Turkey. You’ll be in Washington in ten days or so.”

We can’t wait that long.

“Do you have a satellite phone?”

CHAPTER 17

IMSI Headquarters, NY

Charles Mapother’s heart sank. He didn’t want to lose another member of his team. Every time one of his assets was injured or worse, killed, he felt responsible. As the director of the IMSI, he was the one sending them in harm’s way. And Frank McArdle had been a real trooper. Tasked with providing intelligence to the Kurdish forces, he had done a terrific job. Ambushes and assassinations of key ISIS commanders by the Kurds had occurred because of the information McArdle had delivered to them.

Mapother’s goal had been to see McArdle go up in the ISIS chain of command while continuing to provide actionable intel to the Kurds and the Special Forces teams supporting them. But his ultimate objective was to kill ISIS leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. But that dream had disappeared in smoke when Mike told him what had happened to McArdle.

“Can the Special Forces team help you reach the Incirlik Air Base?” Mapother asked.

“Yes, their team leader told me they could. But they need a set of orders.”

“They’ll get their orders,” Mapother replied. “How long will it take for you to reach Incirlik?”

Mapother heard Mike ask one of the Special Forces soldiers. “They say we should be able to reach it within twelve hours after they’ve received their orders from SOCOM.”

SOCOM was the United States Special Operations Command. Headquartered at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida, SOCOM was tasked with synchronizing the planning of special operations and providing its operators with the support they needed to complete their mission. Mapother had a few friends at SOCOM but they’d never issue an order without knowing exactly the reasons behind the mission. Mapother didn’t blame them. He’d do the same. He disliked asking DNI Phillips for his assistance but he didn’t have many options if he wanted things done rapidly.

“Okay,” Mapother replied. “Tell them to expect their orders momentarily. Call me when you reach the base.”

Mapother looked at his watch. He was looking forward to giving his analysts access to the contents of the laptops and flash drives Mike and Lisa had seized. It was too bad they hadn’t captured Mouin Bashi, but sometimes getting the right intel was better than getting the man.

“Get me the DNI on the phone, Jonathan,” Mapother said. “I need him to do something for me.”

CHAPTER 18

Split, Croatia

The taste of the grilled squid and the vegetable salad that came with it was mind-blowing. The Sheik couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten such a delicious dish. A vibrantly colored blend of cherry tomatoes mixed with chopped red peppers, corn, broad beans and chickpeas drizzled with touches of lemon juice and olive oil was not only visually appealing, it tasted great too.

The last twenty-four hours had been nerve racking, not that he would admit it to anyone. Bashi had confirmed that the first team inside Croatia had received the go-ahead for the mission on the Israeli embassy. His concerns weren’t with them but with Bashi’s man Zebar Selam. The man hadn’t responded to Bashi’s request to contact.

And that was worrisome. Zebar was a fighter and a good tactical leader. He was one of the key links between the Sheik and the ISIS fighters. The moment the Sheik had been made aware that Zebar had missed a communication, he had given Bashi the green light to investigate. Time was of the essence; they had an operation underway.

The glass of white Chardonnay wasn’t helping at all, and once again the Sheik found himself cursing Omar Al-Nashwan’s death. He’d have his revenge, but in order to do so, he first needed the Russians to back him one hundred percent. Russia’s assistance came at a price; the Sheik knew that. He just didn’t know what it was yet. He had spent a lot of time thinking about what they would ask him in exchange for the cash infusions but finally gave up. Veniamin Simonich, the Russian president, wasn’t the type of guy to simply give out of generosity.

The Sheik’s phone chirped next to his empty plate. It was Bashi.

“Talk to me,” the Sheik said.

“We need to meet. Now.”

The Sheik fought the urge to throw his glass of wine across the room.

What now?

_________________________

The Sheik walked through the narrow streets of the Diocletian palace until he reached a tower-like house topped by a gothic-style bell right at the exit of the Iron Gate. He looked at the clock and noticed it was divided into twenty-four parts instead of the usual twelve.

He was at the right place. On his left was the restaurant Bashi had described with its large terrace and red canopy. The Sheik entered the restaurant through its front entrance and took a seat at the bar. His phone vibrated again.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“You’re clear, Sheik,” Bashi replied. “Nobody followed you. I’ll be there in one minute.”

The Sheik had always been a strategist, a planner. With Omar Al-Nashwan, he had had the perfect tactician. That’s why they had been such a great team for so long. A former Special Forces officer in the United States Army, Al-Nashwan had received the kind of training the Sheik never had. Now that he was gone, the Sheik had to trust others for his personal security. Bashi was no Omar, but he had served with the Pakistani ISI —Inter-Services Intelligence— before joining his network more than a decade ago.

“Why did we need to meet again?” the Sheik asked. He didn’t like meeting with his associates in public more than it was necessary but Bashi had assured him they were safe here, well under the radar of all the intelligence agencies that were looking for him.

“Zebar’s dead.”

That changed everything. The Sheik took a few deep breaths before he trusted himself to speak without shouting. “How?”

“From what I’ve been told,” Bashi started, “Kurdish elements inserted in Ar Raqqah raided my apartment.”

“The Kurds?” That didn’t make any sense whatsoever. They had indeed intensified their aggressive actions north of Ar Raqqah since they started receiving aid from the United States, but they had never attempted such a bold move before. And for what? Did they know that Zebar was indirectly working for him? Or maybe they had learned where Zebar lived and simply raided Bashi’s apartment to exact some kind of revenge? Zebar Selam was known for his cruelty and efficiency. Maybe the Kurds had had enough of him?

“I know it’s hard to believe the Kurds could successfully run an operation deep inside ISIS-held territory, Sheik,” Bashi said, “but I believe the information to be accurate.”

“How so?”

“People we trust in Ar Raqqah indicate that they’ve witnessed two men and a woman escaping the scene in an SUV belonging to a man named Mustafa Kuftaro.”

The Sheik recognized the name. “I’ve heard of him.”

“Yes, Sheik, I’ve mentioned him to you in the past,” Bashi explained. “He is a new addition to Zebar’s team. Trustworthy, we were told.”

“Was he killed in the raid?”

“His body wasn’t found,” Bashi said.

The Sheik sighed. A traitor.

“And there’s more,” Bashi added. “The vehicle was later spotted and engaged by a six-man ISIS team about twenty kilometers north of Ar Raqqah—”

“Tell me they took prisoners,” the Sheik interrupted, but knew right away it wasn’t the case when Bashi’s eyes went to the floor.

“They didn’t,” Bashi said. “The six ISIS fighters were attacked and killed by another Kurdish element.”

At least it confirmed that the Kurds and not a U.S. Special Forces team had conducted the raid. This meant the Sheik’s original plan was still a go. But with Zebar dead, he had no means of communication with the team already on the ground. Unless…

“Did you find the flash drive Zebar was supposed to use to communicate with his cells?”

Bashi shook his head and said, “I was told at least two laptops and at least as many flash drives were stolen.”

The Sheik smashed his fist on the counter so hard the whole countertop shuddered. Two patrons seated on stools at the end of the bar looked at them. Bashi gestured for them to stay still and asked the bartender to send the men another round.

“You shouldn’t worry, Sheik,” Bashi continued. “The flash drives used by Zebar are sophisticated; the Kurds don’t have the necessary software to crack a 256-bit encryption key.”

“Maybe not but the Americans do, and they’ve been helping the Kurds a lot recently.”

“I personally helped Zebar pick the men for the Zagreb mission, Sheik,” Bashi continued. “They’re good. They’ll succeed.”

“Maybe,” the Sheik conceded, “but what about the other cells? They were supposed to be activated in twenty-four-hour intervals.”

“Without the flash drives, there’s no way to make contact with any of the embedded cells,” Bashi admitted.

The Sheik rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. He had to find a solution. Failure wasn’t an option. How could he ensure widespread panic across Europe if six of his seven teams couldn’t be activated? Did he really need the other six teams? Maybe he didn’t.

“When are you supposed to meet with the Zagreb team?” he asked Bashi.

“In a few hours, why?”

“I’m placing you in charge of the Zagreb cell, Mouin,” the Sheik said, placing his hand on Bashi’s shoulder. “Can I trust you with this?”

That seemed to take Bashi by surprise. “Who will manage the other operations if I’m with al-Julani’s cell?”

“I will,” the Sheik reply, his tone making it clear this wasn’t open for discussion.

“How will you contact the other teams?”

“Let me worry about this, my friend,” the Sheik said. “Just make sure the attack on the Israeli embassy is successful.”

CHAPTER 19

Incirlik Air Base, Turkey

It was clear the Colonel in charge of the 39th Air Base Wing was less than thrilled to welcome them on his turf. Mike didn’t believe the fact that they had arrived in the middle of the night played a role. The Colonel wasn’t a pleasant man, period.

Mike had to give it to Mapother, though. Captain Burke received his orders fewer than two hours after his call with the IMSI director. They crossed over to Turkey at Ras al-Ayn and it went without a hitch. They drove for eight hours straight with only two stops for gas and bathroom breaks.

“We need to head back south, Mike,” Burke said, shaking his hand once he had made the introduction. “Give me a shout if you’re ever in Syria again. Best of luck.”

Once they were alone with the Colonel, Mike said, “Is there a place we can talk?”

“I have no idea who you are and what you want, so we’re fine talking here,” the Colonel said. “I received a phone call from a three-star general at SOCOM to let me know that I was supposed to expect your arrival.”

“And we really appreciate your warm welcome,” Lisa said.

Mike shot her an angry look.

“What can I do for you?” the Colonel said after a few seconds.

“We need to be on the next military flight to Washington,” Mike said.

“That’s all?” the Colonel replied. He sounded relieved.

“When is it?”

The Colonel looked at his watch. “It’s leaving in four hours. It will stop in the UK to refuel before continuing on its way to the States.”

“Any chance we could be on it?” Mike asked.

“I hate surprises,” the Colonel said, “and you two spooks are exactly that. I’d be happy to make sure you have seats on the next flight out, even if I have to boot the ambassador himself.”

CHAPTER 20

Opatovac Refugee Camp, Croatia

Samir al-Julani, crouched behind a parked police vehicle, held the knife upside down with the blade pointing downward. He couldn’t wait to feel the sharp blade of his knife enter the lower back of one of the guards watching over the exit of the refugee camp. Why was security so light? Two guards only? Both were armed, but only with pistols.

He slowly got up from behind the vehicle, careful to keep the knife out of sight. He limped toward the officers who were chatting while smoking cigarettes. The camp had fallen asleep about two hours ago. With the exception of a few people walking back and forth to the latrines, it was quiet. The full moon provided all the light needed for his operation. Al-Julani dragged his right leg behind him, the crunchy noise of his foot against the gravel attracting both guards’ attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his men exiting the shadow. His name was Zaman and al-Julani had picked him because he was the only man in his group who had never killed before. Tonight was his ultimate challenge.

“Hello,” the tallest of the guards said to al-Julani. “What can I do for you?”

“Cigarette?” Al-Julani asked, mimicking what a smoker would do.

Al-Julani saw the guard hesitate, probably wondering what would happen if he said yes to one refugee. Al-Julani smiled. “Please, one cigarette.”

It was the other guard who acquiesced first. As his hand moved to the pocket where his pack of cigarettes was, Zaman Douaa stabbed him from behind. The other guard spun around to see what was happening and al-Julani plunged his knife in his lower back while whipping his other hand across his mouth so as to stifle any noise. Al-Julani twisted the knife again and again and watched the guard writhe in pain. When the guard’s knees finally gave, al-Julani slit his throat. The two ISIS men then relieved the guards of their pistols and extra magazines.

“Help me hide the bodies in the vehicle,” al-Julani said to his man, grabbing the legs of the guard he had just killed. He knew the rest of his team was watching him and Douaa. Al-Julani had ordered them to stay behind in case other guards showed up unexpectedly.

The trunk of the police car was too small to accommodate two bodies so they had to place one of them on the backseat. Once both corpses were secured inside the vehicle, he signaled the rest of his team to come out.

“Now we go,” he said to them. “Mouin Bashi will personally pick us up less than one and a half miles north of here.”

_________________________

Al-Julani was relieved when he saw the navy blue Mercedes van parked exactly where Zebar Selam had promised it would be. The short walk from the refugee camp to the exit ramp of the A3 motorway took them less than an hour even in the darkness.

A man he recognized as Mouin Bashi was standing under a lamp post and next to the already opened back sliding door of the van. The two men embraced.

“Thank you for being here,” al-Julani said. He had never met Bashi in person but like most ISIS fighters, he had heard of him. It was said that Bashi was a fierce fighter and not a man to be crossed.

“You need a shower, brother,” Bashi replied. “Have a seat.”

Al-Julani sat in the front next to Bashi. Once they had reached the motorway, Bashi said, “There are sandwiches and canteens with juice in the back. Then you and your men can sleep. It will take us three and a half hours to reach Zagreb, maybe more.”

Neither al-Julani nor any of his men would say no to a few hours of sleep. Their journey from Syria to Croatia hadn’t been an easy one. “Thank you.”

“Rest well, Samir, because once we’re in Zagreb,” Bashi continued, “we go to work”.

CHAPTER 21

IMSI Headquarters, New York

Mike and Lisa were standing next to Mapother and they were all watching Jonathan Sanchez scroll furiously through the notes the analysts had sent him.

“Holy shit!” Sanchez said. “What do you want to do?”

Mapother looked at Mike and said, “I can pull another team from whatever they’re doing if you guys are too tired.”

Mike and Lisa had landed in New York fewer than twelve hours ago but Mike had the feeling they were about to get deployed again. It had taken IMSI’s analysts only six hours to break the encryption on the flash drive and even less to crack the laptops’ firewalls.

“We’re good,” Mike said. He didn’t even need to look at his wife to know she wouldn’t miss an opportunity to get in the field again.

“What do we know about this guy?” Lisa asked.

Sanchez pressed a few keys and the picture of Samir al-Julani appeared on a fifty-inch monitor on the wall.

“We don’t know much, I’m afraid,” Sanchez said. “The guy on the left is Samir al-Julani. He’s a former Guantanamo Bay detainee. We believe he’s the man in charge.”

Another one. The number of former detainees who immediately joined the ranks of either ISIS or al-Qaeda after their release appalled Mike to no end. The head of ISIS, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi was one of them. Will we ever learn?

“We know he fought in Iraq. A Special Forces team captured him after he planted an IED on a road used by our troops. After his release, he flew to Syria and joined the Islamic State. We believe, and this is somewhat confirmed by this email, that he’s now a cell leader.”

“And his cell was just activated,” Mapother added. “From what our analysts can understand from the data collected on the flash drives and the two laptops, the cell was given the green light to proceed with an attack on Croatian soil.”

“More specifically, the Israeli embassy in Zagreb,” Sanchez said.

That was news to Mike. “Why the Israeli embassy?” he asked.

“That we don’t know, Mike,” Sanchez replied. “What we do know, however, is that at least four refugees escaped from the Opatovac refuge camp a few hours ago.”

“What do you mean by escaping?” Lisa asked.

Refugee camps used to be sparsely guarded. The understanding was that the refugees were grateful that a foreign nation would come to their help. But that dynamic had changed in recent months as more and more refugees grew disillusioned with what they could expect from the host nations. Some of them had broken free and taken it upon themselves to reach countries they believed would look at them more favorably. Mike couldn’t blame them. Spending months in a tent that leaked every time it rained while watching one’s children going without education must be awful, especially if you know that your own government destroyed your home, the place where you had been born and given birth to your own children.

“Two Croatian police officers were found stabbed to death, their bodies hidden in their car,” Sanchez replied.

“And you think this is linked?” Mike said.

“We do,” Sanchez said. “The cell phone used to receive Zebar Selam’s message was last used inside the Opatovac refugee camp.”

“Is it still on?” Mike asked.

“It’s not,” Sanchez said, “But it doesn’t matter. We have its IMEI number.”

“And that stands for…?” Mike asked. He had never heard of an IMEI number before.

Both Sanchez and Mapother looked at him as if he’d been born yesterday. Lisa was quick to come to his defense. “Okay, smartass, what does it stand for?”

Sanchez shook his head, but smiled. “It means International Mobile Equipment Identity,” he said. “It’s a unique identifier for any mobile phone.”

“And you can find someone by using this?” Mike asked. It seemed like a stretch to him, but once again, he wasn’t the most technologically advanced guy in the room either.

“You can’t simply use the IMEI with any app in the market but it’s useful if you have the right tools. And we do,” Sanchez explained.

“How does it work?” Lisa asked. Mike could see his wife was genuinely curious. He didn’t care much about this geek stuff, but her questions had revved up Sanchez’s brain.

“It’s quite easy actually,” Sanchez started. “We simply have to hack into the phone company’s network and act as if IMSI is the actual operator. It will allow us to pinpoint al-Julani’s phone by identifying which of the network’s cell towers manages to detect it. Then, by triangulation, we’ll know where the nearest tower is by its signal strength. It’s basically measuring the angles to it from identified known points, like the antennas of the network operator. Got it?”

Lisa nodded but Sanchez must have sensed that Mike wasn’t getting it. But instead of stopping, he continued with his explanation. “Shit, man. Think about it. The first known point identifies the distance to the cell phone, then the second known point narrows down the location and the third point is then used to identify the exact spot.”

“Thanks, Jonathan,” Lisa said looking at Mike, “We got it. I think.”

“Mike,” Mapother jumped in, “What Jonathan’s trying to say is that once you’re in Croatia, we’ll be in a position to let you know where to go to intercept al-Julani.”

“That’s all I needed to know, buddy,” Mike replied, his comment directed at Sanchez. Then he looked at his wife, “Wanna go to Croatia?”

“I heard they’re great winemakers,” his wife answered.

Mapother pick up the phone next to Sanchez’s desk. “It’s Charles,” he said into the receiver. “Mike and Lisa will take the Gulfstream to Croatia. Fill out a flight plan.”

That was their cue. Mike shook Sanchez’s hand before following Lisa out. He’d always wanted to visit Croatia. He just never thought it would be to stop a terror attack.

_________________________

Once Mike and Lisa were gone, Mapother sat next to Sanchez. “We need to let our partners know about this, Charles,” Sanchez said.

Mapother wished the IMSI could take care of all the threats but he knew that wasn’t possible. What they had found on the seized computers’ hard drives was chilling. He hadn’t said a word to Mike or Lisa because he knew it would have distracted them from their mission.

His team had uncovered the location of one of the cells embedded amongst the Syrian refugees, but if he was to believe the data, there were six more just like this one.

“I know,” Mapother said after a moment. The scary thing was that these cells all seemed to be embedded within different waves of Syrian refugees all over the European continent. Yes, they could track the cell phones, but did that mean that the jihadists were there too?

Sanchez was right; he had to let DNI Richard Phillips know. This was much bigger than they had anticipated. But there was one man he needed to contact prior to calling the DNI.

Meir Yatom.

Yatom was the head of the Special Operations Division of the Israeli Mossad. He and Mapother went back a long way. It was true that Yatom wasn’t keen on sharing intelligence with anyone and that the last discussion between the two men had ended badly but still, with such an imminent threat against Israeli interests, Mapother had to extend an olive branch. He hoped Yatom would have done the same.

“To what do I owe the displeasure?” Yatom said after picking up on the first ring.

The fact that he had actually taken the call was a good sign. It wouldn’t have surprised Mapother if Yatom had let his call go to voicemail.

“You’re a grumpy old man, Meir, you know that?” Mapother replied.

“You missed my birthday again,” Yatom said.

“This isn’t a personal call, I’m afraid.”

Meir Yatom might have been more than five thousand miles away but Mapother felt the shift in the old spy’s demeanor.

“I’m listening.”

“I’m about to call our Director of National Intelligence Richard Phillips to let him know there are at least seven ISIS cells embedded amongst the various Syrian refugee camps across Europe,” Mapother said.

He heard Yatom snort. “I hope this doesn’t come as a revelation to you, Charles,” the Israeli said. “You and I both know this was bound to happen. It would have been very naïve to think otherwise.”

Mapother agreed wholeheartedly but he hadn’t called Yatom to discuss politics. “I wanted to let you know that we’ve identified the leader of one of the cells,” Mapother said. “His name is Samir al-Julani and his—

“Wasn’t he in your custody at some point?” Yatom asked.

“You’re correct, Meir,” Mapother acquiesced, impressed with the Israeli’s ability to remember anything or anyone who might ever pose a security risk to the state of Israel.

“You were saying?”

“His target is your embassy in Zagreb?”

Yatom didn’t reply right away. Finally, he said, “Why Zagreb?”

Mapother was conscious that the question wasn’t directed at him.

“I have a team on the way to Croatia, Meir,” Mapother said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Give me more than that, Charles,” Yatom pleaded. “You know I can’t go to the director with this.”

But Mapother wasn’t duped. He actually considered what he was going to say next very carefully. He sought to help the Israeli but he didn’t want to burn Mike and Lisa either. He knew how Yatom operated. With him, the ends always justified the means, and Mapother wasn’t ready to let Yatom use IMSI’s assets to do Mossad’s deeds.

“My team will be on the ground shortly,” Mapother said, making up his mind. “We’ll take care of this for you. But just in case we can’t, we’ll send you what we have shortly.”

He’d give Mike and Lisa twenty-four hours to neutralize the threat before sending anything Yatom’s way. Then he’d have to pull his team out of Zagreb; he didn’t trust Yatom when it came to collateral damage in the name of Israel.

CHAPTER 22

Split, Croatia

“Do we have an understanding?” asked the Sheik.

“We do,” the Russian president replied, “as long as you fulfill your promises.”

His contacts within the Russian government had come through, hence the call from Vienamin Simonich. Not only would Simonich personally guarantee his safety, but he would also employ the Sheik as his go-to man in his quest to avenge his country from what he felt was the betrayal of the international community. The economic sanctions against Russia combined with the sharp decline in oil prices seemed to have hit Russia the harderst.

“I always do, Mr. President,” the Sheik said before hanging up. He was confident he could deliver what Simonich wanted.

The deal was pretty simple and didn’t cost the Sheik much in terms of manpower. The only thing he had to do was to leak the locations of his six remaining embedded cells to the proper Russian officials who would in turn leak them to sympathetic media outlets. It would take some of the international pressure off the Russians. It appeared clear to the Sheik that the Russian president had a long-term alliance in mind and probably some type of plan to strike back at its enemies.

It was too bad he had to leave Mouin Bashi behind, but he had served his purpose.

CHAPTER 23

Rijeka Airport, Croatia

Lisa would have loved to work with a support team. Unfortunately for her and Mike, the support team assigned to them had lost their team leader during the raid on the Sheik’s yacht. Since then, James Cooper had taken over their support team but they weren’t yet ready for a deployment.

The Gulfstream had to refuel in Reykjavik before continuing on its way to Rijeka. The flight plan had originally indicated Zagreb as the final destination but Mapother thought it would attract less attention to have the Gulfstream land in Rijeka, as this was the airport used by many private jet charter companies. Located about one hundred miles southwest of Zagreb, Lisa calculated it would take them approximately two hours to reach Croatia’s capital city. Customs was a non-event and Lisa picked up the rental car while Mike organized the gear they had hidden in a secret compartment of the Gulfstream.

“You got everything?” she said over the secured frequency. Their encrypted communication devices were voice-activated and were directly linked to the IMSI headquarters.

“Meet me in front of the terminal,” Mike replied.

“Copy. I have a gray Renault Megane.”

Lisa parked the rental car curbside and waited for Mike to exit the terminal. She spotted him in her rearview mirror and pressed the trunk release button when he reached the rear bumper.

“No issues?” she asked her husband once he was in the passenger seat.

“None whatsoever,” Mike replied. “There’s a special line for private aviation clients. I told the pilots to be on a ninety-minute notice.”

As they drove away from Rijeka, Lisa couldn’t help but notice how beautiful this particular region of Croatia actually was. Like a lot of locales she had visited with Mike since they joined the IMSI, she wished there might be a time when they could come back as a couple instead of operators. Was it too much to ask?

“Are we gonna take the new motorway?” Mike asked. “Or will we stick with back roads?”

To take back roads would have been fun but they weren’t here for sightseeing. A ninety-mile long motorway linking Zagreb to Rijeka was finalized in 2008 and this was what Lisa had decided they would take.

“The motorway,” she replied. “But next time we’re here, we’ll take the back roads.” She placed her right hand on her husband’s thigh and he covered it with his own.

“Once we’re done here, we take a break,” Mike said, squeezing her hand. “I need it.”

As much as she appreciated the thought, Lisa was momentarily worried by her husband’s choice of words. Was it the words or his tone?

“Are you okay?” she asked him.

“What’s wrong with me wanting a little off time with my wife,” he said, chuckling.

“Nothing,” she said, not wanting to push the issue. “I’d like that too.”

_________________________

What was it with women? It blew his mind that his wife could guess when something was bothering him simply by his choice of words or intonation. The pressure was getting to him. He felt it. The loss of Jasmine Carson was a tough pill to swallow, and that combined with the loss of most of his family at the hands of the Sheik and the fact that there had been no additional information regarding his father’s whereabouts, he just couldn’t sleep without taking medication anymore. He wasn’t about to admit any of it to his wife, but his hands had started shaking a couple of hours ago.

He had no idea how his wife managed to cope with everything that had happened to them in the last year. She was stronger than he was, at least emotionally.

They had just entered the city limits of Zagreb when Mapother’s voice came through his earpiece. “We’ve pinpointed al-Julani’s phone.”

Mike appreciated the fact that Mapother hadn’t said they knew where the ISIS cell leader was. But they know where his phone is.

“Oh shit,” Mike heard Mapother say.

Mike and Lisa exchanged a worried look. It wasn’t like the IMSI director to use foul language and certainly not on an open mic.

“What is it?” inquired Mike. “Are we too late?”

Mapother didn’t reply. Instead, it was Jonathan Sanchez who picked up the conversation.

“Charles just stormed out of the control room, Mike,” he said. “He ain’t happy, I’ll tell you this much.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Mike asked.

“It’s all over the news, guys,” Sanchez explained. “And it’s not pretty.”

Mike signaled his wife to pull over. “Please explain, Jonathan,” Mike said, losing patience.

“Stand by,” came Sanchez’s reply.

Mike turned on the car’s radio but couldn’t find any English-speaking channel.

_________________________

Lisa used her smartphone to get on the Internet. Damn the roaming fees! IMSI was footing the bill anyway. Her heart missed a beat when she saw CNN’s breaking news.

Shit!

“How did this get out of hand so fast?” Lisa said, her mind spinning as she read the article. She angled her smartphone so Mike could read it too.

It seemed that all the news channels were running the same story about an imminent terror threat facing many European countries.

“Sorry guys,” came in Sanchez. “I was watching Fox—”

“We’re on the CNN website, Jonathan,” Lisa cut in. “Is this a joke?”

“Charles is furious, Lisa,” Sanchez replied. “He has no idea who could have leaked this info.”

“It will only cause widespread panic,” Mike jumped in, before adding, “and it will push the terror cells to move immediately.”

Next to speak was Charles Mapother. “I’m back,” he said. “Just spoke to DNI Phillips and he assured me he didn’t leak this.”

“Then who?” Mike asked.

“What I know is that the markets are already crashing and that’s worldwide,” Mapother noted.

Lisa smashed her hand on top of the steering wheel. “That plays directly into the hands of the Sheik.”

“Oh, and there’s more,” Mapother said, clearly unhappy. “Just before I called him, the DNI was on the phone with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees and was told in no uncertain terms that if the threats weren’t neutralized, he would recommend to the Secretary General to close all borders within the European Union.”

“Can he actually do that?” asked Lisa.

“Not really,” Mapother replied, “but he could certainly convince member states to close their borders.”

“If they do that,” Mike said, “It could lead to the break up of the European Union within months, if not weeks.”

“And it will kill Europe’s borderless Schengen area too,” added Lisa. “What do you want us to do, Charles?”

“Like Mike said, the news will only push the embedded cells to act faster,” Mapother said. “If you’re still up to it, I want you to hit al-Julani’s cell as soon as possible.”

Lisa didn’t see a reason why to abort and a look at her husband confirmed he was thinking the same.

“Send us the location, Charles,” Lisa said. “We’ll hit it.”

CHAPTER 24

Split, Croatia

The Sheik turned off the television and pumped his fist in the air. Plan B was working to perfection. The stock market app on his smartphone confirmed what the news anchor had said. Markets were plunging. Fast.

That was good news for him and for his benefactors in Russia. They had heavily shorted the market weeks ago in anticipation of the crash they hoped would follow the attacks he had planned. The raid on Bashi’s apartment had changed the rules of the game and the Sheik congratulated himself for being able to adapt so quickly to the new situation.

The Sheik felt no remorse that the Russian government, through its Ministry of Foreign Affairs, had leaked the location of the six remaining cells. The Russians had even volunteered Spetsnaz troops to help take down the ISIS fighters hidden amongst the Syrian refugees.

And if the assault on the Israeli embassy could succeed, it would be the cherry on top.

He dialed Bashi’s number. “Where are you?” he asked, making sure he sounded agitated.

“I’m on my way to the safe house,” Bashi replied, his voice strained. “Have you seen the news? Are you all right?”

“Yes, for now. But they’re closing in on me, Mouin,” the Sheik lied. “They’ve already arrested three of our cell leaders. Everything depends on how you, al-Julani and the rest of the men do. You understand?”

“We’re eager to serve and to die for the Islamic State, and for you, Sheik,” Bashi said. “We will not disappoint you.”

“I know, dear friend,” the Sheik said. “I never doubted it.”

_________________________

Mouin Bashi couldn’t understand how it had all happened. The Sheik’s plan was perfect. They always were. He had worked for the Sheik for a long time and Bashi had noticed that the Sheik possessed a certain degree of sophistication that wasn’t yet present within the Islamic State. Maybe it would come later, but right now, the Sheik was still the man to follow. It broke his heart that a great man like he had to run away when he should have been celebrating a great victory.

Bashi made a left on his street and started looking for a place to park his van. It took him a few minutes, but he did find a parking spot in between two vehicles. He couldn’t stop thinking about the other embedded cells. They were going to get caught before they even had the chance to serve the Islamic State. All this money, all this training.

All for nothing.

How could this happen? He hadn’t made up his mind yet if he would tell al-Julani and his team about the fate of their brothers. He didn’t think it would scare them, but it might light a fire under their feet.

CHAPTER 25

Zagreb, Croatia

IMSI analysts pinpointed the location of the al-Julani’s cell phone but they weren’t able to tell Mike on which floor of the four-story house it was.

“Sorry, Mike,” Sanchez had said. “We’ve uploaded al-Julani’s pictures we had to your smartphone. Charles said that anyone who’s with him is fair game.”

Lisa was sitting in the rental car parked two blocks north from the house they were watching while Mike had set up a firing position on the rooftop of a tall apartment building three hundred meters away. He adjusted his scope to the proper range and looked through the eyepiece.

The house where al-Julani and his team were presumably staying was a typical mid-size house. It was located on a quiet road only a few minutes away from Zagreb’s most notable landmarks and city center. It had four stories but even though the curtains were wide open, the angle didn’t allow Mike to see inside the house and there were no vehicles parked in its driveway.

For the last twenty minutes, Mike had sent the IMSI analysts upward of twenty license plates associated with vehicles driving by or parking near the house. So far, all of them had checked out.

“I’ve got another one,” Mike said into his mic.

“Go ahead,” Sanchez replied from IMSI headquarters.

“Zooloo, golf, five, zero, two, echo, charlie,” Mike said. “It should come back to a navy blue Mercedes passenger van.”

“Stand by,” Sanchez replied.

Mike knew that Sanchez was now tasking different analysts to check the license plate number and the registered owner of the vehicle against several databases including the ECRIS —European Criminal Records Information System— and Interpol. Mike lost sight of the car when it turned right on a street farther south. “I’ve lost visual.”

A minute later, the Mercedes entered his field of vision. “Any news on the Mercedes?” Mike asked. “It’s back and the driver seems to be looking for a place to park.”

“The plate is valid and does come back to a light blue Mercedes van,” Sanchez said after a short while. “The registered owner’s name is Josip Hatz with a date of birth of January sixth, nineteen eighty-five. ECRIS check is negative.”

Mike’s attention was on the Mercedes’s driver as he tried to squeeze his van in between a Peugeot and a Kia. Still, something Sanchez had said didn’t sound right. “You came in broken, Jonathan, please say again,” Mike lied.

“License plate comes back to a light blue—”

That’s it. “The color isn’t light blue, it’s navy blue,” Mike said. Could it be an honest mistake from the Croatian equivalent of the DMV?

The driver’s door was now open and a tall man climbed out. He was wearing a baseball cap so Mike couldn’t see his face. The man was well above six feet and slim. He was wearing a leather jacket with a white scarf.

“How tall is the RO?” Mike asked, keeping his scope on the driver.

“His driver license indicates he’s sixty-seven inches tall.”

It was obvious that this man wasn’t the register owner. Where are you going, buddy?

“This guy is much taller than that,” Mike said. “But I can’t see his face; he’s wearing a baseball cap.”

“No worries,” came in Lisa. “I’ll snap a couple of shots for you.”

_________________________

Lisa had picked up on the discrepancy right away between what Mike had called in and what Sanchez had responded. It might be an administrative mistake, but then again, it might not.

She hadn’t driven by the residence yet, so there was no danger that her car would draw any kind of attention. She was four hundred meters away when Mike said he couldn’t see the man’s face. The man was too far away for her to see him but she turned on the two GoPros she had strategically placed in between her dashboard and the windshield. She didn’t alter her speed and kept driving straight down the street toward him. She didn’t dare turn her head to get a better look when she drove past him but her sunglasses did offer her eyes more freedom.

Oh my God! That’s the man Frank McArdle had sketched. That’s Mouin Bashi.

CHAPTER 26

Zagreb, Croatia

Al-Julani was loading up the last of his magazines when Bashi entered the residence. He looked stressed, and if Mouin Bashi was anxious, perhaps he should be as well.

“Is the team ready?” Bashi asked. His voice sounded confident. Maybe there was nothing to worry about.

“My team is ready,” al-Julani replied. “Any changes we should know about?”

Ha! There it is again. He saw Bashi pause, as if he were debating what to say.

“No changes, we proceed as planned. We leave in fifteen minutes,” Bashi said, before walking out of the living room.

Al-Julani sensed his men were looking at him. They too had seen the hesitation. They respected Bashi because of his position within the Islamic State, but it was he, Samir al-Julani, who was their team leader, the man who had trained and shed blood with them for the last year. His team needed reassurance.

“You’ve heard our brother,” al-Julani said, “We leave in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, I’ll confer with him.”

Al-Julani let go of the magazine he had been busy loading on the coffee table and joined Bashi who was making himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

_________________________

Bashi had had a little time to think. What the Sheik had said didn’t make sense. They must have a traitor amongst them. How could it be anything else? Was it al-Julani? He’d know soon enough.

“You know we’ll do what you ask; nothing will change that,” al-Julani said as he entered the kitchen. “But if something has—”

Everything happened so fast that al-Julani had no time to defend himself. His strong build was no match for Bashi’s speed and agility. Bashi grabbed the cell leader by his throat and brought him down to the ground in a flash, placing a streak knife against his jugular.

“What do you know about the other embedded cells,” Bashi asked, keeping his voice low. “Lie to me and you’ll die right now.”

Bashi looked into al-Julani’s eyes for any sign of treachery, but the only thing he could see was a mixture of confusion and stupefaction. He nevertheless pressed the knife against the skin until it drew blood.

“Speak,” he ordered.

“Nothing,” al-Juvani yelled back, “I know nothing.”

Bashi heard movement behind him and glanced back. One of al-Juvani’s men was standing right under the door frame leading into the kitchen. He had an AK-47 at the ready but he looked startled by the scene in front of him. Cold chills ran up and down Bashi’s spine.

Were they all in on this? Or was he getting paranoid?

He looked back at al-Julani. The man hadn’t moved even though he could have used the distraction to get out from under him. Bashi made his decision and let go of the knife. He got up and offered al-Julani his hand. The cell leader took a moment but finally accepted it.

“Now, you will speak,” al-Julani said, clearly shaken by what had just happened. His men were now all standing in the kitchen.

At least their weapons aren’t pointing at me.

The men deserved an explanation so Bashi gave them one. “There were another six cells just like yours embedded amongst the Syrian refugees, but you were the only one activated. Your commander, Zebar Selam, was killed in Ar Raqqah before he could activate the other ones.”

“Are there any other ways to contact them?” al-Julani asked.

“As you know, we can only communicate with the cell leaders using the proper encryption key. Unfortunately, the Kurds who raided my apartment and killed your commander stole the flash drives and laptops containing the encryption keys.”

Bashi could see that al-Julani didn’t know what to make of this information. “What does it mean for us?” al-Julani asked, while using a paper towel to wipe the blood from his neck.

“I’m not sure,” Bashi replied. “But it seems like the cells are being picked up by the authorities one by one.”

That got everyone’s attention. “The Sheik told me this,” he added.

“The Sheik? We fight for the Islamic State,” al-Juvani hissed. “Not for the Sheik.”

“You’ll fight for who I tell you to fight,” Bashi fought back. He had to maintain his authority over the cell.

“How many?” one of the men asked from behind him. Bashi turned to face the man and recognized him. It was Zaman Douaa, the man who had killed one of the Croatian guards back at the camp. “How many cells out of the six have been neutralized?”

“I was told that three cell leaders had been arrested or killed,” Bashi replied.

“The Sheik told you this too?,” al-Julani spat.

Bashi was baffled. It seemed like only yesterday that the Sheik appeared to be invincible. And now, people were openly disrespecting him, after all he had done for their cause?

“You won’t address the Sheik in this manner,” Bashi said, pointing his finger at al-Julani. “His work, his sacrifices paved the way to our Islamic State. Can’t you see that? Without him, there’d be no Islamic State—”

Bashi heard the shot but didn’t feel the pain as the bullet cut through his lower back and severed his spine. He even wondered, for the briefest moment, why there was so much blood on the wall in front of him, inches away from where al-Juvani was standing.

Then he collapsed.

CHAPTER 27

Zagreb, Croatia

Mike and Lisa had been debating with Mapother what to do in regards to Bashi’s sighting.

“Are you sure, Lisa?” Mapother asked.

If Mapother would have known his wife like he did, Mike knew the IMSI director would never have asked the question.

“For God’s sake, Mapother,” Lisa said over their secure net, “How many times will I need to tell you. Yes, I’m sure.”

Ouch! I’m not sure Charles will appreciate her tone.

Nevertheless, Mike couldn’t help but chuckle, even though the situation had nothing remotely funny about it. But he’d been where Mapother was now standing many times over the years and he couldn’t remember even one time when his wife had been proven wrong.

The net stayed silent for a long minute and Mike shifted impatiently behind his sniper rifle. Mapother finally said, “Keep your cool, Lisa. I got it. You’re sure it’s Bashi. What do you see, Mike?”

Mike had kept his scope on the house for the last ten minutes. “Absolutely nothing, Charles. I saw Bashi enter the residence. That’s it.”

Mapother had made it clear he wanted Bashi alive. He was an important man within the Islamic State and Mike could only imagine the wealth of intelligence the IMSI could extract from him with a proper debriefing.

“Would you know if he’d exited the house?” Mapother asked.

If there was one positive thing about being perched high up on the rooftop of an apartment building, it was that he had a great view of the house and its surroundings. “Unless they’ve dug a tunnel, I would.”

Then a shot rang out.

“Someone just fired a rifle,” Mike said, his eye glued to his scope. “I don’t see any movement.”

“I have to ask, Mike,” Mapother said immediately, “could it be something else?”

Before Mike could reply, another shot split the air. Sounds like an AK-47 firing single shots. “Nope,” he said. “Someone is definitely shooting at something.”

_________________________

Charles Mapother turned off his communication device before he spoke. “What do you think, Jonathan?”

Mapother trusted Sanchez’s tactical expertise. If he hadn’t been sideline by a bullet in the knee, there was no doubt in Mapother’s mind that Sanchez would still be Delta.

“We can’t send them in there,” Sanchez replied without any hesitation. “They’d be killed.”

That didn’t please Mapother but he agreed entirely with Sanchez’s assessment. “You understand that if we call the authorities, we lose our shot at taking Bashi alive, yes?”

“So be it,” Sanchez said.

“I’ll call ATJ Lučko and let them know,” Mapother said.

ATJ Lučko was the Croatian anti-terrorist unit of the Croatian police force. They were stationed at the Lučko airport located fewer than ten miles away from Zagreb.

“Should I ask Mike and Lisa to stay on station?”

It was a difficult call to make. Mapother didn’t want his assets to be caught in a crossfire involving the Croatian police and the terrorists, but at the same time, he needed to know what was going on.

“Yes,” Mapother said, “We’ll pull them out once ATJ Lučko is on final approach.”

CHAPTER 28

Zagreb, Croatia

Al-Julani was speechless. Zaman Douaa’s first bullet had gone through Bashi like a hot knife through butter and lodged itself in the wall inches from where he stood. He looked at Zaman Douaa, not believing what he had just witnessed.

Douaa shouted at Bashi, who was now on his back with his eyes wide open. “You shouldn’t have disrespected the Islamic State. The Islamic State doesn’t owe its existence to the Sheik.”

Al-Julani used his sleeve to wipe away the blood from his face. “You did well, Zaman,” he said. “Now give me your weapon. I’ll finish him myself.”

But Zaman didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he kicked Bashi hard in the head with the toe of his shot. “See? See what happens to disrespectful shits like you?”

“Your weapon,” al-Julani repeated, but louder this time. That seemed to bring back Douaa from the trance he was in. He looked at al-Julani, his confusion apparent.

Al-Julani nodded to him. “I’ll finish him, I said.”

Douaa obediently handed his AK-47 to him.

The moment he took possession of the AK-47, al-Julani pointed the muzzle at Douaa’s chest and shot him. Douaa’s body flew backward.

Al-Julani looked at his men. “Somebody is bound to have heard the shots. I see no reason why we should stay here.”

His two remaining men nodded in agreement. “Our plan to attack the Israeli embassy is tactically sound, but I believe the element of surprise isn’t with us anymore,” he added.

“Why can’t we go back to Ar Raqqah?” one of them suggested.

Al-Julani agreed. “This is an option. What do you say, Vadik?” he asked the other.

“We’ve wasted months,” he said, the anger in his voice apparent.

“But we’ll live to fight another day and enjoy our new country,” al-Julani said.

He knelt down next to Bashi and searched for the keys to the Mercedes. He found them in his jeans pocket. “Grab your weapon; we’re leaving now.”

CHAPTER 29

Zagreb, Croatia

“I hear sirens,” Mike said. He wasn’t the only one to have heard the shots.

“ATJ Lučko on its way,” Sanchez said. “But the regular police will be there before—”

“Movement. Front door,” Mike said, cutting Sanchez off. “Three men. Armed.”

Mapother jumped in. “You’re free to engage, Mike.”

The men were pretty much dressed the same — blue jeans, loose fitting long sleeve shirts with white sneakers. Mike took the time to control his breathing and made sure that the butt of his M110 sniper rifle was firmly in the pocket formed in his right shoulder.

Only when he knew he’d hit his target did he caress the trigger.

_________________________

Al-Julani was the last man out of the house. He wasn’t sure exactly how they’d get back to Ar Raqqah but he knew they couldn’t waste any more time getting out of the neighborhood. What an idiot Douaa turned out to be. Al-Julani wondered if the strain they had endured while living with the refugees had coerced his mind. Douaa had previously shown so much promise.

And what about Mouin Bashi? He had lied to them. Al-Julani had sworn allegiance to the Islamic State. The Sheik commanded respect for everything he had accomplished, but al-Julani wouldn’t die for him.

Al-Julani’s heart jumped when he heard the shot. He recognized it for what it was immediately and rushed to cover. A second shot rang out just as he dove behind a large tree trunk. He felt the bullet hiss right past him. The shot had come from the apartment building. That was the only place he’d be if he were the shooter.

One of his men was sprawled in the driveway. From the look of it, he’d been hit center mass. He looked at al-Julani and tried to crawl in his direction but another bullet hit him in the back and he stopped moving.

“Vadik,” al-Julani shouted, searching for his last man.

“Here,” Vadik replied. “Behind the car.”

Good. He was safe. His man had reacted quickly and it probably saved his life. Instead of freezing in place like most people would, he had dashed across the street and taken cover behind a vehicle.

“The shooter is on the rooftop of the apartment building,” he yelled. “You’ll cover me as I get the van.”

Vadik gave him the thumbs-up.

_________________________

“Al-Julani is one of the three targets,” Mike said adjusting his aim. “And I have one tango down.”

His second shot had missed al-Julani by mere inches. The bastard had reacted much quicker than Mike had anticipated. These men knew what they were doing. They were real soldiers, well-trained. That meant they had probably figured out where he was.

“Mike,” his wife said, “a Croatian police car just passed me. You have sixty seconds at the most.”

“Copy, Lisa,” Mike replied. “Bring the car to the main entrance of the apartment building.”

“On my way,” Lisa said. “Be careful.”

Mike doubted he was in imminent danger, but he didn’t think the regular Croatian police officers that would show up at the scene were equipped or mentally prepared to engage two trained ISIS combatants.

And where’s Bashi? God damn it! He pushed the thought of Bashi out of his mind. He had enough on his plate. What he needed to focus on was to keep the ISIS men pinned down until the officers showed up.

Suddenly, the man who had taken cover behind a car got up and opened fire in his direction.

Yep, they know where I am.

Fortunately, the man’s fire wasn’t very accurate, as he used long bursts instead of an aimed, single shot. His rounds went wide. Mike placed the reticle on the man’s chest and fired twice.

“Two tangos down,” Mike said. From the corner of his eyes, he saw al-Julani sprint across the street toward the Mercedes Bashi had parked only a few minutes ago. Mike tried to aim the M110 at al-Juvani but he had already taken cover behind the vehicle.

Damn! He was running out of time. He fired three rounds in the engine’s block of the Mercedes.

“I’m here,” Lisa told him. “Where are you?”

“I’m coming down,” Mike said, frustrated he couldn’t take another shot at al-Julani. He had just picked up his M110 when the distinctive sound of an AK-47 filled the air. Mike instinctively ducked behind the balustrade. In order not to appear at the same place, Mike crawled five meters to his left. By the time he risked a peep, the Mercedes van was already speeding away.

“Al-Julani is driving off in the van,” Mike said over his comms. “Fuck!”

_________________________

Al-Julani knew Vadik had been hit when the sound of his AK-47 died mid-burst. Al-Julani made himself as small as he could as he hid behind the engine block of the Mercedes. He heard three distinct clunks when bullets hit the hood of the vehicle. He couldn’t stay there forever, though. The sirens were getting close. He had to make a move. Now.

In one swift movement, he got up and let loose a long burst from his AK-47 toward the rooftop of the apartment building where he believed the sniper to be. He then hurried inside the van and prayed to Allah the van would start, and that he wouldn’t get shot while trying.

It did. And he didn’t get shot.

Half-surprised to still be alive, he pressed the gas. The van bumped into the Kia parked in front but al-Julani cranked the wheels and the Mercedes sped away.

CHAPTER 30

Zagreb, Croatia

Lisa was getting a bit tense. The police would be there any second now and Mike was still on the rooftop. When she heard him say that al-Julani was driving off, she reacted immediately.

“In which direction?” she asked.

She got angry when he didn’t reply right away. She knew he didn’t want her to go after al-Julani alone but she was their only shot at stopping him. For all she knew, he was going to drive a truck full of explosives into the Israeli embassy.

“Which direction is he going, Mike?” she repeated.

“West,” he said, “He’s heading west.”

She made a hard right on the next street and went through a red light to make a left on the next one.

Shiiiit!

She was driving in the wrong direction up a one-way street. She swerved to miss an oncoming car only to find herself on a collision course with a taxi. She pressed the gas pedal and veered left as the right side of her front bumper scratched against the taxi’s.

“For Christ’s sake, Lisa, what are you doing?” she heard Mike say as the taxi honked.

From the apartment building, he probably had a bird’s eye view of what was going on.

“Do something useful, Mike, and tell me if you see the Mercedes,” she said, squeezing the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles turned white.

She saw a side street and went for it, barely avoiding a large delivery truck.

Holy crap! That was way too close.

“Anything? Mike?”

“It’s about five hundred meters in front of you,” Mike replied. “He’s turning right on a small street, and…and he seems to be slowing down.”

Lisa opened the glove compartment and grabbed her P226.

She was ready.

_________________________

Al-Julani cursed his bad luck. The Mercedes’ engine was dead. The bullets had caused more damage than he had originally thought. Good news was that he had gotten away from the scene. The police were probably cordoning off the area.

He had to ditch the van and steal another vehicle. He needed something smaller and less cumbersome than the Mercedes. He climbed out of the van and scanned in search of vehicles that would fit the bill. He spotted at least half a dozen cars that did but he doubted the owners had left their keys in the ignition. He had only hot-wired a car once and didn’t think he could do it again.

The sound of an engine accelerating made him turn around. A car was approaching. Perfect.

He’d try not to shoot the driver right away. A hostage might become handy.

_________________________

Lisa didn’t slow down until she was twenty meters away. She saw al-Julani waving at her to stop. He was standing next to the Mercedes van, a big smile on his face. She came to a stop next to him and lowered the passenger window.

“Could I—” started al-Julani, but he stopped mid-sentence when he saw Lisa. She was pointing the P226 at his head.

“You have a problem with your van, Samir?” she asked.

Al-Julani’s eyes opened wide. Lisa’s round hit him just under the left eye and mushroom in his brain.

“Tango three down,” she said driving away.

CHAPTER 31

Zagreb, Croatia

The moment Mike witnessed Lisa drive away from al-Julani’s body, he packed his rifle and took the elevator to the ground floor. He was once again impressed with how Lisa had performed under stress. She had made the right decision at the right time and had successfully completed her mission because of it.

He exited the building about the same time she showed up.

“Where to? she asked.

“Rijeka would be nice,” he said. “I’ve already called the pilots to let them know we’re coming.”

They drove in silence for the most part of the first hour. Mike was replaying in his mind the events that had led them to Zagreb.

“Charles, are you listening?” Mike asked.

“Jonathan here, Mike,” Sanchez replied. “Mapother is on the phone with DNI Phillips. He said I should tell you job well done.”

Mike looked at Lisa and asked, “You got that?”

She smiled and gave him the thumbs-up.

“Anyhow,” Sanchez continued, “can I pass along a message to the director?”

“How’s Frank?”

“Yeah, sorry, I should have let you guys know sooner,” Sanchez said. “He’s gonna make it.”

Lisa placed a hand on his lap. He squeezed it gently. “That’s good news, Jonathan. That’s real good news.”

CHAPTER 32

Split, Croatia

It was too bad, really. It would have been nice to see the Israeli embassy in rubble. But it was evident that wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not after what he had seen on television. What bothered him the most was how Bashi’s team had been picked up. Something in the back of his mind told him the same group that had been after him in Benalmádena was here in Croatia. The Sheik hated playing defense. Whoever was after him, he’d find out. And he’d make them pay.

Dearly.

The remaining cells were being picked off one by one, but already, the ISIS fighters were claiming their innocence and demanding to speak with public defenders. And as usual, the media were chastising law enforcement officials for their aggressive actions against the twelve refugees they had arrested so far. With the terrors threats now confirmed, the stock markets continued their dive to new lows.

The Sheik smiled. Allahu Akbar.

Working with the Russians would bring a set of new challenges but many opportunities too. And, there were a couple of people he was actually really looking forward to seeing. It had been way too long since his last visit to Russia. Overdue didn’t even begin to cut it.

His phone vibrated in his hand. He looked at the call display. His car had arrived, courtesy of the Embassy of the Russian Federation to the Republic of Croatia.

As he climbed in the back of the waiting limousine, he noticed that a well-dressed man was already seated at the back. It wasn’t until he was properly seated that he recognized who it was. He tried to speak but couldn’t. Seeing this, the other man said, “Hello Father, nice to see you too.”

A note from Simon Gervais:

Following the publication of my bestselling debut novel The Thin Black Line in April 2015, I received countless emails asking me to bring back Canadian Security Intelligence Service agent Zima Bernbaum in my next novel. If you haven’t read The Thin Black Line yet, stop RIGHT HERE and come back once you’ve read it. She has an incredible story and you’ll be pleased to know that she’ll play a much bigger role in my upcoming novel A Red Dotted Line. In the meantime, here’s what Zima has been up to recently:

Part I

Ottawa, Canada

Zima Bernbaum heard someone knocking on her door. She looked up from the novel she was reading in time to see Joachim Persky entere the room. Persky was the deputy assistant-director of CSIS —the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.

“How are you feeling, Zima?” he asked.

“Can’t wait to get out of here,” she replied, looking around the private hospital room CSIS had put her in. “The food ain’t that bad though.”

Persky smiled. Zima liked him. He was a good man that had risen through the ranks because of his hard work and dedication.

“Any day now, or so I’m told,” he said.

Zima hoped so but she was mature enough to know her body needed time to heal. She had nearly lost her life, and she would have if it hadn’t been for Shane’s sacrifice. A member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Emergency Response Team, Shane had thrown himself on top of her a millisecond before a bomb planted by AbdelKarim Kashmiri —one of the Sheik’s team leaders— exploded ten meters away from them. Kashmiri had died in the blast, but so had Shane.

What she couldn’t understand was the reason why Shane had sacrificed so much to save her. She could feel warm tears prickling her eyes as she thought about the wife and the three-month-old son Shane had left behind. It tortured her soul to know she wouldn’t be able to pay back her debt. She owed them so much.

Persky gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “You let me know if you need anything, Zima.”

She nodded.

“I know that probably doesn’t mean much to you, but you’ll be awarded the Medal of Bravery,” Persky said.

“I don’t want it,” Zima replied dryly.

“You’ve earned it.”

“What about Shane?”

“He’s getting one too.”

Zima was glad Shane would get the recognition he so rightly deserved.

“Thank you, Joachim, I appreciate the thought,” she said in a more pleasant tone. “But I’m serious about this. I really don’t want the attention.”

“Will you at least think about it?” Persky asked after a moment. “It would make the director and the prime minister happy.”

“Okay, I will,” she lied. She had already decided what was best for her. CSIS was a noble organization. Amazing people like Joachim staffed it and they were quite good at stopping bad guys from doing bad things like blowing up people. Problem was, they were playing by the rules. After what she had witnessed in Edmonton and in Europe while working with Mike and Lisa, she understood something she hadn’t before. To fight the maniacs who detonate a bomb strapped to their chest in a crowd places and kill dozens, if not hundreds, of innocent people, they couldn’t afford to play by the rules anymore. To think otherwise was naïve. That was why she had contacted the IMSI. She saw what they were capable of. And Mike had already asked her to join them, hadn’t he?

“Anything else I can do for you?” Persky asked.

“I’d like to visit Shane’s family.”

“Is that wise?”

“I need to, Joachim, if I want to move forward.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Part II

Ottawa, Canada

Zima Bernbaum looked at the address one more time. She knew the neighborhood well. It was a classic upper-middle-class area with single-family dwellings surrounded by medium-size lawns that were nicely landscaped and well cared for. She imagined young kids running around and laughing while playing hockey with their friends.

She gathered the last of her stuff and packed it in the carry-on bag Joachim Persky had brought for her earlier in the day. In addition to the suitcase, he had carried with him the sheet of paper she was now holding in her hand.

Her doctor had cleared her medically. Her busted eardrums would be fragile for some time but she was as good as new. It was miracle, really. Persky had told her that much and so did the many doctors who had taken care of her. She’d been lucky. God have given her another shot at life. But at what cost? She had no children, no husband and no real close friends.

Shane did.

She should have died. Shane should have lived. It was that simple. The guilt she was carrying was a heavy burden. She doubted visiting his wife would lift the shame she felt for being alive, but it might help her clear her mind.

Zima took a minute to thank the head nurse for the superb care she had received before heading down to the first floor where she exited the hospital through the main entrance. There were six cabs parked in line, all waiting for a fare. She tried to get one of the drivers’ attention but they were all busy talking or shouting at each other. After a full minute, she quit trying to get a cab to come over to her and walked to the first one in line.

“Excuse me,” she said to the group of drivers. “Who’s driving this one?”

The drivers —all of them men— stopped talking and looked at her, annoyed at being interrupted.

“I am. Why?” asked one of them in between two puffs of his cigarette.

“You want a fare or not?”

“One minute,” he replied before he resumed talking to his colleagues.

Unbelievable.

A black Toyota Camry with an Uber sign in its back window drove past her and stopped in front of the hospital’s main entrance. The driver, dressed in a two-piece suit, climbed out of his car as soon as it stopped and jogged to the other side to open the door for his passenger.

Zima walked to him and asked if the car was available. The driver looked at her and smiled, “Of course it is. Where would you like to go?”

Zima hesitated. All of a sudden she wasn’t sure if she should head directly to Shane’s residence or stop by her own place to take a shower and change into a new set of clothes.

“Take me to this address,” she said after she made up her mind.

“With pleasure,” the driver replied. “Let me put your suitcase in the trunk for you.”

The cab driver she had talked to gave her the finger when they drove past him.

“Don’t mind him, please,” the Uber driver said. “Some of them have no manners.”

“Don’t I know it,” Zima said, already thinking about what she was going to say to Shane’s wife.

_________________________

“Should I wait for you, Miss?” the Uber driver asked. “It will be my pleasure to do so.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be here for,” Zima replied, handing him forty dollars. “But thanks anyway.”

She waited until the Uber car left before ringing the doorbell. She heard movements on the second floor and recognized the sound of someone coming down the stairs. A dog started barking from the inside of the house and then she overheard a baby crying.

What have I done? She wished she had asked the Uber driver to stay. She would have fled.

The door opened, and there she was, Shane’s widow. She was holding tightly to the collar of her Golden Retriever who, from the look of it, wanted nothing more than to go outside. Even with her eyes puffy from the lack of sleep, she was an attractive woman. She stared back at her. Zima cleared her throat.

“Hello Catherine, I’m Zima Bernbaum. Your husband saved my life.”

Shane’s widow let go of the dog, who ran past Zima’s leg and onto the front yard, and she hugged Zima. That wasn’t the response Zima expected. She started to shake uncontrollably and embraced Catherine back. She started to weep and apologized right away.

“No Zima, don’t apologize,” Catherine said. “Please come in.”

Catherine called her dog back inside before closing the door behind them. “Can you give me a minute? My boy’s calling me.”

Zima nodded. “Of course.”

She watched Catherine go back upstairs. When she returned, she was holding a baby in her arms. “His name’s Jake. He’s my angel.”

Zima’s knees were shaking. She didn’t know what to say. Jake’s tears were melting her heart. This little man would never know his dad. He’d grow up without the love and comfort his father would have given him. Her own tears started rolling down on her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Catherine,” she said. “I should go.”

“Please don’t,” Catherine said. “I’m glad you came. Would you like to hold him?”

Zima took Jake in her arms and cuddled him. “You’re so small,” she whispered to him. “But you have such beautiful eyes.”

“Do you have children, Zima?” Catherine asked.

“No. Not yet.”

“I hope you will, some day,” Catherine said and then added, “Jake likes you.”

He had stopped crying and was now returning Zima’s look. “Your dad was a brave man, Jake. I’m here with you because your father saved my life, even though he didn’t know me.”

“I was told Shane would be receiving a medal; will you get one too?”

“I don’t deserve one, Catherine. I really don’t.”

“They told me you work with CSIS?”

“I was.”

“Not anymore?”

“I’d like to do more.”

“I see,” Catherine said. She looked disappointed. “What will you do?”

Zima wasn’t sure this was the right time to discuss this. “I’m not sure.”

“My husband believed in you, Zima,” Catherine said. “He sacrificed his life so you could live. I know you’ll do what’s right. Do you believe in God?”

Zima didn’t know how to answer the question. “I—” she started but Catherine interrupted her.

“It doesn’t matter because I do. I believe God saved you. And he did it for a reason. He’ll let you know what you must do.”

Deep down, Zima knew Catherine was right. Was it why she wanted to leave CSIS and join the IMSI? The only thing she knew for sure was that she would avenge Shane’s death. If the IMSI was the organization that would allow her to do just that, her path was clear.

She looked at Catherine and handed Jake back to her. “Thank you for this, Catherine,” she said.

“Can’t you stay for a cup of tea?”

“Not today, but I will. Soon. I think we have much to talk about.”

“You’ll always be welcome here, Zima.”

Zima thanked her once again before closing the door behind her.

Tomorrow, I’ll set up a trust fund for Jake. From now on, fifty percent of her earnings would go to him. It wasn’t much, but it would help.

For now, she needed to head home and call someone. She considered calling a taxi but instead downloaded the Uber app to her smartphone. Three minutes later, a Ford Edge stopped in front of Catherine and Jake’s residence.

“Where to, Miss?”

“CSIS headquarters, please.”

She had made her decision. She would join the IMSI. It was only fair to let Joachim Persky know in person.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

My first thank you goes to you my dear readers. Without you, I wouldn’t do what I do. Much thanks for all your tremendous support and all the great word-of-mouth you generated for my first novel The Thin Black Line. I never thought, even in my wildest dreams, that my debut would become an international bestseller. For all of you who follow me on Facebook at Facebook.com/SimonGervaisAuthor/ you know how much I love interacting with you. If you aren’t following me, you really should. In the coming months, and before the release of my next full-length novel A Red Dotted Line, I’ll announce a sweepstake. You won’t believe what the first prize is. The only thing I’ll say is this: Make sure your passport is up to date.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank my friend and fabulous literary agent Eric Myers from Dystel & Goderich Literary Management and my editor and publisher Lou Aronica at The Story Plant. I appreciate everything you do for me.

I also want to thank the three people responsible for my happiness. My best friend Lisane, who also happens to be my wife and the mother of my two children, who supported me from day one. Without her, there would be no books, no stories to tell. She has always been my biggest fan and knowing she has my back makes all the difference in the world. Thank you, and I love you. Un gros merci à Florence et Gabriel, mes deux amours, pour leur soutien et leurs beaux dessins.

About the Author

Simon Gervais is a former federal agent who was tasked with guarding foreign heads of state visiting Canada. Among many others, he served on the protection details of Queen Elizabeth II, US President Barack Obama, and Chinese President Hu Jianto. He has also protected the families of three different Canadian prime ministers. Prior to this, Simon spent five years in an anti-terrorism unit and was deployed in many European and Middle Eastern countries. He now writes full-time and is a member of the International Thriller Writers organization. He lives in Ottawa with his wife and two children. Find Simon online at SimonGervaisBooks.com, facebook.com/simongervaisbooks, and Twitter.com/GervaisBooks.

Coming in November from Simon Gervais:

Terrorism became personal for Mike Walton on his last mission—a mission that resulted in triumph...and devastating tragedy. Now the stakes have been raised again.

Mike and his wife Lisa—both covert assets of the International Market Stabilization Institute, a privately funded organization operating outside official channels to protect North America’s financial interests—are sent to Russia after an attempt on their superior officer’s life. It is a mission fraught with peril and one that becomes exponentially more dangerous when their covers are blown within hours of setting foot in Moscow. Now, they are being hunted down by the Sheik, the terrorist mastermind behind the kidnapping of Mike’s father, Ray Powell, and to the treachery that turned Mike and Lisa’s lives upside down.

To make matters worse, there are clues that Biopreparat—the former Soviet Union biological warfare agency—has been resurrected and is about to launch a strike against the United States. This forces Mike and Lisa to make the most difficult choice of all. With Ray Powell’s life hanging in the balance, and the slightest mistake potentially igniting the next World War, nothing is what it seems.

And the line between friend and foe is blurring.

Here are the opening chapters:

PROLOGUE

Federal Correction Institution Otisville, New York

Louis Wall wasn’t a patient man, but he was curious. When the guard told him he had a visitor, he didn’t say a word. For the last ten years, no one had cared enough about him to visit, not even his only daughter. For that, he didn’t blame her; his stupid ex-wife brainwashed her into thinking he was dangerous. He should have killed the woman when he had the chance.

“You know the drill,” the guard said through the cell’s door. “Turn around.”

He obeyed and offered his wrists. Seconds later, he felt the cold steel of the handcuffs against his skin. As Wall exited his six-by-eight-foot prison cell, the guard dug his fingers into his bicep while pushing him in the back.

“What the fuck?”

“Shut the hell up and stop resisting,” the guard said. To get his point across, he delivered a powerful punch to Wall’s only kidney.

Wall winced in pain, but not a sound came out of his lips. He didn’t want to give the guard the pleasure of knowing he had hurt him. A few years ago, Wall would have fought back and cracked a skull or two, but with only a few weeks left to his twelve-year sentence for manslaughter and drug trafficking, it was better to take it like a man. Plus, he couldn’t help but wonder who his visitor was.

To his surprise, the guard didn’t lead him to the regular visitors’ room. Instead, he was escorted to an interview room where a man dressed in a three-piece suit was seated behind a steel table bolted to the floor. Laid open on the table was a yellow file to which Wall’s headshot was stapled. Another file folder, a green one, remained closed.

“Remove his handcuffs,” the man said.

The guard didn’t look happy but obeyed nonetheless.

“You can leave,” the man added.

Once the guard had closed the door, the man pointed to the single chair across the table. “Please.”

Wall remained standing. The man seated in front of him didn’t look dangerous. It was hard to say how tall he was. Five-and-a-half feet, he estimated. Maybe less. Dark skin. Slight built. Nothing like Wall’s own muscular six-foot-four-inch frame. But he did have an accent. Russian? It definitely sounded like that. He didn’t like Russians.

“What do you want?” Wall grunted.

The man slowly looked up from the file he was reading, his brown eyes locking into Wall’s.

“Louis Wall, forty-seven years of age, born in Dickson, Tennessee. Only child of Claire Dolan and Peter Wooley. Attended Dickson County High School before enrolling into the US Army-“

“Was my jaw supposed to drop?” Wall cut in. “That’s all public knowledge.”

The man simply continued without acknowledging Wall’s interruption. “You faced your first court martial before the end of basic training after assaulting your drill sergeant. After serving a month in a military prison, you were dishonorably discharged and spent the next two years living off the small inheritance you received after your father’s passing. You met Isabella, your first real girlfriend, at the local tavern on the night of your twenty-first birthday-”

“What do you want?” Wall said for the second time in less than sixty seconds.

“Please have a seat,” the man replied.

Wall shook his head from left to right, then crossed his arms, his biceps threatening to tear apart the fabric of his grey prison suit.

“I’m here to offer you a second chance.”

“At what?”

“Revenge, Louis. Revenge.”

A picture of his ex-wife hanging at the end of a rope appeared in his mind. “I’m listening.”

“First you sit,” the man said with an authority that couldn’t be denied.

Wall sighed, then pulled the chair and sat. “This better be good.”

“Or what?” the man replied. When he didn’t respond, the man pressed on. “No really. I’m curious. Or what, Louis? What will you do?”

“I’m on my last stretch here, mister know-it-all. I have no intention of doing anything to fuck that up. Understood?”

The man cocked his head and looked at him as if he were some kind of undiscovered species. “And what exactly are your plans once you’re out of here?”

The vision of his ex-wife at the end of a rope reappeared in his mind. “There are a few things I can think of.”

“Of that I’m sure. But are any of them worth a quarter of a million dollars?”

That was enough money for Wall to live comfortably in Mexico for a couple of years. Once he’d take care of his ex-wife, of course. “I’m listening.”

The man slid the green file folder toward him. “Open it.”

A single picture of a man was attached to a white sheet. Wall recognized him instantly.

Mapother. Charles Mapother.

The bastard had killed his older brother three decades ago.

“I would have done it for free,” he said.

CHAPTER 1

IMSI Headquarters, New York City, NY

Zima Bernbaum threw up a little bit in her mouth.

“Did you hear what I just said, Zima?” Charles Mapother asked.

Zima met his gaze. Mapother, like a stereotypical Zurich banker, was dressed in a custom-made Armani suit. His deeply tanned skin contrasted with the full head of silver hair he had combed back. His deep blue eyes, she knew, didn’t miss much.

“Zima? Are you with me?”

“What do you mean I didn’t make it?” she asked just loud enough to be heard by Mapother. The taste of her own bile in her mouth disgusted her. Get a grip, Zima.

“I’m sorry; you just weren’t good enough,” Mapother said reading the final report his trainers had forwarded him the day before. “You missed too many benchmarks.”

“I left CSIS for this job,” she said, anger creeping into her voice when she thought about the chance she had taken leaving the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. “You know I can’t go back.”

Mapother closed the report and pushed it back toward the middle of his desk. “You knew the risks involved, Zima. The deal was that you had to go through the same training the others did last year. They were successful; you weren’t.”

Zima sank back in her chair, frustrated. She had sacrificed so much, had gambled everything. And now she had nothing to show for it.

Emotionally and physically, the last eight weeks had been the toughest of her life. The first four weeks, eighteen-hour days filled with weapons manipulation drills followed by geopolitics and foreign languages classes, had drained her energy. The next two had nearly killed her. The bruises all over her well-toned five-foot-seven-inch frame were a testament to the countless hours spent in the dojo with Greg, the in-house Krav Maga expert. But it was the last two weeks—the ones spent learning a dozen ways to kill someone without leaving a trace—that had ultimately altered her forever. There was simply no way a sane human being could go through this training without suffering some type of psychological backlash. Fully aware of the potential repercussions it might have on her life, she had held nothing back and gave her all. The worst thing about all of this was that she’d convinced herself that she was doing okay.

Heck, I thought I was doing great!

Two months ago, she had left her job as a CSIS operative to join the International Market Stabilization Institute—IMSI—following the successful takedown of a terrorist cell in Edmonton, Canada. As a privately funded organization run by Charles Mapother, IMSI could do things that government agencies just couldn’t. Her friends Lisa Walton, who was a trained emergency physician, and her husband Mike were part of the IMSI. They were field operatives, or assets in IMSI’s jargon. They had gone through the same training she just did.

They did better than me, obviously.

It wasn’t difficult to understand why Mike had aced everything. He always did. A former Canadian Special Forces officer and Royal Canadian Mounted Police counterterrorism specialist, Mike was used to these sorts of things. But Lisa? Even though Lisa had done her medical training with the military, Zima didn’t believe Lisa had any real experience handling a gun or shooting at a live target. One that fires back, that is.

How the hell did she pass the IMSI training? It doesn’t make any sense! How come I failed and she passed? Not that I’m better than her… Actually, yes I am. For this type of work, I’m the best.

Charles Mapother must have known what she was thinking because when she looked at him, he was smiling.

“Oh, you bastard,” she said, her voice a mixture of frustration and relief.

“Don’t doubt yourself again, Zima,” Mapother said, rising from his chair. “You passed everything with flying colors. Welcome to the team.”

She rose, too. They shook hands. “Thank you, sir.”

“You earned your place, Zima,” Mapother said. “Glad to have you aboard. Now, let’s celebrate.”

CHAPTER 2

Grand Central Station, New York

Mike Walton laughed out loud. His wife Lisa, seated next to him, did the same. So much so that water came out of her nose. That made Mike laugh even harder.

“I can’t believe you did that to Zima, Charles,” he said after he had regained control of his breathing.

“I knew he was kidding,” Zima replied before Mapother could chip in. “I didn’t believe it. Not for a second.”

Mapother coughed, then said, “If you say so, Zima.”

“What are you talking about?” Zima said between sips of her Chardonnay. “I was playing along, that’s all.”

“Sure you were, dear friend,” added Lisa. “But that doesn’t matter one bit; you’re in now.”

“Cheers to that,” Mike said, raising his glass. The others did the same.

When Mike’s eyes met his wife’s, he smiled. So much had changed in the last two years. The tragedy they’d faced should have been enough to tear them apart. And it almost did. But they had regrouped, found a common goal, and moved on. That didn’t mean he didn’t think about the terrorist attacks that had wiped out most of his family.

Far from it.

The gentle spirit of his two-year old daughter Melissa visited his dreams almost every night as a stark reminder. Killing the Sheik, the murderer who’d orchestrated the attacks, was the first thing he thought about every morning. He wouldn’t say that to anyone, not even to his wife, but recently, his thoughts about killing the Sheik weren’t limited to simply putting a bullet in his brain. He aspired to skin him alive. He wanted the Sheik to feel the pain he had inflicted on his family.

Mapother’s voice brought him back to the present. “Did you decide on your main course?”

“Not yet,” Mike said, chasing the images of the Sheik out of his mind.

The four of them were having lunch at the Oyster Bar. Located inside Grand Central Station, it was Mike’s favorite oyster place and the oldest business within the terminal. He had discovered the restaurant years ago while staying at the nearby Grand Hyatt during a training exercise between the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—the Canadian federal police service—and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He loved the Guastavino tile vaults and the old-school charm of the restaurant. It was always buzzing with people, it was loud, and the waiters did their best to provide pleasant and prompt service. The restaurant had a killer clam chowder, and the oysters were always fresh and tasty. Mike made a point of having lunch here at least once a month. Sometimes more. Plus, they had his favorite beer, Chimay Red, a high-end dark brown Belgian beer with a sweet and fruity aroma he couldn’t resist.

A few tables over to their right sat a tall, broad-shouldered black man wearing a tailored gray suit. His name was Sam Turner. Turner was charged with the personal protection of Charles Mapother, and Mike knew him as a loyal and capable operative. Mapother had handpicked Turner, a former member of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team, to be his personal bodyguard after Turner had sustained a back injury during a FBI training exercise.

The waiter, a thirty-something named Chuck, brought their appetizers. He put a huge portion of Cajun-styled fried popcorn shrimp in the middle of the table next to a bowl of broiled Blue Point oysters. Chuck took their entrée orders before disappearing again.

Mike made sure the plates were passed around and that everyone had served themselves before digging in. In his opinion, the smooth and meaty texture of these particular oysters placed them in a category by themselves, but they really became divine with a touch of anchovy butter melted on top. Mike was about to have a taste of his first oyster when he felt his smartphone vibrate inside his jacket’s pocket. It was Jonathan Sanchez, IMSI’s newly appointed second-in-command and a long time friend of Mike’s.

“This better be good, buddy,” Mike said. “I’m about to indulge…”

“It is,” Sanchez interrupted. “We’ve heard from the Syrians. They have your father.”

Mike stopped breathing. Dad. The oyster he was holding in his left hand fell onto his lap, soiling his pants. His father, a former Canadian ambassador to Algeria, had been kidnapped by the Sheik three and a half years ago.

“That’s what Charles told me almost three months ago,” Mike said.

“I know, brother,” Sanchez replied. “But this time is different. We got this tip directly from the White House.”

Mike’s mind was spinning with the implications. “You didn’t tell him?” he asked.

“No, I wanted you to hear it from me first,” Sanchez replied. “I’m calling him now.”

Mapother had his eyes fixed on Mike. “Everything all right?” he asked, his mouth half-full with popcorn shrimp.

“Just pick up your phone, Charles,” Mike said.

Mapother raised an eyebrow when his smartphone started vibrating on the table. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and tried unsuccessfully to remove the grease from his fingers before answering his phone.

“Okay, we’ll be there shortly,” Mapother finally said before hanging up.

“Are you still hungry?” he asked Mike.

“What do you think?” Mike replied, standing up. He left four twenty-dollar bills on the table. “Let’s go.”

His wife was looking at him, a question mark on her forehead.

“It’s my father, honey,” Mike said. “Jonathan got a tip from the White House. You guys can stay and enjoy yourselves, I’ll call you if this is serious.”

But the two women operatives were already grabbing their purses and coats.

CHAPTER 3

Grand Central Station, NY.

Mike’s mind was racing. His phone conversation with Jonathan Sanchez had only lasted a few seconds, and he couldn’t wait to get back to the IMSI headquarters to hear the rest of the story. Could this be it? The thought of seeing his father again was overwhelming. How would he react after all these years? So much had changed. For him and for his father.

Sam Turner was the first out of the restaurant’s door. He kept it open for the others and Mike saw him take his position behind Mapother. With Zima and Lisa leading the way, they started on the ramp toward the upper level. Mike heard Turner give instructions to Mapother’s driver, another former FBI agent named Frank who was circling around the block in the modified black Yukon Hybrid Mapother used for transportation to pick them up on 45th Street.

With people sprinting to catch their train, shoppers and dinners converging in and out of the shops, and tourists taking pictures of the terminal’s magnificent architectural details, Grand Central Station was a hectic place to be at this hour.

“We’ll get him, Mike,” Mapother said.

“I thought I had him four months ago. I’m not holding my breath,” Mike replied. Four months earlier, he had led Lisa and Jasmine Carson, an IMSI support team leader, on a raid to seize and take control of the Sheik’s mobile headquarters, an eighty-six-foot Azimut yacht located in Spain. He had been sure his dad was aboard the boat, but that wasn’t to be the case. Instead, Alexander Shamrock, also known as Omar Al-Nashwan, murdered Jasmine Carson before Mike shot and killed him. To make matters worse, Mike discovered that Alexander Shamrock wasn’t only a former US Special Forces officer; he was also the son of Steve Shamrock, a close friend of President Robert Muller and CEO of Oil Denatek, one of the larger publicly traded oil-and-gas companies in the United States.

“Did you hear from Richard Phillips?” Mike asked as they were reaching the main concourse. Richard Phillips was the Director of National Intelligence and, with the president, one of the only bureaucrats to know the existence and purpose of the IMSI.

“I did.”

“And?”

“They didn’t find him.”

Damn it. Following the raid on the Sheik’s yacht and the death of Alexander Shamrock, Steve Shamrock had disappeared. That had made a lot of people nervous, including Charles Mapother. Steve Shamrock was one of the three billionaires who’d helped create the IMSI. Mike couldn’t wrap his head around the reasons the oil executive had financed the IMSI if his plan had been to sink the United States all along.

“Maybe he’s dead,” Mike suggested. “The Sheik might have killed him.”

“That would put many minds at ease,” Mapother said.

“Not yours?”

“No, not mine, Mike. We have no idea what the Sheik knows about us. Are we compromised? What kind of intelligence did Steve Shamrock leak before he disappeared?”

“Did he have access to all of our classified information?”

“He didn’t,” Mapother said. “But he knew about the IMSI. He financed it, goddamn it!”

Mike opened his mouth to reply but just then Sam Turner’s powerful voice reverberated through the main concourse, “Threat to the rear!”

Then the first shot rang out.

_________________________

Louis Wall wasn’t the best shot, but it was hard to miss when you were so close to your target. He had expected Charles Mapother to be alone. He wasn’t. Big deal. He’d deal with Mapother first and if the other ones caused him any trouble, he’d deal with them, too.

Acquiring the Beretta 92 FS had been easy. Eight hundred dollars had been enough to convince a former contact to hand over his pistol. Two magazines of thirteen rounds were acquired for an additional two hundred dollars. A bit on the expensive side, but Wall didn’t mind. He was a rich man now. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Wall drew the Beretta from its holster and brought it up to eye level, its muzzle pointed at Mapother’s back. That was when the tall black man walking behind Mapother turned around and scanned his rear. For a fraction of a second, they made eye contact and Wall hesitated. It was enough for the man to sidestep to his left, effectively blocking Wall’s view of his target. The man yelled something unintelligible at the same time Wall pulled the trigger.

_________________________

Mike Walton reacted intuitively. Pivoting toward the sound of gunfire, his left hand found the compact Taurus pistol holstered in the small of his back. By the time his eyes acquired his target, less than two seconds had lapsed since Turner’s verbal warning. The man on the other side of his iron sight was built like a bulldozer. He was in a stable shooting position twenty meters away, and Mike could see the man’s pistol go up and down as he fired rounds in quick succession.

No time to aim.

Mike’s first round hit the man in the abdomen while his second shot nicked his shoulder. The man dropped his weapon and took a few steps back before collapsing. Mike scanned left and right, looking for more targets—difficult to do with all the commotion the firefight had generated. Suitcases and other luggage were left on the spot as their owners ran for their lives. A woman, standing next to a baby stroller, screamed at the top of her lungs.

Did a stray bullet hit her baby? Mike saw Zima sprint to her. He continued scanning but a pit formed in his stomach when he saw Sam Turner sprawled on the floor, blood pouring out from under him. Lisa was already next to him with Charles Mapother, dragging Turner to safety, out of sight. The man Mike had shot was now less than ten meters away. He moved and managed to get on his knees, his eyes searching for his weapon.

“Don’t move! Police!” Mike yelled.

A shot was fired. Then another. The man yelled, his hands clutching his neck in a failed attempt to stop the bleeding.

There’s another shooter! Friend or foe?

Mapother dove to the floor then rolled to his left just as another round ricocheted to his right.

Definitely not friendly.

Where was the shooter? There were still dozens of people left in the terminal. Some had found concealment while some others simply lay down on the floor with their hands on their head.

There. On the East Side balcony, right under the Apple Store, a short man with a grey hood jumped the last few steps and dashed toward the Lexington exit. It was hard to say from this distance, but the man seemed to be holding a small submachine gun.

Mike looked behind him. Lisa, Mapother, and Turner were nowhere in sight. Zima had grabbed the baby from its stroller and was running back toward the restaurant, the toddler’s mother in tow.

Satisfied that Sam Turner was in the capable hands of his wife, Mike sprinted across the main concourse in pursuit of the man who had just shot at him.

CHAPTER 4

New York City, NY

Zakhar Votyakov was furious. He had never failed his father before. He had underestimated his opponents, and he was now paying dearly for his mistake. He should have known better. After all, he was the one who’d assembled the file on Charles Mapother. Mapother, a former FBI special agent, went to work as a freelancer for the Central Intelligence Agency in the eighties because he thought the FBI’s policies were impotent to stop terrorists. Zakhar’s research taught him that Mapother had the reputation of being a ruthless interrogator and that he had the habit of surrounding himself with capable and dedicated people. Still, taking down a single man should have been an easy task. Even for a fool like Louis Wall.

In one swift movement, he collapsed the stock of his Arsenal Shipka submachine gun. With that done, the Shipka was less than thirteen inches long and easily concealed. His last shot had missed its intended target, but he didn’t have the time to re-engage. Louis Wall was dead; that’s all that mattered now.

Going down the steps two at a time, Zakhar jumped the last four and ran through the Grand Central Market toward the Lexington exit. Outside, police sirens filled the air and so did the smell of burnt peanuts from a nearby food cart.

Time to disappear.

Amid the commotion around him, he removed his grey hood and grabbed a loose-fitting beige jacked from his backpack. He put on the garment over the Shipka’s sling so his weapon wouldn’t be obvious but would remain accessible at the same time.

Going north on Lexington Avenue, Zakhar walked past the Verizon store before turning right on East 44th Street. He didn’t dare look back when he heard the police vehicles roaring behind him as they raced on Lexington Avenue. His car, a navy blue Chevy Impala, was parked in a public parking garage just east of Third Avenue.

The turmoil of Grand Central Station had somewhat vanished but Zakhar spotted two uniformed police officers running toward him from further up East 44th Street.

They don’t have my physical description. Stay calm.

Zakhar stepped down from the sidewalk and let the two officers run past him. His eyes followed after them, but neither gave him a second look. Once he was certain they didn’t represent a threat, he turned around to resume his walk toward his car but stopped dead in his tracks. Less than two meters away, a tall, heavyset man wearing a dark two-piece suit over a white shirt and blue tie blocked his way. The man’s right hand was inside his suit jacket where a service weapon would be if he had one. The gold NYPD detective badge on the man’s belt pretty much confirmed that assumption. How did he know?

“Don’t move, and make sure your hands stay where they—”

Zakhar never hesitated. Action’s faster than reaction. Always.

He closed the distance almost instantly and threw a powerful kick at the detective’s right knee. The detective let out a loud cry but was nevertheless successful at pulling his service pistol out of its holster. Before he could fire, Zakhar was already on him, gripping the other man’s wrist with his right hand while his left grabbed the barrel of the pistol, pushing it outward. A shot went off harmlessly and Zakhar continued the outward movement of the pistol, effectively trapping the detective’s finger inside the trigger guard. The finger snapped. An enraged scream came out of the officer’s mouth. Zakhar was now in control of the detective’s pistol, but the other man wasn’t beaten yet. A powerful left hook connected with Zakhar’s chin followed by an uppercut that sent him flying in the air.

Zakhar forced his eyes open. He was on his back, spread-eagled on the sidewalk with no pistol in hands. His vision was blurred, his head dizzy, and his jaw was throbbing. He tasted blood and his mouth and cut his tongue on a broken tooth.

The detective’s eyes were filled with rage. A pocketknife had materialized in his hand. With no other options, and still on his back, Zakhar brought up the Shipka and fired.

_________________________

Mike Walton’s heart was racing. Where did the bastard go? Mike had holstered his Taurus to avoid unwanted attention. NYPD cruisers were now parked on Lexington Avenue. Mike guessed other police vehicles were also covering the other exits. Some uniformed officers had rushed in, while others remained outside.

What would I do if I wanted to escape? Lexington Avenue’s traffic is to the south. If I didn’t want to make it easy for a police car, I’d go in the opposite direction.

Mike jogged northbound on Lexington, but to no avail. No man with a gray hood. Aware his prey could have had a change of clothes, Mike estimated his chances of finding him from nil to very low.

Three shots fired in rapid succession changed his mind.

_________________________

Zakhar watched the detective stagger backward. A weaker man would have already collapsed. The detective was strong, his will to live even stronger, guessed Zakhar. But the three red dots on his white shirt told Zakhar all he needed to know; the police officer had only a few seconds to live. Disbelief, surprise, and finally fear registered on the detective’s face. Then his eyes went blank and he fell.

Cognizant the sound of his Shipka had attracted attention, Zakhar, still lightheaded, pulled himself together and forced himself to his feet. A dozen or so pedestrians looked at the scene in shock, some of them frozen in fear. But a few had their smartphones out and were recording.

My face will be all over the news in less than an hour. I need to get out of here. Now.

Disoriented, Zakhar realized the detective must have hit him harder than he had originally thought. He had difficulty focusing on anything. The world around him started to spin. His legs buckled under him.

“Hey, you!” someone yelled behind him.

Zakhar turned around. Two Arabic-looking men were walking purposefully toward him. The men were wearing red T-shirts with the word “Security” written on the front. They had baseball bats. Zakhar knew he was about to get hit. He tried to bring the Shipka up but couldn’t. He had no strength left.

_________________________

Mike Walton ran as fast as he could. Less than eighty meters away, a man was down on the sidewalk. Two men armed with baseball bats were surrounding another man, but this one had a submachine gun.

Mike was sure he had found who he was looking for even though the grey hood had vanished. He had to take over the situation before anyone else got hurt. What are these two bozos playing at? Didn’t they know you never bring a baseball bat to a gunfight?

Fifty meters.

Mike reached for his Taurus and slowed his pace to a brisk walk. He wanted to make sure he had his breathing under control and that he could analyze the situation before getting in.

Forty meters.

Radios crackling and heavy footsteps behind him had him take a quick look.

Mike cursed under his breath. Three uniformed officers, the same he’d seen standing right outside Grand Central Station’s Lexington exit less than two minutes ago, were now running with weapons in hand in the same direction he was headed. They’d probably heard the same gunshots he did. His FBI identification wouldn’t work with these guys. They wouldn’t care. The best thing was to let the officers do their job and then use the IMSI to dig out the intelligence the NYPD would get from the shooter.

It didn’t please Mike, but he had no choice. Too many questions would be asked if he got involved. He holstered his Taurus and crossed the street to get a better look at the takedown he knew was about to happen.

Then the head of the man he’d been chasing exploded, and Mike was forced to hit the ground one more time.

Also by Simon Gervais:

Mike Walton had experienced terrorism from every angle. As a covert field operations officer, he thought he’d seen it all. But that was before terrorism struck him directly at home. Suffering devastating physical injury and unthinkable personal loss, Mike had one of two choices: give up or fight back. And giving up wasn’t in his constitution.

Mike and his wife Lisa – a medical doctor and fellow counter-terrorism expert – are recruited by the International Market Stabilization Institute, a privately funded organization operating outside official channels to protect North America’s financial interests. The strikes that destroyed Mike and Lisa’s household – the work of Sheik Al-Assad – are bringing the Western economy to its knees. And they are only the beginning. If the Sheik succeeds, the world will change forever, and the next attack is just around the corner. Mike and Lisa must lead a hastily assembled team to Europe to stop the madness before time runs out.

Rippling with tension, raging with action, and replete with the kinds of details only a true counter-terrorism insider can provide, The Thin Black Line is a nonstop thriller of the first order.

Here’s an excerpt:

Macdonald-Cartier International Airport

To: Inspector Robert McFiella OIC/RCMP APOFU

From: Inspector Myles Gregory OIC INSET Ottawa

Robert,

We just got a report from Ben Cohen of Air Canada Security that four Middle Eastern passengers purchased last-minute tickets for Air Canada Flight 7662 Ottawa–Washington, DC. They were booked separately but by the same travel agency. Their names were run through our databases, but nothing came up.

Knowing that you have two air marshals onboard this flight, we checked the rest of the passenger list for anything suspicious and found that two Saudi nationals are also on the flight, and they only have one-way tickets. Both are in Canada under student visas that will expire in two days. Their names are Muhammad Hassan and Masri Fadl. Technically, they’re still in Canada legally, but I contacted our INSET team in Toronto to follow them on arrival for the next forty-eight hours to see if they will depart Canada or not.

To help your officers identify them, I’ve attached the passport pictures of Hassan and Fadl, as well as their seat assignments for Flight 7662.

Myles

The note was short but to the point. The threat level for their flight to Washington, DC, had been upgraded to “High.” As a member of the federal air marshal program of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Sergeant Mike Powell was used to this kind of message.

More often than not, the passengers mentioned in these notes had triggered an early warning detector embedded within the airline reservation software. Whether they had paid for their tickets with cash, had purchased one-way fares, or had done a multitude of other things the computers were looking for, it didn’t matter to Mike. He would treat this piece of information seriously. He always did.

As he stood in the main terminal of Ottawa International Airport, his eyes were in constant motion. The long hallways were packed with passengers, as everybody was either going back home or visiting family for the Easter weekend. On his left he’d noticed an army captain with a black backpack sipping a cup of chain-restaurant coffee. To his right, a nice family with three young children was eating their breakfast burritos while chatting about their upcoming trip. The excited laughs of the children brought a rare smile to Mike’s lips as he remembered his daughter, Melissa, doing the same thing three weeks ago prior to their flight to Mexico.

Before putting his secured Blackberry away, Mike read the message once again.

After affixing the pictures of Hassan and Fadl in his mind, Mike replaced his phone in his pocket.

While most of messages were somewhat similar to this one, this particular communication was the first with such a textbook scenario. Mike didn’t like the idea of an attack in his own backward but couldn’t help enjoying the adrenaline rush such thoughts provided.

It would be a lie to pretend he didn’t wish to kill a terrorist or two. Since his father’s kidnapping exactly two years ago today, he’d craved revenge. Not only for himself, but also for all the pain the loss had caused his mother. It was one thing to lose a loved one in battle; it was another to have someone you love taken away from you and knowing this person was being tortured.

A wave of nausea passed through Mike as he remembered the terrible day he learned his father was still alive.

His mother, usually so composed, had called him early in the morning, yelling for him to come over. When he’d opened the front door of her luxurious downtown condo, his mother had been holding a knife to her throat.

“Mom?”

“I can’t take it anymore, Mike,” his mother had said. The hand holding the butcher knife was shaking. Her whole body was shaking.

“What’s going on, Mom?” he said a lump in his throat.

“Why don’t they fucking kill him? Why don’t they kill him, for God’s sake!” his mother screamed before collapsing on the hardwood floor. Mike ran to her and picked her up off the floor. Tears were flowing down her cheeks. “I can’t sleep anymore, Michael,” she murmured in his ear. “The only thing I dream of are the pictures.”

“What pictures, Mom?”

“Your father’s.”

The first picture, or proof of life, had come two weeks after his father’s abduction. Then another followed suit every second Friday. The Sheik had sent them directly to the home of Mike’s mother in Ottawa. A note attached to each picture commanded that it was only for her, not to be shared with anyone else unless she wanted her husband to suffer an atrocious death.

At first, he hadn’t understood why she was crying. Proof of life was a good thing, right? It meant that his father was alive. But when his eyes gripped the cruelty of the pictures, even Mike had to hold on to the table. His father’s features were barely recognizable. His face, unwashed, was so swollen that his left eye couldn’t possibly open. Another picture showed a severed finger, his father’s wedding ring still in place. The only thing that had kept him from loosing his mind was the knowledge that he needed to stay strong for his mother. Later that day, Mike’s mother, Celina, accepted his invitation to move in with him and his family. Mike was still angry with himself for not asking his mother to live with them sooner. Celina’s health was better now, but Mike highly doubted that anything less than the Sheik’s head would make her happy.

_________________________

Seated near Gate 17, in a manner that allowed him to observe most of the passengers who would shortly be boarding his flight, Mike glanced at his partner, Staff Sergeant Paul Robichaud, who was sitting close to the Air Canada ticket desk.

Robichaud was a twenty-three-year veteran of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and former member of the Emergency Response Unit of the Integrated National Security Enforcement Team, or INSET, the semi-covert unit of the RCMP tasked with acquiring and analyzing intelligence regarding terrorist threats. He was more than just Mike’s partner. He was his mentor.

As Robichaud had said several times before, he had seen a younger version of himself in Mike the moment they’d met at the high-pressure INSET selection training four years ago. Mike, with Robichaud’s support, had been recommended to the INSET unit after only five years of service with the RCMP. His previous service spent as an infantry officer within the elite Canadian Special Operations Regiment had helped. Plus, the experience he’d earned leading combat operations in Afghanistan had given him an edge that none of the other candidates possessed. On average, less than fifty percent made it through the training, but Mike had excelled in all quadrants and had even broken all the shooting scores—including the ones held by Robichaud.

As Mike’s gaze rove among the passengers, his Blackberry started to vibrate. After entering his twelve-digit password, he opened his most recent e-mail:

To Mike and Paul: Please be advised I sent Agent Zima Bernbaum to back you up. She’s our new liaison officer from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.2 Her instructions are to remain covert and to act as an extra pair of eyes. You’ve never met her, so I’ve attached her photograph.

Mike gasped when he saw the picture. I know her! His wife, Lisa, had met her in Toronto while taking jujitsu classes. They’d quickly become best friends and salsa dancing buddies. Mike, who’d be working long hours, never had the chance to really know her except for the occasional dinner. He knew his wife had kept in touch with Zima after their move to Ottawa and had even spent a girls-only weekend getaway in Las Vegas a few years back. Mike vaguely remembered his wife telling him Zima had accepted a position as an auditor of cultural content at a museum.

Great cover for a CSIS agent, thought Mike. I’m wondering what Lisa will say when I tell her Zima’s CSIS.

Mike stood up and slowly started to walk across the waiting area, scanning the section around Gate 17 to spot any of the six Arabic passengers. He saw no sign of them. He entered the men’s restroom to check if anyone was hiding. Remaining anonymous, he strolled to the sinks and glanced at the stalls behind him in the mirror. He had let his black hair grow a little longer since he had left ERT. His hair was now in a controlled freestyle that required nothing but a little hair gel and a good shake in the morning. At five foot ten inches, Mike was not tall, but he carried his 190-pound frame easily. He was proud to say that at thirty-eight years old, he was in the best shape of his life.

He smoothed his navy herringbone suit and blue dress shirt from Savile Row. Mike looked the part of the rich executive he was using as a cover for today’s flight. But if anyone were to look closely at him, they would see that amid his tanned skin and slightly crooked nose, his piercing green eyes did not miss anything. His movements were light but precise, and a contagious energy surrounded him.

Mike spied no sign of movement after thirty seconds. He purposely dropped his Montblanc pen on the tiled floor, and the sound echoed through the space. As he bent to pick it up, he quickly scanned every stall. Nobody. He was in the process of exiting the restroom when his Blackberry vibrated twice.

“Yes?”

“Mike, it’s Paul here. Anything suspicious your way?”

“I just checked the restrooms. They’re not in there.”

“They still haven’t shown at the gate either.”

“That’s strange,” said Mike. “Their flight boards in two minutes. What should we do?”

“I’ll board first and get to my seat to get a good view of every single passenger getting on that plane. You board last. That way we won’t miss them if they are, in fact, on this flight. And why don’t you call Zima? Use her to cover more ground,” instructed Robichaud.

“Sounds good,” said Mike before ending the call. He refocused on the crowd milling about the gate as he dialed Zima’s number. He wanted to know if she was in the area in case he and Robichaud needed assistance.

“Yes? This is Zima.” Her voice was soft and gentle.

“Hey, Zima, it’s Mike Powell.”

“Hi, Mike. It seems like we’ll be working together on this one.”

“The museum knows you’re here?” he asked, a big smile on his lips.

He heard Zima’s laughter across the line. “C’mon, Mike, you know how these gigs work.”

“Just pulling your leg, Zima. How are you?”

“Living the dream,” she replied. “How’s Lisa?”

“She’s doing great. I’ll see her later this afternoon. You should call her. I know she’d love to speak with you,” Mike said before getting back to business. “Are you at the airport yet?”

“I’m here now,” said Zima.

“At the airport?”

“That’s correct, Sergeant. I’m watching you as we speak.”

Mike twitched in surprise. He hadn’t made her. He closely examined his surroundings but to no avail.

“I can’t see you, Zima. Where are you?”

“You just looked at me, but you didn’t see me,” answered Zima, clearly enjoying herself.

Mike took another careful look. He was about to surrender when he noticed a flight attendant seated by herself next to the duty-free shop. She smiled at him.

“Clever,” Mike said over the phone.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Were you briefed on the situation?”

“Yes. What can I do to help?”

“My partner will be boarding first—” started Mike before the gate’s PA system interrupted him.

“Welcome to Air Canada Flight 7662, soon to be departing Ottawa for Washington. We will now preboard passengers traveling with young children, or any other passengers that may require more time or assistance. We invite our executive-class passengers to board at their leisure…”

“Oh, shit,” muttered Mike.

“What’s going on?” asked Zima.

“I think I know where some of our suspects are,” Mike said and hung up.

Mike punched in Robichaud’s number.

“What’s up?” answered Robichaud.

“Is it possible that some of our friends have business-class tickets?”

Robichaud let out a breath. “Damn, you’re right. And, if that’s the case, they might be sitting in Air Canada’s executive lounge right now, sipping coffee and waiting for the last possible moment to board.”

“Okay. Board the plane as planned. I’ll go check the lounge. Call Zima to task her with monitoring the gate area and the terminal hall,” Mike said.

“Sounds good. I’ll send you and Zima a text message if I see one of them board,” said Robichaud.

“Roger that,” Mike replied already on the move.

The Maple Leaf Lounge was still a good three-minute walk from the gate, and Mike was doing his best to get there with enough time to visually check the lounge and make it back to the gate in time for departure.

_________________________

Mike entered the executive lounge and showed his business-class ticket to the Air Canada employee at the reception desk. With a nod from the agent, he stepped into the lounge and scanned the area.

Twenty people were scattered at tables throughout, enjoying the buffet breakfast that had been laid out on the bar. Sleek computers lined the back wall, and a fireplace with cozy sofas and armchairs occupied the center of the space.

Mike could not locate the faces of Hassan or Fadl. On the other hand, he noted four Arabic males sitting in the farthermost corner of the lounge. One of them, completely bald, was talking into a cell phone.

When the call was finished, Mike saw them all stand up at the same time. He confirmed that none was Hassan or Fadl. They are getting ready to leave, thought Mike. He hung back, seeing no point in getting too close now. He would follow them at a distance and see if they were going to board the flight to Washington.

Mike exited the lounge ahead of the group and stopped at a nearby book kiosk, pretending to study the cover of a paperback. Soon the four men passed in front of him. He started following them once they were about thirty feet past his position.

Were they looking at someone in particular? Would any of them make a subtle gesture that would mean something to someone watching for it? Was anyone else watching them? These were all questions that Mike asked himself while they walked toward Gate 17.

Grabbing his Blackberry from his jacket pocket, Mike hit autodial.

“Yes?” answered Robichaud promptly.

“I’m following four possible matches. They were sitting together in the lounge.”

“Copy that. Fadl and Hassan just boarded the plane separately. They each stowed a medium-size carry-on in their overhead compartments. They’re doing everything they can not to look at each other, but I’m definitely picking up a weird feeling. I don’t like this at all.”

“Do you want to call it in, Paul?”

“Let’s advise the captain to have the passengers rescreened. And I want it done by Canada customs this time, not by those rent-a-cops who usually man the lanes. I wouldn’t trust half of them to find a rocket launcher on my grandma.”

Mike chuckled. “Good idea. My little group is about a minute from the gate. All of them are wearing long coats, and they could be carrying weapons. I’ll call the Ottawa police’s airport division to provide some uniformed officers to back up the customs guys. I’ll let Zima know what’s going on as well.”

“Understood,” Robichaud said. “I’ll talk to the captain. See you at the gate.”

_________________________

Mumbling that he had to go to the bathroom to the fat man seated next to him, Robichaud stood up and approached the flight attendant.

“My name is Paul Robichaud,” he told her quietly. “I’m one of the air marshals aboard this fight, and I need to talk to the captain immediately.”

“Oh, I…hmmm…okay. Just one moment please,” said the young blonde flight attendant, picking up the intra-plane phone.

“Captain? It’s Nadine,” Robichaud heard the flight attendant say into the receiver. “I have an air marshal here who is requesting to speak to you. Ah, okay,” she said before turning to Robichaud. “The captain is on the line.”

Robichaud took the receiver and smiled his thanks to the flight attendant. “Captain? I’m Paul Robichaud from the RCMP Aircraft Protection Unit,” he began, keeping his voice low. “I believe we may have a situation aboard this aircraft. I recommend that we rescreen every passenger aboard this flight.”

“Is that really necessary? We’re already on a tight schedule, and the airline will have to pay a hefty fee for departing late.”

“I feel it’s very necessary, Captain.”

A sigh came over the line. “Okay, but I don’t want any mayhem aboard my aircraft.”

“My suggestion to you, sir, is that you make an announcement saying that there is a mechanical failure with the ventilation system and that a maintenance crew will have to come onboard to fix it. Tell the passengers to remove all their luggage from the overhead bins.”

“All right,” said the captain after a long pause. “I’ll contact flight control, then I’ll shut down the system. I hope you’re sure about this.” Then the line went dead.

Robichaud noticed how tense his jaw was as he hung up the phone. For the first time in his life, he prayed he was wrong.

_________________________

As the four men approached the boarding gate, Mike realized they would probably be the last ones to board the airplane. With Zima already briefed by Robichaud, Mike had just completed the calls to Canada customs and the airport division of the Ottawa Police Services when he decided to close the gap. The four men had stopped at the gate and were now waiting to present their boarding passes and photo identification to the gate agent, who was presently on the phone.

“Oh, I’m sorry, gentlemen. You’ll have to wait for a few moments before boarding,” Mike heard the gate attendant say as she hung up the phone. “It seems like everyone will be deplaning shortly due to a mechanical problem with the ventilation system onboard the aircraft.”

“Do you know how long we’ll have to wait?” asked the bald man standing in front of the attendant.

“I have absolutely no idea, sir. Please have a seat, gentlemen, and I apologize for the delay.”

_________________________

With his back facing the flight deck door, Paul Robichaud positioned himself to better watch Fadl and Hassan. He’d just started to engage Nadine, the young flight attendant, in a casual conversation about her favorite local restaurant when all the lights in the cabin suddenly shut down and the whirring of the ventilation system stilled.

There is my signal, thought Robichaud, watching the two terror suspects in his peripheral vision. They just looked at each other for the first time.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,” came the commandant’s baritone voice over the intercom. “I’m sorry to inform you that we seem to have a problem with our ventilation system’s electricity supply. I just contacted a maintenance crew, and they advised me that they have to come onboard to fix it. Unfortunately, that means that all passengers will have to deplane with all their personal belongings, including luggage stored in the overhead compartments. The flight attendants will direct you in deplaning. I apologize for the delay, and we thank you for your patience and understanding.”

Following the captain’s announcement, before anyone could even unbuckle his or her seat belt, Fadl stood up and pulled a micro Uzi submachine gun from the inside of his jacket. He aimed it toward the flight deck and started firing.

Damn it! thought Robichaud as he dove for cover. At only 9.84 inches long, the micro Uzi was the smallest version of the Uzi submachine gun available. Due to its short length, it lacked a forward grip and, hence, accuracy. But the micro Uzi could fire more than twelve hundred rounds per minute, allowing Fadl to unload his twenty-round magazine in less than the second it took for Robichaud to reach his own gun.

The first six of those twenty bullets hit the pretty blonde flight attendant in the back. A seventh entered Robichaud’s right shoulder, and the remaining thirteen lost themselves in the ceiling of the aircraft. As Robichaud was thrown back by the impact, he saw Hassan stand up and take the pin out of an M67 fragmentation hand grenade while Fadl inserted a fresh clip into his Uzi.

The other passengers on the airplane began to scream and tried to take cover in any way possible. Unable to use his right arm, Robichaud used his left hand to cross-draw his pistol. But by the time he was ready to fire, Fadl was once again spraying the first-class cabin with 9mm Parabellum bullets. Robichaud, now on his knees using one of the front galley walls as partial concealment, was hit one more time in the chest as he fired his first shot. Consequently, his round went high, but his second shot, fired less than half a second later, hit its target between the eyes. Fadl collapsed on the elderly man cowering in the next seat.

Coughing up blood, Robichaud saw that Hassan was about to throw his grenade into the rear of the plane. With a one-handed left grip, he fired two more rounds into the back of Hassan’s skull. In slow motion, Robichaud saw the grenade slip from the dead terrorist’s hand and fall in between two seats before rolling toward a crying mother and her young son.

Fuck!

Knowing he was fatally wounded, Robichaud willed himself to get up but couldn’t muster the force. The excruciating pain in his chest prevented him to yell a warning. Only a gurgle and a fresh spray of blood came out of his mouth. Using his good arm, he tried to alert the passengers of the impending disaster, but chaos and panic had overtaken them. Everybody was running toward the exit, oblivious to the grenade lying only a few meters away. With his eyes fixed on the grenade, Robichaud used all of his remaining strength to crawl toward it. But in doing so, he felt the passengers running over him, stomping him with their feet.

Robichaud died from his wounds less than one second before the M67 exploded.

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Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

A note from Simon Gervais:

Part I

Part II

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

About the Author

Coming in November from Simon Gervais:

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

Also by Simon Gervais: