Promise To Defend

“Some of Rashid’s men seized our embassy in Liberia this morning,” Brognola said. “They have a couple dozen hostages, including a handful of Marines working security at the facility. From what we’ve gathered, Rashid’s not there.”

“Casualties?” Blancanales asked.

“Six dead. All Marines. They went down defending the place.”

“How could this happen?” Schwarz asked, his face flushing with anger. “I mean, a dozen Marines in a walled compound ought to be able to kick serious ass. I take it these guys didn’t just scale the walls and storm the building.”

Brognola nodded. “Right. Initial reports indicate that someone lobbed a live hand grenade over the wall. When it exploded, some of the Marines went to investigate, while the rest tried to secure the embassy.”

“Divide and conquer,” Schwarz stated.

“Precisely,” Brognola said. “At least two Marines were shot inside the embassy, even as the others were going outside to investigate the blast. And the terrorists didn’t need to scale the wall. The gate was open, a dead guard lying next to it. The smart money says that someone inside the embassy either opened the door or at least left a key under the mat, so to speak. The State Department security guys are checking the staffers again, looking for possible traitors. But if they didn’t find them during the initial screening, they probably won’t now, either. Our cyberteam is doing likewise, but again, I’m not too hopeful.”

“I beg your pardon?” Kurtzman asked.

“Sorry, Bear, but my guess is that, if it was an inside job, then that person covered his or her tracks pretty well. Embassy security hasn’t exactly been lax since the World Trade Center attacks. These creeps probably coerced someone into helping, someone without previous ties to the group, making them harder to trace.”

Kurtzman nodded. “Makes sense. Just the same, we’ll keep bird-dogging this thing, in case someone else missed something.”

“I’d expect no less. I sent Phoenix Force to handle the embassy seizure. The group was already in Africa, fresh off another mission, and I could have them there within a matter of hours. And, according to our intel, Rashid is hanging his hat somewhere in Africa. So we’ll likely send Phoenix in to take him out, once they free the embassy.”

“So you got us out of bed why? To tell us that Phoenix Force will be late for dinner?” Lyons said.

Brognola gave Lyons and the others a weary smile. “I wish. Unfortunately we have trouble here on the home front, too. That’s why I’m depriving all of you—especially you, Carl—of your much-needed beauty sleep. From your standpoints, the African situation is necessary background for what needs handled in the United States. Barb will explain.”

“The point, finally,” Lyons muttered. Draining his mug, he stalked over to the coffee machine to refill it.

In the meantime Brognola fell into his chair, chomped on his cigar while Price got to her feet. Price hit a button on her laptop and a new picture flashed on the projection screen on the far wall. As everyone took a moment to study the image, she wordlessly handed out mission packets to Able Team.

Flipping through the file folder, Blancanales came across a photo of a man sprawled on his back, his uniform shirt darkened by blood. Most of his head had been torn away, apparently by a bullet. Blancanales recognized a U.S. Border Patrol insignia on the guy’s shoulder patch. In a second photo, he saw a woman patrol agent, her throat savaged by a bullet, curled up on a floor. Her pistol lay several inches from her fingers.

Blancanales held up the pictures. “Where did this happen?”

“California-Mexico border,” Price said. “Near Tijuana, Mexico. The exact location is listed in the mission packet. The woman’s name was Jennifer Drew. She was thirty-two and been with the patrol for six years. Single mother, two little girls. Going to law school in the evenings. According to her records, she wanted to be a prosecutor when she got out of law school.”

“Damn,” Blancanales said. “What about the guy?”

“Jon Copper. Joined the patrol three months before. No immediate family. He’d just been discharged, honorably, of course, from the Marine Corps. Served one tour in Iraq where he earned commendations for bravery and a purple heart. The bad news is that the killers were gone before backup arrived.”

“The good news?” Gadgets asked.

“Apparently either Drew or Copper nailed one of these bastards before they could escape. Investigators found blood at the scene, splattered on a wall, pooled on the floor. They were able to collect that, some hair samples and other forensic evidence. Not to mention shell casings from the killers’ guns.”

“That stuff tell us anything?”

“Surprisingly, yes. The shell casings had been wiped clean of any prints. But the blood and hair yielded some DNA evidence that helped us identify one of the shooters. His name is Jamal Hejazi.”

“Or was,” Schwarz replied. “Hopefully, anyway.”

“Most likely. Judging by the amount of blood, bone fragments and other physical evidence at the scene, this guy should be riding a horse through Sleepy Hollow, carrying a pumpkin under his arm. We’re still waiting on the rest of the forensics reports to come in, but we’re guessing that Hejazi was wounded by the Border Patrol agents and one of his own people ‘retired’ him with a bullet to the head.”

“Why do that?”

Price shrugged. “Probably didn’t want to risk taking him to a doctor or hospital.”

“Makes sense.”

“What do we know about Hejazi?” Blancanales interjected.

Price leafed through the file’s contents until she found what she was looking for. “He was a Saudi national. About ten years ago, he lived in the United States on a student visa. He was studying medicine. During that time, he came up on rape charges.”

“Charges he hotly denied, I’m sure,” Lyons said.

“Of course. The court forced him to submit DNA evidence. They swabbed him for saliva and matched the DNA with stuff collected at the hospital’s E.R.”

“Surprise,” Lyons said, his voice indicating anything but.

“Once that information went to the grand jury, Hejazi decided to leave the country. Without the court’s permission, of course. He went to Sudan.”

“Double surprise,” Lyons said wearily. As a police officer, he’d seen the same script played out to the letter too many times.

“I guess the victim’s family had some money, too. They hired a bounty hunter to chase after him and drag him back to the United States. He went underground until the family’s money ran out. Once he learned he was off the bull’s-eye, he crawled out from under his rock and decided he wanted to fight the Great Satan. Judging by his record, he’s otherwise pretty unremarkable.”

“Hey, give the guy his props,” Blancanales said. “He is an international fugitive, after all.”

Price smiled. “I won’t grace that with a response. Obviously our big concern here is that a known terrorist snuck into the United States. He’s dead. But we know for a fact that he didn’t come alone. Before they entered the house, Drew told her dispatcher that a pair of vans was parked outside the house. She also radioed in the numbers for the license plates, both of which were stolen. By the time their backup arrived, both vans were gone.”

“So we have a couple of carloads of terrorists touring the West Coast,” Blancanales stated.

“And, while we can assume they’re here to launch an attack,” Brognola said, “we have no other specifics. That’s where you guys come in. I want you to beat the bushes, find out what these bastards are up to. We’re expecting a big bang. We just don’t know when, where or how. Your mission packet contains plenty of background on these guys. And we have a couple of contacts for you to look up, including one in San Diego. There’s a plane waiting on the landing strip. While we’ve been talking, a team of black-suits has been loading it full of weapons and equipment, all your usual favorites. I want you guys in the air and ready to hit the West Coast within an hour. The Man is worried. So am I. We need you to hunt these guys down and to find out what they’re up to. He’s also been very explicit as to how you deal with them once you accomplish those tasks.”

“Exercise our full diplomatic authority?” Blancanales queried.

Brognola nodded. “Exactly. Kill them.”

CHAPTER THREE

Monrovia, Liberia

David McCarter navigated the van through the throngs of soldiers, bystanders and journalists gathered two blocks from the American embassy.

The van bore the symbol of a humanitarian organization, an effort by Phoenix Force to disguise its approach. If his opponents were smart enough to seize a well-guarded embassy, McCarter figured they also were smart enough to station observers among the crowds gathered outside the perimeter. Wheeling the panel van to the curb, he brought it within thirty yards of a rug store that had been evacuated and converted into a command center. The embassy lay straight ahead, its top floors visible over the security fence. At least one terrorist was visible from the rooftop, watching the approaching vehicle through a pair of binoculars.

“Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?” asked Gary Manning, who was riding shotgun.

“Hope the bastard gets a good look,” McCarter said. “Pretty soon, one of us is going to be the last thing he sees.”

Shifting the van into park, McCarter and Manning disembarked. Motion in a second-story window caught the Briton’s attention. Glancing up, he saw a figure fill the embassy window, watching his every movement. Two more sentries, brandishing AK-47s, faces swathed in brightly colored scarves, also were visible through the bars of the security fence surrounding the embassy compound. The brazenness didn’t surprise McCarter. He knew the terrorists assumed they’d be safe so long as they had hostages. Their threat had been clear: for every terrorist harmed, two hostages die.