Gitmo getaway, p.16
Gitmo Getaway, page 16
"That was my conclusion."
"What about your people? If you pass all this on to CIA, they have to act."
"I tried that already. My boss told me to stop playing James Bond and report in to the nearest office. He said the idea of Islamic terrorists hitting a major target in New York City was a fantasy. He asked me did I want to evacuate Manhattan because a rowboat was coming down the Hudson. Stupid bastard."
"They're all scared of making the wrong call," Nolan said thoughtfully, "We have one option. Press on, locate these men, and stop them. Or kill them, as John-Wesley put it so eloquently."
Vega switched on the radio. He'd kept it off. If anyone called them, there was nothing useful they could say. They heard the weather warning, repeated over and over.
'The US Coastguard has advised all small vessels to head for port without delay. Commercial craft, be advised the forecast winds are predicted to reach Force Ten to Twelve. If you proceed, you do so at your own risk. Any aircraft overflying the Gulf of Mexico vector either north or south, find a place to land. The storm path is approaching from the Caribbean, passing over Cuba.'
They were looking at Nolan for a decision. He gave them the only one possible.
"Stay on course. We have one chance at this, and that means driving this aircraft straight down Montez's throat."
"It'll be difficult, flying through a severe storm with one engine out," Vega murmured. His eyes moved all the time, looking ahead, checking the gages, and adjusting the controls.
"Who said it was going to be easy?"
There was a silence in the cockpit. For a few moments, no one spoke. All they could hear was the drone of the single engine, the slipstream rushing past the fuselage, and the rattle of loose rivets and fixtures, part of the package for a vintage aircraft. Will broke the silence.
"I'll go back to the cabin and talk to the others. We need to be ready."
"For the storm, or gatecrashing Montez's party?"
He didn't look back. "Both."
It was almost two hours later when the first indications of the storm became apparent. A powerful gust sideswiped the plane, and Vega had to fight to keep them in the air. He fired up the radio once more, and they listened to the doom-laden predictions of the progress of the storm. The fuselage bucked again, and Will was thrown through the cockpit door into the cabin. While Vega worked to correct the yaw, Nolan went aft to check on his number two. He'd landed heavily but was okay
He looked around the cabin. Ryder had wedged himself into a corner, from where he squinted around the cabin, watching. His eyes narrowed as they settled on Eva.
Weird. That's the only way to describe him.
Nolan looked at him and shouted across, "You okay, John-Wesley?"
"Me?" He bared his teeth in a cold smile. There was no humor in his eyes, just ice, "I'm fine. You know we'll wreak the Lord's vengeance for this day's work?"
"How come?"
He regretted asking, as soon as the words came out.
"It's in the bible. 'And of Jezebel also spake the Lord, saying, the dogs shall eat Jezebel by the wall of Jezreel.' We are flying into a storm, yes?"
"Yep."
"It's God's punishment. We're gonna die, every last man, unless we repent of this evil."
Yep, he's finally flipped, no question. As if we don't have enough problems. I could shoot him down right now like a dog, before he goes berserk.
Except where they were headed, he needed Ryder more than ever. A man who could kill without a qualm, and keep killing, was worth his weight in gold.
"It's just a storm, Ryder. Pack it in. You say another word about Eva, and I'll cut your heart out. Try praying for something useful."
Like a new starboard engine.
The man gave Nolan a cold nod.
* * *
The roller shutter door rumbled open, and they had their first glimpse of Miami. Fresh air, a blessed relief after the vile stench of human waste and blood inside the truck. Nasriri looked up to the sky as he gave thanks to Allah for reaching this stage of their long journey.
Thick clouds were forming in the distance, and a gust of wind met their skin. It brought a strong breeze that was warm and fresh smelling. There was a faint fragrance of oranges, overlaid by the distinctive scent of the sea. Salt, seaweed, baked sand. As he stood enjoying the clean sensation against his body, he felt a sudden gust almost lift him off his feet. He was a man of the desert, of the outdoors. He knew a storm was coming in.
Even so, it was good to be out of the close confines of the truck, and the suspicion and doubt that were slowly poisoning his men. He turned to look as Rahman Baba tripped, swore, and fell to the ground.
"Be careful, Rahman. We need you strong for the last stage of our journey."
Baba looked up at him but didn't reply. Nasriri knew he had to do something fast to restore their obedience. If things got any worse, he'd have deserters. It was a poison that spread like an outbreak of disease, a cancer to be cut out.
I need to make an example of one of them. The next time a man refuses an order, I'll kill him.
They were outside a large warehouse, close to the sea. The door opened, and a man emerged, wearing sunglasses, a linen suit, and a Panama hat. Ricardo Montez. The Colombian held out his hand in greeting.
"Welcome, welcome, my friend. We meet again."
"Yes." He looked around for the Colombian's number two, the feral killer. It was prudent to know the whereabouts of such men, "Where is Señor Hidalgo?"
A smile. "He is taking care of some business for me in New York, which is why he could not be here."
"Is it connected to our operation?"
Montez seemed to consider, then he smiled. "Yes, it is, in a way. But there's nothing to concern you, we're doing everything to make certain nothing goes wrong on the day."
"That's good to know."
He noticed Montez worked to control his disgust at their stench. It was only the slight flaring of his nostrils that betrayed him.
"Come inside, my friend. We have food prepared for you. There are showers, too. I'm sure you'd like to freshen up."
"That would be good." As they walked toward the warehouse, he noticed the powerboat tied to the wharf. Even though it was part of the plan, he gaped. It was like nothing he'd seen before. Unbelievably long, almost like a ballistic missile or a spacecraft, "Is that it?"
Montez grinned. "It is. With a craft like that, they'll find it impossible to stop you."
"Is it difficult to control?"
He shook his head. "Not at all. Everything is computerized. A child could drive it."
Or a moronic Afghan tribesman.
"That is good. And the explosives?"
"On board the ship. Everything is ready to transfer. All you need to do is hit the button to detonate."
Even that is not necessary. Security will be tighter than a drum, and they may riddle you monkeys with bullets before you hit the target. Or maybe you'll change your minds and decide to stay alive a little longer. Fortunately, we have a contingency to take care of that. All you need to do is get close.
"Excellent," Nasriri smiled at Montez, "We will deliver a message to the Americans they will never forget. In three days time."
"You will, my friend. Come inside, clean up, and get some food."
Nasriri opened his mouth to thank Montez as the rain began to fall. The clouds had thickened in the past few minutes, the wind had picked up almost to storm force, and water fell in torrents. They ran for the shelter of the warehouse and stood inside, listening to the furious beat of the rain on the thin aluminum roof. He looked at Montez, who was frowning.
"Will this be a problem, Señor Montez, the weather?"
"It could be, yes. The powerboat is designed to cope with most conditions, but even so, this weather is exceptional. Your men are not used to handling small boats?"
"Afghanistan is landlocked," he replied woodenly.
"Yes, of course. The problem is getting the boat out to the ship. I'm not sure if it will be possible."
"It has to be. No matter what it takes, we will go."
"If you're sure?"
"We have no choice. We are already running late. Any further delay is impossible. We will leave tonight as planned, weather or no weather. It is in the hands of Allah."
"Right. Come, I'll show you to the washrooms."
Nasriri called for them to follow him. Rahman was arguing with his cousin Hakim, and he shouted at them to stop.
"This bastard insulted me," Hakim snarled, "He told me I stank like a pig. I cannot tolerate such an insult."
Pigs were unclean according to Islam. It was a deadly insult. Even so, they'd arrived in Miami, and they were on the last leg of their journey. He needed to keep them together for just a little while longer. He glared at Rahman.
"You will apologize to your cousin. You know it is unacceptable to compare him to an unclean animal."
"But he does stink like a pig."
"You will apologize, Rahman. Now!"
The man stared back at him. "No! It is true. He does stink. Besides, he has said much worse things about me and my family."
"Apologize now, Rahman. This is my last warning."
"No! I will not."
"Rahman! I will not say it again."
He shook his head. "No."
Nasriri knew they'd all reached their limits. After the exhilaration of the escape, it had been too long, too arduous, and too stressful. They were all ready to explode. It was time to end this. He walked toward the red-faced Afghan smiling, his arms outstretched. As if to say, 'I'm unarmed, let's discuss this like friends.'
Rahman relaxed, and his expression softened. It was the opening Omar needed. With a practiced flick of his hand, he brought the knife from his sleeve into his hand. A swift cut, a sideways slash across the other man's neck. It was a fluid, almost lazy movement, and it was enough. Rahman's expression changed to one of puzzlement and surprise. He put his hand up to his throat, touched it, and looked at the blood smearing his fingers. His eyes jerked back to Nasriri.
"You..."
It was the last sound that emerged from his mouth. Blood was pouring down his front, dripping to the floor. He fell, dying. For a few seconds he threshed on the floor, trying to suck in air through his ruined throat, and then he shuddered and was still.
Everything in the warehouse was still. The only noise was the hammering of the rain on the roof, insistent and as threatening as the curved, bloody knife. They stared at him shocked, all except Montez, who looked bored.
"You shouldn't have killed him." Hakim's face was screwed up with bitter anger, "He was my cousin. It was just an argument."
"He disobeyed an order; it was more than an argument. He undermined my discipline, and I could not allow it to continue."
"But..."
"Enough! We have work to do. Get yourself cleaned up. Hozni, Wasef, drag the body outside and throw it into the sea."
He turned to Montez. "Where is this food you promised me? I'm hungry."
"You do not wish to take a shower first?" the Colombian, a fastidious dresser, raised his eyebrows in surprise.
The Al Qaeda commander looked down at his clothes. "I prefer to eat. I have all eternity in which to concern myself with personal hygiene."
"As you wish. Let me show you to the place where we have food ready for you."
He led the way, keeping his distance from the Afghan.
I know you're planning a suicide mission, but personally, I'd prefer not to spend the last days of my life stinking like a rutting hog.
Chapter Nine
Last night had been terrifying, yet she had no choice. She had to cement Clay to her, to be certain he would help her in her quest for a gun. And she knew only one way of achieving that. After all, she was a woman. Well, she was now.
He'd appeared shy at first, as if he was as much a virgin as she was, although she soon realized it was pretense. No matter, he was a man. His reasons were his own. She felt sick with dread as he touched her and gritted her teeth to endure the embarrassment in silence. Then came the pain of his penetration, and he seemed overly rough. Then again, what did she know? She had to pretend she enjoyed every moment and force herself to smile. After, she'd wiped away the tears.
"You are crying, Esperanza, what's wrong?"
"Tears of joy," she lied, "That was wonderful, Clay. You're a very special man."
He'd hugged her close, and soon they fell asleep. In the early hours of the morning, he awoke and pulled her to him. This time it wasn't quite so painful, although he seemed rough, more demanding than he needed to be. Even so, she forced a smile on her face that wasn't entirely faked. She made him breakfast, 'called him a great lover', and then they set out for the range.
When she held the gun, he fussed around her, correcting her shooting stance. Then she came to fire the weapon, a Heckler & Koch USP Compact automatic, firing a .357 she could use to kill Hidalgo. Small, easily concealed, accurate, and powerful. Once she'd mastered the recoil, she could put eight out of ten rounds inside the outer ring of the target.
It felt good, and the answer to her prayers. Except there was one thing more, she had to take it home with her. She knew about weapons permits, concealed carry permits, and all of the legal requirements that went with gun ownership. There was no way the paperwork could be completed same day, so she had to figure something out. She had to have the gun, now. It was the only way she'd feel safe.
The opportunity came during lunch in the cafeteria attached to the range. He ordered two plates of suspicious-looking burgers and fries, and as he passed across her meal, he regarded her with smiling eyes.
"Dining out in style," he grinned, "It's all they have, sorry."
"That's okay, Clay. It looks wonderful. It's my favorite."
"Really? Hey, that's great. Me too. Next time I'll find somewhere better. Maybe we could eat Colombian. Make you feel more at home."
"Colombian? Why do you say that?"
He shrugged. "I just want to make it special for you, Esperanza. Really special."
She forced herself to take a mouthful of what tasted like minced truck tires.
"You're so kind, Clay. Listen, I need to ask you a favor."
"Anything, name it."
"The HK Compact, I'd like to buy it and take it home. I need to get used to it. You know, stripping it, cleaning it, loading the magazine."
He shook his head. "You can't. That would be illegal."
She forced an expression of sadness on her face, and even managed a couple of tears.
"Really? Oh, Clay, I was so looking forward to it. You know, that automatic is the link between us. It brought us together. It's really special to me, and it means a lot. Every time I touch it, I think, you know. Nice thoughts."
She ran her tongue across her lips, like she'd seen them do it in the movies, a slow, lascivious movement.
"You do?"
She nodded and adopted a look of hurt. After a couple of seconds, she forced a couple more tears to roll down her cheeks. She felt guilty, misleading this gullible boy. Nevertheless, she had to survive and take revenge for her family. That was all that mattered. She'd make it up to Clay afterward, and let him screw her a few times.
His eyes were screwed up in thought, and then they brightened. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'll buy it for you, as a present."
She flashed him a dazzling smile. "A present!"
"Sure. You can take it with you, and we'll fill in the paperwork later. In the meantime, it'll be held on my license, but it's your gun. I want you to have it."
"Oh, Clay," she breathed, "You're the kindest, nicest guy any girl could ever wish for. I'm so lucky. Thank you so much."
"As long as you're happy, what more could I want? How about we do something tonight, a date? We could go out, maybe take in a movie."
"Or you could come to my place. You know..."
"I'd like that," he murmured.
* * *
They were going down. The storm raged all around them, storm-force winds that tossed the crippled aircraft around the sky. Thunderous rain beat down, blotting out the horizon, making it impossible to see ahead. They needed a miracle to survive, and over the Gulf of Mexico, miracles were in short supply that day.
Vega was inspired, and Nolan took a back seat as the Cuban's hands constantly flew around the controls. Again, he made minute adjustments, sometimes maneuvers so crazy they should have sent the aircraft plummeting to the raging seas below. When he needed help, he barked a string of orders to Nolan.
"We need left rudder, more, more! Move it! Hold it there. Bank right, bank right!"
"It won't move!"
"It'll move. You need to use more force on the column. Treat it like a whore!"
It was a losing battle.
"How far do we have still to run?" Vega shouted.
He looked at the instruments, but most had long ceased to function. The Twin Commander was falling apart, piece-by-piece and bolt-by-bolt. "I don't know, nothing works."
"Get Evers. Tell him to get a fix on his satphone. He should be able to work out where we are. There are air charts in the pocket behind the seat."
"Will you be okay?"
"Just do it!"
He jumped up, ran back to the cabin, and passed the order to the CIA man.
"Sure, I'll do what I can."
He noticed Evers had a gash down his face from when he'd fallen during a particularly violent maneuver. Blood was still dripping down his cheek.
"You should get Eva to look at that."
"Maybe later."
"As soon as you've checked our position. If you pass out with blood loss, you'll be no use to us when we reach Miami."
Evers stared at him. "If we reach Miami."
"We'll make it. If anyone can do it, Vega can."
A pause. "Nolan, even if we do make it, Montez has a shitload of men on the ground. We can't fight them all?"
"True. But we're not there to fight them all, just to stop those Islamic bastards from destroying a chunk of American real estate."
