Trapping Zero (An Agent Zero Spy Thriller—Book #4)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Twenty minutes later the wheels of the Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter lifted off from the grounds of the former US embassy in Baghdad, carrying three CIA agents and six members of the private security group the Division.

Each of Fitzpatrick’s men was as heavily armed as their leader, Reid noted, and hardly distinguishable from the next. It was as if the men of the Division enjoyed perpetuating the stereotype of the post-military mercenary; scruffy beards, blacks caps and bandannas stretched over their heads, rifles ever present in hand.

Not one of them seemed all that enthused about being there, and much less about taking orders from CIA agents.

Reid fit a clear plastic earpiece into his left ear, the wire of it trailing beneath his shirt and to a small radio clipped to his belt. “Check,” he said reflexively. “One-two. Confirm?”

Maria and Strickland each flashed him a quick thumbs-up. Fitzpatrick grunted and jutted his chin as confirmation.

Maria passed Reid a tablet, the screen of which displayed the grainy photo of an old bearded man wearing a white crocheted taqiyah, a rounded Muslim skullcap. Reid turned the tablet for all to see. “Listen up,” he said, the radio broadcasting his voice over the roar of the Black Hawk’s twin engines. “This is Abdallah bin Mohammed, age sixty-seven. He’s the son of farmers, but managed to make himself a small fortune running guns after the Gulf War. He’s also the one that bankrolled the bombing of the embassy.”

The CIA tech had been right; the Danish hacker took mere minutes to discover the culprit behind the falsified documents. The trail led to a Tunisian cybercriminal with outstanding warrants in eight countries, who had also recently received a substantial sum of money wired from the account of Abdallah bin Mohammed. While the agency alerted local authorities and sent resources to collect the cybercriminal, Reid and his team had gained a different objective.

“Bin Mohammed has known ties to Hamas dating back to the mid-nineties,” he continued, “but about six years ago, he fell off the radar. Military intel says our guy here retired to a compound in the desert near Albaghdadi, an alleged self-segregated religious sect. The compound has been raided several times in the last few years, but nothing suspicious was ever found.”

“We believe the compound is a front for the Brotherhood’s operation,” Maria picked up. “While bin Mohammed is the financier, our primary target is the proclaimed leader of the organization, someone named Awad bin Saddam. We don’t have any information on him, but a change in leadership could be the reason they suddenly decided to become active.”

Reid passed the tablet off to Strickland. “It’s your op, so it’s your plan.”

Strickland nodded as he took the tablet and navigated to a real-time aerial view of the desert compound. “This is a satellite image of bin Mohammed’s compound,” he explained as he turned the tablet. “It’s about four hundred yards long and half that wide, with six structures inside the wall. This largest structure appears to be main housing; that’s likely our best bet of finding one or both of our targets. The three of us will be Alpha team. Fitzpatrick, split your guys into Bravo and Charlie teams.”

Fitzpatrick grunted his assent again without looking up.

“Alpha team will clear the main building,” Strickland continued, “and move counterclockwise. Bravo will start here,” he pointed, “at this southwest structure and clear clockwise to meet us. Charlie team is on the perimeter. I want one man posted at the main gate, and the other two patrolling the wall for anyone trying to escape. Any questions?”

No one spoke. The men of the Division nodded stoically.

“We keep this clean as possible,” Strickland ordered. “Bin Mohammed is an old man, and we don’t know what bin Saddam looks like, so our goal is to incapacitate and detain. No kill shots unless absolutely necessary. Understood?”

Fitzpatrick sniffed. “Look, I get that this is real exciting for y’all,” he said evenly. “But for us, this is just Tuesday. We’ll get it done, don’t you worry.”

“I’m sure we’ll get it done,” said Strickland. “I’m worried about getting it done right.”

Fitzpatrick smirked with one side of his mouth. “We’ll find your man, Agent Strickland. And we’ll do our very best not to gun him down.”

Strickland handed the tablet back to Maria. He reached under his seat for a black duffel bag and slid it over the helicopter floor to Reid. “Gear,” he said simply.

“Thanks.” Reid unzipped the bag. Inside was a black Kevlar vest, a Glock 22 in a nylon holster, a small Ruger LC9, spare clips for each, a tactical folding knife, three stun grenades, and a flashlight.

He almost laughed at himself as he secured the tactical vest over his chest. He was still wearing the clothes he had on in Zurich, a striped button-down with khakis, loafers, and a brown suede jacket. To the roughnecks of the Division, Reid probably looked like a suburban dad tagging along for a raid on a terrorist compound.

You are a suburban dad on a raid on a terrorist compound. But this was no tag-along. If the heavily-armed men seated opposite him in the Black Hawk had any misconceptions about who Agent Zero was or what he was capable of, they’d see soon enough.

*

It took thirty-six minutes for the Black Hawk chopper, at a top speed of two hundred and twenty miles an hour, to reach the desert compound. The sun had set behind the mountains in the distance and dusk settled in, enveloping the desert below in a dark bluish haze.

“ETA two minutes,” the pilot announced through the radio.

Reid triple-checked his Glock and the LC9 holstered at his ankle. He clicked the safety off and slid the stubby nine millimeter back into place, and then glanced up to see Fitzpatrick grinning wide at him.

“You watch yourself with that now, soccer dad,” the mercenary chuckled. “It may be small, but it’ll still put a hole in a head.”

“I’ll be careful, thanks,” Reid said flatly.

Fitzpatrick turned to his men. “Ripper, Reaver, you’re with me. Rhino, Razor, Ruger—you’re Charlie team.”

Reid had to put a hand over his mouth to stifle his grin at the ridiculous codenames.

“Cute,” Maria muttered beside him.

Fitzpatrick leaned forward with his leering grin. “And what do they call you, darlin’?”

She smiled sweetly. “Marigold.”

“Well.” Fitzpatrick sniffed. “Ain’t that adorable.”

“That’s enough chatter,” Strickland ordered. “Satellite imaging is showing the courtyard as empty. I want radio silence from here on out unless necessary.”

The pilot turned off the lights on the Black Hawk as the chopper whirled in an about-face and descended quickly into the courtyard of the compound. Reid took an even breath and drew his Glock. His palms were slightly sweaty, but his hands were steady. His heart thumped in his chest, both anxious and excited. No matter how much he tried to tell himself that he didn’t miss it, his rising pulse and the growing knot of anticipation in his sternum told him differently.

The members of the Division leapt out of the Black Hawk’s cabin single-file before the wheels touched down in the dirt. Strickland followed, hefting a Heckler & Koch MP5 automatic rifle. Maria, Glock in one hand and flashlight ready in the other, followed after him and Reid brought up the rear.

The Black Hawk immediately lifted off again to avoid damage, set to return in ten minutes’ time, Strickland’s estimation of how long it would take to clear the compound. As a veritable maelstrom of dust and sand swirled around them, Fitzpatrick waved a series of complicated hand gestures to his men, the meaning of which was completely lost on Reid, and the Division separated into their respective teams.

Meanwhile, Strickland led Maria and Reid quickly towards the main building. They kept their heads low and their barrels pointed downward as they ran towards the three-story structure, boxy and beige. There were no lights on, not in the entire compound, it seemed; every window was dark and the large floodlights that Reid could see perched atop the stone wall were unlit.

Doesn’t feel right, his instincts told him. Either this place had been vacated, or they were lying in wait. The insurgents certainly would have heard the helicopter coming, but they would have had less than a minute to prepare for the team’s arrival.

Unless they suspected we’d be coming.

Strickland paused outside a heavy wooden door into the main building. He put his ear close to it and one hand on its surface, fingertips spread. He wasn’t just listening for noise, Reid realized; he was feeling for vibrations, any indication that there was life on the other side.

After a moment Strickland shook his head to them and gestured to Maria. She lifted one boot straight into the air and planted a solid kick to the jamb, just above the knob. The wooden door flew open and Strickland rushed inside, his MP5 up. Maria followed and immediately turned left, while Reid went right. He held his Glock in his left hand and his flashlight in his right, swinging both in unison pendulously over the room.

They appeared to be in some sort of dining area, with rough wooden tables and metal chairs. But there was no movement, no people.

Strickland nodded once and gestured towards the open doorway on the southern end of the room. It was a rudimentary kitchen, with a gas-powered stove hooked to a propane tank and a copper well sink.

Still, no sign of life.

Beyond the thoroughly rustic kitchen was a common area, what might have passed for a living room, and a set of stairs leading up to the second floor. Strickland paused, staying stock-still and listening. They heard nothing.

The young agent slowly lowered the MP5 so that it was hanging from the strap over his shoulder and used both hands to gesture to Reid and Maria. No one home?

Reid blinked in surprise at the unexpected trigger. Just like Russian, Slovakian, and Arabic before it, the knowledge of American Sign Language rushed back into his head as easily as if it had been downloaded. It was exactly as Guyer had said: your mind has a way of collating that data, so to speak. He knew ASL, practically as well as his own native English.

Maria signed back. Could be. Maybe they knew the bomb could be traced back here.

Reid shook his head. He didn’t trust it; these sorts of groups didn’t tend to flee after claiming responsibility for their atrocities. They were fully prepared to meet their maker and be rewarded for their transgressions.

Clear the back room, Reid signed to Strickland. We’ll go up. Meet us on the second floor.

Strickland nodded as he hefted his MP5 again and headed towards the final room of the first floor. Maria took point on the stairs, treading lightly from heel to toe as she ascended. Reid covered her, his pistol aimed upward towards the second floor landing.

Despite her best efforts, one of the wooden steps creaked loudly under the pressure of her foot. Reid winced, noting that it was the fifth stair so he could avoid it—

He caught sight of a flurry of movement above him, upward, on the landing. His reflexes kicked in as he reached up and grabbed the back of Maria’s tactical vest, yanking her backwards as he let himself fall.

“Allahu—” The insurgent’s Tekbir cry was drowned out by a spray of automatic gunfire, shredding the silence of the compound.

Reid grunted as he hit the floor, and then again as Maria crashed atop him. She quickly rolled to the right as he pulled loose a stun grenade from his belt. “Flash-bang out!” he shouted as he hurled the cylinder in a hooked toss towards the top of the stairs. He covered his ears with his arms and squeezed his eyes shut.

A sharp pop split the air at a hundred and seventy decibels, so loud and startling that even with his head covered it felt like the jarring report was in his skull. His eyes were protected against the intense flash of light the stun grenade produced, so bright it would temporarily blind anyone within thirty feet for at least five to ten seconds.

Reid was on his feet again in an instant, surging up the stairs three at a time with his Glock in both hands. He hadn’t realized he had dropped his flashlight and there was no time to find it.

The insurgent that had fired on them was lying on his back at the top of the staircase, his expression dazed and slack-jawed and a thin bead of blood running from each ear. Reid ignored him, for the moment, and trained his gun down the second-floor corridor.

“Clear,” he said breathlessly as Maria came up behind him. She rolled the insurgent onto his stomach as she pulled a long white zip cord from her vest and secured it around his wrists.

Reid frowned as he noted that Maria seemed to be panting harder than she should for a run up the stairs. “Are you hit?” he asked urgently.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice strained. “The vest caught it. Just hurts like hell.”

Reid heard footsteps on the stairs and instinctively spun, then pulled his barrel aside when he saw Strickland coming up towards them.

Reid signaled to him that the hall was clear. No sooner had he gestured than he heard a click—a door at the end of the hall flew open and a silhouette filled the frame, the shadow of a rifle coming up to his shoulder.

“Down!” Reid leapt forward, across the hall, and smashed through a door with his forearms up. Maria hit the deck and rolled through an open doorway opposite him, and Strickland crouched on the stairs as gunfire tore down the hall.

Reid recovered and brought up his Glock to clear the room. It was someone’s bedroom, by the looks of it, and void of bodies.

He glanced across the hall at Maria, who had taken cover in a bathroom. Distraction, she signed. He nodded and tore the top linen sheet from the king-sized bed. He holstered his pistol, just for the moment, and took the sheet in both hands like a matador taunting a charging bull. Standing in the doorway, he billowed the sheet out into the hall to make it appear as if someone was making a charge. A fusillade of bullets ripped through it immediately.

Maria, on her knees, leaned out from the bathroom doorway and aimed. Her Glock barked twice; from down the hall a man cried out and a body hit the floorboards.

“Clear,” she whispered.

Reid dropped the sheet as Strickland reached the top of the stairs warily. He gestured down the hall and brought the MP5 to his shoulder. But Reid lingered, turning his attention back to the bedroom.

It hadn’t struck him immediately, not while actively taking fire, but now that he had a second look this room seemed much more ornate than the rest of those he had seen. The bed was large and adorned in soft sheets and several pillows with silk cases. The furniture was handmade and looked expensive. To the left of the king bed was a small table, and beneath it was a red bag with a white cross—medical supplies.

He had little doubt about it. This was the old man’s room, Abdallah bin Mohammed.

Reid slid his Glock from its black nylon holster. It was just a feeling, but he couldn’t shake the sensation that he wasn’t alone. Yet no one had made a bid for his life. He carefully checked behind the door, and then crouched to peer beneath the bed. There was a closet on the eastern wall, but there was little more in there than a rolled prayer mat, clothes, and more medical supplies.

In the far corner Reid noticed that what he had originally thought was a table was actually a wooden chest—certainly large and tall enough for someone to fit inside.

Maybe bin Mohammed was too old to flee. Or too sick, by the looks of things. Maybe… he’s still here. He approached the chest cautiously, holding his gun steady as he reached for the lid and threw it open.

The startled man inside yelped, his limbs folded underneath him and his arched back facing Reid. But one look told him that it was not a sixty-seven year-old man hiding in the chest. It was not bin Mohammed.

“Get up,” Reid told the man in Arabic.

The insurgent glanced at him, surprised he spoke the same language. “Do not kill me,” he pleaded.

“On your feet. Hands above your head.”

The frightened man stood slowly and did as he was told, raising both hands overhead. He was short, several inches shorter than Reid, and his receding hairline and creases around his eyes suggested he was in his early forties at best.

“Turn around.” The man did so and Reid patted him down for weapons. The insurgent had none, nothing on him at all. Reid tugged a zip cord from his vest pocket and secured it around one of the man’s wrists, and then twisted it around his back and zipped it tightly with the other. “What is your name?”

“My name,” the man said softly. “My name… is Awad bin Saddam.”

Reid scoffed. This man, this frightened man hiding in a chest while his people fought, was the leader of the Brotherhood? It was outright shameful.

He put a finger to the radio piece in his ear. “I’ve got him,” he said. “I’ve got bin Saddam.”

“Roger. Second floor is clear,” said Strickland through the radio. “Coming back to your location.”

“Come on,” Reid prompted bin Saddam in Arabic. “Out of there.”

The man carefully lifted one leg and stepped out of the chest. No sooner did it touch the floor than a rattling burst of gunfire startled them both. Reid’s Glock was up again in an instant.

It sounded distant, muffled; not coming from this building, but from one of the others. His instincts told him it was the sound of an AR-15—no, more than just one. Overlapping barrages.

“Dammit,” he muttered as he dashed into the hall, nearly running into Maria. “Clear the third floor and make sure bin Saddam doesn’t go anywhere,” he said quickly.

“Kent! Where are you going? They can take care of themselves!”

“I know,” he said as he took the stairs down to the first floor. He had no intention of helping the Division.

But if he had to, he was going to stop them from doing anything reckless.