Black Flagged Apex (27 page)

Daniel woke up as the first tendrils of sunlight reached the wicker headboard of their cottage bed. He was lying next to Jessica, both of them buried under the sheets and blankets that had been tossed from the bed at some point the night before. The temperature had dipped significantly after midnight, changing the breezes that flowed freely off the ocean into their cottage. He vaguely remembered picking up the bed linens and haphazardly tucking them back into the bed before closing the patio slider.

Jessica lay asleep on her side, facing his side of the bed. Her makeup had faded during the night, and he could see the black eye that dominated the right side of her face. She had removed her contacts at some point in the evening, which exposed the broken blood vessels surrounding her naturally brown iris. He felt anger and guilt rising within him, which was never a good combination for Daniel. Her neck was the worst part. Several horizontal scabs marked the ordeal that had nearly killed her. They must have restrained her by the neck with piano wire or some kind of game fish line. Still rubbed raw, a band of red puffy skin and dark scabs circled her entire neck. Srecko would suffer a painful death for putting her through this. Anger and guilt. Bad for Daniel, but even worse for Srecko.

He reached out and caressed her left cheek. She settled into a smile, keeping her eyes closed.

"How does Frankenbride look without her disguise?"

"Positively beautiful, as always," he said, without hesitation.

"Uh-huh. What time is it?" she muttered, finally opening her eyes.

"Ten after seven. The sun just peeked over the water. I'll make us some coffee if you're getting up."

"That sounds nice. I'll get dressed and meet you out on the patio," she said.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Daniel said, kissing her inviting lips.

"Yes. You may not have a problem with the way I look, but I do. Quick change and makeup job. I promise."

"I meant what I said. You look beautiful."

Jessica sat up in the bed, pulling the sheets up to her chin. "I know you did. I just don't feel right displaying my injuries to the public."

"Who cares?"

"I do. I don't play the role of victim very well. It's hard not to feel like a full-time victim bearing these scars. Plus, everyone will think you're a wife beater."

He stared at her for a moment, neither pitying her nor trying to process her logic. He just wanted to gaze at the woman he loved and would sacrifice anything to protect. His love for her had no boundaries and no other loyalties. He knew this would be tested again, but from this point forward, they would remain together. He had long ago committed to spending the rest of his life with her, no matter what the circumstances. Long before either of them had been swallowed up by devils disguised as government agents and military heroes.

He'd started carrying a small diamond ring around with him during the spring of their final semester of college. He kept waiting for the right moment to spring the question, thinking he had all the time in the world. When she said goodbye and suddenly disappeared from his life a few days after graduation, he'd been devastated. He regretted waiting more than anything in his life. The ring could have changed everything and put them on a path that didn't consume them from the inside, corrupting their morality and burying the deepest scars in their subconscious. All of this was his fault for waiting to make a decision that he knew was inevitable.

"You there, Danny?" she said, waving a hand in front of him.

He nodded and shook his head at the same time. "Yep. Sort of. Sorry. I was just thinking out everything at one time. Not a good idea for this tiny brain," he said and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.

"We'll have plenty of time to think through all of this. Just you and me," she said.

"I like the sound of that. See you on the patio."

Chapter 22

8:47 PM

Coney Island Avenue

Brooklyn, New York

Abraham Sayar sat quietly at a round marble-topped table near the expansive front window of the El Halal Middle Eastern Market. The window covered most of the store's frontage, extending from the leftmost side of the market to the glass and metal door packed against the right side wall. Bathed in bright fluorescent lighting, with his back against a poster-covered wall, he concentrated on his tea and tried not to think about how exposed he felt in front of the window. He was the market's lone table customer, drawing an occasional stare from the sparse foot traffic on Coney Island Avenue.

Typically, all of the tables would be crowded with loud groups sipping tea like Sayar, serving as a spirited backdrop for the numerous patrons who stopped by to grab freshly prepared Middle Eastern dishes and imported sundries. Word had leaked over the course of the day that something big was happening at El Halal, and it was best to avoid the place for now. All of this had been engineered by Sayar and his team, through the Imam.

They wanted to avoid civilian casualties at all costs and avoid complications, but most importantly, they wanted to give the market a strong aura to observers on the street. Anyone asked would recommend steering clear of El Halal tonight, which was exactly the kind of publicity Sayar wanted to convey to any True America reconnaissance teams. He was trying to give True America the strong impression that El Halal had a secret. They had no idea if the terror group could track the Imam's calls, but if they arrived anywhere in Kensington, all signs would lead to their trap.

Sayar hadn't moved from his table for most of the day, marking him as part of the Imam's personal security detail. He wore western-style street clothes, which made him even more conspicuous. He had traded the traditional loose-fitting clothing for dark khaki pants, a white button-down oxford and an outdated Members Only-style, waist-level jacket, which he hadn't removed since he arrived. His muscular frame added to the menace he exuded with his tense body posture and permanently affixed scowl.

The rest of his team was scattered throughout the store. Diyah Castillo sat behind the cash register, looking bored and pretending to text friends on her cell phone. She was dressed more traditionally, better reflecting the Muslim values of the community, without going overboard. Her head was loosely wrapped in a light blue hijab, exposing only her face. The rest of her outfit consisted of dark blue jeans and a light brown, patterned blouse. It was a stylish representation of the women's Muslim dress code that had become more common with the Muslim youth in America.

The last visible member of the team wandered through the store, lingering in different sections to handle the merchandise for a few minutes before moving on. He took a few breaks from this routine throughout the day, to join Sayar for tea and food. This marked him as part of the security team, if there had been any doubt before, which was all part of the desired effect.

Abdul Waseer remained upstairs, monitoring the surveillance feeds from a camera hidden in the alley and another attached to a light post in front of the market. Thanks to the electronic warfare team sitting in a van nearby, he could also listen to FBI radio traffic. His primary job was to give the team downstairs an advanced warning of an attack. This task would be critical to their survival. Once detected, he would descend the stairs and reinforce efforts to repel the assault. His arrival would be a welcome sight to the three vulnerable operatives sitting exposed in the market. Their defensive situation hadn't materialized like Sayar had hoped.

They wore level-two body armor under their clothing, which would protect them from most submachine gun and sidearm rounds, but they had been under-equipped for the mission with FBI-issued Glock 23 pistols. Sayar had lobbied for more firepower, but his request had been met with considerable resistance by the mobile task force commander, Special Agent-in-Charge Kathryn Moriarty. Special Agent Damon Katsoulis had started to protest, but Moriarty had shut him down quickly. Apparently, the "powers-that-be" in the FBI still didn't fully trust Sanderson's people. He shared a few knowing looks with Katsoulis, as Moriarty lectured Sayar and his team of operatives. At least he had one possible ally in the FBI. Since Katsoulis's snipers and assault teams covered the market, this made him breathe a little easier through Moriarty's condescending diatribe.

At length, she "reminded" him that their sole purpose was to lure True America into the open. At least she acknowledged the reality of their precarious situation in the store, though she grossly overestimated her own units' response time. They all agreed that the attack would come fast and furious, but Moriarty insisted that they would only need enough firepower to slow the initial attack. FBI snipers and tactical units would "go to work" on hostile forces as soon as they were detected. Sayar saw the logic of this approach, but still requested two semiautomatic shotguns—one to cover each entrance to the market. FBI intelligence indicated that True America had access to some serious weaponry and body armor, representing a combination that would be hard to stop with pistols. His request was immediately denied. Even Katsoulis nearly shook his head in front of his boss.

He still had some hope that a direct attack on the market might never materialize. Sanderson's electronic warfare team had a solid chance to detect and identify the assault units on the street, giving the FBI and Sayar's team fair warning about their approach. Of course, the existence of Sanderson's electronics-laden mini-van remained a secret from the FBI, so they would have to be extremely creative with how they alerted the FBI. He had been assured by his counterpart, Aleem Fayed, that the techs had a solid plan. He just hoped that the plan would give the FBI enough time to make a difference in the fight.

**

Timothy Graves caught himself holding his breath again. In extremely tense situations, he had a bad habit of not breathing.

Anish Gupta interrupted his concentration. "You're holding your breath again."

"No shit. It helps me think," Graves said, shifting uncomfortably in his folding chair.

"Actually, you're depriving your brain of oxygen, which accomplishes the opposite," Gupta said.

"No. Depriving my body of oxygen vasodilates the blood vessels, allowing a better perfusion of oxygen when I breathe again. It gives me a heightened state of awareness," Graves said, not sure if his nonsense would pass muster with Gupta.

"The blood vessels in the lungs vasoconstrict during hypoxia, which renders your proposed theory ineffective," Gupta countered.

"Do you know everything?"

"Pretty much," Gupta replied.

They both stared at the various screens, searching for anything that might indicate an imminent attack on the El Halal market. So far, the only encrypted radio traffic near the target area belonged to the FBI. One of their computer screens tracked and sorted the data transmitted by the FBI's P25-equipped radios. This data included locations. Graves had installed two battery-powered "pinging" relays on nearby rooftops prior to the FBI's mid-morning arrival. Once the FBI's operating frequencies had been established, they had actively "pinged" the data layer and catalogued the automated responses. The radio users didn't have to transmit a radio message to appear on their "radar." Even non-transmitting radios would respond to their undetectable "pings."

Within seconds of the FBI's arrival on and around Coney Island Avenue, Gupta had mapped the entire task force. Once all of the FBI units had settled into their positions, he activated the two remote relays and tasked the system to simultaneously "ping" the entire task force twice every second. The silent responses allowed them to triangulate the position of each FBI radio, and more importantly, each agent. The computer screen displayed a map of the streets surrounding El Halal Market, marking their locations.

The FBI occupied the only vacant apartment on the street within view of El Halal Market. With a diagonal view, the apartment served as the FBI's sniper nest and headquarters. They counted ten radios in the building, four of which they had identified as either a sniper or spotter. The remaining six radios were by far the most active of the task force. Overall, the FBI had lucked out with their temporary lodging.

Situated on the corner of Coney Island Avenue and Foster Avenue, less than one hundred meters from the market, the third-floor corner unit commanded an expansive southbound view of Coney Island Avenue. The view stretched nearly an entire city block, giving the sharpshooters perfect firing trajectories at potential threats nearly one hundred meters from the market, in any direction on the street. If confirmed threats approached from the south, snipers could engage at further distances.

The FBI's view of the northern approach was limited by the shallow angle of the street-facing windows along Coney Island Avenue. FBI observers could not effectively see beyond the intersection of Foster and Coney Island. Fortunately, their position north of the market gave them ample time to respond to any threats coming in from the north.

The only other road emptying into this crowded stretch of Coney Island Avenue was Glenwood Road, which passed just under the FBI apartment and was under direct surveillance by a large contingent of FBI SWAT vehicles hidden at the edge of a church parking lot fifty meters back from Coney Island Avenue. They counted fourteen radios at that location. Radio traffic indicated that this would be the primary response team. Three additional teams sat hidden in similar locations off Coney Island Avenue, each consisting of eight SWAT agents in two vehicles. One would seal Foster Avenue to the north, and another would block the south, emerging from a hidden location in a funeral home on H Avenue.

The third team had the most difficult job. Eight agents had to cover the claustrophobic alleyway approach that had multiple points of access leading into the darkened, trash-strewn space from the driveways and homes on the residential street behind the market. They could only rely on these agents to provide an early warning. There were too many points of entry and positions of cover in the alley to effectively engage a trained terrorist group without the assurance of friendly casualties or the deployment of thirty additional agents. The FBI's tactical team leader had been uncomfortable spreading his agents so thin along the rear approach, especially since they would not be "geared up" like the rest of his agents. They would be in street clothes, equipped with compact submachine guns and concealable body armor. He needed them to somewhat blend into the neighborhood, even if they were just sitting in cars or hanging back in the shadows. The agents watching the alley would rally together and respond on foot once the entire threat picture developed.