Designated Survivor (28 page)

The armored vehicle convoy transporting Arash Abbasi was moving faster than the speed limit, barely slowing for red lights. Cars were pulling out of its way as the three vehicles began moving from the left lane to prepare for the right turn onto the toll way.

As the lead SUV approached the U-Haul the first shots came out from the darkness of the inside of the box truck. Two sets of .50 caliber rounds came from the truck. The first weapon was set on disabling the lead vehicle, putting rounds through the radiator and front tires. The second shooter put a half-dozen shots through the front window killing the driver and front passenger.

The armored truck driver accelerated to move past the threat, forced to move between the disabled SUV and the U-Haul. The moving truck jolted forward with the wheels turned hard left and struck the front of the transport vehicle.

The man who’d been on the front bumper of the moving truck reappeared and climbed up on the hood of the armored truck and attached a hand grenade to a windshield wiper blade, pulled the pin, then jumped off the front of the truck. The doors flew open and the driver and passenger leaped to the ground as the grenade exploded. Two bursts of fire from an AK-47 cracked the air, killing both of the men before they could get off the ground.

The second SUV had stopped short and the three agents were out and had their rifles raised and were moving towards the U-Haul, putting distance between each other. Another grenade came through the air over the U-Haul and landed on the ground in front of the men. As it exploded, the agents were diving away from the blast. In the moment following, two men ran towards them and began firing with their rifles until there was no movement.

“Open up now,” one of the terrorists banged on the back door of the armored vehicle. “You open the door, or we blow the whole truck.”

The back door opened slowly to show Arash Abbasi standing in the opening. The men lowered their weapons at the sight of their leader then watched as he was pushed forward from the door, his arms and legs still shackled. Unable to brace himself, he struck the ground on his side, his skull crashing into the ground. The door of the truck slammed shut again and was relocked.

A Ford Explorer screeched to a halt beside the scene and the men helped Abbasi into the back seat and the truck sped off as a grenade taped to the back door of the armored vehicle blew.

CHAPTER 59

“They were waiting,” Grace said. “Which means they knew he’d be coming.”

“How’s that possible?” Arrington said.

“I think the plan went exactly as he intended,” Grace said. “He wanted to get into the ETTF, he wanted to shoot Monroe, then he wanted to get arrested and taken out.”

“That would be a hell of a plan,” Arrington said. “A man like Abbasi doesn’t choose to get arrested.”

“Unless he had someone inside,” Grace said.

“Stop it. We already have a man detained that has essentially been rendered innocent by the actions that took place here,” Arrington said. “Now you think someone else is involved.”

Grace shook his head and looked away. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t make sense. Why did he go to all the trouble to get in here and then not kill the president?”

“You may be the only person not relieved by the fact that he didn’t,” Arrington said.

“Not what I mean,” Grace said. “He had her in his sights, but ended up shooting a man more than a foot taller than her, with a head shot.”

“Your point?”

“My point is he had to adjust his aim away from the president to get that shot,” Grace said.

“Monroe was diving to protect Abrams,” Arrington said.

“Even so, he was still taller than her,” Grace said.

“Not everyone can be a perfect shot like you. Now I need to go get Graham released and hope he doesn’t demand my head on a platter,” Arrington said.

“He was involved. Or William was. At least one of them,” Grace said. “I just don’t know which.”

“I can see motive in the first attack,” Arrington said. “Graham had a lot to gain, though it still seems ridiculous that he would go through that. But what about this mess? What motive was there to attack the ETTF to assassinate the president?”

“Or Director Monroe,” Grace said. “We don’t know Abrams was his intended target.”

“This isn’t helpful,” Arrington. “You want to be productive? Go find Abbasi before he disappears.”

“I already have my team monitoring all possible exfiltration routes,” Grace said. “If I’m right, he’ll be out the U.S. within the hour.”

“Great,” Arrington said.

“Well, I think it is,” Grace said.

“Why?”

“Once he’s out we’ll go after him the way we go after people,” Grace said. “As long as he’s still on our soil, my hands are tied.”

Arrington stared at his lead operative then stepped in closer and looked him in the eyes. “Are you fucking crazy?”

“No,” Grace said. “I’m practical. The American people will be far more relieved with a dead Abbasi than a long trial.”

“Just go,” Arrington said. “Do what you do. Just actually get some results.”

CHAPTER 60

The Gulfstream G650ER was cruising at 525 miles per hour at 45,000 feet over the Caribbean Sea. The luxury interior of the jet was covered with tactical gear and weapons. The tables in the back of the cabin were lined with maps and Ben Murray had a laptop open with a secure satellite connection.

“At least it’s somewhere warm,” Avery said. “I’m getting sick of the cold.”

“Tell you what, we get this done quick and there’s a couple days R & R on any tropical island on the way home in it for everyone,” Grace said.

“Don’t you think Leighton wants his plane back?” Netty said.

“I’m pretty sure the CIA has other aircraft if the director needs to go anywhere,” Grace said. “Or he can fly commercial.”

The pilot’s voice came through the speakers. “Thirty minutes to wheels down.”

“Okay,” Grace said. “Final checks. Once we hit the ground we don’t stop until we’re done.”

“Think he’ll know we’re coming?” Corbin said.

“Maybe,” Ben said. “But I registered a flight plan originating in Montreal and I hacked into the registry and reassigned the CIA director’s tail number to a Canadian pharma company.”

“That’ll slow them down for a couple minutes,” Levi said.

The plane touched down at half past midnight at Simon Bolivar airport just north of Caracas, Venezuela and taxied past the terminal. They approached a large unmarked hanger at the east edge of the airport and the wide door slid open and allowed them in.

After pulling to a stop and the door to the hanger closed behind them, Grace released the cabin door and stepped out. Two silver Mitsubishi Pajero SUVs were parked and waiting.

“You gonna take care of these cars?” a man stepped out of the office in the back corner of the hangar.

“We’ll do our best,” Grace jumped to the ground and walked over to shake the man’s hand. “We appreciate the assist.”

“When the call comes from as high up as it did, there’s not a way to say no.” The man looked up at the numbers on the tail of the Gulfstream then back to Grace.

“True,” Grace said. “I’ve been there.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” the man said. “I know about you.”

Grace looked at the man to take in his features. “Who’s station chief here? Is it still Levin?”

“Levin left six months ago,” the man said. “But I’m sure you knew that.”

“Right,” Grace grinned. “Slipped my mind. Will you be around if we need you?” He had no intention of relying on the man for anything.

“Sure,” the man said. “Keys are in the cars. Try not to scratch them.” He turned and walked back towards the office.

Corbin stepped up next to Grace. “Sheez. These CIA guys just get weirder and weirder, don’t they?”

“Sure do. This is a hard post, though. Ever since some agency officers were accused of shipping cocaine up through Miami in the late 1990’s, nobody’s wanted the assignment.” Grace said. “Okay, let’s load the cars and get out of here.”

The team began handing bags down through the door and placing them into the backs of the two vehicles. A few minutes later they left the hanger with Corbin behind the wheel of the first car and Avery the second. Grace rode beside Corbin and navigated them through the winding roads of the Venezuelan city.

“Nice place to hide out,” Corbin said.

“He knew we’d expect him to go back towards the middle east,” Grace said. “And with Venezuela having no extradition to the U.S. it’s not a bad choice to hole up. Well, until we got here.”

They drove just over an hour to the east, the ocean off their left shoulders, and passed through several small resort communities. The headlights of the vehicles illuminated the small shacks outside the towns where the underpaid employees of the resorts lived, traveling by foot or bus, when one came, to serve the wealthy people that came from all over South America to enjoy the northern coast of Venezuela and the warm waters of the Caribbean.

Grace looked down at his phone. “About a hundred yards on the right.”

Corbin slowed and Avery followed suit behind them until they turned off the deserted highway onto a one-lane road that went up through the trees away from the water. A quarter of a mile into the woods they pulled into a clearing in front of a small house and parked the trucks. Most of the windows on the house were boarded up and the three steps up to the front door were all broken.

“You know, there’s probably rooms at one of those hotels back there?” Netty said from the backseat.

“Later,” Grace said.

They unloaded their gear from the two SUVs and went into the empty house.

“Get your gear ready. Check it, then put it away,” Grace said. “We all know the plan,” he looked at his watch. “Tonight we sleep, tomorrow we recon. Netty, we’re getting wet in the morning.”

CHAPTER 61

The sun had been up less than half an hour as Grace and Netty swam just below the surface of the southern shore of the Caribbean Sea. He wore dark blue shorts with black flippers and a red facemask and a snorkel poking out above the water. Grace caught himself glancing over at her as she moved just ahead of him in the water, her two piece green and white polka dotted bikini showing more skin on the young woman than he’d seen since she’d started working for him. Her mask and snorkel matched his.

Todosana is a quiet town that doesn’t attract tourists with most of the homes being away from the beach. A few small estates face the water, owned by wealthier families from Caracas. The long beach is still as nice as the rest along the coast but is generally passed by in favor of the built up resorts with bars and restaurants a few minutes each direction from the sleepy village.

Grace gave two strong kicks to pull up next to Netty and got her attention then they stopped and let their heads come up above the water. He kept her between him and the shore so he could appear to be talking to her rather than surveying the cottage built up among the trees, thirty feet from the sand.

“See anything?” she said.

“Just the house, no movement,” Grace said. “Wait, someone’s sitting on the deck.” He swam towards her and put his hands on her shoulders.

“And what are you doing?” she said.

“Someone’s looking this way with binoculars,” he said.

“So you’re trying to give him something to watch?” Netty said. “Is it him? Is it Abbasi?”

“Can’t tell,” Grace said. He reached up and repositioned his facemask to place the small monocular mounted on the inside of the glass over his right eye. He cleared the mask of water then blinked to clear his vision and looked back over her shoulder to the house. “It’s him.”

CHAPTER 62

Grace was 26 years old when Derek Arrington recruited him into the NSA and 28 when he first killed a man. It had been from 60 yards out with a rifle as the target walked from his car to his home in a wealthy neighborhood of Stockholm, Sweden. Grace hadn’t paused for a moment or ever stopped to consider if what he’d done, and what he’d do many more times, was wrong. It was just part of his job and became part of who he was. The man in Stockholm had been funneling money to terrorists in the Middle East through dozens of offshore accounts. Though the man never pulled a trigger or detonated a bomb, he was as responsible for more than 300 deaths as the jihadists on the ground were.

The night before a kill had become ritual. Early on he tried to avoid making it anything different, anything special, but eventually accepted the fact that it was different. Most men don’t go to bed at night knowing they’ll take a life the next day. He’d decided he should give more weight to the act than the people he was tasked with killing gave their actions.

He ate dinner with the team then retreated to the one room in the back of the small house with a door then sat on the floor, crossed his legs and closed his eyes. If asked he would say he didn’t meditate, but that he cleared his mind and created the images of the kill in his head, going over that final moment of pulling a trigger, slitting a throat or however it was to be done, over and over until it became like an old movie he knew well. When the final event happens, the scenery may end up being a little different around him and the target, but the end result will be exactly the same as the movie in his head. In the end he would stand over the dead body of another man.

After he’d worked through the scenario until it was committed to deepest memory, he rolled forward onto the floor with his upper body supported by his arms and slowly lowered himself into a pushup, controlling his breathing as his biceps bulged under the stress. He would take 30 seconds to go down until his chest just touched the wooden floor then another 30 seconds to push back up. He repeated this ten times until his toned arms were screaming.

Flipping onto his back he rolled into a dozen sit-ups, again as slowly as possible to work his entire abdomen. He rested back onto the floor after the last sit-up and stared at the ceiling. He could hear his team in the other room, quietly talking about the mission over a couple of beers. They all knew not to drink too much, just enough to relax them for the night so they could be clear headed for the morning ahead.