Noble Warrior (4 page)

But this was Massir's karma, M.D. thought, not his. McCutcheon had completed his assignment, prevailed without serious injury, and through the apprehension of Massir El-Alhou, probably
just saved scores of American lives.

Kids who never even knew they were in danger had just been made more safe. This, M.D. felt, was work worth doing. If the mission wasn't honorable, he refused to take it on.

M.D. parked the minivan in an underground parking garage, grabbed the laptop he'd confiscated, and led Massir to the service elevator. As the doors opened on the third floor, Stanzer
appeared, his ice-blue eyes processing data even before McCutcheon had escorted his target completely out of the elevator car.

“The CyberFang of Al-Shabaab. Welcome.” Stanzer reached out and twisted Massir's face, turned it side to side as if he was inspecting a horse. “No engagement?” he
asked surprised to see unblemished features.

“No need.”

“He didn't fight?” Stanzer asked.

“He had a gun.” McCutcheon reached around to the small of his back and handed the revolver he'd taken from Massir over to the colonel. “But then he
didn't.”

“Was he alone?”

“Two others. Neither on our list. With them there was engagement,” McCutcheon said. “But it was brief.”

Stanzer didn't ask any further questions about the two others because he didn't need to. He knew McCutcheon well enough to understand that a couple of bodies lay broken
somewhere.

“You take any shots?”

“They took more.”

“Let me see.”

“I'm fine.”

The colonel glared. He wasn't going to ask again.

McCutcheon opened his jacket, hoisted his shirt, and showed Stanzer his ribs. A giant splotch, the size of a dinner plate with streaks of purple and black covered the side of McCutcheon's
chest.

“Those ribs are broken.”

“Maybe not.”

“Cracked for sure.”

M.D. allowed his shirt to fall back down over his body. “I also secured his computer and phone.”

“All right, you,” Stanzer said turning to Massir. “Come.”

The three men walked twenty-five feet down a quiet hallway that gave the impression that nothing of significance went on behind any of its boring brown doors and stopped at Suite 253. Stanzer
turned the silver handle to the right and the three entered. The door closed behind them and the quietude of the corridor gave way to a burst of feverish activity.

Agents swarmed. Some wore suits, a few wore jeans or khakis, and screens of laptops, cells, tablets, and desktops glowed like digital fireflies inside of a rectangular conference room.

Two athletic-looking men in navy-blue blazers raced up to Massir and roughly hooded his head with a black cloak. Neither showed a hint of concern about having jammed an accidental palm into
Massir's nose as they secured the bag around his neck. Eyes shrouded, vision eliminated, the disorientation of the Somalian's senses began immediately.

An office chair rolled up next. It smashed behind Massir's knees, and arms the North African never saw forced Massir downward by his shoulders into a hard gray seat. Three more agents,
efficient and precise, raced to the government's new prize with urgency. One tied down Massir's left arm, another tied down his right, and out came a sequence of sterilized hypodermic
needles. The first took blood; the second administered a barbiturate. In less than sixty seconds they tubed three blood samples, landed ten fingerprints, and snipped enough hairs from the North
African's forearm to archive his DNA.

Restraints around the waist, a collar around the neck, and a pair of black earmuffs—large and almost cartoonish in size—that muted all sound were placed over the sides of
Massir's hooded head. Just like that the CyberFang of Al-Shabaab had been drugged, vacuum-packed, and readied for transport.

“Spooky, huh?” said a blond-haired, barrel-chested man who'd sidled up next to McCutcheon.

“Such is the fate of those that would fuck with us,” Stanzer answered. “Come on. Let's go get those ribs looked at.”

As Stanzer walked M.D. over to the on-site medic, a door in the back of the conference room flew open and a team of six agents wheeled Massir off to a place where McCutcheon would never seen him
again.

Most, in fact, would never see Massir again. Not his family, his friends, his government diplomats, and most assuredly not his network of online radicals. The only connected device Massir
El-Alhou would touch in the next ten years would be a light switch.

A female doctor approached.

“Show her,” Stanzer said. McCutcheon's eyes answered the request with a look that said
I'm fine
. “Show her,” Stanzer repeated.

With the grace of a cougar McCutcheon hopped up on a table and lifted his shirt.

“Ouch,” said the doctor in an attempt to be sympathetic when she saw the giant bruise. “On a scale from one to ten, with ten being the highest, what number would you assign to
your pain?”

“No offense, doctor, but I'd just like to grab my grub and get some nutrition in me. Beyond that, I'm good.”

“Give her a number,” the colonel said.

“You bring me spinach or arugula?”

“Would you give the doctor a number please?”

“One.”

“An injury like that is only a one?” the doctor asked. Ribs that had been smashed like M.D.'s made it painful to even breathe, much less gracefully hop up on a table.
“That's gotta be at least, I dunno, an eight.”

“No, I would like to start by eating one decent meal, please. It's been a while since I've had any decent food. Plus, I had to smoke. Disgusting.”

“Why do you have to be so difficult?” Stanzer asked. “She's a licensed doctor; let her treat you.”

McCutcheon rolled his eyes.

“Take a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory every six hours, alternate ice and heat, refrain from heavy lifting, get rest, try not to cough, and if there's blood in your urine or stool
come back for an X-ray immediately. Am I close?” M.D. said.

The doctor nodded. “Young man might take my job one day.”

“Young man might take all our jobs one day,” Stanzer replied. “But until that moment comes I'm still the boss. Can't you tape him up or something?”

“They don't really tape”/ “We don't really use tape any more,” M.D. and the doctor replied at the same time.

“He's a little old school,” McCutcheon explained to the lady physician. “Now, can I have my salad please?”

“It's four seventeen in the morning, son. Where in the world am I supposed to get you a salad at this hour?”

“From that green and white Whole Foods shopping bag sitting next to your briefcase on the counter at oh-eight-hundred.”

All eyes turned to the grocery bag sitting on the other side of the room.

“And why would you suspect there's a salad in there for you?” Stanzer asked.

“Why else would there even be a Whole Foods bag in this room right now?” McCutcheon answered.

M.D. hopped off the counter and crossed the room. “The only thing I am not sure about is if you brought me spinach or arugula.”

McCutcheon opened the bag and removed a fresh green salad. “Kale?” he said popping it open. “Keeping me on my toes, huh?” McCutcheon fished a fork out of the bag and took
a nice big bite. “You want some superfoods, Colonel?” he offered, extending a fork. “They're good for you.”

“Son, if God intended me to eat that shit he would not have invented Philly cheesesteaks.”

“Or nachos,” said the tall, barrel-chested man who'd sidled up to McCutcheon a few moments earlier. “Hello son. Name's Puwolsky. Colonel Nathan Puwolsky. Nice to
meet you.”

Puwolsky extended his arm for a shake. McCutcheon, mid-chew, looked to the colonel before retuning the gesture. Agent ZERO X1 wasn't supposed to be making friends. Ghosts like him
didn't even exist.

“I'm sorry,” Stanzer said, stepping in front of his soldier. “Don't take this the wrong way, but who the fuck are you?”

“I just told you, name's Puwolsky. But I'm not here for you, Colonel. I'm here for the kid.”

McCutcheon remained wordless.

“And unfortunately, son, I bring some very bad news.”

A
cold moment hung in the air between the two colonels. Puwolsky owned a strong frame. Looked like a former tight end who played
Division I college football at some point in his life. Big hands, wide shoulders, an air of cockiness about him.

Stanzer possessed the skill set to rip the tongue from a man's head for even thinking about burping in his mug like that. He was a Krav Maga guy, a real-world situation type of soldier who
didn't give a shit about style points when it came to fighting. Efficiency and brutality guided his strategy for confrontation. Make a threatening gesture toward Stanzer, and his philosophy
was “neutralize and pulverize.” McCutcheon knew from the way the colonel carried himself that he'd put more than a few bullets into the back of people's heads.

Stanzer was a man who knew what he was fighting for and knew why he was fighting for it. If something needed to be done it got done, fuck the collateral damage.

“I'm from the DPERS,” Puwolsky said. “The Detroit Police Elite Response Squad. They call us the Dopers, for short. I know, ironic, right?”

“You're a long way from Detroit, Doper.”

“Detroit's what brings me here,” Puwolsky responded. “Demon's back.”

“My father?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not sure you understand exactly what I am communicating to you right now, Officer Poo-Fart-Skee,” Stanzer said. “Refrain from addressing my soldier. Immediately.
This is the wrong place, this is the wrong time, and unless I give you the right to speak with him, you do not have it.”

“Actually, these little colonel birds I wear on my shoulder give me the right to speak to this young man,” Puwolsky said.

“And these little colonel birds I wear on
my
shoulder give me the right to say, ‘Eat my ass'.”

The two men moved nose-to-nose, Puwolsky owning a couple of inches in height plus a couple of pounds in weight, but not an ounce when it came to what always mattered most.

Big. Furry. Balls.

“Hmm,” Puwolsky said, not showing much zest to mix it up. “Two colonels, questions of jurisdiction; why don't we let the kid decide if he wants to hear? After all,
it's his girl they plan to target.”

“What!?” McCutcheon pushed his way around Stanzer. “What do you mean my girl?”

“Do I have your permission, Colonel?” Puwolsky asked.

It was a bullshit move executed in a bullshit way, but Stanzer knew he'd been boxed in. Tell Puwolsky to go blow, and McCutcheon would be a useless operative until the situation was
resolved. Allow Puwolsky to spill his story without even knowing what McCutcheon was about to hear, and all sort of cans of worms might be opened.

Cans of worms that might never be closed.

How many times have I told him,
You gotta slay that dragon
, thought Stanzer. And how many times had McCutcheon replied that it was already dead.
Yet at the first mention of this
girl's name he pops his top like a schoolgirl?
Stanzer could only shake his head.

“Make it tight,” Stanzer said. “And spare us the fluffy bullshit, would you?”

“Just remember one thing, Colonel,” Puwolsky said to Stanzer. “I'm doing you a favor here, too.”

“Yeah? How's that?”

“What, you think this whole thing is still a secret right now? Look around; you had fourteen people in this room tonight.” Puwolsky gave a wide sweep of his arm. “You got NSA,
FBI, New Jersey Department of Special Investigations. You think this many folks can keep an operation this significant on the down low? Lid's been blown on your whole little teenage soldier
program since your third high-profile snatch—that wanna-be mall bomber in Portland. Shit, a guy as smart as you thinking Bam Bam Daniels is still under the radar? How delusional are
you?”

Stanzer didn't respond because he knew it could be true. He'd done all that he could to keep the Murk off the grid, but the more impressive M.D.'s work became the harder it was
to keep the cat in the bag. Stanzer, like all officers, had bosses, too. Bosses who liked to boast, bosses who liked to drink, and bosses who liked to secure more funds to finance their most
successful programs by drinking and boasting in the private clubs of Washington, D.C., where they lobbied for extra funding. More teams with more teens had been floated down Stanzer's
pipeline by the brass above a few times already. If there was one kid from the ghetto who could pull off these sort of missions, perhaps there were more.

“Not so lippy, are you now?” Puwolsky said to Stanzer. “That's because you know if this shit spins the wrong way, you'll get slammed so hard it'll feel like
you've been gangbanged by federal gorillas.”