Ops Files II--Terror Alert (22 page)

“His name’s Abreeq Zulfi. He’s one of the most wanted terrorists in the Mossad database.”

“You got a hit that fast?”

“I didn’t have to. I recognize him. Before I came to England, I worked undercover in Lebanon. He was responsible for the death of three of my colleagues.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m about to round the block. On foot.”

“Don’t come any further. I’m getting out of here. The truck’s in the shop, but they’re all armed, and–”

She didn’t get a chance to finish the thought. The steel shop exit door slammed wide again, and this time she was fully exposed. Kasra poked his head out from behind it and, seeing her, fired.

The shots whistled by her head as Maya threw herself onto the asphalt behind the garbage cans. Another round whined as it ricocheted off the wall above her, and then she was returning fire, benefitting from the darkness, her eyes fully adjusted to the gloom, whereas the terrorists were coming out of a lit shop.

Four shots barked from her gun, the sound deafening in the narrow space, and one of the gunmen tumbled from the doorway, his gun clattering on the pavement. More slugs thumped into the trash can, and she crouched as low as she could, waiting for a lull, hoping that whatever the bin was stuffed with would continue to provide her protection.

Three shots echoed from the gate behind her and another gunman cried out, wounded. Maya took the opportunity to loose another five shots at the doorway, buying Jeff enough time to make it halfway down the alley before Abreeq’s distinctive head poked around the door and he fired twice.

Jeff grunted and shot at the door as he fell. Maya laid down covering fire, but she was limited by the amount of ammo remaining, and she stopped when she only had a few rounds left. The door slammed closed, leaving two of the terrorists dying in the alley. Maya rushed to where Jeff was gasping by a trash can, holding his stomach.

“How bad?” she hissed, looking back at the fallen men by the door.

“Bad.”

“Hold on. We’ll get help. I’ll call the cops.” She fumbled in her windbreaker pocket and cursed when she withdrew her phone, the screen shattered from her hard landing. “It’s dead.” Maya edged away from the shop and knelt by Jeff. “Where’s your phone?”

“The…car…”

“Damn.” She thought quickly. “I’ll be right back. Take my gun.”

“No…” Jeff’s voice was so weak she could barely make it out. “Get…Abreeq.”

“You’ll die if you don’t get help.”

“Stop…him…”

She froze at the rev of an engine from within the shop, and then the clatter of the shop roll-up door greeted her from the street the building fronted on. “They’re making a run for it,” she said.

“Get…Abreeq…” he said, and held out the car keys with a trembling, crimson-streaked hand.

Maya took the keys from him and looked to where the dead men were lying in pools of blood. She ran to the nearest one and scooped up his weapon, and after a glance at the window above his body, moved to it.

The glass shattered with a blow from the pistol, and she fired at movement on the periphery of her vision, six shots slamming into the shop in the blink of an eye. The third gunman shot back as he hid behind some boxes, but she was stationary, firing into a lit area, whereas he was on the move and trying for a darkened window. Taillights blinked to life at the front of the shop, partially obscured by the truck’s bulk, and she squeezed off another couple of shots as an old Peugeot screeched out of the entry onto the street.

The gunman behind the boxes was silent, and when there was no more shooting, Maya guessed that one of her shots had hit him – when the bad guys stopped shooting at you, it was usually a reliable indication that the battle was over.

Maya tried the locked door handle out of frustration and then raced for the gate as fast as her legs would carry her, past Jeff. The fading sound of the Peugeot’s motor echoed down the street. She shouldered through the gate and glared at the shop, then at Jeff’s car. Her backpack and his phone were in it, and seconds counted with a wound like the one he’d sustained. Her operational instinct battled with her desire to save him, and after a moment of hesitation she set off for the car.

The dome light illuminated when she opened the passenger door and she swore at his carelessness. She would have shut off the switch so it would remain dark. She groped around and found his phone, and was retrieving her backpack when the rear windshield exploded in a shower of safety glass.

Abreeq focused on controlling his breathing as he negotiated the streets leading from the shop to the town center. He had to keep his speed down, his maneuvers calm and reasoned, or he could arouse the suspicion of any of dozens of police stationed at intersections to cut down on drunk driving and hooliganism.

His mind replayed the scene at the shop as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He’d stopped in on the way to the train station to do a final check on the truck. Nobody had followed him, of that he was sure. There had been nothing suspicious at the shop – no vans parked nearby that might have concealed listening gear, no pedestrians suddenly interested in anything but him – in short, nothing to signal they had a problem.

Things had gone as planned, and then the motion detector in the rear of the shop had been triggered. Kasra had assured him that it was commonplace, but Abreeq immediately feared something was amiss, and ordered the men to draw their weapons.

The cat had thrown him. How could he have been so foolish? He should have continued the search until the area had been confirmed to be clear, which he now knew would have turned up his attackers.

A minor slip, and one that, conceivably, wouldn’t have changed the final outcome. That anyone had been there was the problem, not the point at which Abreeq had tumbled to them.

Thankfully he’d had his bag packed and ready for the trip, with his clothes, computer, and a carbon fiber gun that wouldn’t trigger any alarms if there were x-ray machines operating at the train station – a precaution he’d seen used on only half the research trips he’d made to the station, and virtually never at night.

The engine coughed and the vehicle shook before it smoothed out again. Abreeq hit the dashboard and then calmed himself.

“Come on, you piece of junk. Don’t do this to me…,” he said in quiet Arabic, and then his eyes drifted to the gas gauge.

Empty.

“That’s impossible.”

He tapped it with his finger, but the needle didn’t budge, and the motor hesitated again before regaining its composure. Abreeq looked up at the street sign and did a quick calculation. He was nine blocks from the station. He had fifty minutes before the train left.

His train.

He had to be on it.

Abreeq spotted a car park on the right and pulled the vehicle into the darkest recesses. When he got out, he removed his bag, shouldered it, and walked to the trunk.

The bullet hole was small, but the projectile had obviously done its job. The gas tank was empty, drained by the slug, throwing a serious wrench into Abreeq’s schedule.

He didn’t dwell on it, but instead pulled his sweatshirt hood over his head and set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the station. Once there, it would take him ten minutes to change and adopt his disguise. With fifteen minutes of walking, he would still have time to make it onto the train and settle in. He’d already bought his ticket, leaving nothing to chance, which had been a prudent move.

A police cruiser roared by, lights flashing, and Abreeq didn’t look up, his breath steaming in the frigid air. At least it had stopped raining. He’d spent years in some miserable hellholes, but never in a country where it rained nearly nonstop. No wonder the population was as pasty white as ghosts – they only saw the sun a few times a year.

He ran a mental inventory as he marched along, and by the time he was halfway to his destination had reassured himself that he’d taken everything from the loft above the shop he’d called home since arriving in Manchester, and that there was nothing that could be used to identify him. If the police got around to dusting the loft for prints and ran them through Interpol’s database, at some point they would get a hit, but that would be days, or more likely a week, minimum.

Not that he wanted to have to depend on the sloth of the Manchester police department, but it had been a safe bet so far, and there was no reason to get worked up about a sudden burst of efficiency that would probably never occur.

At the next corner, he saw a group of five youths hanging around outside of a run-down pub, smoking and laughing too loudly, their language as coarse as their tone. He couldn’t risk becoming a target of opportunity for the local thugs, and knew that as a foreigner he’d be asking for it, in this neighborhood, alone after dark.

He waited for the light to change, keeping his head lowered so the traffic camera didn’t record his face, and made a left after crossing. Once out of range of the camera he broke into a run, the burst of movement feeling good as the crisp air bit at his skin, relieving some of the residual tension from the gunplay.

Headlights swung onto the street, and Abreeq slowed to a walk. Another police car drove by, this one at a moderate pace, patrolling the area rather than racing to the crime scene. The police had no reason to stop him, but then they didn’t really need one, and he forced himself to maintain an easy stride, no skulking or averting his gaze.

He could feel the policeman’s eyes roving over him as the car passed, and his heart skipped a beat when the brake lights illuminated and it slowed. If they stopped him, he’d show them his rail ticket and explain that he was late. Most blue-collar workers would sympathize with a fellow traveler racing for a train, and his hope was that they’d give him a quick once-over and allow him to continue on his way.

Abreeq heard the radio inside the car bark static, and then the roof lights illuminated and it accelerated to the next intersection and hurried around the corner. He smiled to himself at the near miss and increased his speed again. Everything was going to be fine. The fools didn’t suspect a thing. Here he was, one of the most notorious terrorists in the world, within steps of British law enforcement’s finest, and they’d not so much as given him a second glance.

He recognized the victory was a minor one, but right now, operating alone in a strange country minutes after being ambushed, he’d take it.

Hopefully his luck would hold for a little longer. Once out of the Manchester city limits he’d never return, and his experience here would be nothing more than a bad memory of substandard food and abysmal weather. That he was leaving with his tail between his legs rather than in anticipation of the successful culmination of the operation of his career didn’t faze him.

He was a professional, and this time the current had moved against him.

It happened.

It was meaningless, signifying nothing. He didn’t believe in omens, unlike his superstitious brethren, who saw the hand of fate in the shifting sands. This was a setback, but it wasn’t the end, by any means.

The station’s lights illuminated the sky as he neared, and when he reached the boulevard that fronted it, he exhaled a sigh of relief. He would make his train, and the game would begin anew. And in the end, he would have the last laugh.

Of that he was sure.

Maya ducked down as another slug slammed into Jeff’s car and one of the tires popped from the ricochet. As long as she was in the vehicle she was a sitting duck, she knew, and she had to move – sooner rather than later. She checked the magazine of the weapon she’d retrieved from the dead man, and after confirming that it had sufficient ammunition, rolled away from the car as she swept the darkened street for a target.

The third gunman was limping toward her, gun held before his advancing form like a divining rod leading him to water, and she emptied her pistol at his silhouette. Most of the shots went wide, but she saw that her final round caught him in the throat and he fell backward, arms outstretched. His head made a sickening smack when it hit the pavement. He gurgled and groped at his throat for a few moments, and then his legs shuddered and spasmed before falling still. She rose, pistol clenched in a two-handed combat grip, and walked toward him, keeping her side presented in case he still had a final trick up his sleeve.

When she reached him, a quick glance confirmed that he presented no further danger to anyone, his lifeless eyes staring blankly to the side. Maya retrieved his gun and checked the magazine – he had six more rounds of 9mm. She hefted the pistol and tossed her empty one by his side, and then turned to the shop. Lights had come on in some of the surrounding buildings, confirming her fear that there were people living above the shops even though it was an industrial area – which would bring the police.

Maya fished for Jeff’s cell as she neared the building. Her heart sank when she felt it – a stray bullet had seared a hole through her windbreaker and blown through the phone, rendering it a paperweight.

The interior of the shop was empty. She gave the truck a quick once-over before methodically scanning the desk near the door. Nothing but receipts and a telephone book.

She peered further into the shop and spied wooden stairs along the back wall that led up to a loft area walled in with planks and sheetrock. Maya took the stairs two at a time and found herself in a simple living space with a twin bed, a card table with a printer on it, a sink and a small bathroom enclosure the only furnishings other than a cheap dresser and a nightstand with a lamp.

Maya made short work of the dresser, which contained a few clothes and nothing else. The nightstand was empty, and she was shaking with frustration when she spotted a phone jack shoddily mounted near the printer.

A cord dangled beside it. She approached the table and saw another cord stretching from the back of the printer.

The bastard had taken his computer. Like any professional, he’d had his things packed in a go bag, and when it had become obvious that he was pinned down, he’d grabbed his gear and made for the hills.