The Lost Codex (2 page)

Vail knew OPSIG stood for Operations Support Intelligence Group—DeSantos’s unofficial employer—a black ops unit housed in the basement of the Pentagon that carried out covert, deniable missions around the world.

“Why is this an OPSIG mission?” she asked. “And why am I here?”

“My guess is that you owe Knox for getting your ass out of hot water in London. He needs your expertise and sensibilities on this. You also happened to be first on-scene and he needed someone here he could trust.”

I was hoping he wasn’t gonna say that.
“I’m not a Special Forces operator. I haven’t had the training.”

“That,” DeSantos said, “will come.”

Can’t wait.

Two bright xenon headlights illuminated them, throwing their shadows across the buildings behind them.

“I think you’re about to get some answers,” DeSantos said.

The armored black Chevrolet Suburban SUV stopped alongside them and out stepped Douglas Knox, accompanied by two members of the director’s protection detail.

“Status?” Knox said, looking at Vail.

“Area secured. Expect calls from DC Metro and Fire.”

“Already taken care of.”

“May I ask—”

“Sir,” said one of the OPSIG agents. “We found something.”

They followed the man into the nearest residential apartment building, where the destruction was more pronounced. The odor of cordite was thick and the air was smoky. Using a tactical flashlight, he led them down into a basement room that was stocked with bomb-making materials—and vests in various stages of construction.

“Holy shit,” Vail said. “What are we looking at here?”

Knox turned to his protection detail. “Leave us.”

“But sir—”

Knox faced the OPSIG operator. “Has this room been cleared? The building?”

“Yes sir.”

“We’re fine here,” Knox said to the agents, who reluctantly left. When the door closed, he continued: “We received intel this morning that there was a high probability of the first-ever suicide bombing on US soil.”

Vail felt her stomach tighten. This was not just bad news. It was
horrible
news of the worst kind. Planes hitting skyscrapers resulting in mass murder was traumatic enough. But conventional suicide bombings in a major US city was a whole other kind of terror—one affecting tens of millions of people all day, every day, until the bomber or bombers were caught. The majority of the country’s population would be living on edge, waiting for the next explosion to rip through their restaurant, park, or playground.

“We’ve been working our sources trying to verify that information.”

“Why wasn’t I told?” Uzi asked.

Vail thought that was a very good question, but was surprised to see Uzi challenge the director so brazenly, particularly in front of others.

“I made a judgment call, Agent Uziel. Which I often do as FBI director.” Knox gave him an icy look. “Our source in Turkey, Cüneyt Ekrem, was—”

“Ekrem’s unreliable.”

“Exactly. And he’s failed us multiple times in the past. We only took it seriously because of the implications. The Agency has been unable to verify the intel with even one other source. We intercepted no communication suggesting such an attack was even being planned. Until half an hour ago. My next call was going to be to ASAC Shepard,” Knox said, referring to the assistant special agent in charge of the FBI task force, Marshall Shepard. Uzi’s boss.

Vail and Uzi exchanged a look—which she was unable to interpret.

“I never made that call because we got a report of an explosion.”

“The explosion was the result of my—and Agent Hernandez’s—gunfire.”

Knox turned to the OPSIG agent. “Was he wearing a suicide vest?”

“Yes sir. That’s what exploded.”

Knox swung his gaze back to Vail. “Was he planning to detonate?”

She played it back in her head. “I don’t think so. I’m guessing that he was trying it out, seeing how well he was able to conceal it under his coat. Hard to say. But Agent Filloon must’ve seen something that looked suspicious and confronted him. He shot Filloon and tried to get back to his hideout. But Robb—Agent Hernandez—and I engaged him and … well, the rest you know.”

Knox began pacing, the fingers of his right hand massaging his scalp.

“Was Filloon on duty?” Uzi asked.

“He was,” Knox said. “I’ve had a number of agents mobilized all over the district searching areas, talking with CIs, trying to get verification.”

“I should’ve been notified,” Uzi said. “I should’ve been part of that. With all due respect, sir.”

“Noted.” Knox stopped and glanced at the workshop table, detonators, circuits, and timers laid out before him. “At least we found him—and his factory.”

Vail followed Knox’s gaze. “And we’re keeping this quiet because … ?”

“Because we don’t know what we’re dealing with yet,” Knox said. “And if Metro PD gets involved before we have our ducks lined up, things could get out of hand very quickly. Right now we need to manage the intel, manage the investigation, control who knows what, and when.”

Sounds to me like our FBI director is a control freak. Still, he does have a point. His logic is flawed for other reasons, but I’m not the one calling the shots.

“The public needs to know we’re under attack,” Uzi said. “They could become our eyes, which is particularly important when dealing with suicide bombers. Unfortunately, I know.”

Vail understood he was alluding to his time in Israel dealing with the Palestinian intifadas, where suicide attacks in Israeli towns killed scores of civilians in cafés, on school buses, in discos, at wedding ceremonies.

“The president wants to avoid a panic. We can stand here wasting time debating whether or not he’s right, but for now those are his orders. Which means those are
your
orders.”

Uzi pointed at the laptop at the far end of the room. “Maybe there’s something on that comp—”

A phone started ringing. Uzi and DeSantos glanced at each other, then began searching the room.

“Got it,” Vail said, holding up the device. “Caller ID, but it’s in Arabic. Uzi, don’t you speak—”

“Let me see.” Uzi took it, looked at Knox, and then reached over to a machine mounted on the table. He examined its steel casing, found a switch—and turned it on. It emitted a low groan and then he answered the call in the bomber’s native tongue. He kept his responses short, with a hint of anger and urgency—as best as Vail could tell from his demeanor and tone. She figured the noise from the machine gave him some cover for his voice not matching that of the dead man.

Seconds later, he hung up and pocketed the phone.

“What was that about?” Vail asked.

“We need to go.”

“Who was it?” DeSantos asked.

“Our bomber’s accomplice. He said he heard about an explosion around here but couldn’t get any verification, and wanted to know if everything was okay.”

“And you told him?”

“I told him I had a close call, it was nearby, that I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to stay here. He said I should go to a safe house they had. They’d regroup and figure out what to do. He gave me the address. Let’s move.”

“How do you know it’s not a trap?” Knox asked.

“We don’t. But if it’s legit, we may have a lead into one or more of his accomplices.”

“Take Team Seven.” Knox rapped his knuckles on the door and the OPSIG agent pulled it open. “Tell Team Seven to get ready to roll. Two minutes.”

“Yes sir.”

“You coming?” Uzi asked Vail as they headed back out to the street.

“Safer here,” DeSantos said. “Help them document the scene.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Vail said as she matched him stride for stride up the steps. “I’m a federal agent. And I was nearly blown up by a suicide bomber. I’m kinda pissed.”

“Revenge?”

“Justice. Besides, have you ever known me to shy away from a fight?”

“I’ve known you to start a few.”

“That’s not fair,” Vail said. “It’s accurate, but not fair.”

They emerged into the cold night air, which prickled her skin, awakening her senses as she looked out at the bomber’s carnage. “I take it you’re coming then?”

“I’m coming.”

One of the black cabover trucks pulled up to the curb down the block.

“That’s our ride,” Uzi said. “Grab a vest and a helmet.”

2

T
he driver of the tactical vehicle negotiated the streets of southeast DC swiftly but discreetly. “We’ll drop you two blocks from the target so they don’t see a big black truck pull up.”

“Roger that,” the team commander said over their headsets. He provided some operational details, then said, “We were only able to secure a crude blueprint of the building’s interior. A filing by the contractor when it was built. So be careful.”

Vail knew that SWAT teams spent days studying floorplans, architectural renderings, and surveillance photos of a facility before infiltrating it. Once you breached the door and stepped inside, you were at a tactical disadvantage to those bad actors inside who either modified the interior or hardened it against attack.

They had no time for reconnaissance, so it came down to getting some idea of the interior’s layout and then winging it based on their instincts, training, and best guesses. Your job was to do your best with what you had.

“All I know,” the commander said over the comms, “is that the property is a townhouse and part of a public development operated by the DC Housing Authority. There are over two hundred units, one to six bedrooms apiece.”

Great. Our tax dollars are paying for the terrorists to live in our country. Gotta love America. We don’t discriminate: give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, your radicalized terrorists—

“ETA one minute,” the driver said.

The men readied themselves, checking weapons and positioning their utility belts.

“Team members will lead,” the commander said to DeSantos, “and the three of you will bring up the rear.”

Neither DeSantos nor Uzi objected. Vail figured they knew their place because it made sense for a team accustomed to operating together to do their thing and secure the location. She, Uzi, and DeSantos were there for backup, investigative continuity, and support.

They came up 1st Street SW, hung a left on N Street and then a right on Half Street. The truck pulled to an abrupt stop and the rear doors opened. The operators spilled out and deployed swiftly and with relative stealth. Normally law enforcement would’ve been brought in to evacuate the surrounding buildings, block off neighboring streets, and clear the immediate area of innocents. But there was a substantial risk of tipping off the offenders, and with the onsite mix of suicide bombers and potential explosives, the danger was too great.

Time was of the essence: the element of surprise was all they had.

Had they been deploying in a business district, there would be little likelihood that on a weekend evening many people would be inside the adjacent buildings. But this was a residential neighborhood, densely populated with blocks of three-story brick tenements. “We still have our objectives,” the team leader said.

Vail knew those objectives were to apprehend the tangos alive so they could be questioned, in their apartment if possible—and given the location of the target—without discharging their weapons.

She also knew that bombers resided in this building, terrorists who were part of an organization which valued their ends more than the means they employed to achieve them. If a few people had to blow themselves up to make a statement and induce terror, so be it. The man who strapped the bomb to his chest had no regard for the loss of his own life. He was going to a higher place in the afterlife, with a host of virgins who would serve his every need for eternity.

Absurd as that sounded to an unindoctrinated person, these radicals believed it.

Problem is, none of the bombers come back from the dead to tell their buddies it’s all a load of bullshit.

The men arrayed themselves in three groups. Using hand signals, DeSantos assigned Vail and Uzi to the two teams he was not shadowing—Alpha and Charlie.

Vail adjusted her vest, which was heavy and uncomfortably tight against her breasts, but she stayed with the group as they snaked through the streets. The building, a block-long two-story masonry structure with an arched entryway, had barred first-floor windows and a PEPCO electrical access panel out front. The commanding officer nodded at the man to his left, who pulled a pair of bolt cutters from his utility belt and removed the lock securing the junction box, then slowly opened the gray metal doors and studied the circuits. A moment later, he signaled a thumbs-up to his CO, who keyed his mic. “Teams, check in.”

They each indicated they were in position.

The commander gave a thumbs-up to his breach officer, who in this case was going to use a lock pick rather than a battering ram. The farther they could get inside without the inhabitants realizing anything, the better.

The man removed his kit from the deadbolt mechanism and gave the CO another hand signal.

“Power going out in three, two, one.”

The officer brought his hand down and cut the electricity to the building. The illuminated windows went dark and the team moved in, Vail bringing up the rear.

They entered quickly and efficiently, the powerful LED lights mounted to their MP5 submachine guns scouring the darkness. They whispered into their helmet mics, keeping the team informed of the rooms that were cleared.

As they continued toward the back of the apartment, Vail heard a clunk above her. She almost blurted something over the radio but then remembered her microphone was not live; this prevented an accidental transmission that could disrupt the team’s rhythm and procedure. Instead, she used a hand signal to notify the closest operator that she sensed movement above her. He did not seem to notice, however, as he moved on, focused on what lay ahead and not on Vail, who was behind him in an area they had cleared, and thus considered safe.

Vail broke ranks and stepped back toward the area where the noise came from. Nothing. Regardless, the team would be heading up to the second story any minute.

As she turned back toward the men ahead of her—who were stacked in line, ascending the stairwell—her light caught the edge of a wall that looked artificial. She stepped closer, keeping the clean Glock .40-caliber handgun she had been issued focused squarely ahead. She turned on the green tactical laser mounted below the barrel and held it at an angle, getting a good look at a wall seam that should not have been there.

There was no external doorknob or other type of pull tag. If this was in fact a faux wall, something was likely concealed behind it.

Vail again looked down the hall at the team—but they had already moved on to the next level. She activated her mic and quietly said, “This is Vail. I’ve got what looks like a fake door to a hidden space opposite the living room.”

“Roger that,” the voice whispered back. “Hold tight. We’ll double back once we’ve cleared the second story.”

Vail backed up a step, waiting, the pistol still trained on the wall. A creak—and then a clunk.

She ground her jaw. That noise she heard earlier was not from above, but from behind the wall.

Using two fingers from her left hand, she felt along her utility belt and pulled out a long black handcuff key, which she inserted into the crack. She pried it forward, trying to work quietly but getting frustrated that she didn’t have a crow bar—which would’ve popped the damn thing open after one or two pushes.

This is ridiculous. Whoever’s in there knows what I’m doing.

Vail finally got enough leverage to grab the edge of what was clearly a door. She pulled it toward her as she simultaneously raised the handgun.

HECTOR DeSANTOS REMAINED IN FORMATION, behind and at the end of the Bravo Team stack, understanding the reason for chain of command but disliking it nonetheless. As a person accustomed to leading, he did not enjoy following. But he had been down this road before as a member of Delta Force. He knew how to take orders. The difference was that in the intervening years he had learned how to take the initiative and evaluate those orders for himself, and then change—or massage—them when the need arose.

If he was confident in his convictions and analysis, and everything turned out well, he could explain it later. It was difficult to argue with success. But not impossible. There were times when he was right—but was reprimanded because he had not carried out his mission as commanded.

The thing was, the people he worked for in OPSIG knew who he was and what they were getting. And he was exceptionally good at his job. Sometimes that was enough to keep him out of trouble. On rare occasions it was not.

DeSantos focused on the men ahead of him. They were stationed at the rear door to the apartment building in case one or more of the tangos decided to leave while Alpha Team was infiltrating from the front.

They monitored the situation on a small LCD screen, taking the feed from Alpha commander’s helmet cam. As the operators burst into a room, DeSantos saw movement out of the corner of his eye, fifty feet to his left. “Hey,” he shouted. “Hold it right there!”

The man glanced at DeSantos and wisely decided it was smarter to run.

“Tango at nine o’clock.”

Two operators joined DeSantos and they headed off in pursuit, running down the six steps and along the concrete retaining wall that fronted small grass lawns. The perp had a decent lead on them, but as they closed the gap—not easy lugging thirty pounds of equipment—an SUV approached. The driver sped up and DeSantos cursed under his breath.

“That better not be what I think it is. Either of you got a clear shot?”

“Got it,” said Wickford, the team member to his left, as he ran into the middle of the street and took up a position with his MP5 aimed squarely at the vehicle.

The SUV screeched to a stop and the fleeing tango got in. The truck reversed rapidly, swinging side to side, slamming into the parked cars to its left and right, moving toward the main drag, where it had come from.

“Goddamn,” DeSantos said, huffing it down the sidewalk, in senseless foot pursuit of the moving vehicle.

Wickford got off several short bursts, striking the grill and headlights but apparently missing the target.

The SUV swung left at the end of the road, made an abrupt pivot, and headed west on M Street SW. Because OPSIG was black, there was no one to call it into, no dispatcher who could get a cruiser or two to take up pursuit.

DeSantos joined the two operators and immediately engaged Wickford. “What the hell happened? How’d you miss?”

“Mission objective’s to take the men alive. I was trying to hit the tires but the asshole was swerving all over the place. As it was, I took a risk.”

DeSantos knew Wickford was right, but he still bristled at letting two terrorists slip their net. It was embarrassing. He kicked a rock and watched it bounce along the asphalt.

VAIL SAW THE MAN too late. He slammed the door into her face, knocking her to the floor, then ran past her and out the front.

Vail was on her feet an instant later, headed in the same direction—but moving cautiously in case he was waiting outside to shoot, or stab, her.

She scanned the street, painting the area with her light. The mature trees with their dense trunks and branches and cars lining the curb made it tough to get a clear view of the landscape. As precious seconds passed, she saw nothing.

Then—movement above: in the darkness to her left, against the cloud-patched moonlit sky, she saw a man running along the roof, negotiating its aggressive slope. The apartment compound appeared to be blocks long, consisting of attached rows of homes that ran parallel to one another.

He had a different build from the tango who flattened her on the way out of the house, but nobody would be sprinting across the tops of homes late at night unless he happened to be a criminal trying to evade law enforcement.

“FBI, don’t move!”

She had to laugh at that one herself: like this terrorist, who might be a suicide bomber, would suddenly stop, raise his hands above his head and say, “Aw, shucks. Ya got me.”

She keyed her mic. “Got a runner, headed north on the rooftops. I’m in pursuit.”

“Charlie Team acknowledging. On our way.”

That was Uzi’s voice, she was sure of it. That was the good news. The bad news was that these townhouses formed the largest blocks of contiguous buildings she had ever seen. But it was easier running on flat ground than a canted roof, so the perp would have to tire before she did—and then she would be waiting for him.

Vail maintained her stride, an accomplishment considering that she was keeping her eye on the perp while simultaneously watching out for broken sidewalk and tree roots—neither was in short supply.

Fifty yards ahead she saw a man running toward her—Uzi, followed by a contingent of operators. The assailant saw them too, and apparently calculating that he would rather grapple with a single woman than a company of armed men, slid down toward the edge of the roof.

Uh, where you think you’re going, buddy?

He grabbed the white rain gutter, swung his legs over the side, and hung there, his length stretching down until he dropped and landed with a thud on his feet.

Okay, you made it. Not bad. But now you’ve gotta deal with me.

“That’s far enough,” Vail said, leveling her Glock at the man’s heart. But she forgot she was dealing with a suicide bomber—or someone affiliated with that mind-set.

He charged her.

Three things flashed through her mind:

1) Shoot the asshole.

2) Don’t shoot the asshole because we need to question him.

3) If you draw your gun, you’re shooting to kill—a lesson she learned her first year on the job as a patrol cop.

But he hit her full on before she could reason it out.

Vail fisted his shirt and clamped onto it like a Rottweiler, refusing to let go. She twisted hard right as he bulled past her, but kept her hold and bent her knees, bringing her center of gravity to the ground and pulling him down with her.

Before he could squirm away, Vail slammed her pistol against his temple and said, “It’s a little different having a gun pressed against your skull. Isn’t it, dickhead?”

Uzi came running up and the six other OPSIG men surrounded the prisoner and took control, five submachine guns—with their green lasers—trained on center mass while Uzi applied the handcuffs.