The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3) Read online

  “I don’t know. But I’ve got my orders. And—”

  “Your orders are to send me home?”

  “Yes. And it’d be best for you to listen.”

  “Karen—”

  “Robby, please. Let me deal with this and we’ll sort it out later, okay?”

  Jonathan. What are the chances he was on this block at this exact moment when the bomb exploded? C’mon, Karen. Don’t be ridiculous. Ridiculous or not, she wanted to be certain her son was safe. “And check in on Jonathan. Make sure he’s okay.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably at a bar with some friends.”

  “A bar? What the hell are you—”

  “He’s in college. That’s what college students do.”

  “Just call him. No—text him, make sure he’s okay. Humor me.”

  “Fine.” Robby backed away, then slowly disappeared into the mass of people staring at the destruction—but keeping their distance, afraid to approach.

  Vail did not like being rude to Robby, but what else could she do? When the boss of all your bosses ordered you to do something, you did it, right? Actually, I’d better not answer that.

  As she was taking a quick survey of the area, getting a feel for what she was dealing with and making sure no one approached the scene, a police car pulled up behind her. “Police! Don’t move.”

  You’ve gotta be kidding me. Vail turned slowly, hands up, and identified herself. “I’m a federal agent. I’m gonna remove my creds,” she said, carefully extracting her Bureau ID and then holding it up. “I’ve taken control of the scene and I need you to clear the area. I’m under orders from FBI Director Douglas Knox. This is a federal investigation, a matter of national security.”

  The cop clicked on his tactical flashlight and pointed it at her face.

  “Turn that goddamn thing off,” Vail yelled. “Notify all responding units to establish a larger perimeter and evacuate any restaurants or residences in a two-block radius.”

  “I don’t take orders from you. This is our jurisdiction—”

  “Look, I’m just doing as told. You need to do the same. Tell your lieutenant to contact Director Knox’s office. Let the brass fight it out.”

  The officer seemed to think that was a good idea because he pulled his radio and began speaking into it—hopefully conveying what she had said and not requesting reinforcements for dealing with a deranged redhead with stolen FBI creds standing in the middle of a potential crime scene.

  While the cop jabbered into his two-way, a couple of large black unmarked cabover vans pulled up, two or three dozen personnel hopping out the back doors dressed in dark tactical coveralls with white luminescent block letters spelling POLICE.

  “You Vail?” a man with a square jaw asked as he approached.

  “Who are you?”

  “The director told me to touch base with you. We’ll secure the perimeter. He wants you to start your investigation.”

  My investigation? “Right.”

  He seemed satisfied with that response because he turned and headed toward the knot of similarly attired officers who were moving gawkers away from the scene.

  A moment later, Vail felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and saw one of the men holding up a jacket. “You’ve gotta be freezing.”

  Must’ve heard my teeth chattering. “Thanks so much. You’re my hero.”

  The man nodded curtly. As Vail snuggled into the coat, her cell vibrated with a text from Robby:

  jonathans fine. hes at a bar. told you.

  She dashed off a quick thanks as a red Corvette pulled up. She knew that car, which now bore a personalized plate: BLACK 1.

  The vehicle came to an abrupt stop and Hector DeSantos got out of the driver’s seat, dressed in a leather jacket and wearing small metal rimmed glasses.

  “Hector, what the hell’s going on?”

  “Nice to see you too. Knox is on his way with some intel. Other than that, you probably know more than I do.”

  Vail gave him a dubious look. But before she could reply, a DC Fire Chief vehicle—and two engine companies—arrived, their diesel engines and airbrakes making it difficult to speak at normal volume.

  They watched as three members of the tactical team approached the commander. A healthy helping of testosterone flew in both directions, Vail catching snippets of the argument. Finally the chief backed away, promising to escalate the matter to higher ranks—after playing his trump card that they were endangering lives by not permitting his men to check gas mains and other flammable infrastructure.

  As the commander turned to make his case to his superiors over the radio, a Ford Explorer pulled in behind DeSantos’s Corvette. Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Uziel, head of the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force for the Washington Metro field office, got out and headed toward them.

  “Santa,” Uzi said with a fist bump against DeSantos’s closed hand. He glanced at Vail, eyes moving head to toe. “Karen. You look very nice. Did we interrupt something?”

  “I was out with Robby.”

  Uzi swiveled. “Where is the big guy?”

  “I sent him home.” She noticed Uzi’s confused expression. “Knox’s orders.” Vail looked past his shoulder and saw the dozens of men in black outfits now establishing a physical boundary with unmarked sawhorses. I think I’m starting to see what’s going on here. “A few months ago, I’d be at a loss to explain what’s happening.”

  “And now?” Uzi said.

  “Let’s start with the fact that Hector’s here.” She looked at DeSantos, her head tilted ever so slightly, inviting him to jump in.

  “And he doesn’t get involved in a case unless it’s a sensitive matter,” Uzi said, glancing at the damaged storefronts and streetscape.

  “I’m standing right here,” DeSantos said. “You got a question?”

  “You have the answers?” Vail asked. “Because, yeah, I’ve got questions. Like, What’s going on? What the hell happened? Who was the guy who got blown to bits?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  Vail narrowed her eyes. “Don’t start with me.”

  “Santa—”

  “How about we go get some answers.” DeSantos handed booties to Vail and Uzi, then led them down the street and into the epicenter of the blast. Some of the men Vail saw arrive in the black trucks were poring over the wreckage, taking photos and measurements along the periphery and working their way closer to the body. Or what was left of it, which wasn’t much.

  “Who are these guys?”

  “A forensic crew,” DeSantos said.

  Doesn’t look like any forensic crew I’ve ever seen.

  “First impression?” Uzi said. “This was deliberate. And if that’s the case, Santa, it needs to be investigated as a terror attack until proven otherwise. As head of the JTTF—”

  “That’s why you’re here, Boychick,” DeSantos said, using his nickname for Uzi—Yiddish for buddy.

  Uzi glanced at Vail.

  “Now you know how I feel,” she said.

  “Look.” DeSantos gathered them together and said, “All I know is that officially this is being investigated as a gas main explosion. Unofficially, yeah, it’s a terrorist event. And that’s why you’re here.”

  “If I’d been properly notified, I could’ve had my task force—”

  “It’s sensitive. These guys dressed in black?” He turned to Vail. “They’re OPSIG operators.”

  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 sens
ibilities 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

  The 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.