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

  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.

  As they led the perp away, Uzi nudged Vail. “Nice job.”

  “Thanks,” Vail said, seating the Glock in its holster.

  “Bullshit, that was horrible. What the hell were you thinking, Karen? You drew down on him. You had the guy dead to rights. He was five feet away. And you let him run you over?”

  Vail ground her jaw. “We needed to question him, not kill him.”

  “You don’t really want me to respond to that, do you? With all the experience you’ve had?” He looked her over. “Did you freeze?”

  “I told you. We needed him alive so we could sit him down, sweat him. Can’t do that if he’s got a chest full of .40s.”

  “Yeah, well, we need you alive too. So do Jonathan and Robby.”

  I hate it when he’s right.

  “Don’t do that again. You were lucky.”

  “I was not—” Vail stopped herself. “You’re right. I was lucky.”

  Uzi gave her a long look, then nodded.

  3

  Douglas Knox walked into the briefing room at the Hoover Building, a.k.a. FBI headquarters, or in Fed-speak, FBIHQ. Agents dubbed it the Puzzle Palace because its hallways and doors all looked the same. Getting lost or turned around was a regular occurrence.

  An oblong walnut table dominated the space. Water bottles—and nothing else—were set out at each seat. No pads and pens. No laptops or tablets.

  Vail instantly knew why. This was a classified meeting and no record of its proceedings would be created. Notes were forbidden. In essence, the gathering never happened—officially or unofficially.

  Given what she had just witnessed, with OPSIG operators cloaked in nondescript black tactical uniforms and explicit instructions to keep Metro PD and Fire away, this did not surprise her.

  As Knox took a seat at the head of the table, he combed back a lock of gray hair that had fallen across his forehead. To his right sat defense secretary Richard McNamara, and to McNamara’s right was CIA director Earl Tasset. At Tasset’s elbow was the secretary of Homeland Security, Laurence Bolten.

  Across from the men were Vail, DeSantos, and Uzi.

  “Hector, give us a sit-rep,” Knox said, using operator-speak for situation report.

  “We’ve got one dead tango at the location of the explosion on Irving Street. Bomb-making equipment was found in the nearby building, enough to make several suicide vests, along with materials for constructing corresponding explosives. We don’t have an ID on the body yet—or what’s left of it—which isn’t much.”

  “Anything of use to us?” Bolten asked. “Papers, manuals—”

  “We’ve got a team standing by, ready to comb the apartment for intel, but our EOD unit is making sure it’s clear of booby traps and defusing existing bombs that were in various states of construction.”

  Glad they’re doing that after we were in there.

  “We have two in custody?” McNamara asked.

  “Right.” DeSantos leaned forward in his seat and turned to his colleague. “Uzi?”

  Using his tongue, Uzi shoved a wood toothpick to the side of his mouth. “While we were doing a once-over of the bomb factory, the deceased perp’s cell phone rang. The caller ID was in Arabic. I’m fluent in Arabic, so I answered it.” He recounted how they found their way to the apartment in southwest DC and what happened when Alpha Team entered.

  “This hidden room,” Earl Tasset said. “How many were in there?”

  “At the time,” Vail said, “I only saw one—but I never had a clear view
. When I pulled open the door, the ass—the perp charged me and ran out of the house. I pursued, but he managed to escape.”

  Knox frowned. “So we’ve got one tango in the wind. Did you get a good look at him?”

  Vail struggled to maintain eye contact. “No sir. Average height, five foot nine or five-ten, about a hundred seventy-five, dark hair, darker complexion. In his twenties. No distinguishing marks that I could see. But in all honestly, I engaged him for only a split second before—before he got away.”

  Knox tilted his head back and sighed.

  Hey, no one’s more disappointed than I am.

  “Another escaped through the adjacent townhouse,” DeSantos said, “and it looks like he had a driver waiting. We shot up their car pretty good, but they both escaped. So that’d be three in the wind. As far as we know.”

  “Get a plate on the SUV?”

  “Just make and model.”

  “That’s just dandy,” Tasset said. “Good work.”

  Uzi, not a fan of Tasset for personal reasons, tightened a fist on his lap. Vail glanced over, then placed a hand atop his.

  “And then?” McNamara asked. “Agent Uziel apprehended the first suspect?”

  “Actually, Agent Vail did,” Uzi said, pulling his hand away. “Which wasn’t easy because he definitely did not want to be captured alive. She put herself at risk to make sure we had an intact suspect to question.”

  “I’ll withhold my applause for now,” Tasset said, eyeing Vail. “You did your job. That’s why you’re on this team.”

  Actually, I’m on this team because I’ve got no choice, thank you very much.

  “The suspect is being questioned,” DeSantos said. “I expect it’ll take a while to learn anything useful from him. He’s been processed but his prints aren’t in any database. I have a request out to Interpol.”

  “What about the other suspect we captured?” Bolten asked.

  “Older, mid-fifties. He hasn’t said much. He’s missing two fingers on his left hand and the side of his face is scarred over from a bad burn, so I suspect he’s the bomb maker and that he’s been at it awhile.”