Target Zero (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 5) Page 2

  Alex relaxed her shoulders and took a gulp of her wine. When she finished, she turned her gaze toward the water.

  “It’s because there are some things that aren’t so easy to talk about, the kind of memories you wish you could bury and never unearth again.”

  “I think I have a lifetime of those already, but I don’t let it stop me from sharing it with others. Shouldering the burden of such pain alone is never healthy.”

  Alex sighed. “I’m not sure I agree with that idea. Reliving a painful past seems to trigger depression for me.”

  “Maybe you’ve never talked about it with someone who understands you.”

  “You think you understand me?”

  Hawk nodded. “I’m getting there. Why don’t you try me?”

  “Fine. What do you want to know?”

  “You know the crazy story about my parents or at least who I thought was my parents. But I never hear you talk about yours. What are they like?”

  Alex grabbed her glass of wine and drained it before answering. “It’s because they’re dead.”

  Hawk leaned forward and placed his hands on top Alex’s. “I’m so sorry, Alex. I didn’t know.”

  Alex’s lips quivered, her eyes watering. “It’s okay. It’s just that I hardly got to know them. They died when I was eight, though it wasn’t much of a life. Dad was an analyst for the CIA; mom was a double agent working for Russia. I think they only stayed married because it was smart for their careers.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m sure I was a mistake. No one working in intelligence who has aspirations of climbing the ladder wants to be burdened with children.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Car accident on the beltway. The crash was so fiery that they had to cremate the bodies. Had to finish the job, I guess.”

  “And you just accepted that?”

  “I was eight years old. What else was I going to do? Demand to see dental records and compare them? But if either of them survived, I’m sure they would’ve contacted me by now.”

  Hawk nodded knowingly.

  Before the conversation continued, the waiter approached the table, carrying a platter with a plain white envelope on top.

  “Mr. Hawk,” the waiter said, offering the letter. “This is for you.”

  Hawk took the letter and thanked the waiter, who hustled away from the table. As Hawk carefully opened the letter, he stopped and looked at Alex.

  “What do you think this is all about?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Love letter from an admirer?”

  “Let’s hope not,” he said with a wink. He turned the card over and read it aloud.

  Mr. Blunt requests your presence in a private room off the main dining area.

  Alex furrowed her brow. “I don’t know about this. Wasn’t he specific on wanting to meet us out here on the veranda?”

  “That’s what his text said.”

  “So why the change of venue? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Hawk picked up his glass of wine and stood. “Let’s go find out what’s going on.”

  CHAPTER 3

  J.D. BLUNT CLIPPED THE END of his cigar before he jammed it into his mouth. The sweet tobacco taste from the Nat Sherman 1930 Coronado Grande settled over his tongue. He took a long pull on his glass of scotch and glanced at his companion across the table before directing his gaze toward the doorway.

  “You seem a little on edge,” the man said.

  “For good reason,” Blunt said. “I’m anxious to get this over with. The fact that three key figures from Firestorm are going to be in the same room at the same time doesn’t make me feel at ease.”

  “We can always cancel if—”

  “No, let’s just keep it brief, all right?”

  The man nodded.

  A few moments later, the door opened and Hawk and Alex strode into the room.

  “Senator,” Hawk said, offering his hand.

  Blunt shook Hawk’s hand and then Alex’s. Remaining standing, Blunt gestured toward the other man.

  “Hawk and Alex, I’d like for you to meet Senator Christopher Roland, a trusted friend of mine for over two decades and an ally for Firestorm.”

  They all exchanged pleasantries before taking their seats around the small round table.

  “Why the change in meeting place?” Hawk asked.

  “You can never be too careful,” Blunt said. “My friend here has already noted just how nervous I’ve been about this meeting.”

  “Let’s get it over with then,” Alex said.

  “Yes, what’s the meaning of all this?” Hawk asked.

  “Senator Roland?” Blunt said.

  “Thank you, J.D.,” Roland said as he turned his attention to Hawk and Alex. “As you might be aware, Al Hasib is getting more aggressive and more brazen in their efforts to obtain powerful weapons. Their latest attempts include an effort to acquire a chemical weapon.”

  “And they’ve never been able to do this before?” Hawk asked.

  “Not yet, though Al Hasib has inquired about it with different arms dealers in the past.”

  “What’s different about this time?” Alex asked.

  Roland took a deep breath then exhaled. “This time, they’re probably going to get it unless we stop them—pardon me, unless you stop them.”

  “What’s the mission?” Hawk asked.

  “Hassan Garaar is a small-time weapons dealer in northeast Somalia,” Roland began. “Intel reports say that he’s gained enough methylphosphonyl difluoride to weaponize sarin gas.”

  “How much gas are we talking about?” Alex asked.

  “We’re not sure about how much yield he’d be able to produce from the shipment he received, but it’ll be enough to kill several thousand, maybe more, in the right setting in a large metropolitan area.”

  “And how do you intend for us to stop this deal?” Hawk asked.

  “In person, of course, at the docks in Berbera, Somalia. Garaar is tentatively scheduled to make an exchange with an operative from Al Hasib on Saturday night. We need you there to seize control of the weapon.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Alex asked. “We need more help than this.”

  “Technically, you are the help,” Roland said. “We’ve got a guy on the ground in Berbera already.”

  “Then why even use us at all?” Hawk asked.

  “This guy can’t do it by himself, and we can’t risk bringing in even a small contingent of forces to Somalia. Since the 90s, every action we’ve taken there has had to be handled discreetly. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I get it,” Hawk said. “I don’t want my body dragged through the streets if anything goes wrong.”

  “Exactly. You two did so well stopping the threat in Washington that I thought you’d be perfect for this task. And quite frankly, since time is of the essence, I don’t have anyone else I can turn to.”

  “We’re your last hope?” Alex asked as she leaned forward.

  “You may be the last hope for thousands of unsuspecting Americans, too,” Roland said. “I feel far better about stopping this threat before it has time to take shape than trying to eliminate it while some Al Hasib agent runs around New York City with enough sarin gas to wipe out a crowd at Yankee Stadium.”

  “You in, Alex?” Hawk asked. “You know I need you on this.”

  She let out a long breath. “I’m in on one condition. I need to know who we’ll be working with.”

  Roland nodded. “Fair enough. He’s a former special ops guy who worked for the CIA. You might have worked with him before, Alex. His name is John McGinn.”

  Alex leaned back in her chair and interlocked her fingers behind her head. “McGinn? That’s your guy on the ground?”

  “What do you know about him, Alex?” Hawk asked.

  “He’s an interesting character,” Alex responded. “I find it hard to believe that the CIA would place him in a place like Somalia. What’s he doing there?”

  “Nothi
ng of too much consequence,” Roland said. “Just training some Somalian military personnel.”

  Hawk watched Alex look up and bite her lip. He didn’t flinch, hoping she’d agree to go.

  “I don’t like being on location, but I’ll do it,” she said.

  “Excellent,” Roland said before standing up and handing her a pair of folders. “Everything you’ll need to know for the mission is in there. Good luck.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Tuesday

  Berera, Somalia

  HASSAN GARAAR TIGHTENED HIS MASK and carefully opened the fifty-five-gallon drum in front of him. He slid a small tube into the barrel and siphoned out some of the liquid. He placed a few drops onto a petri dish to examine the liquid.

  Still good.

  He closed the drum and used a dolly to move the container to another part of his warehouse. Returning to his work area, he stooped down to get eye level with the caged brown-and-white hamster treading on a wheel. He watched the small animal run tirelessly for half a minute.

  Better run while you still can, Barbara.

  Garaar never named the animals he tested his product on—almost. But he knew the hamster was going to die a gruesome death. As a result, he decided to name the hamster after a woman he dated at Caltech. Garaar caught Barbara cheating on him with a lab partner and employed restraint at the time.

  You just keep right on doing what you’re doing, Barb.

  Garaar adjusted his mask again and hovered over the device that would weaponize the sarin and make it far more potent. Every inch of the vaporizer was checked before he closed the small kit and latched it shut. He locked the main entrance to warehouse before carefully loading the case into his vehicle and climbing into the driver’s seat.

  “See you soon, Barb,” he said before shoving his SUV into drive and kicking up enough sand to constitute a dust storm in certain parts of California.

  While Garaar drove, he considered the path that led him to this moment, the point that he considered to be a crowning achievement in his fledgling career. The fact that he could mix his own sarin gas was reason enough for celebration. It was, after all, the primary purpose for his educational exploits in the United States. However, he was far from achieving his end game, which was to create massive quantities for Al-Shabaab. But his superiors needed a way to generate some funding for their next offensive after the U.S. and Europe conspired to freeze the organization’s bank accounts. Ultimately, Garaar knew Al Shabaab didn’t have the vehicle to deploy a weapon like this in an effective way. Yet, he didn’t complain, content to ply his trade until that moment arrived.

  In his dream scenario, Garaar would’ve preferred to remain in Saudi Arabia and train for jihad in a much grittier way. At one time, pulling the trigger on a sniper rifle aimed at American soldiers seemed to be a much higher calling. But he came to understand his role in eradicating the infidels from the face of the planet, a role that was less barbaric in practice but far more barbaric when it came to results. At least, it appeared that way to him when he watched videos of what happened to test subjects when exposed to sarin gas.

  The live test was the final hurdle he needed to clear in order to take his weapon to market. He’d already lined up a buyer and established a date for the sale. However, he realized that no one would pay the kind of money he was demanding for a chemical weapon unless it was proven to work. Garaar was also anxious to see for himself if he indeed implemented everything he learned while earning his chemical engineering degree. At this stage, failure would be disastrous and quite possibly could cost him his life. He needed to ensure the batch of sarin he mixed was every bit as potent as it could be.

  Selecting a test subject wasn’t particularly difficult. He spoke with a doctor working in conjunction with the World Health Organization who told him about a small village thirty miles northwest of Berbera that had a viral outbreak of polio. Authorities placed the village under quarantine while epidemiologists attempted to isolate the source of the outbreak. In the meantime, the only people allowed in or out of the village were health personnel.

  Garaar glanced down at the WHO credential hanging around his neck. The credential belonged to an Indian doctor Garaar had stabbed to death earlier in the week. He wasn’t proud of murdering the man, though technically he was still an infidel and deserved such a fate. When it came to Islam, all other religions stood at odds with it, even Buddhism. But it was tame compared to what he was about to do.

  He flashed his credentials to the armed guards patrolling all the roads leading into the village. They waved him through. Garaar checked his notes and turned left at the first intersection and drove a quarter of a mile until he reached the designated home. He worked quickly to assemble his camera and carry it into the house along with the weapon. If any snoopy neighbors appeared, his cover would be blown, resulting in an even larger-scale test. For now, all he wanted to do was get a record to verify the effectiveness of the gas and escape the village without further incident.

  The woman who greeted Garaar at the door begged him to hurry.

  “My children need you,” she said. “Come, quick.”

  Garaar followed her into the main room of the house where two small children were lying down. He estimated the older girl to be four and the younger one to be about age two. The four year old wallowed in a pool of vomit while the two year old cried incessantly.

  Putting on his mask, he directed the mother to the other side of the room next to her children. He turned on the camera and set it on the tripod. Then, without warning, he unleashed the gas.

  In less than a minute, the mother and her children were dead. And Garaar was pleased that it worked as quickly as it did. He wasn’t sure he could take much more of the gurgling and gagging noises the trio made as they died. He proceeded to store all his equipment before drenching the inside of the house with gasoline. He unfurled a 100-foot rope, soaked it in gasoline, lit the rope on fire, and drove away.

  Garaar passed through the checkpoint and was at least a mile outside the village before he saw large plumes of smoke billowing in his rearview mirror. He picked up his phone and dialed a number.

  “I completed the testing,” he said. “The product will be ready for you to collect on schedule.”

  He couldn’t wait to demonstrate the gas on Barbara.

  CHAPTER 5

  Berbera, Somalia

  HAWK SLUNG HIS BAG over his back and descended the steps of Blunt’s private jet. He stopped at the bottom and stared at the runway that stretched for as far as he could see. Heat haze emanated from the tarmac. Looking down at his feet, Hawk watched two beads of sweat splash to the ground.

  “Welcome to Somalia,” a man said in a thick accent.

  Hawk looked up to see a man smiling and offering his hand. Shaking the man’s hand, Hawk flashed a smile back before he strode toward the private hangar.

  “What kind of airport is this?” Alex asked.

  Hawk looked over his shoulder to see Alex’s mouth agape as she stared down the runway.

  “What on earth needs a landing strip this long?” she asked, still in disbelief.

  Hawk stopped. “Nothing on earth, but something landing on it does.”

  “Come again?” she said as she gathered her equipment bag and hustled next to him.

  Hawk resumed his walk toward the hangar. “This runway was a backup emergency landing site for the U.S. space shuttle program during the 80s. Cost the government $40 million a year just to have the privilege of renting it in case of emergency.”

  “If only I’d decided to pave a three-mile stretch in the desert.”

  The man who’d greeted Hawk slipped up beside him and tried to take his bag.

  “Let me help you with this,” the man said.

  Hawk tightened his grip on the straps. “Cool your jets, my friend. I can handle it myself.”

  “Very well then,” the man said. “Right this way.”

  The man gestured toward an SUV sitting near the entrance of the hangar.<
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  “My name is Cawaale or you can just call me ‘Lucky,’” he said.

  “Lucky? Now how’d you get that name?” Alex asked.

  “My mother was eight months pregnant with me when our village was overrun by a group of pirates. They killed everyone except my mother, who pretended to be dead.”

  “That’s quite a story, Lucky,” Hawk said as he watched Lucky lumber toward the vehicle with a pronounced limp. “What happened to your leg?”

  “I was attacked by a crocodile.”

  “That’s not so lucky.”

  “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  “Touché.”

  Hawk opened the door for Alex and then climbed in after her. Cawaale gave them a brief tour, covering a vast expanse of Berera history, from the flourishing ivory trade in the ninth century to the Russian military presence in the 1970s.

  “If tourism ever becomes a thing in Berera, you need to switch jobs, Lucky,” Hawk said.

  Lucky flashed a 100-watt smile at Hawk and whipped around the corner before skidding to a stop.

  “We’re here,” Lucky said as he jammed the gear into park.

  Hawk and Alex got out and walked up to a gated compound. The cinder block walls towered twelve feet above, providing a formidable barrier to the outside and casting long shadows to escape the scorching heat. The sounds of men shouting and yelling were mixed with scuffling and fighting. And Hawk assumed it was all coming from inside the compound.

  Hawk pressed a button next to the door and waited. A few moments later, a voice crackled over the intercom.

  “Please state your name and business,” a man said.

  “I’m Brady Hawk, and I’m here with my assistant Alex. We’re supposed to be meeting with a John McGinn.”

  “Just a moment please.”

  Thirty seconds later, the gate swung open, revealing a hive of activity that was every bit and more than what Hawk imagined. Two men shuffled back and forth, battling with a pair of wooden sticks. One man hurled a grappling hook over a wall that appeared to be used for training. Two other men sparred in hand-to-hand combat simulation. Meanwhile, dust swirled about the area and almost choked Hawk. He coughed several times before he looked up to see the man he’d been waiting to see.