Counterfeit Lies

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

A third security guard was entering Park’s home as Jake retrieved his firearm, the now-empty magazine, and a handful of bullets. By the time he got out the front door, Tommy was already entering his car.

Jake headed toward the Lexus and stood by the driver’s-side door as the two men stared at each other across an uncomfortable silence. Tommy finally rolled down his window and snapped, “I don’t want to talk here.”

“Okay.”

“Follow me in your car.” It was an order, not a request.

The four men and one woman in the Honda Pilot watched Tommy and then Jake leave the crime lord’s residence. As they were parked in the shadows and down the street from the house, their presence went undetected by either man. Tommy was blinded by his anger, and Jake was forced to concentrate on following the black Lexus as Tommy sped out the driveway.

After the cars turned at the stop sign at the far end of the block, Kareem Abdul, the assassin-bartender, eased forward, parking the Pilot just beyond the range of the security cameras. The three Arab men from the mosque who accompanied Kareem on the mission were in the backseat. The windows were down and all five welcomed the cool night breeze. Tensions were high and the diluted smell of nervous perspiration lingered.

Candy offered each a piece of Korean confection but the men refused. She casually unwrapped the piece, tossed the cellophane wrapping out the window, and popped the candy in her mouth, enjoying the flavor combination of ginseng extract, honey, sugar, and peppermint.

“How much longer?” whispered one of the Arab men from the back as he and the others shared a look.

Earlier in the week Candy had reported to Kareem that Park’s two most trusted security men never spent the night at the residence. However, each evening one of Park’s many underlings stayed at the house as a precaution should anyone breach the grounds’ costly security system. The guard was housed in a small room just inside the front door and to the left. His quick elimination tonight would remove the only real impediment to success.

“His security detail is probably ready to call it a night and will leave soon. Give everyone a chance to settle down. Let Park relax after his company leaves. We don’t need anybody still on high alert,” said Kareem, sipping his second cup of coffee.

This morning at the mosque, following sunrise prayers, the men had reviewed their respective assignments, studying the detailed floor plan of the house Candy provided. Inside the warehouse where Gabe Chong had been murdered, Kareem measured off a mini-replica of the home, with tape and string serving as the makeshift residence.

The team practiced moving commando-style from room to room, clearing each as if in combat. Though not perfect, they developed a level of discipline and sophistication they believed would be adequate for tonight’s mission.

Mohammed valued Kareem’s expertise and was grateful he brought this opportunity to the attention of the cell. The entry was to be through the front gate, breaching it as Kareem had done before on home invasions prior to his stint in prison. Tonight all were armed and prepared to resolve any resistance with controlled violence. The only three who needed to survive the assault were Park, his daughter, and the granddaughter, all of value to the cell. The death of any of the three diminished the chance the terrorists would prosper.

The three Arab men in the backseat were anxious. This was the first mission for the Hezbollah terrorists since they had been smuggled across the Mexican border into the United States.

If they were successful tonight, the proceeds from this operation would be sufficient to bring more of the fighters from their special unit on the long trip from Beirut to Caracas and up through Mexico. The trio were seasoned warriors. But all their missions in the Middle East had been direct action against opposition leaders or attacks against American military personnel in Iraq, Afghanistan, South Sudan, or Turkey. All of them had served with Hezbollah squads in Syria, propping up the Assad regime in Damascus.

They were experts at rigging improvised explosive devices and assassination shots resulting in death to infidels and apostates.

Tonight’s mission was more complicated. The three men believed in themselves and each other but not in Kareem. They knew from Rostam that the black prison convert was a newcomer to the jihad. They were prepared to die as martyrs for the cause, but they weren’t certain about the man at the wheel. They were good soldiers and accepted this assignment because Mohammed had ordered their participation. And like good soldiers they kept their doubts to themselves and hoped the worst wouldn’t happen.

It was a false hope.