On Scope

27

The upscale condo was less space than Douglas Jimenez wanted, and the payment plus homeowner fees was a little more than he could afford. It was located in a maze of such homes that were the nests of many Capitol Hill worker bees that had latched onto the properties before the real estate crash, eager to get a toehold in the prestigious, prosperous community. Then the “no money down” American dream became the “no money in the bank” nightmare.

Since most of the homeowners in this clutch of Washington commuters worked in some shape or form for the government, there was no real concern about losing their jobs. Even in crisis, the government still rolled out the paychecks. If one lived somewhat frugally, one could almost pretend the outside market forces were not taking a toll on one personally. The project developers had gone bankrupt, and with that promised assistance gone, the homeowner association’s finances were getting rocky, and as its rules were unbending, maintenance fees kept rising. The administrative aides of members of Congress and young financial magicians and health care specialists and naval officers did not cut their own grass or shovel snow off the steps; that was why illegal immigrants were invented and unofficially sanctioned.

Jimenez lived well when he was at work on the government dime, but when he was paying his personal expenses, he had become much more careful. His credit cards were almost maxed out, and the interest was eating him alive. Since he expected the monthly HOA cost would soon be increased by at least another hundred dollars a month per household, he had to cut back on something. Dumping the Beemer, which cost five hundred dollars per month to lease, and riding public transit instead was a horrible possibility. He had to stay dressed properly, which meant the clothing and cleaning bills had to stay in the budget. The financial magazines were telling him to save, save, save and invest at a modest 8 percent annual gain so as to be a multimillionaire by retirement, and then not outlive his money. Where was he going to find an 8 percent annual gain when the banks were offering less than half of 1 percent? That was assuming he had any money to invest, which he did not. Maybe he had enough clout now to get a K Street lobbying job. Fat chance of that happening, he thought as he puttered around his kitchen.

As a sacrifice to reality, on the evening after pulling off the biggest backroom coup of his professional political career, he was celebrating by himself at home, cooking a hamburger with sautéed onions and a slice of cheese, accompanied by a bottle of Coors Light beer. The meal would cost twenty dollars, plus tip, at any saloon between the District and Bethesda, except for Mickey D’s and BK, and he wasn’t desperate enough to eat at either of those places. Yet.

The melodic chime of the doorbell broke his dour reverie. It was not unusual in this complex, which contained many singles of both sexes, for a party to crank up on the spur of the moment. The old saying that misery enjoys company was never truer than these days around the Beltway, and anyone showing up with a six-pack or a bottle of wine was welcome. Things would grow from there when the tweets and texts alerted everybody else in the block. He wiped his hands on a cloth towel and walked quickly across the carpet, just as the doorbell dinged again. Impatient. “Yeah! I’m coming,” he called and opened up.

“Mr. Douglas Jimenez?” Two men in neat suits were on his doorstep. The one in front held a little leather case flipped open to show a bright shield with an eagle on top, and the ID card with his picture and the big letters FBI printed in blue. He had neat black hair and friendless blue eyes that almost matched his shirt. “I’m Special Agent Lassiter, and this is Special Agent Martin.”

“Uh,” Jimenez said. His lawyer Spidey sense had immediately snapped to alert. Say nothing. Do not let them inside. “Yeah. That’s me. What’s this all about?”

Lassiter pushed him backward hard, with both hands, and Doug was flung sprawling across the foyer. Feeling as if his chest had been crushed when he bounced on the floor, he gasped for breath. Both agents were now inside, and Martin closed the door.

“Douglas Jimenez, you are under arrest for violations of the National Security and Official Secrets Act.” They flipped him over like a rag doll and cuffed him, ratcheting the steel bracelets tight.

Douglas caught his breath. “Hey! What are you doing?”

“We’re taking your sorry ass into custody. Isn’t that sort of obvious?” Martin, a large man with a boxer’s bent nose, smiled as he said it.

“Like hell you are. I know my rights!” He tried to sit up, but Lassiter kicked him hard in the ribs with a steel-toed shoe and Doug crumpled back to the floor.

“You have the right for me not to shoot you in the fuckin’ head right now. Beyond that, you don’t have any that I can think of. The act is pretty generous in how we deal with security issues. We may Miranda you at some later time, if you’re lucky and not considered an enemy combatant.”

The National Security and Official Secrets Act had updated the old Patriot Act, stripping out some of the unworkable parts but adding stern new ones. It had been passed by Congress after years and years of leaks of vital government information that aided enemies and rivals of the United States. Modeled on the old British Official Secrets Act, the NSOS left very few avenues of legal defense. The American Civil Liberties Union and defense lawyers howled, claiming it was merely antiwhistle-blower legislation. American voters weary of bootleg lone-wolf terrorist strikes had gone along with the idea that people who sign the governmental pledge of keeping secrets and protecting the country should do that, and keep their mouths shut.

“That’s crazy! What’s the exact charge?”

“Good question. Why don’t you just think of this as being taken into protective custody so that some future cellmate with body tats and a permanent hard-on doesn’t learn that you’re a traitor.”

“Do you know who I am? I work for Senator Jordan Monroe!” Jimenez’s voice was breaking in fright. His mind was bending under the weight of the unnamed charges. The NSOS was a mean motherfucker of a law.

Martin strolled to the stove and turned the fire out beneath the cooking hamburger. “Not any longer.”

“I want to call a lawyer.”

“I would imagine that you do. Sorry, but no. Anyway, you’re a lawyer yourself. So am I. Lots of lawyers around this town. You want anything else?” Lassiter and Martin each grabbed an arm and pulled Jimenez to his feet.

“I’m willing to make a deal.”

“That’s where things really get interesting. You don’t have anything we want, Dougie-boy. Not a damned thing. You broke the wrong law, so now out we go, and quiet or loud makes no difference to us.”

“I’ll yell my head off and my neighbors will see. They’ll report what you’re doing.” The steel cuffs were so tight that they were cutting off the blood circulation in his wrists.

“If you try that, an official answer is already in place: that you are a dirty old man and a child molester, as well as a spy. Child pornography will be found on your hard drive. We give the news to a local channel and supply a picture of you in chains. The traitor stuff will come out later, if necessary.”

“That’s illegal!”

“No, it’s not.” Lassiter yanked him forward. “Move it, Doug. Time for you to do the perp walk.”

The man in black slid the lock home on the thick front door, creating a barrier that he could control. The bad guys could not use it, and Swanson’s prey was now trapped, although he could leave when he wished. He paused and breathed in the strange surroundings, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light.

The spacious entry hall had a tiled floor that he moved across carefully. Kids lived here, which meant something could be underfoot at almost any step. Toe, then heel, five steps, and he was in the living room, where a single night-light plugged into a wall gave some illumination. Silence enveloped him. He pulled the little light from the electrical socket.

The dining room was long, with a large table and numerous chairs, reminding him of the old Zorro movies he had seen about the lavish lifestyles of Spanish grandees. The kitchen would be in back, maybe an office. The surveillance had determined that the household help lived elsewhere, but if the mother and father of Mrs. Torreblanca actually owned this place, it made sense that they would have the master bedroom.

Slowly prowling the ground floor, he found them, snoring lumps beneath the covers, in a comfortable bedroom downstairs. The older couple no longer wanted to handle the stairs on a daily basis. He closed the door silently and let them be.

Wide stairs along one wall led up to the other sleeping quarters, and he rested a hand on the metal railing, putting the weight of his feet at the ends of the wooden steps to prevent squeaks. Another hallway was at the top, with multiple doors and more decorative tile squares on the floor. He wanted more time for recon, but did not have it. Those guys in back would not smoke forever.

Regular doors at the far end and a double door filling an arch on the left. Another night-light in a bathroom next to the main bedroom. The kids are down there, so my target is in here. Kyle took a deep breath and put pressure on the lever, and again a door swung open without a sound. He did not close it all the way because he would not be here long.

The knife came out as he moved to the bed. The dark hair of the wife was spread on the pillow, and her face appeared relaxed in sleep. Torreblanca was on his back with his eyes closed, breathing in steady rhythm. Both arms were beneath the covers. Swanson studied the scene a few seconds to figure out the best way to kill him without awakening her and decided to slide the point in at the Adam’s apple and straight into the brain so it would not be trapped by bones, then yank it out and slash the big veins pumping in the exposed neck. When the blade was entering the skin, he would clamp a hand over the man’s mouth, and he had to gamble that the struggle would be short and without a scream, a movement that the sleeping wife might just believe was her husband turning over to adjust positions. Swanson gave some thought to climbing on the bed, a knee on each side of the victim to pin him down. He gauged the time he had left. Should be enough.

A light flashed on behind him and caught Swanson completely off guard, freezing him in place. The strip of brightness flooded through the six inches where he had left the door ajar and spread to the rest of the room. Easy footsteps in the hall. Kyle faded back against the wall beside the door to adjust to the changing situation, holding the knife a bit higher, ready to make an offensive lunge. The people on the bed did not move. The steps were not those of anyone wearing heavy boots. Then the bathroom door was pulled shut and Kyle relaxed a bit. What could be more common than a child going to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Normal, familiar family noises would not alert anyone. He waited, knife in hand, for the child to finish peeing and go back to bed.

“Abort!” The sudden voice in his earpiece sounded like a shout. “Bounty Hunter, abort!”

The target was in a deep sleep on a bed six feet away. A kid was in the bathroom. Armed guards were outside, and the call meant for him to terminate the mission immediately and get out. His mind whirled as he sorted through the situation and reordered his priorities, but he forced himself to remain calm. Panic would be fatal.

The abort order carried the highest priority. No other information came with it. The team was supposed to be dark with all communication for this part of the mission, so someone obviously had some important information that he did not. Standing alone in enemy territory was no option, as was speculating about what was happening outside. A soldier, no matter how well prepared, can see only a short distance beyond the rim of his helmet. His knowledge was limited. Were police on the way? Had a new load of Zombies showed up unexpectedly? Was the team outside in danger, which would limit his escape chances? The possibilities were endless, and he was wasting valuable seconds thinking about them. An abort order was always rock solid. Something bad had happened, and it meant the operator must stop whatever he was doing and get out as fast as possible. Explanations could wait.

Kyle stared at the inert figure of Daniel Ferran Torreblanca lying quietly beside his wife. There was no sympathy for the man, because Swanson considered him as only another terrorist. It would be so easy to take a few steps forward, slice his throat, and haul ass down the stairs. Then the toilet flushed in the adjacent bathroom, and the kid was back in the puzzle.

Swanson slipped the blade back in its sheath and moved out of the bedroom. In a few seconds, the bathroom door opened and a boy of about eight came out, his black hair mussed and his eyes puffy with sleep. Swanson was at the top of the steps, with his cell phone out, and snapped a picture of the little guy before the boy even knew he was there.

The flash startled the child, stopping him as if he had hit a wall. Stars and colors caused by the flash danced before his eyes until he blinked and rubbed them away; then he saw the big man on the steps, but he looked like all of the guards who had been around the house for the last few days. The man smiled and put his hand to his lips. Shhhh.

Swanson knew the boy would bolt at any moment and cry out for his parents, so he kept his presence as nonthreatening as possible and placed the cell phone on the tiled floor without approaching the kid. “Give this to your papa,” he said softly.

Then he backed down two steps, turned, and headed for the front door, pulling his pistol as he went.

“Zombie coming around the east side, heading toward the front,” warned the CIA man on the drone. The op was blown. Kyle twisted the lock and pulled the door in toward him. Behind him, the little boy finally came to his senses and screamed with a wail that pierced the entire house.

The Zombie moving to the front heard the child scream and ripped his pistol free as he broke into a run just as Kyle dashed out the door. Coastie fired, and her M-40A3 cracked like thunder in the stillness of Seville, and the Zombie was blown backward by a bullet that tore into his chest, through his heart, and out of his back. The man collapsed as another rifle bullet tore into his head.

“Zombie in back is on the move,” the van surveillance reported. “He has a bigger weapon, holding with two hands.”

“I’m coming toward you,” Kyle responded, puffing in exertion. He could see the van about two hundred yards away, uphill, and pounded toward it.

“I see you. Backing up to get closer,” said the driver.

“Don’t move the vehicle,” countered a female voice. Coastie did not want to ruin her aim points. “I’m locked in at this distance. Hold in place a few more seconds.”

The remaining Zombie had sought cover as he arrived at the front and his partners did not respond on the radio. He raised the AK-47 above a concrete wall that lined a flower bed and opened up with a long spray of automatic fire in the direction of the threat.

Swanson had covered fifty yards, and his lungs were burning. The Zombie’s bullets were wild and zinging off the stones, not even near, but a bouncing bullet was unpredictable. He kept going. Another ten yards, but the van seemed no closer.

The Zombie saw the lifeless bodies of his two comrades in front of the hacienda. Lights were being turned on in every room inside; then great floodlights directed outward from the house were activated and wiped away the darkness.

“Damn!” Coastie yanked her eye away from the night scope when those big lights were caught by it and amplified in intensity. Her entire view had gone white in an instant. “I can’t see!” Temporarily blinded, she let touch become her primary sense, dropped the M-40, and grabbed her alternate weapon, an M-16 with an ACOG day scope that was already registered for the same distance. Ledford had been reluctant to carry backup weapons on such assignments, but she could almost hear Kyle barking at her back on the range: “Prior planning prevents piss-poor performance.”

The Zombie had slapped a fresh thirty-round magazine into his AK and crept to a new location, feeling more confident by the sudden break in incoming fire. He heard the roar of a vehicle engine and the steps of a man running away. Were they gone?

Swanson was winded after running a hundred yards flat-out uphill but kept his legs chugging forward, his balance wobbling from the strain. The van was moving in reverse, coming back for him, and he jumped out of the street to the sidewalk, but tripped on the high curb and fell.

The Zombie popped up to aim and saw the man fall. He brought the wooden stock of the AK-47 to his cheek. At this range, he couldn’t miss with a full magazine. He would take out the guy on the ground first and then chew the van to pieces.

The boxy vehicle slid to a stop with its side door already open, and Kyle scrambled toward an outstretched hand just as a rip of bullets nicked along the sidewalk behind him. The instant that the van momentarily halted, Coastie fired directly at the flashes erupting only a hundred yards away. Her second bullet nailed the Zombie in the face and dropped him.

“You got him, Coastie!” shouted the drone man. “Get back in!”

She handed down her rifles and sleeping bag, then jumped to the ground and vaulted into the van. Wiping her eyes, she complained, “I still can’t see.” The vehicle lunged forward.

“Now,” said Kyle. “Somebody please tell me what just happened.”