The Bin Laden Plot

9 BURKE, VIRGINIA

In the early-morning light, a blue Chevy Tahoe with stolen license plates turned onto Marquand Drive, a dead-end road in a quiet suburban neighborhood of single-family homes. Halfway down the street, where it bent ninety degrees to the left, the SUV stopped beside the curb, far enough down the road to provide an unobstructed view of the blue-and-white house in the cul-de-sac at the end of the street.

Mixell left the engine running as he lowered the driver’s side window, then pulled the blanket from the passenger seat, revealing a Steyr SSG 69 rifle with an attached Kahles ZF 95 Riflescope. He didn’t need such precise firepower from this range, but it was his favorite long-range weapon.

The man living in the blue-and-white house was a former Navy SEAL and one of the five men on Mixell’s to-do list. A man he had served with and had once considered a brother; someone he would previously have given his life for. That, of course, was before he’d been forsaken by his so-called brethren.

Mixell’s thoughts drifted momentarily to his childhood and the friendships he had developed. Almost ten percent of his hometown population were Russian immigrants, and his mother had become good friends with two other Russian women, getting together often for tea and social activities. As a result, Mixell had become good friends with two other second-generation Russians: Jake Harrison and Christine O’Connor.

Christine, who went by Chris until she left for college, was a tomboy growing up, hanging out with the guys all the way through high school. She was fast and strong, more than capable of holding her own during the rowdy outdoor games, at least until the boys hit puberty, when they gained a significant strength and speed advantage. By then, however, their focus was less on roughhouse games and more on girls, and as Chris developed into a young woman, the guys began to look at her in a different light. Mixell had to admit he’d been quite jealous when Chris had chosen Jake over himself.

Jake Harrison. His former best friend, the man who betrayed him.

While a Navy SEAL in Afghanistan, Mixell had killed an unarmed prisoner, a man who had strapped a bomb to a ten-year-old boy and sent him toward American troops. Harrison had witnessed the murder firsthand, choosing duty over his commitment to his fellow SEALs, and had reported the incident to their commanding officer.

Mixell’s recollection of the issue was selective, however, choosing to glaze over an important fact: the prisoner Mixell killed hadn’t been his first. It was his third. The first time, Harrison had pulled him aside, asking him what the hell he’d been thinking. Mixell explained that he’d been caught up in the heat of the moment — another SEAL had been killed in the engagement.

The second time, the prisoner had also deserved it. Moments earlier, he had killed an entire Afghan family, including women and children, because the father had been discovered aiding the Americans. Mixell had reached for his pistol as he approached the man, who had placed his hands in front of his face as if they could somehow ward off the impending bullet. Mixell shot through the man’s palm, putting a bullet in his head. Afterward, Harrison pulled him into an adjacent room and slammed him against the wall, hoping to knock some sense into him.

He could tell that Harrison had been prepared for a fight — Mixell was the same size as he was and just as strong, plus Mixell had a reputation for being a hothead. But as Harrison pressed his friend’s back against the wall, he offered no resistance. During the one-way conversation, he displayed neither anger nor remorse as he listened to Harrison’s heated words.

After Harrison explained he would have no choice but to report future incidents, Mixell’s response had been short.

I got it, buddy.

Of course, Harrison’s words were all for show, Mixell had thought. There was no way Harrison — or any other SEAL, for that matter — would turn him in. SEALs were a tight-knit fraternity, men who had one another’s backs. The despicable terrorists were simply getting what they deserved, and Mixell was saving the military and civil justice system a ton of money and effort.

But he had gotten it wrong. He could still recall the shock and visceral anger that overcame him when he learned that Harrison had reported what he’d done to their commanding officer. After months in the brig followed by a court-martial, he’d been sentenced to fifteen years in prison, getting out after eight.

While incarcerated, Mixell had made a mental revenge list, which included Harrison and the country that had turned its back on him after he’d fought valiantly for it, risking his life countless times. He would repay America for what it had done to him.

The front door of the blue-and-white house opened, pulling Mixell from his reverie. Gary Nagle emerged, heading toward the car in the driveway.

As Nagle pulled the keys from his pocket, Mixell brought the rifle to his shoulder and an eye to the scope, centering the crosshairs on the man’s head. When Nagle reached the car door and stopped to insert the key, it was all too easy.

Mixell pulled the trigger, and Nagle’s head jerked as the round drilled into his skull and exited the other side, accompanied by a pink puff of blood and gray matter spraying over the top of the car.

Nagle slumped onto the driveway, then Mixell returned the rifle to the passenger’s seat and did a U-turn with the Tahoe, heading back down Marquand Drive.

Two down, three to go.