Swift Strike (SEAL Team 14 Book 2) (21 page)

He remembered that he hadn’t answered her first question. “Finding you was basically pure chance. I caught a few lucky breaks. The CIA has been investigating your father’s business records and associates for a while now. They came across a deed to a warehouse here that stood out to them. I was waiting outside of the building when I saw you walking down the street. I thought I was hallucinating.” Checking the rear view mirror, Jesse continually scanned the cars trailing them. There was a two cars behind them, and as far as he could tell, neither car was exhibiting any odd behavior that would indicate he’d picked up a tail.

“Why did you tackle me earlier? You scared me to death.”

“Sorry about that. I hope I didn’t hurt you. Did I hurt you?” he asked her pointedly, taking his eyes off the road to look her over again.

“No, you didn’t hurt me. I’m fine.”

“I’d been watching you for the past couple of hours,” he said, his eyes scanning the road again. “I wanted to make sure that you weren’t being followed before I approached you. But then out of nowhere you just took off. I had to stop you before you made it back to the hostel you were staying at.”

“Why is the CIA checking up on my father?”

Jesse briefly took his eyes off the road to look at her. Lena’s normally vibrant face was pinched with worry and devoid of its usual bursts of color. Her shoulders were slightly hunched over in the seat as her hands nervously skimmed over her legs.

How much did she know? How much should he tell her? She seemed anxious, but anyone would be at least a little jumpy if they’d had to go through even half of what Lena had been through these past few weeks.

Given all that had transpired, it would be stupid to deny her this piece of information—no matter how much he wanted to shield her from it. She deserved to know the whole truth. At least, the truth as he knew it presently. He owed her that much.

“Your father is being investigated for designing a weapon of mass destruction for sale on the black market. Specifically, the CIA, FBI, and various other agencies are looking into whether his company violated the Arms Export Control Act.”

Closing her eyes, she released a deep, unsteady breath. Her earlier unshed tears finally found freedom, escaping out from underneath her eyelids. She was visibly upset, but there was none of the outrage or denial that he had been bracing himself for. There was not even a hint of surprise on her face at his pronouncement, just a profound sadness in her eyes.

“You knew?” Jesse studied her face carefully. She slowly nodded her head. The silent tears that were falling down her face morphed into slow trembles, which turned into uncontainable sobs that wracked her entire body. She was shaking so hard that Jesse worried that she would collapse under the weight of her own sorrow.

Oh God, Oh God
,
she said over and over again as tremors wracked her body. Jesse wanted to pull the car over to the side of the road so that he could hold her in his arms. He had to settle for capturing one of hands in his and squeezing.

“Shh, shh, it’s going to be okay. I’m here and everything is going to be all right now, honey. We’re going to figure this out together,” he promised her. He would do anything that was necessary in order to make sure that he didn’t break this solemn oath to her. He would do whatever it took to make sure that she was safe.

He didn’t know how long she cried, but after a while she quieted down. Glancing over at her, he found that she was leaning her head against the window, fast asleep, her slender hand still tucked in his.

Good
,
he thought. She needed the rest. He doubted that she had slept much, if at all, since she’d been taken. He sure as hell hadn’t.

Forty-five minutes later, Jesse pulled up to a run-of-the-mill, single-level home set off from the primary road. The ranch-style house was barely visible from the roadway partly because of the cover provided by the acacia trees and elephant grass that lined the area. The concealed location was perfect for a CIA safe house. While there weren’t that many close neighbors, it wasn’t completely isolated either.

Jesse had called Hawk on his secure cell phone ten minutes into the drive. One thing Jesse had wanted to avoid was arriving to the location without giving the CIA agent any heads up that he should be expecting company. He was already in breach of proper protocol by just bringing Lena there. He didn’t bother to wake Lena just yet as he got out of the car.

Her head rested against the window in a position that would normally leave a crick in your neck the next morning, but she appeared to be sleeping soundly judging from the soft snoring sounds that escaped her nose. He couldn’t help it as a slight smile crossed his face while he lightly touched the soft strands of her hair. He loved that she snored, he was already operating under the idea that she was pretty much perfection incarnate, and even those small deviations from grandeur made her infinitely more real to him. Locking the car doors behind him—just in case—he strode up the rickety steps to the front door of the home.

Grayish-white paint covered the wooden planks that made up the small house. Someone had painted the window trim a garish-forest green color. The house wasn’t fancy and, despite the unfortunate paint choices, didn’t stick out like a sore thumb among the other meager homes in the vicinity.

Hawk pulled open the door before Jesse could even place his first knock on the acacia-wood frame. An imposing man of six-feet-four inches, Hawk was a somber machine of brute strength, keen intelligence, and determination. His light, sepia-colored eyes were simultaneously shrewd and calm. His close cropped, black afro-styled hair was typical military issue. Jesse had known the man for a couple of years, but still didn’t know his real name.

What he did know about him, however, was impressive. Hawk had been recruited straight out of University of Chicago as an analyst. His “desk” work had been integral in capturing several key Al-Jaazeez HVTs until he’d been promoted to field operations. Due to his mixed heritage and fluency in Arabic, Somali, Swahili, and Oromo, he was the ideal candidate for an undercover position in Somalia. The CIA agent had supposedly received his moniker due to his hawkeyed attention to detail. Jesse, however, was willing to bet that it had more to do with his hawkish personality.

“Where is she?” Hawk asked as soon as the door opened, his sharp gaze taking in the fact that Jesse was alone on the stoop in one fell swoop.

“In the car,” Jesse said, gesturing back toward the vehicle. “She’s asleep. Are we all good here?”

“Yeah, you’re clear. We don’t have any other deliveries planned for a couple of weeks.”

“Deliveries” or “packages” as those in the special operations world like to call them, were high value targets who had been acquired for level three interrogations.

“Communications set up?”

“Always.”

Walking back out to the car, Jesse carefully lifted Lena from the vehicle and carried her inside. She didn’t even rouse as he placed her on the full-sized bed in one of the corner bedrooms. He’d seen every inch of her body, but he still felt a little weird about undressing her while she was asleep. The clothes that she was wearing had to go though, they were covered in dust and grime. Stripping her down into her underwear, he tucked the comforter around her before kissing her temple. Closing the door quietly behind him, he went out into the living room to talk to Hawk.

“We have a problem,” Jesse informed him without preamble.

“Yeah, no shit,” Hawk grunted out, his sepia-brown eyes narrowing in on Jesse’s face. “Exactly what type of trouble is she in?”

“Don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to find out. AnSawar has come after her twice, and now they want her to deliver this to her father,” he said, lifting up the manila envelope that Lena had given him in the car.

“You haven’t opened it?”

“Not yet.”

“You thinking germs here?” Hawk asked, his brows furrowed. He was referring to the idea of a biological weapons possibly used as booby trap of sorts. If AnSawar had been able to get their hands on anthrax, tularemia, or botulinum toxin they could have found a way to lace the inside of the envelope with it.

“Not sure, possibly.”

“I don’t have the proper equipment here to test this. I can bring in one of our scientists, but we’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” It was unlikely, but still a possibility, that the terrorists had spiked the envelope so that when Alfred Westlake opened it he’d be exposed to a lethal virus. They just couldn’t take the chance at opening that type of can of worms right now.

Taking the package from him, Hawk placed the envelope in a plastic Ziploc bag that he had found in the kitchen.

“How long does she have to find her father?”

“They’ve given her a deadline of four days. Supposedly, they have her mother and brother held captive somewhere to make sure that she goes through with her end of things. Is there a way that you can check this out for me?”

“I’m on it,” Hawk said. “Have you ever heard of anything like this? Why would they need her specifically to deliver something to her father?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t add up. If AnSawar has got the resources to launch the types of attacks that they’ve been launching all over Africa, then they should have the ability to track down Alfred Westlake. I don’t see why they need Lena to help them with this.”

“And if they don’t really need Lena for this part of whatever plan they have, then why have they made her a part of it?”

“I don’t know, but that’s exactly what we have to figure out. We’ve got four days to do it.” Jesse glanced over his shoulder to stare at the closed door to the room where Lena slept. “I’m not just going to let her walk into some trap.”

It was a struggle to stop himself from walking through that door and wrapping his arms around her. Whatever was going on, he was going to figure it out. He had to figure it out. And until this was all over, he was going to be like her freaking shadow. He would not fail her again.

Camp Harding

“S
ir, do you
have a minute?” Forcing his eyes from the intelligence briefings in front of him, Mark cast an irritated glance at the unwanted distraction. It was the CIA newbie, Sloane Anderson. Mark was not in the mood to engage in mindless chitchat about his previous cases. He’d just gotten in from an express flight from the States, one of his best men was now on a rogue rescue mission to rescue his girlfriend, and they still hadn’t figured out AnSawar’s end game yet. Needless to say, he did not feel up to dealing with Sloane.

After having held several conversations with her, Mark had pegged her as an all too eager to please, somewhat irritating woman who was out to prove to the world that she could do this job as well as or better than any man. Mark didn’t have a problem with strong-willed women. In fact, they were probably one of his biggest weaknesses. But something about Sloane just rubbed him the wrong way.

“What is it? This better be good.” Mark barked out. He immediately regretted his tone, but he was knee deep in shit right now and he did not need any interruptions from her.

Usually when Mark spoke with that sharp edge to his voice, his subordinates quaked in their shoes. But Sloane didn’t even flinch.

“I think I may have something here about whom AnSawar is obtaining their financing from, sir.”

Well, that was welcome news, but… “Aren’t you supposed to be reporting to Director Henson?” Chain of command was an integral part of the military apparatus, and breaches were not looked at favorably.

“Yes, sir. I have already done that. I spoke with Director Henson about an hour ago to discuss my findings. He thought that I should share this information with you right away.”

Nodding, Mark gestured for Sloane to close the door behind her and have a seat.

“Well, what do you have?”

“For the most part, AnSawar has been meticulous in keeping their financial backers and messengers veiled. Neither Faizal Shariff or Mohammed Kareem own banking accounts of any kind in their names.”

Mark shook his head. “Yeah, we’ve been over everything that we don’t know about the group already.”

“Right. Well, I was going back over the financial records for all of the hostages in the WG Oil attack as well as the upper management.” This type of investigation sounded peculiar, but in a special case like this one, it was normal operating procedure to check into the background of all of the hostages.

“There were several wire transfers that were made by Alfred Westlake to an organization in Somalia that has been known to funnel money into the hands of terrorist groups and drug cartels in the region. The payments were made about a month prior to his death.”

Mark’s eyes snapped up, a deep frown burrowing its way across his forehead. “Are you intimating that Westlake is a radical Islamic convert? Or is there any sign that he was being blackmailed by this group?”

“So far, Mr. Westlake’s friends and associates have indicated that he isn’t really a man of faith. Blackmail is still on the table as a possibility, especially given the attack on the company that he founded.”

“No,” Mark said instinctually. Things were still not adding up. “Why in the hell would AnSawar go after Westlake? Yes, he is a very wealthy man, but why target him. There other mineral magnates in the area who are worth two to three times what Westlake is worth.”

“I know. That bothered me too. Which is why I delved a bit deeper into Mr. Westlake’s business records.”

“And?”

“Well, Westlake was a founding partner at both a laboratory and an engineering corporation. Both the laboratory, named Corynx Seven, and the corporation are now owned and operated by one of Westlake’s holding companies up until a few years ago.”

“Cut to the meat, Anderson. What’s important here?”

“Mr. Westlake has been hemorrhaging money for the past few years it seems. While he’s still doing well on paper, the assets that he’s holding are on very shaky ground. He had substantial investments in the subprime lending marking that completely imploded and are now worthless. It’s unclear whether or not that may have been a motivating factor for his new…business model.”

Mark let out a low whistle and leaned forward in his chair. Well, there were a couple of positive things he could now say about Sloane—she was thorough and she certainly knew how to get a man’s attention.

“Most people would be pissed off if that happened to them. But the financial crisis was in 2009, surely the devaluation of his stocks would have happened during that time. So why would he just start looking to sell his products at a higher price on the black market?”

“Hard to say. Maybe he still felt some sense of loyalty to the company he helped to found or to United States? A loyalty that eroded over the years as he thought about how much he’d lost by investing American. Maybe he decided that now was the time to recoup some of his losses by cooperating with terrorist organizations.”

A light bulb flipped on inside of Mark’s head. “So you think that Alfred Westlake may have been in on the attack on WG Oil?”

It would be a severe move for Alfred Westlake to join leagues with a terrorist group just to make a quick buck.

“Possibly.”

“I don’t know. Westlake seems like a resourceful man, there are a number of ways that he could have regained his fortune. A number of
legal
options that he had available to him. What did Morgan say about your theory?”

“He said it’s pretty thin. He thinks that if Westlake wanted to increase his cash flow there were less convoluted ways to do it.

“Exactly.”

“But,” Sloane continued, “we’re talking about potentially billions of dollars at stake here. Yeah, Westlake could have opened up another company or invested in better stocks, but he couldn’t be sure that either of those options would work out. And the immediate possibility of obtaining millions if not billions of dollars would be a pretty big temptation for pretty much anyone.”

“Still, it’s a weak premise, Anderson. What about Abbas? Is he talking yet?”

“Yes, sir. Apparently, AnSawar has been soliciting funding to acquire a dirty bomb. Abbas is one of the couriers that they have been using to connect with prospective financiers.”

“Has he been dropping any names?”

“No names that we are not familiar with. So far, the potential financiers are well known to some of our operatives in the area. We’re checking out now whether the group has been successful in obtaining payments from these men.”

Mark considered it all for a moment. “You do know there’s one glaring hole in your theory, right?”

“What’s that?”

“Lena Westlake, the man’s daughter, was terrorized in the first attack and taken again by AnSawar. Why would Westlake put his own daughter through such pain?”

“Wait, what? When did the second kidnapping occur?”

“A few days ago.”

Sloane was silent for a moment, Mark could tell that her brain was working in overdrive as she processed this new development. “Maybe there was a disagreement between AnSawar and Westlake. Maybe somehow their agreement fell apart and now the group is retaliating against him. And you know what they say: there’s no honor among thieves.”

“Hmm.” Mark was not completely buying it. But it was an angle that they had to look into and just could not ignore. “Getting back to AnSawar, have you and the rest of your team determined why they are all of a sudden orchestrating attacks in Bayla and against our embassies?”

“Puffing, sir. Or at least that’s what Abbas is telling us. It looks like AnSawar is trying to make a power move here and they need to show force. They want to prove that they are a key terrorist organization that should be feared. Plus, they are still trying to find financial backers so they have to have a convincing showing.”

“Is he saying anything else?”

“He is a lower level operative, sir. He wasn’t exactly huddling up with Shariff and Kareem when the two men were masterminding the whole scheme.”

Mark raised his eyebrow and tried not to smirk at her tone. Apparently, he had managed to grate on her nerves. “All right, let me know what else you find out. And Anderson, we need all of this information ASAP.”

“Right, sir,” she said, leaving the room.

Was it possible that Alfred Westlake had colluded with AnSawar just to make a weapons sale? Mark had been doing this job long enough to admit that anything was possible. And given the information that Westlake had deposited some money into AnSawar’s coffers, it seemed all that more likely that Westlake was working with the group.

Regardless of what deal had been struck, Mark now knew for sure that AnSawar was in the market for a weapon of mass destruction and had to be stopped. And stopped soon.

His telephone rang, blasting him from his thoughts.

“Dewitt here,” he barked into the phone, bringing a hand up to the corner of his eye.

“It’s Denison, sir.”

It wasn’t every day that Mark Dewitt just let one of his men walk off on a revenge mission. But it also wasn’t every day when one of his men had a woman he cared about—dare Mark say loved—ripped away from him.

“Denison, where the hell are you?”

“I’m in Baidoa, Somalia.”

“No shit,” Mark said dryly. “Who do you think told Russo to pass that lead along to you? I meant where exactly in Baidoa are you?”

“The safe house, sir. With Hawk.”

“I take it that you’ve found Ms. Westlake?”

“Yes, sir. I found Lena.”

“When are you bringing her in?”

“That is why I am calling, sir. I can’t bring her in just yet. We have something of a situation here. Something that I’m going to need some extra assistance on from the team.”

“Well, why the hell
can’t
you bring her in, Denison?”

“AnSawar wants her to meet her father four days from now. They’ve snatched both her mother and brother. Hawk has confirmed. As you are aware, her father is suspected of creating a sonic missile. We have good reason to believe that AnSawar are setting up a trap for her father, and that they are intent on killing him and confiscating the weapons technology.”

“Shit,” Mark muttered. Things kept going from bad to worse, but at least there was some good news. “I’ve spoken to Central Command and we’ve finally received an order to move in for a direct action strike against one of AnSawar’s strongholds in Somalia. I’m also going to send a team of six or seven men—whoever else I can spare—down there to your location. I’ll coordinate with Morgan and see if we can get some more intel into Ms. Westlake’s situation. We have to be careful about how we handle this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Denison,” Mark said before hanging up, “watch your back.”