Undeclared War (13 page)

“We used the photographs of your men you forwarded to us. The driver's licenses are as authentic as anything issued by the State of Michigan. No police officer or customs agent would be able to tell them from the real thing. The passports are of the same quality.

“Before they cross the border, each man is given pocket litter to go along with his papers—money, random documents, receipts, and ticket stubs. Those items would mark him as just another tourist out of the thousands that cross the border every day.”

“I will not accept any errors at this stage of the
game, Paxtun,” Ishmael said. “There is far too much at stake and the timing is becoming critical.”

“It might help if you let me know what part of the mission timing is tight,” Paxtun said.

“That is of no concern of yours,” Ishmael said firmly. “You are simply to make sure that there are no flaws in the support that is asked of you.”

“No flaws at all,” Paxtun said, trying to steer the conversation away from the delicate matter of Ishmael's mission. “We have men of the one faith in a number of different areas who have been brought into the plan but have no knowledge of their specific part in it.”

There were more details on how Paxtun had obtained the identification papers that he had told Ishmael. But he did not feel it necessary to tell the terrorist leader all of his secrets.

“The actual border crossings,” Paxtun explained, “were planned to take place at the times of the highest traffic volume. The vehicles used all had multiple passengers and were known to frequently visit the gambling casinos on both sides of the border. Once in Canada, your men were issued the passports with their photos and descriptions inside and their original documents were taken away. For all intents and purposes, they were U.S. citizens from that point on.

“They would cross back into the States by another route than the one the vehicle had originally crossed over by. As far as the customs people were concerned, they were looking at U.S. citizens coming back from a good time across the river. The
passports were just a backup, the driver's licenses alone have proved enough for each crossing so far. The driver knew what to say and coached each person in the van as to just what answers to give at the border.

“Your people came into the country without ever even raising a blip on the radar of customs. The Immigration and Naturalization Service wouldn't even think to look for them. By the next day, they are on their way here to the island.”

In spite of the detailed and methodic nature of Paxtun's techniques, and the fact that they had worked flawlessly so far, Ishmael still felt it necessary to prevent his subordinate from feeling too full of himself.

“The loyalty of your people is something I question,” Ishmael said. “You simply buy it, which is not the same thing as true loyalty at all. My men have loyalty unto death for our cause. Your people are less than mercenaries. They betray their own country for mere monetary gain.”

The rebuke was directed at Paxtun and the line about money was intended to sting him. The mild insult didn't mean anything to him. He had been listening to such for weeks now anyway. But what he had to tell Ishmael next did worry him.

Finally, Paxtun told Ishmael the news about his missing hardware behind the closed doors of his office, quickly adding the news about the new firepower that had been acquired. The reaction of the big terrorist leader was everything Paxtun had expected and feared.

The fact that his mission might have been put in jeopardy by another's incompetence filled Ishmael
with rage. The tall, slender man stalked back and forth across the room like a caged tiger. He paused for a moment and gazed quietly at Paxtun who stood next to his large wooden desk that faced away from the four large windows in the curved outer wall. Then Ishmael crossed his arms and lowered his head as if in deep thought, walking past the desk and near where Paxtun was standing.

As Paxtun took a step closer to Ishmael, the bigger man suddenly turned and viciously backhanded Paxtun across the face. As Paxtun staggered and almost fell, Ishmael lashed out with another stunning backhand with his opposite hand. The smaller man reeled and fell against the heavy desk. Only his hands gripping the edges of the desk kept Paxtun from collapsing to the floor in a heap.

“You think some new toys would cover up your incompetence?” Ishmael snarled. “There is no tolerance for failure. We cannot afford to let mistakes hinder our cause. The only reason you are not dead now is that you may still be able to serve the cause—an arrangement that has paid you very well.

“You have served us well in the past,” Ishmael continued in a deceptively softer tone. “That is why you reap the benefit of our compassion. You brought us weapons when we needed them to drive the Soviet invaders from our country. Perhaps it was too much for me to expect you to be able to do so again on such short notice.

“Others who I respect told me that you were once a warrior. You have been living here in this decadent country for too long since leaving Afghanistan. You were once hard, but these surroundings have soft
ened you and made you easy. Your own country proved itself false to you and your faith when it abandoned you once. Then it so unjustly turned you out after your service in Bosnia. We are the only ones who have accepted you fully and made you a trusted brother of ours.

“It was arrogant and stupid of you to assume that I did not know of the lost shipment of arms the instant that it happened. Do you consider me so slovenly that I would leave a detail as important as the delivery of such a thing solely up to you? I know that you had to put together a plan for obtaining replacement weapons in a very short time. And that woman and her child that you brought to the island last evening are part of that plan.

“Let me assure you,” Ishmael said in a soft, dangerous tone as he leaned in close to where Paxtun still held himself up at the desk. “That woman and child had better not turn into a threat against us. If anything you do risks me, my men, or our mission, you will be the first one to die. I agree they make good hostages no matter what your original plan may have been. The Americans are soft that way about their own women and children.

“Not that they extend that compassion to anyone else in the world,” Ishmael said as he started pacing the room. “They have bombed our women and children, attacked us out of the sky, and out of our reach. When the much-vaunted U.S. military finally came down to the ground, they did so in their heavy tanks and armored vehicles—smashing everything in their way.”

Paxtun now realized with certainty just how great
a fanatic Ishmael was. His fate was inextricably intertwined with this madman who walked about the room, ranting as if he were giving a speech to his men. It was as if the man wanted to keep convincing himself.

“In their arrogance,” Ishmael said, “they overthrew our governments and killed our leaders. They defiled our holy places of worship, robbed us of our antiquities, our heritage, our past. They claimed we had weapons of mass destruction. That was the reason they used to justify their actions in the eyes of the world.

“But we are here now,” Ishmael said as he came close to Paxtun again and stood facing him. “Here in the very heart of the United States. We had not yet obtained such weapons as we had been accused of. But we can take such things from the infidels themselves. We will turn the poisons of their own making back on them.”

Realizing that he was saying more than might be prudent, Ishmael had a very serious look come over his face as he stood straight and faced Paxtun.

“The importance of our mission was not allowed to rest on a single shipment of arms and materiel,” Ishmael said. “There have been other arms shipments sent to various action cells throughout the United States. Those cells have already been made aware of our needs and are sending materials to us as we speak. They should begin arriving tomorrow. Whatever additional plans you have to replace the lost shipment may go forward as necessary. Those arms will have to replace those sent to us from the other cells.

“It is a pity that we lost the U.S.-made Stinger
missiles that were in that last shipment. Obviously the existence of such weapons frighten the authorities. They neglected to tell the public of their seizure when they took the shipment. No matter. We have other Soviet weapons that will be available to us. But there would have been a certain irony in using the U.S. weapons against their own people.

“My experts have been examining the guns that came in last night. They say the firepower they represent may replace some of what was lost through your incompetence. At least they are devastating in a close assault. They have helped buy your life back—for now.”

Switching to a very commanding tone, Ishmael said, “I have been told to expect the first arrivals of equipment tomorrow. You will have your people pick them up and transport them here when you bring in the last group of my men. The explosives your chemist made have been judged as adequate by my technicians. They will be of use in replacing some of the more specialized pieces that were in the shipment that was lost. Their delivery was another saving grace for you. It would be best if there were no other errors or delays on your part.”

“There shouldn't be any difficulties,” Paxtun said as he finally found his voice. “Everything is ready. You tell us where to pick up what and we'll do it. Another truckload coming in here will not be a problem.”

“It had best not be a problem,” Ishmael said, and he strode out of the room.

Ishmael's violent manner almost made Paxtun angry enough to have the man killed immediately. He had the sudden urge to grab a blade and chase the ter
rorist leader down in the hall before he even reached his own room. But Paxtun knew that Ishmael's men would kill him long before he could leave the island. If he did get away, al Qaeda had a long memory, and an even longer reach. Paxtun wouldn't live out the year. That thought stayed his hand as it inched toward a weapon, Paxtun knowing that it would be suicide to take on the man physically.

On top of the ingratitude of the terrorist leader for everything Paxtun had done to replace the lost weapons with some of the best hardware available was the shock that the whole thing had been unnecessary. Ishmael had put his own backups in place, showing just how important he considered his mission to be. By not telling Paxtun about more weapons being available, he had forced the man to use extreme measures to obtain guns. The satisfaction Paxtun had felt in holding Reaper's family hostage had evaporated—it had never been necessary.

The ex-Army officer and drug lord just accepted Ishmael's insults and orders. Paxtun had no choice in the matter. Ishmael would eliminate him just as soon as he stopped being useful. It was good that he had been paid a lot of money and lived well at the old resort—he was going to be earning every penny of it. He only hoped he would have time later to enjoy his gains.

The situation for Reaper was quickly becoming the worst he had ever endured. His career in the SEALs and Special Warfare had exposed him to levels of stress that could bring the average man quickly to his knees. But none of his training or experience had prepared him for a direct threat to his wife and child.

His family was missing and no one was able to tell him where they had gone. It was only the morning after they had been taken, but the hours that had passed were the longest that Reaper had ever lived through. There was so little that he could do, and a feeling of helplessness was not something he was used to. He couldn't go to the police; the only ones he could turn to were his friends. But the kind of people that Reaper could call his friends were a very competent group of individuals.

Reaper and Deckert were in the office of the house, converted from what had been the dining room. They were working from the one slim lead they had. The name “Steven Arzee” had been on the
car registration papers Reaper had taken from the Corvette's glove compartment. Deckert had been conducting a search for information on Arzee over the Internet. Like everything else that had been tried by the two men so far, the search had proven fruitless. Reaper leaned back from his seat at the side of the desk and stared into space thoughtfully as he drank from the cup of coffee in his hand.

“Ted,” Deckert said as he pushed himself back from the computer desk, “I've called in every favor I know. Every cop or detective who's ever come through that door and left his number has gotten a call from me. No one knows anything. In fact, no one even suspects anything. When the kidnappers had your wife call her school and say she was going away, they believed her.

“The two of you have had trouble in the past. If she felt threatened and told a bunch of people that you were the cause, they believed her. Being a SEAL has worked against you here. Hell, man, even her sounding nervous over the phone was considered understandable by people who think you guys should be kept under glass and only taken out in time of war.

“That Arzee asshole covered all the bases. We're not even sure that's the name of the guy who was here. Whoever he is, he's probably still alive, maybe not even hurt very badly. No hospital or emergency room in the area had an accident victim brought in. And if he is still alive, he's got you by the short hairs.”

“Damn,” Reaper said, “I know you're right, but what the hell am I going to do about this? Even if we wanted to give them what they want, he hasn't
called on this damned cell phone to demand anything more. I have never felt so fucking helpless in my life.”

Deckert didn't know what to say to his friend. He, too, felt helpless to do anything to affect the situation. Reaper had been working with Deckert for some time now, and the two men had become close friends. In the military, you learned how to judge and who you could trust. It was a skill you needed when your life could be on the line at any time.

As the two men sat thinking about the situation, they heard the sound of a motorcycle coming up the driveway. Without saying a word, Reaper and Deckert separated to be able to cover the maximum area inside the house.

Reaper headed into the kitchen where he could see down the hallway leading to the front doors of the house. Deckert moved into the retail area, and took up a position behind a counter. He extended his chair so that he was able to look out over the display case. Underneath the counter top, he held an eight-shot 12-gauge Remington 870 police shotgun with a folding stock. The shotgun was loaded with Tactical-brand #4 buckshot and had been fitted with a DuckBill choke on the muzzle.

The shot spread through the special DuckBill choke would completely cover the front door from Deckert's position. The twenty-seven copper-plated .24-inch hardened lead pellets in a single Tactical round could easily deal with most targets. The stock was folded up over the top of the receiver and barrel for compactness and ease of movement in a con
fined space. With his hands and arms powerful from work and rolling his wheelchair for years, Deckert could handle the big weapon as if it was a pistol.

In spite of his favorite Taurus revolver having been taken, Reaper was far from unarmed. In his hands he held a SIG P-220 semiautomatic pistol. The blued steel, double-action weapon was chambered for .45 ACP, the same round that Deckert preferred for his M1911A1.

There were eight Federal 230-grain Hydra-Shok hollowpoints loaded in the SIG's magazine, with one chambered and ready to fire. The special Hydra-Shok ammunition would expand as it struck a target, penetrating deeply and leaving a rat tunnel-sized hole behind it. Even if the man was wearing body armor, he would feel as if he was hit with a thrown cinder block. Neither Reaper nor Deckert intended being caught as they had the day before.

The sound of the approaching motorcycle stopped as the bike reached the house and the rider shut off the engine. A few moments later, the front door opened and a burly biker in dusty black leathers and heavy boots stepped into the house. He wore a helmet that completely covered his face and head. Pulling off his gloves, the man turned to the right and entered the retail shop.

Pulling his gloves off occupied the man's hands for the moment. But Reaper wasn't going to take any chances. For the moment he was going to stay at his more centralized location. There was no window behind Reaper's back and he could see the front door while still covering the other two entrances to
the house from the garage and the shop. He knew that Deckert would be more than ready to deal with their new customer.

In the retail store, Deckert watched the big man move easily and confidently into the room. He didn't recognize the man in his biker outfit and the shop was pretty out of the way for walk-in traffic. If they hadn't been waiting for something to happen, like somebody just walking in the door, he would have solidly locked up the front.

“Can I help you?” Deckert asked from his place behind the counter.

“Yeah,” the stranger said in a gruff voice still muffled by the helmet, “I'm looking for Ted Reaper. I was told I could find him here.”

“He's not available right now,” Deckert said. “What's your business with him, maybe I can help?”

“I don't think so, I'd just like to see him. It's kind of personal.”

“I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you told me,” Deckert said.

“No, I'd like to speak to him first,” the stranger said. As he spoke, he reached up to his jacket pockets with both hands.

As soon as the stranger's hands went up, Deckert raised his shotgun above the counter. He didn't have to turn the barrel, the weapon had been leveled at the biker from the moment he had come through the door.

“Stand real still,” Deckert said. There was a sharp twinge of pain across his back as he raised the Remington—a reminder of the two big bruises from the bullets of the day before. The muzzle of the shotgun looked even larger than it normally did with
the big DuckBill choke on it. The inch-wide V-slot of the choke added even more to the intimidation factor of the weapon.

But the big biker didn't seem intimidated to Deckert. He just froze in his movement.

“I wondered just what kind of cannon you had under that counter,” the big biker said. “I should have known an Army guy would need a big gun to make up for something.”

As Deckert stared at the man, the biker started to chuckle quietly. The sound quickly grew to a loud laugh, a very distinctive loud laugh.

“Ho, ho, ho,” the man roared. “You should see your face Deckert. Having that mean old squid working for you making you a little bit jumpy now?”

The sound of that laugh snapped Reaper's head toward the front of the shop. The voice had sounded a little familiar but muffled by the helmet, he hadn't been able to place it. But that laugh was something he would never forget.

Reaper strode down the hall and into the retail shop. He looked at the back of the biker, who had not moved since Deckert had raised the shotgun.

“Can I take my helmet off now?” the man asked.

“Go ahead,” Deckert said, not lowering the shotgun an inch.

As the black helmet came off the man's head, Reaper stepped to the side and looked into the face of an old Teammate and friend.

“Damn,” Reaper almost shouted, “Bear! What the hell are you doing here? God damn, but it's good to see you.”

“Damn, I should have known it was you,” Deckert
said as he lowered the weapon. “Sorry about that.”

He laid the shotgun on the counter top, the muzzle pointing away from Bear, but with the weapon still within reach.

“Hey, no problem, man,” Bear said with a big grin on his face. “I figured if you were just going to shoot me, you would have done it when I came through the door.”

Bear turned to Reaper while still holding his gloves and helmet in his hands. The two men wrapped their arms around each other in a powerful embrace, slapping each other's back as they did so. Standing back, Reaper took a look at his old partner.

“It is good to see you, Teammate,” Reaper said. “But you really picked a time to finally come around. I invited you out here last summer.”

“Well, I couldn't make it then,” Bear said. “I've been traveling around a lot since I retired from the Teams. But when Keith here gave me a call yesterday, I rode all night to get here.”

“So, Keith called you did he?” Reaper said looking at Deckert. “Did he tell you what was going on?”

“Just that there was trouble and you could use some help, was all,” Bear said. “It was not the most detailed phone call I've ever gotten, but it didn't have to be. He said you needed help and here I am. Things must be interesting. Or do you two greet all of your customers with guns in your hands? If you do, this place isn't going to be staying open long.”

With that, Bear stepped over to the counter and laid his helmet and gloves down. Sticking his hand out to Deckert, the two men shook hands with a strong grip.

“Real good to see you, man,” Bear said. “I hope having this old Navy chief here is working out for you.”

“He keeps life interesting, that's for sure,” Deckert said. “And just what in the hell were you reaching for a minute ago anyway?”

“Reaching for?” Bear said puzzled. “Oh, you mean when I was going to put my gloves in my pockets?”

“Yeah, with a gun pointed at you,” Deckert said.

“Just what in the hell is that thing on the end of that barrel anyway?” Bear said as he looked down at the shotgun on the counter. “It looks like something the Teams carried back in the Vietnam days.”

“It is, sort of,” Deckert said as he laid his hand on the weapon. “A reproduction, anyway. It's a DuckBill choke. Some friends of mine make them now, they're copies of the ones the SEALs carried in Vietnam. Change the pattern from a circle to an oval four times as wide as it is high.”

Deckert picked up the Remington and hung it by its sling from the back of his wheelchair. “Kind of turns the gun into a big chain saw. Makes it hard for us old guys to miss.”

“Not bad, even for an old guy,” Bear said.

Turning to Reaper, Bear continued. “Shoot man, if we're done handling guns, you got a beer around here someplace? I've got enough road dust in my throat to cover a highway.”

Reaper went over and locked the front door and Bear followed him to the rear of the house. Bear and Reaper sat down at the table in the dining nook next to the kitchen. Deckert had passed through the of
fice and into the kitchen, stopping at the refrigerator to pull out three long-necked bottles of Corona Extra beer. Wheeling himself over to the kitchen table, Deckert paused to take a bottle opener off a peg next to the refrigerator. He set the bottles and opener down onto the table.

“Hey,” Bear said as he reached for a bottle and the opener, “classy. All the modern conveniences. Bet you've even got indoor plumbing.”

“Well, it is a bit better than some of the places we've stayed at,” Reaper said as he opened a bottle. “Warmer at least. Dryer, too.”

“Okay,” Bear said. “We've said all the nice things and you showed me the wrong end of a great big gun. You officially have my interest. Now just what in the hell is going on here?”

“What did Keith here tell you?” Reaper asked.

“Nothing much,” Bear said. “Only that you were in trouble and needed some help. That was enough to bring me in. As far as details go, I don't know a damned thing.”

“And you didn't think to ask?” Reaper said.

“You would have?” said Bear.

“Okay, I can't argue much with that, brother,” Reaper said. “Well, the short version is that a guy showed up yesterday along with a pair of goons. They tried to strong-arm me into giving them a bunch of new guns that we've been developing here. Keith got caught up in the fallout.”

“Some butthead came in here to strong-arm you?” Bear said a little incredulously. “How the hell did he expect to get away with that?”

“He had some of his boys grab up Mary and
Ricky,” Reaper said quietly. “When he came out here, he already had them secured someplace. I went after him to try and get him to tell me where they were. I took out his wheels but he got away.”

“He's got Mary and Ricky?” Bear said with surprise evident in his voice. “So why don't you get the cops or the FBI on his ass? This place should be crawling with detectives right now.”

“The son of a bitch had Mary contact her boss and tell him that she was taking Ricky and getting out of town for a while. Seems everyone was able to believe that she would be afraid of an ex-SEAL husband.”

“Sorry, brother,” Bear said. “I had heard that you were having some family trouble—not that that's too unusual with Team guys. But why don't you go find this guy and beat the intel you want out of him?”

“Because when Reaper here tore the ass off that guy's Vette,” Deckert said, “he ducked into a marsh and disappeared. We're not even sure he's alive. The last thing he said to us was that we had seventy-two hours to build him some more guns. Since then, there haven't been any more demands made, no calls, nothing. When Reaper here thought I had been shot, he quit looking for the guy and came screaming-ass back here.”