Abducted: A Jake Badger Mystery Thriller (18 page)

Chapter 36

Monday Morning and Afternoon

As I pulled out of the
Durrani
driveway, Alex said, “So, what was your take on
that?”

“I'm not sure yet,” I said.
“I need to think about it a while. On the surface, I believe Mr.
Durrani
. But the wife... she bothers me. Lot of anger
bottled up in her.”

“Yeah, I noticed that, too,”
Alex said.

“What was your take on the
old man?” I asked.

“Same as yours. I think he
was straight with us. But they’re rich and their household help seem a little
out of place. That guy who answered the door and served the tea, he looked like
he would be more at home as a bouncer in a club.”

“Yeah, that occurred to me as
well.”

We had plenty of time to get
downtown to Homeboys. We parked and went in. It wasn't hard to spot
Emal
Wardak
. He was a small man
with a scraggly beard, a very large nose, and bushy eyebrows that met in the
middle. He was the only one in the place wearing traditional Afghani clothing.

He was alone at a table for
four. It was off to the side and no one else was sitting nearby. We went over
and sat, and it was obvious that Alex's presence was unsettling for
Emal
.

“I'm Jake Badger. This is FBI
Special Agent in Charge, Alex Watson.”

“I expected only you,”
Emal
said to me, his eyes darting furtively to Alex and
then quickly back to me.

“Alex is a trusted friend,
loyal to me.”

Emal
didn't respond, so Alex said, “If my
presence is going to inhibit the process here, I can go wait in the car.”

“That won't be necessary,” I
said, looking at
Emal
. “Like I said, Alex is a
trusted and loyal friend. He is helping me in this investigation.”

Emal
considered each of us for another moment
and then nodded. “Sure. Okay.” He took a bite of his tuna sandwich. It looked
good.

After he swallowed, he said, “So,
our mutual friend, Thomas, says someone has disappeared and you are concerned
that the Taliban may be involved.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I used to be a
marine sniper. In Afghanistan, working with Thomas, I took out three high value
targets. The people who took her sent a note suggesting that her disappearance
is related to my time in Afghanistan. I'm wondering if the Taliban is
attempting to get some payback for the three targets I took out.”

Emal
nodded. “Your reasoning is logical,” he
said. “And under different circumstances, what you have suggested might be
possible. But at the present time the Taliban cannot afford the luxury of
revenge for acts of war many years ago.”

“So you're saying the Taliban
isn't seeking revenge against me?”

“As far as I know, no.”

“As far as you know,” I said.

His eyes held mine for a
moment and he smiled. “Yes, as far as I know. But I know a great many things. I
have the confidence of a number of important Taliban leaders in this country.
They seek my advice on matters where they need to understand how Americans are
likely to react to what they do.”

“So you know what they're
involved in,” I said.

“I do ... except for one
radical splinter group. They are secretive and unpredictable.”

He took a bite of his
sandwich.

“The Taliban has a radical
element within its ranks?”

He smiled as he chewed. “Ironic.
Is it not? Radical radicals.”

“Yeah,” I said, “Ironic. So
does this group of radicals within the Taliban have a name?”

“They call themselves the
Hammer of Righteousness.”

“And how long has this group
been around?”

“Five years,”
Emal
said.

“My missions were seven years
ago. Would they involve themselves in a vendetta that predates their existence?”

“They might. That's what
makes them difficult to read. You don't know what they will do.”

“Do they have the kind of
intelligence resources that would allow them to watch me closely enough to know
whether or not I'm looking for my friend in the right places?”

He thought about that for a
moment. “This I cannot say for sure. But if I had to guess, I would say, if
they are determined to retaliate against you, they could do whatever was
necessary. To underestimate any part of the Taliban would be a mistake.”

“How can we find out?” I
asked. “I can't just sit and wait. I have to find out who took my friend.”

Emal
nodded. “I will make some inquiries and
get back to you.”

I thanked
Emal
and he left. Since it was lunchtime and since the food at Homeboys is good,
Alex and I ordered sandwiches: I had the roasted turkey; Alex had tuna.

After we'd each had a couple
of bites, Alex said, “I don't think it's the Taliban. At least not any kind of
a formal organizational response.”

I thought for a moment and
nodded. “I agree. I would think they'd have bigger fish to fry.”

“But an individual,” Alex
said. “An angry relative, maybe. An eye for an eye kind of thing.”

He was right. That made more
sense than an official Taliban response. But that complicated things even more.
Figuring out which angry relative of which target was seeking revenge against
me would be next to impossible.

Alex said, “You said there
were three CIA targets. The third one worth considering?”

“It's a long shot,” I said. I
explained about the two drug organizations, one in New York and one in Boston.

“Think Jessie might have some
insights?”

“Could be. I'll give him a
call.”

Chapter 37

Monday Afternoon

It was two by the time we got
back to my office. A storm was blowing in off the Pacific and the sky was
darkening. It would be raining in a while.
Rare for Southern
California in the month of August.

Wilson greeted us
enthusiastically, as he always does. Alex gave him a cookie from the stash
behind Mildred's desk.

“Anything going on that I
need to know about?” I asked Mildred, as she walked to my side of the office to
get a cup of coffee.

“A black SUV has driven by a
couple of times,” she said.

I looked from her to Alex and
then back to her. “Could you see who was driving?”

“No. Just a big black SUV.”

“You still got people on
Esposito?” I asked Alex.

“Yes,” he said, as he took
out his phone. He called his agent.

“I need an update on Esposito,”
Alex said into his phone. “Anyone leave earlier in the day? ... What color? ...
Get the plates? ... Okay, I want someone on Esposito all the time. And I want
two other agents on site to follow his people when they leave ... Yes. Let me
know when you've got your people in place.”

He clicked off and said, “Esposito's
been home all day. But three guys driving a black Tahoe with tinted windows
showed up about nine this morning and left ten minutes later.”

“Was the SUV you saw a Tahoe?”
I asked Mildred.

“It could have been Tahoe,”
she said. “They all look alike to me.”

“Did it have tinted windows?”

She closed her eyes,
picturing what she had seen.

“Yes.”

“That stupid little man,” I
said, more to myself than to anyone else.

“Some men can't live with the
humiliation of defeat,” Alex said.

“And death is a better
alternative?” I asked.

“For some it is,” Mildred said.

We both looked at her.

She shrugged. “I was married
to a cop for thirty years, and most of those years he was a homicide detective.”

I walked to my window and
looked out. Esposito wasn’t going to let it go. He was going to kill me or I
was going to kill him. So be it. Esposito would die.

I turned back to Mildred. “You
look a little tired,” I said. “You need a few days off. Why don't you take one
of those senior's cruises down to Acapulco?”

“Why on earth would I want to
be trapped on a boat with a bunch of old people?” she said, as if she smelled
something nasty. “If you're going to shut the office down while you go take care
of Esposito, I'm going to Vegas.”

“Fine,” I said. “Go to Vegas.
Two or three days.
Call me before you come back.”

She looked at me for a long
moment, reached up and put her hand gently on my cheek. She said, “Be careful,
Jake.” Then she turned and went back to her side of the office, gathered her
things and left.

“You should call Jessie,” Alex
said. “Can't let Esposito distract us anymore than necessary.”

I nodded. “You're right.”

Jessie Garcia is a DEA agent,
working out of San Diego, keeping an eye on the Mexican cartels. He's a former
Navy SEAL. He and I worked together a couple of times when the DEA and FBI
managed to put together a joint task force to bring down a powerful drug ring.

“Jake,” Jessie said, when he
answered his cell. “How can I help you?”

“I need to know about the
likelihood of a given scenario.”

“Okay. What’s the scenario?”

“The Dominick Ferro organization
in New York and the Reggie Murphy organization in Boston.”

“What about them?”

“Seven years ago, in Afghanistan,
the marines loaned me to the CIA. They had me take out a heroin producer. He
was the main supplier for the Ferro and Murphy organizations.”

“And so you want to know if
they are retaliating for that hit.”

“Yeah.”

“My guess would be no. But
let me make a call to a guy who knows more about them than I do. I'll get back
to you.”

“He's
gonna
get back to me,” I said to Alex as I put my cell away.

“Okay,” Alex said, “so we're
waiting for
Emal
and for Jessie to get back to us.
While we wait, shall we consider how to deal with Esposito?”

“I already have a plan,” I
said.

“Technically, he hasn't done
anything yet. He's just got some guys driving by.”

“Alex, we both know why
they're driving by. They're going to take a run at us and you know it.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“You got your Kevlar with
you?”

“In the trunk.”

“Probably ought to put it
on.” I said.

He went out to his car and
came back with his vest.

“What say we go to the gym
for a while?” he asked. “I don't know about you, but I’m feeling kind of
stressed.”

I didn't really want to go,
but I couldn't come up with a good reason not to.

“Clear our heads,” he added. “Maybe
we'll think of something that hasn't occurred to us yet.”

“All right. We need to drop
Wilson off at home. You got your stuff with you?”

“Also in the trunk.”

“We spent and hour and a half
at the gym lifting weights and doing combinations on the heavy bag. The guys in
the black Tahoe took a run at us in the gym parking lot as we were putting our
gym bags in the back of the Jeep. It came at us from the right. Two guys were
shooting from the front and rear passenger side windows—nine millimeters.
Shooting from a moving vehicle is harder than one might think. Several shots
thudded into my jeep. We dropped to the ground and drew our weapons as they
continued to fire at us. As the Tahoe came even with us, one round grazed my
shoulder and another hit Alex squarely. He went down. As the car sped by I came
up shooting. I put four into the back of the Tahoe. It went to the end of the
row, swung around to the left and went past us one row over, getting in
position for another pass. I had just a second or two to look at Alex. The shot
had hit him center mass, but he was wearing his vest. We'd both put them on
after we showered and dressed in the locker room.

“I'm okay,” he said. “Stings
like a bitch, though.” He got back into a crouch just as the Tahoe came
screaming up the row again. This time we were ready. I had four shots left in
my .357. Alex had fired two, so he had eight left in his .40. As the Tahoe got
to us, it stopped. The two shooters were firing as fast as they could. We
returned fire. A slug hit me in the side, but not hard enough to knock me off
balance. I put two rounds through the front passenger door just below the
window, and two through the window. The shooter pitched back and was gone from
view. Alex was firing into the back door and window. The second shooter
collapsed, one arm and his head hanging out the window. I expected the driver
to speed away, but he didn't.

We waited. The smell of
cordite hung heavy in the air and our ears rang from the nearly forty shots
that had been fired. I had one shot left in my eight-shot cylinder. I stood
slowly, my weapon pointed into the vehicle. The driver sat slumped into the
steering wheel. I kept my gun on the driver as Alex approached the vehicle. He
felt for a pulse in the neck of the shooter hanging out of the back window.

“No pulse,” he said.

He stepped past him and
looked carefully in the front passenger window. “This one’s got two in the gut,
one in the neck,” he said.

I walked around to the front
of the vehicle, gun still pointed at the driver.

Looking at the driver, Alex
said, “Driver took one in the side.”

I made my way around to the
driver’s side and opened the door. I felt for a pulse. None.

“Driver's dead,” I said.

Alex stepped back to the rear
window and lifted the head of the shooter.

“Jake,” he said.

I looked at him through the
vehicle.

“Esposito.”