Brady Hawk 07 - State of Play Read online

  “Got to have a savings plan,” Alex said.

  “Well, be careful with that. It’s a good way to get yourself killed. And that defeats the purpose of saving, doesn’t it?”

  Alex nodded sheepishly.

  Hawk let out an exasperated breath. “Look, we need to make a move now on Bozeman and eliminate him altogether.”

  “That wouldn’t be such a good idea,” Blunt warned. “Everybody and their brother is going to be looking for you, waiting for the two of you to return to Washington. And when you get there, they’re going to pounce on you.”

  “We’ve avoided them before; we can avoid them now,” Hawk argued.

  “It’s not that simple,” Blunt said. “We’ve poked the bear, and the last thing you want to do is enter the capital with every agency on high alert looking for you two.”

  “When have they ever not been looking for us?” Hawk countered.

  “I’m with the senator on this one,” Alex said as she stared at her feet. “I think it’d be wise to take a little break. Let someone else shoulder some of the heat.”

  Slack-jawed, Hawk stared at her. “This is our chance to change things, expose some of that corruption we’ve been talking about.”

  “Absolutely. I can’t wait to do that. Don’t you think I want to teach Angela Brentwood a thing or two?”

  “Is that the reporter who screwed you over when she was covering your ouster?” Hawk asked.

  She nodded. “The one and only. She made me seem like a malcontent trying to make a money grab. And nothing could’ve been further from the truth—and she even knew it.”

  “Look, we’ve all got personal scores we’d like to settle in that city, but we must maintain our focus,” Blunt said. “And for the time being, that means avoiding Washington where more people are looking for us at every turn than anywhere else.”

  Hawk closed his eyes and shook his head. “I disagree. I think we should strike now. If they want a fight, let’s not wait for them to come to us.”

  “This isn’t a democracy,” Blunt said tersely. “We’re going to wait before going back to Washington—that’s final. And don’t get any cute ideas, Hawk.”

  Blunt’s phone buzzed, and he looked at the number on the screen. “I need to take this,” he said before shuffling off to another room.

  Alex turned to Hawk. “Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of defying Blunt again, because I’m not on board with any plan that sends us back to Washington so soon.”

  Hawk sighed. “I’m not going back to Washington without his blessings, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  She slapped his knee. “Good. That means we can spend more time together here exploring this beautiful countryside.”

  He stood and wagged his finger at her, shaking his head as well. “Don’t think that just because I agreed not to go back to Washington that means I’m going to stay here. It’s the lap of luxury—that much is for sure. But we still have plenty to do out in the real world. I’d feel like I was lazy if I was just sitting around here, taking a short vacation.”

  Alex stood, too and eyed Hawk closely. “Look, I know we haven’t talked much about . . .” She paused and peered into the hallway to see if Blunt was around. When she noticed he wasn’t, she continued. “The kiss. But we really need to.”

  “Alex, I want to talk about this, I really do—just not right now. Can this wait?”

  “What are you waiting for? I’m right here. There’s no time like the present, right?”

  “I—I just don’t know if I’m ready yet. And with us working together, I don’t want us to jeopardize each other because we’re together.”

  Alex rolled her eyes and waved him off. “That ship sailed a long time ago, and for both of us. Don’t try to play coy with me.”

  “I won’t deny that, but do we need to make things even more complicated than they have to be?”

  “Perhaps not. But I’m fine with the complications if it results in something more.”

  Hawk took a deep breath. “Let me think about it some more, okay? Just give me some time.”

  She nodded.

  They both jumped when they heard something slam against the wall and a string of expletives fly from Blunt’s mouth.

  CHAPTER 4

  BLUNT SLIPPED INTO HIS STUDY and poured a glass of scotch before answering his phone. He turned on the speaker and eased into his plush executive chair behind his desk. After a long pull on his drink, Blunt finally spoke.

  “Glad to hear from you, General,” Blunt said.

  “You too, Senator,” came the reply. It was General Van Fortner from Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti. “Where exactly are you these days?”

  “In a safe place,” Blunt answered. “Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

  “Fair enough,” Fortner said.

  Blunt had known Fortner for a long time and never had a reason to hold the general suspect, but Blunt stopped making assumptions long ago. His distrust toward people was one well cultivated by numerous blindsides and betrayals. But he could be softened up with a persuasive word, though he never fully dropped his guard. Fortner seemed sincere and honest, but Blunt knew that he and the old general didn’t adhere to the same strict standard of scrutiny when it came to sizing up others and their motives. Yet Blunt struggled to see any benefitting motive from Fortner, other than to impress his superiors and win a more lucrative post at a base elsewhere. Even the notion seemed absurd to Blunt, but he wasn’t willing to dismiss any thought given his current circumstances.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call, General?” Blunt asked.

  “How secure is this line?” Fortner shot back.

  “As secure as a line can get.”

  “In that case, I’m calling regarding a little business deal I was hoping we might be able to strike up.”

  “And what kind of business is that?”

  “The kind where you win and get what you’re after.”

  Blunt remained silent for a moment, pensively considering all of Fortner’s words. “What’s in it for you?”

  “A pat on the back, the satisfaction of a job well done.”

  “That seems like hardly any motivation for you.”

  Fortner laughed softly. “I’m not a mercenary like you, Senator. I do this for the love of my country.”

  Blunt grunted. “Don’t question my patriotism.” He paused. “Though my loyalty rests with true patriots.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re driving at.”

  “Don’t worry, General. It’ll all be clear to everyone soon enough.”

  “So, are you willing to help us out or not? I need to get an answer for the committee I’m serving on.”

  Blunt took another pull on his drink and shifted in his chair. “My interest is piqued. Tell me about the mission.”

  “Have you ever heard of Malik Bashir?”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “The Missile Man?”

  “I’ve heard of him before,” Blunt said.

  “Malik Bashir is the name of The Missile Man—at least that’s what military intelligence says. Nobody has ever photographed him or even knows what he looks like. The man is a ghost.”

  “And Bashir is up to no good?”

  “Military intelligence intercepted a call between him and Karif Fazil.”

  “That’s definitely a dangerous combination.”

  “It’s worse than you can imagine, too. On the call, Bashir and Fazil reached a tentative deal. Bashir has agreed to sell two dozen short-range subsonic cruise missiles and several guidance systems to Fazil.”

  “What the hell is he going to do with all those missiles?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine at this point, which underscores why we need to stop this exchange before it happens in about three weeks.”

  Blunt drained the last of his drink and slammed the glass on his desk. “Where are the Saudis on this?”

  “Given the present situation of o
ur relations with them, top brass thinks it’s best that we leave them out of the loop on this one.”

  Blunt rolled up his sleeves and thought for a moment. “This won’t go over too well with them if we don’t loop them in.”

  “Do you honestly think Bashir doesn’t have one of his guys on the inside with the Saudi military? It’d be like setting a death trap for our team. Besides, if the Saudis have to admit that The Missile Man is being harbored in their country, they could face tremendous backlash from the international intelligence community. They’d refuse to help on principle alone.”

  “You make some good points. So, what do you want us to do?”

  “It’s more about who we want rather than what, which must be obvious by this point—we want Hawk.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Central Brāhui Range, Pakistan

  KARIF FAZIL SAT ON THE GROUND, his legs crossed and arms extended. The cave portion of his Pakistani hideout was left to add to the mystique of his terrorist persona. He used the space primarily for photo propaganda, disseminating pictures taken there with his key assistants. Keeping up appearances of a ragtag organization that was severely underfunded was a must if he intended to attract more recruits to the cause of Al Hasib. If people believed Al Hasib could challenge—and sometimes deliver fatal blows—the Americans while living in dire conditions, anything was possible with more soldiers and more resources.

  Fazil slowly took in deep breaths, exhaling at the same rate. He needed to re-focus and get back to the central mission of Al Hasib. Too much time had been wasted with personal vendettas, all of which appeared to have failed. There was a war to be won, and it wasn’t with Brady Hawk; it was with the hearts and minds of the world. The sooner he achieved this objective, the sooner he could begin to seize the real power he sought.

  When he finished with his meditation, he ventured to the mouth of the cave and stared down into the valley below, a meandering river surrounded by vibrant vegetation. The scene was a metaphor for what he truly aspired to, both for himself and for all like-minded devoted followers of Islam. But it wasn’t a vision shared by others. Yet if he was going to accomplish what he wanted, blood needed to be spilled. And he wasn’t counting on it being his own.

  He closed his eyes and pictured the water below as blood red then smiled.

  The blood of my enemies. I will make it so.

  He opened his eyes and ducked back inside the cave, walking deeper until he reached a door barely visible from the entrance. Upon entering, he punched in a security code and watched as the opening to the cave closed automatically and a series of beeps signaled the facility was once again armed.

  Inside, Fazil’s mountain hideout stood in stark contrast to the primitive conditions of the cave. The exquisitely designed rooms looked as if they’d been crafted by Marmol Radziner, and certainly not anything one would expect to see in Pakistan, much less in a terrorist hideout built into the side of a mountain. However, it cost every bit as much as it appeared to as Fazil nearly exceeded his budget twice over in order to keep quiet the locals who assisted with the construction. Yet despite any potential leaks, Fazil felt confident that his bunker could sustain a relentless attack from anything any military could lob at him.

  “Let Washington come and get me,” he said with clenched jaw as he looked around at his surroundings.

  A man entered the room and then almost immediately apologized. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you were with someone.”

  Gesturing for the man to enter, Fazil shook his head and refused to acknowledge an audible conversation had even taken place with himself.

  “What is it?” Fazil asked.

  “Several of the men asked that I come and find you,” he explained. “They wanted to make sure that you were watching the address from the U.S. President.”

  “That’ll be all,” Fazil said, pointing toward the door.

  Fazil snatched the remote off the coffee table and turned on the nearest television. When the image came to life on the screen, Fazil sat down and watched President Michaels seated comfortably behind his desk in the Oval Office.

  My fellow American citizens, I come to you today with a message, not of fear, but of hope. The men who desire to make our lives more difficult by lobbing bombs at us both here and abroad will be defeated. We will not let them break our spirits. And we will send them a message, one that resonates with all Americans—and comes across loud and clear for those purveyors of evil who seek destruction upon the greatest nation in the world today.

  In recent days, our threat level has risen to orange. Our intelligence experts believe an attack on American soil is imminent due to chatter. And I want you to know we are endeavoring to ensure that such attacks never materialize. In the end, all their talk will be little more than bluster and bravado as the brave men and women who fight to keep this country safe prevail in keeping their evil plans at bay.

  Al Hasib is not long for this world as American military and intelligence forces work to protect all of us from ever having to relive those malicious attacks that changed all our lives on September 11. Their plans will be thwarted, and the whole world will be safe from their terror.

  Fazil hurled the remote control at the wall and screamed out a slew of curses.

  “I will show you, Mr. President,” Fazil said aloud, pointing at an image of Michaels replaying on the screen. “I will crush your spirit and make your world as unsafe as it’s ever been. And I won’t stop until you realize the error of your ways and either acquiesce to Islam or absorb a bullet in your brain.”

  Omar Totah, one of Al Hasib’s top lieutenants, rushed into Fazil’s room along with several others.

  “Did you see it?” Totah asked.

  Fazil nodded.

  “What are we going to do about this?”

  Fazil seethed, his face quivering as he considered what he would say next. “We’re going to make him wish he’d never made that promise. We’re going to bomb that phony American president into oblivion with a barrage of cruise missiles. He will never know what hit him.”

  “And how are we going to do this?”

  Fazil grinned. “It’s time we talked and I fill you in on our next big mission, one that will require all our resources.”

  “How are you going to purchase the kind of firepower necessary to make a dent in America’s interior?”

  Fazil held up his index finger on one hand while he started to type in a combination of letters and numbers on the device in the center of the table. Seconds later, a screen descended from the ceiling and the image appeared of a man sitting in a room surrounded by computers.

  “Meet Daaneesh, our new cyber expert,” Fazil said.

  “How can we trust him?” Totah asked.

  Fazil typed in a series of numbers on the device again, and the screen split with Daaneesh on one side and a spreadsheet on the other.

  “Let me direct your attention to the right hand side where you will see our new financials.”

  A collective gasp went up around the table.

  “Does that say what I think it says?” another lieutenant asked.

  Fazil nodded. “This was all thanks to Daaneesh’s hack into the Bank of London last week.”

  “How come we never heard about this hack? That should have made the news. Are you sure this isn’t some trick?” Totah asked.

  “I called to confirm with our bank, and it’s verified. And you never heard of the hack because the Bank of London wouldn’t want word of their weak cyber security to get out. It would devastate their business.”

  Fazil stood up and began to pace around the room, his fingers steepled and pressed against his lips as if he were pensively considering his next words.

  “In light of this, I believe it’s safe to assume that Daaneesh’s loyalties aren’t to be questioned,” Fazil said as he continued pacing. “Now, without this new influx of resources, we wouldn’t have even been able to contact The Missile Man. But this kind of money makes us a serious threat to con
tend with.”

  “And you’ve already spoken with The Missile Man?” Totah asked.

  A slight smile spread across Fazil’s face. “He’s readying our order as we speak. And after we have our hands on these missiles in less than three weeks, we’re going to pay our little friend President Michaels a visit—and show him that we will not be intimidated by his bluster. And this time, we won’t fail. We’re going to make sure he never forgets the name Al Hasib.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Washington, D.C.

  THE PUBLIC PARKING GARAGE off 22nd and K Street wasn’t Harry Bozeman’s first selection for a meeting location, but it met all his pre-requisites. Single access point? Check. Lower than average clearance? Check. Electronic interference? Check. Security camera gaps? Check.

  Despite Bozeman’s association with the president, Bozeman still feared an FBI tail. If anyone suspected he was colluding with the leader of the free world and things went sideways, it could be problematic. The third floor of the parking deck helped Bozeman control the environment and ensure that no one could monitor his activities without him noticing.

  His phone buzzed with a text message asking if the site was clean. He affirmed that it was, and five minutes later, the headlights of a black Yukon carrying his appointment flashed across the windshield.

  The tinted window rolled down, and Katarina Petrov appeared from the shadows.

  “Get in,” she said.

  Bozeman scanned the parking lot once more before he joined Petrov in her car.

  “How are things on Pennsylvania Avenue?” she asked while looking down at her gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  Bozeman studied her for a moment. “Nervous, but stable.”

  She turned and looked at him. “The only acceptable answer is under control. Do I make myself clear?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  Petrov removed her gloves, revealing scarred knuckles. She rubbed her hands together for a moment before speaking. “We cannot afford to have any hiccups as it pertains to the Presidency of the United States. It is vital that Michaels remains in his position. He’s become a vital asset for us, and one we can ill-afford to lose.”