Jake shrugged, entered the second van and returned with the small funnel-shaped parabolic microphone. “Here you go.”
Nick told Evans not to move until he and Matt returned, no matter what they heard in the house. Nick and Matt walked toward the limo house, then after they were out of range, they turned right and away from the house, down a side street. They doubled back toward the Johnson rental using a parallel street behind the house. Under the bright moon of the desert sky, they were careful to work within the shadows of shrubs and palm trees. When Matt peeked past a property line wall, he pulled his head back like a frightened turtle.
“It’s right there,” he said. “Give me the mike.”
Without exposing anything but his left hand, Nick crouched, pointed the cone toward the house and placed the miniature headset over his ears. At first he heard loud static, the rustling of trees, the sound of a car’s engine in the distance. He twisted a knob on top of the cone, adjusting its focus, narrowing its beam to the Johnsons’ house. He heard a man’s voice speaking a foreign language. Nick was fluent in Kurdish, Russian, Spanish and got along all right with several other Latin-based languages. His eyes widened when he heard an authoritative voice speaking Kurdish say, “Where is Bracco? I lost him.”
“Forget him,” another voice said. “He went to the other house.”
Nick went rigid when he heard, “Kill the brother and get out of here.”
Chapter 8
Hasan Bozlak peeled away the rug and yanked up on the trap door. He peered down into the dark tunnel. A simple string of lights illuminated the passageway. Working behind drawn curtains, Hasan was assigned four workers, mechanical drilling devices, and instructions on how to build the escape route. Twice a week the dirt was hauled from the backyard by a truck with a pool logo on its doors. A gate in the tall fence slid open and closed abruptly with each departure.
The American government had its law officers surrounding the decoy house while Hasan prepared to lead his team of Kurdish workers through the tunnel to a house on a street directly behind them. It was only sixty feet to the garage where a car was waiting to take them to Kharrazi.
He directed two of the men into the tunnel and was waiting for the final member of the team to execute the prisoner when he heard the strangest sound. The doorbell rang.
The two men in the tunnel also heard the doorbell. The three of them swung their automatic weapons from the strap on their shoulders and assumed an attack position. Hasan held an index finger to his lips and motioned for the men to spread out. He peeked out from the side of a curtain. Standing at the front door as casual as if he were delivering flowers, was Nick Bracco. Bracco didn’t appear to be expecting trouble. His hands were empty and loose at his side. Maybe the FBI was canvassing the area?
Hasan’s first instinct was to shoot. Kill the FBI agent and his brother. But too many years of following orders prevented him. The shooting would attract attention and cause the house to be invaded by FBI agents. There was a plan for the situation, which was just as deadly and allowed them more time to escape. In fact, Hasan had secretly hoped for an opportunity to use the alternate escape plan. It would send a necessary message to the Americans. The end of their cozy little lives was near. No one was safe in his homeland, why should America be immune from the danger?
Hasan stepped silently into the kitchen where a bearded man examined a syringe full of noxious liquid, flicking the syringe to remove excess air bubbles.
Phil Bracco sat motionless in a wooden chair in the middle of the room. His arms were tied behind him, his legs bound to the chair’s legs, and his mouth taped shut. His sleeve was rolled up in preparation for his silent death. As the man bent over to inject Phil’s arm, Hasan grabbed the man’s wrist.
“Leave him. We need him alive,” Hasan said.
The man gave a perfunctory shrug.
Hasan reached down and unfastened one of Phil Bracco’s legs from the chair. He leaned close to the prisoner’s ear and whispered, “Count to thirty, then make all the noise you wish.”
Nick Bracco trembled while he waited at the front door. There wasn’t a plan. There wasn’t time for one. He had to interrupt his brother’s execution. He banked on the fact that the terrorists inside might be concerned about gunshots causing attention. Matt was sent to get help while Nick shifted his weight from foot to foot, acting as innocent as possible. He caught himself wiping his sweaty palms on his pants and quickly placed his hands behind his back. Unarmed and harmless. Just checking with the neighbors, that’s all.
Suddenly, a light came to life from behind closed curtains. Then another blinked on from an upstairs window. To his left another slit of light escaped from a closed drape. The entire house was being lit up. Did he have the wrong house? He considered that for a moment, yet the door remained closed. He rang the bell again. Still no answer.
He heard the hushed tones of FBI agents and Hostage Rescue experts closing in from a distance. He didn’t dare turn and acknowledge their presence. He rang again, this time hearing a noise. A faint thumping, not rhythmic or in any cadence. Carefully, he held his ear to the door. Again the thumping from inside the house.
He slowly walked away from the house and headed for a clump of bushes where he knew Matt would be waiting. Once behind the cover of the foliage he asked Matt for the cone.
“I hear something inside,” Nick said. He slipped on the headphones and listened to the amplified sound through the cone. “Someone’s banging. . I can’t make it out. It’s not hard like steel, more like someone banging their fist on a wall.”
“We’ve got the place surrounded,” Evan’s said. “Let’s crash this party.” He looked at Matt, “How many do you think?”
“Five, maybe six,” Matt estimated.
Evans lowered his head and spoke into the miniature radio attached to his collar, “When I give the signal, you take the rear. We have the front.”
The team began their inspection from a window on the side of the house where the noise seemed to originate. Others were doing the same thing to each wall of the house. Jake positioned a slender black tube to the side of the window, where only a crease of light showed. The tube was attached to a video device that relayed the image to a handheld screen. With one hand holding the screen, Jake used his free hand to twist the fiber optic tube into position. It allowed Jake to scan the brightly lit kitchen. He maneuvered the tiny screen so Nick could see the image. The camera showed a man tied to a chair, swinging his leg wildly against the floor and the stove and anything else he could kick.
“Recognize him?” Jake asked.
Nick examined the image. It was definitely Phil. He was tied to a chair and swinging a free leg against the wall, thumping for attention. Nick realized that Phil was left alive for tactical reasons and it almost worried him more than seeing him dead. His brother’s survival was no oversight. He nodded to Jake. “It’s him.”
Quietly Evans spoke into his radio, “What do you see on the east side, Cliff?”
“Nothing,” a voice came back. “I don’t see a thing in either room.”
“What about the south side?” Evans said.
“It’s empty over here,” a different voice responded.
“North?” Evans asked.
“Zippo,” a third voice said.
Evans looked at Nick. “The bottom floor is clear. We’re going in.”
Nick couldn’t put it together, but he knew they were in danger.
Evans waved for his men to fall in behind him. They moved toward the back door. Nick followed. Everyone had guns drawn except for two of Evans men who stood facing each other, gripping a large door ram between them. They rocked the steel pole, preparing to smash in the door. Evans pressed the button on his radio and was about give the order when Nick held up his hand.