Dahl was never a man to assume anything. “What does that actually mean in mosque terminology?”
“What does it mean? It means get the hell in there and flush out at least one of Ramses’ cells.”
“Civilian activity?”
“Nothing much to speak of. But whoever is in there ain’t likely saying prayers. Search all the back rooms and underground chambers. And gear up. My guy’s not often wrong, and I trust his gut on this one.”
Dahl relayed the information and punched the coordinates into the GPS. As luck had it they were almost on top of the mosque and Smyth wrenched the wheel towards the curb.
“Providence,” Lauren said.
“The name I gave my old katana.” Kenzie sighed in memory.
Dahl tightened the buckles of his vest. “We ready? Same formation. We hit hard and fast, people. No quarter.”
Smyth switched the engine off. “No problem with me.”
Morning still greeted them as they climbed out and studied the mosque across the road. A red and white vent stood nearby, billowing steam. Situated at a junction, the building ran along the sides of both streets, its colorful windows and extended frontage a part of the community. Atop the building sat a small minaret, odd and almost flashy against the surrounding concrete facades. The off-street entry was through a pair of glass doors.
“We walk in,” Dahl said. “Now move.”
They headed across the road with hard purpose, stopping traffic with outstretched hands. A pause now could cost them everything.
“Big place,” Smyth commented. “Hard to find a determined group inside there.”
Dahl contacted Moore. “We’re on site. Do you have anything else for us?”
“Yeah. My man assures me the cell meets underground. He’s close to being accepted, but not close enough to help us today.”
Dahl relayed the news as they crossed the other sidewalk and pushed on the front doors of the mosque. With senses hyper-aware they inched inside, eyes adjusting to the slightly dimmer light. White walls and ceiling glared back, along with gold light fittings and a red and gold carpet, decorated with patterns. This all nestled beyond a reception area, where a man eyed them with open suspicion.
“Can I help you?”
Dahl produced his SPEAR ID. “Yes, my man, you can. You can lead us to your secret underground entrance.”
The receptionist appeared nonplussed. “Is this a joke?”
“Move aside,” Dahl held out a hand.
“Hey, I can’t let you—”
Dahl picked the man up by the front of his shirt and set him on top of the counter. “I believe I said — move aside.”
The team hurried past and into the main body of the mosque. The area was empty and the doors at the back locked. Dahl waited for cover from Smyth and Kenzie and then kicked them twice. Wood splintered and panels fell to the floor. At that moment there came noises and the sounds of scuffling from the foyer behind. The team fell into position, covering the area. Three seconds passed and then the face and helmet of a SWAT commander popped around the sidewall.
“You Dahl?”
The Swede grunted. “Yes?”
“Moore sent us. SWAT. We’re here to back your play.”
“Our play?”
“Yeah. New Intel. You’re in the wrong friggin’ mosque, and they’re dug in pretty deep. It’s gonna take a frontal assault to swill ’em out. And we’re aiming for legs.”
Dahl didn’t like it, but understood the procedure, the etiquettes of operating here. And it didn’t hurt that SWAT already had a better location.
“Lead the way,” Dahl said.
“We are. The correct mosque is across the street.”
“Across the…” Dahl cursed. “Bloody GPS bollocks.”
“They’re quite close together.” The officer shrugged. “And that English cursing is heartwarming, but shall we get our friggin’ asses moving?”
Minutes ticked by as the teams mingled and formed a raiding party as they re-crossed the road. Once assembled not another moment was wasted. A full-scale assault began. Men attacked the front of the building, battering the doors and spilling into the foyer. A second wave passed through them, fanning out and searching for reference points they had been told of. Once a blue door was found, a man positioned an explosive charge against it and detonated. An explosion radiated out, the blast much wider than Dahl expected, but of a radius SWAT had clearly planned for.
“Booby trapped,” the leader told him. “There will be more.”
The Swede breathed a little easier, already knowing the value of undercover agents and now remembering to pay tribute to them. Undercover was among the most treacherous and life-changing of all police methods. It was a rare and valuable asset who could infiltrate the enemy and thus save lives.
SWAT eased inside a mostly destroyed room, then angled toward a far door. This stood open and covered what was clearly the entrance to a cellar. As the first man approached gunfire sounded from below and a bullet ricocheted through the room.
Dahl glanced at Kenzie. “Any ideas?”
“You’re asking me? Why?”
“Maybe because I picture you having a room like this of your own.”
“Don’t beat around the fucking bush, Dahl, will you? I am not your pet smuggler. I am here only because… because—”
“Yes, why are you here?”
“I really wish I knew. Maybe I should go…” She hesitated, then sighed. “Look, maybe there’s another way inside. A clever criminal wouldn’t go down there without a solid escape route. But with actual terrorist cells? Who knows with such suicidal bastards?”
“We don’t have dithering time,” the SWAT leader said, crouching nearby. “It’s rollerball for these guys.”
Dahl watched the team take out stun grenades even as he considered Kenzie’s words. Purposely harsh, he believed they hid a caring heart, or at least the shattered vestiges of one. Kenzie needed something to help piece those parts back together — but how long could she search without losing all hope? That ship might already be wrecked.
SWAT signaled they were ready and then unleashed a crazy form of hell by way of the wooden stairwell. As the grenades bounced down and then burst the teams stepped forward, Dahl jostling the commander for pole position.
Smyth squeezed past. “Move your asses.”
Running downwards they were instantly met with gunfire. Dahl caught a glimpse of a dirt floor, table legs and crates of weapons before he deliberately slithered down four risers in a row, gun out, returning fire. Smyth twisted before him, rolling to the bottom and crawling to the side. The SWAT team pounded behind, crouching and unflinching in the line of fire. Bullets were returned shot for shot, deadly salvos lacing the basement and taking chunks out of the thick walls. When Dahl hit the dirt at the bottom he immediately evaluated the scenario.
Four cell members were down here, which gelled with what they had seen of the previous cell. Three were on their knees, ears bleeding, hands held to their foreheads, whilst the fourth appeared unaffected and fired hard at his attackers. Perhaps the other three had shielded him, but Dahl instantly picked out a way of gaining a live captive and sighted on the shooter.
“Oh no!” The SWAT leader inexplicably burst past him.
“Hey!” Dahl called. “What—”
In the midst of the worst kind of hell only those who have experienced it before can act without pause. The SWAT leader had clearly spotted a sign, something recognizable to him, and considered only the lives of his colleagues. As Dahl squeezed his own trigger he saw the terrorist drop a primed grenade from one hand and throw down his weapon with the other.
“For Ramses!” he cried.
The cellar was a death-trap, a small room to where these creatures had lured their prey. Other traps lay about the room, traps that would be triggered by a shrapnel explosion. Dahl shot the terrorist between the eyes even as he knew the gesture was merely academic — it would not save them.