"Come on, Special Agent Bozeman, give Richard a chance. He wants to cooperate." He turned back to Hemmings. "Don’t you, Richard?"
"Why should I? I haven’t done anything."
"We’re wasting time." Monroe spoke for the first time. His voice was quiet, menacing. Like black ice. Like a promise of pain. "Give him to me. The van’s waiting outside."
"Richard, Richard." Carlton shook his head and sighed. Carter thought it was a little theatrical. "Don’t you understand? Haven’t you heard of rendition? If you don’t play ball, you’re going to a place where the rules are different. You won’t like it. No one will know where you are. Who knows when we might get a chance to talk again? Maybe never."
Carter watched it sink in.
"I’ll ask you again," Carlton said, "only once. Will you cooperate?"
Hemmings looked at Monroe, who smiled at him. It wasn’t a nice smile.
"I’ll tell you what, Richard," Carlton said. "We'll leave you in here for a few minutes by yourself. Why don’t you think about it? Talk to us here, I’ll make sure there’s consideration for you when you’re sentenced."
"Sentenced?"
"Oh, yeah, you’re definitely going away. We’ve got everything we need. But you can make it a lot easier on yourself by helping us out now. A lot easier. Otherwise, we’ll give you to him."
He nodded at Monroe in his dark suit. Monroe looked at Hemmings with a cold stare that bored right through those shades.
"Then there isn’t any consideration."
Bozeman and Carlton stood and left the room with Monroe.
Outside, they watched Hemmings put his head in his hands.
"We've got him," Carlton said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Hemmings' recorded testimony convinced a judge to issue the warrants. The Bureau had a free hand to raid the mosque. Selena, Carter and Monroe were in a black Crown Vic. Bozeman and Carlton were up ahead, parked in a black Suburban.
In front of the Suburban was the FBI SWAT van. The van was rectangular, big, unmarked, painted black and reinforced with stainless steel. It looked like it had just come from a fresh tune up with steroids. The vehicles were out of sight of the mosque, but Carter knew someone in the neighborhood would have spotted them by now and made it to the mosque to warn them.
They were along as armed observers and once again told to stay out of the way. They wore armored vests, courtesy of Monroe. No one gave them a neat jacket with FBI printed on it, like you saw in the movies. The Feds hadn't wanted them there at all.
"The papers will love this," Carter said. "The ACLU and every Muslim in the country is going to scream persecution. Any bets tonight’s lead will be about heavy handed profiling by the government?"
"Maybe here in California." Monroe adjusted his vest. "It’ll play better in other parts of the country."
The SWAT commander was a large, black man named Johnson. On their headsets they heard him say, "Everyone ready? Okay, let’s get this done. My wife’s waiting dinner. You all know what to do. Keep your heads down."
"Showtime." It was Monroe.
"I have a bad feeling about this," Selena said.
The van accelerated and tore around the corner, followed by Bozeman and Carlton, with Monroe close behind. The van braked hard in front of the mosque. The SWAT team boiled out of the back. They were dressed in black, helmeted, armored and armed to the teeth with MP-5s, stun grenades and a variety of other weapons. No one in their right mind would mess with them. They burst through the doors of the mosque and disappeared inside. Carter heard shouts.
Across the street pedestrians stopped and stared. Selena, Nick and Monroe waited. Then they heard the sound of automatic weapons. Two kinds. The fast, ripping sound of MP5s. The distinctive bark of AKs. Once you heard an AK, you never forgot what it sounded like.
"Shit," Monroe said.
The three of them got out of the car and ran into the mosque, pistols ready.
The bottom part of the building formed a large, open space. The floor was carpeted in a red and blue and yellow geometric pattern. Lamps of cut glass hung at measured intervals from a high ceiling supported by rows of wooden columns. A long green banner scrolled with Arabic letters in white hung behind a dais scattered with a few cushions.
The raid was timed between prayers. The large room was empty except for Carlton and Bozeman and a SWAT Team member lying face down on the floor. Blood pooled under his body. Two dead bodies in loose garments lay in contorted positions across the room.
Carter heard more shouting and shots from upstairs.
A man came from a hall on the left, firing an AK. There was no cover, only the tall columns. Carlton spun and fell. Carter pointed his H-K and pulled the trigger fast, three times. The shooter went down.
Another man appeared from the opposite side, AK held high against his cheek. A sledgehammer blow hit Nick and drove him into Selena and knocked them both to the floor. Monroe and Bozeman were shooting. The man with the AK flew backwards flat against the wall and slid down. His loose white shirt turned red with blood.
A booming explosion rocked the building. Smoke and dust billowed down the stairs. Part of the second floor came down in a cascade of plaster and wooden beams. A body in black hurtled through the air, thrown from above. For a moment there was silence. Then shouts and screaming.
The room was full of dust and smoke. Nick's shoulder hurt like hell. He couldn't lift his left arm. Selena got to her feet. Carlton lay crumpled on the floor, Bozeman sat up, shaking his head. Nick couldn't hear. Monroe and Selena were saying something. Nick shook his head, pointed to his ears. They helped him to his feet and walked him outside.
There was a wide splotch in his armor where the AK round had glanced off. A medic helped him out of the vest. His hearing was coming back.
"Carlton," he said.
Monroe shook his head.
Four hours later, Selena and Carter sat with Monroe at a dark table in a dark bar, drinking whiskey. Neat. Doubles. Johnson and two men with him were dead. Four others on his team were dead. Carlton was dead. Thirteen civilians were dead. The Imam’s head had landed in an alley across the street, still wearing his turban. Something had separated the head from the body and turned it into a high kick soccer ball. That told Nick what had happened.
"Suicide vest?" he asked.
"The son of a bitch had it under his robes." Monroe wasn’t wearing his shades. His eyes were tired and sad. "It could have been worse."
"It’s a fucking disaster," Nick said. "How could it have been worse?" His left arm was in a sling. His shoulder felt like someone had soaked it in super glue and nailed the bones together for good measure. He couldn't lift his arm higher than his waist.
"It would have been worse if we’d been killed. It would have been worse if we hadn’t recovered any intel. But we did."
"Was it worth it?" Selena asked.
"We’ll know more tomorrow."
"Eight of our guys," she said.
Monroe drained his glass. "It's a war. People die in wars." He looked at his watch. "I haven’t slept in twenty-three hours. I’m going to my hotel."
"What’s next?" Carter asked.
"Briefing. 0900 at the FBI field office."
"Will they have anything new?"
"Those guys were their own. They’ll have something."
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Bausari contemplated the view from the apartment window. So much water. So unlike the vast sands of the Egyptian Sahara, where he'd spent his childhood, before he realized Allah's will.
It was time. The signs were obvious to anyone who was a true student of the Book. Even the Infidels. They spoke of it, but their blindness to the teachings of the Messenger and their belief in a false messiah kept them from seeing the truth.