Terminal Rage (20 page)

“Listen up men—we
’
re heading into an unsecured civilian location with stratospheric crime levels. It
’
s a public park. Local law enforcement is
not
providing us cover today. And we have no idea who or what we
’
ll be going up against. The situation can get ugly fast. Navy guys,
y
’
all
are in protective gear, right?”

“Affirmative.” Edmondson answered for the rest of his crew, while keeping his eyes on the controls.

“I want you in the bird at all times on standby for evac. Agent Smythe will stay with you to ensure his subjects remain restrained until the exchange.”

Smythe wasn
’
t thrilled about this lineup and wanted to object but decided to give the commander his space to do the briefing.

“These two men here, who you can call Mr. Brown and Mr. Viper, will protect the perimeter of the Knighthawk at all times.” He pointed to two of his men. “This gentleman here, who you can call Mr. Zeta, and I will approach the target and do the switch. Navy guys, if we come under fire, or if this gets out of hand, evacuate immediately. Do not—I repeat, do not—engage in combat. We can take care of ourselves and the hostage on the ground, but there can be no trace of you here if this spirals out of control. Agent Smythe, I want you in an IOTV and helmet at all times.” Mr. Zeta, who had carried Madi from the tarmac, handed Smythe a camouflaged bulletproof vest and protective head gear.

The copilot turned to the Delta Force commander. “And what do we call you, sir?”

“You can call me George. Curious George.” Smythe could see a smirk dying to escape from George
’
s lips, which began spreading to everyone else in the chopper but the Jordanians. A brief eruption of laughter among the Americans helped reduce the tension in the chopper by a few degrees.

Smythe wondered how many aliases these guys had to go through, and how much fun they had with that. He
’
d been with these men since the early morning and he
’
d also been given their aliases. But he had been so tense he hadn
’
t committed any of them to memory. This time though, he wanted to remember their names because if they came under attack during the prisoner exchange, getting their attention could be a matter of life or death.

Smythe took George aside. “I need to come in with you when you get the hostage. Mr. Zeta can stay in the chopper and hold the prisoners instead of me. With all due respect to you and your team, sir, my brief requires me on the front line.”

George looked hard at him. Smythe knew his actions at the prison had earned him the right to make that request. When they had first met inside the operations room of the south camp in
Sharm El Sheikh, George had sized him up, probably assuming Smythe was nothing more than a Bureau hack he wouldn
’
t want by his side if they came under deadly fire.

“Zeta stays by my side at all times. But you can come with us, Agent Smythe, if that
’
s what you need to do. We
’
ll approach the target as a three-man unit.” George looked at Edmondson and the rest of the crew. “I have full faith the Navy men can handle the prisoners on their own.”

“Hell, yeah!” the Knighthawk crew erupted in unison.

Edmondson looked at Smythe with a flight update: “We touch down in T minus 90 seconds. So far, no birds are tagging us, Agent Smythe. We
’
re all clear.”

The Parco Scampia was a massive, capsule-shaped park in the middle of a gang-infested area in northern Naples. Built in the sixties, it was as uninspired in its design and deficient in its community function as the larger suburb in which it was built for. Smythe remembered the name of the park. It had been the scene of a bloody feud in 2004 between the reigning Di Lauro clan and a splinter group. On any given day, the Parco Scampia was a hot spot for illicit activities under cover of large grey elm trees in the southwestern end of the park. Small-time drug transactions, prostitution, and gay cruising.

The sky was relentless now, with thick strands of endless rain and frequent bouts of lightning. The Knighthawk landed five minutes ahead of the deadline on a paved, square-shaped portion of the northeastern tip of the park, as instructed by Seth. It was Sunday morning and the park was abandoned.

Smythe got on the phone with Vlasic in New York and gave her a quick update on their position. When he hung up, George ordered complete silence inside the Knighthawk, as well as a ban on radio and cell phone communication. Outside, Brown and Viper stood vigil, forming a protective shield around the perimeter of the Knighthawk.

Six minutes after the deadline, and the kidnappers had yet to show up at the designated meeting point.

“Are you sure we
’
re in the right place?”

Smythe nodded to Edmondson although he was now uncertain himself. He turned to the Delta Force Commander.
“Shall I call New York again?”

George held his finger to his lips. His eyes widened as he whispered, “They
’
re here. They
’
re watching us.”

Through the pouring rain and clashes of thunder, Smythe could barely hear the chugging sound of an approaching vehicle. He peered through the rain to see a white van with dark windows approaching from the Viale della Resistenza ring road that wrapped around the park. When it reached the western entrance, it veered to the right and then drove into an empty parking lot painted in red and white stripes like someone had stretched out a giant swirly lollipop on the ground.

The van stopped for about twenty seconds with the engine still running before it chugged along. It reached the edge of the parking lot and then slowed down for a beat, as if the driver was assessing whether his vehicle could make it onto the paved portion of the park, which was about a foot lower. After some hesitation, whoever was driving the van took the plunge and proceeded until the van came to a stop about fifty feet away from the Knighthawk.

For a few minutes nothing happened. Delta operator Brown was frozen in position in front of the Knighthawk with his rifle aimed at where the driver of the van would be. His buddy, Viper, stood with his back to the rear of the helicopter.

Smythe didn
’
t blink, his eyes fixed on the vehicle in front of them. After a few minutes of standoff, the headlights of the van were flashed a couple of times.

George spoke to Brown over a closed-circuit radio. “Scan the vehicle.” Brown lowered his gun and advanced to the vehicle with tight shoulders and a cautious gait. He pulled out a small device from his pocket and raised it up towards the windscreen.

Smythe touched George on the shoulder to get his attention and whispered, “What
’
s he doing?”

“Scanning for explosives.”

Brown moved the device from left to right to declare his intention to sweep the van to those inside. The headlights were flashed twice again, in seeming acquiescence. When Brown was done with his checks, he held his thumb up to the men back in the chopper, then returned to his position in front of the Knighthawk.

Smythe sighed deeply.

“All clear,” said Brown in a cool, confident tone.

Smythe emerged from the helicopter a few steps behind George and Zeta, and walked towards the kidnappers. The two Delta Force men had their guns slung on their shoulders rather than pointed at the van, as a sign of goodwill. Smythe wanted to believe they also had concealed guns they could pull out in milliseconds and fire with lethal results.

The rain was still stubborn, even though a few clouds in the horizon had already started to melt. A beam of sunlight tunneled through and offered a preview of better weather later in the day. Smythe wanted to believe this was a good omen, despite the tension rising in his chest as he walked towards the van. His mouth was dry and his pulse racing at some insane beat. Many good men were blown to pieces in situations like this. They come close to making an exchange, only to find it had been an ambush all along.

They stopped by the door of the van.
George knocked twice and they waited before the door slid open. A strong smell of leftover food and unbathed human bodies struck them hard in the face. A man dressed in black with a Guy Fawkes mask had one hand locked around a woman
’
s neck and the other pointing a gun to her head. She was blindfolded. There was another guy in the driver
’
s seat, but Smythe fixed his gaze on the woman. Although he couldn
’
t see her eyes, he made a swift mental comparison with the images of Julia Price Nishimura had sent him.

Even with the blindfold on, he could see her face was gaunt and with a fresh cut on her upper lip. She had been forced to wear a black negligee about two sizes too big for her. Multiple bruises adorned her thighs and chafe marks from being tied were all over her wrists and ankles.

The masked man was the first to speak in a robotic voice and what sounded like a German or Austrian accent. “Where are they?”

Smythe responded swiftly to indicate he was in charge. “In the helicopter. I need to verify her first.”

“Do what you have to do. Then bring my men here. The exchange happens here.” He was German, for sure.

Smythe stepped in the van and got down on his knees to be at eye level with the woman.

“Are you Julia Price?”

The woman didn
’
t answer, so he asked gain.

After what seemed like an eternity, she nodded. She may have even said “yes” but it was a weak voice bereft of life or energy.

“I am an FBI agent and I am here to take you home.” She was frozen. Not a hint of an emotional response to what he had just revealed to her, so he said it again. Once again she took a long time before she nodded with an inaudible sigh.

“I need to verify your identity first. I
’
ll scan your fingerprints—which means I need to hold both your hands. Is it okay if I touch you?” Julia managed to move her head slightly, or as much as she could manage with an arm wrapped tight around her neck.

Smythe pulled out the same device he had used earlier to scan Nabulsi and Madi. He reached out and held her hands and touched the tips of her fingers to ensure she wasn
’
t wearing prosthetics or stick-on skin to mask her identity. He checked her ten fingers, verifying her prints against the archival scans he had received earlier in the morning from Nishimura. The Senator
’
s daughter had worked for an industrial design firm in Boston that contracted for the Pentagon. She
’
d been fingerprinted as part of the security clearance required for that job. That
’
s how her prints were on file. A green light blinked indicating a positive match. There was no doubt this was Julia Price.

Smythe fixed on the masked man with a stranglehold on Julia. “Need to see her face.”

He complied and removed the blindfold on her eyes. There wasn
’
t much sunlight but Julia squinted in discomfort. Smythe compared her to a photograph on his phone where she had shorter hair.

“You have a mole under one of your arms. Can you tell me which?”

“My right arm.”

“Do you mind if I check it?”

Julia lifted her right arm slowly. Her face was agonized and she moaned in pain. “My shoulder…ow…aah—my shoulder—”

Smythe took a quick look at the irregular-shaped mole under her arm and compared it to an image on his phone. The FBI had lifted it off her computer when they searched her apartment after she went missing. Julia had been monitoring her mole since her eighteenth birthday, after her grandmother had died of melanoma. When she was traveling or could not make her annual checkup, she snapped pictures and emailed them to her doctor.

Smythe pointed to Julia
’
s shoulder. “Dislocated?”

She closed her eyes and gave no discernible response.

“You
’
re safe now, Julia. We
’
ll take care of you once we get you out of here. I
’
ll be at your side at all times.” He touched her hand and she clutched it.

George gestured to Zeta to fetch the Jordanians from the helicopter and continued to stand guard outside the van.

“No dirty tricks. Once my men are in the van, we
’
ll take off. Don
’
t move for fifteen minutes. Remember, she
’
s just one of many.”

A chilling reminder of the others in New York and the daycares.

“Yeah. That
’
s what we agreed upon with your boss in New York.”

The masked man growled back at him. “I don
’
t have any bosses.” He turned his head towards George. “Delta Force?”

“Mind your own fucking business.”

Nabulsi ran towards the van ahead of Madi, who was struggling to walk next to Zeta.