Dulles International Airport
Monday, 5:20 a.m. EDT
The first signs of early morning were breaking through in the east, lightening the indigo sky.
Sierra rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck as the Gulfstream touched down on the dark tarmac. A black Suburban waited a hundred feet from the hangar, out of the airport cameras’ line of sight.
The bird slowed, coming to a smooth stop near their vehicle. The team sprang into action without exchanging a word. A clear objective and years of working fluidly side by side enabled them to go into autopilot at this stage.
She collected a black leather duffel bag in each hand and led the way off the aircraft.
During the flight, they’d rotated keeping watch over their quarry, allowing everyone a chance to eat in peace and snooze a few hours without worry.
Sucking in a lungful of fresh air, she was invigorated and ready to tackle the next phase.
Her husband, Yankee, was behind her and had Yosef Khan by the elbow, hauling him down the steps. The relative still of dawn was shattered by the clanking of Khan’s shackles. Wrist and ankle restraints had been necessary for the flight, not giving their captive the slightest opportunity to take advantage if someone’s guard slipped while they were locked in a tin can thirty thousand feet in the air.
She threw the bags in the trunk, leaving it open for Whiskey and Victor, who each carried half their body weight in weaponry. The private plane had been costly but invaluable for smuggling their gear and Khan past customs.
They had no intention of hiding the fact that the ISIS-linked terrorist was on American soil. On the contrary, they wanted the world to know. But on their terms.
Sierra took out her burner phone and sent the planned text.
ZULU homecoming. Dressed for prom.
They were an hour behind schedule and she wasn’t sure if she’d get a response, but the phone chimed with a text.
Decorations are up. Music is playing.
All the pieces were in place. She slapped the burner phone closed.
Flip phones were harder to trace. No GPS module, no data plan required, and the only way to track it was to see which tower it was connected to. Add an encrypted mobile app and their communications were invisible.
Whiskey slammed the trunk door shut. They were loaded up and ready to rock. She nodded to Yankee, giving him the signal. As Yankee removed Khan’s blindfold and restraints, Victor drew his .45-caliber Heckler & Koch HK45 Tactical handgun, threaded on a suppressor, and added a front laser sight.
“Please walk to within ten feet of the left side of the open bay, cross the front of the hangar to the right side, and walk back,” Yankee said.
Khan laughed, a coarse sound that held no joy in it. “Why would I do that?”
“Because he asked so nicely,” Sierra said, drawing his attention. “Unless you’d prefer rough.”
Khan’s gaze flicked back to her husband. “What’s to stop me from running?”
“He is.” Yankee pointed to Victor, the team’s sniper and best shot. “Fifteen rounds on tap.”
“You don’t want me dead,” Khan said. “I’ve surmised that much.”
Yankee’s hard expression didn’t change. “No, we don’t.”
Not yet, anyway. Khan’s days were numbered. Down to three.
“One bullet to the back of your knee will do a hell of a job at stopping you,” Yankee added. “Without killing you. Pretty painful.”
Khan’s weary eyes darted around in vain as if trying to think of a way around compliance.
Not that they wanted to risk firing a weapon, even suppressed, at the airport. If Khan had been well-rested and fed, that razor-sharp mind of his in good working order, he would’ve stood a chance.
They preferred his current state. Exhausted. Starved. Dehydrated. Brains like scrambled eggs. On the flight, he’d been forced to wear headphones that had blared heavy metal rock music for twelve hours straight and been denied food or water.
Khan might’ve been a mastermind for the largest, nastiest terrorist organization in the world, but he wasn’t an operative like every member of her team, trained to endure and resist enhanced interrogation—a pretty euphemism for systematic torture such as waterboarding, sexual humiliation, confinement in coffin-like boxes, sensory overload, brutalization.
He came from a world of opulence and privilege, devoid of consequences, and had been incapable of considering he might one day need to shore himself up in the event of capture. At his core, he was squishy-soft.
“Do as we’ve asked,” Yankee said in a soothing tone, “and you can have water, food, sleep. Maybe even a hot shower.”
Khan’s eyes misted over. The man was one turkey sandwich away from cracking. “Okay.” He nodded and began walking, following the instructions to the letter.
Victor tracked him the entire time, red laser dot from his gun sighted on the back of Khan’s knee.
Yankee pressed a hand to his side and drew a deep breath. A flash of pain crossed his face, setting Sierra’s teeth on edge. The agonized grimace happened so quickly, if she had blinked, she would’ve missed it. His bruised ribs had turned out to be fractured. Not a devastating break that could’ve punctured a lung or a kidney. He needed to rest a few weeks at least, but their work here for the next phase was just beginning.
As Khan crossed the open hangar bay, he was captured on three active surveillance cameras.
Sierra marked the time on her watch and the countdown began.