FARHAD FUMED OVER THE TRAITOR’S ESCAPE. The boy Ahmed had been brave; he’d give him that. Clever enough to take out his lifelong friend, Latif, but not so clever as to escape a knife to his own chest. Farhad stroked the empty sheath at his waist. The ancient blade had been passed from father to son for three generations, and he bemoaned its loss.
“It served its purpose,” Hadi said. They were leaning on the rail of a metal walkway overlooking a warehouse space, where the three vans and the command truck were parked. They watched as the team applied labels and logos to the vehicles, changing their appearance for the next day’s attack. The warehouse was located in an industrial area in Carson, less than seven miles from their target.
“Do you think he survived?” Farhad asked.
“The boy is surely dead. If the knife didn’t kill him outright, then the headfirst fall out of a speeding vehicle would have finished the job. Worst case, he’s a vegetable.”
“On the other hand, I think the girl survived the car crash.”
“Likely so, unfortunately. But what does she know? She never saw our faces and the vehicles will be unrecognizable.” As an added precaution, each of the teams had pulled off the freeway at various locations and swapped out the license plates. After that, each had taken a different route to the warehouse. No one had followed.
Farhad nodded. Bronson and his younger son had slipped from their grasp, and now that the lodge and its surveillance tools had been destroyed, Farhad’s team no longer had the means to gather intelligence on the American’s location. The last they’d learned was that Bronson was en route to their destroyed facility, and the little boy was being taken to a safe house somewhere. The only thread that still dangled was mention of the Chinese monk who by now should have landed at LAX with something of great value.
Farhad called down to the warehouse. “Any word?”
Tarik waved a hand and tucked his head into the command truck. He stepped back out and nodded. “Jamal said they just arrived.”
A minute later Farhad and Hadi were standing behind Jamal and Ghazi at the console. They both wore headsets. The wall screens were switched on, two displaying different angles of a large crowd around the exit from the customs area in the LAX international terminal. There were families, porters, and well-dressed drivers holding signs over their heads. “Those are the camera feeds from Pirooz and Amir,” Jamal said. Pirooz was outfitted with a head-mounted optical display, disguised as tinted eyeglasses, and Amir wore a cap with a similar hidden camera embedded in the Lakers logo above its brim. Each had disguised his features with facial hair and theatrical makeup.
“Mohammed is stationed outside,” Ghazi said, indicating a third screen with a view of the curb where passengers were catching rides.
Ghazi glanced up at a screen that showed the passport photo of the monk. It had taken little time for Jamal to hack into Cathay Pacific’s network to gain access to the flight manifest and travel docs. The intelligence gathered from Marshall’s not-so-secret tablet conversations had revealed the monk was traveling under a false name as Zhang Wei, and the passport photo of the fifty-year-old Chinese man with the bald pate would make him easy to single out.
“Any sign of Bronson or the big cop?” Farhad asked.
Jamal shook his head. “Nor of the wife and the others.” There was acid in his tone. They all hoped the trio had been burned to a crisp at the lodge, but they hadn’t been able to confirm it. If not, one of them could show at the airport to pick up the monk. Either way, the team was well able to handle them.
“There!” Ghazi said, standing up to point out a passenger who’d just passed through the exit. He spoke into his headset. “Amir, blue suit and roller bag. Stay on him.” The image squared on the man, and Ghazi zoomed in with his joystick. The monk’s suit and roller bag contrasted with the ancient-looking leather satchel hanging from his shoulder. He didn’t walk; he glided. But his serene expression was marred by the calculating manner in which his eyes seemed to take in the entire space all at once.
Farhad grabbed a headset and plugged it into the console. “Stay on him but don’t take him yet. Mohammad, remain outside. They could be waiting for him in a vehicle.” The screen depicting the curbside view panned along the line of cars. There were a lot of people about, both inside and out, but no sign of Bronson or the others.
Hadi said, “Do you see the way the monk is clasping that leather bag? He’s guarding it. Whatever he’s brought of value is in there.”
Farhad nodded. The monk strode through the crowd and stopped to look around. When he didn’t see anyone he recognized, he stepped outside, glanced up and down the line of cars, and checked his cell phone. After a moment, he went back inside and headed for a restroom.
Hadi grinned. “Allah be praised.”
Farhad activated his microphone. “Move in. Take him in the men’s room. Your target is the leather satchel, but take the roller bag as well. Remember, it needs to appear like he simply fainted, so don’t kill him unless it’s absolutely necessary. But don’t leave without that satchel.”
Mohammad joined the others inside. Three jostling camera views converged to follow the monk into the restroom.
There was a man and a young boy washing their hands, but neither paid attention to the newcomers. The monk parked his roller bag by the wall. He stepped up to a urinal, and Amir’s camera angle showed Mohammad and Pirooz sauntering into position on either side of him. They kept their gazes straight, leaning forward as they pretended to do their business. Behind them, Amir’s view shifted back and forth to confirm nobody was watching, and then it focused on the back of the monk’s head. Amir’s right hand snapped into view, holding a hypodermic needle. He jabbed it into the man’s neck and pressed the plunger.
All three camera views went crazy.
Farhad leaned in, trying to make sense of what was happening. The monk had reacted violently, his body spinning, his arms flashing. First Amir was on the ground, and then Mohammed’s face crashed into a urinal and his camera blacked out. Pirooz had an arm locked around the monk’s neck one moment, the room was spinning topsy-turvy the next. Pirooz’s view jerked hard when he hit the floor, showing the feet of the man and boy scampering toward the exit. By then Amir was back up. He charged and shoved the monk into a stall. The powerful drug finally took hold, and the monk seemed to still.
“Grab the bags and get out of there!” Farhad ordered. Amir ripped the leather satchel from the monk’s shoulder. When Amir spun around, Mohammed had retrieved the roller bag and Pirooz had pushed to his feet. They straightened themselves up, spaced out their departures, and walked casually away in three different directions.
***
“We’re late,” Lacey said, faking a sneeze so she could scratch her real nose underneath the prosthetic one. Pete had finally made it through traffic to a nearby hotel, where Lacey and Skylar had grabbed an Uber to the international terminal. Lacey was done up as an older schoolteacher, complete with an age-blemished face, bifocals, and graying hair in a bun. She shuffled with a stoop as they entered the waiting area outside customs.
“Don’t worry. He’ll still be here,” Skylar said, panning the crowd. “It’s not as if he would know where to go otherwise, Grandma.”
“Can that crap right now, girly. And what the hell is it about this damn nose you fitted me with? It itches like crazy.”
“New brand of latex adhesives. Sorry about that.”
“Hold on.” Lacey gestured toward the other end of the lobby. “That’s him heading into the restroom. With the silver roller bag.”
“You sure?”
“I’d know that face anywhere. He saved our lives. It’s him.”
“Cool,” Skylar said. They set off.
Half a minute later, they were waiting outside the restroom when a man and a boy rushed out like the place was on fire.
“Something spooked them,” Skylar whispered.
“I’m going in.”
Skylar grabbed her arm. “Wait.”
A young traveler strolled out the door, followed shortly by two others who stepped off in a different direction. Their casual demeanor seemed forced, and it made the hairs on the back of Lacey’s neck stand up.
Lacey maintained her composure, offering a motherly smile as the first man brushed past her. Two beats later she and Skylar stepped into the men’s restroom and rushed to the stalls where Little Star was staggering to his feet. There was a half-filled hypo on the floor.
“Are you okay?” Skylar asked.
“Y-yes,” he said with a frown. “I’ll be…Skylar?”
“You bet. And this old lady is Lacey.”
His mouth twitched upward while his body swayed like he’d had too much to drink. When he reached for his shoulder, he frowned. He glanced around the room. “They took my bag. We must retrieve it. At all costs. Go quickly. I’ll be fine.” He steadied himself on a sink, blinking rapidly. “Go!”
Lacey was first out the door, her mind racing to the three men she’d seen earlier. Only one of them had been pulling a suitcase. He’d been heading toward the south exit. “That way,” she said, hurrying in that direction. She pointed. “There. The young guy with the roller bag.”
“Got him. Remember that scene we did at the Parthenon? Get behind him and follow my lead.”
Skylar was out of earshot before Lacey could reply. Her stunt double raced out the nearest exit and disappeared. Lacey closed the distance between her and the man with the bag. People stared at the elderly lady who seemed to me moving faster than her age should allow, but her prey paid no notice to the mild commotion behind him. She slowed right before catching up to the man at the exit. The sliding glass door whooshed open. As the man walked outside, Skylar stepped in front of him with her face in her smartphone. The man tried to avoid her, but Skylar yelped and their legs got tangled. She went down hard, clasping his arm. He released the roller bag to catch her. Lacey grabbed the handle and slipped back inside, smiling when she heard Skylar spew the same lines Lacey had used in the film.
“Dude, get your hands off my boobs! Help, police! This guy’s a pervert!”
By the time the man finally realized what had happened, Lacey had disappeared into the thick crowd.
“Damned mugger hightailed it out of there faster than a deer in hunting season,” Skylar said as they helped Little Star into the backseat of the Uber minivan. They sat on either side of the monk, who was groggy from the partial dose of the drug he’d been given. If it hadn’t been for his reaction speed, he’d have received triple the amount and they would’ve needed a gurney to cart him out of that bathroom.
Little Star’s eyes fluttered. “Not muggers.”
Skylar frowned. “Muggers, as in more than one?”
Lacey’s mind flashed to the other two men who’d exited the restroom prior to the one with the bag.
The monk shook his head. His words were slurred. “Professionals. Three of them. I was targeted.”
Lacey exchanged a worried glance with Skylar, and checked outside the car to see if anyone was watching them. Skylar sent a text, the phone vibrated with a reply, and Skylar leaned forward so she could see the Uber driver’s face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
He smiled. “Robby. Nice to meet you.”
“Hey, Robby, we’ve changed our minds about where we’d like to go. How about heading toward the beach cities while we figure it out?”
“Sure. No problem.”
When the minivan pulled into traffic, Skylar whispered to Lacey, “Pete’s going to check our six for tails. You think it’s…you know who?”
Lacey nodded and mouthed, “Who else?”
“Damn. At least we got the bag.”
Little Star shook his head. “W-wrong bag.” His eyes rolled closed, and his head lolled onto Lacey’s shoulder.