JAKE WAS IMPRESSED BY PETE’S DIGS. His stunt training ranch was located at the base of the Santa Susana Mountains between Chatsworth and Simi Valley. The isolated and rugged parcel was surrounded by sandstone boulders, dramatic outcroppings, and oak savannahs—like one might expect to see in a Hollywood western. The grounds included a dirt-bike track, a horse barn with corrals, an expansive obstacle course and training area, and several structures. The four-bedroom house had to be at least sixty years old, but the gymnasium-sized, steel-walled warehouse beside it was less than a decade old. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but the interior was a different matter. The ceiling and two-story walls were insulated against the summer heat, and power for the HVAC system and other systems was supplemented by a solar and wind farm out back. The interior was mostly open. One end contained a dojo, with a variety of handheld weapons on racks. There was exercise equipment, three offices, a fenced storage area with racks of equipment, a kitchen, and a large meeting and lounge section Pete called the ready room, where everyone was now gathered.
Marshall pushed back from his seat at the long conference table where he’d set up his computer gear. He downed the rest of a can of energy drink, and dropped it into the wastebasket behind him, where two other empties already resided. “We’ve got to get our hands on that drive!” He pounded a fist on the table hard enough that even Lacey, Francesca, Alex, and Sarafina noticed from the kitchen area, where they were making sandwiches.
Tony, Pete, Skylar, Sam, and Tony’s three SWAT buddies who’d picked up Alex were sitting around the table with Marshall. The SEALs had dressed down when they arrived, and had taken it upon themselves to set up guard positions around the facility.
Jake shared Marshall’s frustration. Little Star had told them what was on the drive. It had belonged to Jiaolong, the man who’d turned their lives upside down less than two weeks ago. Jiaolong was dead now, but his lead technician, Pak, had survived the aftermath of their explosive escape from Yóulóng Village in the South China jungle. Pak had grabbed the drive to use as a bargaining chip in case the Chinese army caught up with him. But Pak hadn’t counted on Little Star tracking him down to where he’d fled into the mountains.
“I’m sorry I failed you,” Little Star said, sitting across from Marshall. He’d changed into more comfortable clothes, an earth-colored tunic over baggy pants and moccasins. His bald head shone under the fluorescents.
“Ha!” Skylar said. “It was our fault you got nailed. Should’ve figured we weren’t the only ones looking for you.”
Marshall shook his head. “And that’s my damn fault. Not yours.”
Jake glanced at the trash can, where the smashed tablet lay beneath the empty cans. Since Marshall and the others had only discussed the monk on the tablet, it hadn’t taken long for Marshall to discover it had been hacked. Marshall had crushed the device under his heel, furious with himself for the oversight, particularly when he’d realized that was also how the terror cell had known to bug out before Jake and the SEALs arrived at their hideout.
“That raw video was our last hope of ever leading normal lives,” Marshall said.
“Forget about it, Marsh,” Jake said. “We’ve got bigger problems.”
“You’ve got that right. The world wants our heads, and a group of terrorists using state-of-the-art tech is leading the pack! What the hell are—?” Marshall stopped himself. “Jeese, sorry…” He inhaled to calm himself. “They’ve got Ahmed. We’ve got to find him. That’s our top priority. I’ve entered the license plate numbers from Sarafina’s photos into the system, but I’ve come up empty. But I’m not gonna stop looking.”
“And until we do find them,” Sam said, “we’ve got to face facts. The terrorist cell is in the wind, and since they’re obviously part of the same group that initiated the attacks back East, then you can bet they’re planning an attack around here, too.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” one of the SWAT guys said. His name was Walt Baxter, and he and Tony went way back. “We’ve got to consider calling in Homeland.” The other two SWAT officers nodded.
“And tell ’em what, laddie? That they need to beef up security at the hundreds of Fourth of July events in Southern California? Ye can bet after what happened yesterday, they’re already assholes ’n’ elbows into doing that. No, I wouldn’t be calling ’em just yet, because the moment you do, they’ll be all over ye to know yer source, and when they get wind of the fact Jake Bronson’s involved, we’ll be taken out of the action quicker than yankin’ yer kid’s hand from a hot stove.”
Jake was still trying to wrap his mind around everything they were dealing with. The terrorists were part of the very same tribe he’d dealt with in Afghanistan eight years earlier. Battista was dead and long gone, but his hatred of Jake had been passed on to his disciples. “Pete’s got a point. The time will come for us to call in help, but not until we’re out of moves. So let’s look at what we’ve got. First off, they’ve got Ahmed, and since he knows where this ranch is located, they’ll likely squeeze it out of him.”
“No, they won’t,” Tony said. “He won’t talk.”
“He’s just a kid, Tony.”
“Not anymore, he’s not. Trust me, Jake. He’d die before giving us up. I’d stake my life on it.”
Jake stared at him. “Regardless, pal, we should be looking for an alternate spot.” He gestured toward all the others in the room. “It’s not just your life or mine that’s at stake.”
“Let ’em come,” Pete said. “Better to take ’em down on our home turf anyway. We know what they’re about, right? Attack drones. Ye said yer air force pals had a defense against an airborne drone assault. Amn’t they due to show up soon?” Cal and Kenny were en route in the CV-22 from San Diego, with a drone of their own that could fry electronics with an energy surge.
Marshall checked his computer. “They’ll be here in about an hour.”
“So that settles it, then,” Skylar said. “We hunker down here and watch the unfriendly skies, while Marshall pulls a miracle out of his butt and figures out either where the bad guys are hanging out or where they plan to attack.”
“I need another energy drink,” Marshall said.
Pete stood up and placed a hand on the pistol holstered at his belt. “For my part, I don’t much like the idea of shooting at bomb-carrying hobby drones with a pistol, but we’ve got some interesting shotgun loads on the rack that might do the trick.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any EMP grenades like they use in Call of Duty or Halo?” Marshall asked, referring to the electro-magnetic pulse weapons used in the video games.
“Afraid not.”
The SWAT officers exchanged looks. Tony noticed and raised an eyebrow. “What’re ya thinking?”
Walt said, “We tested a unit last week for hostage scenarios. Came to us from Charlie Shanks.”
Tony scratched his chin. “The whiz kid we arrested for knocking out the purple subway line under Wilshire.”
“One and the same. Used a homemade EMP.”
“Stupid stunt but a nice kid.”
“He never forgot my going easy on him. Since then he’s landed a government research grant around the tech he put together in his garage. Go figure. Anyway, he came to me last week and asked if we’d test it on the EOD”—explosive ordinance disposal—“range. It’s got some problems. It generated the EMP but the range is iffy, and it’s dangerous as hell.”
“Iffy how?” Jake asked.
“In SWAT we need a charge that can limit electronic damage to the immediate area around the bad guys and their hostages, like the size of a home or a bank lobby. The kid assured us the device would do just that. Instead it fried anything electronic that was switched on within a two hundred yard radius.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Jake said.
“Maybe not for your application, but like I said, the unit’s also dangerous as hell. It utilizes a small amount of explosives to compress the, uh…”
Alex squeezed into the circle. “To compress the electrical field generated by the ferromagnetic, ferroelectric or superconducting materials packed in the center of the device. The more explosives used, the greater the EMP spread, and vice versa.”
The cops all stared at him, except for Tony, who shrugged. “Get used to it.”
“Anyway,” Walt said, “the so-called tiny explosion itself was supposed to be self-contained within the unit. Instead, the charge blew the walls off the testing shack at the range, and the unit itself was destroyed in the process.”
“Crap,” Tony said.
Jake’s mind leaped to the possible uses of such a device against a drone attack. “How big is the unit?”
“About the size of a beach ball.”
“Like I said before, better than nothing. Can you get another one?”
“The kid brought two to the test, but after what happened, he took the second one home with him.”
“Is he close?”
“Sherman Oaks. Twenty minutes.”
“Get it. Fast.”
Walt nodded to one of his team. The man pressed a phone to his ear and headed for the door.
Sam’s hand went to the earbud he used to stay in contact with the SEALs. “We’ve got company. A lone car just turned onto the drive.”
Tony jumped to his feet, and the SWAT boys split to each of the entrances with guns drawn.
“Hold yer horses,” Pete said, tapping his smartphone. A large flat screen behind the table switched on, showing a yellow taxi moving slowly up the dirt road leading to their location. “We’re expecting a few more of your friends, right? Any of ’em supposed to be taking a taxi?”
When no one answered in the affirmative, Sam spoke over the comm net. “You spotting any drones out there?” A moment later he said, “All clear. Looks to be the driver and a lone occupant in the back.”
Jake stood at the screen, straining to see past the glare of the car’s windows into the backseat. Francesca and Sarafina joined him. Tony had reached out to their old friends from South Central, the former gangbangers turned military contractors who’d fought with them against Battista’s team, both in Afghanistan and later in Los Angeles. But they wouldn’t be coming in a taxi.
“Who is it, Daddy?” Sarafina asked.
“I don’t know.” He locked eyes with Francesca and motioned toward the back offices, in the hopes she’d retreat with the kids. She waved him off and stepped closer to the screen. “Do you see something?” he asked.
She didn’t reply. When her eyes closed, a chill ran up the back of his neck. Jake wasn’t about to take any chances. He grabbed his grandfather’s Colt .45 off the table and ran toward the exit. “We can’t allow that car to get near the building.”
Tony and the SWAT guys followed him out of the warehouse and down the drive. With weapons drawn, they joined the SEALs to form a defensive perimeter fifty yards from the building. When the taxi rounded the corner fifty yards ahead, it skidded to a stop. The driver placed both palms on the windshield, and even from this distance, Jake saw the man’s hands shaking.
“Stay back,” Tony said to Jake. “We’ve got this, buddy.” He and Sam took three steps forward in tandem. Tony projected his voice. “Open the door slowly and get out of the car.”
The driver nodded frantically. He slowly moved his hand down, opened the door, and stepped out. He was a small man, in his sixties.
“On your knees! Hands behind your head!”
The driver complied immediately. Once down, he shouted, “My passenger. He needs help. Please!”
The rear door swung open, and the tension mounted. One false move and the car would be riddled with rounds. The silhouette in the backseat slid out the door. The man stumbled at first, barely catching himself. But finally he rose to his full height and looked up.
“Dad, would you please pay the cab fare?”
And with that, Ahmed collapsed in the dirt.