Chapter Thirty-One: A Friendly Exchange

The football field at Martin Luther King Jr. High was surrounded on three sides by a short gentle hill. It proved to be only a slight hindrance to access to the field itself but it was a bit of an eyesore. The bleachers were located on the final side of the field. This completed a circle around the field preventing anyone from outside seeing within. It also allowed for excellent vantage points on every side. Jordan lay atop one of these vantage points. The night air would have dug into his flesh if not for the Under Armour ColdGear he wore beneath a black flight suit. His head was protected from the November weather with a black tactical cold weather hood.

Horner himself was at the visitor’s end of the field on a top of the short hill on the north side. If he was the twelve o’clock position, Doyle was at the three o’clock, atop the bleachers, SSgt Akers was the six clock, near the home team’s end zone and Jordan lay at the nine o’clock spot.

9:00PM had come and gone and still the field was devoid of life. The tension was thick enough to cut. Jordan could hear Gold Team adjusting their weapons over the earpiece Horner had given him. He knew these men were not use to a mission to be left to chance but he also knew they wouldn’t let him down.

He brought up his wrist to check the time and the Tavor X95 submachine gun strapped to his back bit into the flesh between his shoulders. The luminescent hands of his TAG Heuer Aquagraph informed him the time was 9:25PM.

“Contact,” Technical Sergeant Akers said. A din of movement came over the headset as the team turned to his position.

“Three vehicles…scratch that, four. Range Rovers and a Chevy, big one,” Akers said.

Horner asked, “Eyes on the prize?”

“Negative. Vehicles stopping. Someone getting out the lead vehicle.”

 

~

The big Range Rover crunched the frozen grass beneath its wheels. The temperature had dropped with the setting of the sun and now, in the dead of night, it was good and cold. Hakim sat in the passenger seat. He wasn’t nervous but he would be glad when all this was over. The so-called Seven Mile Players had proved to be useful and, by all indications, had done their job. Still, Hakim didn’t like dealing with amateurs, talented or no. Not that he had much of a choice. After Saif’s failed robbery, the ‘baby MOAB’ was their last chance. If he hadn’t seen it work with his own two eyes in the Egyptian desert, he would have shot Saif in the head for putting him through all this foolishness. He smiled. No, he wouldn’t have. Saif for all his faults had led them to victory and success, time and again. Hakim was with him to the end.

The car stopped and Hakim exited the vehicle. He walked away from the car and the three heavily armed men within. The driver was one of the young men who believed Hakim was a jihadist. The other two were long time members of Hammer.

Hakim trekked the field, accompanied by the crunch crunch crunch of his boots through the frozen grass. He passed the other two Range Rovers and stopped at the rear window of the Chevy Suburban, the last in the chain. The window rolled down with the associated electronic noise. Inside was the face of Saif Al-Matwalli. A horror filled Hakim’s heart as he saw his friend. Saif looked like he had aged ten years in the past hour. Dark circles formed beneath his eyes and wrinkles dug deep into his flesh. He looked as if he was dying from the inside out.

“We’re in position?” a labored voice came out of Saif.

“In a moment,” Hakim said, swallowing hard. He turned away slightly so that he was still facing Saif but not looking directly at him. “It seems we have beaten our friends here.” He rotated his head around the arena for one of Americans’ favorite pastime. It appeared empty, but he needed to be sure. He withdrew his cell phone and dialed a programmed number. When it was answered, he said quickly, “I need a security sweep.”

 

~

“Contact.” Jordan heard Doyle say. The rest of the team echoed the word as they each saw the first Range Rover disgorge a passenger. Jordan slid the Tavor X95 off his back and put his eye up to the 4X scope attached to the weapon. Through the magnified view Jordan noted the man on the field was the same guy from the night before. The one who had blown up his Corvette. He had to fight the urge to squeeze the trigger and get automotive revenge for the death of such a finely tuned car.

Jordan said, “This is the same tango that was with the prize yesterday.”

“Clear chatter,” Horner said swiftly - his professional way of telling Jordan to shut the hell up. “Anyone got eyes on the prize?” Horner repeated, driving home the point what was important here: Saif Al-Matwalli. Not the guy he was with last night, but Al-Matwalli only. They paused and Jordan continued searching for Saif. He watched as Hakim went to the big Chevy in the rear of the convoy. The rear tinted window crept down an inch but not enough to see inside. Hakim spoke to the car’s passenger for a few moments, and then pulled something from the pocket of his wool topcoat. He put it to his mouth and seconds later from each vehicle out jumped three armed men.

“You seeing this?” a voice came over the headset.

“Roger,” Horner acknowledged. “Now it’s getting interesting.”

“Going dark,” said Jordan as he switched the frequency on the radio. Two clicks to the right and he was patched into the FBI band and Agent Robertson.

“Robertson, come in.”

“This is Robertson.”

“Looks like Saif’s team has arrived. No sign of the man himself but we got ten other players running around.”

“Got it,” Robertson said, “We moving in?”

“Stand by. Out.” Jordan turned the frequency selector to the left two times to link up with Horner’s team. “Ears on.”

Hakim and his men had spread out into a semicircle moving outward from the vehicles. Jordan and Gold Team were close but they were also camouflaged. Akers, whom they had already passed entering the field, had a ghillie suit that made him indifferent from the bed of weeds he was laying. On the bleachers, Doyle was positioned within a mock electric box. The other men were equally disguised. Jordan for his part was far enough away on the hill if someone approached him, he could just slide backward down the crest and out of sight. The darkness worked in their favor as well. It was shaping up like the plan was working.

After five minutes, the men on the field settled down, assured they were alone. The team surrounding them also relaxed a hair. The night air moved into a breeze. Somewhere, not too far away, a dog barked. Jordan turned his face back to his watch. It was now 10:03. The small army on the field was looking in every direction, impatient for the arrival of their opposite number.

Time, as it has a tendency to do, passed. At 10:10, Horner’s voice came to Jordan’s ear.

“You sure these Players of yours are gonna show?”

Jordan sighed. “They’re just on CP time. They’ll show.”

At 10:37 the low pulse of an 808 drum could be heard. A few moments passed and the sound was clearly Travis Scott’s “Sicko Mode”. Another forty-five seconds passed before the first vehicle producing the deafening racket came into view. A Cadillac Escalade literally burst through the gates at the visitor’s end of the field. The padlocked gate was no match for the SUV as it thundered pass Horner’s hidden location and headed directly for Saif’s group. Three more similar vehicles followed in its wake. The cars nosily rumbled over the field, stopping just short of the forty-yard line. Finally, after long seconds of engine revving and horn blowing, the Seven Mile Players started to dismount. There was an even dozen of them dressing in the latest urban fashion winter wear, puffy jackets, designer parka, that sort of thing. The apparent leader was a tall thin man. He was so dark that in the night it was impossible to get a good look at him. He moved ahead of his posse while the remainder formed a straight line behind him. From the opposite end, Hakim approached.

“Maybe it’s their anthem?” Long asked.

“What?” Martin said. “You can hear that?”

“Can the chatter,” Horner instructed. “Long, Martin: I need IDs on all these tangos, now.”

“Roger,” both operators said. Jordan remembered the telescopic night vision high definition cameras Gold Team was kitted out with. Positioned on both sides of the field, Long and Martin were able to take clear pictures of just about everyone on the football field. While the special operators were taking their pictures, Jordan switched back to Robertson’s frequency.

“Robertson, the rest of the guests have arrived.”

“Really?” was the response, “We couldn’t hear them, they were so quiet. OK, we’re locking up the perimeter. They ain’t getting past us.”

“HRT in position?”

“Roger that,” Robertson said, “They’ll block both entrances with their vans just out of sight.”

“Copy that. Out.” Jordan switched off. Somehow, if Saif’s men or the Seven Mile Players escaped the field they’d be in for a surprise. It was a good plan, but Jordan liked to have as many odds in his favor as possible. He reached into one of the pockets on his jumpsuit and withdrew his cell phone. A quick dialing and he was connected to Sgt. Peter Flint, Detroit Police.

“Sgt. Flint,” a sleepy voice said.

“Pete, it’s Jordan, what’s up?”

“What do you want, Noble?” the cop said.

“Swing those cops to King High. You, my friend, are about to have a major bust. I’d get my hat and come down too, if I were you.”

“Right, right,” Flint said, “you better not be bs-ing me.”

“Just do it,” Jordan snapped and to soften the blow he ended with, “Lieutenant Flint.”

Before Flint had a chance to react, Jordan cut the line.

 

~

Hakim smiled warmly as he met Charles Turner, street name, C-Dog at the fifty-yard line. He reached out and shook the gang member’s hand. C-Dog grabbed it roughly and squeezed for all he was worth.

“What’s good, son?” C-Dog greeted after he tried to crush Hakim’s hand.

“It’s all good,” Hakim told him. He had more than a passing familiarity with American colloquialisms. His team was quiet while their opposite numbers were still playing the Travis Scott tune at a deafening volume.

“Could you turn down your music, please?” Hakim asked politely.

C-Dog made a gesture and one by one the SUVs of the Seven Mile Players decreased the music’s volume. Hakim sighed and opened his mouth wide, shaking off the effects of the sonic assault.

“Now,” he said, “on to business. I have a gentleman with me. I’d like for him to inspect the delivery.” Hakim raised his arm, and from the Chevy Suburban, Fritz emerged. He headed towards Hakim and C-Dog. C-Dog held his hand out, palm forward. The German engineer froze in his tracks.

“You don’t trust us?” C-Dog asked Hakim.

Hakim said, “Trust but verify, as your military would say.”

C-Dog opened his mouth into a wicked grin displaying a golden and jeweled ‘grill’. “I ain’t no soldier boy,” said C-Dog. This drew laughter from his squad of gangsters. Hakim turned slightly so his peripheral vision caught a glimpse of Fritz. The German had frozen in his spot and trembled visibly. However, the armed escorts from Hammer were all too familiar with the onset of violence and readied their weapons.

“C-Dog,” Hakim said drawing out the name, “what is the problem? Why are you inviting conflict?”

“I believe my boy, Wisdom, requested some information from you,” C-Dog said.

“And I believe,” Hakim calmly countered, “that we replaced the information with more cash. Cash we have with us.”

“Knowledge is power. We ain’t no punks you can just throw money at and make us go away.” C-Dog started to pace back and forth. Behind him, an occasional ‘Hell yeah’ and ‘That’s right’ came from the Seven Mile Players.

“So here’s how it’s going down,” C-Dog said. “You gonna tell us, first what the hell you gonna do with all this shit we got fo’ you and second where you going to do it. ‘Cause right now, we got the juice. And that’s what’s what, bitch.”

Contained anger burned inside of Hakim. A shakedown. This had boiled down to a shakedown from a bunch of illiterate idiots. And they weren’t even shaking him down for money, but information. Information they couldn’t use. The only thing these ‘Players’ could possibly do with this information, is blackmail Hammer. Now why in the hell would Hakim stick his head into that trap?

“Now, look, my friend,” Hakim said through clenched teeth, “What’s what is this: My friend is going to come over and inspect your cargo, I am going to give you the money and you are going to give me my merchandise. Then I will never see you again.”

“Oh, so I’m the bitch,” C-Dog said, his arms outstretched and jaw dropped. Hakim for a moment considered just shooting this C-Dog in his face, just to make his point. Instead, he decided to give the business approach one more try.

“No, but you are pissing away a good deal because of your ego. Now, stop flaunting around and let’s get on with this!”

 

~

Jordan clicked back on his headset. “What I miss?”

“Negotiations have not gone well,” Horner said, “don’t know what actually they’re arguing about but these Players don’t want to turn over their product.”

Jordan switched his line of sight to the Players’ Escalades. The vehicles were notably weighted down. No doubt the ‘stuff’ MC Wisdom had mentioned.

“All targets photographed, boss,” Martin said into the headset, “Now what?”

On the field, the drama was heating up. The raised voices could now be heard. The Seven Mile Players were pointing their guns directly at the Saif team.

“Or maybe I’ll just bust a cap in yo ass!” C-Dog’s said.

Horner’s voice lazily came across the headsets. “Looks like we just wait for them to kill each other.”

 

~

Fitz stood in the field neither inspecting the equipment nor in route to the task. Saif watched this lack of activity for a few seconds before he clicked the speed dial on his phone to get Fritz.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said.

“There is some sort of problem, Saif. Hakim and this…gang member are fighting about something.”

Saif hung up. This was not what he needed. He needed this to be over. He needed to get his weapon components and get the hell out of here. This was his last chance.

Saif tapped the driver of his car, one of the ‘jihadists’ Hakim had found. The man, barely more than a boy actually, turned dutifully. “Are you armed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go out there. I believe there’s going to be trouble.”

Without hesitation, the young man drew his Sig Sauer P-228, and leaped from the vehicle. Once he was alone, Saif took out his phone again. He made a quick call to bring in some insurance he just might need.

 

~

“How long we gonna watch this circle jerk,” Doyle said. As if awaiting the question, the night filled the thunder of gunplay. A moment of disbelief went through Gold Team as the meeting turned into a scene out of a direct to DVD ‘gangsta’ movie. Saif’s men were disciplined fighters. As soon as the first shot rang out, they sought cover beside their cars. Their fire was in measured controlled three-shot bursts.

Conversely, the members of the Seven Mile Players adhered to the principle of looking good over performance. Down to a man, each one of the Players held their firearm sideways, even the one toting assault rifles and submachine guns. A couple of them even were firing to the beat of the song coming from their vehicles. Jordan noticed one was actually singing along.

“Son of a…” Horner sputtered. “Can’t anyone do anything right in this town! Weapons hot! Priority: disable the vehicles! I want no one leaving that field and I want the prize dead!”

With the precision of a well-oiled machine, Gold Team opened up with their submachine guns. One bullet each is all it took for the team to flatten every tire on every vehicle below them. With all the shooting already going on, the additional ordnance was scarcely noticed. In a matter of seconds, every vehicle was disabled. Jordan’s car murderer headed back to the big Chevy.

Saif is there.

“Moving in,” Jordan said over the headset.

“Stand fast!” Horner ordered but Jordan wasn’t asking permission. He leaped from his position and descended down the hill. He made the field in about three seconds. He had his Tavor X95 in his left shoulder, swinging it both ways looking for targets. The battle on the field had claimed the lives of most of the showboating Seven Mile Players by the time Jordan’s boots stepped on the grass. Saif’s forces were now dealing with the fire coming from Gold Team.

“Don’t shoot that stupid sonabitch!” Horner shouted into the radio net. “Watch your sectors.”

Jordan excused Horner’s anger as he crossed the football field relatively unnoticed. One of Saif’s men caught sight of Jordan at almost the same moment Jordan saw him. The man leveled what looked like an UMP. Jordan squeezed off a three round burst and the man fell. He turned back to the Chevy. His target was getting into the backseat of the car. Jordan put the Tavor X95 to his shoulder again and let off another burst. He rushed forward firing as he went. The bullets danced around the car door. Rage had blinded him and it showed in his gunplay as none of the rounds hit their mark. The target took the opportunity to draw his weapon, a FN P90 personal defense weapon, hidden in the folds of his coat. The arms dealer fired from the hip. Jordan dove into the dirt. Once the bullets stopped, he got to a kneeing position. He drew a breath, held it and sent leaden death to his opponent. One struck true, hitting the shoulder. The force from the bullet propelled the target into the Chevy’s backseat.

Jordan lost his clear line of sight as his target disappeared in the darken rear of the vehicle. He sprinted to the car, his gun in a low carry. Just as he reached it, he could see the occupant had exited via the opposite door. He was half carrying, half dragging someone with him.

It has to be Saif.

The newly recommissioned Air Force officer leveled his weapon, ready to fire. Two bursts and all this mess would be over. He drew his breath but before he could squeeze the trigger, an excited voice came over the comm-link.

“Inbound ‘copter!”

Jordan snapped his head up and on his position swooped a Bell Jetranger 206 helicopter rolling in from the south. He took a moment to curse himself for being so focused on his targets he did not notice a freaking helicopter. A FAMAS assault rifle protruded from the sliding door.

What’s with all these FAMAS?

The first rounds impacted the Chevy Suburban but tracked toward Jordan. He turned on his heels and zigged-zagged away.

“Fire on that thing!” Horner shouted, “Knock it out of the sky!”

Controlled burst screamed overhead towards the Jetranger. The copter lowered its skids less than a foot off the ground on the opposite side of the Chevy. Jordan dove for the rear of the Suburban. He peered around the bumper just in time to see the two men enter the Jetranger. Beneath his mask, Jordan squinted his eyes, tightening his vision and…yes without a doubt, the second man was indeed Saif Al-Matwalli. Saif was being lifted into the copter as Jordan screamed into the comm-link.

“Eyes on the prize! Eyes on the prize! The prize is in the helicopter!”

Horner said, “Focus everything on the copter! Priority one! Priority one!”

Jordan shouldered his weapon. He thumbed the fire selector to auto and put a steady burst of fire on the copter. He could hear from around the field an increase of fire all leveled at the whirlybird. Despite it, or maybe because of it, the Jetranger lifted off, more quickly than was safe. Jordan and Gold Team tracked the vehicle skyward but it was no use. The Jetranger was up and out of range in less than thirty seconds. Jordan ran uselessly to the spot where a moment before the copter hovered. He heard the rotors fade away into the night.

“Shit!”

Jordan expressed his frustration as Horner ran up next to him, the satellite phone in hand.

“Skyking, Skyking, this is Gold 1-1,” Horner said.

“Go Gold 1-1,” some distant operator said.

“Need eyes on my location, priority high, from my mark, plus ten. Mark, mark, mark.”

A heartbeat. “Roger all, Gold 1-1. Eye in the Sky, your position plus ten. Sending data to your CP.”

Jordan knew the deal. Somewhere at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida, the operator who received Horner’s call transmitted the request to his superior. Less than a minute after that, the request handed to a satellite controller secreted away in the bowels of Schriever Air Force Base, Colorado. This controller recorded everything her satellite could see at Horner’s location from the time of his request and ten minutes after. Horner and his team ran over to Jordan, while the data was streaming securely to the VIGILANT CONDOR command post. Jordan snatched off his hood. His brow was damp with sweat both from exertion and dread. Horner got right to the heart of the matter.

“You sure it was him?”

“Positive,” Jordan said. “Damn, a helicopter, why didn’t we think of that?”

Horner gripped Jordan’s shoulder. “There was no need. Even the best plans go Tango Uniform and this was not the best plan. Did what we could.” He spoke quickly to make his point. They didn’t have time for pity or self-incriminations. Saif was still out, the clock was still ticking. Jordan understood.

“OK,” Jordan said, “now what?”

Horner backed away and with him, the rest of Gold Team. “We got to get scarce. Can’t be here when local law arrives.”

Jordan nodded. Far too much explaining would have to be done, adding a covert special operations team into the mix would not go over well. Robertson and the Hostage Rescue Team entered the field. They formed a tight perimeter around the football field. Fat lot of good it did against a helicopter. He switched his comm-link to the FBI frequency.

“Robertson?”

“What just happened?”

“Robertson, get the ATF team here ASAP-ly. Have possible WMD on site and it has to be secured. Also, I need you to give my friends an avenue of exit on the perimeter’s north side. They’re heading there now.”

Horner flashed Jordan a thumbs up and sprinted northward as Robertson’s voice came back to Jordan’s ear. “Damn. Er, roger. I’ll get the ATF here. And don’t worry, no one will ever know your friends were here. Behind you.”

Jordan turned and saw Robertson along with the Hostage Rescue Team, all in body armor. He jogged the distance to him.

“Jordan, what the -”

“Saif was here. He got away.”

“That helicopter?”

Jordan nodded. “Yup. On the other hand, just about every other bad guy is dead or dying.”

Robertson took a look around. The field of friendly strife was littered with bodies and bullets pocked vehicles. He blew out a long sigh.

“You made a real mess here, major,” he said.

“I had help.”

“OK, here’s what we’ll do: My men will secure the area. We’ll take photos of all the perps…”

“Done,” Jordan said, “Gold Team took care of that.”

“Good. We can run their faces through the databases for a match. Now, Detroit PD’s about two minutes behind me. We’ll have to throw them a bone.”

“Seven Mile Players?”

“Yeah, best bet. These guys off the playing field might clear a few entries off their books. Might get you some points too. Finally, there’s Stump…” Robertson left that hanging in the air like a thunderstorm at a picnic. Jordan tighten his grip on his mask.

“I’ll handle him. He wants my head anyway.”

“Ah, forget him. We gotta deal with this while the data’s fresh.” Robertson drew phone, it’s map app on the screen. “You know the garage we’re using as a mobile command post?”

Jordan pushed the phone down. “I live here, remember?”

“Right. I’ll have ATF move all the physical evidence there. My boys and I will help the cops with the dead bodies. You should stay low for a few hours ‘til we’re set up at the garage.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, man, this is all ‘cause of your lead. I’ll take a little heat from the locals. Oh, and stay off the sat-phone. Let’s keep your boy Stump in the dark as long as possible.”

“Roger that,” Jordan said. Then he turned and disappeared into the night.