The Cyclops Revenge Read online

  The leader turned and motioned for the men to approach. Car doors swung open. The ten-man group formed a semicircle around the matriarch of The Simoon. Oliver grunted a one-word command in French. The men all revealed their forearms and the squiggly tattoo etched into the skin.

  Hussein made eye contact with each man, holding their gaze for a second or two, before moving to the next.

  She cleared her throat. “Well done. You each have acquitted yourselves extremely well. We are one step closer to our goal. Soon we will plant the seed of terror and death on American soil. This seed will bear fruit in the coming months. This time we will not fail.

  “Please remain diligent in your work. Charles and Pierre will show you where we will keep our guests.” She motioned to the two soldats standing a few feet away. “After you unload them, get some rest —you have earned it.”

  Hussein held the gazes of the leader of Team Mohammed and then the leader of Team Isaiah. “I want to see both of you in my office in thirty minutes.

  “Allahu Ahkbar!”

  Hussein pointed to the Land Rovers. “Show me.”

  Hussein marched to the rear of the first Rover, leading her lieutenants. The coffin-looking container was offloaded, placed roughly on the gravel and its lid opened. Hussein gazed down on the unconscious Michael Rodgers, his hands cuffed over his abdomen.

  Hussein’s lips retracted into a satisfied smile. She reached in and caressed his cheek. “He looks like the father.”

  When the second container was opened, she scowled at the solemn, sleeping face of Christine Pettigrew.

  “Prostituée,” she spat.

  Hussein motioned for them to be taken away. She turned to Charlie and Pierre. “Get them out of my sight! Make them as uncomfortable as possible.”

  “It is time to send the messages. Is the drone ready to depart?”

  “Yes, Madame. The message has been saved to the hard drive. It will be sent once it reaches the designated waypoint and should be delivered in the next two hours.”

  After the drone, Reprisal One, had returned from its latest sortie, the messages from The Watcher were downloaded. Clyde Hutton was dead and Jason Rodgers was now in possession of the cell phone the dead man had given him.

  Hussein turned to Oliver. “Have you heard back from al-Raqqah and our friend in Moscow yet?”

  “I have. A plan is in place. It’s crude, but it could work. We have an asset en route to the Red Onion.”

  Jason flipped open the cell phone he’d taken from the dead guard’s pocket. On the back of the device, a large number one was written in white grease paint.

  “Where did you get that?” Peter asked.

  “From Hutton, before he died.”

  He wanted to tell Peter, the person he trusted more than anyone, that the dying man had made a pointed reference indicating Hussein’s people were back. But had Hutton meant what he said? Jason decided to wait. He didn’t need his brother riding his ass anymore right now.

  Jason shrugged and scanned at the home screen on the phone. A single red circle dotted one of the square folder’s upper-right corners, indicating a communication of some sort had taken place. Jason touched the box and a message window appeared with instructions.

  It read: Find the password to see the message!

  The phone was not password-protected. Jason had been able to access the desktop by pressing his finger on the lower circular indentation. But the voicemail was blocked.

  “It’s asking me for a password,” he declared.

  Peter snatched the phone and played with it for several moments with no better results. “Where’s the goddamned password?” Peter spat.

  “Are you sure you got everything from this Hutton guy?”

  Jason shrugged. “He told me to look in his pocket. I did!”

  “So, what do we do now?” Peter asked.

  Jason took the phone back. “We wait and see if it turns up somehow.”

  “Have you called her family?” the female detective asked.

  The woman had introduced herself as a lieutenant in the Newport News Police Department, Missing Persons Division. She had flashed a badge and stated her name, but it hadn’t registered with Jason.

  A fresh-faced youngster, her cheeks glowed with the blush of inexperience, framed by smooth dirty blonde locks pulled back into a tight ponytail. They sent us a rookie, Jason thought.

  Jason paced the living room, Chrissie’s living room. He had resided here with her for the last year.

  “Did you understand the question, sir?” she demanded.

  The sting of fatigue burned his eyes. Acid churned in his belly. His distraction delayed the processing of the officer’s question

  Finally, he managed a response. “She doesn’t have any family. Her mother and father are dead. She had an uncle, but he died too. There’s no one else I can call.”

  “What about friends?”

  Jason had called a couple of Chrissie’s girlfriends in the wee hours of the morning, waking them and, no doubt, filling them with some degree of concern. Neither had spoken to her in the last twenty four hours.

  “I’ve tried them.”

  Chrissie also had a co-worker she was close to. In a husky, sleep-filled voice, the woman said she’d not seen her since she left work the previous day.

  “Is everything okay? Is she coming in today?” the woman had asked. Alarm coated her voice.

  “I don’t think so,” Jason had replied. “Don’t worry anyone yet. Just tell her boss that she’s in bed sick and that I called in for her.”

  “I phoned everyone I can think of,” Jason explained to the cop.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Jason stopped, noticing her hair. Strands of the brown-blonde coif bobbed and weaved as she moved her head. Her hazel eyes bore into Jason as she waited for a response. Her lithe body was partially hidden under a lightweight sports coat. A lanyard hung from her neck, holding the previously produced identification and badge.

  “Last night.”

  “Did you two have an argument?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Did you?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Maybe she’s just blowing off steam.”

  Jason frowned. The cop turned her attention to the bandage on Jason’s head. “What happened to you?”

  Peter had employed his battlefield medical skills and the sizable medical kit in the backseat of his Hummer. Having a brother who was an ex-marine had its advantages. The bandages looked like Jason had visited a doctor’s office or an emergency room. With syringes, needles, gauze, and 4-0 chromic sutures, Peter patched Jason back together, saving a trip to the emergency room, a possible hospital stay, and unwanted questions.

  “I was in a car accident.”

  “Did your girlfriend hit you?”

  “I don’t think I like your question.”

  “I have to ask,” the officer replied. “You asked me to come out. Begged, in fact. So just answer the questions so we can get through this.”

  “No, she didn’t hit me.”

  “Was anyone angry with her? Have a beef with her?”

  “No,” Jason answered.

  “Does she have any medical conditions that might create a situation in which she might become incapacitated? Diabetes? Drugs or alcohol?

  “No!”

  “There is no sign of forced entry. Or any other indications of foul play.”

  “What about the blood on the floor?”

  “That’s a very small droplet. She could have cut herself. It could be nothing.”

  Jason shook his head, communicating a sizable amount of disgust.

  “I will file a report and list her as a missing person on the Virginia State Police website. Do you have a photograph of Miss Pettigrew?”

  “I have one on my phone.”

  “Text it to me at this number.” The woman handed Jason her business card. “We will also send out a BOLO … that’s Be On the Looko
ut … to all police in Hampton Roads. But, I have to be frank, here, Mr. Rodgers. This does not sound like an urgent case … not yet anyway.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s all we can do for now. Keep trying to contact her. Call me if you have not heard from her in forty-eight hours, if you learn any other salient facts, or she contacts you.”

  “Thank you, officer,” Peter said cutting off Jason’s reply, escorting her to the door.

  When he returned, Jason studied his brother. “I don’t have a good feeling, Pete.”

  “It’ll be alright. Stay patient.”

  Jason texted the photo to the cop and then decided to level with his brother. “Hutton told me something last night before he died.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He said they were back. They knew I was going to make contact with him. He said they were watching both of us.”

  “Who?”

  “You know … Delilah Hussein and … The Simoon,” Jason blurted.

  “Hussein’s dead! She died on the yacht. Did he specifically mention Hussein’s name?!” Peter stroked his eyebrow.

  “I’m just telling you what he said. He said he was visited by a man in a black hat, a Dick Tracy hat … a fedora. The cop who came to me in the back of the ambulance was wearing a black fedora.”

  “Did Hutton say the name Hussein? Or The Simoon?”

  “No, he said, ‘The Simoon … they’re back and watching.’”

  “It doesn’t mean shit, Jason. He was panicked and dying.”

  A ringtone blared. Jason and Peter eyed the cell phone in his hand, Hutton’s cell phone, expecting it to be ringing. It lay silent.

  Jason felt the vibration on his hip. He grabbed his own cell phone and read the caller id. It was Jenny. Michael’s mother. He answered.

  “Jason?”

  He had never heard the kind of panic her voice now held as she uttered his name.

  “Jen, what’s wrong?”

  “He’s gone, Jason! Michael’s gone!”

  Chapter 21

  Jason and Peter barreled into the waterfront house Jenny shared with her architect husband, Mark. Out of breath, the brothers were stopped by a uniformed Hampton cop. Jason had had trouble punching in the pass code to the kiosk of Mark and Jenny’s gated community, the Salt Ponds, because his hands shook uncontrollably. They’d parked Peter’s Hummer and run the mile to the house on First Street.

  “I’m the boy’s father. Let me through!”

  Jenny ran to the railing overlooking the foyer. “Jason!”

  The cop let them pass. Jason vaulted the stairs three at a time. Peter followed a step behind.

  Jenny wrapped her arms around him, hugging him in a death squeeze. Jason held her a moment, then placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her far enough away to see her eyes. “What happened?”

  Jenny began to cry, her voice tremulous. “They took him.”“Relax,” Jason whispered.

  It took two minutes of gasped, watery whispers for Jenny to explain.

  “They were … dressed in black uniforms … with helmets and those binocular-looking things over their eyes …”

  “Night-vision goggles,” Peter observed.

  Jenny nodded. “They had guns … machine guns. They drugged me and Mark.” Jenny motioned with her head toward her husband, who was speaking to one of the Hampton detectives on the scene. Jason spied Mark standing a few feet away. A bloodied bandage slanted across the bridge of his nose. His face was smeared with dried blood.

  Peter tapped Jason on the shoulder. “These guys were pros. This was planned,” he explained.

  Jason nodded. “I know.”

  “Then they stuck a needle in my neck and I went down,” Jenny continued. When we woke up, Michael was gone.”

  Jenny cocked her head toward the back porch. “Follow me.” Outside, she handed something to Jason. “They left this on his nightstand.” Jenny whispered the next statement. “The detectives don’t know about it. I don’t think they’ll take this seriously. You will. If you think you should give this to them, I leave that to you. This has something to do … with … you know …”

  The blank backside of the rectangular business card faced him. Jason flipped it over.

  “Holy shit,” he gasped, handing it to Peter. His eyes went wide.

  “We need to go,” Peter said.

  Jason turned to Jenny and said, “I will get him back!”

  “You’ve studied this woman and her organization for the last two years. We need you to spearhead the effort to find her. We are calling it Operation Dust Storm. I want you … I need you in the SIOC. Will you help?”

  The words were spoken by Brad Lane, the deputy director of the FBI, to Broadhurst. The Secret Service agent felt swallowed by the wheelchair he sat in at the conference table, along with Lane, Gagliano, and six other people inside the SIOC of the Hoover FBI Building. All eyes were trained on the dying agent seated to the right of Brad Lane and flanked by Vince Gagliano, his boss at the Secret Service.

  Broadhurst ran his sweaty palms over the thighs of his trousers. The gray cotton suit was the smallest in his closet. But it still felt like he was wearing a tent. His mind drifted back to a few hours ago. He was ready to end his life, seconds away from completing the job. Now, he was back in the saddle and feeling alive again.

  Seconds make all the difference, he thought. He had been given a second chance by the pharmacist. Now he was being presented with another opportunity to make things right. Hussein was alive!

  Broadhurst leaned over to Lane and whispered, “You’re putting me on the spot. My health is not good.”

  Lane whispered back. “You’re right. That was my intent. Your country needs you, Clay. Your health has not been good for a long time. Yet, you managed to revamp all the Service’s procedures and still research all there is to know about this woman. I want to hear a ‘yes’ from you.”

  Lane leaned back and sat stone still, smiling and staring at Broadhurst. A heavy quietude descended over the room.

  “How the hell did you find out she was alive?” Broadhurst asked, breaking the hush.

  In a few minutes, Lane explained what the group had discussed yesterday, then followed with, “We believe she has an operation planned. It might be underway now and its target is within our borders. It’s called Hygeia. We need you. There is no time for delay.” Broadhurst nodded.

  “Just down the hall is the command center,” continued Lane. “You will have access to whatever you need.” He pointed to a young woman seated to his left. “This is Agent Maria Gonzalez. She will stay at your side for the next twelve hours. Beside her is Agent Bradley Day. He will take the opposite twelve-hour shift. They will get you whatever you need. Beside him we have Clint Hill with the CIA. He is assistant to mission chief for the Western Hemisphere. We have over a hundred agents from the Bureau, the CIA, the National Intelligence Agency and Homeland Security. They are awaiting instructions. Clay, you have complete operational control.”

  Broadhurst turned his eyes to each person seated around the room. Each pair of eyes either looked at the papers in front of them or smiled the uncomfortable moue of one at a loss for words.

  The last stop for his gaze was Brad Lane. He nodded. “Okay.”

  “Excellent. Done! Agent Broadhurst has operational control. If he says it, it’s an order.” Lane turned back to Broadhurst. “I will need to brief a select group of directors in the SIOC conference room in a few hours.”

  “No problem. I need all the intelligence reports from the last two weeks,” Broadhurst croaked.

  “Done.” Lane leaned toward Broadhurst. “There’s one other thing …”

  “Which is?”

  “Jason Rodgers is involved … Hussein has targeted him … and his family”

  “Where is Rodgers now?”

  “Our men followed him to a rendezvous with an unknown man. Rodgers took the man at gunpoint. A car chase ensued and the unknown vic died. Rodgers was treated and released at the sc
ene. We are tracing his cell phone now. We will know shortly.”

  One hundred and twenty-seven miles to the south in Newport News, Jason and Peter sat at the kitchen table. Two identical business cards lay on the bare table before them. After Jenny had given Jason the card left by Michael’s hostage takers, they returned to Chrissie’s and scoured the master bedroom. They found the second card placed inside a book Chrissie had been reading. Both cards were identical.

  On one side of the card were printed a name and six words:

  Lily Zanns

  Owner, The Colonial Pharmacy

  Jason had seen a card like this two years ago when he was hired by Lily Zanns, aka Delilah Hussein. The cards were pristine, as if they had just been printed, excerpt for a small dark line near the bottom of each. An apparent line of excess ink near the bottom.

  “This is a sick joke,” Peter said.

  “They were kidnapped by professionals,” Jason added. “What do I do now? It’s Hussein’s people. It has to be!”

  Peter shook his head like he was trying to believe a fairy tale. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “Again, what do I do now?”

  “We.”

  “What?”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Thanks, Pete.”

  “Since we found an identical card upstairs, we can assume the same person or persons took Chrissie as well,” Peter observed.

  “I agree. But what’s the next step? Should we call the detective and tell her we have more information?””

  Peter had picked up one of the business cards as they talked, examining it. “What the hell is this?” he asked.

  He pointed to the small thin line across the bottom of the front of the card.

  “I don’t know,” Jason replied. “It’s a line of ink.”

  “No, it’s more,” Peter answered. “We are not going to do anything else until we read this microprinting. Do you have a magnifying glass?”

  Torturous, evil slits adorned the small, rectangular room.

  They were microscopic glimpses to an expansive, unreachable world beyond his cell. A world in which he would probably never set foot again. The inmate prayed to Allah that an escape was in place or being planned. It was one of those unanswerable prayers one uttered more for comfort than expectation. He knew his compatriots would not leave him in the custody of the infidels without at least making an attempt to free him. His mother would figure something out.