American Terrorist Trilogy Read online

  Books by Jeffrey Poston

  Action Thrillers (Political, Espionage, Terrorism)

  American Terrorist: Where is the Girl?

  Contagion (American Terrorist 2)

  ESCALATE! (American Terrorist 3)

  Jason Peares Historical Westerns

  Warriors

  Courage

  Legacy of an Outlaw

  Manhunter

  Visit http://www.jeffreypostonbooks.com/

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  American Terrorist Trilogy

  American Terrorist: Where is the Girl?

  Contagion (American Terrorist 2)

  ESCALATE! (American Terrorist 3)

  Jeffrey Poston

  Lomas & Turner Press

  American Terrorist: Where is the Girl?

  By Jeffrey Poston

  Copyright © 2014 by Jeffrey Poston, Lomas & Turner Press

  For more about this author please visit

  http://www.JeffreyPostonBooks.com

  All characters and events in this eBook, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Editing by Debra L Hartmann, The Pro Book Editor

  Cover art and design by Deanna Dionne

  Interior design by IAPS.rocks

  Main category—Fiction>Thrillers

  Other category—Fiction>Political, Espionage, Terrorism

  AMERICAN TERRORIST: WHERE IS THE GIRL?

  (American Terrorist 1)

  a thriller

  Jeffrey Poston

  Lomas & Turner Press

  “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.”

  –Friedrich Nietzsche

  Chapter 1

  1204 hours MST Tuesday

  Albuquerque, NM

  Carl Johnson smiled at his interviewer because she didn’t know yet that she was a hostage.

  Anita Chapman said, “Mr. Johnson, can you share with our audience how you became the one whom the FBI is calling the American Terrorist?”

  Not an American terrorist.

  The American Terrorist.

  When he hinted to the reporter in a phone call that he was ready to discuss his side of his violent, and now highly publicized, conflict with the US government, she jumped at the opportunity to make history. Very few reporters actually got face time with a terrorist of his magnitude while they were actually at war.

  “Ms. Chapman, the world doesn’t care about how I became who I am. What the world really wants to know is what I intend to do next, and I’m going to answer that question in a moment.”

  When Chapman and her crew entered the abandoned downtown jewelry store, Carl required that the two canvas director’s chairs they brought in be positioned facing each other. He was very precise about them being ten feet apart, with the cameras stationed behind and to the side of their shoulders. The reporter was still smarting from losing that small battle for control over the interview setting. Normally, Anita Chapman wasn’t a woman to be trifled with. If one wanted access to her global audience of hundreds of millions, one had to follow her rules.

  It wasn’t international exposure that Carl Johnson wanted, though. He was concerned only with an audience of one. He knew her father would be watching.

  Anita Chapman was widely renowned as the most relevant news reporter of the current times, but Carl knew she wanted the interview as much as he did. His research told him she already had all the top credentials. She’d won multiple George Polk Awards for television reporting and George Foster Peabody Awards. She’d been granted an International Emmy, as well as multiple honorary doctorates from numerous journalism schools. She’d won the Walter Cronkite Award for Excellence and was on Forbes Magazine’s list of the top one hundred most powerful women in the world.

  Her interview with Carl Johnson would cement her reputation as not only the most relevant TV news reporter now, but in all of history. She’d be bigger than Anderson Cooper. Bigger than Barbara Walters. Bigger than even Oprah or Walter Cronkite.

  The empty jewelry store was merely a large room of maybe twenty feet wide by forty feet long. Situated one block south of Central Avenue in downtown Albuquerque, the store was a victim of the recent recession and a testimony of unsuccessful attempts to revitalize the downtown area.

  All the shelves and decor and counters and display cases had been removed long ago. The floor covering was gone also, though Carl suspected from the faded coloring under his feet that the last flooring design might have been an Art Deco stained concrete. In fact, the only furnishings in the room were what Chapman’s television crew had brought in—two lightweight folding chairs facing each other, two cameras on sturdy tripods, six portable diffuse lights bracketing Carl and Chapman, portable curtain racks with beige fabric which served as an attractive, but featureless, backdrop behind the chairs, and the computer and cabling equipment to remotely operate the cameras and broadcast the interview.

  Chapman and Carl each wore a virtually invisible wireless microphone clipped to their jackets, and they were each illuminated by three lights. One light faced each of them from their front left, just out of view of the camera. This was for primary illumination, according to the guy who set up all the equipment. Another was the fill light, which lit up the back drop and filled in the shadows caused by the primary light.

  On Chapman, the third light was mounted in front of her and high above. The equipment guy called that one the hair light and said it was intended to add depth and prevent someone from appearing flat or two-dimensional. Since Carl was bald, the hair light for him was mounted in front of him near floor level to prevent a shiny reflection off his head.

  Chapman wore a skirt and blazer, and she kept her legs crossed since they were facing each other. In fact, Carl had planned the positions of the chairs for precisely that purpose.

  “So first things first,” Carl said. A faint glimmer of irritation flickered briefly across Chapman’s face, and she opened her mouth as if to regain control of the interview. Carl held up his hand and shook his head.

  “There is really only one rule for this interview,” Carl said, pulling a small remote control from the left pocket of his windbreaker. He pointed the device at two thin-panel TVs mounted to the wall at his right and out of view of the cameras. Those were the only two items in the room that did not belong to the camera crew.

  He pressed the PWR button, and one of the panels flicked on after a brief warm up. On the screen was the media feed that the entire world was watching. It showed a split-screen view of the interview. On the left half of the screen was the near-frontal view of Anita Chapman from the camera behind Carl’s left shoulder, and on the right half of the screen was the view of Carl from the camera behind Chapman’s right shoulder.

  Carl slid the remote button to AUX 1, pressed the ON button again, and the other TV came on. On that screen was a man, a teen boy, two young children, a
nd a baby. All except the baby were bound and gagged. The baby was asleep on the father’s lap. Anita Chapman gasped.

  Carl said, “So the rule is this—and I truly hope your producers are paying attention—if this live feed is interrupted for any reason whatsoever, then my people will kill your family.”

  He gave Chapman a few seconds to digest his message. At his hand signal, the camera man commanded his remote-control computer to pan the camera parked behind Carl. The view of Anita Chapman left the split-screen and was replaced by the TV that showed the bound family. He signaled the cameraman to pan the camera back to Chapman.

  The entire world would now be sitting on the edge of their seats, glued to their televisions or Internet feeds, waiting to see if or when he would kill again. He’d given the world an opening hook, and now millions of viewers were waiting to see and hear the story of intrigue that he was about to tell.

  He knew the police and local FBI SWAT teams would be mobilizing outside for a hostage rescue attempt as soon as they tracked her cell phone. That’s why he had not confiscated her cell. The HRT—Hostage Rescue Team—would hold as long as the threat against Chapman’s family was viable, but they’d make their move as soon as they were certain that he would kill Chapman.

  It was part of his plan. Carl wanted her father to feel the effects of that particular terror event more than anyone else.

  “So, let’s continue with the interview. While you take a few moment to gather your faculties, I’ll answer your previous question. You see, it was actually the US government that made me who I am. Of course, I understand that tomorrow everyone from the president down to local authorities will deny this and will put their spin machines in motion. Tomorrow, though, the world will already know at least my version of the truth.

  “As little as a month ago, I was just a regular guy, an ordinary, tax-paying citizen. Then, however unintentionally, the US government forged me into this terrorist that you see before you.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Anita finally found her voice, but her question barely came out as a trembling whisper. “What do you want from me?”

  Carl paused before answering. He inhaled the faint scent of her expensive European perfume. It had a pleasant aroma and maybe included a musky wood scent like the rare sandalwood from Africa. Or was that wood grown in India? Whatever.

  “I don’t want anything from you, Ms. Chapman. I want something from your father. He took someone from me, so I’m going to do the same to him.” Carl glared into the camera because he knew the man was watching. “And the whole world is going to see it happen.”

  Chapter 2

  1302 EST Friday…One Month Ago

  Arlington Heights, VA - Undisclosed Operations House

  Almost before the driver stopped the car, Aaron McGrath exited the rear seat. He flung the door closed without acknowledging the driver and made the front door of the operations house his immediate destination. He’d run ops out of dozens of such houses across the country, so he already knew what he’d find inside. There would be three or four bedrooms upstairs, along with a couple of bathrooms, and the brain center of the current terror event operation would occupy the downstairs living and dining rooms.

  By habit from over four decades of covert intelligence work, McGrath studied his surroundings as he followed the walkway from the street to the front door, careful not to appear too curious. He saw no threats on the residential cul-de-sac. Still, his heart began to race as he approached the front door. This particular terror event was no ordinary kidnapping.

  McGrath reached into his front right pant pocket and pulled out his Department of Defense identification card. He never carried a wallet so he didn’t have to waste time fumbling to find the card. He only carried two other cards in his pocket—his driver’s license and a debit card, but never any cash—so the maneuver was fast.

  He waved the DOD card in front of a scanner mounted on the wall beside the door, and the device scanned the embedded chip. Instantly, he heard a brief buzz as the lock disengaged. He entered and faced a serious-looking uniformed guard with a micro-Uzi pointed at his midsection. The guard was a big black man, maybe six-five and two-fifty, and his biceps stretched the fabric of his shirt tight. Sticking to procedure, McGrath let the door close behind him and turned to another wall-mounted scanner. He pressed his right palm on the fingerprint reader, looked into a retinal scanner, and uttered his personal ten-digit security code for voice recognition.

  The scanner beeped and a green LED flashed once.

  “Thank you, Director McGrath,” the security guard said.

  McGrath nodded and hurried up the hall. He turned left into the living room and froze in the doorway. On the wall monitors in front of him he saw the destruction that remained of the kidnap site as well as photos of the kidnapper and the girl who was taken.

  “Sitrep,” he said loudly.

  Agent Nancy Palmer, his deputy for this terror event, turned to face him. She stood immediately behind the four analysts who sat at computer workstations in front of the wall monitors. She was orchestrating the analysts’ data searches and coordinating the activities of other federal agencies—DHS, FBI, CIA—on her encrypted cell.

  Palmer tapped an analyst on the shoulder. “Put up the video on the left monitor.”

  Almost instantly, McGrath saw the back of the limo from the dash cam of the following police cruiser. A flash of light streaked into view from the right, and the front end of the limo smashed into the pavement with a huge explosion. The back end lifted off the road a few feet, then crashed back down.

  Another missile streaked into view, and the lead escort cruiser lifted skyward on a pillar of fire. It flipped end-over-end, before crashing down and exploding. Then suddenly, the camera view twisted and spun crazily as a third unseen missile blasted the trailing police cruiser into the air. The camera came to rest upside down facing the halted limo.

  As Agent Palmer stepped over beside him, he said, “They used a low-yield RPG just powerful enough to stop the armored car.” She nodded at the monitor. “They clearly wanted the passenger cabin undamaged, but there’s no way the officers in the escorts could have survived.”

  A large, black SUV drove into view and pulled alongside the limo. It stopped slightly across the adjacent lane, and two upside-down figures in black tactical gear got out. One man carried a black circular device. It was about the diameter of a dinner plate, and maybe six inches thick. He held it against the limo’s rear passenger window for a few seconds.

  Agent Palmer said, “I’m guessing it’s a high-speed diamond-tipped drill.”

  McGrath nodded and watched as the second man attached something to the center of the black plate, then both men stepped away from the limo a moment later, pulling the black plate with them. Smoke issued from the small hole in the window.

  “They gassed them.”

  As soon as he uttered those words, the door on the opposite side of the limo opened, and a man and woman in black suits stumbled out with their handguns up. Gagging and coughing, they pulled a teenager out with them. The two tactical aggressors made quick work of the suits, shooting both in the head. Then they dragged the girl over to the SUV. A man inside shoved the door open and for a brief moment, he faced the dash cam.

  The video froze, and the man’s face filled half the center monitor. His vital information filled the other half.

  “Alfonso Reyes,” McGrath said as he scanned the info. “How does a mid-level Mexican drug lord pull off this kind of snatch-and-grab in the middle of DC?”

  He glanced at the third monitor. It showed a high school photo of the smiling face of the sixteen-year-old girl who had been kidnapped.

  She was Melissa Mallory, America’s darling daughter. He had to get her back.

  Agent Palmer seemed to read his mind. “You’re too close to this, Aaron. Let me run this op.”

  “I take orders from one person, and that’s the president. You also take orders from one person, and that’s me.” He paused.
“Am I clear?”

  The young agent hesitated for a moment. She was a slender woman with a lithe, muscular physique. Her narrow face was framed by short blonde hair. She wore a hint of a sneer, like she had expected him to react that way, and she gazed at him through sky blue eyes.

  “Of course.”

  Palmer stepped back over to the analysts, but McGrath could tell from her body language that she wasn’t satisfied with his response. She was a tactical genius, though no longer a field agent. She was hard to read, but he got the feeling she considered him a dinosaur. He was old school, and she represented the new, modern, elite agent. She wasn’t shy about expressing her opinions during ops.

  Problem was, she was extremely good at covert work, and she was rarely wrong. Still, this wasn’t the first time he’d bumped heads with her, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. But there was no one he’d rather have as his second, especially on an op as important as this one. Unfortunately, that meant he had to tolerate her confrontations.

  McGrath was very aware of how Palmer viewed him. He was sixty-three years old, but looked perhaps a decade younger. At six-foot-one, he was slender and fit, with salt and pepper hair that made him appear both wise and serious at the same time. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache and beard, which accentuated the hard features of his thin, angular face. With his piercing steel-gray eyes, he looked like a man who had “been there and done that.”

  He wore fashionable, titanium, wire-framed, bifocal glasses because, no matter how fit he looked, he could no longer clearly see the data on the wall monitors or read an electronic pad in his hands without glasses, and there was no way he was going to let a doctor cut into his eyes with any kind of correctional laser beams.