Choke Point

His two friends agreed with solemn nods just as their vehicle, a late-model SUV rental, rolled up.

As Schwarz tossed their shoulder bags into the rear compartment, Blancanales climbed behind the wheel with Lyons on shotgun. This tended to be their modus operandi on most missions, born more from habit than much else.

“I miss Black Betty,” Blancanales said as he put the SUV in gear and eased from the curb.

“Me, too,” Schwarz said.

“Well, unfortunately there wasn’t enough time so we’re just going to have to make do,” Lyons said.

Their remembrance of Able Team’s customized van, a vehicle out of which they normally operated, left each man nostalgic for that home away from home. Painted midnight-black with tinted bullet-resistant windows, Black Betty was an armored tactical and communications center that boasted a comprehensive armory and the latest in surveillance-countersurveillance equipment. Unfortunately, it wasn’t practical to ship to every location within the U.S. Able Team might operate, and Stony Man therefore reserved it only for unique occasions or at the team’s specific request.

“Where to first?” Blancanales asked.

“I’m guessing we need to start with Mrs. Acres,” Lyons said. “She’s going to be our first, best source of information.”

The other two men agreed, reliant on the expertise of Lyons’s former law-enforcement experience as an LAPD tactical sergeant. It was his position as a cop that had first brought Carl Lyons together with Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, although at that time they had technically been on opposite sides of the law. Bolan’s war against la Cosa Nostra had just begun and Lyons had been just one of the many cops with mixed feelings about the game. On one hand, he’d secretly enjoyed watching Bolan mix it up with the criminal empire of Julian DiGeorge and the Giordano family; on the other, he’d sworn an oath to uphold the law against anyone choosing to break it.

Only because of Bolan’s first taking action to save the life of Lyons’s family, and later opting to give Lyons his life back when he could well have snuffed it out in a moment of pitched battle, did Carl Lyons gain a high respect for the man called Mack Bolan. When he’d been offered a permanent position with Able Team as an urban commando against crime and terrorism on the streets of America, Lyons jumped at the opportunity to do something effective, where he could operate outside the official restrictions on law enforcement. Able Team worked because they could operate outside those restrictions while ensuring they didn’t risk the safety of good, law-abiding American citizens.

In fact, they were there to protect the American way of life, and they had become legendary in that regard.

Mrs. Annette Acres lived in a two-story brownstone just off the coastline. While it had a very traditional, almost Georgetown look to it, the decorative side of the heavy metal plates designed to protect the home from hurricanes and the inclement weather of Florida coastal living wasn’t wholly indiscreet. Reinforced plating lined the waist-high walls topped with wrought iron and decorative lighting that ran the length of the property line.

Lyons could feel the additional plating beneath the wood steps ascending the massive front porch with vast columns that supported a second-floor balcony, which probably branched off the master bedroom. The death of Thomas Acres had been kept quiet through the vast connections of Stony Man, so the arrival of the trio at their home—carrying forged credentials identifying them as agents with the FBI—signaled not only their initial interrogation, but also the gruesome duty of making a death notification.

Lyons had done it before; hell, they all had at one time or another. That didn’t make it any easier and he’d never really become used to it. Frankly, he’d never understood how those in the military could do such a job, their whole existence predicated on traveling around specific regions in the country to deliver the news to some family that their beloved soldier had been killed in action. Now that job would suck.

Lyons pressed the doorbell and the singsong chimes echoed from within.

Nearly a minute passed before a short Hispanic woman in a pastel dress with an apron answered. “May I help you?”

Lyons nodded as all three men produced their credentials, immediately getting into their respective roles. They had donned suits before leaving the airport and now stood there with stony expressions behind sunglasses.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lyons said. “Agent Irons, Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’d like to speak with Annette Acres.”

The young lady looked immediately distressed. “Um, well, of course...is she expecting you?”

“No.”

“So you don’t have an appointment,” she said.

“I just said that,” Lyons replied.

Blancanales stepped in at that point, reliably assured his friend’s patience wouldn’t hold out if the conversation took a worse turn. “Ma’am, we do need to speak with Mrs. Acres on an urgent matter and it’s not one we’d like to discuss out in the open. Please let us in.”

Blancanales offered a smile that most found utterly irresistible, and the maid returned the smile as she stepped aside to admit them. She closed the door and then led them to a broad, comfortable sitting room decorated in light woods and expensive works of metal. She waved them toward some chairs in the middle of the room and then went to retrieve the mistress of the house, but none of them helped themselves to a seat. They wouldn’t be here long.

Annette Acres entered the room with all of the elegance and grace one might have expected of a congressman’s wife. She had long blond hair and a petite figure. Her eyes were crystal-blue and while most might have called her expression “pinched,” she possessed an obvious cultured beauty within the high cheekbones and thin lips that bore just a hint of lipstick. A pair of tight slacks and an elegant white blouse completed the ensemble.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said as she entered, and all three Able Team men inclined their heads in recognition. “Please have a seat.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Lyons said as he gestured toward a love seat. “But please, after you.”

Mrs. Acres nodded and took a seat, and then Lyons dropped into a wingback chair catercorner to her. Blancanales and Schwarz stood close by, hovering above Lyons like a pair of gargoyles over the entrance to a medieval church.

“Mrs. Acres, my name is Special Agent Irons,” Lyons began. “These are agents Rose and Black. We’re with the FBI.”

For the first time since coming into the room, Annette Acres lost her composure a bit and worry immediately etched the otherwise flawless lines of that pretty face. “Oh, dear...this is about Tom, isn’t it?”

Blancanales quietly asked, “What makes you think that?”

“What’s happened to him?” she asked Lyons, ignoring Blancanales’s question.

“Mrs. Acres, there’s...well, there’s no easy way to say it so I’ll just say it. I’m very sorry to inform you that your husband is dead.”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners at first and then abruptly she burst into tears and began to wail. The maid came running into the room and immediately put her arms around the grieving widow, attempting to shush her while gripping her shoulders in as comforting an embrace as her tiny arms could manage.

Lyons’s heart lurched within him at first, but he stayed rock-steady, pressing his lips together. He wished he could say something more but what the hell would it be?

The men of Able Team fought their impatience and frustration as they waited for Annette Acres to get the majority of the initial shock out of her system. Once she’d calmed, the maid went and retrieved a handkerchief from the drawer of a nearby table and brought it to her mistress. She then nodded as Mrs. Acres told her to bring some tea for them and the number to John Jay’s school.

“And John Jay is...” Lyons began.

“Our son.”

Lyons nodded although he’d already known that. It had been somewhat of a test, a desire to see how much she actually knew about what had been happening. They had decided not to go into this with any assumptions, especially in believing that Annette Acres might not have had something to do with what was happening. By virtue of the fact she’d wanted to get in touch with her son at his Catholic school it was now apparent she had nothing to do with what had happened.

There was a remote chance she might have been playing it very clever, but Lyons’s gut told him no. She hadn’t been complicit in his kidnapping.

“Mrs. Acres, you should prepare yourself that your son will not likely be at school,” Blancanales said. “In fact, he’s been reported missing and his disappearance is related to Congressman Acres’s death.”

Lyons then went on to tell her the full story, excluding their direct involvement on the scene or anything related to the Red Brood and Abbas el Khalidi’s involvement in human trafficking. There wasn’t any reason in their minds to reveal more than absolutely necessary on the off chance someone close to the family was involved with the events of the past twenty-four hours. This was basically their only lead and they had agreed the wisest course of action would be to play things as close to the vest as possible until they had a more solid lead.

Frankly, this kind of thing didn’t bode well with Lyons or his teammates. They were troubleshooters, after all, not investigators. They preferred to let Stony Man gather the intelligence and then take action on whatever the Farm had found. This time, however, they had to play the game with the hand they’d been dealt. Hell, it wasn’t the first time they’d been called upon to improvise and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“What are you saying?” the widow asked after Lyons had finished. “That my son, my only child, has been kidnapped?”

“Mrs. Acres, please understand we’re doing everything we can to find your boy,” Schwarz said. “We think the kidnappers killed your husband only with the intent of stealing the money.”

“Is there anything you can tell us that could help us find him? Had your husband received any threats like this before? Anybody within his staff here locally, or any situations that come to mind that might clue us in to who’s involved in this?”

For the next ten minutes they questioned Annette Acres as gently as possible, getting clarification wherever they needed it. Eventually, the trio silently agreed by an exchange of glances between each other that the most likely suspect was Acres’s personal assistant, Genseric Biinadaz.

“I’m ashamed to admit it,” Acres confessed. “Tom had hired Genseric about two years ago to show he wasn’t prejudiced against Muslims or the Islamic faith. I was hesitant at first, but...I decided early on in our marriage that I would fully support Tom’s political career and not attempt to unduly influence his decisions. He was always an excellent congressman. He really cared about his...about our country.”

The talk brought back memories too difficult to ignore and the woman broke into a fresh wave of grief. When a few minutes passed, she sniffed and asked, “But you don’t think Genseric has anything to do with this. Right?”

“We can’t rule out anyone,” Lyons said.

“We’ll look into it,” Blancanales added.

“Can you provide me with any information?” Mrs. Acres inquired.

“At present, that’s all we really know,” Lyons said. He stood as a signal to his teammates it was time to leave. “Someone will be in touch shortly to arrange the transport of your husband’s body back to Florida.”

Acres didn’t rise but her eyes followed Lyons’s movements. “Am I in danger, too, Mr. Irons? Please be honest.”

“I don’t believe so,” Lyons said. “You have personal security?”

Acres shrugged. “Usually only when I go out. After Gabrielle Giffords was shot, Tom insisted on it.”

“Perhaps it would be best to have them around the house for the next few days,” Blancanales suggested. He tried to express as much comfort as he could. “Just to be safe.”

“And, Mrs. Acres, I’m going to have to ask that you not discuss any of the details of this case with anyone for now,” Lyons said.

“What? Not even our family?”

“Not anyone.”

“Please understand, ma’am,” Schwarz added. “It could compromise our investigation and potentially pose a danger to your son. If he’s still alive, and we believe he is, the kidnappers may kill him if they feel threatened. As tough as it might be not to want to get involved, it’s best to let us handle this for right now.”

“And if you’re contacted by the kidnappers,” Lyons said, passing a card to her, “you should call that number immediately. Don’t agree to anything, don’t ask any questions and for God’s sake don’t tell them we’ve contacted you.”

Annette Acres looked at first like she might argue but then finally tendered a slow, deliberate nod as she took the card, tossed it on the end table and then folded one hand over the other in her lap.

She clutched the handkerchief tighter. “I understand. Gentlemen, you will have my full cooperation. But please...please bring my John Jay back safely to me. I don’t think I could stand to lose him, as well.”

“We won’t make promises we don’t know we can keep, Mrs. Acres,” Blancanales replied easily. “But I assure you we’ll do everything in our power to find and return him safely.”

Acres managed a smile. “Thank you, Agent Rose.”

“We’ll show ourselves out,” Lyons said.

After expressing their condolences one last time, Able Team beat a hasty retreat from the house and returned to their SUV.

Lyons placed an immediate call to Stony Man as they made their way for Acres’s downtown office.

“What do you need?” Price asked.

“Everything you can tell us about one Genseric Biinadaz,” Lyons replied.

“You’ll have it within twenty minutes,” she said after a short pause, the clack of computer keys evident in the background. She was obviously messaging Kurtzman to get on it as they spoke. “What about Mrs. Acres? Anything there?”

“Nothing that spoke to us,” Lyons said. “We agree she probably doesn’t have anything to do with this. She cooperated fully with us and wasn’t evasive at all during questioning. We also decided not to reveal more than we absolutely had to in case she lets something slip to the wrong people.”

“What about others in the family who might be involved?”

“The maid is the only other one with regular access to them,” Lyons said. “You might want to check on her legal status, just in case, but she seems to be very protective of the family. I have serious doubts she’s got anything to do with it.”

“Tell them about the personal security,” Schwarz reminded him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Lyons said with a nod. “Apparently after Congresswoman Giffords was shot in Arizona, Acres decided the family needed to have a personal security team assigned to them whenever they were in public.”

“I’m not sure what you’re driving at,” Price said.

“Well, we’re kind of curious to know where that personal security was when John Jay Acres got snatched,” Lyons said. “And how come there wasn’t someone with Acres at all times in Washington. Seems to me that they’d have a better handle on what was going on if they were a professional team.”

“Unless there’s something to your theory about Biinadaz being on the Red Brood’s payroll,” Price replied. “It’s not unlikely Acres might have turned selection of the security team over to his personal assistant.”

“And so instead of selecting a legit outfit, Biinadaz saw an opportunity to get some of Khalidi’s human traffickers inside for this job,” Lyons said. “That’s a very sharp observation, Barb.”

“That’s why they pay her the big bucks,” Schwarz said close to Lyons’s ear.

The Able Team leader feinted swatting his friend. “Would you knock it off?”

“What?” Price said.

“Nothing,” Lyons replied. “Just Gadgets up to his usual antics.”

“Ah, of course. We’ll get the information to you shortly. You boys be careful.”

“Yes, mother. Out here.” Lyons broke the connection and said, “Okay. Let’s go have a cozy little chat with Biinadaz.”

CHAPTER SIX

Rabat, Morocco

Abbas el Khalidi studied the rocky cliff face off the shores of the capital city of Rabat. While the country of Morocco technically owned all coastal lands, Khalidi had wielded his influence to convince officials to lease this small area for “commercial purposes,” which resulted in some additional revenue for the government. In return, nobody looked too carefully at what he was doing. In fact, the contract allowed for government inspectors to enter the property boundaries at any time and for any purpose, although there wasn’t much to see. From this vantage point of the cliff face, which looked predominantly like sheer rock covered with lichen and coral pits, the remnant of volcanic seas long dead, the area appeared practically untouched.

At the base of those cliff faces, however, a much closer inspection would have revealed the three separate hidden entrances spaced approximately fifty yards apart. This area formed a sort of cove, although uninhabitable given the sharp, rocky outcroppings that met immediately with the waves of the Atlantic crashing against them. They formed a natural, inhospitable barrier, and it was for this very reason Khalidi had selected the site as the entrance to the underwater complex.

Natural underwater inlets had been dug into the cliffs, thousands of years of erosion slowly chipping away at their base, leaving behind the basalt and granophyres that formed natural and massive caves. From this infrastructure, Khalidi had hired some of the finest minds in archaeology and marine construction from points all over the world to design and build the infrastructure that supported the complex. Highly pressured iron and steel formed cross frames meshed by thick plates of Plexiglas eight inches thick and heat-sealed against the massive water pressure. Vents to the surface provided natural air movement, and a pair of twin, water-driven underwater turbines generated all of the electrical power needed by the vast complex.

Only one surface entrance existed, its location a secret to no more than the two dozen controllers and a complement of mercenary teams that resided on-site. From this base of operations, Khalidi moved the drugs, transporting them in specially designed flat-bottom launches capable of high speeds that moved the product from the shores to ships already in transit. A quick load of the hulls and in no time the ships were bound for ports throughout Europe and even a few distribution points in Southeast Asia.

On the other side, similar teams would off-load the drugs while still in international waters and the ships would arrive on schedule, if not ahead of time, carrying only the cargo on their manifests. It was this vast system of smuggling that had built wealth upon Khalidi’s wealth. Every employee underwent a rigorous screening and once in they all knew there was only one way out besides accepting a generous retirement package: attrition in Abbas el Khalidi’s outfit only occurred feetfirst. A few had managed to escape but none had ever been stupid enough to betray Khalidi—such an action would’ve spelled certain death.

Khalidi wasn’t stupid enough to think he hadn’t been extremely fortunate up until now. No operation of this nature lasted forever, so Khalidi proceeded under the guise of covert operations supposedly on behalf of the Moroccan government. Since there were officials within the highest halls of power who regularly consorted with Khalidi, some even on his payroll because public service in such a country didn’t exactly pay well, most never questioned what they were doing or why. It was an arrangement Khalidi knew he couldn’t maintain indefinitely, but to this point he’d operated with considerable autonomy.

When it all fell apart, he would simply pack up operations and move somewhere else.

Whatever happened, Khalidi had arranged things so that nothing could ever come back to him personally. He could continue to be “Prince Story” for his public, a champion and voice of the worldwide Muslim community, while reaping the profits that would keep his empire afloat probably long after he was dead. Khalidi considered that he would soon need to think of siring legitimate offspring, take a wife so that his children could carry on his legacy. The one thing Khalidi wanted more than all else was to secure the freedom of Islam: freedom from the enslavement of those who would use Islam for purely personal gain; freedom from the Westerners and their allies who wanted to destroy them; freedom from the oppression and poverty and hunger they had suffered in such places as Israel and Libya.

This...yes, this was the answer to his goals.

Khalidi took a deep breath and then turned and proceeded back to his Mercedes. He gunned the engine, put it in gear and then proceeded to the shore-top entrance accessible by a private road off the coastal highway just north of the city limits. He drove to the entrance, carved out of the living rock, presented his credentials to the guards with the pass-code of the day and then drove into the cavern that descended sharply to the underground parking area. From this point, it was a fifty-yard walk to a single-access lift that dropped nearly one hundred yards to the main area of the complex. The hiss of bubbles audible in the cavernous chamber dribbled toward the surface outside the main observation viewport, visible in the afternoon sun cutting through blue-green waters.

Occasionally, a shark would swim past, its outline faintly visible from the interior. Dolphins, sea porpoises and dozens of other species of marine life would shimmer along the perimeter of the viewport, occasionally stopping to look through the transparent barrier. They were clearly as curious with regard to the inhabitants within as their human counterparts were fascinated in return. The scene was so peaceful and surreal that Khalidi could not help but let it mesmerize him; this one thing had never really become workaday or routine to him.

The drug trafficker stopped to watch a school of remoras before turning and entering an antechamber that led to control center. Standing at one of the several computer terminals was Ebi Sahaf, Khalidi’s chief adviser and director of operations within the complex. Sahaf had first come into Khalidi’s employ as a technical adviser for Abd-el-Aziz, but Khalidi quickly realized the man’s potential after seeing him in action. Not only had Sahaf demonstrated his technical competence and ability to command men, but he was also a devout Muslim and faithful ally. Sahaf took to his new assignment like a dog to a bone. He’d proved his worth and loyalty more times than Khalidi could recall, and in this regard had become one of his leader’s closest friends and advisers.

“Good day, Abbas,” Sahaf said without even turning from the screen.

Although Sahaf spoke flawless Arabic, the British accent was evident in his voice—a clear sign of his upbringing in New Delhi. It was at university in India where he’d learned his technical skills and demonstrated his uncanny skills as both an information systems and structural engineer. It was a rare and unusual combination of skills and Khalidi had always admired Sahaf for his talent.

“How did you know I was here?”

“The guards called ahead, as they are instructed to do whenever you show for a surprise visit.”

“I would hardly call my visit a surprise,” Khalidi said, raising one eyebrow.

Sahaf turned and smiled. “I merely jest with you, Abbas. Don’t be so serious.”

“I’m a serious man with serious issues on my mind.”

“You speak of the recent incidents in America?”

Khalidi nodded and Sahaf looked around. The staff seemed otherwise preoccupied with their respective duties, but Sahaf, a man with a singularly suspicious nature, gestured for Khalidi to follow him to a location where they could talk privately. They entered a small conference room adjoining the complex and closed the heavy door behind them. They didn’t have to worry about being overheard or eavesdropping. A personal team—handpicked from the mercenary force that oversaw security—swept twice a day for surveillance devices, every door in the complex provided a waterproof and practically soundproof seal.