Distressed: Enemy Of The State- Book 1 Read online

  Chapter 2

  The plans were spread out on the table, and Richard Perry squinted at the drawing in the dim lighting the warehouse provided. The generators were already running low on fuel, and he wouldn’t be able to risk another shipment until next week, not with the amount of heat Kasaika and his men were pulling. Each day there was a new report about an incident with one of the operations. He couldn’t afford another slipup, not with what was coming.

  Perry leaned against the edge of the table for support. His spine seemed to twist and curve like a deformed sapling, even when he stood upright. He flipped through one of the schematics, and Sefkh burst through the door, panting and out of breath and bringing a burst of heat that filled the rest of the warehouse. “Kasaika was just boarded by the Coast Guard.”

  But Perry had already known what happened before the words left his tongue. “And now the Coast Guard is dead, along with two of your brother-in-law’s men, for his stupidity.” Perry gave the table a shove, which more pushed him off it than shook the table itself. “Tell them to finish the deliveries. I won’t be able to get him another ship until I get the captain a new set of papers. The ones handed over to the Coast Guard were recorded and compromised.”

  “Sir, the—”

  Perry took a quick step toward the door, and Sefkh backed away. “Need I remind you of what we’re trying to accomplish? Of what you and your men are risking their lives for? Of what I’m risking mine?” Drops of saliva flew from his mouth, his cheeks flushed red, and he shoved Sefkh out of reach.

  “Yes, sir.” Sefkh turned on his heel and headed back through the warehouse, his head lowered. Perry walked back to the map on his desk and planted his finger over Washington, DC, then dragged it west across the rest of the country until it landed in San Francisco. “Sea to shining sea.” He muttered the words mockingly and then rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

  Scars and disfigurements covered what remained of his skin. Perry ran his hands along the grooves and misshapen patterns and grimaced. He rolled the sleeves back down and buttoned the cuffs. He marched out of the office and through the warehouse.

  Tanned Egyptians worked alongside a small group of Americans that Perry recruited, all dripping the same sweat, all bleeding the same blood. Perry knew almost all of it would be spilt, and he’d gladly spill as much as necessary. “Sefkh!”

  The Egyptian turned around sheepishly and met Perry in the middle of the floor, the rest of the warehouse casting a watchful eye over their commanders. “Have you been in contact with the West Coast?”

  “The missions in Los Angeles and Seattle were successful, but we had an issue with San Francisco. We’re still waiting on the rest,” Sefkh answered.

  The terrorists working on their rifles and projects slowly stepped away as Perry glowered at Sefkh. “What happened?”

  “One of our men tripped an alarm at the factory. We didn’t have time to grab all of the supplies.”

  “Who?”

  Sefkh shifted his eyes to a young Egyptian, deconstructing and cleaning his rifle, then nodded.

  With the number of issues the operation had been running into, they were already behind schedule. While his position at Homeland afforded him high-level security clearance, all of it was rendered useless by incompetent hands. “Shift half of our men from the Midwest to California,” Perry said. “Funnel whatever weapons and resources we have left there. I do not want to lose our chance for this. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Perry walked over to the young Egyptian, who was oblivious to Perry until he hovered right on top of him. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, the spots still not fully faded from his hide. “Do you speak English?” The boy shook his head. Sefkh walked up behind the boy and rested his hands on his shoulders. “What is his name?” Perry asked.

  “Amarah,” Sefkh answered.

  Perry knelt down to one knee, so he and the young man were eye to eye. Amarah scooted back on the crate he sat on once the two were close. “Do you know your mission?”

  Amarah looked up to Sefkh, who translated in Arabic, then nodded. Only two pieces of the rifle remained unconnected. Perry picked both of them up and locked them into place. He pushed himself off his knee and aimed the rifle at the young man’s head. The rest of the warehouse fell silent, and Sefkh tried to step between them, but Perry ordered him back.

  Amarah held his hands in the air, his head on a swivel, looking between Sefkh and Perry. He mumbled in Arabic, the panic in his eyes growing. Perry took a step forward until the metal tip grazed the skin on Amarah’s forehead. “Are you willing to die for us, Amarah?”

  Sefkh translated, and Amarah nodded, but the shivers running through his body told Perry another story. Perry tilted his head to the side, his eyes paralyzing the boy. “Then would you care to tell me why our men didn’t get the necessary equipment needed to complete our mission? The mission that failed due to your stupidity?”

  Amarah screamed, waved his arms, and shouted to both Perry and Sefkh, who translated as fast as he could. “Enough!” Perry jammed the end of the barrel into Amarah’s head, putting an end to the rambling. “Get up.”

  Sefkh repeated the words, and a glimmer of wetness appeared in Amarah’s eyes as he rose. Perry kept the rifle at Amarah’s head the entire time. Each time the boy shook, Perry felt it vibrate through the rifle’s barrel. The rest of the men in the warehouse had gathered around, keeping their distance, and Perry felt their eyes on him. “Weakness is a disease.”

  Amarah shuddered and mumbled prayers, Sefkh no longer translating. Perry scraped the end of the barrel along Amarah’s skin down to his cheek, where he blocked a tear from falling. “It latches on to a host and drains it until it’s dead.” Perry’s words echoed through the warehouse and filled the silent void that had once been the clank of machinery. “And like all diseases, it must be cut out.”

  Amarah clasped his hands together, his prayers and tears flowing together in a last attempt to save his life, but unlike the devout Muslims around him, Perry understood that neither the tears nor prayers would reach the ghosts of their Quran.

  The bullet sliced through Amarah’s cheek, and the boy crumpled to the floor. Blood pooled around Amarah’s head, and the rest of the men in the warehouse muttered silent prayers to themselves. Perry took a good look at what he saw and made sure the men had a clear view of the boy’s dead body. “This is the price for incompetence. We will not fail.”

  The overhead lighting had cast the men around Perry in shadows. Half-visible faces, limbs, and bodies looked at him. It was an army of shadows, shifting between the light and darkness. “Do you hear me?” Perry’s voice boomed through the hot warehouse air. “We will not fail!”

  ***

  The harbor parking lot was already full by the time Agent Adila Cooper made it to the port. She roamed the gravel lot, searching for a space, and finally pulled her Crown Victoria between two trucks that barely left her enough space to squeeze out of her vehicle. The pistol on the inside of her jacket scraped against the truck’s panel as she shimmied her way out.

  Dark circles rested beneath Cooper’s eyes as she tried rubbing away the fatigue that had pestered her since her “administrative leave” started a week ago. It circled her mind like a fly buzzing around a piece of rotten meat.

  Even in the morning, the air was already warm, and Cooper could smell the mixture of salt, fish, and fuel that stained the harbor like a scar. She was amazed at how many boats were still going out to fish in the current climate. But just because the country was plagued with terrorists didn’t mean the bills stopped coming. Rent, water, and food still had to be paid for. And just because Cooper wasn’t officially with the DEA didn’t mean she stopped being an agent.

  The wooden planks and boards that composed the harbormaster’s building were covered in bird shit and smelled as bad as they looked. Inside was a small convenience store where snacks, bait, and tackle were sold to those who were caught in a pinch before heading
out to sea, and charged an arm and a leg for their trouble.

  The cash register was unmanned, and Cooper made her way to the staircase. She was halfway up the steps when she heard the raspy voice of the harbormaster, accompanied by the creak of the steps. “Hold on, I’m coming.”

  Cooper descended back to the floor as she watched the harbormaster waddle down. His breathing was labored by the time he made it to the bottom. He leaned up against the wall, and sweat rolled down the front of his neck, leaking from his face. “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Dayton Clowdy.”

  The harbormaster didn’t answer immediately, giving Cooper a look up and down. “Who the hell are you?”

  Cooper kept a watchful eye on his chubby fingers as he moved toward the register. She followed casually. “I need some details of what happened on the night of August sixth.”

  The harbormaster waved his hands then reached underneath the counter, hidden from Cooper’s vision. “You some sort of cop?”

  “I need to see the radio transmission logs from that night.” Cooper felt the weight of her pistol underneath her jacket, firmly aware of its presence as the harbormaster kept his hands concealed behind the counter. She took a step forward. “It’s part of the investigation of the attacks that have been happening along the coast.”

  “Look, lady, unless you have a warrant or I see some kind of badge, I don’t have to tell you shit. So if you’re not buying anything, then get the hell out of my shop. I’ve got work to do.”

  Cooper nodded slowly then looked around the store. A cluster of handled fishing nets jutted up from a series of PVC piping. She pulled one out and set it on the counter. Cigarettes lined the wall behind the harbormaster, and she pointed to the case. “I’ll take a pack of Marlboro Lights. Filtered.”

  The harbormaster turned his back, and the moment he did, Cooper grabbed the net and slammed it over the harbormaster’s face and yanked him backward with the handle. Cooper kept pressure on the fat man as he squirmed on his back on the counter. She pulled the gun from her holster and jammed it into the side of his face. “So let’s start over. Are you Dayton Clowdy?”

  The man answered with a gargled yes as he struggled to breathe. Cooper released some of the pressure choking him, and Dayton gasped. “Fucking Christ! What the hell is the matter with you?”

  Cooper added pressure, and dug the pistol into Dayton’s temple. “I want to know why Captain Turk’s ship wasn’t on the log for departure the day he was boarded by the terrorists.”

  “Some guy came to me a month ago, asked if I wanted to earn some money. He paid cash, up front.”

  “What was his name?”

  “No name. Just phone calls. He always called on a different number.”

  “How’d you get the money?”

  “He dropped it off for me to pick up. He wasn’t there when I went, but the money was, so I did the job. I didn’t know what was going to happen, and I didn’t want to know.”

  “Negligent homicide is still homicide, Dayton.” Cooper gave the net another pull. Dayton clawed at the aluminum rim, struggling to breathe from the increased pressure. “You better have something more than just some burner cell number that isn’t good anymore.”

  “The place. Where I picked up the money. It was specific coordinates. I still have them.” Dayton’s face turned a nice shade of purple, his throat gargling and his chubby fingers trying to stop the net from choking him. “I swear that’s all I know.”

  Cooper finally released the pressure and flung the net from his head. She gave him a shove, and he collapsed behind the counter, knocking over the racks of smokes and tobacco above him. Cooper made her way around the counter and saw the shotgun lying underneath the bottom shelf. She snatched it before he had a chance to think about it. “I hope you have a permit for this.”

  “Fuck you.” The words came out weak and breathless. Dayton wallowed in the cartons, sweat dripping from his massive body.

  Cooper aimed the shotgun’s barrel down at his face. “What are the coordinates?”

  ***

  Dylan watched from the docks as the ship sank into the waters. The terrorists had done that with every vessel they’d used so far. They refused to leave any trace for the authorities to find, and having the ocean consume the evidence seemed to be the most efficient way to accomplish it.

  As had become customary, Dylan was blindfolded and thrown into the back of a vehicle, where he was driven to another location that would have a car waiting for him so he could drive home. Once they’d reached their destination, Kasaika shoved Dylan out of the van, tore off the blindfold, then chucked the keys at him. “Red sedan.” He shut the door, and the van peeled off, leaving Dylan alone in the abandoned parking lot.

  The drives back were usually quick, and Dylan spent the time listening to the news. The bombs he’d helped deliver were being detonated at ports, businesses, gas stations, power stations, and public transportation. Each new report made him cringe, but he needed to hear it.

  Fathers lost sons, sons lost fathers, and families were being torn apart. One by one, these terrorists were slowly crippling the country. Fear now governed people’s actions, and the boarded-up windows and closed signs of businesses Dylan saw on the drive back to Boston only solidified that fear was winning.

  It was nearly noon when Dylan pulled into the driveway of Mark’s small, one-bedroom house. The surrounding neighborhood was nothing more than a collection of sagging roofs and weed-infested lawns overgrowing and spilling onto the sidewalk. While the accommodations weren’t ideal, Dylan was thankful to have a friend.

  When Dylan stepped inside, the heat was just as intense in the house as it was outside. Mark was sprawled out on the couch and drinking out of a gallon water jug with a straw fashioned from a cluster of other straws. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

  Mark shifted on the couch, clutching the bandages around his stomach. “Goddamn medicine keeps drying me out. It’s like I’ve got salt in my stomach.” His shirt was open, exposing the grey hairs on his chest and the bandages over the stitches on his gut. Mark had spent most of his time on the island that was the couch. When Dylan left, he was there, and when Dylan came home, he looked as though he’d never even moved.

  “You change that bandage yet today?” Dylan pointed to the discolored white and set his bag next to his pile of things he’d brought over after Homeland Security had confiscated his house when Perry took his son.

  “Not yet,” Mark answered, gingerly shifting himself to a sitting position, groaning the entire way. Dylan helped pull Mark up, and he fell against the back cushions with a grunt. “It was too hot to do anything.”

  Even with the windows open, the heat inside the house was sweltering. It’d been almost three days without power and no sign of it coming back on anytime soon. Red Cross trucks roamed the neighborhoods with food rations, water, and medical supplies. Even if some people wanted to go to work, most couldn’t. Fuel was dwindling, and the attacks on transportation routes were clogging up what streets hadn’t been torn up. It wasn’t like anything Dylan had ever seen in his lifetime. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Mark snatched the battery-powered radio he kept by the couch. It was his one connection to the outside world. The two men leaned on each other, and once they made it into the bathroom, Dylan helped Mark sit on the edge of the bathtub. The radio channel was turned to the news, which spit a constant flow of information in a seamless fashion.

  “Another attack just south of Washington, DC, has left over twenty thousand without power, as one of the substations was bombed last night. Authorities have frozen any and all devices and materials used to make such weapons, but the attacks still keep coming. It is believed by the president’s administration that the terrorists are using a stockpile of previously assembled weapons to continue their reign of destruction.”

  Dylan peeled the bandage off and tossed it in the trash. The wound was wet with slime, and Dylan used gloved hands to clean
around the stitches. Mark winced a few times, the bruising around the stomach still healing.

  “Ports along the East Coast have been under the most scrutiny lately, as the transportation of these devices is believed to be accomplished by sea. The Navy, Coast Guard, and reserves have been called in full force to patrol the waterways, but the sheer number of square miles has made it difficult to capture the terrorists, and the increased security has left millions of imports from other countries to be backed up, affecting businesses all around the country. Bodies were recovered from a Coast Guard unit that was believed to have been attacked last night by the terrorist organization. Three bodies have been recovered, and the two missing are also believed to be dead.”

  Mark glanced at Dylan, and the two made eye contact. “Christ.” Mark shook his head. His jaw was clenched, and his face scrunched in preparation of pain as Dylan gently applied the disinfectant over and around the stitches. “That you?”

  Mark was the only one who knew the truth about what Dylan was doing and how Perry was blackmailing him with his own son. His daughter, his ex-wife, the authorities, everyone else was in the dark. “Yeah.” Dylan dumped the cleaning tools and applied the fresh bandage over the stitches, doing his best to keep the sweat off the area until it was sealed tight. He wiped his brow and sat on the closed toilet lid.

  Mark rolled his T-shirt down and shifted uncomfortably on the narrow edge. “It’s for your boy, Dylan. Any good father who gave a damn about his family would do the same. But you need to start thinking of an exit strategy. This can’t go on forever.”

  “I know.” Getting out had plagued Dylan’s mind since the moment they were first boarded, when Mark was shot by the very terrorists Dylan was now helping. He’d looked at it from every angle he could, but the only way he was going to get out of this was either in cuffs or in a box six feet under. Both would devastate his kids, and neither was preferable. “I didn’t ask for this.”