Oath to Defend Read online

  “Do not mention luck to me. If this man is who I think he is, luck did not save him from your ambush. If he shows his face again, at the ranch or anywhere near Vazquez, I want him killed. Also the two men who just failed me. Are we clear on that?”

  “I will take care of it,” Saleem said. “Will you be at Abazzano’s ranch later?”

  “This afternoon, I want to see if the men are ready. You will need two more men to carry out your assignment.”

  “Replacements from our cell up north are already on their way.”

  Barak closed his cell phone and removed its pre-paid SIM card. He would drop the burner phone somewhere on a street in Bend as he passed through on his way to the Wyler Ranch. The pre-paid SIM card itself would be tossed in the creek at the ranch.

  He smiled to himself as he thought about Michael Abazzano. The man had all the progressive sympathies they had come to count on—his love of the underdog Palestinians, his anti-Semitism, and his loathing of the values and traditions of fly-over America. But it was his wife, the lovely Nadine, that made Barak smile. She had been one of theirs even before her parents had been killed in the refugee camp massacres in Lebanon. She had been ordered to seduce Abazzano at the Cannes International Film Festival and had married him shortly after. Since then, she was their main contact in Hollywood. She had been instrumental in getting her husband and other movie producers to promote their cause.

  The West was so easily misled. The Qu’ran allowed deceit as a tool to conquer the world, and even though the command was there in black and white for all to see, the sophisticated elite in the West still refused to believe they were being lied to.

  It was the old enemies who kept getting in the way, he said to himself, the ones they had fought before and knew our ways. Like that attorney in Portland, who had prevented the assassination of the DHS Secretary. After he had been forced to flee to Mexico when his headquarters in Las Vegas were raided, Barak had learned the attorney had been a Special Forces soldier, a Delta Force operator. He had hunted al Qaeda leaders throughout the Middle East and had been, by all reports, very successful.

  Barak worried now that the man Saleem’s men had failed to kill was the same man who had spoiled his plan the last time. Whoever he was, it was obvious he could not be allowed to see Vazquez again, or even return to the Wyler Ranch. Sooner or later, the man would probably discover the hangar house and come for him. When he did, Barak would make sure he got the warm welcome he deserved.

  Leaving the deck and the warm morning sun, he went back inside to find his pilot, who was sitting at the island in the kitchen and drinking a cup of coffee.

  “I’m going to Abazzano’s ranch for lunch,” he said, “and I’ll probably be there most of the afternoon. I want you and the plane ready to fly out of here anytime I say, tomorrow or the next day. I may want to leave earlier than planned.”

  “Trouble?” the pilot asked.

  “It’s possible. If you see anyone snooping around, call me immediately.”

  “Are we still flying to Canada?”

  “Yes, we’ll mingle with tourists in Banff until things cool down.”

  Barak took the keys for the Escalade off the counter and walked downstairs to the hangar where the car was parked next to his Hawker 400XPR. One of his dummy corporations the FBI hadn’t traced to him had purchased the jet for a song, and he had upgraded its performance and avionics just for this operation. The jet was smaller and faster than most other light private jets, but it wasn’t flashy enough to attract a lot of attention. When he got to Canada, though, he planned to sell the Hawker and get something more fitting, like a Gulfstream G550 or a Dassault Falcon. Then he would disappear until the Americans grew tired of searching for him.

  The traffic was fairly heavy as he drove north to Bend and then to Abazzano’s ranch. The city had apparently grown faster than its ability to build highways. The highway running north and south through the high desert of Oregon ran right through it. Even with the congestion, though, it took him less than an hour to reach the ranch. On Saturday, if things went as planned, it would take ten times as long to cover the distance he had just driven.

  When he drove past Abazzano’s house on the rise below the rimrock and toward the stables and bunkhouse, now occupied by Saleem’s men, he saw them waiting for him. Four men stood beside the Harley Davidson motorcycles he had shipped to Oregon for the mission. Three blacked-out Iron 883’s and a Softail that was hitched to a pull-behind cargo trailer. The men were wearing black motorcycle leathers and in their hands were holding full-face black helmets with smoked visors. Suited up and riding their motorcycles, they would look like mounted storm troopers that no thinking person would want to challenge.

  Barak walked to the back of the Softail. “Saleem, is the trailer big enough to carry the package?”

  “We had to modify it a little. The sides are raised sixteen inches to carry the transport container lying horizontally. We repainted the trailer black to cover the modifications we made, and added the flames in back to make it look like something a motorcycle gang might tow. Otherwise, the trailer will easily carry four hundred pounds. That’s more than the package weighs.”

  “Have the men show me how they will ride to the target.”

  Saleem turned to one of the men. “Yousef, show us how you’ll ride Saturday.”

  As one, all four men put on their helmets and mounted their motorcycles. Four V-twin engines roared to life and settled into the unmistakable Harley rumble. Yousef raised his left hand in the air, and when he dropped it, all four motorcycles moved off together, convoy-style; two of the Iron 883’s in front, the Softail and trailer next, followed by the third Iron 883 in the rear.

  “How are they out on the road?” Barak asked.

  “They’re a little too cautious to look the part,” Saleem admitted, “but we’re working on that. They’ll go out for a fifty mile ride today and a seventy-five mile ride tomorrow. By Saturday, they should look like they’ve been riding all their lives.”

  “Is Talal comfortable arming the device?”

  “He’s my demolition guy, trained in Iran and experienced. He’s built IEDs, booby-trapped buildings, and put together massive truck bombs in Iraq. Arming this thing is a piece of cake for him.”

  “Does he have any idea we’ve set the timer to detonate as soon as he arms it?”

  “There’s no way he could know that. Even if he did, he’s volunteered for martyrdom. He’ll do his job. They all will. Don’t worry.”

  “Inshallah, Saleem, inshallah. Have you heard from your man watching Vazquez today?”

  “Yes, an hour ago. He’s having breakfast alone in his room.”

  “That’s a change. Have your man keep watching him. If his visitor returns, have your man kill him. We only need to keep Vazquez quiet until the polo match. After that, your little distraction will eliminate any risk he poses.”

  Barak sat in his Escalade for a quiet moment before driving up to Abazzano’s villa for lunch and watched as the convoy of motorcycles drove by. They filled the normally quiet interior of the SUV with the roar of their engines.

  31

  It was a short drive from the lodge to the marina restaurant, where Drake had invited Casey and his team to meet him for lunch. Although there were a few cars in the parking lot already, he saw that he was early enough to still get one of the tables out on the deck. As he was getting out of the Porsche, he heard the approach of a helicopter overhead. When he looked up, he saw that it was the most aerodynamically designed helicopter he had ever seen. Painted red and black, with a bullet nose and a sleek tail boom, it looked like it could fly faster than most winged craft. If this was Casey’s new toy, Drake was impressed.

  He entered the restaurant and was taken out to the deck overlooking the river. The restaurant was located in the old Trout House, where he had eaten a number of times in the past, but he was unfamiliar with the nouveau Mexican-Peruvian cuisine Hola! featured. Bright colors and lively Mexican music created a
festive atmosphere, and Drake was looking forward to lunch.

  He was studying the menu when Casey and his team walked out onto the deck and gathered around his table.

  “I guess hola, amigos is appropriate,” Drake said, as he stood up and shook hands all around. “Mike, was that spaceship that just flew over yours?”

  His friend grinned. “That spaceship, as you call it, is a Bell 525 Relentless, the most advanced general aviation helicopter in the world. It flies like an angel and makes me forget all my earthly woes. But, no, strictly speaking, it’s not mine. It belongs to the corporation of which I am the majority shareholder. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “This is the first time I’ve ever heard you talk about something other than food in a restaurant,” Drake said. “Why don’t we get our orders placed and I’ll tell you what I have in mind for your little vacation. Ricardo, this place is supposed to have good food. You see anything on the menu you recommend? I don’t know much about Peruvian cuisine.”

  “Give me a minute,” the former Green Beret replied. “Mike doesn’t care if it’s good or not. There just has to be a lot of it.”

  Everyone laughed and Drake said, “How well I know. How about a round of margaritas before we get down to business?” He waved at a waitress to take the order. “Five Patron Margaritas, por favor.”

  While Casey and his team took their seats around the table and admired the view of the river and a family of ducks drifting alongside a human family in a canoe, Capt. Gonzalez studied the lunch menu.

  “Would you like me to order for us and eat family style?” he asked.

  “Go ahead, Ricardo,” Casey said. “Just keep my appetite in mind.”

  When the waitress brought their margaritas, Capt. Gonzalez obeyed his general’s orders.

  “Señorita, please bring us two orders of ceviche mexicano, two orders of guacamole and plenty of chips. Five orders of ensaladas mixta. Three orders of enchiladas rojas. Three orders of enchiladas mole.” He glanced down at the menu again. “And five orders of Baja burritos. Put it all on the table and we’ll sort it out.”

  When she finished writing down their order, she left with a big smile.

  “Adam, before I get busy eating,” Casey said, “tell us what you’ve learned so far.”

  Sitting with his back to the other tables, Drake leaned forward and briefed the team on the events of his time in Bend, from his arrival to the incident on his drive to Sunriver an hour earlier.

  “What I need to do,” he concluded, “is to get eyes on Wyler Ranch and find out what’s going on out there. I’m going to pay our polo star another visit. I picked up a tail leaving Pronghorn, so I know they were watching him the first time.”

  “We can get eyes on the ranch for you,” Casey said. He turned to the men sitting to his left. “Billy still has pretty good sniper eyes, and Ricardo knows how to use the Draganflyer drone. If you can get something more on those Escalades, Larry can run it down for you.” As the three men nodded, Casey added, “And I can go with you to see this polo star.”

  Drake saw all three men raise their eyes and look over his shoulder as Liz Strobel approached their table.

  “Greetings,” she said. “Adam, I’ll be happy to ride along with you. From what I’ve been reading about the polo star, he has an eye for the ladies. Maybe I can help.”

  Her brown hair was shorter and her face more tanned than when Drake had last seen her, but her ice blue eyes still sparkled. Wearing a pink polo shirt that showcased her well-packaged form, and jeans that clung to her long shapely legs, there was no question she would catch Vazquez’s eye.

  “Liz, I’m glad you were able to join us,” Drake said. “Would you like a margarita?” He stood up to greet her and introduced her to the men at the table.

  Casey borrowed a chair from another table and set it next to Drake’s. “If you’re hungry,” he said, “we can order more food.

  “Thanks, I’m fine,” she said. “I had a bagel and cream cheese on the Secretary’s plane before they dropped me off here.”

  “What are you doing in Oregon?” Casey asked.

  “Didn’t Adam tell you? I’m here to see if he’s found anything that will help us find the thing we couldn’t find in San Diego,” she said as she glanced over to see if the people at the next table were listening to their conversation.

  Casey followed her look and asked, “Are you here in an official capacity or just paying us a social visit?”

  “I’m here on my own time, Mike. There’s nothing more I can do in California, and I have to be in Seattle on Monday.”

  “You have a place to stay?”

  “Not yet. I’ll find something here at Sunriver or in town.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Drake said. “There’s plenty of room at the Senator’s place. Stay with us.”

  She nodded. “I accept. If you’re sure I won’t upset any plans you guys have.”

  Drake smiled. “If you play poker and won’t mind a little cigar smoke after dinner, you’ll fit right in. You might even win a dollar or two if Mike hasn’t improved his game.”

  When their food arrived, Drake ordered a margarita for Liz and joined the others passing around the platters of food. He was surprised by how quickly he had asked her to stay with them at the Senator’s cabin. A month ago, she had helped him remove the bodies of three terrorists from his farm and then keep the media and police at bay. But they had also exchanged heated words about his meddling in what she had seen as a matter for law enforcement. They had exchanged more heated words about what he believed was her agency’s incompetence in dealing with terrorism. Now, however, she seemed to be willing to accept his help…unless there was some other agenda behind her decision to pay him a visit.

  As the abundant food on the table was quickly consumed, due in large part to Casey’s apparently insatiable appetite, Drake suggested that they drive to the Senator’s cabin, unload the team’s gear, and get Liz settled in her room.

  “Liz,” he said, “do you have your things here, or are they back at the airport?”

  “I left everything at the airport and took a cab here.”

  Drake nodded. “Mike, why don’t you drive her to the airport and get her luggage while I pay the bill here? My car probably doesn’t have enough room for all her bags.”

  “Ouch!” she said. “I have one duffel bag. You probably have more than that for your toiletries.”

  “Touché! You can ride with me, then. I’ll pay for lunch and meet you all outside.”

  By the time he walked outside, Liz and four adoring men were standing around his Porsche. But it wasn’t his automotive pride and joy they were adoring. All eyes were on his passenger.

  “Mike,” he said, “if you can get your guys to leave this lady alone long enough to mount up, follow me to the airport and then to Crosswater. We’re going to waste the day if we just stand around here.”

  When they were seated in his car and Liz was buckled in, he drove past the team as they walked toward the two white GMC Yukon XL’s Casey had rented at the airport.

  Drake slowed down. “You seem to have charmed the men, Ms. Strobel.”

  “It’s all in a day’s work, Mr. Drake. It never hurts to know who your friends are in case you run into trouble.”

  “I didn’t think you expected to find any trouble in Oregon.”

  “I don’t. But you do have a habit of creating it. I was just hedging my bet in case I need someone to come to my rescue and you’re not around.”

  Drake accelerated out of the parking lot, wondering if he should feel flattered that she thought he could rescue her or uneasy that she assumed he would want to.

  32

  The earth-fill, or embankment, dam had been built in 1951. It was two thousand and fifty-five feet long and stood three hundred and ten feet tall. The reservoir behind the dam covered sixty five hundred acres and was eight and a half miles long. If the dam failed, the subsequent wall of water rushing down would overwhelm two other dams downstre
am. As a result of the failure of three dams, a wall of water a hundred feet high would reach the valley below five hours later. Estimated casualties were two hundred to three hundred thousand people. The infrastructure of the area would be destroyed for years to come.

  All Barak had to do was get his demolition nuke to the dam, and make sure Saleem’s men detonated it in the exact place on the dam to break it open.

  There were more than seventeen hundred hydroelectric dams in America, and when this one in Oregon was blown, the nationwide panic that would follow, Barak knew, would be a delight to watch. Security was almost nonexistent at these dams, so the government would have to send in the army to protect the remaining dams. Citizens who lived in the inundation zones below the dams would demand assurance they and their families were safe. U.S. Army Corps of Engineers inundation studies would be carefully scrutinized and found to be outdated and inadequate. The panic would thus ratchet up another notch.

  The end result would be a nation shaken to its core. The United States would learn that it was inescapably destined to bow before the will of Allah.

  That was the goal. Barak had been chosen by the Brotherhood to make it happen. If he failed again, as he had when he failed to assassinate the Secretary of Homeland Security, he knew he would be the one bowing to the will of Allah. The swift sword that would surely be raised over his head would guarantee that he would not have another opportunity to please his sponsors.

  Barak stood over the map on the desk in the office of the hangar house and traced the route Saleem’s men would take to the dam. From Wyler Ranch, they would follow Highway 97 south through the city of Bend. He put a forefinger on the city. That was the area he worried about the most. If the convoy of four Harleys moved too fast or two slow, they risked being stopped. If they got bogged down in traffic or ran into some road-raged idiot, they might not control their frustration. They were hard men, heavily armed, and shooting their way out of a confrontation would be the first thing they would think of.