11, Part Four
Everyone arrived a few days later. It was good to see my former teammates again. I also got to meet Ling’s associates. We all gathered in the dining room of the safe house for introductions.
“Michael,” Ling said, “Allow me to introduce Ibrahim, a fellow strike team leader.” Ibrahim stepped forward. He was a tall, muscular man, probably in his early thirties, of obvious Middle Eastern descent. His hair was cropped short, and a thin moustache accented his tanned face. I stuck my hand out and he shook it firmly.
“My name is Michael Valentine,” I said, “and these are my associates, Jeff and Corwin.”
“It is my pleasure,” Ibrahim said. “You will be assisting Ling’s team then?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Very good! Ling, I am sorry to hear of the loss of Alexis. How is Samseer?”
“He’s walking again,” Ling said, sadness suddenly apparent in her eyes. “He has a long road ahead, but the doctors think he will recover. He’ll likely not be able to return to my team, though.”
“Such a tragedy,” Ibrahim said, looking downward. “I will pray for them both.”
“Thank you, my friend,” she said, taking his hand. “How is your team?”
“We are well! You remember Solomon, the young man from Sierra Leone? He has turned into a most effective operative. We are looking forward to working with you.”
“And I you.” I realized then what a tight-knit little community EXODUS was. Ling smiled at her compatriot one last time, then walked to the head of the table. I looked around. Everyone was there. Ibrahim and his five teammates, Dr. Bundt, Michel, Shen, and my own guys, plus a few more people I didn’t recognize.
“Let us begin,” Ling said, turning on an overhead projector. “Good evening everyone. This will be one of our most important, as well as riskiest, missions in recent memory.” She clicked the projector, and a picture of a large farmhouse appeared.
“This is a farm about twenty kilometers outside of Des Moines. Officially it is just one more dairy farm. However, it is owned by one of the most powerful human trafficking firms in North America. They specialize in sex slaves, and most of their victims are children. We estimate there are some thirty to forty such victims being held there. We have a source on the inside that has been feeding us information on their moves. That is how I was able to warn you of the attack on your dormitory, Michael,” she said, addressing me directly before continuing.
“Our source tells us that several clients will be there this Sunday to make their selections. We are going to hit the site then, while the clients are present, and we will try to deal with them and any other targets that present themselves. We cannot allow any of the victims to be taken from there.”
“What about the cops?” Corwin asked. Ling chewed her lip for a moment before responding.
“The trafficking firm in question caters to very wealthy and very influential people. There will undoubtedly be a lot of security on site, but given the nature of their operation I doubt they’ll call the police even in the event of an attack. This will work to our advantage, as having a police response would greatly complicate our getting the victims out of there.”
“Wait, why can’t we just turn them over to the police?” Jeff asked.
“As I said, the clientele of this establishment are very wealthy and very influential. There may even be officials of the American government present. We cannot guarantee the safety of the victims we liberate unless we filter them through the Underground Railroad.”
Ling continued with her briefing. The plan was straightforward. We’d hit just after sundown on the night of the auction. We were most likely going to have a serious fight on our hands, and it was going to get ugly. None of the employees or clients of the trafficking ring were to leave the site alive, if at all possible. I had no doubt that Ling’s teammates would carry out her grim orders without hesitation.
After that, we’d once again split up the victims. We had four large vans at our disposal, and we’d commandeer (steal) other vehicles if necessary. They’d then be taken directly to one of several Underground Railroad stations in the United States. We would split up, with Ling’s team returning to the safe house we were at, and Ibrahim’s team heading for another.
When the briefing was finished, we all gathered in the safe house’s large living room, where I got to witness a ritual that few outsiders ever have. One of the people I didn’t recognize, an older gentleman, walked to the front of the room with a book in his hands. He looked around, nodded, and opened the book. Everyone in the room kneeled, leaving Jeff, Corwin, and myself standing at the back of the room. We looked at each other, and then awkwardly kneeled like everyone else. The man with the book spoke, his voice at once comforting and authoritative.
“Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name. As we prepare for battle, we ask that you give to us Your divine guidance. Help us save the innocent and the defenseless from the den of the wicked. Bring justice to those that would break Your laws and enslave their fellow man. Watch over our warriors and let no harm come to them, so that they may continue in their service to you. Forgive us for our sins, for we know the price of the battle ahead. If any of us should fall, we humbly beseech you to take them into Your kingdom, that light may shine on them forever more. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.”
“Amen,” everyone said in unison. Indeed.
Later that night, Corwin, Jeff, and I sat together in the basement of the safe house. All of the stuff from my storage unit was down there, as well as Corwin’s and Jeff’s gear. We had it all laid out on a wooden work-bench, and were going over what we’d need.
My friends were a mis-matched pair. Corwin was a little shorter than me, stocky and strong, with dark hair and a goatee. Jeff was shorter still, a skinny Chinese-American with a wide, toothy grin. None of us seemed as lean or mean as I recalled; two years of cushy retirement had really taken its toll on us. I smiled, reminding myself to re-adjust my body armor to fit over my paunch.
“This is going to be a serious assault,” I said. “I’m going heavy. Full body armor, load bearing vest, sidearm. I’ll be taking eight mags for my rifle, three speedloaders for my revolver.”
“I can’t believe you still carry that thing,” Jeff said, reassembling his Beretta 92 Elite.
“It’s a good luck charm. You bring your shotgun?”
“Yeah, my carbine too. Not sure which to carry.”
“I’ve got a carbine,” Corwin said, indicating the disassembled M4A1 laying on the work bench.
“Okay, I’ll carry my Benelli, then,” Jeff replied, inserting a magazine into his pistol and chambering a round.
“What the hell are these?” Corwin asked, removing from one of my containers a large object that resembled a rolling pin with one of the handles removed.
“RKG-3s,” I said. “Russian anti-tank grenades.”
“What do you have anti-tank grenades for?” I looked at him incredulously.
“In case there’s a tank.”
“Why would there be a tank?”
“Remember Bolivia?”
“Dude, a BTR-60 is an APC, not a tank,” Jeff said, grinning.
“It might as well be when all you’ve got is a rifle,” I replied with a laugh. ****ing Cubans. “Think fast! Knife check!” I reached into my pocket and retrieved a Benchmade automatic knife. I pushed the button, causing the blade to snap out, and stuck it into the wooden work bench. Corwin and Jeff reciprocated, each producing a switchblade knife of their own and stabbing it into the wood next to mine. We all laughed.
“God damn it’s good to see you guys again. Just like always, if anything happens to me, send my stuff to Hawk.”
“Me too,” Corwin said.
“Yeah, send my stuff to him too,” Jeff replied. Damn, I thought. It’s been almost two years. We’re all supposed to be retired. Yet none of us have really settled down. None of us have any family or any next-of-kin. All we’ve got is each other.
“Okay guys,” I said, a predatory grin splitting my face. “Let’s show these ****ing amateurs how we do it in SWITCHBLADE.”
