The jihadist repeated the performance with the ring finger.
Again more screams and denials.
Mohammed grabbed the lug nut wrench and stood next to Gabe, waiting for answers. When no response was forthcoming the terrorist wiggled the wrench as if waiting for a waist-high fastball. With a powerful two-handed swing he crushed the undercover operative’s right kneecap, the bones splintering.
Gabe cried out, fighting the pain surging through his body.
Candy, wired by the carnage, said, “Make him talk.”
“You’ll tell us the truth,” whispered Mohammed. The Iranian-trained jihadi picked up a single-edge razor blade from the workbench. He then sliced away at Gabe’s pants, exposing his left thigh.
“What do you want?” screamed Gabe as Mohammed held the razor in front of the captive’s face.
Gabe knew in that instant he was straddling death at the hands of a jihadist — just as Navy diver Robert Stethem had been in Beirut, aboard TWA 847. Even in his agony, Gabe remembered the hidden micro-recorder was documenting this terrible ordeal and he resolved in that instant to get the maximum information from the man who was killing him. “What do you want from me?” he managed to say through a mouthful of blood, broken teeth, and a fractured jaw.
“I want the truth about what you know of the nuclear weapons arrangement between Iran and North Korea,” said Mohammed, his face pressed near to Gabe’s ear.
“Nothing. I don’t know what you are talking about,” gurgled Gabe.
“Then die, infidel,” said Mohammed as he used the razor to slice deep into Gabe’s exposed thigh. There was a gush of blood as the femoral artery was severed.
“Tell me what you know and you live,” breathed Mohammed in Gabe’s left ear, waving a tourniquet and bandages in the CIA operative’s face.
Though Gabe’s resolve remained strong, his body was rapidly failing as the hemorrhage from the gash in his thigh compounded the effects of the wounds he had already endured. He sucked in a breath and said a quiet prayer, the bruises, cuts, and broken bones bearing testimony to the savagery.
In his last moment he looked up into the muzzle of Candy’s .45-caliber M1911A1 just as she pulled the trigger. His lifeless body slumped in the chair, only the duct tape preventing him from collapsing to the floor.
The three conspirators who had watched the young American die never bothered to question the success or failure of their mission. Two potential obstacles — real or imagined — Cho and Gabe, had been removed from their calculus.
There was little left to do. Kareem picked up the spent shell casing and, after a quick cleanup of the garage, Candy headed home. In their haste to prepare for Isha, the last of the daily prayers, the two jihadists dumped Gabe’s body in a nearby alley in hopes it would look like another random street crime, a common occurrence in Los Angeles.
When the beat cop found the body, he assumed it was that of a foreign tourist, murdered for a wallet. The pockets were empty. There was no ID, passport, or driver’s license.
The subsequent electronic report from the L.A. County medical examiner’s office included a dental imprint and morgue photos of the “unidentified male victim” and close-up images of an “Eagle, Globe, and Anchor” tattoo above the words “Semper Fi” on the right bicep of the deceased. Only later would the CIA’s Office of Personnel Management realize Gabe had answered “no” on question 143 of the hiring application: “Do you have any identifying marks, scars, or tattoos?”
There was also a notation about the victim’s personal effects and clothing being held for next of kin:
“One pair, New Balance athletic shoes, size 10C [blood spattered]; one pair, white cotton sport socks w/o label [blood spattered]; one Jockey label boxer underwear, size 28; one North Face label, size 28 x 33, dark green trousers [damaged and blood spattered]; one Kirkland label, size large, dark blue polo shirt [bloodstained]; one Casio label wristwatch w/ dark green, nylon wristband [bloodstained]; one hand-stitched leather belt w/o label, w/ faux-brass buckle, size 28–32.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jake had been looking forward to this meeting all morning. He hopped out of the car and handed the keys to the parking valet. He was immediately struck by the warm breeze blowing in from the ocean. He loved the Malibu heat. Two hours earlier, when he met with Henry Yeong and Tommy to discuss an exclusive use of his services, there was a chill in the air. Now as it was nearing noon, the famous California sunshine had turned it into a beautiful day.
Jake pocketed the claim check, questioning whether anyone ever read the fine print, and headed into Gladstone’s, a beachfront restaurant favorite.
Two couples were ahead of him as he made his way to the hostess stand. He waited patiently to give his name but as he scanned the outdoor patio he spotted her. He jumped out of line and strode toward the wooden plank table near the back of the patio. She stood and the two embraced. At eight months pregnant it wasn’t quite as easy to get his arms around her.
“I’m glad you were able to make it. I can never count on your schedule — too many criminal variables,” she said.
Using a very poor French accent, Jake said, “Quiet, don’t blow my cover. The Bureau thinks I’m meeting some hooker named Natasha working for a Mob-run escort service.”
“Jake!”
“No, my name is Pierre and I am businessman from Paris garment district. You are Natasha. I told madam running operation I like big Russian women.”
“You are impossible,” she said, hitting him playfully as they both took a seat.
As the two began to peruse the menu, Jake said, “I know you have this craving for seafood but wouldn’t you be satisfied with Long John Silver’s? I think I have a coupon in the car.”
“You don’t think I’m Gladstone’s worthy?”
“Oh, you are worth the French Riviera. It’s just that I can afford fast-food fish and chips, not the market price for the Iced Seafood Tower.”
“You don’t even know what the market price is. Maybe you can afford it.”
“Trust me. I’ve eaten here before. I can’t afford their market price anything.”
A bleached-blond college-age server, who was probably wasting his daddy’s savings on a higher education at UCLA or Pepperdine, came to the table dressed in a blue logo T-shirt, white trousers, and the Gladstone’s blue apron. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“We’ll both take iced tea,” said Jake.
“I better not have caffeine,” she said. “Do you have any decaf tea?”
The server shook his head.
“Then just bring her water with lemon,” said Jake.
“You got it, dude.”
When the server left, Jake, shaking his head in disgust and employing his weak French accent, asked, “So, Natasha, dude, how are you feeling?”
She smiled. “I’m great. A little tired. I slept until almost nine this morning. I had to hustle to make the doctor’s appointment, but she said everything looks fine and I’m right on schedule, maybe even a little ahead.”
“You think junior might punch out early?”
Offering a smile, she said, “I’m ready if he is. He’s got to be a lot like his dad.”
There was an awkward silence, neither quite knowing what to say, as they both looked out toward the ocean pretending to breathe in the salt air.
“How’s your week been going?” she asked.
“You know, same ole, same ole. Set up a contract killing, scored some meth from members of an ethnic minority group, and wasted a breakfast meeting this morning on two mopes who will be eating prison food soon. Just risking it all to keep the world safe from democracy,” said Jake with a mischievous grin.