First Strike by Ben Coes Read Free Book Online Page B

confusion bordering on futility, crossed with fear.
    â€œMy government is not involved with ISIS, Al Qaeda, or any other group of terrorists. We hate you all.”
    â€œYou are,” said al-Jaheishi. “I’m sending you a photo.”
    A few moments later, Mallory’s phone chimed. He opened the photo. There were two men, standing before a large shipping container, its end open. Stacks of RPGs were visible. The two men were shaking hands. One was unmistakable: the most wanted man on earth, Tristan Nazir, leader of ISIS. The other man was in a suit and tie. His face had a black mark across it, redacted.
    â€œThis proves nothing.”
    â€œHe is one of the highest-ranking officials in your government, Mr. Mallory.”
    â€œSend me the information.”
    â€œNo. As soon as I give it to you, I’m a dead man. I want asylum. I will put it all onto a SIM card. Meet me in Damascus.”
    â€œHow soon?”
    â€œTomorrow.”

 
    8
    BIRCH HILL
    MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
    A black Jaguar F-Type R convertible roared along a secluded country road, then came to a stop at a pair of brick pillars separated by iron gates. Beyond, brick walls covered in ivy ran in both directions, surrounding the property and shielding whatever was behind it. Security cameras were visible atop each gate and every dozen feet along the wall.
    A small, weathered sign on one of the pillars said BIRCH HILL in ornately scrolled brass lettering.
    Across the street, a black Chevy Suburban was parked, its windows tinted dark. It was one of four such SUVs dotting the roads around the property. Inside each vehicle sat CIA paramilitary.
    The driver of the Jaguar reached out and hit a six-digit code into the intercom keypad next to the driveway. The gate clicked, then swung slowly open. The driver sped forward.
    The driveway curved gracefully between two symmetrical rows of old birch trees whose branches hung over the drive, creating a shadowy canopy. Past the trees spread lawn to the property’s border, demarcated by the brick wall in the far distance. At the end of the driveway, in a clearing at the top of a small rise, stood a rambling whitewashed brick mansion. A circular parking area was in front. In the middle was a small flower garden.
    A young woman in jeans and a T-shirt was leaning over a spray of bright red peonies and cutting them.
    The Jaguar coughed a few times as its driver forgot to downshift, nearly conking out. When he finally downshifted, the car shot forward, engine revving furiously, tires kicking up stones.
    The woman watched with a bemused smile as the car sputtered up the driveway.
    She had long brown hair and was barefoot. She took a few steps toward the approaching car, her hands holding a large bunch of flowers, as the Jaguar came to a stop just in front of her.
    She stepped to the side of the car and leaned down toward him.
    He had on sunglasses and a run-down camouflage baseball hat. His skin was a deep, rich brown.
    â€œHi, Dewey,” she said.
    â€œHi, Daisy.”
    â€œNice driving.”
    Dewey fumbled for the handle and stepped out of the car. He removed his sunglasses and looked at Daisy Calibrisi with a slightly embarrassed expression.
    â€œIt’s not mine.”
    Daisy stepped toward him and reached out her arms.
    â€œI’m glad you’re here,” she said, hugging him. “Thanks for coming. At the rate Dad’s going, he won’t be done until Christmas.”
    â€œWhere is he?”
    â€œIn back.”
    Dewey leaned down to give her a polite kiss on the cheek. At the last moment, she moved her face slightly to the right so that their lips met. Dewey kissed her quickly and took a step back.
    Daisy grinned. There ensued a few moments of awkward silence.
    â€œYou’re tan,” Daisy said. “You been sunbathing?”
    â€œI don’t sunbathe, Daisy.”
    â€œWell how’d you get so tan?”
    â€œI don’t know. I played golf the other