Shattered Shield: Cole Cameron Thriller Series Book 1 Read online

  SHATTERED SHIELD

  Camden Mays

  “The cost of freedom is always high, but Americans have always paid it. And one path we shall never choose, and that is the path of surrender, or submission.”

  — John F. Kennedy

  Shattered Shield Copyright © 2019 by Camden Mays. All Rights Reserved. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Book Design Templates

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Camden Mays

  Dedication

  For my late loved ones, mother, father, and brother.

  Acknowledgments

  With deepest gratitude, I would like to thank my family and friends for their support. Most of all, my wife Debbie, whose love inspires me every day.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 1

  The Sonoran Desert, U.S. and Mexican Border

  The heat of the day gave way to the cool of the night, typical of the arid desert climate of El Chango, Mexico. A small clan of hopeful migrants crossed the border without incident along the worn and littered path that gave evidence of other sojourners who had made the passage. Wearing a black cowboy hat and western shirt, the middle-aged guide led them across the shallow river bed, up the other side of the riverbank working to avoid sensors set by the US Border Patrol. The guide recognized the spot and motioned for the others to rest. They huddled quietly around bushes in a large sandy ditch.

  They were now in the portion of southern Arizona’s Sonoran Desert that belonged to the Tohono O’odham Nation. A Native American tribe that sits on an estimated 2.7 million acres including over sixty miles of the Mexican border. While the tribal leaders had worked with U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP) to stem the tide of an estimated ten thousand crossings each year, it was a difficult political landscape to navigate.

  The people of the land were becoming increasingly frustrated with the Border Patrol’s tactics and insensitivity to their culture and way of life. The use of helicopters and drones had affected the wildlife and impacted the hunters’ ability to catch their game. Due to the rising tensions and frequent conflicts, the Border Patrol had curtailed the use of aviation surveillance as part of a compromise with the indigenous people. The less monitored area created an opportunity for migrants.

  A truck, driven by a Native American, was scheduled to arrive in just a few minutes to transport the immigrants to a small town in southern Arizona. Their destination was Our Lady of Guadalupe Mission about twenty miles to the north. That would be the end of the tour they had purchased.

  They situated themselves to rest, waiting for their transportation. A young mother nursed her infant, and a senior man took to whittling a stick. The teenagers in the group were excited and couldn’t sit still. Others stretched out, and some even lay down to sleep. A man with the hooded sweat-jacket put some distance between himself and the group and sat on a large rock. The hood covered his dark face as he sat on the ground with his legs crossed. He clenched the straps to a gym bag in his lap and never spoke a word, making no effort to blend in with the group.

  The guide’s young nephew served as his assistant and had found a higher vantage point to watch the sandy improvised road for traffic. It was not long before the guide strolled up next to his nephew and pointed down the road.

  The guide asked if he had seen the signal.

  “No.”

  Just then, the headlights could be seen through the darkness, bouncing up and down as the vehicle responded to the bumps and dips in the road.

  “Ahí está,” the guide told the crowd, anxious to complete his part of the mission.

  “Your transportation is here.” He practiced his English on the hooded man.

  “Look!” the assistant shouted. The high beams of another vehicle turned in from the west. The rendezvous area was nearly half a mile from the border, and the trucks were approaching fast.

  “Border Patrol!” He screamed.

  The clan quickly began to race back the way they came. The middle-aged guide led some back down the path toward the border fence. The senior man went in a different direction. The assistant started to flee but noticed the young nursing mother had stumbled with her baby.

  He returned to assist her. It would cost him dearly; he had lost valuable time trying to get the mother and baby up from the ground. They did not even get halfway back to the fence before two officers jumped from one of the trucks and seized the three.

  Meanwhile, the hooded man ran, carrying his bag, back down the ravine opposite of the direction of the others. He had hoped the patrol would follow the larger group. He was right, with one exception.

  A young, Hispanic CBP officer had spotted him through the darkness and set out to track him. He let his partner out of the truck to help pursue the larger group, while he drove in the direction of the lone target.

  The truck stopped just short of the edge of the ravine. The officer jumped out and slid down the embankment. He held his flashlight with one hand and a gun with the other, running in the direction of his prey.

  “Stop!” He repeatedly shouted in Spanish.

  He thought he had lost him when he picked up the tracks left in the soft, moist sand. His flashlight followed the trail, eventually leading to the black gym bag the illegal immigrant had discarded.

  The officer looked around, holstered his weapon, and knelt over the bag. His eyes widened as he opened the bag. Just as he reached for the bag’s contents, a dirty hand covered his mouth, and the dark, cold steel ten-inch blade of a Kizlyar Falcon tactical knife circled across his neck, dispersing a warm gush of blood.

  The CBP officer fell to his knees, grabbing at his throat while gurgling blood. He turned, collapsing, reaching for his now empty holster. He looked up at the man who had just cut him, taking a good look at his face, and then choked one last time.

  The hooded man tossed the officer’s pistol into the bag and zipped it closed. He then turned and wiped the blade clean on the officer’s uniform. He rolled the officer over to take his wallet looking for his ID. He wanted to know the name of the man he had killed.

  He flicked through the photos of his wife and baby. He wiped the wallet with his jacket and dropped it on top of the body that was still oozing blood. The pictures and cards dislodged and lay scattered around the dead CBP officer.

  W
hile the other Border Patrol officers were scattered pursuing the immigrants, the hooded man, ran further down the ravine to make his escape. After nearly half a mile, he slowed his pace to catch his breath. A little further up he saw a beam from a tactical flashlight and heard a voice from the edge of the ravine.

  “Stop right there!”

  The command came first in Spanish, then repeated in English.

  The Native American police officer with The Tohono O’odham Nation had just pulled over his battered pickup truck to answer nature’s call when he saw the hooded man trekking down the ravine.

  Officer Sanchez had seen the Border Patrol vehicles from afar and stayed clear. He was one of the tribe’s sixty-eight police officers. They were understaffed and underpaid for a thankless job. The police department had only six to eight officers per shift to cover over four thousand square miles.

  Attempting law enforcement in an area roughly the size of Connecticut, with drugs, crime, and illegal border crossings was futile. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, Sanchez had reasoned.

  “Wait. It's OK. I’m the one that was supposed to pick you all up,” Sanchez hollered out. “Someone must have tripped some sensors. Come on I’ll get you to the Mission.”

  The hooded man said nothing but turned and followed Sanchez up the embankment of the ravine just as the police officer’s radio squelched.

  “Sanchez, what’s your twenty?”

  Sanchez stopped mid-climb.

  “Patrolling west of two.”

  “Border Patrol is reporting an incident south of San Rafael, near the river beds.”

  “Copy that.”

  Before he turned around, the hooded man’s black tactical knife pierced through his lower back. Officer Sanchez laid there paralyzed but alive as his assailant took his gun and radio.

  He struggled to fight back as the evil man removed his police jacket and swapped it with the hooded jacket. His mind was reaching to grab his attacker, but his body was not responding.

  The attacker stood over Sanchez and looked at him, satisfied that his victim looked enough of the part of an immigrant to buy him some time. He gave a deep cut to the officer’s inner thigh slicing the artery and leaving him to bleed to death.

  The terrorist threw his bag in the pickup and drove away to meet his connection at the Church Mission.

  Abu al-Himyari was in the wind.

  CHAPTER 2

  McLean Virginia

  Cole Cameron turned on the television and flipped the channels to land on his favorite news station. He peered across the large kitchen island where he mixed his protein drink. His body containing the sweat of his earlier run. A news alert flashed, the heading along the bottom read, Illegal immigrant kills Border Patrol Officer.

  The news helicopter provided aerial shots of the scene where the murder occurred and earlier clips of the immigrants taken into custody. Presumptively, the report indicated, there was drug cartel involvement in the slaying.

  A fairly non-descriptive sketch of the hooded suspect flashed on the screen followed by images of the officer’s family, causing Cameron to pause the blender that was mixing his shake. The report continued with political guests discussing the issue of the porous U.S. and Mexican border. Cameron quickly grew weary of the political debate and clicked the remote control to end the garble.

  As he finished off his drink, he wondered what waited for him today. What assignments would fill his task sheet? What calls had to be made? Which reports required additional attention? And why did his old colleague Grant Ramsey reach out to him?

  He bounced upstairs, stripping off his shirt and shorts, he walked to the shower, leaving a trail of sweaty clothes along the way. Cameron lathered and rinsed his hair, and thought about his last argument with his ex-wife, Grace.

  They had been apart for over a year now, and as they finalized the divorce, the last remaining issue was the house. He had offered her half of the appraised value, but she insisted on selling it to maximize the market value.

  Over the last few years, he had led a torn life. He struggled between his career commitments and the impasse in his marriage. They both had drained his happiness and energy. He was sad but relieved when they had finally decided to divorce. Something had to give.

  Stepping out of the shower, he gazed at the clock to get a bearing on his available time. He quickly dressed and headed downstairs stopping by the study on his way out.

  He opened the email Grace had forwarded from the Realtor about a showing for the house.

  He grunted and closed it without a reply.

  ✽✽✽

  Counterterrorism Center - Langley

  In no time, Cameron was swiping his badge and punching his security code at Langley. He was anxious to get to his desk at the Counterterrorism Center (CTC) to organize himself before his scheduled briefing with McCune. Some familiar faces but only a few with smiles greeted him on the way to his desk. Some he knew by name, but many he didn’t.

  In the post-9/11 era, the CIA overhauled its antiquated organizational structure to include ten mission centers to better address national security problems by integrating all of the capabilities and resources of the Agency. CTC was one of those centers and was tasked with preventing and disrupting security threats. It provided both operational and analytic functions.

  It felt strange to be working among so many people, but to have so little knowledge of them. It was a stark contrast to the way he managed his consulting firm. Even when the firm grew to nearly a hundred employees, he knew most of the employees and their families.

  After settling in and sorting through some emails including the National Intelligence Daily (NID), Cameron made his way down the hall to Nancy McCune’s office.

  McCune was promoted to the head of CTC nearly three years earlier after serving as an EU Associate Deputy Director. The Director of the CIA, Henry Kingman and the Deputy Director of Operations, Kurt Friedlander were both big fans of her work at the European Mission Center. They sought to make her the Deputy Director there, but McCune had requested assignment to CTC in the U.S. to be close to family, not to mention the political benefits of being in DC.

  Some staff and officers at CTC felt that she was too political for their liking, expecting her to be groomed for the Director of Operations when Friedlander moved on. But to Cameron, she was just another bottleneck in the bureaucratic process.

  He thought of her office as one giant red tape dispenser. She had command of staff and operational teams focused on various terrorist groups. So far, she had relegated Cameron to less than significant roles. As an Operations Staff Officer, he felt as if he had to prove himself all over again with a new commander but lacked the opportunity.

  To Cameron, McCune was somewhat competent but seemed to have a chip on her shoulder. She was in her late fifties and was perhaps bitter that it had taken her so long to get ahead.

  He had little regard for her callous leadership style. He was sure that her overbearing and perfectionist behavior served to protect her self-interest and would eventually leave a bloody trail of career carnage. His career would most likely be one of those casualties. Cameron recalled the vigor with which she had cleaned house when she arrived.

  An operation battered with faulty intelligence and poor execution had been the demise of her predecessor. McCune was determined to avoid those mistakes or at the very least do a better job covering them up.

  Her door was open; he could see the Associate Deputy Director shuffling through papers as she stood behind her desk. He knocked anyway.

  “Ma’am.”

  McCune lifted her head and flipped her auburn, shoulder-length hair back and with a glance said, “Come in Officer Cameron.” She continued moving files and papers.

  Cameron stood in front of the desk, waiting for her to suggest that he be seated. He hated the formality McCune required. Her predecessor was a likable man who had always used first names. Cameron was uncomfortable, waiting for her to sort through and meticulously organize
everything on the desk.

  Eventually, McCune placed the last file in a drawer and whipped her cell phone out and made a few taps on it. She then turned back to the computer on her desk and tapped on the keys.

  “I’m sending you an email and some data files that you’ll need to sort through and provide assessment reports,” she said, hardly making any eye contact at all.

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Cameron forced out, thinking, does she think I’m in preschool here?

  Cameron stood there waiting for additional information, but McCune was not the kind to rely on verbal communication. It was difficult for him to adjust to her management style. He remained standing.

  McCune opened a file folder and began her familiar commentary.

  “Now, as to the matter of this AIJB Intelligence Report,” she said taking a deep sigh. “Your threat analysis was redacted and submitted to the Department of Defense and Homeland Security. Your assessment seemed to be a reach and contradicts previously published reports.”

  “With all due respect, Ma’am, my assessment was based on current intel as I cited in the report. We know that Hasni’s network is looking for indirect state sponsorship. I’m convinced that his close ties to ISIS as well as his amped-up rhetoric, the threat escalation is warranted as well as the additional resource commitment I recommended in the report.”

  Cameron knew he should stop there, but he couldn’t.

  “Ma’am, I’ve been on this group since my first day at CTC. When Hasni emerged as the leader, his network across the globe nearly tripled in size. And that’s the ones we have on our radar. His influence should not be underestimated.”

  Cameron was surprised when uncharacteristically, McCune rose up from her chair and leaned forward, forcing him to look at her green eyes.