The Presence of Evil Read online

  The Presence of Evil

  The fictional works of J.T. Patten do not constitute an official release of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), National Security Agency (NSA), or Department of Defense (DOD) information. All statements of fact, opinion, or analysis expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the official positions or views of the CIA or any other US Government agency. Nothing in the contents should be construed as asserting or implying US Government authentication of information or CIA, NSA, or DOD endorsement of the author’s views. This material has been reviewed for classification.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Part I

  Prelude

  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

  Part II

  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 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Part III

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Presence of Evil

  A Task Force Orange Novel

  J.T. Patten

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by J.T. Patten

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: August 2019

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0863-3

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0863-9

  First Print Edition: August 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0877-0

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0877-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To the shadow soldiers, who carry the burdens of war back home.

  The world is better with you in it.

  Suicide Hotline and National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at

  1-800-273-8255,

  text TALK to 741741

  Part I

  “The Talmud says, ‘If someone comes to kill you, get up early to kill him first.’”

  —Amihai Ayalon, former head of Israeli Security Service (“Shin Bet”)

  Prelude

  Chicago, Illinois

  Know your enemy as you know yourself, Gebran Daouk mused as he strolled past O’Hare Airport’s TSA security. He followed the black nylon rope twisting through the international terminal’s queue mixed with other faceless travelers and immigrants. His clothes, expression, and body mannerisms mirrored the types of features that didn’t warrant comment or question or an eye of scrutiny. At least that’s what his Hezbollah handler had taught him during the past month’s preparation.

  In similar consideration, Gebran wore his headphones around his neck. Not over or in his ears. He wanted to be respectful and attentive to anyone who may ask him questions or give instructions to arriving international travelers. He remained to himself, kept his head low but not too low, and prepared in anticipation to hand over his authentic South American citizenship credentials to the customs officer.

  Gebran spread his sweaty hands wide, wiping them against his pants as he neared the customs officer’s desk.

  Paranoia dripped from his scalp and down his temple.

  Pendejo. He cursed himself for his idiotic fear. Rouh ntek, he added in Lebanese Arabic profanity.

  “Passport, please.” The name Lindquist was etched into the man’s badge plate.

  Gebran immediately obliged and handed over his documents.

  The middle-aged customs officer smiled, straightening as he examined the passbook and paperwork. “Venezuela, huh? D’you speak English?”

  “Yes, sir, but it can always be improved.” Gebran softened his face and wiped his palms again against his legs.

  “Sounds pretty good to me. Now, let’s see here. Gebran Dao-uk. Da-ouk,” he pronounced. “Did I say that right? I’ve not heard that name before.”

  “Just Daouk. It’s Lebanese.”

  “Oh, Leban
on.” Agent Lindquist tilted his head and zeroed in on Gebran’s eyes. “That’s interesting. I was a Marine.” He sneered, and his smile faded like the memory of the 241 Americans killed at the Beirut barracks in 1983. “Never been to Lebanon before, though. I heard there’s a few hundred Lebanese expats in Venezuela these days. What a mess that place is now. Bet you’re glad to be here.”

  Daouk broke eye contact, looking to the left and right, readjusting his posture, and lifting his toes from the sweaty slides. “I am. Very much. Thank you.”

  “Student visa it says. J-1.” Lindquist raised his eyebrows as if the statement was a question.

  “Yes. That is correct.” Gebran fluttered his zip-up hoodie for more airflow.

  “It does get hot in here.” The agent looked down again at the passport and flipped through the pages. “Where will you be going to school?”

  Gebran leaned in. “It says right here.” And stretched across, pointing.

  Agent Lindquist leaned back in his chair with the passport reeled in. He extended his arm Heisman-trophy style, pushing the Lebanese expat away. “Please remain standing on the line.”

  “Sorry. University of Chicago.”

  The agent pursed his lips. “You must be pretty smart.”

  “Thank y—”

  “So, what will you be doing at U of C, Mister Da-ouk,” he interrupted.

  “Radiation Safety Officer. Institute for Molecular Engineering.”

  “Impressive. Your mom must be proud.” The officer stamped the passport with a glare of forced approval.

  Hezbollah is proud, Gebran thought, relieved to have passed Lindquist’s three-minute interrogation. Just as they said it would happen.

  He was in the United States and mere feet from the exit.

  “Hey,” Lindquist called from behind.

  Gebran kept walking. Eyes forward.

  “HEY!”

  A TSA guard posted in front of Gebran frowned, dropped his clipboard on the desk, and hustled toward him. The security man’s brow folded and nostrils widened, his pace quickened.

  Gebran’s hands gushed with perspiration, his mouth instantly dry.

  “Sir,” the officer commanded, reaching his hand out to Gebran’s shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. He forced Gebran to turn backward.

  All disembarking passenger eyes around bored into Gebran with curiosity and scorn.

  As Gebran was forced around, the seated customs agent had his arm raised, passport in hand. “You’ll need this again, unless you don’t plan on going back home.”

  Gebran’s chest fell when he saw what he had left behind.

  He vomited on the pavement as soon as he left the airport terminal building.

  Just paces behind, the Hezbollah intelligence officers operating under Venezuela’s diplomatic cover were unimpressed as they tailed him to the taxi stand. Gebran Daouk was still a work in process.

  * * * *

  In America’s defense, on Nonimmigrant Visa Application Form DS-160 and during the US Embassy visa interview of Gebran a year prior, there were indeed questions as to whether he sought to engage in or whether he had ever engaged in terrorist activities, espionage, sabotage, or genocide. He replied no, thinking honesty would not behoove his true intentions and family history. And technically, there was never a question that specifically asked Gebran Daouk if he planned to steal fissile material as leverage to gain a seat at the Hezbollah leadership table.

  Still, he would have denied it.

  Nine months after arrival and assimilation, Gebran hefted nearly twenty pounds of radioactive nuclide materials over a large plastic-lined metal container marked Radioactive Waste: Store for Decay.

  It was time. His gut churned from a spike of adrenaline.

  A small specimen beagle, roused by the pouring movement, yelped incessantly as it spun around in its cage, hitting its worn and wounded head on the glass with every spin. A monkey still lay on its side, eyes a solid state of red, body shaking. Rats in the next cage palpitated at maximum heart rate within their overcrowded containment glass.

  Gebran struggled to focus and poured the microfine particulate matter, “death dust,” like sifted mustard powder, into the collection bin. From it, a yellowish haze hovered in the air for a moment before the overhead toxin vacuum lines sucked the nuclear cloud from the restricted work lab. The molecular blend he developed reduced the high radioactivity to a one-day half-life, accelerating the rate at which atoms of the deadly material would disintegrate after exposure to oxygen. Reducing the half-life was a project concession to balance higher lethality of the dust named after the archangel of death, Azrael, with a lower risk longevity—killing and disorienting quickly, but not immediately, then becoming relatively inert.

  Gebran’s program advisor, Dr. Niels Planck, peered at his prized student through the fume hood’s plated lens and nodded with cautious approval. There was no turning back now. Even if the two men decided not to transport the material labeled as waste, they would face federal legal charges. Both scientists had knowingly changed the receipt and disposal logs, and Dr. Planck had signed off on the most recent radioactive material inventory. He was a puppy in Gebran’s hands. Played like a naïve teeny-bopper being told she was pretty. But in spy games the professor had been spotted, assessed, developed, exploited. Completely unwitting. Just as naïve.

  Gebran’s safety suit was suffocating. His breathing was labored. He spied to his left through the three-inch protective glass into the university’s outermost lab. The stainless-steel door latch was still locked and the room empty. Cameras were already removed, boxed up, and stacked. Next week the research lab and all the stored data would be secured for good, as funding from the Army Chemical Corps toxicology program had been killed in budget cuts. And the Research, Innovation, and National Laboratories arm of the university saw no need to further seed financing for radioactive material use in warfare.

  Everything had to go. Including Gebran and Dr. Planck and the contaminated animals. The animals would be euthanized in the moments to come. The scientists were headed to Syria. Or so Dr. Planck was told. The ruse Gebran told his supervisor appealed to moral convictions of ousting opportunistic Islamic State foreign fighters without endangering American soldiers’ lives. Azrael could be used in a surgical strike against the jihadis without spreading to civilians or lingering in the air, requiring long-term cleanup.

  Gebran slid behind Dr. Planck and deftly snatched the twelve-inch thermocouple probe from the heating table. He nestled the rounded industrial protection head nicely in his gloved palm with the menacing pointed length outward.

  “I’m sorry, Professor. Azrael will not be going to Syria,” the young Hezbollah agent confessed, putting a soft hand on the professor’s shoulder and violently thrusting the steel rod like firing race car pistons into his mentor’s vitals.

  Planck’s knees buckled from the pain. He struggled to move, but Gebran was holding too tight. The young student continuously punched the probe into his professor.

  Satisfied, Daouk released his hold of Dr. Planck. Instead of falling to the floor, the professor slowly turned around to face his assassin. The doctor looked to Gebran, eyes wide as if he saw it all so clearly, before his lids shut and jaw fell open and his limp body folded to the ground.

  Allahu Akbar, Gebran invoked to himself with a smile of accomplishment as he watched his mentor in final death throes. The budding Party of God member cast an eye to the wall clock. Alhamdulillah. He was to meet his handlers in two hours but planned to arrive empty-handed. Shahid Jaddi will be so proud. May God rest his soul. “Blessings to Hezbollah,” he praised. I am ready to retake my family’s seat at the table.

  Gebran, however, did not see things as clearly as his professor in those dying minutes. Little did Daouk know, the Party and its Iranian affiliates still considered Gebran to be a work in progress. He was a loser like Jaddi and would nev
er take that chair. His future rested solely upon the delivery of the WMD.

  Gebran scooped a handful of the Azrael powder and let the fine particle cloud fall over the animal cages. He watched for a moment as the dust enveloped the animals in a foggy haze of yellow. Their unnerving screams and gasps for breath allowed the particulate angel of death safe passage to fly into their respiratory and pulmonary functions, destroying everything organic within its contact.

  Chapter 1

  South Carolina

  H Canyon, Savannah River Nuclear Reprocessing Facility

  There is a moment of silence that exists when you are about to kill a man. Drake Woolf didn’t experience that quiet or the whisper of silent judgment before dealing death. In fact, he heard three distinct competing voices, and that sound was deafening in his mind. It was a trifecta of agitating inquiries and orders assaulting his consciousness as the creeping Iraqi target entered his scoped night vision view.

  Among the voices, Drake’s tongue clicked three times, a tic that had followed him since early childhood. Often the muted sound was a subconscious signal that his body was switching to full operational autopilot like a virtual private network tunnel shielding itself from every unwanted viral thought assaulting his connection. Depending on the situation, it could be in an isolated triad or could continue in a sequential pattern until he could control his wits.

  Woolf’s Armalite .300 Winchester Magnum rifle rested securely atop a Leatherback bulletproof rucksack. He pulled the buttstock tighter to his shoulder, feeling the stiffness in his body from the latest of battle wounds that had decimated his flesh. Drake willed his body to stay motionless despite the discomfort. The ground was hard; the air was East Coast–heavy but still.

  He focused on the distance, target movement, his non-optimal elevation, and the fact that his head was a circus show of sounds that he rucked in his fractured mind. Focus be damned, he had trigger-time work to do and difficult conditions weren’t an impediment.

  His obsessive-compulsive disorder required him to recheck his range—yet again—and while he was going over the ballistic data in his head, his concentration was shattered by the newest surge of voices.

  “Do you have a shot?” squawked Sean Havens, the team leader of Task Force Orange, hoping for a positive sitrep as they prepared to take out the last of the Iraqi Special Operations assaulters that had been wreaking havoc on America for the past weeks.