Broken Justice (Justice Series Book 2) - Ray Floyd

Broken Justice (Justice Series Book 2) by Ray Floyd

Book excerpt

Chapter One

I gazed down at the scene as the chopper came in to land. The refugee camp was well-planned, consisting mostly of large army-style tents with a few semi-permanent structures on the northern side of the camp. Not bad, considering that two months ago there was nothing to be seen here but sand and the occasional small bush.

The Peterson Foundation had come to the aid of the Syrian refugees that threatened to overwhelm the already crowded Shatila refugee camp just south of Beirut in Lebanon. Since the numerous ISIS bombings in Europe, the flow of refugees into Europe had slowed to a trickle, resulting in serious overcrowding at most of the refugee camps.

It was the middle of January, and although the camp had only been open for a couple of weeks, it was filling up rapidly as more refugees learned of its existence. The large camp could comfortably accommodate about fifteen thousand people and was split into two distinct sections.

To gain admittance to the camp, refugees had to provide some form of identification and submit to being fingerprinted and photographed. The prints and photos were run through several databases, including F.B.I., C.I.A., Mossad, M.I.5, SVR, and Interpol.

These applicants remained in one section of the camp until it was determined that they had no known affiliation with ISIS or any other terrorist organizations. Upon being successfully vetted, the applicants were moved to a more secure section of the camp where they remained until they could be relocated to Europe.

I glanced across at Danni as the helicopter gently touched down near the administration buildings. “So, what do you think?” I asked.

“I can’t believe that they managed to build this whole thing so quickly, Brad,” she replied, giving me one of her winning smiles.

My stunningly beautiful girlfriend had accompanied me a few months earlier when we’d picked out the spot where the camp was to be built. We’d met about eight months ago in Uganda in Central Africa and had shared many adventures, including being kidnapped by a ruthless African Warlord.

“I guess that if you spend enough money, anything is possible,” I answered. I had created the Peterson Foundation the previous year after inheriting a multi-billion-dollar fortune from a long-lost uncle, who just happened to be a Canadian oil tycoon. As a result, both the foundation and I had more money than we could possibly spend.

After the rotors wound down and the dust settled, Danni and I exited the helicopter. We were met by my brother Mark, Captain Cameron Smith, and Master Sergeant Bill Wright. I was a former Army Ranger Major, while Mark was a former captain in the 101st Airborne. We’d put together a small army of ex-special force operatives from around the world to assist the foundation in its efforts around the globe. For chain-of-command purposes, I was using the rank of Colonel while Mark was accorded the rank of Major.

“How’s it going, brother?” he asked as he strode forward and shook my hand before kissing Danni on the cheek.

“Not too bad,” I replied. “You seem to have things under control here.”

“Mainly thanks to Captain Smith and Sergeant Wright.” He indicated to the two men coming forward to greet us.

Captain Smith shook my hand. “Don’t believe a word of that. Your brother worked his ass off to get this place ready in time. Bill and I may have provided the security, but your brother’s been putting in twelve to fourteen-hour days with the construction crews.”

“Great, now I feel really bad.” Danni and I had just completed an awesome two-week vacation in Hawaii.

Mark grinned. “No need to, you guys deserved some time off. Anyhow, since the camp is now finished, my days are much easier. That is, if you call mundane administration work easier.”

Danni hugged him. “We really appreciate all you’ve accomplished in our absence.”

Mark appeared a little embarrassed. “You’re more than welcome. Sergeant, please arrange for their bags to be taken to their quarters.” He turned to us. “Follow Captain Smith and myself and we’ll give you a quick tour of the camp and its facilities.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Danni and I followed Mark to where a large golf cart was parked.

Chapter Two

Nizar Assadi was sweating profusely as he joined the line waiting outside the refugee camp. Although the temperature was a pleasant sixty degrees Fahrenheit, he wore a long, tattered overcoat. The reason was not to keep him warm but to conceal the heavy vest beneath it.

There were several large double pockets sewn onto the vest. The ones closest to his body contained slabs of C4 explosive, while the outer ones contained small ball bearings and rusty nails. The combination would ensure a lethal hail of shrapnel once the explosives detonated.

Nizar was Syrian and had recently been recruited by ISIS to carry out this suicide mission. Unlike most radical Islamists, he had no past of family being murdered by America or her allies. His family back in Syria were quite wealthy and he had enjoyed a privileged life up to this point.

It was only the recent discovery of advanced cancer eating away at his body that had led him down this path. With less than a month left to live, he had been approached by two men that were referred by his doctor. Just like the good doctor, they were senior members of ISIS. They had convinced him that this final heroic act on earth would glorify Allah and ensure his place in Paradise, where seventy-two beautiful virgins awaited his arrival. Although he was somewhat skeptical, what did he have to lose? Rather go out with a bang than endure a slow, painful death.

As the line began moving again and he edged closer to the entrance, he began to softly mumble several verses from the Koran that he remembered. He was relieved to see that the guards were not searching anybody, just directing them to a large administration hall.

His instructions had been clear. Keep your hands clear of the jacket pockets until you are inside the administration hall. Once he was inside, he would depress the plunger on the dead man’s switch. He would eventually be called into a smaller room where the infidels were running background checks on the refugees. Once inside, he would release the plunger and take his rightful place in Paradise.

***

Mark brought the golf cart to a halt and indicated the fenced-off area ahead of us. “Once the refugees have been successfully vetted, they are moved into this area. It is completely self-contained with living, eating and bathing facilities. They are not allowed to leave this secure area until they board the trucks for the airport, where they are flown to various European cities.”

“How long do they have to wait in there?” Danni asked.

“Good question,” Mark replied. “Usually about two to three weeks on average. Most European countries are only too happy to take refugees that have already been vetted, as they have quotas to fill.”

“How kind of them.” Danni’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

I gave her a look. “Now, now, Danni, be nice. I’m actually amazed that they are still taking refugees at all after the latest bombing in Paris.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she grudgingly conceded.

Just then Captain Smith’s hand flew up to his earpiece and he tapped Mark on the shoulder. “We have a Code Black,” he said urgently.

Mark instantly got the golf cart moving and headed towards the security and surveillance building he’d pointed out earlier.

Noting the concern etched on my brother’s face I asked, “What the hell is a Code Black?”

“Someone just entered the camp with explosives,” he explained.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“That innocent-looking wooden frame as you enter the camp conceals the latest x-ray and bomb-detection equipment,” he replied.

Meanwhile, Captain Smith had been urgently speaking into his throat-mike. He turned to Mark. “The target has just entered the main admin hall.”

“That’s great.” Mark skidded the golf cart to a stop in front of the security building.

Confused, I asked my brother, “Why is that great? Surely it’s very bad?”

“We have security protocols in place for just such an eventuality,” he shouted over his shoulder as we entered the security building.

I was amazed. The large room was carpeted and air-conditioned and several people monitored large banks of screens. I immediately recognized most of them as members of the intelligence gathering unit of the Peterson Foundation, which was made up primarily of ex-F.B.I., C.I.A., N.S.A., and Secret Service agents.

“What’s the status of our target?” Mark asked the man in charge.

He indicated one of the large screens. “That’s him. He’s patiently waiting his turn to be called into the vetting room.”