Free The Insider Threat by Brad Taylor

alcohol and fifty percent formaldehyde, battery acid, jet fuel, or some other liquid. I said, “How long have you been watching?”
    Knuckles said, “Since we got here. They’re blitzed, but conscious. Wait, one just fell over.”
    “Ignore them. Get in. They’re too stoned to remember anything.”
    “It would make more sense to just sit them out. A few more minutes, and they’ll both be sleeping.”
    “I don’t have that time. Panda’s meeting’s breaking up.”
    Brett came on. “If they intervene? What’s the ROE?”
    “Prevent them from seeing Knuckles enter. Period. Just get in, now. The leader’s about to move and I can’t execute without you two.”
    In a calm monotone I heard, “Roger all.”
    By all accounts, I should have aborted the second phase, letting the leader go. The situation had already exceeded Blaine’s intent, but luckily, his idea of “perfect” and mine were two different things. I wanted the leader.
    Jennifer came on. “Pike, Koko. Leader’s shaking hands. What’s the call?”
    Koko
was Jennifer’s callsign. Something she’d earned on a mission in Indonesia by annoying Knuckles with repeated stories about a talking gorilla.
    I said, “We have Omega. No change to the plan. You guys lock the back door.”
    She said, “I monitored last transmission. You have an assault element?”
    “Not yet, but I will.”
    I heard nothing for a moment, then a long-drawn-out “Roger that. . . .”
    The problem with the two-phased operation was that I had to use the same team for both. I had planned it for a staggered execution, but now it had become simultaneous. Retro and Jennifer would do nothing but prevent the guy from escaping. Brett would drive the van, and Knuckles and I would do a rolling interdiction. But that was all dependent on having Brett and Knuckles. I couldn’t very well drive the van
and
assault.
    Brett came on, breathing heavily, “Inbound, inbound, fire up the van. We’re dragging an anchor.”
    I leapt into the driver’s seat, saying, “Where are you?”
    All I heard was, “Coming out right where we entered.”
    Which was about a half mile down the road. I started driving, saying, “What’s up?”
    “Gang territory. Chang’aa brewery.”
    “Knuckles?”
    He came on, sounding like he was breathing into a paper bag. “Can’t talk.”
    I saw movement ahead, and recognized Brett in the headlights. I stomped the gas, reaching him just as Knuckles broke out of the close confines of the buildings. Brett jerked open the sliding door, and both spilled inside. I looked to my right and saw a pack of shouting youths waving sticks and running up the alley.
    Brett slammed the door shut and shouted, “Go, go, go!”
    I did, hearing something slam into the back of the van. I went about a quarter mile, circling back toward Ngong Road, then stopped. I turned around and said, “What the hell did you two chuckleheads do?”
    Knuckles sat up, his dreadlock wig askew and his paint starting to run. He said, “I ought to kick your ass for making me wear this.”
    I said, “Tell me you didn’t compromise the operation.”
    Brett said, “No. That went fine. Drugs are in place. In fact, everything went fine right up until we were walking back through the neighborhood. A couple of thugs stopped us, demanding to know what we were doing in their AO. Apparently, there’s been some gang fighting between the various chang’aa brewers over turf. We just had the bad fortune to stumble into it.”
    “And?”
    Brett grinned. “And everything was going perfectly, right up until they shoved Knuckles. It was too dark to tell he was a cracker white boy, but his dreadlocks slipped. They saw that just fine.”
    Knuckles said, “Tell him the rest, you shit.”
    “What?”
    Knuckles looked at me and said, “He took off running. Leaving me behind.”
    Brett held up his hands, saying, “Just following orders. You said no fighting that would spike.”
    I laughed and said, “All right, all