OBSIDIAN SKY

That same time
Glendale, California, USA

​

The late-morning sun scorched the neck of Special Agent Daniel Porter as he approached the front door. As the team’s breacher, he was the first man in the stack—the first to reach the door, and the first seen if anyone were to be watching from the house. The position left him feeling particularly exposed.

   God I hate doing this in broad daylight. 
   In the Marine Corps, they would have hit the house under the cover of darkness using NVGs. He’d done a few before. His time as a Raider snatching high-value targets in the Middle East had put him on the fast track for the SWAT team, which now dovetailed into his full-time role with the Los Angeles Joint Terrorism Task Force. 
   The team of six agents, dressed in MultiCam uniforms and body armor, was almost indistinguishable from the squads he’d led in the Marines. The goal of their mission was almost as indistinguishable, although the suburban setting of the cul-de-sac made Porter feel out of place. 
   As he reached the front porch, Porter slung his rifle and raised the short-barreled Mossberg 12-gauge that had hung from his side. In one fluid motion, he leveled the barrel’s standoff with the deadbolt, wedged it against the jam, and pulled the trigger. 
   The effect was instant. Wood splintered against his face at the same moment the concussive blast and smell of burnt gunpowder hit him. The door swung inward slightly, revealing a small gap between it and the frame. 
   Good breach. 
   Rolling to his left, he regained his M4 and flowed toward the back of the stack. As he did, the second man shouldered the door and, with a crunch, what was left of the lock broke free. 
   “FBI! Get down on the ground!”
   By the time Porter walked through the broken door, his team had cleared the first room, and two agents were holding security on the next door at the end of the hall. A man in his underwear was lying prone next to the living room couch as another agent straddled him while slipping a set of flex cuffs around his wrists.  
   Porter flowed through the room at a brisk walk, weapon at the low ready, and entered the hallway. To his left, the pair of agents were already entering the second door into the den, and he paused outside to hold security on the closed bedroom at the end of the hall. He heard his team call the room clear, and he fell in behind them as they continued down the hall and stacked up at the bedroom door. 
   He’d studied the floor plan and knew it was the last room. There was one suspect left. I know you’re in here. 
   Just as he reached out to squeeze his teammate’s shoulder to signal that he was ready to enter the room, three loud pops cracked through the wall between them, spraying Porter in the face with drywall and insulation. He cringed as debris made its way behind his safety glasses. 
   Motherfucker!
   He blinked, closing the most affected eye, then drove his left knee into the back of his teammate’s leg. The action forced the agent forward into the room before there was a chance to hesitate. Moments later, Porter heard the report of his teammate sending three rounds into the shooter’s chest. 
   A woman screamed as the second agent crossed the door and into the room. He fired three more rounds into the man still holding the gun. Porter was right behind him. He could see the shooter, now dead, lying limp atop the bed in the center of the room. Next to him sat the woman who was desperately trying to sink deeper into the bed and out of sight. Raising his sights directly over her chest, Porter felt his thumb automatically shove the safety forward to the “semi” position. He stopped. 
   “Show me your hands!” He kept the slight tension his index applied to the trigger.
She stared back. When she didn’t move, he felt the tension in his finger begin to increase. 
   Don’t you do it.

  "God dammit! Don't fuck around! Hands, now!"
   Then, her eyes filled with a genuine fear that caused Dan Porter to lower his barrel. Or perhaps it was the lack of hate he’d seen so often overseas. The woman complied—she wasn’t a threat. 
   His gaze shifted to the man lying motionless beside her. Blood and scull fragments covered the headboard behind them. Fucking hell.
   “Look this way, miss. Keep your eyes on me.” 
   She nodded, and an agent grabbed her raised wrist and began to cuff her. 
   She hadn’t been in the target package, but these raids never went exactly as planned. Porter made a mental note to background check her as soon as she was identified. 
   When the room was cleared, he bent over and splashed water from his CamelBak onto his face to clear the remaining drywall from his eyes. His hands shook from the adrenaline that was only just beginning to subside. It took everything he had not to vomit.
   Meanwhile the forensic team was already moving in to collect evidence. They already had what they needed to prosecute the cell, a pair of American citizens with ties to Hezbollah who had left just enough of a breadcrumb trail to reveal a plot to release a biological agent in San Diego. Such plots had become increasingly common after the initial military strikes in Iran had stirred up a vast network of deep-rooted sleeper cells throughout the United States.
   Luckily his team had gotten to this one before the plan had become any more than a plan. The public would live blissfully unaware.
   Just as Special Agent Porter stood up to leave, the special agent in charge, clean shaven and wearing a black raid jacket, appeared in the doorway. “You’re going to want to see this.”
   Porter followed his boss into the den, where a female agent was photographing a page in a notepad on the desk. After wiping the sweat and water from his face, he leaned over to look at it. 
   “Who the fuck is . . . the Professor?”
   “Looks like we didn’t get ’em all after all. I’ll elevate this to CTD. In the meantime, I think you’ll want to get in contact with the Houston Field Office.”