The weight of Julian’s words settled within the room.
The man on every African country’s most-wanted list had staged one of the most daring kidnappings in Kenyan history.
The leader of a dedicated network of for-profit killers, kidnappers, terrorists, and thieves, Tubeec Hirad personally cultivated, groomed and indoctrinated each member, growing his militia over the past decade. Unhindered by politics, religion, or special causes, the mercenaries specialized in mayhem and carnage, carrying out surgical strikes at the request of clients all over the world. The specially trained group accepted any request, no matter how heinous, as long as the price paid matched the risks. This distinction had garnered them more members on Interpol’s list of red notices than any other terrorist organization in Africa, even more than al-Harakat.
“What makes you think Tubeec Hirad is involved in this? He hasn’t been on the radar in East Africa for over a year,” Reggie demanded, challenging Julian’s conclusion.
“Lazirprene was developed by Tubeec and his wife, Axado. They refined and cultivated the dangerous compound until it was perfected, then started a bidding war with several governments and criminal organizations for the formula. That didn’t sit well with many of the groups. The Navy suspected that one of the groups tried to extract the formula by force, brutally attacking Axado and her twin boys, killing all of them. Tubeec refused to give up the formula and was burned alive, but somehow he escaped. Rumor has it that the formula only exists in his head. He produces it from memory, whenever he wants to sell small batches or when he needs it to carry out an attack.”
Reggie rubbed his hands down his face, then turned toward one of the agents. “Validate this information. If Tubeec Hirad is the kidnapper, then this whole hostage situation has become infinitely more dangerous.”
“Chief Kamau,” said a tan-skinned woman with a soft babyface. She stood near a control panel stationed in the center of ComCentral, typing feverishly.
“What do you have?” Reggie asked.
“The footage from the museum was tampered with, replaced with an identical copy of the footage from the day before. It’s useless. So, I started scouring cell phone videos and photos taken by citizens and tourists, reconstructing scenes from the time of the attack until now,” the woman, whose name badge read BETTS, said in a monotone voice. “There is some footage from the Global Exchange building across the street. It’s distant, but helps to construct a dire picture.”
The ASF emblem on the monitors around the room dissipated and was replaced by a picture of a group of men dressed in all green, with ammunition vests draped across their chests, holding M4 Carbines.
“These men were seen at various points exiting the Global Exchange building,” Agent Betts said, directing their attention to a series of still shots on the monitors. “Here you can barely make out two of the men in the front cab of an East African Flower Company truck. The truck is exiting the alley from the loading dock behind the museum and the Irungu Center. Time of departure coincides with the timing of the second bomb blast.”
“Anything else?” Reggie asked.
“Across the alley from the museum, an electronics company is housed on the second floor with windows overlooking the loading dock. That was by design as the Irungu’s allowed the company to share the dock for their deliveries. From that view, we were able to capture these images.”
The still shot of Wangari Irungu showed the heiress looking disoriented, no doubt from the effects of the Lazirprene. Another picture showed a man with tears in his eyes, his mouth caught in a grimaced cry. Two of the rebels held his arms tightly, while another pointing a gun to the man’s head. In the lower left-hand corner, Julian’s eyes were drawn to the face he’d fallen in love with months ago. His fingers slid across Mena’s blank face. She was being carried into the van, her arms and legs limp, but her eyes alert.
“Where did the truck go?” Reggie asked.
“That’s where things get tricky. The truck merged onto the A104, and within minutes, five other identical trucks with identical license plates entered as well. The trucks maneuvered in a virtual shell game along the freeway and then exited at different points, where our intel ends. It’s impossible for us to know which of the trucks contained the hostages based on the video footage we currently have,” Agent Betts explained.
“Analyze close-ups of the photos and see if you can ID Tubeec Hirad or any militants known to work with him,” Reggie directed.
Julian shook his head. “Don’t bother.”
Reggie’s penchant for over-analyzing information would cost them valuable time. Two hours had passed since the attack. Tubeec could have hidden the hostages in Kenya or any number of the surrounding countries by now.
Reggie scowled. “Excuse me?”
Julian said, “You need to find out if Tubeec made contact with anyone in Kenya. Search the dark web for communications anywhere from a week before the attack up until now.”
“An attack of this magnitude would take careful planning, but Tubeec Hirad wouldn’t be so kind as to leave a trail of breadcrumbs for us to follow through the dark web,” Reggie said, dismissing Julian’s request.
“Every attack has a fingerprint, a modus operandi, that can be identified if you look carefully. Even Tubeec Hirad can’t pull something like this off without leaving some shred of evidence behind. In fact, I’d start with the suicide bombing that I stopped last Friday,” Julian said.
“No one has claimed responsibility for that attack,” Reggie said.
“My point exactly,” Julian said.
The agents hesitated, their gazes shifting toward Reggie.
The special agent in charge gave a quick nod. Several agents scurried toward their computers to start the search.
“That won’t be necessary,” a deep, sensual female voice interrupted.
Julian turned to see Sunny walking into ComCentral, her gun trained at the back of Okeyo Lagat’s head. Three secret service agents followed her, their guns pointed at her as they barked orders, demanding that she release DPP Lagat, which she ignored.
Reggie screamed at the agents, “Put your weapons down!”
