Unholy Intentions

By JEFFRY A. HEAD

Set in Atlanta, Georgia, Unholy Intentions, is a novel of cat and mouse with lethal terrorists. Lead character and ex-marine Clebe Raol, heads up the FBI's crack counter-terror team headquartered in Atlanta. He and his team work closely with the Centers for Disease Control (CDC). Clebe is engaged to Dr. Julie Bodet, an infectious disease research specialist at the CDC. The story involves a plot by ISIS to unleash a genetically altered strain of leprosy in Atlanta with the intention of disrupting the country's economy and killing millions of people in a terror attack on the scale of a nuclear holocaust.

 The story involves activity in Africa, Pakistan, India, Venezuela, Cuba and ultimately the United States as the terrorists seek to test their ferocious disease and carry out their plot. It is a struggle between good and evil, involving a feared disease dating back to Biblical times and climaxing with a thrilling confrontation in the heart of Atlanta. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Head
• Release date: Sep 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386083054

JEFFRY A. HEAD

Jeffry A. Head is a long time lawyer and first time author. He lives in Mobile, Alabama with his wife Luvie and dog Moose. He is a graduate of the University of Georgia and New York University. He is an avid Dawg fan and enjoys sports, reading and power napping when not engaged in more profitable pursuits.

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Chapter 1 

5:30 a.m. Monday, May 26, 2018

Atlanta 

Marcus Witherspoon was a man with no conscience. Whether Marcus had ever had a conscience or not was debatable, but at age twenty-eight, his lack of conscience was no longer open to question. Witherspoon took what he wanted using whatever means necessary: threats, intimidation, and violence were his stock-in-trade. Witherspoon was the head of a black street gang in Atlanta called the Black Pits. He had earned a reputation for ruthlessness in his youth by beating down anyone who stood in his way, and he had crowned himself Pharaoh after watching a television program about ancient Egypt. The Black Pits took their name from their main form of entertainment: dog fighting. They were a loose-knit group of young men engaged in a myriad of criminal activities. Their business was primarily narcotics trafficking and distribution; although, murder, extortion, robbery, and any activity that might turn a dollar were part of their repertoire.

At the moment, Pharaoh sat in an old white utility van on Thome Avenue in southwest Atlanta. Cuz was the driver and Pharaoh rode beside him. Sitting in the back of the van were Stoney, Pharaoh’s longtime associate, and D-roc. All four were armed; Stoney cradled his 12-gauge street sweeper shotgun, and the others held the pistols they had purchased on the street for this job. They were waiting for a call from T-Bone and EZ sitting on the side of Hardee Avenue, slightly north of Johnson Avenue, pretending to change a flat tire. T-Bone and EZ were watching for an Army supply truck to make a left turn from Johnson Avenue onto Hardee Avenue heading north toward FBI headquarters in Atlanta. The truck would be carrying brand-new Heckler & Koch 417 assault carbines with 12-inch barrels. The HK417 is the big brother of the HK416 carbine, carrying a twenty-round magazine and firing a .308 Winchester cartridge. Translated into simple English: heavy-duty firepower.

Information on the transportation of these weapons had come to Pharaoh from Denise Evans, the mother of one of Pharaoh’s out-of-wedlock children. Denise was a simple girl, raised in the projects, never particularly bright or ambitious. She was happy to share sexual favors with Pharaoh in return for a little money now and then and the protection that being one of Pharaoh’s harem conferred upon her. Denise had a brother, Tony, who had enlisted in the Army a year earlier and wound up stationed at Fort McPherson. Tony enjoyed the regular paychecks the Army provided him, but he was unhappy with Sergeant Shaw, an Army lifer, who knew only the Army way: clean, neat, and double-time. In Tony Evans’s view, Sergeant Shaw was always on his case for no reason. Tony was oblivious to the fact that he was lazy, unreliable and blatantly disregarded authority. On Tuesday of the preceding week, Tony’s fellow soldiers had caught him cheating with loaded dice during an illegal dice game in the barracks after lights out. This had precipitated a free-for-all, and at 7 a.m. on Wednesday Evans was standing at attention across the desk from Sergeant Shaw.

Shaw proceeded to chew butt for the next fifteen minutes, informing Tony that any leave he had coming was canceled until further notice. He would spend his work weeks cleaning bathrooms, painting buildings, and doing whatever scutwork Sergeant Shaw could find. His nights and weekends would be spent in the stockade for the next month; beyond that, Sergeant Shaw had not made up his mind what to do with Evans. Shaw believed Evans was a thief at heart, and Shaw detested a thief. He believed a man who would steal would desert you in combat at the worst possible moment. Shaw believed in God, country, and character, and nothing about Evans reminded him of any of those things.

In the middle of this ass chewing, Colonel Nichols’ secretary Darlene buzzed him and informed him that Colonel Nichols needed to talk to him ASAP and was holding. Shaw ordered Evans to remain at attention and took the call, swiveling in his chair to look out on the parade ground as he talked.

Tony Evans took the opportunity to do a quick scan of Sergeant Shaw’s desk, hoping to see some key to his future among Shaw’s paperwork. Instead, he saw a directive from Colonel Nichols. Shaw and Private Jenkins were to transport a crate of the new HK417 assault rifles to the FBI offices in Atlanta the following Monday. The directive was marked confidential and indicated a transport time of 6 a.m. He was hardly able to concentrate when Shaw hung up and resumed his tongue lashing.

Following his dismissal, Evans took the next opportunity he had to call his sister, Denise. He was anxious to put his newfound information to use.

Hey, sis, you still hanging with Pharaoh?

You know I do.

Well, I got a idea that might help us both.

Your ideas don’t never work out, Tony. You been filling my ears with ideas and shit since you was a baby. Denise sighed.

No, this fresh. I’m talkin about cheddar, lots of cheddar, and some payback for that motherfucker Shaw.

While Denise couldn’t have cared less about Sergeant Shaw, the word cheddar had her immediate attention.

Tony continued, Next Monday at 6 a.m. Shaw and another boy gonna take a truckload of some kinda new machine guns to the FBI. I seen the order from the colonel. You tell Pharaoh six o’clock Monday morning a truckload of machine guns rollin from Fort Mac to the Feds—and tell him to bust a cap in Shaw’s black ass. Tony’s voice dropped low. Keep this on the downlow. If the Green Machine find out, they’ll put my ass under this damn fort and throw away the key.

Tony’s plan frightened Denise, but, as she hung up she thought, Well, I need the money, and more respect from Pharaoh would be nice. She dialed Pharaoh’s number.

Pharaoh listened to Denise’s story and told her, Keep your bigass mouth shut about this shit. Hear me? Gotta roll. As he hit end on his cell, he thought, Maybe that dumbass brother of hers ain’t quite as stupid as I thought.

T-Bone and EZ saw the green Army truck as it made a slow left turn onto Hardee Avenue. T-Bone squatted behind the right rear passenger tire and pushed the call button on his cell and a heads-up was given. T-Bone had the trunk of their car open and a tire tool in his hand with a spare tire against the rear bumper. As soon as the Army truck rolled past, T-Bone pitched the tire tool and tire into the trunk, and he and EZ took off after the truck. The plan was simple. T-Bone and EZ would pass the truck and slow as they approached the right turn leading to Lee Street. Pharaoh and his crew would pull in behind the truck from their spot on Thome Avenue. The ambush would be set.

As T-Bone and EZ approached the right turn onto Lee Street, Sergeant Shaw and Private Jenkins rumbled along in the Army truck, sipping their coffee. It was early, there was no traffic, and neither had any concern about their mission. Army vehicles moved about the city daily and there was nothing to call attention to their truck. Shaw was jawing about the Braves, waxing philosophical on Danny Jones’s slump. Jones has lots of talent, but he tries to pull everything. If he wouldn’t try to jerk everything to left and out of the park, the boy could be a .300 hitter. He’s already the best center fielder in the game.

Jenkins just nodded and drove on. He knew Shaw liked to chat about baseball and the Braves. Jenkins was content to drive, thankful to be off the base and enjoying a pleasant morning of light duty rather than doing PT in the summer heat. Neither noticed the white van that had moved up behind them, and they paid no attention to the car that passed them shortly after they turned onto Hardee Avenue. Their orders were known only to the colonel who had drafted the directive, his secretary, and Sergeant Shaw. Neither expected trouble, and they were taken totally off-guard when the car in front of them squealed to a halt. T-Bone and EZ were out of the car and firing at the truck driver before Jenkins or Shaw knew anything was wrong.

Jenkins never had a chance. T-Bone and EZ shot from no more than ten feet in front of the windshield. Private Jenkins was dead before he realized what was happening. Shaw, who had spent his life in the military, was quicker to react: he ducked and tried to roll out the door. He drew his gun and was dropping into firing position when Stoney unleashed a barrage of shotgun blasts directly into his back. The double-ought buckshot tore through Shaw’s body, and he died without firing a shot.

The crew quickly lowered the gate on the rear of the truck. D-Roc and T-Bone scrambled up into the bed of the truck but cursed their luck when they realized there was just a single case of guns. They grabbed the case, and Pharaoh told Stoney to put one shot behind the ear of the two fallen soldiers. Pharaoh knew that no survivors meant no identification.

With the guns in the van, T-Bone and EZ hopped back in their car, Pharaoh and his crew ran back to the van, and they all drove off to find breakfast.

Chapter 2 

7:07 a.m. Monday, May 26, 2018

Eunice Buford was on her way to work when she spotted the truck, the broken windshield, and a body beside the open passenger door. Eunice had lived in rough neighborhoods all her life, and she spotted trouble immediately. She had no cell phone but stopped at the next gas station up the road and called the cops. The Atlanta Police Department dispatched the closest unit. In short order the road was closed and declared a crime scene. Calls went out over the police network. Within the next thirty minutes, the scene was swamped with Army personnel, the CID, and the APD.

Lieutenant Dan Souther surveyed the scene. Seeing the brutality of the crime, he knew they were dealing with pros that had no regard for human life. What he did not know, and what took him several hours to pry from the military, was what the truck carried and where it was headed. Souther had lived in Atlanta all his life and was a thirty-year veteran of the APD. Still, he was stunned by the crime scene. The final shotgun blasts had virtually decapitated the two fallen soldiers. When Souther finally learned the truth about the contents of the truck, he dialed FBI headquarters.

The FBI had expected the guns to be delivered several hours earlier and were already on alert. The call was put through to John Dahlgren, special agent in charge of counterterrorism in the Atlanta office. When he learned that the weapons destined for his personnel had been hijacked and the drivers murdered, Dahlgren speed-dialed Clebe Raol, lead man in the counterterrorism unit in Atlanta. Dahlgren knew that Clebe and his men had been eagerly anticipating the delivery of the new HKs. They needed all the firepower they could get and were always looking for a tactical advantage.

When his cell phone chirped, Clebe was sitting at an old wooden table in his team’s offices. Clebe was the leader of the FBI Counterterror Unit in Atlanta, an Alpha male from head to toe. He was just under five feet ten inches tall, weighing a solid one hundred ninety pounds. Rugby at The Citadel attested to his toughness and athleticism. Clebe answered on the second ring. He heard the tightness in Dahlgren’s voice that always meant trouble.

Your HKs have been jacked and the Army drivers killed. Army CID’s gonna be all over this; they’ve lost two men and a crate of automatic weapons. Go find out how this shit happened. Corner of Hardee and Lee, near Fort Mac. One more thing. We’re already gonna take heat on this, so I need results yesterday. Keep me posted.

Clebe was furious that a crate of automatic weapons was on the streets and saddened by the loss of two military men. His dad was a Master Gunnery Sergeant in the Marine Corps, currently stationed in South Carolina. He hated the idea that automatic weapons intended for his team might be used against them. Clebe got moving, grabbing Aaron Cohen on his way to the crime scene.

Clebe chose Aaron because he was smart and cool under pressure, great at gathering information in difficult circumstances. Aaron was well received by other law enforcement agencies and most of the population of Georgia. He had quarterbacked the University of Georgia ten years earlier. People still held Aaron in high esteem. Cohen was six foot two, two hundred ten pounds, and looked the same as he had in his days as a Bulldog.

Aaron had finished his career at Georgia, gone through physical therapy school at Emory, and started a career as a physical therapist. That changed abruptly when his brother, David, died on September 11, 2001 at the World Trade Center. David’s death deeply affected Aaron’s priorities in life. He wanted to do more for his country. He interviewed for the FBI, was selected based upon his high intelligence and overall aptitude, and with his minor in Middle Eastern studies, soon worked his way onto the CT team run by Clebe Raol.

It looked like a cop revival at the corner of Hardee and Lee, with a kaleidoscope of blue lights pooling around them. They ditched the Suburban and flashed shields to the APD cops holding the perimeter. Clebe spotted Dan Souther immediately. It was hard to miss his inky black six-foot-five profile, with ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips. He knew the Atlanta cop from previous investigations. The law enforcement community is a small, tight-knit group. While there is tension between the bureau and local cops, men and women on both sides know who the true professionals are and due respect is given. Dan Souther was such a man.

Clebe turned to Aaron Cohen. See what you can get out of these guys. CID will want to throw a lid on this thing tighter than a nun’s twat.

Aaron smiled and shrugged. Chill boss. They’ll all want tickets to the Tech game, and I’ve got an unlimited supply.

Fine, I’m headed for Souther. I’ll see what his take is. Find me when you’re done.

As Clebe headed for Souther, Aaron moved off to mingle, be recognized, and pump the foot soldiers for off the record info.

As he approached, Clebe could see anger etched on Souther’s face. Clebe spoke first. Dan, I don’t know squat; give me a sit rep.

Souther pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his brow. He looked directly at Clebe. This is gonna be a bitch. Two dead. One’s a career guy with thirty years. He’s on the passenger side of the truck; multiple shotgun wounds to the back and head. It doesn’t look like he even got a shot off. The driver was shot through the front windshield, probably the first to catch it. Both took an insurance shot right behind the ear from close range. We got brains splattered all over Hardee Avenue, but no witnesses. Some lady on her way to work called it in.

Clebe listened quietly, knowing he didn’t have to prod Souther to get information. He let Souther speak at his own pace. The Army wants to go to war, Souther said, but they don’t know who to go to war against. CID’s running it from their end, and our crime scene guys are processing as we speak. It took two hours of Army bullshit before I finally found out it was a shipment of HKs for your guys in the truck. Beyond that, we really don’t have any idea who did this or how they got information that the truck was carrying weapons. It’s a shitty start to my week when a load of automatic firepower hits the streets of Atlanta before lunchtime on Monday.

Clebe nodded and walked off toward the crime scene. He watched the forensic guys processing the scene. The crime appeared to have been brutally and efficiently executed. There were multiple shell casings in front of the truck, indicating a couple of shooters separated by a car’s width. There were hulls from a 12-gauge shotgun lying in a straight path from the rear of the truck to the bodies.

After he finished, he walked back to Souther. This makes no sense. It wasn’t a major shipment of arms. Only Dahlgren and my team knew we were getting the guns. No way the leak came from our office.

It’ll be next to impossible for us to get anything from the Army, Souther said. They’ll want CID to work things inside Fort Mac. Considering that all the action took place off base, I doubt we’ll be given access to Army personnel. They’ll want to deal with any problems they have internally. I think the only thing to do now is let the crime scene guys do their thing and see what the ME says. Then we go find these assholes.

Clebe nodded and looked around for Aaron. He found him in the middle of a bunch of CID and APD guys who would normally have been cold as ice to one another. As usual, Aaron had people smiling despite the grisly scene a few yards away. Clebe hung back and let Cohen do his thing. One small bit of information might break the case wide open.

Clebe and Aaron were in a foul mood as they drove back to HQ. Bulletproof vests were no match for .308 rounds. Guns like that are a cop’s worst nightmare. Tension filled the car as several minutes of silence passed. Clebe finally broke the silence, telling Aaron about his conversation with Souther. Then he asked Aaron if he had learned anything.

Not really, Aaron said, CID and the APD don’t know anything. CID seems to think knowledge of the cargo was limited to four individuals: Colonel Nichols, his secretary, and the two dead guys. They think Nichols is the gold standard, and he’s had the same secretary for the past fifteen years without so much as a hiccup. Everybody on the base knows the secretary and thinks the world of her. They’re at a total loss as to how information could’ve leaked. They think the leak came from our end, which I suppose is natural. Any possibility that someone from our shop could’ve let this slip?

Clebe lapsed into a moment of silence, as was his custom when presented with a difficult question. Anything’s possible, but I can’t imagine it coming from our side. Dahlgren knew, our guys knew, but I’m not sure anyone else locally would have known. I guess some suit upstairs might have known about the HKs, but I don’t buy it. Christ, we were waiting for them to bring the guns to us; time and transportation were up to them. Plus, I can’t figure out why they only sent two guys with a crate of automatic weapons. They dropped the ball on this one.

Yeah, you’re right, Aaron sighed. Still, this is Atlanta and not some combat zone in a third world country. The Army may have been slack in their security, but those two guys should have been safe enough driving a truck from Fort Mac to our headquarters. That info shouldn’t have gotten out, and those guys shouldn’t have died. That wasn’t combat; that was cold-blooded murder. It chaps my ass. 

No shit. I don’t want to face those fuckers in a firefight. We need to bust this open quick. I’ll clear it with Dahlgren. I want you to gather information and oversee our investigation. I trust your judgment. I want someone thinking parallel to me in case I miss something.

Will do.

Chapter 3 

Monday morning, May 26, 2018

Southwest Atlanta 

Pharaoh and his crew stopped at a Waffle House for breakfast and ate heartily. The grisly scene they had just left was forgotten. They carried on about the usual things—weed, women, booze, and rides. Everyone was in a good mood except Stoney, who never seemed to be in a good mood. His expression rarely changed.

Stoney had first been given the street name Stone Man because he was a stone-cold killer. Over time this was shortened to Stoney. He and Pharaoh had been together for years, but Pharaoh did not think of him as a friend. Stoney did not have friends. Pharaoh had no doubts about Stoney’s loyalty to him; he had never refused an order. Still, it was impossible to know what Stoney was thinking. Neither his expression nor his eyes held any glimmer of the morning’s violence. 

As Pharaoh’s crew ate breakfast, Jamel Muhammed was opening his neighborhood store for business. The store, Kirksey’s, sat on Dodd Avenue, slightly west of Highway 75 and slightly south of Turner Field. Kirksey’s, a mom-and-pop grocery store, had been in operation for about five years. It carried assorted convenience items to serve the neighborhoods of southwest Atlanta. The neighborhoods were poor, and Kirksey’s catered to the buying habits of its patrons. Although Jamel Muhammed, whose real name was Earl Lee Kirksey, was not a suspect in the weapons hijacking that morning, he was well known to the APD.

Among the older veterans of the APD, the name Earl Lee Kirksey stirred many memories. Kirksey had been a hoodlum. He had been arrested and charged with disorderly conduct, weapons violations, assault with intent to maim or kill, and numerous other crimes from the age of eighteen to thirty-eight. Now in his early sixties, he had spent a good bit of his life on the west coast. He had been jailed on occasion, and while living in Oakland, he had been suspected of involvement in several murders, shakedowns, and other crimes for which he was never charged.

Kirksey learned the system and stayed one step ahead of the law. He floated between Oakland, San Francisco, and Los Angeles, never having a regular job. He dabbled in Black Panther activities in California.

As Kirksey moved through his forties and fifties, he became more sophisticated in his thinking. He embraced the Muslim faith. He read the Qur’an, embraced its firebrand teachings, and thought about returning to Georgia, his birth state. He moved back to Atlanta, opened Kirksey’s, and became known for his fiery rhetoric on the teachings of the Qur’an. His call to the black people of Southwest Atlanta to embrace this faith was met with modest success, and he