Behind Enemy Lines

by R. J. Patterson

  “You and me both,” Black said. “Now, where exactly are we going?”

  “I filed a flight plan for Miami, but we’re going much farther away than that,” Pratt said. “Blunt told me he would text me the coordinates once we start taxiing. But we’ve got a full tank of gas and can get just about halfway around the world with only a couple stops.”

  Pratt worked over his gum as he returned to his duties.

  Once everything was loaded, he alerted Black and Shields so they could get situated for the flight. The former fighter pilot eased the jet out of the hangar and onto the tarmac. However, an abrupt stop sent Black and Shields lurching forward and then whipping backward.

  “What is it?” Black asked as he hustled up to the cockpit.

  Pratt sighed and pointed at the baggage tug racing toward their plane. “It’s Carl Berry, this airfield’s own Barney Fife. He’s a security guard who’s a stickler for protocol. I’m sure he just wants me to fill out some paperwork or something. It’ll only take me a minute to get rid of him.”

  Pratt cut the engine and opened the door. He descended the steps as Black and Shields looked on from inside the cabin.

  “Good evening, Carl,” Pratt said. “Is everything all right?”

  Carl wrapped his hand around his gun, which was still holstered. He remained quiet, his eyes darting back and forth as if he was searching for something.

  “Earth to Carl? Are you listening to me?” Pratt said, waving his hand in front of Carl’s eyes.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” Carl said. “Who you got in there?”

  “Now, Carl, how many times do I have to tell you that it’s none of your business who I take and where I take them? Got that?”

  Carl drew a long breath in through his nose and rubbed it with the back of his hand. He glanced over his shoulder before returning his gaze to Pratt.

  “Don’t be stubborn, Capt. Pratt,” Carl said. “I know what you’re up to.”

  “I’m just doing my job, Carl.”

  “And that’s what I’m doing,” he said before stealing another look down the runway. “Now, I need to inspect your cabin.”

  “Do you have a warrant?” Pratt asked.

  Carl patted his sidearm. “I don’t need one. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to take a peek at who’s on board here.”

  “For goodness sake, can you just let us get on our way? We’re on a tight timeframe.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Carl said as he pushed his way past Pratt and walked up the steps.

  As soon as Carl approached the plane, Black hustled back to his seat. When Carl appeared in the doorway, Black gave the security patrolman a friendly wave.

  “Evening, sir,” Black said with a deliberate nod. “What seems to be the holdup?”

  “The holdup is you,” Carl said, pointing his finger at Black. “You’re not supposed to leave the country.”

  “Do you even know who this is?” Pratt asked. “This man is a decorated hero, and I’m supposed to take him to a secret location per my orders.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Does it matter?” Pratt asked. “It’s all above your pay grade. Heck, it’s way over mine, too.”

  Outside, the roar of engines speeding toward their position alarmed Pratt. He hustled down the steps and looked toward the far end of the airfield. Then he motioned for Black.

  Carl grabbed Black’s arm before he reached the bottom step. “Not so fast, my friend.”

  Black peered across the tarmac and saw a half dozen vehicles storming toward them. “That’s not normal, is it, Carl?” Black asked.

  “I think you know what this about,” Carl said as he nudged Black with his gun.

  Black turned around and raised his hands. “Let’s not do anything crazy.”

  A smile crept across Carl’s lips as he basked in the moment of capturing Washington’s most-wanted fugitive. However, that look dissolved when Shields addressed him from behind.

  “If you want don’t want eight pounds of carbon fiber shoved up your ass, I suggest you put your weapon down slowly and kick it aside,” she said as she grabbed a fistful of his collar.

  Carl knelt slowly and placed his gun on the ground. He slid the weapon aside with his foot, which Black pounced on.

  “We also need the keys to your baggage tug there,” Black said.

  Shields slung their bags into the back as she slid onto the seat next to Black. “Do the right thing and tell them you never saw us. I can find out where you live.”

  Black watched the security guard swallow hard before wheeling the vehicle around and racing toward a gate at the back entrance. They both ducked as they crashed through it, shattering the padlock. Once they reached the road, Black grabbed a pair of chocks in the back and held them just above the gas pedal. He and Shields got out with their gear before he aimed the car down the straightaway. They hustled across the street toward Shields’ rental car and watched as several FBI vehicles sped past them after the baggage tug, which was veering toward the woods.

  Once they were out of sight, Shields pushed the ignition button and navigated back toward the main highway, which cut through the middle of Leesburg in an east-west direction.

  “What to do now?” she said.

  “Head back to Washington,” Black said. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Shields sighed. “So much for getting out of town.”

  CHAPTER 22

  BLACK GRABBED HIS solid-blue Washington Nationals cap out of his bag and tugged it down tight across his forehead. He suggested Shields tie her brunette hair up in a bun and wear her glasses. If they intended to stick around the capital, they needed to change their appearance at random intervals to keep throwing off the FBI agents scouring CCTV footage for them.

  “What difference does this really make?” Shields asked. “We haven’t switched vehicles yet, so once they spot us in this one, it’ll be easy for them to track us.”

  “You said that you took your car to the dealership to get fixed, right?”

  “Right, so what?”

  “Is this a courtesy car? I mean, you didn’t rent this did you?”

  She shook her head.

  “And you haven’t paid for any repairs, have you?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “I don’t normally pay until it’s completed.”

  Black slapped the dashboard. “Exactly, so they will be looking for us in your car, not this one. How will they have any idea that you had car trouble and are now driving a rental? No credit card records. No paper trail of any kind.”

  “So why do I have to put my hair up in a bun? I hate this look.”

  “Just go along with it and keep driving.”

  Black pulled out his phone and called The Washington Post switchboard. “I’m trying to reach Nate Miller,” he said once the receptionist answered the phone.

  Moments later, he listened to Miller’s voicemail, which implored the caller to reach him on his cell phone for a more immediate response. Black took down the number and dialed it, but not before blocking his own so that it would appear as a private number on Miller’s caller ID.

  “Are you calling someone internationally?” Shields asked.

  “I’m hiding my number from Miller,” he said. “It’ll make someone like him go crazy. He won’t be able to resist the mystery of who’s trying to reach him.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  After the eighth ring, Black’s call went to voicemail. He growled and redialed Miller.

  “Unable to resist the mystery, huh?” she chided Black.

  Black shot her a sideways glance. “Watch your speed,” he said, ignoring her dig. “We don’t want your lead foot to be the reason we get captured.”

  “This foot is made out of carbon fiber, thank you very much. And as it stands right now, it’s the reason we escaped.”

  Black chuckled. “That guard would’ve wilted if you told him that you had magic pixie dust that would grow a goiter on his nose if he didn’t do what you said.”
<
br />   “The world will never know now, will it?”

  Black redialed Miller’s number, which went straight to voicemail this time.

  “I’m hoping this plan materializes soon so I’m not driving around town all night,” Shields said.

  “Just be patient,” Black said as he made another attempt to reach Miller.

  She cocked her head and flashed him a wry smile. “Third time’s the charm, right?”

  This time, Miller picked up, his voice blaring over the speaker. “Who is this? And why do you keep calling me?”

  “This is your friend from the coffee shop the other day,” Black said.

  “At least I know your name now.”

  “The whole world does.”

  “The whole world also thinks you’re an assassin,” Miller said.

  “Why don’t you prove them wrong,” Black suggested.

  “How exactly am I supposed to do that?”

  “We need to meet ASAP. I have something to give you.”

  “I can’t meet right now,” Miller said. “I’m at the Nats game. They’re playing the Braves, and my team is winning.”

  “The Nats are beating the Braves?”

  Miller chuckled. “Not a chance. I’m from Atlanta, mystery man. I thought you would’ve known that about me.”

  “I didn’t dig that deep. What inning is it?”

  “The fourth, and the Braves are winning 7-1.”

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll contact you when I get there with further instructions.”

  “Who says I want to help you?”

  “You’re a good journalist, Nate. I’m sure you want the truth to come out about what Gaither and his minions are doing overseas and why he had a staged assassination attempt.”

  “The funny thing is that is the kind of journalist that I am. But someone I know told me to back off of this story if I wanted to live. I’ve moved on.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “For you, maybe. But not for me. I’m afraid that you’ll have to find yourself another reporter to do your bidding.”

  Miller ended the call. Black let out a long breath and stared out the window.

  “That was your great plan?” Shields asked. “Get Nate Miller to write an exposé that exonerated us?”

  “You got a better one at this point?”

  She nodded and grinned.

  “So where are we going?”

  “We’re going to Nationals Park,” she said.

  CHAPTER 23

  SHIELDS TWEAKED THE VOLUME in her coms and sent out a test message. Black’s voice boomed, echoing in her ear piece. She pulled down on the bill of her cap, her eyes darkened by the shadow cast on them. After locating Miller, she settled into a few rows behind him. Most fans had conveniently cleared out as the Braves held a 10-2 lead, making it easy for her to view Miller.

  When the next vendor strolled by hawking his beer, she ordered two and asked him to send one to Miller. The man eyed her closely and didn’t agree until she gave him a five-dollar tip.

  He hustled over to Miller and handed him the enormous thirty-two ounce beer. Miller turned around in his seat, and the vendor pointed at Shields. She forced a smile and gave him a friendly wave.

  “All right, Operation Bud Light has commenced,” Shields said. “It won’t take long now.”

  *

  BLACK PULLED UP THE ZIPPER on his janitorial coveralls and then used the mop handle to wheel the bucket of murky water along the concourse.

  “Find the nearest bathroom to Section 113 on the mezzanine level,” she said.

  “Copy that,” Black said as he plodded toward the area.

  He positioned his bucket just inside the men’s restroom door and started to clean up around the sinks.

  Another janitor appeared in the doorway a couple minutes later with his own bucket. “Did Arnold assign you to this bathroom?”

  Black shook his head. “No, it was the head guy.”

  “Mr. Darlington?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” Black said.

  The man shrugged, spun, and headed out the door.

  After fifteen minutes, he heard Shields come in clear over his ear piece. “He’s on the move. I repeat: the target is on the move.”

  Black strode over to the entrance and waited for Miller. Once he walked inside, Black slapped a “cleaning in progress” sign on the door and locked it with the deadbolt. After everyone had cleared out except for Miller, Black leaned against the sink, waiting for Miller to turn around from the stalls. When the reporter spun on his heel and headed for the exit, Black caught him.

  “You know it’s not polite to leave the restroom without washing your hands, though I hear that’s a common habit among Braves fans,” Black said.

  Miller froze. He cast a quick glance over at Black before sprinting toward the exit. Black beat the reporter to the spot and crossed his arms, creating an imposing presence.

  “I told you that we needed to talk,” Black said.

  “Look, I appreciate your tenacity, but I want to get back out there and finish watching the game.”

  “And I’ll let you—after we’re done with this brief but very important conversation.”

  Miller sighed and stared at the upper corner of the room. “I already told you I’m not interested in helping you. You were the one who helped me see what I was getting myself into.”

  “That’s before I knew what I know now.”

  “Yeah, and what you know now is that someone is framing you for the assassination of Capt. Watkins and if I don’t help you, there’s a strong possibility you’ll end up dead.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell.”

  Miller shook his head. “I’m not going to foist some hoax on the American people just so you can skate for this. Not gonna happen.”

  “Just take a look at this and tell me what you think?” Black said, offering Miller a thumb drive. “It’s going to blow your mind. And it’s got all the elements of Pulitzer prize-winning stories every reporter dreams of: innocent people being harmed, a threat that needs to be neutralized, and corrupt politicians spearheading the entire thing.”

  Miller pushed Black’s hand aside, refusing to take the device. “Sorry, not interested. Now, can I please get back to watching the game?”

  “Not until you take this,” Black said, keeping his right hand outstretched with the drive resting on his palm. “What’s it gonna hurt to take a look?”

  Miller snatched it from Black’s hand before pocketing the memory stick. “Fine. Now will you move, please?”

  “I hope you’re serious about looking into this. You don’t want to miss this story. If you’re not the one to tell it when it breaks, you’re going to regret it.”

  *

  NATE MILLER FISHED his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in 911. He took a deep breath before hitting the send button.

  “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.

  “I’m at Nationals Park, and I just saw Titus Black, the wanted fugitive.”

  “Are you certain, sir?”

  “Yes, he’s here, and he’s dressed in a janitor’s coveralls and is currently on the mezzanine level.”

  “Copy that, sir. I’ll let the authorities know immediately. Please stay on the line.”

  The line went silent as Miller paced around the concourse. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and backed into a little nook that gave him a little bit of cover from the men’s restroom entrance. About thirty seconds later, Black walked out and checked over his shoulder before heading toward the exit. He was pushing his bucket with his head down, virtually invisible to all the fans streaming toward the exit as the game approached the ninth inning with the Nats trailing by eight runs.

  However, he spun on his heels in a quick u-turn when he noticed several armed security guards walking toward him and scanning the crowd.

  Miller smiled and pulled out his phone, eager to record the capture of the elusive Titus Black. Despite the su
re-fire award-winning story that fell into Miller’s lap, he still had a hard time believing that this was the same man who captured Capt. Watkins just a week ago and then shot him just over twenty-four hours ago. It seemed unlikely that he would travel halfway across the world to rescue the man only to kill him on stage with Senator Gaither in a botched assassination attempt, but little surprised Miller these days. He surmised that Black had warned him to stay out of it because he didn’t want anyone else poking around on the story. And Miller figured if he was wrong, he could always write the follow-up exposé revealing how dark and twisted the military and intelligence community was.

  A perfect two-for-one.

  Miller struggled to keep up with Black’s torrid pace. He had long since ditched his bucket and was pulling away from the officers. Sirens wailed in the distance, signaling just how serious this situation was.

  Miller followed the officers until he noticed a trio of Metro police officers racing toward Black. He paused for a moment and surveyed the two groups pursuing him. Then Black darted up the steps toward the third level.

  Miller did his best to keep Black in view, but the agent flung himself over the railing and disappeared into the darkness.

  Where’d he go?

  Dashing up the steps, Miller kept recording and hoped he caught something on tape. When he reached the top step, he panned the area below. With mouths agape, the cops all stared at the dim concourse below, which was devoid of anyone sprinting away by himself.

  “Where the hell did he go?” one of the officers asked.

  The other men shrugged and let out a string of expletives before one of the men snatched the walkie-talkie off his belt.

  “We lost him,” the officer said. “He flipped off the railing on the top level, and he’s gone. Maybe one of the patrols on the outskirts of the stadium can spot him.”

  The officer described Black’s clothing, but Miller was sure that the fleeing operative had stripped off the overalls and was wearing something else by now.

  Miller turned off his recording and walked down the steps, realizing there wasn’t going to be a dramatic moment to capture on video. At least, he wasn’t going to see it if there was.