by James Hunt
She felt lost without him, not even sure how to start the day. Facing the chief first thing in the morning wasn’t the most tantalizing idea. She left the breakroom with only one destination in mind. It was time to check in with the chief.
“Good morning, sir,” she said, knocking on the side of his door.
Drake’s worn face shot up, but his body remained slouched over his desk. The four FBI agents in the room were slow to turn and acknowledge her.
“Agent Gannon. Good that you’re here,” Drake said, straightening up. “Come in and close the door.”
Angela walked in and slowly shut the door. All eyes were on her as Drake took a moment to introduce her to his guests, all wearing white, button-down long-sleeved shirts, ties, and slacks. He stood up and held an arm out toward the first FBI agent.
“This is Special Agent MacLauchlan.”
A tall man with moussed black hair and a thin beard nodded.
“Supervisory Special Agent Sutherland.”
A short blond-haired man with a square jaw and clean face waved.
“Agent Lynch.”
A bulky man with wavy gray hair, pointy nose, and glasses nodded.
“And Special Agent Hopper.”
A man with a crew cut, goatee, and wild eyes smiled and nodded.
Angela introduced herself, feeling a bit overwhelmed.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you gentlemen,” she said.
Glancing at the television, she could see that the news coverage hadn’t stopped. The aerial view of the truck explosion had transitioned to daylight. In the darkness, the vividness of the scene had been lost, but in the bright daylight, everything was clear: the widespread destruction, the mound of smoldering ash where the truck used to be. The news banner read, No Answer from Feds on Terror Bombing. It was enough for everyone to know that things were serious.
“Please, have a seat,” Chief Drake said warmly.
She smiled the best she could and sat in one of the chairs in the front of his desk, prepared to be questioned.
Drake looked among the FBI agents, each one giving him knowing glances. Angela knew little about the ongoing discussion they’d been having, but had a good guess. Drake rose, moved to the front of his desk, facing Angela, and sat on the front of it, legs swaying in the air, arms tucked at his sides, and looked directly at Angela.
“The media are expecting a response to all of this today, and from what we’ve gathered so far, this appears to be an isolated incident.”
Angela disagreed, but she kept such reservations to herself.
“When was the last time you heard from Captain Martinez?” he asked, as the FBI agents studied her.
“Last night,” she answered. “He called me very concerned about everything that had happened.”
Drake rose his head and studied her closely through the thick lens of his glasses. “I don’t doubt it. Seems he’s gone rogue on a fact-finding mission of his own.”
“Sir?” Angela said, feigning confusion.
“We have to get a handle on this thing, Agent Gannon. I think you can appreciate that. But what bothers me is when one of my agents, a damn fine agent, I might add, goes off the radar.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Angela said.
Drake hopped off his desk and began pacing his office, hands at his side. “We received a call from Captain Martinez’s wife, Gloria, about an hour ago. She’s worried sick. Apparently, he hasn’t been home all night. His Jeep is gone. He didn’t leave a note. And all attempts by his wife to contact him have failed.”
Angela felt an intense worry building in her gut. She didn’t like where the conversation was going. Now more than ever, she needed Martinez at her side, not off on some rogue fact-finding mission.
“I don’t know what to say, sir. He expressed grief about Dawson and said that he had to do some investigating of his own.”
Her comments piqued the interest of the FBI agents, and she immediately regretted saying so much.
“We need to find him,” Drake said. “Do your best to get in touch with him. That’s your mission for the day, Agent Gannon.”
Angela remained still in the chair with her hands folded over her legs. “Yes sir. I can do that.”
“Great.” He went to his desk and grabbed one of the many files sitting in a stack. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to address the media in an hour.”
Angela stood to leave when a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Drake shouted, gazing at the door and looking annoyed.
The door opened, and a tall, thin woman walked in. She had straight brown hair down to her shoulders and a tanned face that contrasted attractively with red lipstick and bright, greenish eyes. She wore a dark blue blazer, a white silk shirt, and black slacks. An FBI badge dangled from her neck on a lanyard. The other agents in the room seemed to stand more upright as she entered, obviously trying to put on a good face.
“Ah, Ms. Thaxton. A pleasure to see you,” Chief Drake said with a smile.
The woman nodded back and then looked at Angela, pointing. “This is Captain Martinez’s partner?”
“Yes,” Drake answered, turning to Angela. “Agent Gannon, I’d like you to meet, Jennifer Thaxton, an Assistant Director with the FBI.”
Angela shook Thaxton’s hand with a friendly nod as the assistant director carefully studied her. “Pleased to meet you, Agent Gannon. I’ve been waiting to speak with you.”
“Me?” Angela said, surprised.
Thaxton looked around the room and stopped at Chief Drake. “I’d like a moment to speak with her, if you don’t mind.”
Drake wasted no time. “Of course,” he said, grabbing some files. “The office is yours. Take all the time you need.” The other agents followed as he left the room. Thaxton then closed the door slowly and walked over to Drake’s desk, sitting in his chair.
“Please,” she said. “Have a seat.”
Angela felt a tinge of nervousness unlike anything she had yet experienced that morning.
Sensing her apprehension, Thaxton leaned forward. “Relax, Agent Gannon. I’m not here to grill you, although I am aware that there is an internal investigation underway of yesterday’s incident.”
Angela looked up with a smile, hands resting on the green fabric of her trouser legs, not sure what to say.
“Angela, I want to cut to the chase because time is critical,” Thaxton said. “You don’t mind if I call you Angela, do you?”
“No…” Angela said, her voice rising, as if asking a question of her own.
“Splendid. And you can call me Jennifer. Fair enough?”
Angela nodded.
“I’m concerned about your partner. He has a lot of crazy ideas, and I don’t blame him. You see, Jorge and I go way back.”
“Captain Martinez?” Angela asked.
Thaxton waved her off with a laugh. “Yes, of course. Captain Martinez. I’m afraid he may be in a lot of trouble.”
Angela swallowed nervously, wishing she had just stayed in bed for the day. “What do you mean, ma’am?”
Thaxton smiled. “Jorge is my friend.” She spread her arms across Drake’s desk and talked as if she were a confidant. “Of course, we lost contact over the years. I’m sure he called you last night with a lot of theories.”
Angela nodded while glancing at the television, which was displaying the image of an empty press room and a banner reading, “Border Patrol Chief Expected to Release Statement.”
“I just want to find him,” Thaxton said. “And I need your help.”
“There’s nothing I want more to do,” Angela replied.
“Excellent,” Thaxton said, folding her hands together. “Then I need to know exactly what he told you last night.”
Angela hesitated. In the silence, Thaxton’s eyes seemed to burn holes right through her. This is it, she thought. This is the interrogation.
Searching for Martinez
“We believe there are approximately fifty terror cell
s operating throughout the state of Texas,” Assistant Director Thaxton began.
Angela sat quietly, trying to understand her role in the FBI’s plan.
“Most of them are ISIS affiliated,” Thaxton continued. “Al-Qaeda is still every bit a threat, but ISIS is growing at a much more rapid and dangerous pace.”
Angela cleared her throat, determined to ask some questions of her own. “Why doesn’t the government detain them?”
Thaxton pursed her lips, looking as though she was prepared for the question. “We’re monitoring as many as we can, hoping that they can lead us to their benefactors.”
Angela clasped her hands together, wishing she could wrap the conversation up, and took a trusting step. “Captain Martinez told me that the government hasn’t released a report on the number of suspected terrorists in two years.”
“Of course he did,” Thaxton told him. “And I’m as bothered by that as he.” She leaned back in the chair, rocking with both arms on the armrests. “Then again, I’m just the Assistant Director.”
Angela glanced at the television where an image of the first shooter, the one with the large forehead was being displayed. He was identified as Amadi Rahman, the brother of the London bombing terrorist, Sayed Rahman. The photo itself was several months old—taken from Amadi’s passport—and showing a clean-shaven man with trim hair and a smile.
“This is what I need from you, Angela,” Thaxton said, dusting the shoulders of her blue blazer. “We have some information on a safe house. A house that Jorge last reported on. He told me that he was going to investigate. Like you, I urged him not to do it on his own. Unfortunately, we haven’t heard from him since.”
Angela didn’t know how much to believe. Martinez had warned her about the FBI. Maybe some of his paranoia was rubbing off on her.
“I want you to accompany us to this safe house. Jorge’s current state of mind is not where I’d prefer it to be. But he trusts you. So we will need you with us once we get there.”
Angela stared ahead, studying Thaxton while trying to detect any bit of deception in her eyes. She was a startlingly attractive woman, and Angela found her mere presence intimidating. She exuded an air of confidence that Angela only wished she could achieve in her own career.
“I need to know what you’ve found out about this station wagon,” Angela said. “That’s what this all comes down to.”
Thaxton leaned closer to them as the chair squeaked forward. “We’re working on it. Police have issued an APB statewide on the vehicle. Though, I might say, a license plate would have been helpful.”
“The truck we were tracking didn’t have a license plate. For all we know, the station wagon was the same,” Angela said.
“Not likely,” Thaxton said, cupping her chin. “Now, are you game? Will you accompany us to the safe house to find Martinez?”
Angela thought to herself for a moment and then nodded. “Sure. If it means brining him home. Is he in any danger?”
Thaxton glanced downward then back at Angela. “We don’t know yet. But I can tell you that the house in question is on our list of hot spots.”
It was all Angela needed to hear. She’d agree to whatever was necessary. Thaxton seemed pleased and told her that, “woman to woman,” she wouldn’t let her down.
“But I expect the same from you,” she continued. “Don’t let us down either.”
Angela sat in the back seat of a black SUV as it roared along a rural stretch of desert road with four other matching vehicles closely behind. She was a part of something now. Something larger than before.
An FBI helicopter flew overhead, tracking them. Angela stared out the window, watching the vastness of the rolling hills and sand dunes pass by—cypress trees, rocks, and decaying weeds, plentiful and unending. Assistant Director Thaxton sat in the passenger seat, next to Agent Sutherland, who drove.
For Angela, it was hard to believe that anything worth finding was within their grasp, but she understood that the people they were looking for often operated in desolate areas where they could see who was coming and when. It was ten past noon, and she was already feeling overwhelmed. Gone were her superiors with the Border Patrol. Out here, she was completely on her own.
“About two miles more,” Thaxton said, staring ahead through a pair of thick sunglasses.
Angela scooted up and looked past the windshield to the road ahead. They were in the lead vehicle, and Angela had questions about how, exactly, the FBI knew precisely where to go. It all seemed too perfect. Were they after terrorists or Martinez?
“What do you want me to do when we get there?” Angela asked.
From the spotless confines of the sleek SUV, Thaxton turned to Angela with a smile. “Just standby until we need you.”
Angela was worried. She had texted Martinez multiple times but received no response.
An aluminum shack, no larger than a mobile home, came into view on the far right side of the road. It looked abandoned, a relic from another age. There were no vehicles parked outside and no people either. Angela figured they would keep going in pursuit of the real safe house, and was surprised when the SUV began to slow.
“There’s our target,” Thaxton said.
The SUV pulled to the shoulder, advancing over a mound, and gunning it toward the shack. Angela gripped her armrest as they rumbled forward, off road, increasing speed. Trailing vehicles split off in different directions, surrounding the shack in what seemed an expertly rehearsed formation.
“That is the safe house?” Angela said with incredulity.
“You’d be surprised,” Thaxton said. “Not everything is as it seems.”
The cryptic comment made Angela curious. What exactly was the assistant director talking about?
Their SUV circled the target and then, with one hard stomp on the brake, lurched to a stop in the back of the building. Angela could see what Thaxton meant: a rusty red pickup sat parked behind the shack in a makeshift port with desert-tan camouflage netting overhead.
The wave radio under the SUV’s dashboard crackled with an incoming transmission.
“All vehicles in position. It’s your call, ma’am,” a man’s voice said.
Thaxton stared ahead, studying the shack. At the wheel, Agent Sutherland held a pair of binoculars up, looking through the only window in range, covered by a thin, tattered curtain.
“I see movement,” he said.
The FBI helicopter hovered above, its blades thumping in the air while its turbine engine rumbled noisily. Whoever was in the shack must know by now that they had company.
“We need to move,” Thaxton said. “They could see us coming a mile away. If there are any tunnels inside, they’re no doubt scrambling.”
Sutherland grabbed the hand mic. “It’s a go.”
Angela watched in astonishment as the doors of the surrounding SUVs were flung open and agents charged out, guns drawn, advancing toward the shack from all sides. Sutherland and Thaxton, however, stayed seated, patiently waiting and astutely observing the raid.
Angela put her hands on the back of Sutherland’s seat and leaned forward. “Shouldn’t you be using a SWAT team? This seems very dangerous.”
“Time is critical,” Thaxton said, looking forward. “We have to work with what we have.”
“And trust me,” Sutherland said, turning his head slightly. “Our team is every bit trained as SWAT.”
From afar, Angela watched as Agent Lynch led the charge, his gray bouffant bouncing in the air. He wound his leg back and kicked the door open as two agents took positions and knelt at each side of the entrance with their pistols up. Shouts and running footsteps could be heard coming from inside.
Three other agents ran past them and circled around to the front as Lynch stormed inside through the back with MacLachlan and another agent behind him.
“Down on the ground!” he shouted from inside.
“Get down! Right now!” MacLachlan added.
Thaxton turned and looked at Sutherland. “Let’s
get ready to move.”
Sutherland nodded, took his Glock pistol from his side, and pulled the slide back, chambering a round.
The shouting continued from inside like some major bust.
“We’re all clear,” Lynch’s voice said from the radio.
“How many?” Sutherland asked, holding the mic.
“Six. All unarmed.”
“Ask him about Captain Martinez,” Thaxton told him.
“What’s the status on Martinez?” Sutherland said into the radio.
“We don’t see him. They could have him somewhere else. MacLachlan and Hopper are doing a search.”
Thaxton sighed and then tilted her head back to Angela. “You ready back there?”
Angela nodded, though she was still unsure of her role. “Six men?” she said, amazed. “In that little shack?”
“Probably caught them at a meeting,” Sutherland said, opening his door and stepping out.
Thaxton opened her door as well and took off her jacket, tossing it inside. A pistol rested in a side holster. She pulled at the sleeves of her white button-down shirt and fixed her hair in the window’s reflection.
From the back seat, Angela studied her. Who am I dealing with here?
Thaxton opened the passenger door and poked her head in. “You coming or what?”
Angela snapped out of it and opened the door.
“Stay on the ground and keep your mouth shut!” a voice shouted from inside the shack, startling her.
She closed the door as Thaxton came around from the other side. Sutherland was already well on his way there, leaving foot prints of his leather dress shoes in the sand.
“You heard anything from Martinez yet?” Thaxton asked, tucking the back of her shirt in at the back.
“Nothing,” Angela said.
