Grave Games: A Collection Of Riveting Suspense Thrillers

by James Hunt

  “Nothing on my end either.”

  “I hope he’s okay,” Angela said. “I can’t take much more of this. Especially after Dawson…” Her voice faded at the mention of his name. She took a deep breath and tried to toughen up as Thaxton’s hand touched her shoulder.

  “It’s okay. The FBI is going to get to the bottom of this thing one way or another.”

  They strolled together toward the shack, and Angela was eager to see inside. She wished they’d found a station wagon parked near the shack, a sign that they weren’t on a wild goose chase.

  Thaxton walked in first. Sunlight shone onto the creaking hardwood floor, lighting the otherwise dim room.

  Angela followed Thaxton carefully as the other agents flipped chairs and tables, searching for hatches or hidden compartments. Angela looked down at the six men who lay on their stomachs, their hands behind their backs, and agents Lynch and MacLachlan standing over them.

  Their hands had already been zip-tied at their wrists. Their clothing was strangely identical: Gap-purchased polo shirts and beige slacks, like some kind of mall uniform. Their jet-black hair was short and their facial hair trim, making them look painfully out of place in such rural surroundings. Their feet were bare, and a row of leather dress shoes and sandals lined the wall next to the front entrance. A few men groaned in discomfort. Others seemed to be cursing.

  “Shut up,” Sutherland said, walking alongside them.

  They could have been anyone from around the area, but Angela was pretty sure they weren’t locals. An aura of mystery surrounded them, and Angela was eager to find out who they were, and what they had on Martinez.

  A man at the front lifted his head with a panicked expression. “What have we done? We have done nothing.”

  “Well, you’re trespassing, for starters,” Sutherland said. “This is federal land out here.”

  The man lowered his head, saying nothing in return. Thaxton stood in the corner of the room, observing the area and keeping to herself. Angela walked around slowly, studying the room, hoping to find a clue, anything, but the floor and the ceiling, like the walls, were largely barren.

  “Go ahead and get them up,” Sutherland said to the other agents. “We’re taking them in.” The day was only getting hotter, and everyone wanted to get moving.

  The FBI team returned to the Del Rio Border Patrol station shortly after the bust. Their six suspects had been taken to a secure holding room. Martinez was still MIA, and the men’s capture only added more questions. The already tense atmosphere of the station was compounded by the detainees’ arrival. Nearly every agent on site believed they had something to do with the truck explosion and the death of Agent Dawson.

  Guards were posted outside the holding room to keep Border Patrol agents from interfering with the investigation. A crowd had formed outside the room and was largely made up of uniformed agents trying to get a look at their suspects through the one-way Plexiglas window.

  Inside, the six men sat on a single long bench against the wall, now handcuffed and saying very little to each other. Even though they couldn’t see beyond the window from inside, they appeared to be aware that they were being watched and listened to.

  The number of onlookers outside the room grew to about twenty border agents, all staring in through the window as though they were at the zoo.

  “Are we going to charge these assholes or what?” one mustached agent asked with his face burning with anger. He took a step forward and was rebuked by one of the guards standing by the door.

  “That’s close enough. Border Patrol are not allowed entry into holding by order of the FBI.”

  The mustached agent took as step back and threw his arms in the air. “Ah, what do they know? They can go back to D.C. for all I care.”

  A short female agent stepped forward to join the protest. “It wasn’t one of theirs who was killed yesterday, it was one of ours!”

  The crowd shouted out in agreement. “Yeah!”

  The guard, a Border Patrol agent like themselves, raised a hand, asking for calm. “Not our call. Now please, go about your business and let the FBI do theirs.”

  But the crowd remained. No one looked as though they were going anywhere. The capture of the six men was blood in the water, and after years of bureaucratic red-tape that had made their jobs harder and harder to do, the Border Patrol agents wanted retribution. And the only things preventing them from taking action were two guards and a thick pane of Plexiglas.

  Amid the commotion, Angela found herself back in Chief Drake’s office with Assistant Director Thaxton and Special Agent Sutherland. So far, she had an insider’s view to the investigation that none of her colleagues had been privy too. Chief Drake seemed concerned with her involvement, but beholden to the whims of the FBI. But had it not been for Captain Martinez’s disappearance, Angela knew she wouldn’t have been welcomed in the room.

  The television in the corner played clips of the Chief’s earlier comments to the media in a hastily put-together press conference. The story wasn’t going anywhere. It’s all they were talking about on the news. Drake stood in front of a banner displaying the border agent seal and spoke at a podium with several microphones sticking out like a bouquet of flowers.

  “I can’t release all the specifics on this incident, but I can say that HAZMAT teams conducted a sweep of the area and found no evidence of chemical agents released,” Drake said, adjusting his glasses. “We’ve cordoned off the area temporarily to conduct the investigation, but we want to stress that the surrounding communities are not in danger.”

  A reporter in the back shot his hand up, speaking eagerly and out of turn. “Sir, what info can your agency release about the suspected terrorists who left the scene?” The reporter paused and then look down and spoke as if reading from his notes. “The Starr County PD reports that they issued an APB on a station wagon connected with the vehicle explosion.”

  Taken aback, Drake backed away from the microphone and placed both hands on the podium. He then leaned closer, zeroing in on the reporter. “Nothing has been confirmed at this moment involving a vehicle that fits that description or the activities of the Starr County PD.”

  Chief Drake stepped in front of the television and muted it with a remote. “That son of a bitch. Did you see what he just did to me there?” he asked the room, turning around astonished.

  Assistant Director Thaxton leaned against the front of Drake’s desk casually with her arms crossed. “He’s doing his job,” she offered without sympathy. “Just remember, Chief Drake. Things are going to get a whole lot worse before they get better.”

  Drake walked back to his desk, tossing the remote across several open files lying about. He pulled his chair out and sat, sighing, as Thaxton stood up and walked to the window, examining the full parking lot. Angela sat in one chair across from Drake’s desk as Agent Sutherland stood by the door, turning toward the chief.

  “Sir, the assistant director is right,” he said. “There’s a lot of loose ends out there, and someone has to tie them up.”

  Drake placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward, notably perturbed. “Tell me what your team is doing here then? My people are supposed to be protecting the border, not fighting terrorists.” His eyes shifted directly to Angela as though he were sending her a message.

  Thaxton calmly strolled from the window toward his desk. “To answer your question, Chief Drake, we’re only getting started.”

  Angela said nothing, despite the questions swimming around in her head. She felt no closer to the truth, even with the recent bust. Something felt off kilter, and each moment that passed made it seem as if she were being dragged further away from finding Martinez.

  Drake then voiced his concerns on that very topic. “Where is Captain Martinez?” he asked Angela directly. “His wife has been calling the station all morning. He won’t answer his cell phone. He hasn’t been seen since last night.”

  “He’s gone rogue,” Thaxton answered. “And we were hoping t
hat his partner could help us find him.” There was a hint of something accusatory in her voice.

  Drake looked at Angela and then rubbed both hands down his drained face. “I’m aware of why you have her tagging along, but I thought you’d have heard from him by now.”

  “We haven’t,” Thaxton said.

  Angela spoke up for the first time, trying to get everyone back on track. “What do we know about the men apprehended today?”

  All eyes suddenly turned to her, even Sutherland’s, who had seemed preoccupied with his phone. Angela paused, taking notice, and then continued. “IDs? Vehicle registration. They had to be doing something out there. That outpost was unlivable by any standards.”

  “We’ve run their information,” Thaxton said, surprising Angela with a direct answer. “They’re Syrians here on education visas.”

  “Guess class was canceled today,” Sutherland added with a chuckle.

  Thaxton moved in closer, inches from Drake’s desk, looking at him with urgency. “We have only a small window here to question the men before customs and Immigration and Homeland get involved.”

  Drake set aside a file he was looking at. “Okay? So what do you want me to do about that?”

  “Just keep your agents at bay,” Thaxton said. “And let us do our job.”

  Drake glanced over at his TV in the corner where they were still showing scenes from his earlier press conference. He held out both hands, giving up, and asked Thaxton if there was anything else.

  “Let’s go, Agent Gannon,” Thaxton said, walking toward the door.

  Drake’s head jerked up. “Hey, where are you taking her?”

  Sutherland opened the door as Angela stood, frozen, caught between her boss and the assistant director.

  Thaxton said, “I told you that Agent Gannon’s assistance is crucial to this investigation.” She took a step out the door, and then turned around. “At least until we hear from Captain Martinez—our man in the woods.”

  Angela looked at Drake for confirmation.

  “Very well,” he said, looking down. He then pointed at Angela, speaking forcefully. “But I want to know everything that you’re doing. You’re to brief me periodically. Understand?”

  “Yes sir,” Angela said.

  He dismissed her, and she walked out with Thaxton and Sutherland at her sides. Offices and cubicles flanked the carpeted pathway before them, and standing outside their doors were Border Patrol agents, who turned in unison with their eyes on Angela.

  She continued past them as conversations died out, leaving behind a vacuum of uncomfortable silence. There was much suspicion in the air. No one seemed to know why Angela was so important to the FBI all of a sudden, and the frustration of being left in the dark resulted in rumors and speculation.

  Angela tried to make eye contact with her colleagues, even smiling at Captain Reynolds, who looked back at her stone faced. For the most part, she just kept her head down and continued walking.

  Up ahead, however, the holding room came into view, where even more Border Patrol had gathered. It was time to investigate the first piece in the intricate puzzle they were desperately trying to solve.

  Discovery

  Angela followed Thaxton and Agent Sutherland into the holding room, entering as a group. Many of her colleagues had gathered at the window watching, though once inside the room, she could not see them. She wished they would all go away, but such a scenario wasn’t going to happen. All attention was on the suspected terrorists. On top of it all, the FBI had planted their own flag and set up camp.

  The nearest FBI headquarters, in Houston, was more than three hundred miles away, and Angela knew they were in Del Rio for the long haul, or at least however long it took to find whatever it was they were looking for.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” Sutherland said, walking into the room as Thaxton closed the door behind Angela. “Who’s the leader here?”

  Sitting in line on a bench against the wall, the six men looked down, still handcuffed. No one was speaking. Sutherland walked down the line, close to the men’s feet, staring each one down, his long white sleeves rolled up and red tie swaying.

  He was about Angela’s age. His freshly trimmed blond flat-top looked similar to any military cut. With his booming voice and direct nature, Angela wondered if he had a background in military service like she did.

  Thaxton took a seat on the empty bench across from the men and beckoned to Angela. As Angela sat next to her, Thaxton handed her a small notepad and pen. The implied task was clear: Angela was to take notes—anything, she supposed—to satisfy the curiosity of her colleagues about her role in the FBI’s investigation.

  “No one, huh?” Sutherland said, spreading both arms wide as if to embrace them. His pistol rested snugly in his side holster, his cell phone in the other. “Just a bunch of like-minded individuals meeting up along the Rio Grande border.”

  The men remained silent. Angela scribbled into the pad, noting that the suspects were recalcitrant. Sutherland seemed to be lost in thought, pacing, as Thaxton kept a careful eye on the men. The men stared down at the white tile floor, defiant, with deep, angry frowns on their faces.

  “What’s wrong?” Sutherland asked the man at the end of the bench. He had dark hair and a thin goatee, and when he raised his head, he refused to make eye contact with the two women in the room.

  He answered in a think Middle Eastern accent. “It is an insult to be asked these questions with them here,” he said, briefly pointing across the room.

  “You’re just going to have to deal with it, all right, Mahmoud. Unless you want a one-way ticket back to Syria in the next five minutes.”

  The man’s eyes widened and he slunk back toward the wall, surprised that Sutherland knew his name and where he was from.

  “Do I make myself clear?” Sutherland asked, leaning down right in the man’s face.

  “Yes. We will talk. But please.” He stopped and signaled toward Thaxton and Angela dismissively. “Not with them here.”

  Sutherland turned to Thaxton, waiting for her response. She shook her head, not saying a word. He then turned back to Mahmoud. “Sorry, Charlie. They stay. You see, that woman there is an assistant director with the FBI. She’s my boss. And she’s the one calling the shots here. Not you. Not me. And certainly not your friends here.”

  Mahmoud looked away with a sullen defeated expression. His friends appeared just as despondent.

  Angela scribbled away, beginning to understand the assistant director a little better: she did things her way.

  “That’s what I thought,” Sutherland said. “Mahmoud, we checked your backgrounds—what little we could find—and discovered that you’re all Syrians, here on expired student visas.” He began pacing the room again like a defense attorney, his leather dress shoes tapping along the floor. He stopped and looked at his watch, then to Mahmoud. “How about we get you back home in about thirteen hours on a one-way flight? Sound good?”

  The men remained silent as Mahmoud jerked his head up, galvanized with fear. “No! You can’t send us back there. They’ll kill us all!”

  Sutherland stooped down right in front of Mahmoud’s shaken face again. “Then tell me everything I need to know, Mahmoud, or I’ll have no other choice.”

  “We were fleeing from ISIS!” Mahmoud said, voice rising. “They accused us of being spies—”

  Sutherland smacked the wall, cutting him off. “You expect us to believe that? Where are your families? What are you doing meeting up in a vacant outpost?”

  “We’re trying to get our families here. Trying to get citizenship first!”

  “Bullshit!” Sutherland shouted. “You start telling me what I need to know, or we send you to your buddies back home.”

  “We are not terrorists,” Mahmoud said. “I know that you have your suspicions, but I can explain everything.”

  Sutherland sighed and looked up at the ceiling panels and the two long, white fluorescent bulbs that illuminated the room. He pulled a picture
from his pocket and held it close in Mahmoud’s face. “This man. He’s a Border Patrol agent. Very important that we find him.” His finger pointed at Captain Martinez’s official department headshot. “What do you know about him?”

  Mahmoud’s eyes tried to adjust. He opened his mouth and shook his head, trying to answer. Sutherland grew impatient and walked down the line of men, slowly walking the picture past their faces. “Answers, gentlemen. We know he was at your meeting place because he’s the one who told us about it.” Sutherland paused. “Right before he disappeared.”

  Mahmoud shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t… we didn’t.”

  Sutherland lashed forward with his open hand and hit the wall just above Mahmoud’s head. “Start talking, damn it! We’ve got one Border Patrol agent dead, one missing, and six Syrians with expired visas in an abandoned outpost.”

  “We were hiding!” Mahmoud shouted.

  The eyes of the other men widened as they looked at Mahmoud, urging him not to say anything more. A man with a facial scar stood up at the other end of the bench, livid.

  “That’s enough, Mahmoud!”

  Thaxton’s hand went to her pistol as she rose from the bench across from the men. “Sit down,” she said.

  Mahmoud froze and stared back at her with contempt.

  “Shakir. Sit!” Mahmoud said in forceful tone.

  The scar-faced man slowly sat as Thaxton stared him down.

  “The truth is…” Mahmoud began. “We are all six of us friends. We came here together. And we are living in fear. Not only is ISIS trying to kill us back home, they have fighters here. There is a fatwa against each of us. We were meeting to discuss where we could go to be safe. There’s too many of them in this state.”

  Sutherland crossed his bulky arms, not convinced, as Angela continued rapidly jotting down words on the notepad.

  “Going into hiding from ISIS after staying past your visas? Not buying it,” Sutherland said.

  “Don’t you see?” Mahmoud shouted, jerking at his handcuffs. “We are men without a country! We thought that we had chance here.”