Torching the Crimson Flag

by Conrad Brasso

“Have you ever been shot?” Trey asked Tank, watching his friend working the pain out of his system.

  “Once. Got lucky. I happened to have on the same vest Justin supplied for us. Front and back coverage, right? Those hard-armor plates are the real deal. I got plugged in the back, but the thing held up. Few inches higher and it would have been my head.”

  Suddenly Trey wondered how Fox was. With all the action, he hadn’t thought to get an update. He’d have to wait a little longer. The chopper was setting down half a mile east of the Ocracoke Island Airport, in the mostly-vacant parking lot of Ocracoke Beach. There were only four ways you could get on this island. By a ferry from either end, boat or plane.

  The strong saltwater smell of the ocean hit the team as they spilled out of the chopper, and the early-afternoon sun made things sticky and hot. Bruce jogged down to the beach to see if he could connect with the lifeguard. Trey grabbed his gear and also headed for the beach to run along the sand until he got to a long off-road vehicle path that would lead him away from the ocean and up to the airport. Tank backtracked to the mouth of the parking lot they’d just entered to keep an eye on road traffic. He hid himself in the tall grass and bushes that were tucked against some magnificent Southern Live Oaks. These types of trees grew from Southeastern Virginia, south to the Florida Keys, and as far west as the state of Texas. Often hitting nearly eighty feet in height and a spread of one hundred and fifty feet, they provided perfect cover.

  This part of the beach only had three people on it. Two adults were sitting on beach chairs, and a toddler was in front of them, making trips back and forth between the water and her sandcastles. Further up the beach, there were about a dozen other people. To his right was a lifeguard stand, so Agent Locke walked over to the gray wooden structure, and as he got closer, a guy stood up. His bright orange shorts indicated he was on duty. On his left was a yellow water cooler, and behind him was a simple bar counter behind which were some life preservers hanging on a wall.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, leaning against a railing that went around the stand’s front porch. As Bruce got closer, the lifeguard propped his sunglasses on top of his nest of windblown blond hair.

  “Maybe. You from around here?”

  “My whole life.”

  “You probably heard our chopper landing in your parking lot.”

  “I did. Doesn’t happen every day, you know?”

  Locke grinned. “Yeah, I guess not.”

  The guard climbed down from the wooden structure. He had red shorts on and an open white hoodie with a red cross on the chest. “I’m Cory.”

  “Bruce.”

  They shook hands.

  “I guess you know most the people that live around here, huh?”

  “For sure. There’s less than a thousand of us, and we all love beaches and water.”

  “I bet! Probably a lot of tourists, too, huh?”

  “Yeah. A steady stream, anyway. It’s not like Myrtle Beach or even Nags Head. Nothing like that. But it’s enough to keep our island’s economy flowing. In the winter, everything shuts down.”

  As they chatted, Bruce glanced to his left, just in time to see Trey disappearing into the trees. He’d reached the long off-road path that led towards the airport.

  “You notice anybody around town that’s given you pause?”

  “In what way?”

  “A group of people that you normally don’t see down here?”

  “We get all types, man. Tourists from Canada all the way down to Virginia Beach.”

  “Russians, Chinese?”

  “Let me take that back. We don’t get too many of those,” Cory said, smiling. “Every once in a while, we’ll get some Asians, but most of them are from here in the States. Sometimes we get some Japanese fishermen that like to charter boats.” He paused, “Actually, come to think of it, yeah. There’s a group of Russians renting a vacation rental that my cousin looks after. They’re an interesting bunch.”

  “Interesting, how?”

  “They’re not campers. They don’t fish or sail, really. I haven’t seen them on the beaches. But I think they got the place for a whole month. We don’t get very good internet or cell phone here, so I don’t know what they do in the house all day. Honestly, from what she said, they’re a pretty rugged group. All guys, I think.”

  “Cory, that could be helpful information. I’ll need to go check it out, but I need a favor.”

  “You a cop?”

  “No. Federal.”

  The guard’s eyes widened. “FBI?”

  “Something like that.”

  “The house that your cousin is managing does it come with a boat?”

  “Yeah. Nothing too fancy. A Monk Trawler, I think. It’s got a slip at Silver Lake Harbor. There’s a separate rental fee for that, and you have to hire a captain unless you have your captain’s license.” He looked Bruce over and must have decided that Locke passed the test. “What’s the favor you need?”

  Tank had his eyes on the road, but there wasn’t a lot to watch. He was about to connect with Bruce on comms to see if this was the best use of his time when he heard the unmistakable rumbling of a General Motors 6.0L Vortec 6000 V8. The engine was popular in a lot of their vehicles, but nothing made it echo under the hood like the body of an International Scout II. He turned around and saw a beauty—a fully rebuilt 1979 4x4 with spotlights on either side of the A-pillars. The bull bar up front was fitted with an LED light strip, and a heavy-duty winch. The roof rack on top had the attached shovel and extra gas cans. The whole vehicle was painted bright yellow and with a red rally stripe that ended in a red cross. Blazoned under it in equally attention-getting red, was the word Lifeguard. What Tank didn’t expect, when his eyes got there, was the face of the driver. It was Bruce.

  “Hop in, Tank!” Bruce shouted over the engine noise. “I’ve got a lead.”

  Tank threw his gear into the back, next to Locke’s, and jumped into the passenger’s seat.

  “I’m sending you satellite imagery of the house Cory’s cousin manages,” Justin informed the pair of operators through their earpieces. “It makes a lot of sense. The water-front house has a long pier that stretches into the North Atlantic Ocean on the west side of the island. Theoretically, the boat that Iris is on could pull right up to that pier, and they could offload him. I show it being twenty-nine mikes out from the airport, eight or nine more from the house.”

  “Copy that,” Bruce acknowledged, looking down and to his right, where Tank was pulling up the footage on his tablet.

  “Gentlemen, clear that house,” said Leo with determination. “We’re not going to wait for Iris to get there. Go in and secure the building. When you’re finished, you’ll have about a twenty-minute window before he arrives, to figure out how to stage.”

  “Got it,” Tank said, disconnecting from comms.

  “Wow. There’s not much to cloak us,” Bruce commented, glancing down again at the tablet. “It’s quintessential beach-front property. Flat, sandy, and a few odd shrubs.” The houses that lined the oceanfront were typical of that area. Simple structures, built on stilts, wooden, and fairly close together. Most of them were two-story, but on stilts, they looked like they were three stories high.

  “Our target house is the last one in the line. It looks like the empty lot next to it has a few bushes we can park behind. At least this Scout won’t draw too much attention. Seeing a lifeguard driving around is probably pretty normal. But we’ll have to move quickly. Let’s pull over and gear up.”

  Bruce stopped on the side, and it only took a few moments for the two of them ready up.

  Over by the airport, Trey hid his pack in a spot of thick grass. Carrying guns onto airport property was always a touchy thing. But he couldn’t go in weaponless. He had a full visual of the terminal, the only building on the property. It was to his left, about a hundred yards away. There were seven vehicles in the parking lot, and it looked like their owners were either in the building or had parked there to catch a f
light somewhere. He tucked his Sig Sauer P226 Tactical Operations Pistol behind his back, into his belt. The gun was known for its fast trigger return and surgical control during high-speed shooting. It came with twenty-round high capacity magazines, and he put two extra into his front pocket. Sporting a pair of jeans and a slightly oversized black t-shirt, he looked like a pretty regular guy, not one of the CIA’s top killers. He put on a pair of aviator sunglasses and shouldered a small backpack that carried a few toys if he needed them—zip-ties, flashbangs, two offensive grenades, a breach charge, a lock pick set, some knives of different sizes, and a small first-aid kit. He hoped that there wasn’t a metal detector that he’d have to walk through on entry.

  Bruce and Tank whipped a U-turn at the dead end, parked, and hopped out of the lifeguard’s Scout II, crouch-running across the empty lot towards the house. Tank sprinted to the back of the house, beach-side, and Bruce bounded up the steps to the front door. Their guns were drawn.

  “Ready,” Tank said. “I’ve got a glass slider. It’s unlocked,” he reported, quietly pulling it open. He was in the master bedroom, and it was empty. “I’m in. Bedroom clear.”

  Bruce looked at the front door. Because of the high salt content in the air off the ocean, nobody used metal for their doors. This one was wood. It wasn’t made for a heavy kick and didn’t even have a deadbolt, just a round rusty doorknob that had been locked with a key. He backed up and gave it a swift kick, driving the heel of his boot into the weakest part of the door, right below the handle. It smashed open. “Clear,” he said, as his weapon panned the kitchen, living room and dining area. Within three minutes, they’d cleared the house. Nobody was home.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Linda Wagner wasn’t just buzzed, she was past that and headed to completely drunk. Her voice had increased to an annoying level, and she was drawing lots of embarrassing attention to herself. “It must be nice, Kyoko Hashimoto, to have such perfect children.”

  Michi looked appropriately uncomfortable, but nodded, “I often thank my ancestors for such a perfect family,” she faked. “My husband’s company is booming, our family has never been better, and now we are moving to paradise. It’s a fairytale.”

  “Aren’t you just the lucky one.”

  “Well, I’m sure your children are all amazing people, too. You haven’t talked much about them. Just the school.”

  “My daughter’s a pothead.”

  Kyoko laughed. “Oh, come on. A few tokes of weed doesn’t make someone a pothead.”

  “My son should be in jail for dealing, but I made some phone calls, and it all went away.”

  Other customers in the exclusive restaurant were looking at each other, raising their eyebrows. Linda was just about to spill more juicy family information, but her smart-phone buzzed. She picked it off the table, made a design with her finger that Michi memorized, and then drunkenly stared at the notification. Her face clouded a shade, and then she looked at Michi.

  “Huh. Interesting.”

  “I’m sorry, are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  Agent Imada wanted to know what was on that phone. Just as she was wondering how to extract the intel, Boyd came breezing in. Wearing black, with a prominent-looking badge hanging from her waist, she walked up to their table.

  “Mrs. Wagner?”

  Linda turned and stared at Agent Carter. “Yes?”

  “HSG. We have just received a call from your husband. He has asked that you come with me, please. It’s urgent.”

  “HSG?”

  “Yes. Hawaiian Security Group. We are a private defense firm, ma’am. Please.”

  Linda’s gaze swung towards Michi as if her neck was supporting a bobblehead. “Have you heard of the HSG?”

  “No,” Michi, answered. “It sounds very important.”

  As drunk as she was, Linda liked the sound of that. She nodded as best as she could. “It does.”

  Boyd helped her collect her things.

  “It was so nice to meet you, Kyoko,” she slurred. “I know the only thing you care about is getting your kids into our fine school. Count me as a friend.” She started to walk off, supported by the redhead. Then she stopped, “Oh! The bill,” she said, giggling. “I forgot.”

  “Please!” Michi said. “I’m honored to take care of it.”

  Wagner shrugged, “If you insist!”

  The restaurant staff couldn’t have been more relieved. They watched the bizarre spectacle as Boyd escorted Linda out of the restaurant and then hurried the check to Imada.

  She stood up and plopped $500 on the table. “Will this take care of it?”

  “For sure,” the waitress said. “Plenty.”

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Michi said, rolling her eyes. “I think that was a little embarrassing for all of us.”

  The restaurant manager came over, smiling. “No problem. Of course. Are you a guest here in our hotel?”

  “Yes. I’ll be back, I’m sure. Probably alone, next time.”

  “Oh, no problem. Miss?”

  “Mrs. Hashimoto.”

  “Mrs. Hashimoto. Of course. Thank you.”

  Imada graciously bowed, left the restaurant and headed for the elevators. She needed to change and get over to the Sheraton. It was time to find out what the wife of a container building company’s founder and CEO knew about its connection to Red Flag.

  Nathan Harris felt like throwing up. He’d never liked boats, and this felt like riding a galloping horse without a saddle, blindfolded. Clearly, the captain didn’t give a damn if his boat was being torn apart, he just wanted to put as much distance between the shooter and himself as possible.

  When a team of operators attacked one of their decoy trucks, Sasha and the three Chinese guys didn’t miss a beat. Obviously, they’d prepared for just such a scenario. In a little less than ten minutes, they collected all their digital storage devices. They quickly wiped everything down, spraying bleach everywhere out of pump-handled gallon spray bottles they’d had ready for just such a scenario. Opening a trap door in the floor of the trailer, they slipped out and hurried to meet up with the boat. Bing insisted everyone get into the water to wait for the craft to arrive. They were already climbing on board when things started getting crazy.

  Nathan was barely aboard when he heard Trey’s gun and saw Bing get shot. The guy tried to get on board, but stepped in his own blood and slipped off the boat as another few rounds of searing lead ended his life. Harris was hustled down below the deck into the cabin. It was plush, with cherry wood cabinets throughout and holly floors that were accented with purple deep-pile carpeting. The galley was to his left with a table and semi-circle couch to his right. Chen pushed him forward into the master bedroom and then went into the to wash the blood-spray off his face. Dr. Harris wasn’t sure what to do, so he stepped up onto the high bed.

  Sasha came storming into the room. She was very upset. “What the hell, Chen?! I didn’t sign up for getting shot.”

  “It doesn’t change anything. We’re on schedule.”

  “Of course, it changes things!!”

  “Bing’s dead. We can’t do anything about that.”

  “I’m not talking about Bing. You don’t think the Americans have satellites dialed in on us right now? The full resources of their military are at their disposal! I guarantee every agency in the nation is on high alert!” She wasn’t calming down. “We’re in trouble.”

  “Can you block them?” he asked, emerging from the head and standing in the doorway.

  “The satellites? No, I can’t bock them. We don’t even get cell phone reception down here.”

  The boat was rhythmic in its rise and fall, now. And Nathan knew that the next color for his face would be distinctly green.

  Chen looked at the man who never spoke. “Go upstairs and see if anyone’s following us.” Then he turned to Nathan, and back to Sasha. “Did you get everything done? Is the key online?”

  “Yes. It’s all done,” s
he said. “Uploaded to the dark web. Only people with the browser I built can see it.”

  Chen looked at her, then down at his wristwatch. He walked out of the room in the direction of the stairs leading up to the deck. “Harris! Come with me.”

  Sasha watched him walk past her, “Bye, Nathan. It was nice to meet you.”

  The White House translator felt chills creep through his body, and his hands started to shake.

  Chapter Forty

  Seiko Chiu was flying on her private jet. The Bombardier Global 6000 was a luxury aircraft with the latest in technological advances, an opulent interior of white leather and wood, three living areas, and it was built to transport a dozen people, but she was alone. She’d spent the last several hours going through every micro detail in her head and working the phones in different time zones around the world. Now, the hands on her watch were just approaching eight in the morning. But she wasn’t tired at all. She was energized! It had been a good few weeks for her. For the Red Flag Commerce and Development Company. For her investors. But the best day was yet to come. Everything was in place for the giant leap forward. For the last ten years, the family had been positioning for this very moment. As fate would have it, she’d be going it alone, instead of with her siblings at her side.

  The conference call with American distributors had gone well. She had successfully delivered some of the world’s top sports shoes at prices far lower than any of their previous shippers had been able to do, and they were in. This was no small feat. It was a project that her family had financed in China and would save major box stores across the United States hundreds of millions of dollars in shipping over the next ten years. That was money they could put back into their infrastructure, use to wage advertising wars with their competition, give to their employees, or just line the pockets of their CEO’s or maybe a few of the rest of the C-suite fat cats – something most of them would probably do.