Turning toward the door, he grabbed the double shoulder holster and his worn out Texas Rangers cap from the pegs. He slipped the shoulder holster over his arms and settled it into place, clipping the leading edges of the hold-downs to his belt and adjusting the fit of the holsters under both arms, then he donned the cap.
Bobby walked outside and soaked up the early morning sunlight. The smell of honeysuckle hung thick in the air and the bird calls were loud in the heavy woods surrounding his home. Bobby had long ago given up on “normal” life and bought this remote patch of wooded acreage deep in the heart of Wood County Texas right after he quit working for Uncle Sam. He’d spent too many years in the military and even more years as a private contractor for various federal agencies doing things that he was no longer proud of. At the time, he’d felt it was a necessary evil. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
No longer trusting his government, nor himself, he relegated himself to a life of seclusion. He cut himself off from the creature comforts that many now consider necessities and chose to live in this slightly modernized version of a cave–a hand built, earth-bermed house that, from nearly every angle, appeared to be simply a grassy hill in the middle of the forty acres of woods.
Bobby’s only tie to the modern world was an antiquated cell phone which was anything but smart. Pre-GPS, the phone could do two things: make phone calls and rudimentary texting. Barely. And that was more technology than Bobby Bridger was comfortable with. That’s not to say that he didn’t know his way around most forms of electronics; he could set up computer systems, install, program and maintain the most sophisticated of security systems and knew all about miniaturized tracking and recording devices. He’d worked with them for years. He simply didn’t want any of those things around him. Paranoid, perhaps. Cautious, definitely.
Bobby stood outside and stretched, feeling the cramps slowly work themselves out. Too many hours sitting behind a glowing screen had given him a literal pain in the neck. He slowly made his way to his makeshift shooting range. He could feel the blood slowly work its way back into his extremities as he approached the log bench.
Bobby stared at the stumps at the 50-yard mark and noted the splintering and hollowed out body of the stumps. He had found two old-growth oaks and cut them off at the four-foot mark. These were his target silhouettes. Soon, he’d have to replace his bullet catchers and the closest trees of notable size were nearly seventy yards out. He smiled to himself and thought, nothing like making things harder to keep you sharp in your old age.
Bobby pulled the dual Glock 20s and laid them on his homemade bench. He slid the magazines out and checked that they were fully loaded. Satisfied that each had fifteen rounds loaded, he slammed them home and chambered a round. He slid the pistols back into their holsters and put his shooting glasses on. He squeezed the foam ear plugs and pushed them into his ears. He knew what to expect from the 10MM monsters. The recoil was a welcome kick in his hand and the noise would be deafening without the plugs.
Bobby stared at the two stumps across from him and tried to imagine a scenario where both were advancing, armed men. He mentally placed himself into the frame of mind he knew he’d need to kill again, and in one fluid motion, drew both weapons and fired at the stumps while sidestepping, making himself a harder target for another shooter to hit. His eyes didn’t truly focus between the stumps, but his peripheral vision observed as both stumps exploded. Bits of wood, bark, pulp and hot metal flew from the main body of the dead trees. He tucked low at the end of the bench behind the solid log cover of the support and switched magazines then stood and fired again as he crossed the bench in the other direction.
When he was finished, he stood and stared at the smoking midsection of the stumps, the slides locked back on both pistols and his barrels emitting wisps of spent powder. “Remind me not to piss you off.”
Bridger spun, his body immediately taking a defensive posture. He relaxed visibly as Scott Evans, Sheriff for Wood County, slowly approached from around the side of his home. “You should have announced yourself, Scott.”
“I tried. Sounded like a damned machine gun going off up here.” Scott smirked as he nodded toward the dual pistols. “Like I said, remind me not to piss you off.”
Bobby chuckled as he released the slides and retrieved his dropped magazines. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I gotta have a reason to come out and visit a buddy?” Scott leaned against the bench and studied the destroyed oak stumps. “What the hell did those trees ever do to you?”
“They tried to advance on my home without announcing themselves.” Bobby shoved the empty magazines back into his holster and leaned on the bench next to Scott. “Now, as I said, to what do I owe the pleasure? The last time you called on me, a very prominent business man died under rather strange circumstances.”
Scott paled slightly. “Nothing quite so dire. At least, I hope not.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Bobby.
“What’s this?” Bridger unfolded the paper and stared at it.
“Came across the wire this morning.” Scott turned around and leaned backward against the bench. “Thought maybe you should see it.”
“What the…” Bobby’s voice trailed off as he read the announcement. “I was put on a watch list?”
“That’s the way it looks. What the hell did you do? Did you send the president hate mail or something? Maybe refuse to let the TSA boys pat down your family jewels at the airport?”
Bridger looked up at Scott, his face still registering the shock. “This can’t be right.”
Scott shrugged. “Bobby, you’ve always been sort of a recluse, but you’ve always made yourself available to me when I needed someone with your…expertise.” He tapped the sheet that Bridger still held. “But somebody, somewhere, thinks that you are a threat.”
“This can’t be right.” Bridger repeated. “I’ve stayed off the grid just because of shit like this.”
Scott shrugged. “As far as I know, it’s bullshit. But by federal law, we’re supposed to report any ‘suspicious behavior.’” Scott smirked at Bobby again. “How the hell do I do that when everything you do looks suspicious?”
“This isn’t funny, Scott.” Bridger slapped the paper back in the man’s chest. “You have no idea what this means.”
“Oh, I have a clue. But if you aren’t up to no good, then you have nothing to worry about.” Scott folded the paper again and shoved it back in his shirt pocket.
Bridger paced in slow circles, his mind racing. “No, you really don’t know what this means. I’ve been targeted. I dunno by who or why, but somebody out there has put me square in their sights.”
“Now Bobby, don’t go getting worked up over something like this. I really think you’re putting the cart before the horse. More than likely they went through a list of people with your…skillset, and now they’re nervous that you’re out there with nobody keeping an eye on you.”
Bridger shook his head. “Scott, you aren’t seeing the bigger picture here. There are hundreds…probably thousands of guys out there just like me. To choose me? No, this is more than just paranoia. This is…” He froze in midsentence, his eyes falling on the satellite dish atop the grassy hill that was his roof. “Oh, fuck me…”
Scott’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m being set up.”
Karachi, Pakistan
* * *
MAMOON-UR-RASHEED sat across from his main supplier of cloth and materials. The skinny man pushed his spectacles up his birdlike nose and shook his head. “No! No discounts for bulk purchase. You pay the same.” He crossed his skinny arms and stared at him.
Mamoon gave a slight nod. “I told Balil that this would be the case.”
“Balil is a fool.” The thin man watched as Mamoon stood and stepped away from the table.
“He is that and many other things, Abdul.” Mamoon laid down the coins to pay for the coffee the two shared. “It was a pleasure doing business with yo
u, my friend.”
“Of course…wait. What?”
Mamoon turned sad eyes to him. “I had hoped to give you a chance to beat Khan’s bulk discount.” Mamoon knew he was playing a dangerous game. He risked losing not just Abdul’s materials as a source of fabric, but also Khan’s supply, if word got back to the man that he lied about him offering a bulk discount.
“What did Khan offer you?” Abdul stepped between Mamoon and the door, blocking his escape.
Mamoon shrugged. “Just ten percent, but prices being what they are, even ten percent is a savings worth taking.”
“Ten percent!” Abdul stared at him open mouthed. “That is absurd!”
Mamoon placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I understand. Perhaps it is old stock he is removing from his warehouse. I do not know and I do not care, if it saves me money.” He attempted to side step the thin man. “Peace be with you, Abdul.”
“Wait!” Abdul held him in place. “What if…what if I match his price?”
Mamoon scratched at his chin. “I don’t know Abdul. Khan made the offer first. If I were to ignore his offer for yours? With no savings…” He averted his eyes as his voice trailed off.
“Fine. Fifteen percent. But not a rupee less!” Abdul planted his hands on his skinny hips and looked expectantly to Mamoon. “This is the best I can offer you.”
Mamoon continued to scratch at his chin, the urge to smile almost more than he could stand. He thrust out his arms to embrace the thin man. “I accept your offer, my friend.” The two men shook hands then embraced. Mamoon clapped Abdul’s back as he pulled away. “I will prepare a rack to hold the roll of material as soon as I return.”
“Give me three days. I need to procure a truck for delivery.” Abdul shook his head as the two walked out of the café.
“This is good. It will take me at least that long to construct the rack.” Mamoon stepped out to the curb and slipped his sunglasses on. “I shall send Tariq with your payment this afternoon.”
Langley, VA
* * *
DARREN CHESTERFIELD SIFTED through the daily intelligence briefings and sighed. The electronic intelligence officers and analysts who provided the reports sent an update on the domestic targets and somebody in the chain had jumped the gun. The highest priority target had been inadvertently placed on the watch list. Alerts had been sent to local law enforcement and that meant that their best possible sacrificial lamb was now under scrutiny.
Darren reached for the phone and punched the speed dial number for his immediate supervisor. “We have a problem. Somebody either got antsy or dropped the ball.” Darren wiped his hand over his face and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Our number one draft choice was inadvertently placed on the watch list.”
“Who did it?” Colonel Nelson wasn’t one for drawn out conversations. Get to the point and carry on.
“No idea, Colonel. I’ve gone through every one of the briefings and I can’t find the authorization, nor can I find the announcement that he was tagged.”
After a moment of silence the colonel hit Darren with an option he simply hadn’t considered. “Did your man do something that got himself placed on there by another agency?”
Darren stiffened as the possibility sunk in. Bridger outspokenly held the anti-government sentiment. If he had snapped or simply said the wrong thing at the wrong place, he would definitely be a candidate for the watch list. “To be honest, sir, I hadn’t considered that. I’ll look into it and get back with you.”
“Check the severity. If it’s a minor flag then he can still be your go-to guy. In fact, that will just add fuel to the fire.”
“Roger that.” Darren hung up the phone and woke his computer from slumber. He entered his password and waited for his clearance to grant him access to the numerous data bases within Homeland Security.
Once he was inside, he switched his user profile to that of an unknown analyst with top secret level 9 clearance to cover his footprints and began his search. He typed in Bridger’s information and waited for the fields to populate.
Page after page of information began collating across his screen. Darren searched for the flag and couldn’t find it. He knew it had to be in there somewhere. It had appeared in the briefings. He reached for the file and sifted through the short stack of papers once more. Pulling out the flag, he searched for the numerical identifier that would tell him which agency had flagged him; along with that code would be embedded a file number and a threat evaluation.
Darren punched the code into the search bar and waited for the original flag to populate. What showed up on his screen left him nearly speechless. “He’s still one of ours.” He scanned through the flag, posted by the FBI and authored by Special Agent Wallace. “Bobby Bridger is cooperating as an undercover agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Domestic Terrorist Threat Assessment Team, Central Division in the identification and classification of various ‘patriot group’ threats and online communications not currently under direct surveillance through normal electronic media. Mr. Bridger is being flagged as a voluntary, participating, cooperating witness and shall not be flagged by other agencies for activities performed in the line of duty.”
Darren leaned back and studied the screen. “Son of a bitch.” He crossed his arms behind his head and swiveled his chair slowly as he stared at the computer. “So, Mr. Bridger is an honest to god good-guy.”
Darren picked up the phone again and mashed the button for his supervisor. “Colonel, you aren’t going to believe this.”
“Spill it.”
“Let me give you the short and sweet. The very actions that brought our guy into our crosshairs is what flagged him…as a cooperating agent with the FBI.”
Colonel Nelson was silent for a moment on the other end. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “What’s the flag report ID number?”
Darren recited the number and waited for his boss to read Special Agent Wallace’s notes. Almost immediately, his screen blanked out and a message appeared. Error: No correlating numerical identifier. Darren leaned forward and refreshed his screen. The same message appeared. He adjusted the phone next to his ear, “Sir, did you…”
“You may proceed as planned, Agent Chesterfield. Your go-to guy is no longer flagged.” Darren heard the click and the drone of the dial tone in his ear as his eyes continued to stare at his screen.
He cleared his throat and got an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. If Bobby Bridger is working for the feebs…and they set him up as the fall guy for this op, it could seriously hit the fan. And what was it Jameson told him at the end of the meeting? It wouldn’t be his career on the line…it would be his nuts.
3
Wood County, TX
* * *
BOBBY WATCHED SCOTT drive away then turned and trudged deep into the woods. He approached what looked like any other stand of brush on the property and reached to the ground, grabbed the camouflaged tarp, and pulled it off of the aluminum frame that held it. The frame was set over a depression in the ground and lined with gravel; parked atop the gravel was his 1995 Ford Bronco.
Bobby opened the door and prayed the batteries were still good. He inserted his key and watched the dash come to life as he turned it then listened to the motor turn over.
A moment later, black smoke belched out the back as the large diesel engine roared to life. The first thing Bobby had done when he bought the 4X4 was have a first generation diesel engine pulled from an older F250 pickup and replaced the gas engine of the Bronco. Besides having more torque, the diesel nearly doubled his fuel mileage and best of all, there was no computer or electronics needed to run it. In the event of an EMP, either from a solar flare or (heaven forbid) a nuclear blast in the atmosphere, the old truck would still start and run.
Bobby pushed in the clutch and shoved the manual transmission into first. Easing the Bronco out of the depression, he slowly crawled the beast back through the maze of trees and to his house. He parked the monster by the ba
ck door and shut it down.
Bobby hopped down from the lifted 4X4 and dropped the tailgate. He stood at the back of the truck and stared at the grassy hill that was the roof of his house. “All this crap has to go.” He marched to the top of the roof, lifted the portable satellite dish, then tossed it to the ground behind the truck, the cable spooling into a messy pile behind it.
He went into the house and grabbed the laptop from the table. He jerked the charger from the wall and wrapped it around the computer as he marched back outside and tossed it into the back of the truck. He darted back inside and grabbed the black box wifi unit from the counter, unscrewed the cabling, yanked the power supply from the wall, wrapped it all together and tossed it into the truck bed.
Bobby stood in the center of his home and scanned for anything else that didn’t belong to him. Satisfied that he had everything, he walked to his gun cabinet and pulled out a box of 10MM ammunition and began refilling his magazines. The entire time he fought with himself for having trusted Roger Wallace. He’d known the man for how long? They’d saved each other’s lives how many times? Of all the people to turn on him, he was definitely the last one he’d expect.
Bobby slammed the drawer on his ammunition supply and closed the gun cabinet. He turned to leave then paused; his instincts told him that he may not get a chance to return. He glanced over his shoulder and eyed the AR10. The Colt LE901 was a custom built, heavy caliber tactical rifle that Bobby preferred when he needed some serious punch in the field. He cursed under his breath, snatched the rifle from the rack, and slung it over his shoulder.
He turned and trotted to his bedroom and threw open the closet door. At the top of his closet was his rucksack, now converted to the ubiquitous “bug-out bag.” He stopped at the gun cabinet once more, loaded up every AR10 magazine, then grabbed another box of 10MM ammunition and a box of .308 shells. “Better safe than sorry,” he mumbled.
Flags of The Forgoten Page 3
