American Sniper

by Ian Patterson

Snapping, Allie said, “What are you talking about, Trev? Too simple for what?”

  “For Tara to stay here. There’s a FOX TV news van at the end of the drive, and a CBS truck just pulled up on the verge by the water. Looks like it’s going to get nasty.”

  Raising her voice, Allison said, “Then what are you waiting for? Call security. I want a detail out here on-the-double. No one gets close to my sister.” Turning to Tara, she said, “I swear to God, Tee, if I see that man again, I’ll put him down myself. I have a loaded twenty-two in my purse, and I know how to use it.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Washington, DC

  THREE WEEKS AFTER NEW ORLEANS cooling their heels in DC, frustration, and anxiety inevitably set in.

  Toni Colletti, the youthful-looking Special Agent with the dark hair, said, “No, Mathias. Even The Shooter wouldn’t choose a gathering of card-carrying NRA members to make a statement. One,” she said, pulling her thumb like a game of This Little Piggy, “It’s politically counter-productive, would set the guns rights movement back a generation. Two,” she continued tweaking her forefinger, “With so many trigger-happy rednecks in attendance, it’s suicide. He won’t get three yards before they gun him down in the street. Three,” she added, cracking her index finger for emphasis, “Security will be everywhere, private and Atlanta PD. Finally,” she said, raising her pinky finger, “A chopper—or two—overhead. Do you really think he’ll find a single suitable rooftop to release a decent shot?”

  Only half listening, of more concern to Mathias, was Tara. Outed by the press in the bloody aftermath of New Orleans, she’d refused to take his calls. Mathias had telephoned and messaged a hundred times with no response. Tara’s mobile voicemail box was full. Finally, in desperation, he reached out reluctantly to Tara’s sister, Allison, in Carmel.

  “You have no right to know where Tara is, Mathias. When it comes to my sister, you have no rights at all,” said Allison sharply, venom dripping from her reply. “In fact, if you don’t stop calling and messaging her, I’ll apply for a restraining order. You’re unstable and potentially violent. For a man who carries a gun, a lethal combination. You won’t get within a mile of Tara, I swear.”

  Hoping to sound reasonable, Mathias said, “I understand your frustration, Allison. I just need to know Tara is safe.”

  “Safe? You son-of-a-bitch! It’s you put her at risk in the first place. If you hadn’t gone Liam Neeson, you wouldn’t need to ask me Is Tara safe?”

  Allison disconnected without allowing Mathias a reply. Hoping for sense, he contacted Trevor, Allie’s husband, at his office in San Francisco.

  Over the phone, Mathias said, “The press is the least of my worries for her, Trevor.”

  Sympathetic but cautious, Trevor said, “I won’t betray Allie’s confidence, Mathias, but I will tell you Tara is okay—for now. How long she stays this way is up to you. If you think this man is a threat to her, I suggest you focus your attention on catching him.”

  Which Mathias tried mightily now to do.

  Though The Shooter had been shunted from the headlines, it didn’t mean the mainstream media wasn’t publishing articles featuring Chief Ezekiel Bohannon—his military service record, his training, his rogue operation in Iraq, his comrades-in-arms and their suspected whereabouts, Bohannon’s family and friends—almost every day.

  As portrayed in the left-wing, axis of evil hating (Bush/Rumsfeld/Cheney) Washington Post and New York Times, Bohannon was a man broken by having to fight a failed and false war. To avenge the loss of compatriots and friends, Bohannon went rogue in Iraq only to be hunted like an insurgent, himself, by the very masters he’d once so dutifully served.

  Returning home to America, isolated and living alone off the grid, Chief Ezekiel Bohannon snapped and went mad.

  Meanwhile, Mathias was the greedy mercenary, the hired gun paid millions in Afghanistan by the shadowy private contractor Brookbank to do what Bohannon had done so selflessly and honorably for his Country in Iraq.

  On the internet, conspiracy theories flourished: Bohannan was a CIA Black Ops specialist, his victims sleeper agents of Al-Qaeda, the Taliban, or ISIS emigrated to the USA in the guise of refugees but in reality jihadi’s; or, to the Clintonites, a stooge of the White House determined to exterminate former campaign workers able to expose Russian collusion in the last Presidential election (in fact, hadn’t most of the victims voted?); or, he’d been brainwashed and drugged by the Iraqis—perhaps, even, given an implant—and returned to the United States to wreak havoc on the American psyche. Proponents of this theory also believed a hundred more Bohannons lay in wait across America to be activated once the original Bohannon fell.

  As Berkshire predicted, half the country idealized Bohannon as a fallen hero, a jaded American warrior worthy of redemption. For the Bureau, the narrative was becoming a public relations disaster.

  Now, responding to Colletti, Mathias said, “With all due respect, Special Agent, Chief Bohannon has achieved more against much greater odds than he’ll face in Atlanta. He doesn’t care about the Second Amendment. He won’t need a rooftop location to take out half the attendees. My bet is he’ll choose a hotel room or a condo building nearby. He’ll check-in as a guest, pass himself off as staff, maybe even as credentialed security.”

  To Special Agent Colletti, the battle-scarred veteran seemed grotesque. Or maybe it was envy, she allowed, Colletti never having fired her service weapon in the line of duty.

  “You give the man too much credit, Mathias,” she argued, sounding dismissive.

  “I served under Bohannon, Ms. Colletti; I don’t believe I do.”

  “And how does he plan to make his escape? Like Spiderman?”

  Like a traffic cop, Resnick raised a hand.

  “Enough, Colletti. I trust Mathias’s instinct on this and believe Bohannon is heading to Atlanta with the Gunowner’s Fundraising Gala his target. We have the full resources of the Bureau at our disposal, Atlanta PD is on high alert.”

  “And if he goes north?” said Arthur Dubnyk, doubting Mathias’s instinct. “Memphis, St. Louis, Chicago? We’re back to square one.”

  Showing her frustration, Resnick said, “We’re not debating this any longer; it’s decided. I’ve decided. We’re all-in on Atlanta, understood? Let’s assemble the team.”

  ◊◊◊

  Director of the FBI Charles “Chuck” Padgett was a former NFLer who carried the weight of a retired linebacker across a broad-shouldered, six-foot-four frame. In Washington, he was rumored to be a front-runner for the Republican nomination should the incumbent be impeached, jailed, or choose not to run for reelection. To the incumbent, this proved especially galling as it was the President who appointed Padgett to be Director of the Bureau in the first place and the first African American to hold the position.

  Padgett’s wife, Alexis Kim (her mother’s maiden name), was Chairperson of the Senate Standing Committee on Crime and Terrorism and a proponent of expanding the surveillance apparatus of both Homeland Security and the FBI domestically, and the NSA and CIA abroad. Mixed-race, she was born in Minneapolis in nineteen sixty-three to a South Korean mother and a decorated U.S. serviceman.

  Alexis Kim despised communists, radicals, criminals, terrorists, turncoats, students, and liberals in equal measure. Publicly, she called for Ezekiel Bohannon to be burned at the stake. Privately, she urged her husband to do it quickly.

  Padgett, introduced by Resnick to the man with the face of a hatchet, said, “So you’re Mathias, the guy we recruited to take down this madman.”

  Mathias nodded.

  “Coincidence that you and he served together in Iraq?”

  Taking no offense, Mathias said, “People like Chief Bohannon and me occupy the same fox-hole, sir. No coincidence at all.”

  The Director chuckled. Turning to Resnick, he said, “And you’re certain Atlanta and the Gunowner’s Fundraiser is the next target?”

  “As certain as we can be, sir. Everything we know points to it,” Resnick rep
lied with a confidence she didn’t necessarily feel. “We’re wheels up in two hours; Mathias and me together with a support team of three Special Agents, an intelligence analyst, and a communications specialist who will coordinate with the team we already have in place in Atlanta on the ground.”

  “If you’re wrong, the President will have my balls.”

  “No, sir,” Resnick said. “He’ll have mine.”

  To Mathias, Padgett said, “Will there be collateral damage?”

  Unvarnished, Mathias offered the truth. “It’s possible there will be civilian casualties, sir. We may not determine The Shooter’s precise position until after he fires the first shot. Is that a problem?”

  Giving this considerable thought, Padgett finally said, “No; it’ll give the fanatics a taste of their own medicine.”

  FIFTY

  Washington, DC

  IN HIS OFFICE AT LANGLEY, the Assistant Deputy Director of the CIA’s Counter Terrorism Center received a text:

  555-280-5684

  Dabney Berkshire retrieved a burner mobile from his right jacket pocket. He dialed the number from the text. In a daily ritual, Berkshire ordered his office swept for listening devices each morning and afternoon. There was no chance for eavesdropping on, or recording of, the ADD’s private conversations.

  After four rings, a woman answered.

  Annoyed at the delay, Berkshire said, “It’s all set.”

  “We’re concerned it will look too convenient.”

  Berkshire grunted. “It’s why we brought the man in.”

  “A lot could go wrong.”

  “It could, but it won’t.”

  “Famous last words.”

  “I got you out of Afghanistan, didn’t I?”

  “Hardly.”

  Berkshire bristled.

  “Fine,” the woman said before disconnecting. “But we’ll need to have an endgame soon.”

  ◊◊◊

  Berkshire removed the SIM card from the phone. He dropped both the SIM and the phone in a half-full jug of water on his desk. Retrieving a second burner from the opposite breast pocket, he dialed.

  On the first ring, a man picked up.

  More like it, thought Berkshire. “No screw-ups,” he said.

  “There won’t be.”

  “The client is anxious about an endgame.”

  You’ll have an endgame, alright, and when you do, it will be spectacular! The man thought but didn’t say.

  Instead, he said, “But we’re having such fun, aren’t we?”

  “You find this amusing?”

  “Nothing amusing about three-seventy-fives turning guts to Jell-O.”

  Berkshire recalled the image of a woman and a young girl splattered like ink spots on a stage in New Orleans.

  “So long as we’re clear.”

  Disconnecting, Berkshire removed the SIM and dropped it with the burner into the jug. Later, both SIM cards and mobile phones would be liquified in a basement incinerator of Berkshire’s Georgetown home built especially for these things.

  FIFTY-ONE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  IN WHAT HE CONSIDERED a keen sense of irony, Ezekiel Bohannon chose the Atlanta Gunowner’s Association Gala Fundraiser as an encore performance to Whitney White Linen Night in New Orleans. According to the Association, the Gala was a glitzy affair hosted annually by Peach Tree State University Faculty of Law in downtown Atlanta welcoming Second Amendment rights advocates, attorneys, gun owners, and Hollywood celebrities.

  For the kill shot, Bohannon chose the Westin Peachtree Plaza—once the tallest building in Atlanta—only a four-minute walk to the Faculty of Law. He’d reserved a south-facing one-bedroom unit on Airbnb for a four-night stay paying with a PayPal account he’d set-up using a stolen credit card number, name, and address. He’d bought the bundle on Facebook for under a hundred bucks.

  With the epidemic of data breaches worldwide, hackers had so much stolen information, these days, they had trouble getting rid of it. So much, they’d resorted to selling it cheaply on social media, even on Amazon. From making millions, to a hacker, stolen credit card numbers now amounted to only chump-change.

  By the time the Peachtree processed the chargeback and realized the fraud, Bohannon would be checked-in to a fleabag motel in a city a thousand miles away using yet another false identity.

  Forty-eight hours before his scheduled arrival at the Westin Peachtree, Bohannon arranged to deliver the CheyTac via Uber packaged in a Staedtler Architect’s Telescopic Document Storage Tube and held until he checked in. Twenty-four hours later, he shipped the attachments and other devices to the Peachtree in a hard-side photographer’s valise via a private courier, also held until his arrival. For personal security, he carried the Magnum with him.

  Though this method of delivery carried risk, Bohannon decided the risk no higher than arriving at the Peachtree with a long-range sniper rifle draped over his shoulder. Bohannon suspected law enforcement around Atlanta—like all major metros along the east coast—would be on the lookout for The Shooter by staking-out lobbies in high-rise buildings throughout the city.

  Despite this, for Bohannon, the real challenge would not be in the setup or the shot, itself—about seven hundred yards at a seventy-degree downward trajectory—but in planning his escape. Undoubtedly, once the first shot hit, the street would fill with dozens of gun-toting rights advocates playing Tom-effing-Cruise.

  Bohannon expected security, potentially well-trained and heavily armed, stationed at street level of the Law Faculty building. If so, he estimated fifteen minutes, max, before a trigger-happy mob descended on the Peachtree, which—even to a novice gun enthusiast—was the obvious choice for a would-be shooter.

  This allowed Bohannon little time to board the subway at Peachtree Center Transit Station for the planned four-minute subway ride to Garnett followed by the brisk three block walk to the Atlanta Bus Station and a Greyhound hightailing it out of Dodge.

  Even for former Navy SEAL Ezekiel Bohannon a successful escape from Atlanta required ingenuity and improvisation.

  Indeed.

  FIFTY-TWO

  CHAMBLEE, GEORGIA

  THE TEAM ARRIVED at the Atlanta Field Office in Chamblee, Georgia, forty-eight hours before the Gunowner’s Association afternoon kick-off session. After introductions, Mathias briefed a team of Special Agents and an Assistant Chief of Police from Atlanta PD. At the same time, he assumed Operational Control, much to the chagrin of Special Agent in Charge of the Atlanta office, Mark Lavender.

  Out of earshot from Mathias, Lavender bitched, “Operational control of what? I’ve had Agents in the field for three weeks, now, and nada, not even a whisper of The Shooter here in the city. Suddenly, Mathias knows the exact date and location? Is he colluding?”

  To Colletti, he offered a conspiratorial wink.

  Surprised to be offended on Mathias’s behalf, Colletti barked back: “Give him forty-eight hours and see who’s colluding then.”

  Word at the Bureau was Mathias had shot and killed more insurgents in Afghanistan and Iraq than even the celebrated Chris Kyle, himself. That had Mathias wanted, he could have been The American Sniper, played the lead role in a big-screen movie adaptation of his own life. For now, Colletti would follow the man’s lead. But like Lavender, she would remain skeptical of his motives.

  For the operation, Mathias divided the Atlanta contingent into five teams.

  One team of eight Bureau agents and Atlanta PD officers led by Lavender and assigned to cover the street outside the Westin Peachtree. They would watch all exits, the main door, and patrol the perimeter. Twelve agents and officers under Arthur Dubnyk positioned inside the building covering the lobby, all fire escape stairwells, riding each of the six elevators including service. Two agents stationed rooftop in the unlikely event Bohannon chose to set up there. Two Agents to attend the Gunowner’s Association event and report on unusual or suspicious activity and, finally, a dozen sharpshooters on rooftops surrounding the Peachtree tower.


  Including intelligence and communications support, it was a contingent of eighty-seven agents and cops divided into two twelve-hour rotating shifts. Deputy Director Resnick would stay behind in Chamblee to oversee the operation via comm.

  Speaking to the Peachtree hotel General Manager, Resnick was angered by her refusal to allow a room-to-room search of the hotel property.

  “I have over a thousand rooms,” she said. “My priority is the comfort and security of our guests, not the safety of the non-paying public. It’s enough I’ve allowed you onto the property, at all; cops busting down doors like the Gestapo does not say to my guests Have a pleasant stay.”

  In the pre-Op briefing, determined to be contrary, Special Agent in Charge Lavender said to Mathias, “And if Bohannon clocks us?”

  “The reason we’ll wait until the last minute to deploy; I suspect Bohannon will have settled in by then.”

  “And if he arrives day-of?”

  “If he clocks us, he retreats, lives to fight another day.”

  “And if he doesn’t retreat?”

  “I’m trusting our team of trained Special Agents, and Atlanta PD will be sufficient to do the job, Special Agent Lavender.”

  Later, in a private conversation with Mathias, Resnick said, “I hope we’re right about this, Mathias. If not, it will be my career.”

  In response, Mathias said, “Your career is not my concern.”

  A moment later, Mathias was out the door, scar above his right eye glowing like a neon sign.

  FIFTY-THREE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  A CLEAN-CUT CLONE in a blue business suit and open-collar shirt, Bohannon checked into The Westin Peachtree Plaza late afternoon about the same time Mathias completed his briefing at the Bureau Field Office in Chamblee.