Credible Threat

by Ken Fite

  “What is he doing about Donovan?”

  “He was going to tell Gibson and Billings to have them work with the Secret Service,” said Jami. “I told Keller that if he had any staff left in the hotel, he needed to get them out immediately. He said he would.”

  “Do we know if anyone else has been targeted? Any other members of his staff or cabinet?” I asked and turned around to look at Jami. She shook her head.

  I thought for a second. “So after taking me out, they wanted to come after you to keep you quiet.”

  Jami nodded. Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. We parked around back and came in through the employee entrance. Chris escorted us so he could clear me through security.

  I had no identification on me. Lost it somewhere during the struggle earlier, I thought. The hardnosed woman wouldn’t let me in based on Chris telling her that I was with him. So he asked for Bill Landry.

  A minute later, Landry appeared from an elevator across the lobby and headed my way.

  I thought about the last time I had seen the man, when Morgan Lennox had found a way to strong-arm the FBI into letting me go after Keller’s kidnapper. I knew Landry resented it. I bet he still did.

  Red tape keeping good people from doing good work.

  “Good, you found him. Guess you can be on your way, Agent Davis. Chris, come with me,” said Landry.

  “Bill,” I said as he started to leave. I looked at Chris and Jami before facing Landry again. “There’s reason to believe that one of the men responsible for attacking me and going after Jami is an aide to the VP-elect. I need Chris’s help to find him.”

  Landry walked back in our direction and pointed at Jami. “Keller asked me to help find Jordan. Here he is. You all must have forgotten that we have a major terrorist attack being planned for tomorrow. Keller refuses to cancel the inauguration and we have no new leads. Davis, I’ve done what Keller asked of me.”

  Jami stared at Landry and then looked at me. “Bill, I’m a senior advisor to the next president,” I said. “Do I really need to get help to force your hand again like I did in Chicago?”

  Landry got quiet and looked at security who had gathered around us. “You can use Reed until tomorrow. I already committed to that. But I’m not letting you into this building, Jordan. Not my rules,” he said and looked at security who had been clear that they wouldn’t let me in unless I could provide identification.

  “What about the full resources of the FBI?” Jami asked. “You promised that, too.”

  “You get Reed. For twelve–” Landry raised his left arm, extending it out first to force his watch to fall to his wrist inside his dress shirt. “Make that eleven hours. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  “You can’t do this,” Chris yelled to his boss. I found it hard to believe that this was the same guy that had recruited Reed from DDC after we both got fired just a few months ago. This is why I’d never work for the FBI. Guys like Landry. I wondered if Chris was starting to understand why I hated those guys.

  “If my focus needs to change from hunting down the Somalis, it’ll need to come from the top down,” we heard Landry yell back as the elevator doors closed.

  Jami, Chris, and I stepped outside. “What now?” Jami asked.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ‘Secret Service’ credentials of the limo driver that I had taken earlier and handed the ID card to Jami.

  “It’s him, the agent that let us into the hotel this morning,” she said and handed the ID to Chris to look at.

  Chris studied the identification. “Who’s Jason Chastain?”

  “Not sure,” I replied. “But I think we should find out.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  JAMI CALLED MORGAN as we walked back to Chris’s car. She brought him up to speed and explained that we needed his help with identifying the man in the photo. “No problem,” he said.

  She climbed into the backseat and, this time, sat behind the driver’s seat so she could more easily communicate with me. She took a picture of the ID and sent it to Morgan who started the lookup process.

  In less than a minute, Morgan had a match. “Okay, love. Looks like the man in the photograph is Patrick Doherty of Anacostia, southeast DC.”

  “Great,” said Chris. “The one part of town I try to avoid.”

  “What’s wrong with Anacostia?” Jami asked.

  “Lots of drugs. Lots of crime. Not the safest place to go after dark.”

  “Compared to Chicago,” I said, “I think we’ll be okay. What’s the address, Morgan?”

  “1517 Good Hope Road. Just pulled it up in maps to get a street view. Looks like it’s a duplex, Blake.”

  I turned to Chris. “We need to head out. What weapons do you have access to?”

  “I have my Glock. Spare back upstairs in my locker.” Chris paused for moment, then remembered something. “Actually, Landry preauthorized use of the armory for me. I can get whatever we need.”

  “Whatever you think is best,” I said. Jami and I watched Chris step out and head back into the building.

  “Morgan, any update on the Somalis?” Jami asked.

  Before he could answer, I heard my phone ring. I placed a hand on my pocket but realized I didn’t have my cell on me. Jami reached into her duffle bag and handed it to me. “Hang on, Morgan,” she said.

  “This is Jordan.”

  “Blake, this is Ron Gibson. Glad to hear your voice. I just spoke with Jim and he brought me up to speed. What happened to you?”

  “Long story,” I replied. “What’s the status on the Somali threat? Have we received an update?”

  The defense secretary paused. “That’s a long story, too. But I think you know most of it. No major updates. The FBI and CSIS couldn’t find a match in any of their terror databases. They could be anywhere.”

  “Or nowhere,” Jami whispered, able to overhear Gibson’s side of the conversation in the quiet vehicle.

  “Agent Davis, I apologize – I didn’t realize you were on the line with us. Care to share what you know?”

  I put the call on speakerphone and Jami looked at me. “How did you know my name?” she asked.

  “Keller filled me in earlier. It sounds like you have concerns about the information we’re going by?”

  “I’m just not sure I buy the story about the Somalis,” she replied. “It’s not adding up for me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Anonymous tip given in an undisclosed embassy. Four Somalis with names none of us have seen yet.”

  “I have the names, I’ll be glad to send them over if that’s what you’re looking for,” said Gibson.

  “If the FBI has this information, why is it taking so long for the details to be shared with other agencies?”

  “As I’m sure you know, shared information tends to get leaked to the press. With this situation being highly sensitive, we’re trying to hold our cards as close to our chest as possible. I’m sure you understand.”

  “What about Max Donovan? Is he there with you?” I asked.

  “We haven’t seen Max in several hours, Blake. I’ve been involved in a few conversations and many people are looking for him. Mike Billings is with the Secret Service right now. I’ll let you know if he turns up.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ll give Keller the good news that you’re safe. You have my number; call if you need anything.”

  About a minute later, we had the names via text and forwarded them to Morgan Lennox. Jami had her laptop out and was reading through the interdepartmental bulletin updates as we waited for Chris.

  “Not finding anything,” said Morgan. “It’s like they don’t exist. I searched DDC, the State Department, and the CIA’s database. You might be right, love. If this is a poison pen, I’m not sure what that means for us.”

  I turned to Jami. “Are you thinking Jihadi Coalition?” she nodded. “So your assumption is that the JC might actually be planning an atta
ck and pointing the finger at al-Shabaab to throw us off their trail?”

  Jami shrugged her shoulders and turned back to her laptop. “I don’t know. None of this makes sense.”

  “The last, and only JC attack on U.S. soil, was in Chicago. Keller’s kidnapping. And I killed Marco Lopez who the DA found to be the only one behind the attack.”

  “What about the others?” she asked. “Aasaal Nazir? You’ve said before that he was involved somehow.”

  “Doesn’t matter at this point, Jami. Nazir fled the country months ago. He may have funded Marco, something I’ve always believed, but nothing ever tied him back to Marco directly. You know that as well as I do. I still think Lopez kidnapped Keller for revenge. He admitted it just before I put a bullet in his head.”

  “Unless something changes, I say we forget about the Somalis and stay on the path we’re on,” said Jami.

  Chris returned with a tactical bag full of weapons and supplies. I looked inside to take stock of the main things we needed. I found two firearms, plenty of ammo, and a Kevlar vest – the only one they had left with the inauguration tomorrow and DC FBI teams preparing for all of the events of the day, including the inauguration speech. I typed 1517 Good Hope Road into the GPS. It was exactly four miles away.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  PAUL HARTMANN ARRIVED in Bethesda just after ten.

  He exited I-495 and went south on 355, following the Secret Service past Walter Reed Medical Center.

  The agents led Hartmann through a series of twists and turns through the dark of night. Paul started to believe that the circuitous route was intended to confuse him so that he and Rich wouldn’t be able to find the facility again if they tried. On a straightaway, the SUV slowed and looked like it was going to turn.

  “Where are they going? There’s nothing here,” Paul said to Rich who agreed.

  The agent pulled the SUV through a clearing in the brush and lowered his window to signal to Paul to follow him. Once it passed through, Paul noticed a small, wood stake in the ground marking the spot.

  “This is crazy,” Rich commented. “I don’t think we can fit through there.”

  “We’ll have to,” replied Hartmann who turned his high beams on and followed the path into the facility.

  The van rocked from side to side as Paul drove over a dip in the ground separating the road from the path. The only thing Paul could see were the brake lights up ahead. He accelerated and the van pushed through the last of the bushes. He and Rich heard the branches scratching both sides of the van as they passed.

  The road cleared and Paul followed the agents. Up ahead, he saw a large building. Floodlights affixed to the top lit the entire perimeter of the facility which was surrounded by a tall fence with barbwire.

  Hartmann watched the agent lower his window again and stop in front of the guardhouse to talk with the man stationed there. The gate up ahead opened and the agent motioned for Paul to follow him inside.

  “What is this place?” Rich asked and saw a guard walking the perimeter. “What’s with all the security?”

  Paul thought about the briefcase hidden inside his cooler. That’s why there’s security – for people like me.

  Hartmann pulled past the SUV and backed his van up next to another, smaller van, which was parked backwards. Paul and Rich got out and saw that there was a man standing behind them.

  “Perfect timing,” he said to Paul before shaking his hand.

  Agent Hastings approached and saw a patch with the name CARSON attached to his work uniform.

  “You new here, Carson?” asked Hastings. “Don’t remember seeing you last time I came out this way.”

  “Five months on the job. Like it so far, except for the hours and location. Pain in the ass getting out here.”

  Hastings nodded. “Have to agree with you there.” The agent followed Carson inside the facility. Agent Miller turned to Paul who watched the employee walk into the building. Carson opened a set of double doors, propping each of them open to help Paul and Rich more easily move the van’s contents inside.

  “Looks like you’ve got someone to show you around. We’ll hang back while you unload everything, then when you’re ready, we’ll escort you back out to the main road and you can be on your way,” said Miller.

  Paul looked at Rich. “Go ahead and unlock it, let’s get this over with.”

  Rich asked Agent Miller for the key, unlocked the latch, and raised the cargo door until it locked. Rich climbed inside as Paul pulled another latch to access a long ramp which he pulled all the way out and set down ten feet away. Rich grabbed a box, walked down the ramp, and Paul climbed inside to help.

  Miller followed Sullivan into the warehouse and Paul stood alone inside the truck. What do I do now?

  Paul grabbed a large box, lifted it, and walked down the ramp. Just wait, he told himself.

  When Paul entered the facility, he was amazed by the organization. There were separate sections for everything. Christmas ornaments and decorations had its own area. Another section was for Easter. Paul thought about the many White House Easter egg rolls that he had watched on television over the years. He remembered watching last year’s egg roll and the reading of Where the Wild Things Are by President Rouse. Bella had sat on his lap, spellbound by the reading, and asked her father if they could go next year.

  Here’s where they keep that stuff, he thought to himself.

  Thirty minutes into the move, Paul started to get nervous. The last of the boxes were at the far corner of the moving van. When Hartmann realized that they were almost done unloading, he thought about his mission. What was he supposed to do with the aluminum briefcase hidden inside his cooler? Was he supposed to just leave it there? If so, where?

  On the way back from dropping off another box inside the warehouse, the employee walked back to the van with Paul. “Football fan?” Carson asked as they passed Agent Miller.

  “Sure,” replied Paul as they left Miller inside talking with Hastings and soon reached his van.

  “Who are you betting on for the big game?”

  “Bears, hometown team. You?”

  “Have to go with the Patriots,” Carson replied, grabbing a box. “Are you a Patriot, Paul?”

  Hartmann’s blood ran cold. “I am.”

  The warehouse employee looked over his should to confirm they were alone. “The briefcase. Where is it?”

  Paul hesitated. He looked back toward the warehouse, then turned to the guardhouse. “Come with me.”

  Paul took Carson to the front of the van. He opened the door, reached for the cooler, and handed it to him. Carson grabbed it, opened the passenger door to the vehicle parked next to Paul’s, and slid it between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. “We need to go back in,” he said. “Let me help you with that box.”

  The men carried the last two boxes inside.

  “Rich says you’re driving back to Chicago tonight. Not sure that’s such a good idea,” said Hastings.

  “We’ll be fine. We’ll take turns driving,” replied Paul.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay somewhere overnight and head back in the morning?” Paul shook his head. “Alright. Follow us to 355 and take that north to 270.” Paul and Rich climbed in and got ready to leave.

  TWENTY-SIX

  CHRIS GOT US to Good Hope Road fifteen minutes later and parked two blocks away on 16th Street, just north of the address that Morgan gave us for Patrick Doherty.

  To say that this neighborhood needed hope would be an understatement. I saw homeless men and women sitting on nearly every street corner in the Anacostia neighborhood. The streets were rundown, as were the small homes. Hard to believe we were minutes away from a town full of the most powerful men and women in the world. A government who couldn’t even improve a neighborhood just a few miles away.

  Chris gave Jami the Kevlar vest. She put it on as we approached the property. I got our weapons ready. Two Glock 22s. Jami was used to the 17s, but I was sure she could handle the 22s
that Chris had selected.

  “What’s the plan, boss?” said Chris.

  “I’ll lead, you cover me,” I replied. “The home looked dark when we drove by. I think we need flashlights.”

  Jami rummaged through the gear that Chris had brought into the car. She let us know that there was one Bluetooth earpiece. Reed said all of the comm units had been taken already. Then she found two Maglites.

  “Do you want me around back?” Jami asked.

  “It doesn’t look like we can get back there from the front of the building,” I replied. “Stay across the street, make sure we don’t have any problems. Ready?” Jami and Chris said they were, so we exited the vehicle.

  Jami kept her gun in a holster inside her coat. I carried mine, as did Chris, keeping the weapon hidden behind my back and out of view as I walked toward the duplex. I wanted to be ready for anything as we approached the building, but didn’t want to alarm the homeless or residents that might be watching.

  When we were directly across the street from 1517, we stopped.

  Morgan Lennox had been right. It was a duplex – 1517 was on the left side and 1515 was on the right. The two sides were identical. Both had boarded up windows. Both had black and red NO TRESPASSING signs nailed to the front of their doors. And both sides of the duplex were flanked by Anacostia businesses. On the left was a seafood store. On the right, a barber shop. But the entire building looked deserted to me.

  “Chris, I have a bad feeling about this. I think we’re gonna have to go into both residences, 1517 and 1515. They appear to be empty, so we should just check them both out.” He nodded in agreement.

  Jami stepped back and knelt behind a four-foot tall wooden fence. “I’ll cover you guys.”

  Chris and I jogged across the street and climbed the small stairs to each of the residences. I turned on the Maglite and held it with my left hand directly underneath the Glock which I gripped with my right.

  “On your mark,” Reed said and looked at me.