Though the president had picked him to set up and run the domestic counter-terror agency because of his vast experience, he knew he was getting long in the tooth. Palmer could see it too. While he wasn’t ready to retire just yet, he had recently begun to consider life after government service.
Still, the Terror Event Response agency—or TER—had a perfect performance record under his command during its brief one-year existence. Over a dozen domestic terror plots had been foiled by the highly mobile task force. If he was going to transition out, he wanted to go out at his peak, just like a pro athlete.
Administratively, McGrath reported directly to the president of the United States. Functionally, when a terror event was in play, McGrath basically answered to no one until the event was satisfactorily terminated.
A triumphant shout brought him out of his reverie.
“I got a hit!”
He didn’t know the analyst’s name. He was a chubby, black kid with a big 1970s Afro and a round, nonathletic body. As McGrath stepped over to the analyst’s station, the young man’s thick fingers flew over his keyboard.
The air in the room was stale with the scent of stress and belches, and the room was hot and stuffy from the cooling fans of multiple desktop computers, monitors, and data equipment. It was the middle of winter, so the air conditioning for the house wouldn’t be turned on because the rest of the house would be uncomfortably cold for off-duty personnel. That was the only drawback of using civilian houses as op-centers. Since the operations house had just been activated that morning, the portable room air conditioner needed to counter the heat produced by the electronics was still en-route.
Aaron McGrath looked at the center wall monitor. It was the only monitor on which the picture had just changed. Now he stood looking at a flashing blip on a street map of...what the hell?
“Albuquerque?” he asked.
The analyst took a swig of his Red Bull and set the can dangerously close to his keyboard. McGrath waited patiently for the young man to continue. What was it about computer geeks and Red Bull, anyway?
“Is that a mistake?” McGrath said, pointing at the monitor.
“No, sir. The target is in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Our facial recognition algorithm just picked him up on a traffic cam. I’ve notified the local field office of the FBI.”
McGrath glanced at a wall monitor again. “How the hell did our guy get from DC to Albuquerque in under four hours?”
Agent Palmer was standing behind the two far analysts. “Private plane?” she asked.
The big-Afro analyst shook his head. “He’d have had to sneak out from a private airfield since all the local transport hubs around DC were locked down tight within five minutes of the snatch. Ronald Reagan, all the regional airports, Air Force bases, as well as train stations, bus terminals, even rental car outlets. Everything was locked down.”
“Unless our target anticipated our response and brought in his own support crew—logistics, transportation, fuel, supplies—so he could maintain operational security.”
Palmer put two other analysts on the task of researching logistics to find a financial connection to the cartel.
McGrath turned to the big-Afro kid again. “What’s your name, analyst?”
“I’m Jimmy, sir.” He swiveled in his seat and held his hand up for a fist bump.
McGrath ignored the gesture. “What kind of plane would Reyes need to get to Albuquerque in under four hours, and what airports can accommodate that aircraft?”
“Well, sir, it would have to be something like a Citation X or a Gulfstream 650. Those could make the fast trip. It’s what? Sixteen or seventeen hundred miles as the crow flies from here to Albuquerque? Wouldn’t take more than two and a half hours for the flight at seven hundred miles an hour, plus maybe half an hour for him and his people to actually get to the airport with the hostage, and then get a plane that was already prepped into the air, plus a few minutes on the ground in Albuquerque—”
“So find a private airport within a half-hour driving distance of the kidnap site during rush hour traffic this morning. Won’t be too many of those with a runway that has a rated take-off length of five to six thousand feet.”
“Naw, three thousand feet will do it, Boss. The runway rating means a plane has to get to full take-off speed and then be able to abort without running out of runway. If they don’t plan on aborting—and these guys weren’t—they can take off on a far shorter runway. They’d really only need three thousand feet to take off fully fueled with six to eight passengers.”
Palmer turned toward McGrath. She had one arm wrapped across her belly like it was supporting the elbow of the other. Her fingers played across her chin thoughtfully.
“Aaron, they grabbed her on the George Washington Memorial Parkway just a few minutes north of Reagan International. There’s a lot of off-ramps in that area and a lot of ways to get lost in plain sight among all the residential neighborhoods, shopping areas, and industrial complexes up there. If they changed vehicles, they could’ve even sneaked her back across the Potomac. And there are quite a few private airports within, say, twenty miles of DC.”
McGrath nodded and turned to Jimmy again. “Let’s assume he took off after the lockdown. How could he do it?”
Jimmy worked his keyboard for a moment. “Well, he certainly couldn’t take off from a major airport. But if someone wants a flight from a small airport to not be found, there’s plenty of ways to hide or temporarily disable electronic traces of a takeoff—local radar signals and comm traffic and transponders—with the right amount of money.” He held up a beefy hand and rubbed his thumb against his fingers.
McGrath removed his glasses and examined them for nonexistent smudges. “Nancy, continue tracing the logistics here in Virginia. Jimmy, your priority is finding that plane in Albuquerque. It has to be parked at the International Airport.”
“Or Santa Fe,” Jimmy added after consulting his computer screen. “They can handle a Gulfstream jet up there.” His fingers flew over his keyboard. “Or Los Lunas. They have a suitable airport within a half-hour driving distance to Albuquerque.” After a moment he added, “Looks like there’s also an old airport on the west side of Albuquerque called Double Eagle that’s closed-down. With some advance planning and logistics they could have landed there too.”
Agent Palmer said, “If he’s got logistics teams in the US, either here or in Albuquerque, then they’ve got local accomplices assisting them either as volunteers, or under duress, with housing, fuel providers maybe, radar jamming, or communications equipment—so we need to find them.”
“Agreed,” McGrath said. He tapped the analyst sitting next to Jimmy on the shoulder. “Tell me about the Albuquerque sighting.”
The analyst was a big bald kid with a blond beard that reached to his lap. McGrath could tell if the fellow stood up and reached overhead, he’d easily touch the ceiling. His fingers tapped on his keyboard with a steady thrum.
“The traffic cam facing east from the interchange of I-40 and I-25 made a sixty-two percent identity match. He’s driving an open-top Jeep Wrangler, an older, 1980s model. It’s not a high-def camera, so a sixty-two percent match is as good as we’re going to get. We got lucky.”
“Put his image up on the center screen next to Reyes’s photo.”
Reyes’s biographical data vanished and was replaced by a black-and-white photo of the man in Albuquerque. The photo was grainy from being enlarged from a distant camera shot, but McGrath had no doubt it was the same man. The still frame of Alfonso Reyes from the kidnap site showed the man wore a mustache and goatee, but the Albuquerque photo showed he was clean shaven.
“Why would he think shaving would throw us off?” McGrath paced the floor behind the analysts for a moment. “Do we have any other recent photos of him?”
A window opened on the center monitor, and McGrath watched pages from Reyes’s charity website open. He saw photos of Reyes in various types of clothing, from expensive casual to formal. In som
e he was clean shaven, and in others he had facial hair. In every picture he wore designer glasses.
McGrath muttered to Palmer, “That’s him.” He paused. “Why in hell would he stop in Albuquerque though, especially after pulling off the biggest kidnapping in the history of the United States? In a Citation or a Gulfstream jet, he could have been out of the country by now. He should have been out of the country.”
Palmer tapped the bald analyst on the shoulder. “What kind of surveillance assets do we have in Albuquerque?”
“Ma’am, it’s New Mexico, not New York, and they’re pretty low on the terror threat list. There are only a couple dozen traffic cameras on the city network with live feeds. Our standard Homeland hack can access the usual live cameras inside banks and airports and hotels large enough to host major conventions–those kinds of locations.”
He worked his keyboard, then pointed at the center wall monitor. “Got him! He just pulled into the Hyatt underground parking structure. Picked him up on the parking garage surveillance camera.”
McGrath narrowed his eyes. “Alright, people, we may have caught a break here. Looks like our guy got careless.”
“Hmmm,” the analyst said. “The license plate of the car he’s driving is not a rental car. It’s most likely stolen.”
Palmer added, “He knew we’d be watching airports and car rental outlets. Maybe he stashed Melissa in the house where he commandeered the car. Maybe his plan is just to make a quick trade for cash. If he has the owner there, too—and he most likely killed that poor soul—then the car wouldn’t be reported stolen.”
“You are not going to believe this,” the bald analyst said. He pulled up some more data and pointed McGrath’s attention to the center wall monitor again. “That’s actually his car! He’s had a safe house right there in Albuquerque for almost twenty-five years! He’s using an alias we haven’t seen before, though. His house and car are titled in the name of Carl Johnson.”
On the center monitor, everyone stared at the now-familiar face on the drug lord’s New Mexico driver’s license. Brown skin, no hair, pleasant disarming smile, slightly graying mustache and goatee. Five-foot-nine and a hundred-seventy pounds. Blood type B positive. Their target was a good-looking man.
McGrath nodded to himself. “Okay, get our team in the air. Inform the local FBI of a potential hostage situation and have their SWAT teams mobilize heavy assets, and tell them they can expect resistance. And make sure they know they’re on the clock.” He paused. “Maybe he’s meeting a customer for the trade.”
Palmer leaned over the bald analysts shoulder and examined the maps on his desktop monitor. “If he gets out of there, we’ll lose him. There aren’t any live networked traffic cams within half a mile.”
“Understood,” McGrath said. “Everyone, drop what you’re doing and concentrate on Albuquerque. Let’s see if we can get some eyes inside the hotel and find out who he’s meeting. Get me some live feeds of all elevator and hallway cameras inside the hotel.” He clapped his hands sharply. “Let’s go, people! If we lose him this time, Melissa is as good as dead.”
A sharp pang of dread gripped his gut, and he rolled his head back and forth to release his tension. With his new job he hadn’t been able to see Melissa much over the past year, and now he regretted that. McGrath refocused on the center wall monitor and tried to examine the motivations behind the smiling photos of the charismatic drug lord.
Why Melissa Mallory? And why Albuquerque?
“When we find the target, I want him immobilized immediately. Have the FBI sedate him onsite. I don’t want him bribing a disgruntled cop with a million dollars. No one speaks with him except our people.”
Agent Palmer pointed at the far right wall monitor where her analyst had put up an FBI bio.
“Special Agent Lenore Cummings. You called her in to interview with us earlier this year when she was an applicant to the Secret Service.”
McGrath scanned the agent’s no-nonsense photo. Dark blazer, light blue blouse with the collar open, oval face, minimal makeup, serious brown eyes, blonde hair pulled severely back.
“She was impressive,” McGrath said.
Palmer added, “Strategic and tactical skills off the charts. She’ll make a fine addition to the TER agency.”
She said it like the decision was hers. Like hiring Cummings was a foregone conclusion.
McGrath said, “Assign her local command of the op and get her Special Agent in Charge on a secure video link. She takes control of the target. No one else.”
Palmer nodded, then looked away for a moment, as if she was concentrating on something else.
“Aaron, I have Pete Klipser on comm channel four.”
“On speaker.”
Palmer retrieved her cell from her hip holster and pressed a pad, then stuck the device back on her hip. She nodded at McGrath.
“Pete, your target is in Albuquerque. Take our plane at Andrews Air Force Base and get there ASAP.”
A subdued, gravelly voice floated from the desk phone speaker. “My rules of engagement?”
McGrath glanced over at Nancy Palmer, who had trained the former Special Forces soldier in the subtle art of domestic covert wet work. He had excelled, becoming the TER agency’s go-to field operator. In his short career since being recruited from the army, his exploits rivaled the accomplishments of Agent Palmer. As usual, he didn’t ask irrelevant questions and always got straight to business.
McGrath said, “He’s a Tier One suspect. Full rendition protocol is authorized. If Melissa is not at the foothills house, interrogate Reyes onsite. Employ any means to discover her—”
“Negative,” Palmer interrupted. “Reyes is Tier Three, Aaron. We need him alive.”
McGrath glared at Palmer for a moment, then she said, “Stand by, Pete.” She touched her Bluetooth earpiece to put the channel on hold.
“Aaron, you know how Pete can be. If he loses control of the interrogation or pushes too hard, we lose the only lead we have to Melissa’s location. Let’s bring him back here for experimental interrogation, where we control all the variables.”
McGrath tried to find fault in her argument, but her assessment was flawless, as usual, unlike his own emotional state of mind. He nodded, and Palmer touched her earpiece again.
McGrath said, “Palmer is correct, Pete. Reyes is Tier Three. Nonlethal action only.”
“And if we get in a firefight with his people?”
“Use of deadly force is not authorized. If you can’t take him alive without a firefight, let him go, and we’ll find another way to track him.”
“Understood.”
The analyst named Jimmy called out, “I got him on another camera!” He worked his keyboard. “And we’ve got a human asset in the lobby. It’s an off-duty FBI field agent in plain clothes.” He paused and scratched the back of his neck under his massive Afro. “Okay, now this is weird.”
McGrath said. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
The analyst swiveled in his chair.
“Uh, well, sir. It looks like he just stopped in for coffee.”
Chapter 3
1108 MST Friday
Albuquerque, NM
Carl Johnson climbed out of his open-top Jeep Wrangler and pushed the door closed. Twice. It still didn’t stay closed so he gave it a hard hip check, adding another dent under the door handle. It stayed closed.
“Piece o’ shit,” he murmured affectionately.
The 1980s-era Wrangler was his dream car and he’d finally bought one last year after procrastinating for nearly twenty years. The old car represented freedom and dreams come true. He always smiled when he saw the car, even though little things here and there were starting to break down with increasing frequency. It was dirty, but not the honorable off-trail dirty. It was pickled with dried raindrops and with residue from high-desert dust storms and air pollution. He hadn’t washed the damn thing since he bought it.
He loved that car and his personal motto that it represented: “And d
on’t forget... Life is good!”
He’d borrowed that motto almost twenty years ago from a friend who was a salesman. The guy could sell cars in a recession. At the time, his friend was the “Life-is-good” guy, and everyone knew it. He had that slogan on his stationery, on his license plate (LYFSGUD), and on his voice mail recording.
“Hey, this is Joseph. Leave a message. And don’t forget... Life is good!”
At first, Carl used to say it because it sounded positive and affirming, and he’d been going through marital problems with his second wife. He said it to other people, but he really only said it to convince himself that life could get better.
Two years later, he realized if you keep saying something like that over and over again, day after day, year after year, until it became something more than just a cool slogan or motto, then eventually you actually start to believe it. It evolves into a fundamental part of your life and your belief system. Also, Carl found that there were a lot of people who needed to hear it too. So, he included his motto in the signature line of his cell phone text messages, his emails, and on his voice mail.
Now Carl was the “Life-is-good” guy. He even had the motto printed around the circular edge of the cover of the spare tire bolted to the rear gate of the Jeep so that everyone following him on the road could see it.
And don’t forget.... Life is good!
He removed his gloves and thick thermal skullcap, and dumped them on the driver seat. He pulled a thin head glove from the left pocket of his well-worn, brown bomber jacket, fitted it on his hairless dome, and smoothed out the ripples.
He made his way over to the elevator and pressed the UP button. He waited a couple of minutes. Then a bell dinged, the UP button light went out, and the elevator door slid open to the right. He stepped into the box, did a one-eighty, and examined the panel to the right of the sliding doors. There were only three buttons, P1 for the level where he’d parked, and P2, plus one more labeled L for the lobby.
American Terrorist Trilogy Page 2
