It was cool outside so he put on a jacket, but he hesitated at the door. He felt an overwhelming sense of danger. He didn’t know what he was walking into or whom to trust. He got the distinct feeling he was being tracked or followed.
So he pulled his shoulder holster and Glock from his duffle.
Chapter 4
1700 MST Thursday
Albuquerque, NM
Costas Drake sat with Vicente Orizaga at the tiny table in his nondescript motel room near the far east end of Central Avenue in Albuquerque. Both men leaned close to the secure satellite cell phone sitting on the table. The volume was low to prevent anyone else from hearing the conversation, though no one else was in the room. The rest of his twenty-man team—the Unit—was camped in the two adjacent rooms.
The heavily encrypted signal made the caller sound like he was on the opposite side of the planet, but he could easily have been in the same Albuquerque hotel. Costas Drake was a former military man and high-level CIA wet work specialist, but wasn’t one of the half-dozen people in the country privileged to know the identity of the person called Rainman.
He’d known Rainman was planning something huge. That was why he let the man recruit him months ago. Not until now, when the plan was in the final stages of implementation, had Rainman finally revealed the true scope of his operation.
After hearing his boss’s objective, he concluded first and foremost that he’d better have a Plan B. So many things had to go right and so many pieces of Rainman’s bizarre puzzle had to fit together precisely that Drake had trouble seeing how the man could possibly hope for success.
If Rainman was successful, in three days he would pull off the biggest coup in the history of the world. If he failed, there would be nowhere on the planet he, nor anyone associated with him, could hide. That was why Costas Drake had privately begun to formulate an emergency exit strategy. Already, he’d pooled together money and several new identities in case he had to flee.
The electronically altered voice of Rainman said, “You have the list, Mr. Drake?”
“Roger that. I have ten individuals to be terminated.”
“I assume your teams are prepared to deploy.”
“Affirmative. I have three six-man teams ready to deploy on all fronts with a two-man team on standby,” Drake said. “All we are waiting for is your order.”
“The order is now given. I want dead bodies, Mr. Drake, and a lot of them. Women and children. Coordinate your strikes to begin just before midnight tomorrow.” The electronic voice paused, then said, “That is, tomorrow night midnight, not tonight midnight.”
“Understood. Tomorrow night midnight, not tonight.”
“Mr. Garcia may have to be hit earlier, so be ready to move on that front immediately, as soon as we have his identity and location.”
Drake was intimately familiar with the timetable since he had developed all the tactical aspects of the assault plans. They were going for a one-two knockout punch that would send the entire country reeling in shock. First, the president would be hit, though he wasn’t sure how Rainman was going to pull that off. Then, Drake’s Unit would assault the civilians on the kill list.
“Roger that. It will look like the American Terrorist eliminated his own man first, then the civilians. We’ll plant the encrypted cell phone at the scene. Aaron McGrath’s personal number is programmed in, and our computer has synthesized a threatening ultimatum in Johnson’s voice and will send it to McGrath’s voice mail. The recording will be eighty-two percent accurate. It’ll pass preliminary tests by FBI analysts and should easily support the conclusion we want them to draw. It will look like Johnson is at war with the government again. But…”
“You have a question?”
Drake hesitated. “Aaron McGrath is an extremely dangerous and well-connected man. He’s a veteran of the wet-work business. I recommend him to be the first person we eliminate. My two-man team can be in Virginia by nightfall tonight—”
“McGrath is being dealt with. When you begin your operation, he will be a non-factor. The important issue is that the FBI currently does not know the full involvement of Carl Johnson in the operation to rescue the president’s daughter. The details of the operation were classified and restricted to the TER agency only. Neither the FBI director nor the local Special Agent in Charge of the Albuquerque field office has specific knowledge of that operation.
“Besides, I don’t care if they really believe Johnson is going rogue again. I just want them to buy into the possibility for twenty-eight hours. That’s all we need. The FBI will spend time and manpower chasing false leads. After that, it will be too late for them or anyone else to do anything to stop us.” Rainman paused. “And gentlemen, I need this to look particularly gruesome.”
“Understood,” Drake said. “I have men who will do the deed. The women will be—”
“Not just the women,” Rainman said. “The girls, too. And the baby. We need to paint a vicious and brutal picture of the American Terrorist in action, something so despicable that it will shock the country and polarize everyone, including the FBI. I want everyone blinded to all other possibilities for twenty-eight hours.”
Costas Drake was silent for a moment as he and Vicente Orizaga looked at each other across the tiny table in the darkened room. Drake had conducted such unscrupulous missions before, sometimes under orders and sometimes just for the thrill of hearing his victims’ screams. But his victims had always been men and women, or at least teenage kids. What Rainman was ordering him to do was beyond despicable. Not that it mattered. His Unit was being paid extraordinarily well. They’d do what they were told to do, even if it involved children.
Vicente Orizaga, though, wasn’t an operator. He was a money man. To his credit, the man didn’t flinch at the unspoken orders. He merely nodded.
“Understood,” Drake said. “But if this goes sideways—”
“I’m paying you to make sure it doesn’t,” Rainman’s scrambled voice commanded. “We do this right, the Terror Event Response agency will be effectively neutralized and Carl Johnson will be the most hunted man in the world this time, not just in the US.”
Drake snorted. “Or we will become TER targets. Because if we mess this up, we will be the subjects of the manhunt.”
“Speaking of a manhunt,” Rainman continued. “I’ve just received intel from my sources that Johnson is flying into Mexico City tomorrow, about noon, on a government covert ops jet. I believe he is going after the Triad. Have Mr. Orizaga hire a team for surveillance only. I have assets in the region who will terminate Mr. Johnson as soon as you give me the location of him and his team.”
Orizaga said, “It is an easy matter to have the authorities arrest them as soon as they land.”
“Negative. Johnson already has mercenaries in-country. They all need to be eliminated, preferably at the same time. Johnson has proven to be a master of contingency planning. We cannot take the risk that he has organized his team into independent cells with separate missions. In order to eliminate his team members, we must first identify them.”
Orizaga spoke in heavily accented English. “My people can interrogate Johnson.”
Rainman laughed, but the scrambler converted the sound into something more resembling a hacking cough. “Carl Johnson was interrogated by TER people for eleven days last month, using the most effective techniques known to man, and he never broke. His travel companion is a TER operator named Nancy Palmer, and she most definitely will not break. Have your team follow Johnson to his op center, but be careful. Palmer was almost a Navy SEAL and she will no doubt spot any careless surveillance.”
Drake grunted. “Almost a Navy SEAL. Johnson is going to have to do better than almost.”
“This woman was due to graduate at the top of her class…of men.”
Now Drake chuckled. “Maybe I’ll enroll her in my school, teach her some of my tricks.”
“I’m sure that’s what one of her classmates and an instructor were thinking when they jump
ed her in the shower…right before she killed them with her bare hands. They tried to rape her. Tried to teach her that SEAL training was no place for a woman. Needless to say, they were not successful. There was no official report of the event, but I’m told that one of the men, and I don’t want to visualize how she did it, died from a bar of soap lodged deep inside his throat.”
Rainman’s electronic voice paused. “She has been described as extremely lethal and we now know what Carl Johnson can do, so take no unnecessary risks. If your team must engage, you have shoot-on-sight authorization for both of them. Otherwise, let my assets handle the termination.”
There was a pause and Drake decided he was supposed to say something, perhaps acknowledge Rainman’s discourse. Before he could utter a syllable, Rainman continued.
“Mr. Orizaga, are our benefactors in the Triad ready to move on the Mexican government?”
“They are. Four days from now the border between my country and yours will no longer exist.” Orizaga glanced at Drake, then said, “I still can’t believe we’re really going to kill the president of the United States.”
“That’s only the beginning, gentlemen.” Rainman chuckled, but again the electronic alteration of his voice made it sound like he was coughing up phlegm. “Shirley Mallory is already dead. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
Chapter 5
2000 hours EST Thursday
Washington, DC
Marcus Aurelio sat in the darkened lobby of a run-down, cash-only hotel and contemplated his situation. One moment, he was on top of the world. The next, he was a dead man walking. It was amazing how many people took for granted the expectation that their lives would follow some kind of master plan. His plan was simple. Get a first-class education, serve his country, advance upward, maybe become president someday. Getting killed prematurely was not part of the plan. What a difference twelve hours can make.
He was a smart man. He had multiple degrees by the age of twenty-three. He had twin BS degrees in economics and statistics. He also held an MA in political science and had just begun studies for his PhD in the same field. Everyone who had ever met him knew he would go far in politics. In addition to his razor sharp mind that could win virtually any debate on any topic, he was also empathetic and a genuinely nice guy, which was rare in DC. He also had two secrets, one that guaranteed him success in his career advancement and another that would surely derail his career.
His first secret was known to only a few and was the primary reason he’d snagged an internship with the president’s chief of staff, Martine Scallow. It was also the reason he was now running for his life.
Marcus Aurelio had a photographic memory. His memory wasn’t truly eidetic, in that he didn’t recall every detail of everything he’d seen—sights, sounds, smells, or where a person was standing at a particular moment or what they were wearing. His photographic memory was limited only to the written word. Simply put, he could recall every word of every book he’d ever read. Ever. Since the first picture book he’d picked up at age two. He could instantly recite every web page and every email he’d read. He remembered it all. What made his gift even more remarkable was that he comprehended everything he’d ever read. The subject matter was irrelevant. He was an expert on many topics from science and physics to music theory and history. The subject he loved most, of course, was politics.
All he had to do to instantly remember an item of text was to get a glance of it. He didn’t have to study a document or even fully read a document. If his eyes caught a glance, he could then study and read the text in his brain long after the document was removed from his sight.
It was such a glimpse at the face of his boss’s smartphone that had ended his life. The device was, of course, encrypted, but once that encoded signal reached the display it could be read by anyone.
Scallow had walked into his office that morning not knowing Marcus was already at his desk, working on an assignment. Marcus glanced up briefly and muttered his standard greeting.
“Morning, Martine.”
Scallow had been startled and stuck his smartphone in his pocket quickly. The move seemed forced and secretive, so naturally Marcus’s brain almost subconsciously began to decipher what his eyes had glimpsed for that tiny fraction of a second, even though the four-inch display of the device was more than ten feet distant.
Two and a half minutes later, Marcus gasped as his brain finished its interpretation. He tried to maintain an air of nonchalance, but he could feel his boss’s eyes on him the whole morning, even though the man was locked in his office.
Marcus worked until ten—the time he normally took his mid-morning break—then let the other staffers know he was going for coffee, same as he did every day. Except he never got his coffee and he never went back to the office. Instead, he bypassed the White House cafeteria and walked right out the employee side entrance. He continued past the security barriers, caught a cab, and went into hiding.
Like all of Scallow’s full-time staffers, Marcus was cleared for the highest levels of classified information because his job required it. He knew the First Daughter had been kidnapped on US soil by the drug cartel leader from Mexico, and he knew the terrorist, Carl Johnson, had agreed to participate in the rescue operation. That was why what he’d seen on his boss’s smartphone screen confused him initially.
Bobcat released on schedule. Mexico on-board next phase. Urgent! Relocate to secure bunker before POTUS returns DC.
Bobcat was the Secret Service’s code name for Melissa Mallory, the First Daughter. POTUS was the standard acronym for President of the United States.
The meaning to the cryptic text message was instantly clear to Marcus. Bobcat released on schedule. The conclusion of the rescue effort was planned and known before the rescue mission had even been launched. And if the president’s chief of staff knew of the scheduled release before it happened, then he was complicit in the planning of the kidnap operation.
The president’s chief of staff conspired with a foreign country and other Americans to kidnap the First Daughter!
Or maybe not.
Marcus admitted to himself that there were holes in his theory. There were other possible explanations to someone having foreknowledge of the rescue operation. Perhaps there was a dual mission and maybe the other effort had negotiated Bobcat’s release before, or even during, the rescue operation. That possibility was more plausible than the conspiracy angle, except for one small detail.
Urgent! Relocate to the secure bunker…
The only real reasons Marcus could think of to hide in a bunker were security and safety. Therefore, the conspiracy involving the kidnapping of the president’s daughter was part of a larger plan, and that plan was moving to the next phase, which involved moving Martine Scallow, the president’s chief of staff, and no doubt other key personnel, to a secure bunker before the president returned to the Capitol. The question now in Marcus’s mind was why?
Marcus knew if he were wrong, people would simply wonder why he had not returned to work. But if he was right, and he was convinced that he was, then he had every reason to fear for his life. Martine Scallow was a very powerful man in DC circles. His influence was not limited to White House activities.
Normally, without any hard evidence—written copy or electronic file—a person’s word would just be considered hear-say in any court of law, not that this particular conspiracy would ever find its way into any court in the land. There were, however, many cases where the testimony of a person with photographic or eidetic memory was admissible as legal evidence.
That’s why he knew men would be hunting him, men who worked for the chief of staff or whoever that man worked for. If he was right about the conspiracy, they would kill him, no question. There was only one man he could turn to for help, one man to whom he had absolutely no connection outside of an experimental one-night-stand five months ago. He called the man from the filthy hotel lobby’s phone since he’d abandoned his own cell phone hours ago.
; “Peoples,” came an official sounding reply.
He wasn’t supposed to know that Stephen Peoples worked for the Terror Event Response agency, but they’d exchanged many secrets that night.
“Stephen,” he whispered. “I need you.”
“Marcus? Is that you? Christ, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me anymore.”
“Stephen, I’m in trouble. I don’t have anyone else to call. I know who leaked information in the First Daughter’s kidnapping.”
“Goddammit, not on an open phone line, Marcus!”
Peoples paused on the other end of the connection and Marcus pictured him rushing into a room where he could talk in private.
The fact that Peoples hadn’t denied his statement told Marcus the TER was at least investigating the possibility of treason within the US government. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude the only realistic way a highly trained group—and a group of drug-related thugs would never be that highly trained—could overcome the First Family’s Secret Service detail was if the opposing force knew Bobcat’s protection protocols, exact transportation route, security detail composition, armored car specifications, and comm channel codes.
“Where are you, Marcus?” Peoples finally said. “I’ll send a car for you.”
“No! They’ll find me. You have to meet me somewhere. There’s no way they know about you.”
Peoples seemed to consider that. “I agree. Get in a cab and head out to my condo. You still remember where it is?”
“You’re still out near Andrews Air Force Base, right? How could I forget? Best night of my life.”
“Yeah, well, just get your ass over there.” For a moment, Marcus heard genuine tenderness in the man’s voice and he wished somehow they’d been able to make it work. Except for the part where the man had a wife and a couple of children.
Stephen Peoples returned to business. “Don’t stop anywhere until you get to my place. I’ll meet you in…” In his mind’s eye, Marcus saw the agent checking a wristwatch. “…about forty-five minutes.”
American Terrorist Trilogy Page 35
