by S. L. Jones
Soller decided Culder wouldn’t be too surprised about Simpson targeting his kids. He knew the director had seen crazier things when it came to the actions of politicians and spooks, and this went beyond that—the hatred between the two men was personal.
“Understood,” the FBI director said. “I have the goods for just such an occasion.” He couldn’t help but smile at the timing of it all. “You’ve always said this day would come.”
“Can our special friends make it to the airport in time?”
“If he’s not there already, he should be any minute.”
“Don’t call me unless it’s good news.”
Chapter 50
Dulles Airport, Northern Virginia
LESS THAN FIFTEEN patrons were scattered throughout Moe’s Grill & Bar. Trent Turner looked them over carefully from a distance, feigning interest in the posters on display and the flat-screen TVs bolted to the wall. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The man sitting alone at the table in the back had everything set up as expected. It was a go. This would be the big test for Heckler. Trent knew it would be easy to set him up here, if that had been his intention.
Turner placed his bag on the ground and pretended to send a text message. In the corner of his eye, he saw the man casually pull out enough cash to cover his bill and pick up his large earth-tone carry-on. Turner headed to the men’s bathroom in search of a pair of empty stalls. Once he decided on the location, he entered the stall on the left and latched the door behind. He placed two squares of toilet paper on the floor just inside his stall as someone approached. The footsteps stopped before they reached him. He heard a loud cough, and the operative cleared his throat in response. The man entered the adjacent stall.
Two other stalls in the long row were occupied, which gave Turner some cause for concern. He’d have to play it by ear. Another cough erupted from the stall next to him. Turner tapped his foot just before sending his bag under the divider. It was quickly pulled in by the man on the other side. He heard footsteps as new patrons filed in the restroom. Turner waited, somewhat amused by the gurgling soundtrack of a bad meal playing a few stalls down. He had to question whether it could be a distraction, but if it was real, at least the smell of bleach was strong.
A toilet flushed as footsteps approached. The man stopped in front of Turner’s stall, seemed to survey the place and headed back to the other end of the bathroom. Turner waited anxiously as he listened to the rustling sounds from the stall next door. He smiled as the expression “Getting caught with your pants down” came to mind. He heard another cough and responded by tapping his foot. He grabbed the blue bag on offer. It was identical to his but weighed significantly more. He made a quick check of the contents as the bagman left the bathroom, then quickly followed suit.
Turner walked through the terminal toward his gate, and a sense of relief rushed through him now that Heckler had come through. He still had plenty of time to kill before his flight left, so he sized up the Starbucks in front of him. Lack of sleep had started to dull his mind, so caffeine seemed like a good option. He stood in line and turned around when he sensed someone close behind him.
Their eyes met and he felt a jolt of electricity. She was tall, beautiful, with long black hair, but her bright green eyes were what threw him off.
“Hi,” he heard her say.
He had already averted his eyes, knowing they had given away too much. Curiosity pulled with the force of a black hole as he casually glanced in her direction. He had hoped she was talking to someone else, but she wasn’t.
“Hi,” he replied with a forced smile, and then turned to the menu on the wall behind the counter.
He exhaled slowly and tried to erase the image of the striking beauty from his mind. A half smile formed when he considered the crazy thoughts going through his head. It was like he was in the fourth grade again, having a crush at first sight. There was no way she had felt what he did, although it felt good to imagine she might have, if only for a moment. Sleep deprivation could do funny things, and he banked on his pending conversation with the barista to bail him out of any potential for small talk.
“A venti iced mocha. No whip, please,” he said.
“A man after my own heart,” the green-eyed beauty said.
She looked at him appraisingly.
Trent Turner was an attractive man, fit, his hair dark, like hers. He dressed stylishly, but his look was equal parts restraint and refinement.
Turner exhaled. He couldn’t believe she was still talking to him after the obvious blow off. He wasn’t sure which was worse: being uncomfortable with her persistence or being intoxicated by her beauty. He turned toward the young woman and noticed the violin case slung over her shoulder. Their eyes locked, and he felt it again. The hairs on his neck began to tingle, and he considered for a moment that his thumping heart meant the connection might be real.
His eyes drifted back to the violin case and then met hers. “The heart is the only broken instrument that works,” he said, before heading to the pickup counter.
He could sense she was alone. Perhaps a kindred spirit. His goal was to get her off his mind by the time his drink hit the counter. Turner felt his XHD3 vibrate, signaling a new development, but before he could have a look it happened again.
“Victoria. Victoria Eden. And you are?” she said.
He turned around and there she was. Her hand was extended, awaiting his. He felt like an ABC book, an easy read, something incredibly uncomfortable for a man in his profession. She had obviously felt the connection too. Maybe it was about wanting what you couldn’t have, but he could tell she enjoyed making him squirm.
“Tony, Tony E. Kalem,” he said. He decided it would only be a half truth if he associated his name with the quote he’d used.
“What does the E stand for?”
He flashed a friendly smile to the barista, who was headed for the counter with his drink and turned back to Victoria. “Everything,” he said. “Have a safe flight.”
He scooped up his drink and headed for the gate, trying to work out what had just happened.
Chapter 51
FBI black site, Poolesville, MD
JAKE SANDERS HAD a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Can you believe that gas station sold good coffee? Here, in the boondocks?”
He had to admit Special Agent Cathy Moynihan had managed to break him out of his shell. It was unusual to find a woman who could dish out attitude with her aptitude for precision and wit.
“It’s the strong stuff too. Café Verona. Mmm mmm good,” she said. “Are you sure there’s a coffee grinder there?”
He liked her skeptical nature. “Absolutely. We don’t mess around.”
“If you didn’t mess around, we’d be drinking coffee, not picking it up.”
“Touché!” All he could do was smile. For a second he considered that he may well have met the perfect woman, but then her next question smacked him with reality.
“So what division are you in?”
Sanders spat out the canned response. “We work out of Baltimore. You?” He already knew the answer to the question, but this was about changing the subject to her.
“DC. I’m hoping to make the Hawaii beat one day.” There was an awkward silence, like she knew he didn’t want her to ask any more prying questions. “So…” Her tone was serious. “What are a bunch of guys out of Baltimore doing grabbing teenagers and driving them around in kit like that? I mean, come on. Three decked-out Tahoes? Pretty impressive considering how stingy the bureau has been about every request I’ve ever made.”
He needed to shut this down fast.
“Jealousy will get you nowhere in this business.” He flashed her his shit-eating grin again.
She shook her head as she turned onto the gravel driveway that led to the black site. Sanders knew she wasn’t buying his bullshit, and he respected her for it. This was one of those times where being intelligent wasn’t in one’s best interest. He wasn’t sure how hi
s boss would want him to handle this one.
Over the past decade the scope of his job had increased significantly. He was getting used to working in the gray area after being moved out of TacOps. When he was with the FBI Tactical Operations team, he was responsible for the bureau’s black-bag operations, but when he and his crew of trusted men were promoted to create a new unit, that new assignment had morphed into something well beyond illegal entry-and-search missions and surveillance. They had added terrorist hit squad to their list of duties.
The HVT Squad, short for High-Value Target Squad, was put in place for matters of national security. One-off missions like the one they were currently on muddied the waters between right and wrong, but the squad had become desensitized to the work over the years. Its team filled the gap that the CIA, unable to run black operations on US soil, was legally bound to leave. The squad had lost a few good men in the fight, but it was still five-strong and extremely capable.
Moynihan and Sanders got out of the car. Sanders caught a quick glimpse of her in the moonlight and noticed she was the complete package. He was beginning to imagine the possibilities when she spoke.
“Do you smell that?” she asked.
He snapped out of his daydream and said, “Huh?”
“It smells like someone discharged a weapon.” She tilted her head slightly as if it would catch more air and took a couple more whiffs.
“Don’t be…” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Yeah, I smell it now.”
“It’s probably nothing,” she said. “We’d already be dead if there was a problem.”
He realized she was probably right. The fact that she picked up on both points first annoyed him.
“Tell my ex that,” he said.
She turned to him and squinted. “What?”
He smiled and said, “I’m dead to her.”
They shared a laugh, and it helped to lighten the mood as they approached the house. He slid his thumb across the reader and unlocked the door. The smells released by the open door caused them both to instinctively draw their weapons. Someone had definitely fired a gun.
“Ken? Scott?” Sanders’s voice was a little tentative. “Glen… Guys?” He strained to see inside. “No fucking around. Are you in there?”
He led them through the door. Their training was evident from their cadence and actions. He signaled Moynihan to check the upper floors with a nod of his head.
The smell of violence grew stronger as he silently made his way down the stairs. His weapon was leveled, and his heart pounded as he took in the scene. Both Scott and Glen were dead. They had been shot execution-style, each with a dime-sized bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He continued to clear the basement and checked the outside stairwell. The situation hit him like a ton of bricks.
“Holy shit,” he said under his breath. He backtracked and shouted up the stairs. “Moynihan, you okay?”
“Yeah, nothing up here,” she said.
He heard her staccato footsteps navigate down the stairs to the basement. He hadn’t had a chance to warn her. When he turned in her direction, she was frozen, with her hand held to her mouth.
“Oh my God…” she said, followed by an audible swallow.
Sanders had already gone into the control room to check the surveillance equipment. The system still showed that an alarm had been triggered and the time that had lapsed. He pushed the button to reset the sensors and checked the monitor bank to verify they were alone. He fumbled with the controls in an attempt to pull up the recording of his men being taken down.
Working the surveillance gear had always been Scott Richardson’s job, and he was lying in a pool of his own blood just outside the door. Sanders had only managed to make the computer screen a jumble of windows. He shook his head in frustration.
“We’ll have to get someone out here to examine the video feed. These systems are cut off from the rest of the world.”
Sanders noticed she had taken the shock well and was impressed that she hadn’t tossed her cookies.
“Whoever did this already took off,” he said.
Moynihan pointed out the bright side. “I guess that’s not such a bad thing.”
They shared a look, knowing the carnage could have just as easily included them.
His eyes narrowed. “Yeah,” he said, “it sure could have.”
He walked into the room with his dead men, and now that he had calmed down, the overpowering metallic smell of blood overpowered his senses.
Moynihan motioned toward the basement door and dashed up the stairs. Her footsteps gave way to muted heaving sounds.
“Take your time,” Sanders yelled out the doorway. “I need to make a call.”
Her puking would have been funny for him if the situation wasn’t so fucked up.
Sanders took out his phone and called Director Culder.
“What do you have for me?” he answered.
Sanders closed his eyes and said, “I’ve got two men dead, one missing.”
“It had to be Simpson.”
Jake Sanders knew they had worked together long enough for Culder to trust him.
“I’ll deal with it. I’ll figure out what’s going on.”
He turned toward the door when he heard Moynihan coming down the stairs and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece.
“Your other agent is in the yard. Single bullet to the head like the others. I’ll call this in,” she said.
“No,” Sanders blurted out a little louder than he would have liked. He covered the receiver with his hand more tightly before continuing. “No,” he told her, this time more composed. “I’ve got the director on the line now. I’ll take care of this. Turn off your cell phone as a precaution. I’ve got a spare in the truck we can use. Mine’s off after this call.”
Sanders could tell she wasn’t crazy about the order but knew she would also be concerned about whom they might be dealing with. He whisked her back up the stairs with his hand.
“She’s there then?” Culder said.
“Yeah, and make it three dead.” He looked down at his men. The team was now down to two.
“This is not good. She knows too much,” the director said. “Are we going to have a problem?”
“No. No problem with her.” Sanders knew he wouldn’t like the director’s plan for resolution. “Our problem is with the team. It’s just me and Pagano, so we’ll be extremely limited until we do some recruiting.”
“That’s something we can figure out later. We can’t have any loose ends, not with what’s going on.”
Sanders took a deep breath, annoyed at the lack of immediate commitment with bringing the team back up to full strength. He was already used to the absence of condolences.
“We can still use her. No loose ends. If I sense there’s a problem, I’ll deal with it.”
“Good. Keep me informed,” Culder said.
Chapter 52
Lucky Stone Quarry, Ashburn, VA
IMAGES OF THE dead men were still ruling her thoughts when she felt the car come to a stop. This time the driver turned the engine off. Maria Soller estimated they had been driving for forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. She had no idea where they had been taken, but she was thankful they were both still alive. Every time she felt panic beginning to set in, she’d will herself to stay strong, like her mother would. She hung on to the hope that it would only be a matter of time before her mother’s friend swooped in and rescued them from this mess. She didn’t even know who the man was, but he was the glue that was keeping her together. His invisible presence helped her focus on doing her part and staying alive.
The nervous moment of silence was broken by the sound of the door opening, immediately followed by a harsh voice.
“Get out,” it said.
Both of the girls rose from a fetal position in the backseat and eased their way out of the car. They had rank-smelling hoods over their heads, and their hands had been zip-tied behind their backs.
“Faster,” he barked.
>
Her legs were unsteady from being cramped up in the car for so long. He prodded her along every nervous step as the smell of rotting trash joined the assault the filthy hood had already launched against her senses. She could hear Melody Millar starting to sob again, and she feared for both of them. When Melody had cried loudly in the car, they had been relentless. The men spoke freely in Russian amongst themselves, and not knowing what they were saying caused a panicked feeling to surface. Her foot kicked into something solid, and it made a metallic sound.
He stopped her progress and said, “Step up.”
She brought her foot up and he barked, “Two more.”
She heard a door open and sensed she was entering some kind of building. Her mind had transformed the cover over her head into a hiding place, so she hoped they wouldn’t take it off. His powerful hand pressed down on her shoulder.
“Sit!” he said.
The chair was cold and ripped her mind from its hiding place. She could hear Melody starting to cry again and realized the sudden chill from the chair had frightened her too. She needed to calm her down.
“It’s okay, Melody,” she said. “We’re going to be okay.”
“Silence,” he yelled.
His voice made her jump and managed to set the teenager off. This time her crying was much worse. She knew trying to help her would end badly, so she silently prayed that she would be okay. Melody’s sobs became muffled, and Soller heard ruffling sounds from her direction. She shut her eyes tight and tried to block out the sounds. The rustling stopped, and she clenched her fists, gripped by fear.
“I said silence,” he demanded, this time in a more sinister tone.
