by JT Sawyer
Everything had come to pass as he, Monroe, and Perry had painstakingly planned at Monroe’s private chalet in Tahoe nearly a year ago. Ritter felt like he knew what it must be like to be an artist—the delicate brushstrokes unfolding over months until the canvas emerged into a thing of beauty that made you stand back and sigh.
***
That night in his estate in northwest Anaheim, Nelson Ritter sat on the second floor of his private office, the large French doors that led out to the porch glistening with the last rays of sunlight over the palm tree-lined pool below. The ten-thousand-square-foot mansion had nine bathrooms and six bedrooms and sat perched above the valley in a cul-de-sac, with Ritter owning the adjoining undeveloped parcels.
His office was designed to resemble that of a Roman chancellor, the walls paneled with knotty walnut and gold etchings of spear-toting men in chariots engaged in the Battle of Carthage. In the middle, a chandelier made of elk antlers hung from the hand-carved ceiling which revealed the Roman amphitheater in its former splendor. On each wall were gold-framed photographs depicting Ritter with various dignitaries, politicians, and dictators, the most notable from the latter being Surinam Presidente Eduarto del Toro, whom he helped to install in power in the ’90s but then later had to have assassinated once oil reserves in that country were depleted. While the entire room fostered an electrical ambience, it had been designed by a safe-room manufacturer with two-foot-thick steel walls, a floor with a pressure-plate security system, along with bulletproof porch windows and a vault-like entrance door. Nelson worked at home on Tuesday and Wednesday, handling Aeneid’s board meetings via Skype for a few hours while several Latina women lounged in his bedroom for his frequent respites throughout the day.
On his teak-lined desk, which seemed to occupy a third of the room, was a picture of Ritter clad in soiled olive-drab fatigues in the jungle bordered by two native guerrilla fighters. The youthful Ritter was grinning while clutching an Ingram Mac-10 submachine gun with a suppressor. Beside this oversized picture was a miniscule framed photograph of Ritter and his fourth wife, a woman thirty years younger and of Panamanian descent. Isabella divided her time between their villa in the Italian Alps and their Anaheim estate, which was the arrangement Ritter preferred.
The 72-inch flattop computer screen mounted to the wall across from his desk was voice activated, allowing him to dictate while keeping his hands free to sift through black-and-white reconnaissance photos of the Sangar Valley in Turkmenistan. That draconian nation was perfect for his upcoming venture as it had the second most repressive government in the world next to North Korea and was closed to independent scrutiny and outside media.
As he sat back in his leather throne chair, Ritter’s thoughts floated over his recent interactions with Perry. He was eagerly awaiting a call from the man, hoping the woman had been plucked from her whereabouts and would soon be back at Aeneid for questioning.
Ritter had done his homework on Perry through his own surveillance work along with what he gleaned from the endless arm-candy informants that he fed the man and the constant analysis of Perry’s personal finances. When the opportunity arose to present Perry with a lucrative offer for his insider services at the FBI, the two joined forces. Ritter had always kept plenty of audio recordings of their interactions and was judicious in his business meetings to provide deniability for himself while keeping just enough rope for Perry to hang himself with if things ever went askew.
The phone rang, and Ritter clumsily grabbed it in his haste to hear the news. His jaw sank when he heard a voice other than Perry’s in his ear. It was Gamal, who was calling to inform him of the weapons shipment for Fareed.
“Clear?”
“Yes, this line is secure,” said Gamal. “The packages have arrived and are being safeguarded until the delivery.”
“Excellent. Transfer will take place within the next 48 hours. I’m waiting on one issue to resolve itself.”
“Do we have a location?”
Ritter thought for a moment, his bony fingers tapping on the edge of the desk. “Let’s plan on having Fareed select the spot, as long as it’s safe. That’ll give him a sense of ownership in the plan.”
“Very well, sir. I will make the arrangements and wait for your call on the timing.”
Ritter hung up the phone and stood, rubbing his sore neck. Then he walked over to a wooden cabinet and poured himself a glass of vodka. He tried to wash away the tension, pensively staring at his phone on the desk as if his searing gaze would cause it to ring.
Chapter 25
Two hours later, Perry had made the arduous trek back to the canyon where his FBI colleagues had previously been ambushed. The fly-ridden corpses had been visited by vermin during the night and their noses and fingertips were gnawed away. He scratched nervously at his temple, staring at the bloated remains of the former agents and feeling like Ritter’s bitch in some scheme that he was too deep to extricate himself from. He thought his role would only be providing inside intel and occasional computer data, not an accomplice in the demise of such finely trained men. Fucking Ritter. Sitting in his lofty perch delegating orders.
He took a deep breath, running through his cover story for the hundredth time before he radioed back to headquarters. His sunbaked fingertips were cracked and sore. He looked down at his hands, wondering what had happened to the man he was twenty-four hours ago, then his mind shifted to his lacerated face. Fucking Mitch. He’s the reason this all went south. My part would’ve already been over if that woman hadn’t shown up at his place. How the hell is he woven into this nightmare?
He pulled out his radio and called Ryker, noticing a few drops of blood staining his vest from busting Drake’s nose mingled with his own facial injuries. He dabbed his fingers in the wet sand and scoured off the mess.
“What do you mean the trail went cold?” said the bureau chief.
“The flash floods last night wiped the area clean. I’ve been running on empty all day.”
“Stay put. I’ll send a helo out to get you and your team.”
He took a deep breath. “Just me. The rest of my guys—they…they…” He paused and counted to three in his head for greater drama. “They’re dead. It was Mitch, he was the shooter.”
“Holy Christ! What do you mean Mitch? He gunned them down, all of them? Why would he do that?”
“The guy’s gone off the reservation. He and this woman must be into some heavy shit.”
“I can’t believe it. Mitch is a stand-up guy from what I know. Are you sure?”
“I was there, sir. We identified ourselves and then he burned them all down right before my eyes. I barely made it out myself.”
Ryker was silent, then cleared his throat. “Alright, alright…I, uhm…look, just hunker down where you are and I’ll have a team inbound within thirty minutes.”
***
An hour later Perry was sitting in the briefing room with Ryker, recounting his story and poring over the file on Mira Sanchez. The bodies of the three downed agents had been flown- out with him and were in the coroner’s office two blocks away. Ryker had pulled up the computer images of Sanchez that were pinged off the facial recognition program. It showed her at a gas station in the town of Cave Creek, eighteen miles south of the ranch.
“So, who were these mercenaries that were pursuing them—did you get a look at any of those guys?”
“No, they must have pulled out of the area after we moved in, although Mitch caught one in a mantrap and executed him. The guy’s throat was slit from ear to ear.” Perry simulated the motion with his thumb across his own neck.
Perry lowered his head, massaging his forehead and speaking in a low voice. “After he mowed down my team and disappeared, I followed him for a little while but knew that he may have more trail deterrents in place. I got caught in the storm that rolled through and had to hunker down in place for the night. That’s why I went dark for a while.”
Ryker studied Perry’s face for a moment and then picked up the bl
ack-and-white photograph of Sanchez, tossing it on the table beside her work dossier from Aeneid.
“I just don’t get it. Mitch teams up with her and then goes on the lam, taking out our guys. I don’t know the man well but it just doesn’t seem like him.”
“Then why’s he on the run if he’s not guilty? Mitch has been bought. He’s got no family, no wife, nothing in his life to keep him honorable. They must have some prior relationship and are involved in the recent corporate espionage that went down at that private contracting firm in the email you sent.”
Perry stood up, resting his knuckles on the table. “If there isn’t anything else, I just want to get cleaned up and have a few minutes to myself.”
Ryker stopped him at the door, standing in the entry. “You know Mitch better than anyone else here. I want you to get with the rest of the tac-team in the conference room when you’re done and see what you can contribute to his whereabouts—and Perry, I want him brought back alive.”
“Sure.” Perry just smirked then lowered his head. “I thought I knew the man. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe all of his demons finally caught up with him.”
Ryker watched Perry disappear around the corner and then walked back inside the debriefing room. He stared at the image of Sanchez while picking up the phone beside him. He dialed the D.C. office and requested the international activities division. He entered his security code and badge ID.
“This is Bureau Chief Evan Ryker. I want to request an Interpol search on Mira Sanchez along with any correlation between her and FBI Agent Mitchell Kearns. We’ve not found anything on our internal databases on the woman and need to cast our net wider.”
The agent on the other end indicated that she would get back to him within two hours, after which he hung up and resumed poring over the map of Arizona on his laptop.
Chapter 26
Anatoly drove the white SUV for another fifteen miles north, pulling off at a remote exit in the desert. Below the overpass was a white delivery van. Inside were two more of Anatoly’s men. The man in the driver’s seat, who had a trim beard, was tall enough to have to scrunch to sit comfortably. The other was younger and built like a linebacker. Mitch and Dev transferred into the vehicle while Anatoly grabbed his gear and rifle from the SUV.
“You got a clean cellphone I can use?” Mitch said to Anatoly. The older man reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an encrypted Smartphone, passing it over.
As they resumed their trip north in one vehicle, Mitch dialed in Ryker’s number at the FBI office in Phoenix. When the man picked up, Mitch didn’t wait to do an overview of the past twenty-four hours, but instead cut to the chase. “This is Mitch. Perry has no doubt told you his side of the story by now.”
“He said you’re the shooter and took out his men. Mitch—what the hell is going on? Did you know this woman is on the FBI’s Top Ten list?”
How’s that possible? It takes time and a dozen bureau protocols to get bumped to the top of the list from nowhere. “Perry is a traitor. His goons killed our men and he probably led them right into the trap. He’s feeding you false intel to hide his involvement with the Aeneid Corporation, which is planning a major attack inside our borders.”
“What? What proof do you have?”
Mitch looked over at Dev, knowing she was the only link to his innocence and the story he was conveying. It was his word against Perry’s, only Mitch was on the run, confirming his guilt with each passing mile. “When I have something more solid I’ll call you,” he said, the words feeling sticky in his mouth.
Mitch hung up, handing the phone back to Anatoly. He felt his stomach coiling in knots. His colleague was setting him up and with resources at his disposal that Mitch no longer had. He was alone, cut off except for the people beside him in the vehicles, whose motives he wasn’t entirely clear about.
Mitch stared straight ahead at the miles of blacktop that spun by in a blur, barely noticing the desert terrain around him. “What evidence do you have, exactly?” he said to Dev. “We’re not going to be able to stay in evasion mode for long. I know how these federal manhunts work, remember?”
“When we stop at our next location, I’ll show you,” she said. “Just stick it out with us, Mitch.”
An hour and a half later, they arrived at a cabin in the mountains west of Flagstaff. It was located six miles down a secondary road and was a two-story structure made of ponderosa pine surrounded by miles of national forest.
Out of habit, Mitch scanned the ground for tracks as they got out. He could see that the place probably hadn’t been used in weeks and the leaf litter on the driveway didn’t show any signs of disturbance.
“A friend of yours own this?” said Mitch.
“Nah, Airbnb—great resource for travelers who want to stay anonymous,” said Anatoly with a smile as they walked up to the wrap-around porch.
Mitch yanked on the pewter door handle and found it locked. “You’re not gonna stay anonymous if you have to meet the owner for the keys or break in.”
“The cyber division of my company, small though it is, developed an invasive software used for surveillance of civilian businesses that we sometimes need in our line of work. It tells us when places like Airbnb rentals are vacant, correlated to their calendar listings and the owner’s personal Facebook pages of when they will be out of town—it’s amazing what people will post to the world about their daily whereabouts.”
Anatoly motioned to Petra, his second-in-command, to pick the lock and deactivate the inside alarm.
“Most of the time, we just need a house for a few hours or one night to hole up away from the city or near the staging area of a target.”
Mitch saw Anatoly look around the edge of the woods, noting the defensible slopes. “We need to lie low for a bit and discuss our plans for the coming phase,” said the older man.
As the front door swung open, two of Anatoly’s men swept inside, clearing the abode. Anatoly proceeded in, his hand on his HK pistol, while glancing around at the glass-lined cabinets around the kitchen. “This guy better have some rum or brandy in his coffers. The last place we stayed at was some Mormon’s house in central Utah and all he had was apple juice and spritzers.”
Given Anatoly’s reputation as a professional assassin, Mitch was always amazed at the older man’s ability to go from being a stone-faced killer to a grinning joker in a flash. He also knew more filthy jokes than anyone Mitch had ever met, though those weren’t likely to be part of the evening repertoire with Dev present. Then again, he thought, maybe she’d inherited those traits too.
The interior of the cabin resembled a luxury yacht more than a rustic abode. The cathedral ceiling had elk-antler chandeliers hanging from them, highlighting the spacious living room beneath, which was replete with leather couches positioned around a native-stone fireplace.
“Geez, this joint looks like it should be in Aspen, not Flagstaff,” said Mitch. “Must be those Californians who built this for a third home thinking that my state is their backyard.”
***
That afternoon, they had a simple meal of rice, beans, salsa, and tortillas along with some cognac Anatoly hunted down. With the four men taking guard duty outside, Dev and her father sat around the gas fireplace discussing the happenings at Aeneid interspersed with talk about recent events in Israel. Mitch sat in a leather recliner and took in the banter between father and daughter, his mind drifting back to his friend’s ranch, where he’d shared many similar dinners around the open campfire.
Mitch saw a side of Anatoly that he had never witnessed before. His usual stolid expression was replaced by a tranquility and warmth as he spoke with Dev, his hand occasionally brushing against her arm tenderly. Mitch had always felt a sense of reverence being in the presence of such a seasoned warrior but now he was deeply moved by the untenable connection between father and daughter that permeated the cabin.
Anatoly swigged down the last of his drink then looked at Mitch. “You still look like a soldier—only it’s
a job as a government agent man, eh?”
Mitch gave Dev a sideways glance. “It was…until yesterday when your daughter came a-knockin’.”
“She has a way of turning a person’s world upside down, it seems.”
Dev smiled, her face even more radiant than Mitch had noticed before.
“We should look over the files I obtained from Aeneid,” she said, reaching into her soiled shoulder bag and retrieving her laptop.
“So this is where you show me the nefarious schematics for the attack and how we can thwart it, right?” said Mitch, who moved over next to Dev on the couch as the three began eagerly waiting for the device to power up.
He grew wide-eyed as he watched her insert the flash drive.
“Relax,” she said, tapping her fingers on a silver device with a small antenna. “I’ve got my computer routing our location to six other locations around the globe so we’re safe. Just like you setting up those dummy trails earlier. I had to wait until my father could provide this gadget otherwise I would’ve tried to do this days ago.”
Dev clicked on the precious files she had risked so much to obtain. A small red warning box popped up indicating the data was inaccessible. She sighed and tried again only to have the same thing occur. After a third attempt she examined the properties of the flash drive, her eyebrows scrunching together as she slammed a fist on the table. “There’s a phantom security firewall encrypting these files.”
“I thought you bypassed those when you initially obtained the data,” said Anatoly.
“I did—two layers of software security had to be breached. This must be something that was attached without my knowing as a result of breaking through the other layers. It’s a ‘Remora’—a cloaked firewall that is programmed to latch onto a file about to be hacked.” She ran her fingers through her hair as her eyes widened. “This is cutting-edge technology that only a few governments in the world use. How did Aeneid get a hold of this?”
