by John Cutter
“They get that minigun installed in the heli?”
Shaun nodded, ate a piece of pie, washed it down with some coffee, and said, “Yep. They worked most of the night and all this morning. All done. They got more ammunition than you can even imagine…”
Vince nodded. “Those things run through ammo quick. How they going to use it?”
“Do they tell me? It’s need to know.” He shrugged. “Seems like I don’t need to know…”
But I do, Vince thought.
After he bussed his dishes he went to the library. Deirdre wasn’t there. Edgy, thinking that undercover work wasn’t his strength, Vince got out the Goethe, sat down, and pretended to study it.
Ten minutes passed, and Vince was startled when Gustafson came in, lips pursed, adjusting his glasses. “Ah — Vincent!” he said, crossing to the bookshelves. “Using your lunch hour well, I see.”
“Still trying to get a handle on German. I took a little in school and it’s starting to come back.”
“Klasse! Viel glück, Vincent!”
“Danke, mein herr.”
Gustafson selected a thick book and bustled out with it.
Vincent realized his heart was pounding. He’d felt all day that something was in the air. Something dangerous was taking shape just out of his vantage point…
*
A few minutes later, Deirdre arrived, her cheeks red, her eyes glistening, and clearly in a hurry. She sat down across from him, on the edge of her seat. “I’ve got only half a minute,” she murmured. “Listen — do you have a laptop?”
“Yes.”
“I need something uploaded. I can’t get away to do it. And I can’t get at their systems here. Not anymore. I’ve been saving a pint of Jack and I got Wynn drunk last night. Got him to show off to me on the computer he uses to talk to the outlying Brethren. I sent him to bring me some water and he left the room, and I used a flash drive, copied a lot of email exchanges.”
“He caught you?”
“Yeah. I’d just put the thing in my pocket and he saw what I had onscreen. He was pissed off I was ‘snooping’ and he won’t let me in there again. Can’t get in without a key.”
“He suspect you?”
“I don’t know. He was pretty woozy.”
“They have their satellite internet but there’s no regular wi-fi on the property here. I’d have to take the laptop into town to upload the stuff.”
“Could you?”
“I could sneak out tonight, I guess.”
She reached into a pocket, glanced at the door, then slipped him a flash drive and piece of paper. “Everything on it needs to go to that email.”
He nodded, pocketing the slip of paper and flash drive. “See what I can do.”
“I guess — what’s to stop you from looking at what’s on there. But I didn’t give you permission. Right?”
“Right.”
Deirdre nodded, got up, and then surprised him by reaching out and putting her hand on his. “Be really careful. I mean — very.”
“Count on it.”
She got up and left without another word. Vince sat there, leafing through the Goethe, thinking that he really wanted to look at what was on that flash drive. But it was too dangerous to do it here on base…
He’d do it tonight, when he slipped away to town. If they realized he was AWOL and called him out for it later, he’d say he went off to see a girl, or get a drink, or both.
But he still had that nagging hunch…
Something was smoldering — and about to burst into flame.
*
Mac Colls was walking down the hall with Marco Ambra. “You better get geared up for training, Corporal,” Colls said.
“I’m on my way to the locker, Sarge.”
That’s when Vincent Bellator stepped out of the library up ahead. Bellator ignored them and walked off toward the lockers. Colls glared knives into Bellator’s back but kept quiet. The General insisted he was keeping Bellator in the dark about most of Firepower. Still — Colls felt like the guy was hiding something. And he’d sucker-punched Colls; humiliated him in front of the General. Bellator had to go down. But Colls would need some kind of proof against him…
Colls and Ambra passed the open library door — and they both glanced in, seeing Deirdre Corlin just getting up from a reading table.
“Ha!” murmured Ambra.
“‘Ha’ what, Corporal?” Colls asked as they walked by.
“I saw those two meet in there another time — I figure Bellator’s making his move on her. Maybe they got a — what d’you call it — a tryst planned. You know? I don’t blame him.”
“So they’ve been meeting in there?”
“Seemed like to me.”
They reached the stairs and Colls said, “Corporal — I’ve forgotten something in my office. I’ll see you out there.”
“See you there, Sarge.”
Colls turned back and strode quickly to the library — where he met Deirdre leaving. “Hey — Shield Maiden Corlin. You having meetings with Bellator? Right now we’ve got a ban on our people getting frisky with each other.”
Her face went blank — a little too blank. “Not sure what you mean, Sergeant.”
“I hear you and he are hanging out in there together. We don’t use the library for socializing.”
She shook her head. “He’s come in, once or twice, while I was studying.”
“Yeah? Studying what?”
“German. You’ll have to excuse me — I need to get a grounds permission from the General.”
“What for?”
“Mushrooms, herbs — his cook needs them.”
“So — out in the woods?”
“They don’t grow on the carpet, Sergeant.”
“Don’t get smartassed with me, woman.”
She shrugged. “Sorry. Just — like to keep a sense of humor. Okay if I go see the General now?”
“When’s your big mushroom expedition?”
“Maybe this afternoon if I have time.”
“Just see you get it done and get back into the building, with all dispatch.”
She nodded and gave him a salute and a polite smile and walked toward the General’s offices.
Colls stared after her. She meets with Bellator. Tomorrow she’s going out to the woods. Romantic assignation, mushroom hunting — or something else? She’d kept her cool, but Colls felt he’d seen a caught look in her eye when he stopped her outside the library.
If Bellator was a quisling, and he was meeting with her, maybe she was a traitor too…
*
Halfway through the afternoon, Vince was out on the range with Shaun, watching the young man shoot. A motion from the west caught Vince’s attention and he turned to see a team of Germanic Brethren escorting Agent Deirdre Corlin from the woods.
It was Mac Colls, Dale French, Gunny Hansen, and Marco Ambra, herding her along. They were about a hundred yards away, striding through a field of ferns. Her hands were behind her, probably cuffed. She stared fixedly ahead, affecting a look of puzzlement.
Vince guessed someone had followed her out to the satphone. French and Marco were carrying the aluminum box, between them, that she’d stashed in the woods. Meaning they’d found her satellite phone, her gun, and whatever else was in that box. Maybe more Jack Daniels for “trading with the natives”.
Pistol in hand pointed at Deirdre’s back, Colls had a look of surly triumph on his face.
Suddenly tautly aware of the gunshots cracking at the range, of eight men firing at the targets against the hill, Vince asked himself what the hell he was going to do now.
Must be someone — Colls, judging by his smug expression — had heard Deirdre talking in the library. They’d thought themselves talking in voices too low to be heard. But from bad timing, or a trick of acoustics they hadn’t counted on, they’d been overheard.
This is my fault, Vince told himself bitterly. I should never have suggested we meet anywhere in the building. But both of
them getting away to the woods to meet had seemed problematic.
Excuses.
If they’d heard her talking in the library, they heard who she was talking to, Vince realized.
He moved off to Shaun’s left so that the bole of a big fir tree blocked him from Colls’ view. Soon enough, Colls would be coming after Vincent Bellator with every resource at his disposal. Gustafson would give him permission once he heard the revelation about Deirdre. “‘Deirdre Johansen’ is not Deirdre Johansen… She’s a federal agent.”
Would they cancel Operation Firepower because there was a federal agent amongst them?
Doubtful. From the hints Gustafson had dropped, they would simply give the signal and send all the Brethren cells in to attack D.C. While Gustafson, likely, split for cover somewhere.
She’d stall them with some kind of story. But Vince very much doubted it would work. And they would come for him next.
The question was, what was he going to do about it?
He glanced at the men on the firing range. Rocky Chesterton was there, teaching the other men. Shaun was popping away with a carbine. Vince had his Desert Eagle with him, had the jump on them, and he might be able to kill most of them, but there were a lot of men there with automatic and semi-auto weapons and it was broad daylight.
He could slip away — but if he did, he’d leave Deirdre at their mercy. He suspected they wouldn’t kill her right away. Gustafson would want time to think it through, possibly keep her as a hostage.
At some point, they would kill her. They’d probably make it look like an accident somewhere away from the base.
Don’t delay, he told himself. Within an hour, Mac will be out here with his men looking for you. This wasn’t the time for a firefight. Have to get that message to the feds.
But there was no way he was simply leaving Deirdre Corlin and Bobby Destry here. Not for long.
He could get to town and call the FBI, tell them what had happened.
And how long would it take the feds to decide he was telling the truth? How long to get a raid organized? What would happen to Deirdre and Bobby in the meanwhile?
He couldn’t wait for the feds. But neither could he make his move right this second.
Vince leaned over, looked around the big tree. He could see Colls and the others in the distance, their backs to him, still marching Deirdre toward the base.
He could go after Deirdre’s escort and kill them all. But that’d bring hell down on him and Deirdre from everyone else on the base. They’d be out in the open.
He shook his head. First things first. Get off the base.
“Hey Shaun,” he said.
Shaun got up and turned to him. “How’m I doing, Vince?”
“Great. I’d hate to be on the wrong end of that gun. Listen.” He took a deep breath, then put a hand on Shaun’s shoulder, leaned near the young man and spoke right in his ear. “You need to think about leaving here. If there’s any shooting, anything going down… Get out. Head through the woods for town.”
Shaun stepped back and gaped at him. “What!”
“Stay chill, Shaun. Just think about what I said. I’m not fucking with you. You want to help Bobby, right?”
“Yeah, but…”
“Then stay alive and out of jail. That means leaving here first chance you get. Even before any trouble, if you’re smart. I’m going to get Bobby out of here. But I won’t be able to watch your back.”
“Oh Jesus. Does this mean what I think it means?”
“Don’t ask. Just promise me you won’t say anything to anyone. For Bobby’s sake. At least for today.” He extended his hand to Shaun. “Is it a deal?”
Shaun hesitated. Guns cracked and rattled nearby.
Then Shaun took his hand. “I guess so. For Bobby. But what are you going to do?”
Vince smiled and said, “I’m going to take a piss.”
“You’re going to…?”
“Yeah. I’m going off in the brush to take a piss. We all do it sometimes, out here. I’m going to do that right now, Shaun. And you’re going to finish your clip out on that target and think about what I told you — about what to do when things get ugly out here.”
Vince winked at him and turned away, strode into the brush. He headed off to the northwest, looking for the blaze he’d made on a scrub oak.
There it was. He ran to it, dug the pack from under the dry leaves. It had his laptop and the flash drive in it. He slung it over his shoulder, then strode toward the Brethren compound.
He’d made up his mind he’d need the Harley. Time was a serious consideration.
By the time he got to the compound, Mac and the others escorting Deirdre had gone into the building. The guards on the walls paid no attention to him as he strode up, pack over one shoulder; thus far, no alert had gone out about Vincent Bellator. But he knew it was coming.
Vince walked confidently up to his motorcycle, took the keys from the bag, put the little pack in the bike’s saddlebags, climbed onto the bike, started the engine, and rode out from through the gates.
He thought he heard someone call after him but he ignored them.
Vince rode flat-out down the road, then slowed, turning off before coming in sight of the checkpoint. He rode down a game trail, weaving his way between trees, having to go fairly slowly to get around obstacles. Once he had to lift the bike over a fallen log.
He found a dry wash heading west and rode down that past the two gates, then worked his way back up to the access road. Soon he was on the highway, riding for Stonewall. He headed there with all the speed he could manage while still making the curves.
He was wondering if he’d made a mistake telling Shaun to get out; basically letting him know that Vince Bellator was no Germanic Brethren. Maybe Shaun would decide to be a stand-up, true-blue domestic terrorist and run to Gustafson with the information.
But — he had saved Shaun’s hide in Tina’s. He’d seemed willing to trust Vince ever since.
Vince turned off just before town and rode out to the cabin. He parked the bike outside and looked the place over. It didn’t seem to have been disturbed.
He changed his clothes there, getting rid of the hated paramilitary uniform, got back on the Harley and rode to Pat’s, where he knew there was wi-wi.
Sitting in a corner booth, with coffee and pie, he immediately accessed the flash drive. He glanced through it, confirmed she had found what she’d been looking for, and uploaded it to the email Deirdre had given him, along with an advisory about what had happened to Agent Deirdre Corlin.
Then he read his own copy of the documents…
And the pieces began to come together.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You can start by telling us what your real name is,” said Mac Colls.
“It’s Deirdre Cynthia Johansen,” she said, in a fair imitation of exasperation. “This is stupid… You know me… I’ve been with the Brethren for more than a year!”
She was standing in front of Gustafson’s desk, her hands bound behind her with plastic police ties. Mac was standing to one side, Marco on the other. It was two hours after the federal agent had been captured, and Mac was frustrated that no movement had been made on Vincent Bellator and that, after cooling her heels a while in one of the basement cells, “Deirdre Johansen” was just now being interrogated by General Gustafson.
Gustafson was scowling, chewing up a Tums for an acid stomach as he looked at a printout in front of him. “Answer Mac’s question,” the General said. “What’s your real name?”
She shook her head sadly. “General — you don’t understand. I was bothered by not being able to stay in touch with my family, out here. My mother is sick, my brother was having problems, I have a fiancé — I needed to stay in touch with people. A forty-day stretch here without a phone was just not doable. So I got the satphone. And the gun — I’m just careful, that’s all. You don’t usually let Shield Maidens carry a gun.”
“We called the recent numbers used on that ph
one,” Gustafson said. “The numbers didn’t connect all the way — they required a code input to go through. A code we don’t have. What family does that?”
“Mine does, sir! We have trouble with harassment because of our views. You should understand that.”
Gustafson shrugged. “I just thought I’d see what story you’d tell us. You see, you have a serial number on that gun. We called in a favor… and traced it. It’s an FBI issue gun. And the satellite phone you use is standard for agents in the field in remote places. It’s the exact model used by the FBI.”
Mac put in, “And she was meeting with Bellator in the library, sir. More than once, the way I’ve heard it He’s with her on this, General!”
Gustafson frowned at him, looked like he was about to demur — then he winced. “Yes. It’s quite possible.” The General looked the FBI agent in the eyes and she looked back at him with bland defiance. “You won’t tell us your name?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gustafson turned the printout on his desk to face her. She saw her own face looking back at her from the file print. “The gun is registered to Deirdre Corlin, FBI. I could have led with that but — I just wanted to know if you were going to tell us without coercion. A little preview of what is to come. It appears coercion will be necessary. How about this question — is Vincent Bellator a federal agent?”
“No,” she said. “He’s what he seems to be. A professional soldier.”
“And what have you learned about us and who precisely did you tell it to?”
She hesitated, looked at the picture on the printout again, then said, “I am Deirdre Elizabeth Corlin, a federal officer of the Justice Department, FBI badge number eight-two-seven-seven-one. I can now apprise you that you are under arrest for sedition and for the abduction and restraint of a federal officer. Your best bet is to release me and come with me to town, where I can arrange for you to call your lawyer. You can then turn yourself in at—”
She was interrupted by laughter — Mac Colls and Marco were both laughing, now. Gustafson was smiling crookedly. “Quite a performance, Miss Corlin. Men, take her to the available cell, and lock her up. We’ll give her some time to think things over. Then we’ll begin the interrogation. As to what we’ll do with her after that — it really depends on her.”
