Black Flagged

by Konkoly, Steven; A. Sullivan, Felicia

  Berg immediately relayed the information to the team leader at the hotel. His next call went to Keller, hoping to catch him outside of the Sanctum. He needed to know how much progress the FBI had made since accessing the Black Flag file.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  8:20 PM

  Marriott Inn and Conference Center, College Park, Maryland

  Daniel Petrovich walked out of the elevator into the Marriott lobby and studied his surroundings. The hotel’s decor was modernistic. Shiny off-white marble floors contrasted with dark, mahogany walls, which were sporadically adorned with bright impressionist art. The lobby of the 226 room hotel was deserted except for the hotel staff at the desk to his left, and a small party of adults laughing inside the bar located down the hallway in the opposite direction of the reception area. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary as he turned toward the main door that led into the courtyard adjoining the hotel with the conference center.

  He was dressed in a simple, business casual outfit that wouldn’t have garnered a second glance in the Capitol, or any street in America: dark leather shoes, wheat brown pleated pants, and a blue oxford shirt covered by a lightweight, dark blue golfing jacket. The black duffel bag in his right hand was the only part of his outfit that might warrant a second pass from a security guard or police officer, but he didn’t have to worry about that here.

  He scanned the remaining lobby space as he passed the desk, paying close attention to the faces of the hotel employees manning the reception area. He didn’t register any response other than a smile and a nod from the young black kid talking on one of the hotel phones. The other hotel employee, a middle aged, white woman with heavy makeup and bleached hair never looked up from whatever she was reading under the counter.

  He didn’t expect anyone to have found him at this point, but there was no reason to let his guard down. He wasn’t completely sure of Sanderson’s intentions, or the extent of his resources, so he would have to assume the worst. Even if he was completely safe for the moment, treating the situation as extremely hazardous would help him transition back into the mindset that had been drilled into him for close to four years in the Black Flag training program.

  Although it still felt like second nature to him, he accepted the reality that his skills and capabilities had degraded over the six years since he escaped Serbia. He still kept in top physical condition, practiced martial arts, and maintained his marksmanship skills, but nothing could replace continuously sharpening all of these skills in an environment where the slightest advantage gained over an adversary or situation could spell the difference between life and death. Two years in Serbia had sharpened these skills to perfection, and although his current skill level remained at a fraction of his previous level, it would still stack up heavily against any adversary Sanderson might throw at him.

  The lobby door slid open, and he was greeted by muggy, slightly polluted mid-Atlantic air. He noticed a few couples seated in the courtyard, at tables scattered around the patio area, enjoying a temperate, but humid evening. The clear sky still held some light on the western horizon, casting a deep blue ribbon that faded into stars above the hotel, competing with the orange artificial illumination cast by the decorative sodium vapor street lamps surrounding the courtyard.

  A stocky man dressed in dark pants and a short-sleeved green polo shirt sat alone on one of the granite stone benches at the far edge of the courtyard, near the walkway leading to a large parking garage that probably served the University of Maryland College Park campus. Daniel shifted his duffel bag over to his left hand, freeing his most capable side for action. From what he could tell, the man had a briefcase open next to him on the bench, and was concentrating on some paperwork inside. He thought it was a little late for glancing at papers.

  Petrovich wandered to the right, away from the man on the bench, and toward the parking lot where he had parked the rental car. He didn’t look back to see if the man was following him. There was plenty of time to do that without attracting attention.

  **

  Jeremy Cummings, ex-Navy SEAL, flipped his cell phone closed and focused on the green picture cast by a powerful third generation night vision spotting scope. He grabbed a radio handset sitting on the dashboard in front of him, and gave brief instructions to his man keeping watch in the courtyard.

  “Garrity, our man might be on the move. Keep a tight watch around you,” he said.

  “Stand by,” echoed inside the black Suburban, and there was a pause.

  “Did he already exit the hotel?” crackled Garrity over the radio.

  “How the fuck am I supposed to know. This guy is killing me,” Cummings said to the two other men in the SUV, who all chuckled softly as Cummings transmitted his official answer.

  “All we know is that he could be on the move. Do you have something?”

  “Affirmative. Male fitting general characteristics carrying a black duffel bag. Headed your way, but his hair is blond, not black. You should have him in a few seconds. He’s walking down the stairs to the lot.”

  “Got him. We need a positive ID before we move. Garrity, start walking toward the parking lot. Stay out of his line of vision,” Cummings said

  “Roger,” they all heard through the radio.

  Ben Sanchez, former Green Beret, lowered his tinted window far enough to push a thick, tubular camera lens through to start snapping pictures. The camera was connected to a laptop that sat jammed against the steering wheel, in Doug Porter’s lap. Cummings heard the camera taking pictures, and focused all of his attention on the night vision scope. His 5X magnification couldn’t make a positive ID until the target moved deeper into the parking lot.

  The team’s black Suburban was parked four rows back from the entrance, buried far enough into the lot to blend with the other cars, but keeping an unobstructed view of the walkway leading down from the hotel’s courtyard. Once the ID was made, they would slip out of the car and take Petrovich down as he walked through the quiet parking area.

  The car was silent for several seconds, while Cummings watched the man cross a small street and enter the parking lot. He could see Garrity’s head emerge over the top of the walkway stair, and hoped it wasn’t visible to their target. Garrity hadn���t been his first choice for this operation, but Mr. Jackson wanted two full teams out the door and on the road immediately, and he had run out of experienced faces at their compound.

  Garrity had joined Brown River’s Special Missions Group (SMG) two months ago after leaving the Rangers, where he had seen heavy combat with the 3rd Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, in both Afghanistan and Iraq. Still, Cummings didn’t think Sergeant Nathan Garrity belonged with his guys in the SMG.

  Regardless of the 75th Ranger Regiment’s classification as a special operations unit, Cummings never saw the Rangers as anything but better trained infantry. They jumped out of planes, fast roped down from helicopters and pulled tough missions, but they weren’t “operators.” He reserved that term for SEALs, Force Recon, Green Berets and Delta Force. Membership in this club wasn’t open to Rangers.

  He started to mumble about Garrity, when he was interrupted.

  “It’s him. Confirmed,” the driver said, slamming the laptop shut in an overly excited manner, and tossed it in the back seat.

  “Let’s go. Move fast and stay low. Ben, you hit him with the nonlethal first. Dougie bags him. I’ll cover you both and keep Garrity from accidentally killing any of you,” he said.

  His last command went to Garrity, telling him to stay up in the courtyard until he received the signal. Cummings quickly attached his radio set to a cord protruding from his black tactical vest. They were now all linked together through voice activated throat microphone headsets, to keep their hands free. Garrity monitored the situation through a small transparent earpiece hidden in his left ear.

  The entire team exited the Suburban on the driver’s side, forcing Cummings to climb over the center console, and slide out onto the parking lot’s warm pavemen
t, careful not to hit the horn. They quickly stacked themselves along the side of the Suburban, and Cummings reacquired Petrovich through the tinted glass, watching as Petrovich approached the first row of cars in the lot.

  Cummings leaned back. “If he stays in the center, we’ll fan out simultaneously and take him down. If he turns, we’ll weave low through the cars. Hit him quick,” he whispered to his team.

  Once the team sprang into action, they would be on Petrovich with enough electrical current to drop a gorilla. If they couldn’t make that happen, then Cummings would cut him down with his silenced MP-9 submachine gun. Dead or alive, Petrovich would leave in the back of their Suburban.

  Cummings glanced through the large tinted window again, and saw that Petrovich had turned in front of the first row, and was now opening a sedan parked in one of the handicapped spaces.

  “Son of a bitch. Back into the vehicle,” snapped Cummings.

  The team scrambled back into their seats, as a Dodge Charger drifted slowly out of the parking lot, and took a left out of the parking lot.

  “Get us moving, Dougie. We can’t lose him. We’ll have to take him down when he stops,” said Cummings, as the Suburban lurched backwards into the lot toward the exit.

  “What about Garrity?” asked Doug.

  “We don’t have time for him,” Cummings said, just as Garrity appeared running at the top of the stairs.

  “He should be here any-”

  “Step on it!” interrupted Cummings, and Doug Porter pressed the accelerator, leaving Garrity behind.

  Cummings saw a sedan cross Adelphi Road, merging onto Route 193 West, which headed toward Silver Spring, Maryland. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call to his second team, which was positioned to keep an eye on 8800 Lanier Drive in Silver Spring. He wanted the second team ready to pounce when Petrovich arrived. As far as the team could tell, Parker was still inside the apartment, which is where Cummings wanted to keep him. As long as he stayed inside, there was no way Parker could react in time to help Petrovich.

  **

  Petrovich ripped the stolen handicap sign off the rearview mirror and accelerated the over-powered Dodge Charger onto Route 193. He glanced into the rearview mirror, just in time to see the Suburban pass through a red light at the Adelphi Road intersection. He could barely believe anyone had found him this quickly, but took some solace in the fact that these were not law enforcement types. If the FBI had discovered that he was staying at the Marriott, they would have probably sealed off the entire building, until they figured out that Scott Barber had checked in late in the afternoon, and had rented a car between College Park and BWI. He could have expected a heavily armed SWAT team lined up in the hallway outside of his room.

  Another thing was certain; the team following him in the Suburban was not comprised of clandestine intelligence professionals. The guy sitting in the courtyard would not have peaked Daniel’s interest under normal circumstances, but given the very abnormal nature of his visit to D.C., a stocky guy with a tight military haircut raised an alarm. Even if he hadn’t been spooked by the guy, the team in the Suburban would have been impossible to miss, even for a trainee. He had identified the oversized black vehicle as suspicious from the top of the stairs, and was rewarded with a confirmation moments later. While he descended the stairs from the courtyard, the rear passenger window lowered several inches, and Daniel caught the reflection of a lens through the opening.

  Regardless of their espionage skill level, he had no doubt that the team was lethal. The guy in the courtyard looked formidable. Definitely ex-military. He needed to warn Parker immediately. If someone could find Daniel this easily, he didn’t have high hopes for Sanderson’s assistant. Parker was worse than the guys in the Suburban when it came to sneaking around.

  He pulled the cellphone out of his front jacket pocket, lowered the driver’s window and tossed it out onto the road. He had no idea how they had tracked him, but he couldn’t help suspect that someone had been able to work some serious magic intercepting cell phone transmissions. He didn’t know a lot about the technology used to do this, but most of the controversy surrounding the Patriot Act centered around the government’s ability to electronically eavesdrop on its citizens. Daniel assumed the worst, which was why he used several different prepaid phones. He unzipped a pocket on the outside of the duffel bag sitting on the front passenger seat, and took out another cellphone to call Parker.

  Parker answered on the first ring.

  “Parker, shut up and listen carefully. I’m being tracked by a black Suburban filled with guys that look like you. They were waiting for me outside of my hotel, and I think they were planning to take me down right there. I’d be shocked if this was the only black Suburban filled with commandos on the streets around here. I’m on 193 headed in your direction.”

  “Understood. I’ll hit the streets with our gear, and wait for you to shake the Suburban. We should meet at a different safe house,” said Parker.

  “Parker, I don’t think you’re fully appreciating the situation. If they found me, there is a solid chance that you have the same problem at your location. Frankly, I don’t care if you get stuffed into the trunk of a car, but I have a feeling that General Sanderson might care. Stay put until I can draw them away from you,” said Petrovich.

  “What’s your plan?” asked Parker.

  “I might stop for some groceries. Any suggestions?”

  “There’s a nice Whole Foods on the way through town. Find Wayne Avenue from 193. You’ll see it as you approach the downtown avenue,” said Parker.

  “What the fuck is a Whole Foods?” said Petrovich.

  “Organic grocery store. Good coffee. You’ll like it.”

  “Will it be busy?”

  “Busy enough. The aisles are crowded. Shit jammed everywhere. You should be able to disappear in the store,” said Parker.

  “I don’t have any intention of vanishing. Just evening the odds a bit. Be ready to move with our gear when I call. We’ll need to leave Silver Spring immediately. You need to let Sanderson know that the situation in D.C. has changed,” Petrovich said, and ended the call.

  **

  “What the fuck is this guy doing?” said Cummings.

  The Charger cruised into a parking lot off Wayne Avenue, and Cummings saw a large green illuminated Whole Foods sign appear between the trees. He wondered exactly how dangerous Petrovich could be, if he was stopping in the middle of a terrorist operation to chase down healthy snacks. Maybe he planned to stock the safe house with food. It didn’t matter now. Cummings had new orders. He had called this guy Berg to report their missed opportunity at the Marriott, and Berg changed the rules of engagement significantly. He told Cummings that Petrovich was too much of national security danger to take any more risks, and ordered them to terminate Petrovich with extreme prejudice at the next given opportunity. This might well be that opportunity.

  “Slow down, and stay back, Goddamn it. We’ll follow him into the lot, and set up around his car. Ben, you’ll pick him up in the store, and call us when he’s coming out. We have orders to kill this guy on the spot,” he hissed.

  “Jesus,” whispered Doug, turning the wheel of the car to follow Petrovich.

  The parking lot was half full, and Petrovich picked the first open handicapped space, about two cars back from the storefront, and two rows to the right of the entrance. Cummings was surprised by how quickly Petrovich was out of the car and moving toward the grocery store. Ben Sanchez spoke up from the back seat.

  “Jer? What if we lose him in the store? He could walk out on Fenton Street and disappear. There’s a street entrance on the other side, and it leads right down to the train station. We’re screwed if he hops the Metro.”

  Cummings thought about the situation while the Suburban settled into a parking spot several spaces back from the store, providing them with perfect line of sight toward the entrance and the target’s car. He could still see Petrovich walking toward the store. Two more seconds passe
d, and Cummings made a decision. They would follow the terrorist into Whole Foods and kill him. They were at war with Al Qaeda, and this traitorous son of a bitch was helping them bring the war back onto U.S. soil. Petrovich would die in that store.

  “New plan, Ben. Strip down to street clothes. Silenced pistols only. Let’s go!”

  Cummings and Sanchez got out of the Suburban and hastily removed all of their tactical gear. Comms gear, vests and pistol rigs piled up on their seats within ten seconds, as each man hurried to shed all visual cues that would normally cause civilian panic. Cummings screwed a four-inch silencer onto the threaded barrel of his .40 USP Tactical Compact, and tucked the pistol into the rear waistline of his faded jeans, barely covering it with the bottom of his tight fitting dark blue sweatshirt. The pistol’s silencer made it nearly impossible to jam the gun far enough down his pants to stay in place. He would have to keep a hand on it the whole time. Sanchez was having the same problem.

  “Don’t worry about it, just keep the gun out of sight for now,” Cummings advised, walking rapidly toward the Whole Foods entrance.

  He turned around and yelled to Doug, “Get the other team over here now!”

  **

  Daniel walked into the store and was immediately treated to cold, lavender-scented air, infused with the rich smell of cooked food. He was also greeted by a layout that did not resemble a typical grocery store, which presented him with a challenge. He wished he had kept driving to the Giant food store on the other side of the town center. He had never been inside a Whole Foods store, and though it felt infinitely more comfortable than the standard fluorescent lit food mausoleums he normally frequented, right now he needed familiarity. Grimacing, he grabbed a green plastic hand basket from a pile just inside of the sliding glass doors, and walked into the produce section, which appeared to be the only section of the store located where Daniel expected.

  He moved quickly through the crowded section, trying to put as much distance between himself and whoever might have left the Suburban to follow him. He really wanted to get them into one of the long aisles, where he would be able to pull off a few of his better tricks. He nearly broke into a jog when he exited the maze-like produce area, and still saw no aisles. He stumbled into another section, filled with more vegetables and walls of refrigerated items. He risked a glance back at the entrance, but did not see anyone that looked suspicious.