Black Flagged

by Konkoly, Steven; A. Sullivan, Felicia

  Jessica took close to five minutes to read through the warrant, which seemed like an eternity to Edwards. She handed it back, and he could see tears forming in her exotic brown eyes.

  “I still think there’s been a serious mistake. Danny served in the Navy, but not on some kind of special squad, or anything like that. He wasn’t exactly proud of his service. Felt like it was a waste of time,” she said, wiping her eyes.

  “I really can’t go into details about the source of our information, but I can assure you it is reliable. Look, we’re not saying he killed this guy, but his name is closely linked to a group that is most definitely involved in these killings. He needs to come out of hiding, and clear his name…”

  “He’s not hiding. He’s on a business trip,” she said, and Edwards sensed that her faith in the statement regarding the business trip might be fading.

  “What hotel is he staying in?” asked Edwards.

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t called…and I can’t get a hold of him on his cell phone,” she muttered.

  “Is that normal? Can we try his number?” he said.

  “Yes. No. I mean…it’s not normal, and sure, you can try his number. It just goes right to voicemail.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as odd? I’m sorry, Jess, but it’s too much of a coincidence for either me or you to ignore. I hope you’re right that he’s not involved, but frankly, something’s up, and we need to get to the bottom of it. This investigation is a matter of national security, and if he can clear some things up for us, I know I can help him out.”

  She stared at him in shock, and he could see the gravity of the situation weighing down on her. She alternated between despair and courage, but he sensed a shift downward. The spunky Jessica Petrovich he met on the kitchen floor would soon be replaced by a deflated, betrayed woman, ripe for his picking. He needed to get her out of here soon, before these local idiots ruined it for him.

  “I’m really confused here. What do I have to do? Do I have to leave my house? How long are these people going to be here?”

  “Probably all night…” he started, and his phone buzzed in his front suit pant pocket.

  “Give me a second. Sorry about this,” he said, and stepped away toward the back window of the house, making sure the SWAT guy kept his distance.

  “Special Agent Edwards,” he spoke, and listened.

  “Negative. The house is clean. I was about to call operations,” he said, and found himself listening again.

  “When? Are you sure it’s him? Alright. I’ll be in touch if we find anything,” he said, and replaced the phone in his pocket.

  “Jess, your husband is in a serious situation. A man fitting his description just killed several people in D.C., including an off-duty police officer,” he said, and realized then that he had spoken too loudly.

  He heard a commotion in the kitchen, and knew he needed to get her out of here immediately.

  “What? This isn’t Danny. He’s not capable of this,” she said, and stood up.

  She looked panicked, and Edwards needed to keep her away from police officers. He heard the words “cop killer’s wife,” and knew this could spiral out of control quickly, especially with the lack of control and professionalism displayed by local police already.

  “Jess, I think it would be in our best interest to get you out of here, and into a federal office where,” he leaned in to whisper, “these idiots have no jurisdiction. They take the cop killing thing very seriously, and I don’t know if I can control the situation with you here. We’ll head to our satellite office and figure things out there. Sound fair?”

  She nodded her head to indicate yes, but he could tell she was in a daze.

  “I need to change,” she offered weakly.

  “I’ll escort you upstairs, and you can pick out an outfit. You can change at the office. I don’t think these guys will let you out of their sight, and they may become hostile when they figure out we’re leaving,” he whispered.

  “Alright,” she said, and tried to stand up, but she looked like she might pass out.

  “Forget it. I have a better idea,” he said.

  “Special Agent Velasquez! Someone get Special Agent Velasquez,” he said, and the SWAT officer surprisingly relayed his request.

  He heard footsteps descend the stairs, and Velasquez appeared at the front of the room. She looked even uglier contrasted with Jessica Petrovich. Round face, poorly styled, light brown hair. Non-existent figure. He was pretty sure she was a lesbian, which made sense to him. He couldn’t imagine she’d have any luck with men. She approached the back of the couch, and he loathed the idea of getting close enough to her to whisper.

  “Agent Velasquez, I need you to go back upstairs, and as discreetly as possible, find Mrs. Petrovich an outfit to wear. Nothing fancy…”

  “I have one hanging up on my closet door. It’ll be fine,” Jessica said with a catatonic look on her face.

  Velasquez looked confused.

  “Word just got out that her husband killed an off-duty cop in D.C. I need to get her out of here before things get out of hand, and she shuts down on us completely,” he whispered, hoping Jessica couldn’t hear what he said.

  Agent Velasquez glanced past Edwards at Jessica, who was staring at the wall with a blank expression.

  “Might be too late for that,” she said.

  “Just get the outfit.”

  “Got it. I’ll have Ravenell bring the outfit and the keys to the car. All of our gear is offloaded, so you won’t have to stick around,” she said, and turned to leave.

  “My purse too, please. It’s in the kitchen. I have some makeup in there,” said Jessica.

  “Uh…sure hon,” said the agent.

  “Let’s give them a minute, and we’ll walk you out of here,” he whispered to Jessica.

  “Thank you,” she said, lightly touching his knee with her hand.

  He felt a surge of adrenaline pour through his body with the touch. Electric energy tingled throughout, stimulating all of his senses at once. He worried that he might ejaculate in his pants on the couch if she moved her hand closer to his groin. He didn’t want her to remove her hand, but he would need to stand up in a minute, and he was worried that everyone would see his growing erection. He couldn’t imagine the sensation he’d feel if she touched his manhood. She’d have to help him with this later, and he had a plan to make this happen. But first, he had to regain control of himself, and get her out of here without completely embarrassing himself.

  He stood up and turned away from her, breaking the connection, pretending to check on the police progress in the kitchen. He saw Agent Ravenell grab her purse, and they shared a knowing glance. Once Ravenell began walking toward the front door, Edwards took Jessica’s hand, almost stopping dead in his tracks from the sheer ecstasy of her touch, and took her to the front door. The SWAT officer at the doorway leading out of the family room accosted them.

  “Where are you headed with her?”

  Instead of insulting the officer, he went with a different approach, which required all of the restraint Edwards could muster.

  “I’m taking her outside to get some fresh air. She doesn’t look so good. Excuse us,” he said, and edged past the officer.

  They got to the door before the officer spoke into his headset, obviously no longer under Edward’s spell. He heard some commotion in the kitchen just as Agent Ravenell met them and handed Jessica the purse.

  “Outfit’s in the car. Car keys are in the purse,” he whispered to Edwards.

  Ravenell turned back toward the hallway, just as a tall man dressed in a navy blue suit appeared in the kitchen, and started his way toward them. He cleverly positioned himself in the man’s way, pretending to be confused, trying to buy Edwards some time. The agent’s quick reaction allowed Edwards to move Jessica halfway across the lawn before he heard footsteps closing in.

  “Excuse me,” said an insistent voice, and Edwards turned toward the source of his newest level of harassm
ent and potential embarrassment.

  He found himself standing several feet from an incredibly tall, stocky man in a dark blue suit, who had placed both hands on his hips and cocked his head slightly to one side. Blue and red strobe lights bathed the seasoned police officer’s face, and his grayish hair absorbed each color that passed over the tight haircut. He looked deadly serious, and had a commanding presence that made Edwards nervous. The man’s face betrayed no emotion, regarding Edwards with disinterest. He was suddenly very aware of the several civilians, probably neighbors, who were standing about thirty feet away in an adjacent yard, perfectly situated to watch the brewing showdown. He wouldn’t back down. Not for these bullies.

  “Yes?”

  “Where are you going with her?” said the man, and Edwards caught a glimpse of a silver badge under his suit coat, at waist level.

  “I’m sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Special Agent Justin Edwards. I’m in charge of this entire investigation. And you?”

  “Lieutenant Ken Moody. Portland Police Department. This entire operation is under my control, and I can’t let you take a key witness away from the scene,” he said, taking a step forward.

  Edwards was accustomed to this game, and stood his ground.

  “And it was a well-executed high risk warrant operation, but I need to move the witness to a more secure location for questioning,” said Edwards.

  “I can’t imagine a more secure location. Every SWAT officer within fifty miles is on scene,” said Moody.

  “I’m looking for something lower profile, with fewer distractions. She had a rough go of it in there, and I don’t think she’ll be much of a help to the investigation while half of Maine’s police force tears her house apart,” he said.

  “Look, if she has information about her husband, she’s not leaving my sight. We have a cop down because of her husband,” said Moody.

  “She’s not a suspect in any local crime, right?” he said and waited two seconds before continuing through Moody’s icy stare. “Right. I’ll pass any relevant information regarding Daniel Petrovich through your office. I have the liaison’s number. If any of your men attempt to stop me, or Mrs. Petrovich, I’ll make sure you’re cutting bait on one of those lobster boats out there by the end of the month,” said Edwards, and he turned around.

  “I’m filing an official complaint with your office, Special Agent Edwards. Your colleague at the local field office warned us about you. This is ridiculous,” he said.

  “File away, lieutenant. I’m pretty sure nobody in D.C. will give a shit about your whining. This investigation is a matter of national security. It’s for the big boys and girls, not crybabies,” he said, and walked to the car with Jessica, fully expecting to get punched in the back of the neck.

  Always the gentleman, he opened the front passenger door for Jessica, avoiding the burning stare from Moody as he crossed back over to his own door. After he was seated behind the wheel of the distasteful rental car, he opened the purse in her lap without her permission, digging around inside it. She protested his invasion of privacy, but he pulled out the car keys before it got serious, and started the car.

  He glanced around, checking for any of the local idiots that might decide to take matters into their own hands. Lieutenant Moody just stared at the car shaking his head, then spoke into a radio. An officer hopped into the Suburban immediately forward of Edward’s car, and moved it out of his way onto the Petrovich’s driveway. Edwards edged his own car forward and squeezed by the second Suburban. By the time he picked up speed, a few more police vehicles had moved to let him pass.

  So that’s it, he thought. Show a little balls, and get a little respect. He despised the low level of functioning that embodied their bullying world. None of this was tolerated in the FBI, where competence and intelligence was valued more than your ability to “square off” against another colleague. Then again, he had to remind himself there was a reason he investigated national security level crimes, and these guys sniffed around dumpsters all day.

  “You alright?” he said, as the car cleared the maze of flashing red and blue police lights.

  “I think so. I just want to talk to my husband. Something is wrong here, and I don’t know how to help him,” she said.

  “The best thing you can do to help him is to convince him to come out of hiding. To turn himself in to us. He’s in serious danger from the types of guys you saw back at the house. They don’t care if there was mix up. His name and face went out on a national alert. They kill him if they find him before we do.”

  “Why would he be hiding?” she said.

  He really hoped it was the shock of the situation that was causing her to fail to grasp the implications of her husband’s predicament. If she was just plain stupid, it would detract from the overall experience. Then again, what did he care? He’d fucked plenty of stupid women before, but he’d never taken any of those relationships beyond the bedroom. He had thought this one might be different.

  “I think we both know he’s hiding, Jessica. Let’s get somewhere quiet, and figure this out.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To our satellite office on Middle Street. We have a conference room and a few spare offices. Nice and quiet,” he said, and savored the idea of being alone with her in that office, though he suspected the resident agent would insist on being present.

  He’d let the comment made by Lieutenant Moody about the resident agent slide for now. He needed as much cooperation as possible from the locals, and Special Agent Margaret D’Angelo seemed to be on good footing with the Portland Police Department. He’d pay her back later for the comment Moody mentioned. He had a few like-minded connections in the right places, and he’d do whatever he could to make sure she continued to draw shitty assignments like Portland, Maine. The fewer uppity women in the major field offices, the better.

  “Can we grab something to eat on the way? I haven’t eaten since lunch,” she said, confirming his earlier observation in the kitchen.

  Now he would be able to work his magic. He had always been better at the interrogation side of the business, and had no intention of caving in to her needs so quickly. Like a hostage negotiation, Edwards needed to get something from Jessica before he indulged her in any comforts. This was shaping up to be a perfect evening.

  “Let’s get settled in at the office, and come up with a plan to help your husband, then we can take a walk to one of the restaurants in the Old Port. My treat. I just want to get the ball rolling here. He may not have a lot of time.”

  She nodded absently at his comment, and he could feel that this would turn out to be a very productive night for him. He pulled out his cell phone and placed a call to Special Agent D’Angelo.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  9:15 PM

  FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C.

  Special Agent Sharpe stood in the middle of his operations center, listening intently to the multiple streams of chatter emanating from his agents. He kept a constant eye on the screens mounted to the wall at the front of the room, and occasionally glanced at his assistant, Special Agent Mendoza, who just shook his head every time their eyes met. None of the raids had yielded a suspect, and most of the teams had reported. If they came up empty tonight, he had no idea where they could turn.

  He still had Munoz, but that would quickly become a sticky situation once the lawyers figured out that he had been transferred to FBI Headquarters. According to the immunity agreement signed by the Justice Department, Munoz should be back in Hartford, closing up his coffee shops. Instead, Munoz was hopefully sitting handcuffed in the back of a van, surrounded by Boston’s FBI SWAT contingent, heading across Connecticut along Interstate 95. Sharpe wasn’t about to lose his only lead so quickly, especially if they come up with nothing from the raids.

  As he scanned the room again, he caught Special Agent O’Reilly’s eye, and she nodded discreetly, maintaining eye contact for a few seconds. Intrigued, Sharpe made his way over to her workstation. Me
ndoza saw the furtive transaction, and started to drift in the same direction, but Sharpe cautiously shook his head. Mendoza gave him a quick nod of acknowledgement, and returned to his previous position at the communications desk. Sharpe didn’t want to draw any unwarranted attention to Special Agent O’Reilly’s research, and having both of them at one workstation, huddled over a screen, wouldn’t help matters. The fewer people involved, the better, and if it became necessary, he could make an argument to have O’Reilly’s CIS agreement augmented to Level One.

  “Did you find anything?” said Sharpe.

  “Something rather interesting, but I’m not sure it’s going to help. I got a hit on the INTERPOL database for Daniel Petrovich. Take a look,” she said typing furiously at her keyboard, as one of her screens split into two similar images.

  One contained Daniel Petrovich’s driver’s license image, with statistics and basic information listed below; the other screen showed a grainier image, most likely taken from a camera using a zoom lens, but there was little doubt that the two images showed the same man. INTERPOL’s own system gave the match a 96% accuracy rating, and he was sure that the FBI’s own facial matching software would agree.

  He studied the sparse details on the INTERPOL Wanted poster.

  A Warrant for the Arrest of Marko Resja, suspected of war crimes related murder, is issued on behalf of The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia.

  He glanced at Agent O’Reilly, who turned her head slightly, and raised an eyebrow. At this point, the sooner she signed a new CIS agreement, the better. This information could ignite a firestorm if it fell into the wrong hands. Daniel Petrovich was listed on active duty in the Navy during the period of time covered by the warrant. He couldn’t imagine the fallout this could create. An active duty United States service member somehow connected with Serbian war crimes? What in God’s name had General Sanderson done with this group?