Black Flagged

by Konkoly, Steven; A. Sullivan, Felicia

  “Had to be CIA. I’m surprised the General didn’t want Keller eliminated. Aside from the limited information sent to the FBI, Keller’s photographic memory is all that’s left,” said Farrington.

  “We still don’t know the motivation behind the Brown River fiasco. They were sent on a specific mission against one of our guys, but in the context of today’s events, the reason appears to be unrelated. The General wants to be able to close the loop on this,” said Parker, taking the car onto Interstate 395, headed into the heart of D.C.

  “Where are we headed next?” asked Farrington, unconsciously touching his chest and the thick stack of papers hidden underneath his jacket.

  “First, we need to make a pickup at The Mall. Then, we’ll go underground and wait for the next mission,” said Parker.

  “Any idea what the next mission is?”

  “None. I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants since yesterday. It sounds like Sanderson’s plan is mostly intact. The Brown River thing has been the only deviation so far, but they’re out of the picture at this point,” said Parker, and the car eased left onto Route One north.

  “How do we know they’re out of the picture?” said Farrington, glancing nervously behind them through the rear windshield.

  “Because most of the team is dead, and the rest are in custody,” said Parker, scanning the street ahead for Independence Avenue.

  “I didn’t think we had a team in place here,” said the colonel. “It sounded like we would be mostly on our own until the rendezvous.”

  “We don’t have a team here. The only active team available is waiting in Stamford,” he said, making the turn onto Independence Avenue.

  “Then who took out the hit team?”

  Parker’s cell phone beeped, and he flipped it open to read the screen. He pushed it back into the center console, and turned left a few seconds later, at an empty green light on Seventh Street Southwest.

  “Hold that thought a second,” Parker said, and cruised slowly up to intersection of Seventh and Jefferson, just as the light turned yellow.

  The car kept moving at an even pace, and cleared the light before Farrington saw any red at the top of the front windshield. The car slowed for a pedestrian walkway as it entered the tree lined Henry Park area of the Mall. The area was poorly lit, the lighting sustained by a single streetlamp set several feet back along the pedestrian path cutting across the street. Though darker than Farrington had expected, the background illumination from the immense Smithsonian buildings cast enough ambient light to feel relatively safe, as evidenced by the large number of people present on the walkway.

  Farrington saw Parker flash the left turn signal, then the right signal, sliding the car into a parking spot on the right side of the street. A man wearing a backpack broke off from a small group passing their car along the sidewalk, and opened the back door, sliding into the back seat.

  “Colonel Farrington, meet Daniel Petrovich. He managed to single-handedly solve our problem with Brown River tonight,” said Parker, putting the car back into gear as soon as the rear door shut.

  “What the fuck took you so long? Pleased to meet you, Colonel.”

  “The General moved up the colonel’s timetable significantly. I had to pick the colonel up from the Pentagon immediately. You’re not the only one busy here tonight,” said Parker.

  “Generals, colonels…this sounds like a game of Stratego. When do I get a rank? And please tell me we are leaving the city. Every law enforcement officer within fifty miles is looking for me,” said Petrovich.

  “We’re moving to a safe house in Alexandria, to meet up with General Sanderson. We need to take a look at the laptops you pulled from the Suburbans. See how much they know about us,” he said.

  “He’s gonna be there?” asked Petrovich.

  “He was there when I talked to him twenty minutes ago,” said Parker.

  “You better let him know we’re on the way. He might not want to be there when I arrive,” said Petrovich.

  “What’s up with him?” said Farrington, addressing Parker.

  Petrovich cut off Parker’s response. “I’ll tell you what’s up. About thirty-one hours ago, I was living a pretty normal life. Married to the woman I love, working a decent job and spreading mulch around my garden beds…then this guy shows up, and here I am. Wanted for murder and God knows what else. I have General Sanderson to thank for all of this. Just remember, Colonel, once Sanderson sinks his hooks into you, there’s no escape. He’ll squeeze the last bit of usefulness out of you, and discard your carcass with the rest of the human compost he’s created.”

  They rode in silence for several minutes before Petrovich interrupted the quiet. “We’re going to need someplace further than Alexandria. It’s only four miles from here. Jesus, get us outside the Beltway at least.”

  “We’ll stop in Alexandria, grab some gear and figure out what we’re doing next. We’re almost there anyway,” said Parker, pointing at the signs for Alexandria and Interstate 495.

  “Sanderson better have a good plan worked out. I need to get as far away from this city as possible. You guys really fucked me on this one,” said Petrovich.

  “We’re all fucked. None of us will be able to call this place home again,” said Farrington.

  “Yeah? What did you do that’ll keep you on the run for the rest of your life?” Petrovich asked sarcastically.

  “I stole the only remaining copy of the Black Flag file, which is by all counts, a treasonous offense, punishable by life imprisonment. In the process, I killed a Pentagon employee and assaulted agents from the FBI and CIA. Don’t lecture me about being screwed,” said Farrington.

  “When are you going to rack up a body count, Parker? I’d feel better if I knew you were just as fucked as the good colonel and I,” said Petrovich.

  “Don’t worry. I believe I’m an accessory to every murder today,” said Parker.

  “Good point. I’ll be sure to offer that up for a deal if I get caught. Though it appears someone beat me to it today. Who ratted us out?” said Petrovich.

  “We’re working on that. The General doesn’t like to leave loose ends,” said Parker.

  “That’s good to know, as long as you’re never classified as a loose end. I’d hold onto that file for a while, Colonel,” said Petrovich.

  “Nice. I don’t think you understand what’s going on here today,” said Farrington.

  “I really don’t. Anytime someone would like to open up and share, don’t hesitate,” said Petrovich.

  Farrington turned his head back to Petrovich, but Parker shook his head.

  “General Sanderson plans to explain everything to you. You’re part of something bigger than you can imagine,” said Parker.

  “I have a big imagination.”

  “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” said Parker, and Farrington nodded.

  “Gentlemen, I’m intrigued. Let’s find Sanderson, because now I have to hear him explain how ruining my life can possible yield a pleasant surprise. I hope he’s in Alexandria.”

  “I guess we’ll find out soon,” Colonel Farrington said, as the car veered north onto Route 1, headed into the heart of Alexandria.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  9:46 PM

  Interstate 95, outside of Stamford, Connecticut

  Special Agent Heather Olson sat in the front passenger seat of an unmarked FBI Chevy Tahoe, carefully studying the multiple brake lights appearing ahead of them. The driver, dressed in full SWAT gear, without helmet, slowed the Tahoe as Olson radioed the Connecticut state police. They were entering the outer limits of Stamford, Connecticut, and traffic had been relatively light, until now. They had left Boston a few minutes before seven, and had avoided most traffic, only running into a slight backup on the 91 in Hartford. Every time the Tahoe decelerated, Olson tensed. She didn’t feel comfortable transporting Munoz by car, but Sharpe thought an air transfer would be even riskier. Too many predictable points of passage.

  She didn
’t agree, but she kept her concerns quiet. The assignment to handle Munoz was a significant opportunity for Olson, and she didn’t want to sour it right at the end. They had managed to break Munoz, and provide headquarters with information that kept the investigation moving forward. It was the FBI’s only win today, and she had spearheaded the entire effort with Gregory Carlisle’s help. His team had performed brilliantly throughout the interrogation phase, and she appreciated the opportunity to work with such an FBI legend.

  She received word from the state police that there had been an accident just past exit ten, on the westbound side, which involved several vehicles. He stated that the accident involved a few minor injuries and mostly superficial damage to the vehicles, but that the westbound lanes were closed. They were diverting all traffic through exit ten, which emptied onto Ledge Road and reemerged on the other side of the accident, about a half-mile down from the exit. Olson notified the state police that they were transporting a federal prisoner, and requested that they clear the stretch of Ledge Road for their three vehicle convoy. The state troopers said they would stop all further traffic from exiting the highway until they arrived.

  Olson picked up a different radio, and spoke with the tactical teams in each vehicle, relaying standard operating instructions, and warning them to stay vigilant. Her own SUV carried three SWAT agents from the Boston field office, including the driver, and the rear SUV carried four additional SWAT agents. The prisoner transport vehicle, a windowless Ford Econoline van on loan from the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department, carried a mix of six FBI and Suffolk County Sherriff’s Department SWAT personnel and a Suffolk County driver. They had sufficient firepower to repel any attempt to free Munoz, but what she feared most was an assassination attempt. Munoz had blown the lid on a major clandestine operation involving some nasty people, and a retribution strike was highly likely. They would be defenseless against an improvised explosive device, or any similar massive attempt to destroy one of their vehicles. None of the trucks were armored.

  The vehicles tightened their column formation, activated their blue strobe lights and veered onto the shoulder of the road, speeding past the slowing traffic. Agent Olson could see the state trooper’s red and blue strobes in the distance, which meant she had a clear shot at reaching the exit. She told the driver to accelerate.

  They arrived at the top of the exit, and the state troopers executed their plan flawlessly. One of the two police cars moved to block the exit, and the other moved far enough into the exit roadway to allow the FBI convoy to roll past. The strobe lights bathed the Tahoe’s interior as they rumbled through the gravel past the two police cars.

  The road ahead of them was not empty, and Olson became annoyed. She had specifically requested that the road be emptied of all civilian traffic, but she could see several cars stopped at an intersection below the Interstate overpass. Her dashboard mounted GPS receiver indicated that this was Noroton Avenue, and for some reason, the police officers in the intersection were letting traffic onto their road, flowing in the opposite direction.

  Olson radioed the state police as their convoy slowed to an uncomfortable stop next to a busy diner parking lot, and the cars in front of them attempted to move to the side of the road. Olson could tell that they wouldn’t have enough room to maneuver down the middle of the one-lane road, unless the oncoming traffic was stopped. She counted several cars, until she received word that the officers at the intersection were halting all Noroton Avenue traffic. Once the last car passed them, they pulled around the line of cars, and sped toward the intersection. Nobody in the van or the lead SUV noticed that the rear SUV failed to follow them.

  As they sped past Noroton Avenue onto the highway ramp, Olson could see the highway lights emerge beyond the road ahead. She started to loosen up, and took a deep breath. What she heard next nearly sent her into cardiac arrest. Her intra-vehicle radio crackled to life.

  “I’ve lost the rear van.”

  “Shit. Stop the van,” she ordered, drawing her pistol from a hip holster jammed up against the door.

  A second later, she heard someone in the back seat say “oh shit,” right before their Tahoe was T-boned from the left by a gigantic pickup truck, grinding both vehicles to a halt in the middle of the on-ramp. Agent Olson’s head and pistol slammed against the passenger window, shattering the glass. The prisoner van barely screeched to a stop just behind the tangled heap of American built trucks. Shadowy figures emerged from the tree line several meters away to the right, wearing gas masks and carrying assault weapons. They broke up into two teams of three, each team carrying a large metal canister connected to portable compression gear. They nestled in low on each of the convoy vehicles.

  **

  Munoz sat facing two SWAT agents in the middle of the van. The transport van was an aging ten passenger Econoline monster, reconfigured for correctional system use. The first two rows of seating faced each other, so a sheriff, or in this case, two SWAT officers, could accompany prisoners. The third row behind Munoz was occupied by two more heavily breathing SWAT guys, one of whom kept jamming his knee into Munoz’s back.

  He was secured by his ankles and wrists to the solid metal structure buried underneath the seat’s thin plastic cushioning. He couldn’t budge, and he was pretty sure that this was some kind of safety violation, in case of an accident. A metal cage wall separated the driver and another black clad commando from the transport compartment. All of the rear windows were tinted and covered with a thick metal screen, and the passengers had to enter from the rear doors, which represented a serious hassle and a tactical disadvantage if the van was attacked. The van’s sliding doors had been welded shut for security, and he didn’t think the agents could effectively shoot out of the side windows.

  Overall, he assessed the vehicle as low security. He’d escaped from much more difficult situations, under much worse conditions, but that wasn’t his job today. He’d already accomplished his mission, and would, for the first time in his career, let himself be rescued. The van came to a sudden unexpected stop; he took a deep breath and held it. Panic overtook the van. One of the SWAT agents jammed Munoz’s head down, and the officers scrambled to take positions covering three hundred and sixty degrees.

  The van filled with a high pitched mechanical drilling sound, and someone screamed, “Back us the fuck out of here now!”

  “Does anyone have anything?” yelled the SWAT agent in the front seat, and Munoz wondered why he didn’t step out to have a look.

  “Contact right side, low! No shot!” one of the agents screamed

  With his head jammed down, he saw two holes penetrate the lower right side of the van compartment. One second later, compressed air instantly filled the van with a cloudy vapor, and he felt the hand pressing down on his head ease up a little. He continued to hold his breath, and the hand completely slackened, replaced by 250 pounds of body weight and tactical gear. Munoz lost some of his breath, but managed to roll the agent onto the floor. He sat upright, and glanced around at the slumped figures filling the van.

  A small explosive charge detonated toward the rear of the van, and two armed men wearing gas masks pulled the door open and hopped in. One of them had to yank a slumbering FBI agent down out of the van, so they could proceed through the opening between the benches and the side. Munoz’s lungs burned as he tried to hold his breath long enough for the empty mask in one of the men’s hands. The mask was pushed over his face, and he felt a cool rush of air as the man gave him a thumbs up sign right in front of the eye piece. Munoz took a shallow breath of fresh air, then gulped massive breaths while the team worked on freeing him from the van. He had held his breath for over a minute, something he had practiced for several weeks.

  The men ditched all of their gear in place, except for the weapons, and took off toward the highway. Munoz sprinted with the men past the wrecked trucks, as three slightly damaged SUV’s rolled across the flat grass and met them halfway to the top of the on-ramp. The vehicles were full when they
sped away down Interstate 95 toward Stamford. Five minutes later, they had just exited the Interstate at East Putnam Road, close to seven miles down the highway, when the police scanner exploded with activity. Fifteen minutes after that, they were speeding through Cos Cob Harbor on two powerful cruising boats, just a few buoy markers away from emptying into the Long Island Sound.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  10:10 PM

  FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C.

  Special Agent Sharpe examined the contents of the sealed folder at a workstation borrowed from Special Agent Weber’s communications team. The fax contained two sheets of paper, which gave them sparse, additional information regarding Petrovich and Munoz. The second page ended abruptly, stopping in the middle of a sentence:

  Munoz not assigned to permanent undercover operation in Central/South America. His specialty skill utilized for focused penetration of drug cartel detainees

  Sharpe stared at the last sentence, but without the rest of the words, the implication of Munoz’s talent didn’t sink in. The third page of the fax lay on the floor of the Sanctum, in the middle of a massive, thickening pool of blood. It was barely readable at this point, but the information contained in the single remaining paragraph contained on the page would have raised an immediate alarm for Sharpe. Munoz had been trained to extract information from prisoners by posing as one, in most cases without indigenous law enforcement collusion or knowledge.

  “Weber, this fax is incomplete. Would you request the third page for me?”

  “Not a problem, sir. We have a full team on duty in the communications hub,” Weber replied, reaching for a phone.

  “And Weber?”

  The agent stopped, and looked up at Sharpe.

  “You’ve been here for over thirty-six hours at this point, and look like death warmed over. I think you’ve earned a little break. Things will settle down tonight, but we’ll need to be focused again tomorrow. Why don’t you head out and report back at zero four thirty,” said Sharpe.