by Andrew Watts
Performing calculations and risk assessments in his head, he made a call. “You’re right. Let’s head to the plane.”
The trio sprinted to the Cirrus. Max grabbed the chock off the pavement, opened his door and let Renee throw herself into the rear seat. Trent hopped next to Max in front. Max started it up as fast as he could.
“They see us yet?”
“Not yet, I don’t think.”
The aircraft’s parking spot on the ramp had been near the runway midpoint. He cursed to himself. With a runway this short, three passengers and a high-density altitude, he would need to use the full field for takeoff. But as soon as he started taxiing, he was sure to draw the gunmen’s attention. He didn’t have a choice.
Max throttled the engine and they began rolling forward on the taxiway, towards the far end of the runway.
“What about now? Are they following us?”
“I can’t tell,” Trent replied, careening his neck and looking back through the side windows of the plane.
Renee leaned forward from the backseat and opened Trent’s door, peeking her head out to look behind them. She immediately flung herself back in and latched the door.
“Hurry up,” was all she said, her face pale.
Max tapped the brakes to slow down in the turn, then pressed forward on the right pedal to bring the aircraft around to face the runway centerline, switching his flaps to fifty percent.
To his horror, he saw not one but two pickup trucks racing towards him down the taxiway. They were still a good half-mile away, but that would change fast. Still turning, Max immediately pushed the throttle all the way forward, felt and heard the 310-horsepower engine ramp up.
The airspeed was picking up. Fifty. Sixty.
He glanced to his left and watched the pickup trucks change bearing and turn as they overshot their mark. He could make out silent yellow flashes of gunfire in his peripheral vision.
He pulled back on the stick as the Cirrus hit its seventy-knot takeoff speed.
The ground dropped beneath them, and Max banked sharply away, climbing and accelerating to safety.
Renee squeezed Max’s shoulder. His heart was pounding. The geometry had been in their favor, but barely. The gunmen had been only a few seconds away from having a much better shot.
Trent put on his headset and keyed his mike. “Someone really needs to teach those mooks how to lead the target.”
Chapter 15
They landed at David Wayne Hooks Airport, near Houston, less than an hour later. After talking about it during the flight, Max made the decision that they would not call Wilkes to check in.
At this point, they didn’t know who they could trust.
They got fuel at Gill Aviation, the local FBO, and Max checked over the weather, still deciding where they should go next. Trent used the showers and changed into a pair of spare clothes Max lent him. Renee sipped hot tea while working on her computer in an empty pilot’s lounge. The two men joined her in there after a while, and Max closed the door.
Max figured that Wilkes had probably been calling and texting each of their phones after the attack, but Renee had mandated keeping all cell phones off until now. She didn’t want the devices pinging cell towers along their route. Despite her confidence in the security program she had installed on their hardware, none of them were one hundred percent sure how the hit team had located Rojas.
Renee said, “I ran some checks. I’m ninety-nine point nine percent sure that it wasn’t us. It’s extremely unlikely that anyone could have been eavesdropping on our calls or tracking our devices.”
Trent looked at Max. “How well do you know Wilkes?”
Max shook his head. “I don’t see it. Why would he have us go through all that down in Mexico, just to set us up?”
“Then who talked?”
Max said, “I don’t know.”
“Ian Williams knew about Wilkes’s Mexican agent. And now a professional hit team takes out an interrogation unit and their prisoner on American soil. Both of these events have Wilkes as the tie-in. So I ask you again, how well do you know him?”
Max shook his head. “I’m not disagreeing with you that there’s a leak. I’ll grant you it’s possible that Wilkes was even responsible for it. But since we don’t know how many people were read in to both operations, none of us can say that with any confidence.”
Renee spoke gently. “What do you think, then?”
Max said, “I suspect that if Wilkes was hunting a mole, he might have let them get some information on purpose.”
Trent looked sideways at Max.
Renee said, “Why would he do that?”
“You remember last summer in Florida, Renee. Wilkes didn’t tell us the whole truth until we absolutely needed to know. As good as Caleb Wilkes is at his job, he views his assets as expendable. He told me that he wanted to find out why the Sinaloa cartel and Pakistani intelligence were working together. What if that wasn’t his real objective? Or what if it wasn’t his only objective?”
Max saw Renee’s eyes moving as she worked through the problem. “You think he’s purposely allowing leaks of our operation to occur so that he can achieve a different objective. What, then?”
“I can think of three reasons. One is what’s called a blue-dye operation.”
Trent massaged his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Enough with this spook shit…this is why I said no to the CIA recruiter when I retired from the Army. I just want to shoot bad guys. Not have to wonder if they’re really bad guys or not…”
Renee said, “I’ll bite. What’s a blue-dye operation?”
“It’s when you have a leak and don’t know where it is, but you’re able to see your adversary’s reaction, or maybe even what information they receive. So you insert multiple variations of some important story into the information stream. Whichever variation shows up in your enemy’s inbox, that’s the version your mole heard. You can use this technique to narrow down your field of suspects.”
“But it requires you to provide information to a mole.”
“Among others, yes. Normally one would provide information that isn’t harmful to an ongoing operation. But the juiciest worms make the best bait.”
Renee said, “You said there were three reasons why Wilkes would knowingly leak information. What are the other two?”
“The second reason is that he may already know who the mole is. He could be intentionally leaking information to suggest to the mole’s handlers that the mole is still reliable, with the eventual intention of using the mole to provide false or misleading information.”
Trent said, “I’m gonna say that’s not what’s going on here, based on the fact that we almost just got blown up. He wouldn’t have done that intentionally. Right?”
Max nodded. “Agreed. I highly doubt Wilkes would have knowingly risked an attack on Rojas.”
Renee said, “And the third reason?”
“I could be wrong about the whole thing. Wilkes could be the enemy.”
The group turned their attention to the buzzing phone on Renee’s armrest. She had powered it up while they were talking.
She looked at the caller ID. “It’s him. Wilkes.”
Max lifted up the phone and answered.
“Where have you been? Are you with the others?”
Max ignored the question. “How did they know where Rojas was being held, Caleb?”
“We’re working on that. We think the ISI may have access to some very high-end satellite tracking tools. It’s possible they tracked our aircraft from Mexico to the US. We thought we were being careful, but if the cartels and the ISI are coordinating that closely…Syed may have passed the location along.”
“To Williams?”
“Yes. The FBI thinks the Sinaloa cartel flew in a squad from Mexico to do the wet work, using local gang members as support. The gear was Mexican military-issue. They used an antitank weapon on the HIG team’s trailer. Are you guys alright? I assume both Trent and Renee are with
you?”
The second time he’d asked that question, Max noted. Out of concern? Or to gain intel? Max kept his voice steady.
“Caleb, I think we’re just going to lay low for a while.”
A pause.
“Max, there are new developments. I appreciate the danger you were in, but I’m afraid I need you guys to find someone for me.”
“What new developments?”
“We got a new name from Rojas. I need this person located and brought in ASAP.”
Max looked at the others in the room, both of whom could hear the conversation. Max could see that they shared his concern about going on another of Wilkes’s assignments.
“Caleb, twice in the last week, we went where you told us to be. Both times, someone nearly had us killed.”
The phone when quiet. When Wilkes finally spoke, his tone was softer. “I understand your concern. I hope you trust me enough to know that I value the well-being of each one of you.”
“Like you valued your Mexican agent? The woman?”
Trent turned away. Renee didn’t flinch.
Wilkes said, “That was unfair. Do you really think I don’t regret that?” His tone showed a rare burst of emotion.
“I’m sorry. But you understand where our apprehension is coming from here. Caleb, there must be hundreds of capable people that could go find this person for you. Why do you need—”
“Because we had a leak. Why do you think I used you that night at Wolf Trap? Why do you think I needed you to go to Mexico? I was trying my damnedest to get this thing done without tipping off our mole. I apologize that it didn’t work out so well.”
There it was. Max understood why Wilkes was so frustrated. He couldn’t use just anyone for this. He needed to keep the information tightly controlled. Everything that had been reported through the normal intel streams had been leaked. That was how his agent had been killed in Mexico.
But something still tugged at Max. Over a decade of instinct, telling him that Wilkes wasn’t being completely transparent. He pushed the thought aside for the moment.
“You say you had a leak. Past tense. You’ve found the mole?”
“It looks that way,” said Wilkes.
“Who?”
“The day before yesterday I sat in on an interview at the FBI. The man was a political aide named Ronald Dicks. He had access to classified intelligence, including the cryptonym and area of operation for Ines Sanchez. Ron Dicks likely passed information to Joseph Dahlman, the lobbyist you saw killed, who in turn passed information to the ISI.”
“Damn. So you think Syed knew her identity before we even went down there?”
“Or at least provided Ian Williams enough information to figure it out for himself.”
Max looked at the others. “Caleb, please give us a moment, I’m putting you on mute.”
Max pressed the mute icon on the phone. Trent and Renee looked back at him.
“Are you guys convinced? We’ve been burned twice in the past two days. If either of you wants to walk away, I’ll tell him to pound sand.”
Renee stood with her arms folded, biting her lip. “I don’t think Wilkes meant us any harm. And I assume that if he wants us to do something—to find this person Rojas mentioned—it must be important to stopping Ian Williams. If that’s the case, then I think we should do it. I think we should continue to help.”
Max suspected that Renee was thinking of Ines Sanchez’s corpse, lying on the beach.
Trent said, “You know I’m up for it.” In Trent’s eyes, Max saw an eager willingness to continue the fight.
“We don’t know that this will lead to Williams.”
Trent shrugged. “I’ll go anyway.” His was a thirst that would never be quenched. A quest for revenge. One in which any satisfaction attained would be hollowed out by the sadness of loss.
Max nodded and unmuted the phone. “Alright, Caleb, we’re in. But I do have one question. If Ron Dicks is the source of your leaks, and he’s dead, why do you still need us to find this person for you?”
“Speed and operational security. We’re on tight timeline. You know the mission details and the players involved. You’ve got a team read in. I don’t have time to brief a new set of operators. And this is still being run out of the CIA’s counterintelligence division. The more people we involve, the less secure it gets. Because of that, I want to keep this operation within a very small crew.”
“What’s the timing?”
“We already knew that Ian Williams and the ISI were preparing for an important meeting. This meeting, we believe, is also the deadline to complete their kill list. Rojas gave the HIG team a date. We don’t know where, and we don’t know with who, but he said that Ian Williams’s big meeting was going to be held on the twenty-eighth. So we can assume any further hits will be executed by that time.”
“That’s only a few days away.”
“Correct.”
“May I ask why you aren’t trying to find this person yourself?”
“I’m headed to Oshkosh.”
Oshkosh? Max frowned. He looked at his watch to check the date. This was the last week in July. Each year at this time, the Experimental Aircraft Association hosted the largest air show in the world at Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Max’s father had taken him there countless times when he was a boy.
“Why Oshkosh?”
“Rojas gave up two names before he was killed by his own men in Texas. It was a partial list, he said.”
“Of Ian Williams’s kill list?”
“We believe so, yes. Two on the list are already dead. Joseph Dahlman and Ron Dicks, our mole.”
“Who are the other two?”
“One is a US senator. Herbert Becker, of Wisconsin. He’ll be in Oshkosh this week. His daughter is one of the performers. And he’s the reason I’ll be in attendance. My view is that he’s the highest-priority target.”
“My father knows him.”
“Does he?”
“Yes. They’ve golfed together, I believe. I actually know his daughter too.”
“I see.”
“You’ve informed him that he’s in danger?”
“He was already aware. Ron Dicks was his chief of staff. It was his interview I sat in on at the FBI headquarters. He’s accepted additional security but refuses to go into hiding. I want to personally monitor his security while we try and find out what Williams and the ISI are up to. If the senator is on Williams’s hit list, then we know where they’ll be headed. If we can take down one of their hired guns, perhaps that can lead us to one of our targets.”
“What’s the last name on the list?”
Wilkes said, “This is the person I need you to locate.”
“Who is he?”
“It’s a she. Jennifer Upton. She’s a political operative. Forty-seven years old. Single. She is based out of Cincinnati, but during my cursory attempt to locate her, I’ve learned that she hasn’t been seen during the past twenty-four hours. She was once an aide to Senator Becker, and worked with Ron Dicks. No known connection to Dahlman.”
“Why would Ian Williams want to kill her, or the senator?”
“It seems that the ISI is wrapped up with some group of investors in the opioid industry. Senator Becker was once a champion of the pharmaceutical industry but has shifted many of his political stances. My analysts tell me that this is in preparation for a future presidential run. He’s now the cosponsor of a bill that will gut the legal opioid industry’s profits within the United States. We’re talking billions of dollars.”
“So Ian Williams and the ISI want to kill the Senator to what…cancel his vote?”
“Possibly.”
“If they kill him, does the bill die?”
“Possibly.”
“But it sounds like you’re talking about legitimate businesses here. A big corporation wouldn’t be involved in something like this. It would be financial suicide.”
“Agreed. We don’t fully know the ISI’s involvement yet, or how it plays
into the legal opioid marketplace. My understanding is that the Big Pharma companies are not directly involved in this themselves. The ISI seems to be working with a group of shadow investors.”
“What about this woman you want us to find, Jennifer Upton? Why would Williams want her dead?”
“That’s what I need you to find out. I suspect she’s our missing piece. My hope is that she’ll be able to illuminate much that we currently don’t know.”
“Does she know she’s in danger?”
“I don’t know, considering that we’ve yet to make contact. But assuming you’re able to locate her, your top priority is to bring her in and get her to a safe house. Once you do that, contact me.”
“Williams may already believe that we have her name, since we spoke to Rojas.”
“Correct. This all assumes that she hasn’t been killed already. The fact that she’s out of reach right now could mean either that she’s dead or that she’s gone underground. Consider this me being optimistic. Please do what you can to find her.”
Chapter 16
The assassin had used many names over the years, but Hugo was his name by birth. He’d first killed a man at the age of sixteen. For revenge.
Hugo’s father had taught him how to hunt in the wilderness of Quebec. Together, they’d shot black bear, white-tailed deer, and moose. Some of their hunting trips would last days, involving deep treks into the forest using snowshoes. That had made hauling the animal carcasses back to their home difficult. But often the most difficult tasks in life could be the most rewarding. Especially when conducted in the company of one’s father.
Their town was very small. Everyone knew each other. The winters were long and harsh.
Sometimes hellishly so.
One afternoon, Hugo and his father were returning from a hunt when they heard screams coming from their home. They left the sled that carried their prize and hurried into the house.
Hugo’s mother was on the bed and on her back, eyes wide and face battered. The town drunk stood over her, holding a large curved blade. The man was a thuggish brute who had been thrown in the town jail twice for assault.
