by Roger Hayden
“We need to find him,” Drake said. “Do your best to get in touch with him. That’s your mission for the day, Agent Gannon.”
Angela remained still in the chair with her hands folded over her legs. “Yes, sir. I can do that.”
“Great.” He went to his desk and grabbed one of the many files sitting in a stack. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to address the media in an hour.”
Angela stood to leave when a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Drake shouted, gazing at the door and looking annoyed.
The door opened, and a tall, thin woman walked in. She had straight brown hair down to her shoulders and a tanned face that contrasted attractively with red lipstick and bright, bluish-green eyes. She wore a dark blue blazer, a white silk shirt, and black slacks. An FBI badge dangled from her neck on a lanyard. The other agents in the room seemed to stand more upright as she entered, obviously trying to put on a good face.
“Ah, Ms. Thaxton. A pleasure to see you,” Chief Drake said with a smile.
The woman nodded back and then looked at Angela, pointing. “This is Captain Martinez’s partner?”
“Yes,” Drake answered, turning to Angela. “Agent Gannon, I’d like you to meet, Jennifer Thaxton, an assistant director with the FBI.”
Angela shook Thaxton’s hand with a friendly nod as the assistant director carefully studied her. “Pleased to meet you, Agent Gannon. I’ve been waiting to speak with you.”
“Me?” Angela said, surprised.
Thaxton looked around the room and stopped at Chief Drake. “I’d like a moment to speak with her, if you don’t mind.”
Drake wasted no time. “Of course,” he said, grabbing some files. “The office is yours. Take all the time you need.” The other agents followed as he left the room. Thaxton then closed the door slowly and walked over to Drake’s desk, sitting in his chair.
“Please,” she said. “Have a seat.”
Angela felt a tinge of nervousness unlike anything she had yet experienced that morning.
Sensing her apprehension, Thaxton leaned forward. “Relax, Agent Gannon. I’m not here to grill you, although I am aware that there is an internal investigation underway of yesterday’s incident.”
Angela looked up with a smile, hands resting on the green fabric of her trouser legs, not sure what to say.
“Angela, I want to cut to the chase because time is critical,” Thaxton said. “You don’t mind if I call you Angela, do you?”
“No…” Angela said, her voice rising, as if asking a question of her own.
“Splendid. And you can call me Jennifer. Fair enough?”
Angela nodded.
“I’m concerned about your partner. He has a lot of crazy ideas, and I don’t blame him. You see, Jorge and I go way back.”
“Captain Martinez?” Angela asked.
Thaxton waved her off with a laugh. “Yes, of course. Captain Martinez. I’m afraid he may be in a lot of trouble.”
Angela swallowed nervously, wishing she had just stayed in bed for the day. “What do you mean, ma’am?”
Thaxton smiled. “Jorge is my friend.” She spread her arms across Drake’s desk and talked as if she were a confidant. “Of course, we lost contact over the years. I’m sure he called you last night with a lot of theories.”
Angela nodded while glancing at the television, which was displaying the image of an empty press room and a banner reading, “Border Patrol Chief Expected to Release Statement.”
“I just want to find him,” Thaxton said. “And I need your help.”
“There’s nothing I want more to do,” Angela replied.
“Excellent,” Thaxton said, folding her hands together. “Then I need to know exactly what he told you last night.”
Angela hesitated. In the silence, Thaxton’s eyes seemed to burn holes right through her. This is it, she thought. This is the interrogation.
Searching for Martinez
“We believe there are approximately fifty terror cells operating throughout the state of Texas,” Assistant Director Thaxton began.
Angela sat quietly, trying to understand her role in the FBI’s plan.
“Most of them are ISIS affiliated,” Thaxton continued. “Al-Qaeda is still every bit a threat, but ISIS is growing at a much more rapid and dangerous pace.”
Angela cleared her throat, determined to ask some questions of her own. “Why doesn’t the government detain them?”
Thaxton pursed her lips, looking as though she was prepared for the question. “We’re monitoring as many as we can, hoping that they can lead us to their benefactor.”
Angela clasped her hands together, wishing she could wrap the conversation up, and took a trusting step. “Captain Martinez told me that the government hasn’t released a report on the number of suspected terrorists in two years.”
“Of course he did,” Thaxton told her. “And I’m as bothered by that as he.” She leaned back in the chair, rocking with both arms on the armrests. “Then again, I’m just the assistant director.”
Angela glanced at the television where an image of the first shooter, the one with the large forehead was being displayed. He was identified as Amadi Rahman, the brother of the London bombing terrorist, Sayed Rahman. The photo itself was several months old—taken from Amadi’s passport—and showing a clean-shaven man with trim hair and a smile.
“This is what I need from you, Angela,” Thaxton said, dusting the shoulders of her blue blazer. “We have some information on a safe house. A house that Jorge last reported on. He told me that he was going to investigate. Like you, I urged him not to do it on his own. Unfortunately, we haven’t heard from him since.”
Angela didn’t know how much to believe. Martinez had warned her about the FBI. Maybe some of his paranoia was rubbing off on her.
“I want you to accompany us to this safe house. Jorge’s current state of mind is not where I’d prefer it to be. But he trusts you. So we will need you with us once we get there.”
Angela stared ahead, studying Thaxton while trying to detect any bit of deception in her blue eyes. She was a startlingly attractive woman, and Angela found her mere presence intimidating. She exuded an air of confidence that Angela only wished she could achieve in her own career.
“I need to know what you’ve found out about this station wagon,” Angela said. “That’s what this all comes down to.”
Thaxton leaned closer to her as the chair squeaked forward. “We’re working on it. Police have issued an APB statewide on the vehicle. Though, I might say, a license plate would have been helpful.”
“The truck we were tracking didn’t have a license plate. For all we know, the station wagon was the same,” Angela said.
“Not likely,” Thaxton said, cupping her chin. “Now, are you game? Will you accompany us to the safe house to find Martinez?”
Angela thought to herself for a moment and then nodded. “Sure. If it means brining him home. Is he in any danger?”
Thaxton glanced downward then back at Angela. “We don’t know yet. But I can tell you that the house in question is on our list of hot spots.”
It was all Angela needed to hear. She’d agree to whatever was necessary. Thaxton seemed pleased and told her that, “woman to woman,” she wouldn’t let her down.
“But I expect the same from you,” she continued. “Don’t let us down either.”
Angela sat in the backseat of a black SUV as it roared along a rural stretch of desert road with four other matching vehicles closely behind. She was a part of something now. Something larger than before.
An FBI helicopter flew overhead, tracking them. Angela stared out the window, watching the vastness of the rolling hills and sand dunes pass by—cypress trees, rocks, and decaying weeds, plentiful and unending. Assistant Director Thaxton sat in the passenger seat, next to Agent Sutherland, who drove.
For Angela, it was hard to believe that anything worth finding was within their grasp, but she understood that the peopl
e they were looking for often operated in desolate areas where they could see who was coming and when. It was ten past noon, and she was already feeling overwhelmed. Gone were her superiors with the Border Patrol. Out here, she was completely on her own.
“About two miles more,” Thaxton said, staring ahead through a pair of thick sunglasses.
Angela scooted up and looked past the windshield to the road ahead. They were in the lead vehicle, and Angela had questions about how, exactly, the FBI knew precisely where to go. It all seemed too perfect. Were they after terrorists or Martinez?
“What do you want me to do when we get there?” Angela asked.
From the spotless confines of the sleek SUV, Thaxton turned to Angela with a smile. “Just standby until we need you.”
Angela was worried. She had texted Martinez multiple times but received no response.
An aluminum shack, no larger than a mobile home, came into view on the far right side of the road. It looked abandoned, a relic from another age. There were no vehicles parked outside and no people either. Angela figured they would keep going in pursuit of the real safe house, and was surprised when the SUV began to slow.
“There’s our target,” Thaxton said.
The SUV pulled to the shoulder, advancing over a mound, and gunning it toward the shack. Angela gripped her armrest as they rumbled forward, off-road, increasing speed. Trailing vehicles split off in different directions, surrounding the shack in what seemed an expertly rehearsed formation.
“That is the safe house?” Angela said with incredulity.
“You’d be surprised,” Thaxton said. “Not everything is as it seems.”
The cryptic comment made Angela curious. What exactly was the assistant director talking about?
Their SUV circled the target and then, with one hard stomp on the brake, lurched to a stop in the back of the building. Angela could see what Thaxton meant: a rusty red pickup sat parked behind the shack in a makeshift port with desert-tan camouflage netting overhead.
The wave radio under the SUV’s dashboard crackled with an incoming transmission.
“All vehicles in position. It’s your call, ma’am,” a man’s voice said.
Thaxton stared ahead, studying the shack. At the wheel, Agent Sutherland held a pair of binoculars up, looking through the only window in range, covered by a thin, tattered curtain.
“I see movement,” he said.
The FBI helicopter hovered above, its blades thumping in the air while its turbine engine rumbled noisily. Whoever was in the shack must know by now that they had company.
“We need to move,” Thaxton said. “They could see us coming a mile away. If there are any tunnels inside, they’re no doubt scrambling.”
Sutherland grabbed the hand mic. “It’s a go.”
Angela watched in astonishment as the doors of the surrounding SUVs were flung open and agents charged out, guns drawn, advancing toward the shack from all sides. Sutherland and Thaxton, however, stayed seated, patiently waiting and astutely observing the raid.
Angela put her hands on the back of Sutherland’s seat and leaned forward. “Shouldn’t you be using a SWAT team? This seems very dangerous.”
“Time is critical,” Thaxton said, looking forward. “We have to work with what we have.”
“And trust me,” Sutherland said, turning his head slightly. “Our team is every bit trained as SWAT.”
From afar, Angela watched as Agent Lynch led the charge, his gray bouffant bouncing in the air. He wound his leg back and kicked the door open as two agents took positions and knelt at each side of the entrance with their pistols up. Shouts and running footsteps could be heard coming from inside.
Three other agents ran past them and circled around to the front as Lynch stormed inside through the back with MacLachlan and another agent behind him.
“Down on the ground!” he shouted.
“Get down! Right now!” MacLachlan added.
Thaxton turned and looked at Sutherland. “Let’s get ready to move.”
Sutherland nodded, took his Glock pistol from his side, and pulled the slide back, chambering a round.
The shouting continued from inside like some major bust.
“We’re all clear,” Lynch’s voice said from the radio.
“How many?” Sutherland asked, holding the mic.
“Six. All unarmed.”
“Ask him about Captain Martinez,” Thaxton told him.
“What’s the status on Martinez?” Sutherland said into the radio.
“We don’t see him. They could have him somewhere else. MacLachlan and Hopper are doing a search.”
Thaxton sighed and then tilted her head back to Angela. “You ready back there?”
Angela nodded, though she was still unsure of her role. “Six men?” she said, amazed. “In that little shack?”
“Probably caught them at a meeting,” Sutherland said, opening his door and stepping out.
Thaxton opened her door as well and took off her jacket, tossing it inside. A pistol rested in a side holster. She pulled at the sleeves of her white button-down shirt and fixed her hair in the window’s reflection.
From the backseat, Angela studied her. Who am I dealing with here?
Thaxton opened the passenger door and poked her head in. “You coming or what?”
Angela snapped out of it and opened the door.
“Stay on the ground and keep your mouth shut!” a voice shouted from inside the shack, startling her.
She closed the door as Thaxton came around from the other side. Sutherland was already well on his way there, leaving footprints of his leather dress shoes in the sand.
“You heard anything from Martinez yet?” Thaxton asked, tucking the back of her shirt in.
“Nothing,” Angela said.
“Nothing on my end either.”
“I hope he’s okay,” Angela said. “I can’t take much more of this. Especially after Dawson…” Her voice faded at the mention of his name. She took a deep breath and tried to toughen up as Thaxton’s hand touched her shoulder.
“It’s okay. The FBI is going to get to the bottom of this thing one way or another.”
They strolled together toward the shack, and Angela was eager to see inside. She wished they’d found a station wagon parked near the shack, a sign that they weren’t on a wild goose chase.
Thaxton walked in first. Sunlight shone onto the creaking hardwood floor, lighting the otherwise dim room.
Angela followed Thaxton carefully as the other agents flipped chairs and tables, searching for hatches or hidden compartments. Angela looked down at the six men who lay on their stomachs, their hands behind their backs, and agents Lynch and MacLachlan standing over them.
Their hands had already been zip-tied at their wrists. Their clothing was strangely identical: Gap-purchased polo shirts and beige slacks, like some kind of mall uniform. Their jet-black hair was short and their facial hair trim, making them look painfully out of place in such rural surroundings. Their feet were bare, and a row of leather dress shoes and sandals lined the wall next to the front entrance. A few men groaned in discomfort. Others seemed to be cursing.
“Shut up,” Sutherland said, walking alongside them.
They could have been anyone from around the area, but Angela was pretty sure they weren’t locals. An aura of mystery surrounded them, and Angela was eager to find out who they were, and what they had on Martinez.
A man at the front lifted his head with a panicked expression. “What have we done? We have done nothing.”
“Well, you’re trespassing, for starters,” Sutherland said. “This abandoned outpost still belongs to the federal government.”
The man lowered his head, saying nothing in return. Thaxton stood in the corner of the room, observing the area and keeping to herself. Angela walked around slowly, studying the room, hoping to find a clue, anything, but the floor and the ceiling, like the walls, were largely barren.
“Go ahead and get them up,”
Sutherland said to the other agents. “We’re taking them in.” The day was only getting hotter, and everyone wanted to get moving.
The FBI team returned to the Del Rio Border Patrol station shortly after the bust. Their six suspects had been taken to a secure holding room. Martinez was still MIA, and the men’s capture only added more questions. The already tense atmosphere of the station was compounded by the detainees’ arrival. Nearly every agent on site believed they had something to do with the truck explosion and the death of Agent Dawson.
Guards were posted outside the holding room to keep Border Patrol agents from interfering with the investigation. A crowd had formed outside the room and was largely made up of uniformed agents trying to get a look at their suspects through the one-way Plexiglas window.
Inside, the six men sat on a single long bench against the wall, now handcuffed and saying very little to each other. Even though they couldn’t see beyond the window from inside, they appeared to be aware that they were being watched and listened to.
The number of onlookers outside the room grew to about twenty border agents, all staring in through the window as though they were at the zoo.
“Are we going to charge these assholes or what?” one mustached agent asked with his face burning with anger. He took a step forward and was rebuked by one of the guards standing by the door.
“That’s close enough. Border Patrol are not allowed entry into holding by order of the FBI.”
The mustached agent took as step back and threw his arms in the air. “Ah, what do they know? They can go back to D.C. for all I care.”
A short female agent stepped forward to join the protest. “It wasn’t one of theirs who was killed yesterday, it was one of ours!”
The crowd shouted out in agreement. “Yeah!”
The guard, a Border Patrol agent like themselves, raised a hand, asking for calm. “Not our call. Now please, go about your business and let the FBI do theirs.”
But the crowd remained. No one looked as though they were going anywhere. The capture of the six men was blood in the water, and after years of bureaucratic red-tape that had made their jobs harder and harder to do, the Border Patrol agents wanted retribution. And the only things preventing them from taking action were two guards and a thick pane of Plexiglas.
