The Sean Kruger Series Complete Boxed Set

by J. C. Fields

  Kruger smiled and nodded, “I will, sir.”

  Before the President could say anything else, his Chief of Staff opened the door, walked quickly to his side and leaned over to speak into the President’s ear. As he spoke, he handed the President a piece of paper, and the President’s eyes grew wide. The Chief of Staff quickly walked out of the room.

  “Paul, we have a serious development,” the President said. “I was just informed the inquiry I authorized for you this morning has produced results.”

  Stumpf raised his eyebrows, “What did they learn, sir?”

  “It appears there is a terrorist attack planned on an unnamed location in the center of the country. And,” he paused and looked at Kruger, “it’s planned for next Friday.”

  Chapter 39

  Alexandria, VA

  Friday evening

  Kruger detested driving agency pool cars. First, they screamed law enforcement, and second, they were generally cars in their last few hours of service. Despite the rules against it, he always rented a car while in Washington, D.C. This time it was a new Mustang. Unlike his personal car, this was a six-cylinder model, but it had good acceleration and was definitely a major improvement over a pool car.

  His first priority after the meeting at the White House was to drive by Congressman Griffin’s residence. Once he had a chance to see the area, he would drive to the airport to meet the plane transporting Ryan Clark from San Francisco.

  As he approached the house, nothing looked unusual or disturbed. After driving past, he noticed a motorcyclist taking a break on the side of the street and drinking what appeared to be a cup of coffee. It seemed a bit odd, but not enough to stop.

  On his return pass, the motorcycle was gone. From the street, the congressman's house looked secure, nothing unusual. After the incident in San Francisco, Griffin had hired an outside security agency to improve security at the home. From what Kruger could tell, they had not started yet. Glancing at his watch, he noticed there was just enough time to get to the airport before Clark's flight landed.

  Three hours later, he was sitting in a hospital room at Walter Reed and listening to Clark. He was talkative and his demeanor back to normal. Clark said, “Do you think the guy here in Baltimore knows anything about what’s supposed to happen next Friday?”

  “We won’t know till we have a chance to talk to him. It was amazing how many agents were suddenly available once this new threat was uncovered. The Wi-Fi spots he frequents have round the clock surveillance.”

  Clark nodded. “What about Griffin’s house? Anybody watching it?”

  “Not yet. The congressman won’t be back until tomorrow morning. I drove by before meeting you at the airport. Looked quiet. The only thing I saw when I cruised past was a motorcyclist taking a break on the side of the road drinking coffee.”

  Clark looked at him and tilted his head to the side. “You saw a motorcyclist drinking coffee? On the side of the road? You’re kidding me. You didn’t stop and ask him what the heck he was doing?”

  “What? I thought it bit odd, but there’s no crime against… Wait a minute.” Kruger stood and started pacing. “Why do I have an uneasy feeling about this?”

  Clark straightened up in his bed. “Did I ever tell you what we saw on the security tape at the Starbucks?”

  Kruger stopped pacing and turned toward Clark. “No, you never did.”

  “We saw a motorcyclist pull up beside Rousch's Mercedes, point a pistol at the driver, fire twice and speed away. Two quick, clean shots, and he’s gone.”

  “What was the color and make of the bike?”

  “We couldn't tell color. It was an old grainy black and white security camera. The details of the bike were hard to determine, angle of the camera was bad. But one of the patrol officers who watched the video said it looked like a Yamaha.”

  Kruger was silent.

  “Shit. The guy was parked and watching Griffin's house. I drove right by him.”

  “Sean, these guys aren’t giving up and they don’t mind taking chances. You need to find a backup. I mean it.”

  Nodding, Kruger gave his friend a grim smile. “I know, I just don't trust anybody out here. Only guy I trust is lying in a hospital bed telling me to be careful.”

  Clark smiled. “Can't help it.”

  Kruger glanced at his watch.

  “I need to get going. Griffin is scheduled to arrive around noon tomorrow. The security company he hired will need to know about the motorcyclist. They’re all ex-military, specialize in high profile clients. From what I’ve been told, they’re very good at what they do.”

  “Watch your back and be careful.”

  ***

  Saturday morning

  The only difference Kruger noticed at the Griffin residence from his earlier drive-by on Friday was the presence of three vehicles, a dark metallic gray GMC Yukon XL Denali and two black Range Rover Sports. All three SUVs had dark tinted windows to render the interiors unobservable. He parked the Mustang on the street next to the driveway, got out and surveyed the neighborhood. It was just after noon and quiet. He had not encountered another vehicle since driving into the gated community.

  Kruger clipped his badge to his belt and turned his attention to the house. Standing by the front entrance, he noticed two men scrutinizing his arrival. Their closely cropped haircuts, dark Oakley sunglasses and gray business suits identified them as security. The taller of the two men started walking toward him as Kruger walked up the driveway. After identifying himself, he was escorted into the house and introduced to Lance Harpool.

  Harpool was in his early 40s with short blond hair. The suit he wore was nice, but not expensive, with the coat slightly larger than needed for hiding the shoulder holster under his arm which held an H&K MP5 K. His deeply tanned slender face, non-descript nose, and steel blue eyes appraised Kruger as they shook hands.

  “Nice to meet you Agent Kruger, I understand you saved the congressman's life in San Mateo. What can I do for you?

  Kruger said, “Yesterday afternoon, around one, I drove by and saw a motorcyclist sitting across the street staring at this property. He was leaning against his bike drinking coffee.”

  Harpool’s eyebrows rose as he stared at Kruger. “Unusual, but does it have anything to do with the congressman?”

  Nodding, Kruger continued, “I believe so. I was informed yesterday afternoon that a motorcyclist was responsible for a murder connected to the threat against Congressman Griffin. I don't like coincidences, Mr. Harpool, do you?”

  Harpool was quiet, his gaze never wavering from Kruger. “No, I don’t, Agent Kruger. Follow me.”

  As Kruger followed Harpool he said, “Can we dispense with the ‘agent’ and ‘mister’ crap?”

  Harpool turned back to look at Kruger with a grin on his face. “Agreed, too many wasted words.”

  At the back of Griffin’s house, they entered a room converted into a high-tech communication and security center. The room’s normal furnishings had been removed and replaced with two eight-feet folding tables, each against an adjacent wall. Two people, a man and a woman, occupied the room and were seated at the tables. Each wore a headset with microphone and ear piece and were watching numerous 40-inch flat-screen monitors. Each screen contained six split screen images from different security cameras positioned somewhere on the property. Harpool pointed at one screen and said, “These are the cameras monitoring the front of the house and the roads to the east and west. We should be able to watch any vehicle traveling the road. The cameras are good enough to record license plate numbers, should we need to check them.”

  Kruger gave a quick nod, pleased with what he was seeing. “Are there any cameras monitoring the back part of the property?”

  Harpool pointed to other monitor and said, “These shots are from different cameras located about halfway to the property line, and these are on both corners of the house. They’re sensitive to motion and have a one hundred-and-eighty-degree visual range. We should be able to det
ect anybody trying to access the house from the back.”

  Kruger smiled. “When did you do all this? I drove by earlier and didn't detect any preparation.”

  Harpool looked at Kruger without changing his expression. “That's what we do. You aren't supposed to detect any changes. Let me show you the rest of it.”

  They were in the backyard when Harpool stopped, listened to his ear bud for ten seconds, and said, “Griffin's limo is heading this way, ETA five minutes. If you'll excuse me, I need to make sure everything is ready.”

  Kruger returned to the security room to watch the arrival of the congressman and check the street monitors. The congressman's limo was met by four security agents, who hustled him into the house. Another agent retrieved the luggage from the trunk, and the limo backed out of the driveway. Just as Kruger was getting ready to leave the room and talk to Griffin, he noticed a motorcycle heading toward the camera facing the east. He tapped the screen and said to the woman monitoring it, “Can you record the motorcycle?”

  The agent quickly started typing on her keyboard and said, “No problem, we can record it coming and going.”

  They watched as the bike passed the limo, slowed slightly as it came adjacent to the house, then sped back up after it passed the driveway. Kruger said, “I need a shot of the license plate and bike. Can you email from this station?”

  She smiled and said, “Sure can, where do you need the file sent?”

  Kruger wrote Charlie Craft’s email address on a note pad and handed it to the agent. He excused himself and stepped out of the room to call Charlie.

  He answered on the fourth ring, “Sean, just heard the congressman is returning to D.C early.”

  “Yeah, he just got here. Charlie, you’re going to receive an email with a video showing a motorcycle. I need the license plate traced and I need it yesterday.”

  “Okay, where's the picture coming from?”

  “I'm at the congressman's house. The security team here has some sophisticated cameras and just recorded a bike in front of the house. I suspect the motorcycle may have been involved in the murder of Kyle Rousch.

  Charlie was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Just got something. Let me open the attachment.” Kruger heard Charlie muttering to himself, and then he said, “Good quality video, but the license plate is partially obscured. Let me work with JR and see what we can do. I'll call you back.”

  Thinking there might be a better picture available, Kruger returned to the security room, opened the door and said, “Is there a better view of the license plate?”

  The agent monitoring the road turned and shook her head, “Not at the moment. Looks like he obscured it on purpose. He'll have to return this way since the road is a dead-end two miles to the west. We'll try again.”

  “Thanks, keep me posted.”

  Kruger shut the door and headed to the front of the house where the congressman was being briefed by his security team. When he saw Kruger, he raised his hand to stop Harpool, walked quickly to Kruger, and shook his hand. “Agent Kruger, I never got the opportunity to thank you for protecting my wife and me. We’re in your debt.” Griffin paused, and said, “How is the agent who was shot?”

  “He's doing well, Congressman, thank you for asking. You've hired a good team here. From what I've observed, they're taking every precaution. However, I must insist that you refrain from stepping outside unless they are aware of it.”

  Nodding, Griffin said, “I failed to heed your warning in San Mateo. I won't make that mistake again. I’ll do as they instruct.”

  Harpool stepped over and said, “Congressman, we will need your schedule so we can plan any trips.”

  “Very well, I'll have that to you by evening. In the meantime, I need to make some calls. Will you both excuse me?” He retreated to his study and closed the door.

  Kruger's cell phone vibrated. He glanced at the “Unknown” caller ID and quickly accepted the call. “What’d you find?”

  “We can't determine the last two digits of the license,” JR said. “However, it’s a Virginia plate and their Department of Motor Vehicles shows at least thirty-two possible matches. The motorcycle on this video is a Yamaha; only five of the plates belong to a bike of that type. Of those five, only three are in the Alexandria area, and the other two are in the western part of the state.”

  “Three is better than thirty-two. Send me the names and addresses and I'll start checking them.”

  ***

  The first address was in a quiet neighborhood in the Huntington area. As Kruger drove past the house, he noted two bicycles leaning against the side of a detached garage with a basketball hoop above the garage door. The house had been built in the ’50s and appeared well maintained. Two mature oak trees shaded the front porch. On his second pass, he watched as a Chevy Equinox pulled into the driveway. When the SUV parked, two boys on the verge of being teenagers, jumped out and ran into the house. Kruger pulled into the driveway, blocking the Chevy from escaping.

  A woman in her mid-to-late 30s was unloading a cargo bay full of grocery sacks. She turned toward the street when she heard his car stop. She smiled, but he noticed it appeared forced, her face reflecting a slight concern. Kruger stood outside the car with his arm on the door and in a non-threatening voice said, “Excuse me. Is this Phillip Morgan’s residence?”

  The woman said, “Yes, I'm Beverley Morgan, can I help you?”

  “Is your husband here, Mrs. Morgan?”

  The woman glanced toward the house. Kruger could tell she was feeling nervous as she said, “No, he's at work, but I expect him any second. Excuse me, what is this about?”

  Kruger reached into his sport coat and retrieved his ID.

  “My name is Sean Kruger, I’m with the FBI,” he said as he held his ID and badge case so she could see them. “Does your husband own a Yamaha motorcycle?”

  She relaxed slightly, but was still hesitant. “Yes, but he had an accident with it this winter. He parked it and hasn't ridden it since.”

  Disappointed, Kruger said, “Mrs. Morgan, I apologize for the intrusion, but it’s critical I see the motorcycle.”

  “It's in the garage. What's this about, Mr. Kruger?”

  He closed the Mustang’s door, approached her and offered his ID again. She looked closer at it and noticeably relaxed. He said, “A bike similar to your husband’s was identified at a crime scene. I really need to see the motorcycle, Mrs. Morgan. If it’s damaged, then I can clear it.”

  She opened the garage with the remote and showed him the motorcycle. It was definitively not the bike they were looking for. The front wheel was bent and the rear tire flat. He then noticed that the bike was missing its license plate. He said, “Mrs. Morgan, did your husband remove the license plate?”

  She looked at the bike and said, “I don’t know; he didn't mention it. Is that important?”

  He said, “It could be. Would you call him and ask?”

  She nodded, went back to the driver’s side of the SUV, reached in for her purse, found her cell phone and made a call. While she was talking, Kruger used his cell phone to take several pictures of the wreaked motorcycle.

  As he was reviewing the pictures, she returned to the garage and handed Kruger the phone, “Phillip wants to speak to you.”

  Kruger took the phone and said, “Agent Kruger.”

  ***

  After checking the other two motorcycles on his list, Kruger was confident the Morgan bike was the one he needed. It was almost 6 p.m. when he returned. Phillip Morgan was waiting for him in the garage when Kruger parked his car in the drive way.

  Kruger introduced himself and said, “I appreciate you taking time to tell me about the bike, Mr. Morgan. What happened to it?”

  “I used to really enjoy riding it, you know. But as the boys got involved in more activities, not so much. The last time I rode it was last March. I hit a patch of wet pavement, lost control and hit a curb. That bent the front wheel, scraped the paint and blew the rear tire.”

/>   Kruger looked closer at where paint had been scraped away in the accident. He noticed some of the metal parts were starting to rust. He said, “Where would you have lost the license plate?”

  “I’m afraid I don't really know. It’s been here since my accident, except for the short time it was at a repair shop by Reagan National. They wanted too much to fix it, so I brought it home last weekend. I'll probably sell it before I fix it.”

  Nodding, Kruger said, “Could you give me the address of the repair shop?”

  Thirty minutes later, Kruger parked his rental in front of the repair shop. It was almost seven on a Friday night, and he was concerned the shop would be closed. To his surprise, someone was still there, doing paperwork. He knocked on the office door and said, “Are you the owner?”

  “Yep, name’s Doug Sanders, owner, mechanic, janitor, you name it, I do it here. What can I do for you?”

  Kruger showed his ID and said, “I'm Sean Kruger with the FBI. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “If it’s about the bikes that were stolen, yeah, you can. Not sure what I could help you with if it's about something else.”

  “What do you mean, stolen bikes?”

  “Already talked to the police. They weren't much help, haven't seen a detective yet.”

  Kruger tapped his foot and took a deep breath. “What about the bikes?”

  “Last Friday night, someone broke in here and stole three bikes, two Hondas and a Yamaha. Broke the lock on the back door, pushed them out the door and loaded them onto a pickup. At least that's what the cop said. Haven't spoken to a detective yet. That part of it kind of pisses me off. I can't file an insurance claim until they do their report. Can you file the report for me?”

  Smiling, Kruger said, “No, I'm here for a different reason, but they may be related. Could you look at your records and see if Phillip Morgan's Yamaha was still here when the other bikes were stolen?”

  “Don't have to look it up. I can tell you it was. I was tired of it taking up space. I finally told him I was going to sell it for storage fees if he didn't pick it up. He did last Monday. Why?”