Day Zero

by Marc Cameron

  Lindale tried to shake off the worry. Maloney was probably taking a leak himself. But even if that was the case, he should have been back by now. Something just wasn’t right. Lindale unbuckled his seat belt, deciding to go inside and talk to the kid—and if Garcia came out and saw him, so be it. It would be a lot better to get burned than to lose her. Lindale pitched the binoculars on the passenger seat and opened his door. His left shoe had just touched the pavement when he heard a faint scrape of gravel in the darkness behind him.

  Ronnie padded up, quickly reaching the driver of the green Expedition before he had time to turn around. Putting her full weight against the door, she slammed it hard against his exposed shin, letting it bounce before she slammed it again. She heard the satisfying crunch of bone a millisecond before his scream rose from the space between the door and the SUV’s interior. In the middle of turning when she’d come up behind him, the man fell toward the vehicle. Ronnie helped him along, using the heel of her hand to slam his head sideways, bouncing it hard against the doorpost. She leaned in, lifting the sidearm from his belt as he slid to the ground, writhing in pain from the shattered leg.

  Squatting beside him, she snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Cell phone!”

  Eyes clenched, he threw his head back, wailing, “You broke my leg, you bit—”

  In his agony, he’d forgotten he was still clammed between the open door and the Expedition. She gave it another slam to get his attention, catching him across the ribs and pinching his right arm above the elbow. He retched. Spittle dangled from his chin as if he might throw up.

  “You need to talk nice, postalita,” Garcia spat. “Now, where’s your cell phone?”

  He shoved it to her, his head lolling in the direction of the stop-and-rob. “Maloney?”

  “Is that your little girlfriend’s name?” Garcia said. She leaned inside the Expedition and yanked the wires out of the radio. “He’ll live . . . but he’ll be singing with the soprano section of the choir for a while.” She looked down at the laptop on the center console. “I assume this is what you were using to spy on me.” She shook her head in disgust. Standing, she snatched the man’s credential case from his jacket and flipped it open. “Seriously, Agent Gene Lindale, what’s with all this following me around shit? I’m a federal agent too, you know. Sneaking around like this is a good way to get yourself killed.”

  “I . . . I’m with ID,” he groaned.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “I can smell that.”

  He retched again, head hanging toward the pavement. “You got no idea how much trouble you’re in now. . . .”

  “Oh, I know.” Ronnie gave him the sweetest smile she could muster. “I’m royally screwed.” Garcia squatted low on her haunches so she could look Lindale square in the face. “But you know what, Gene? I got no patience for guys who hide a camera in a girl’s bathroom. I mean seriously, my computer, my phone, even my kitchen table. I do a lot of work there so that I can understand. But what kind of valuable intelligence did you think you were going to get from spying on my toilet?”

  She threw his keys over the privacy fence and crushed his cell phone under her heel. Spitting in disgust, she gave the door one last slam for good measure. At this point, breaking another bone or two wouldn’t dig her in any deeper.

  Back at her Impala, she grabbed the duffel and two bungee cords from inside and dropped the keys in the front seat, leaving them for the kid. She’d left an envelope inside the store with the signed title to the car and ten one-hundred-dollar bills in exchange for the keys to the Kawasaki. Using the bungees to fasten the duffel to the back of the bike, she threw a long leg over the seat and hit the ignition.

  The green Ninja gave off a bright metallic glow under the stark lights of the fuel bay. It felt incredibly powerful beneath her, just a little bit out of control—which, under the circumstances, was just what she wanted.

  Chapter 32

  Garcia peeled out of the parking lot, half from nerves, half from jubilation at doing something that made her feel closer to Jericho. She took the bike around the block, cutting behind the stop-and-rob to get back to the highway. The ID agents wouldn’t be able to do much but lick their own wounds for the moment, but it wouldn’t be wise to take any chances and let them see which way she’d gone. She’d not only hurt them physically, but she’d damaged their pride. The sort of men who would put cameras in her bathroom would take that personally—and she’d seen firsthand how the emotions associated with revenge could give a man strength to stand on a broken limb as surely as any crutch. There was no doubt that she’d made a couple of enemies for life. Get in line, she thought. Seemed like that list grew longer every day.

  Ronnie hadn’t ridden without a helmet in years, preferring to keep her head more or less round and brains in place. It couldn’t be helped for now. And, whatever the ID agents’ endgame had been, it was likely just as bad as—or worse than—getting her face smeared on the asphalt. Virginia didn’t require a helmet, but they did require eye protection and the kid had given her a pair of Wiley X goggles to go with the bike. Unfortunately for Garcia, the state of Maryland had strict helmet laws and she wouldn’t hit Virginia until she crossed the Potomac.

  Wind whipped at her hair, taking her breath away and buffeting her chest as she hit the southbound entrance ramp back onto I-270. Leaning forward, she tucked herself in behind a semitruck, far enough back to avoid most of the turbulence that would flip the bike around like a toy. She prayed she wouldn’t run into any state troopers until she hit Virginia. Any officer who stopped her would call in the stop and Lindale had surely dragged himself inside the store to call in the cavalry by now. The IDTF would cast a wide net enlisting every sworn officer and informant to help them find the dangerous Hispanic woman riding a green motorcycle.

  Traffic was creeping along at its normal glacial pace when she hit the Beltway, causing her to do a lot of stopping and starting. Every driver who caught her eye seemed to be scolding her for being a scofflaw.

  Garcia felt like an enormous stone had been lifted off her chest when she crossed the river and entered Virginia without being stopped. She took the exit just before Highway 193 and meandered through the back streets until she found an Embassy Suites in Tysons Corner.

  A false ID and credit card from her go-bag got her past the desk clerk with no problem. Palmer had always stressed the necessity of having identification her agency didn’t have on record. Too many agents had lost their lives over the years because some moles gave up a list of cover identities. Thankfully, Palmer had been in a position to have documents made that were completely real but for the names associated with them.

  Garcia began to feel the aftereffects of conflict and the fatigue brought on from her ten-K run as soon as the desk clerk slid the room key across the counter. Her stomach growled, demanding to be fed. She grabbed a bowl of instant ramen and a Diet Dr Pepper from the snack store. She debated on an ice cream bar, but decided she’d best stay at her fighting weight.

  The room was freakishly clean compared to how she normally lived. There were no piles of clothing on the floor or dishes in the tiny stainless-steel sink.

  “Give me time,” she muttered under her breath. “I’ll wreck it.”

  She tossed the go-bag on the bed and went through the contents while she waited for a coffee cup full of water for the ramen to heat up in the microwave.

  Jericho had taught her never to step out her door without at least four things—her sidearm, a knife, a light, and something to start a fire. EDC, he called it—Every Day Carry. With those four items you could get any of the other bullets, beans, and Band-aids that might become a necessity.

  Ronnie reached under her blouse and pulled the Flashbang holster and Kahr PM9 from where they hung suspended comfortably from her bra. She put the gun on the wooden nightstand beside the bed, and then took out her wallet, folding knife, LED flashlight, and Zippo lighter and set them beside the pistol.

  Inside the go-bag, there was a Brownin
g Hi-Power, because if she needed the bag, things were floating south in a hurry and a second gun was always faster than reloading. The Browning ate the same 9mm ammo as her diminutive Khar, but carried thirteen rounds in the magazine and one in the tube—a real plus when things got sticky. Jacques Thibodaux, whose mantra was “Don’t go to a gunfight with a handgun in a caliber that doesn’t start with at least a four,” turned up his nose at the puny 9mm. But her hands were on the smallish side for being such a big girl in other places. She reasoned that it was better for her to hit with a 9mm than miss with a .45. Besides, the Browning just felt good and the inside-the-waistband holster made it possible for her to carry it concealed as long as she had on a loose blouse—two of which were also included in the go-bag. Jericho had insisted she include a fixed blade in her kit, so there was a wicked little two-finger thing his knife-maker friends in Anchorage had given him called the Scorn—along with extra magazines for both pistols. In addition to the weapons, she had a wound kit, two more flashlights—you could never have too many of those—a small pair of binoculars, a pair of jeans, comfortable running shoes, a baseball cap, a pair of polarized Oakley sunglasses, a Windbreaker, extra socks, and two pairs of underwear. Four thousand dollars in rolls of twenties and hundreds and another burner phone rounded out the contents of the bag. There had been five, but a thousand had gone to the kid with the motorcycle.

  Satisfied she had what she’d need for the short term, she mixed the ramen and sat back on the bed to drink her diet Dr Pepper. She’d lost count of how many nights she’d spent in business hotel rooms just like this one—during training, on missions, interviews, polygraphs, and clandestine meetings with contacts. It was easy to wake up and have no idea where you were. Cookie-cutter designed, they were all virtually the same—with nice furniture, heavy blinds, and the lingering odor of someone else’s cologne.

  The ramen did little to take the edge off her adrenaline-stoked hunger. She pulled back the sheets and fell back on the bed. Hands behind her head, she closed her eyes and thought about ordering room service.

  Her eyes flicked open at a sudden thought. What if the IDTF had somehow installed cameras in this room? She knew the notion was absurd. It had been a last-minute decision. She hadn’t even known where she was going to stay until she rode into the parking lot. But the feeling of being watched was a hard one to shake. The flashing green light on the smoke alarm in the center of the ceiling caught her eye. Smoke alarms had a built-in power source. They were the perfect place to hide cameras and listening devices.

  She stood up and double-checked the latch over the door, hoping that would make her feel better. It didn’t. Jericho had often accused her of having a panic button on her back that made her agonize over little things whenever her head hit the pillow.

  She considered another shower, but shoved the thought out of her mind. Getting naked again today was not an option. In the end, she leaned a chair against the door and then climbed into bed wearing all her clothes. Worrying over Jericho, she glanced at both pistols in the dim glow of the nightstand clock as she fell into a fitful sleep. Her panic button was working overtime.

  Chapter 33

  Virginia Ross found herself shoved unceremoniously into the backseat of a black Suburban. It was nearly identical to the armored one her protective detail used but for the fact that instead of tinted bulletproof glass, this one had blackout material fixed to the windows.

  “Curtains,” the director mused, as Walter slid in the backseat beside her. “I half expected to have a black bag pulled over my head.”

  Agent Walter chuckled. “We’re not heathens, Director Ross.”

  “Well,” Ross said, crossing her hands in the lap of her gym shorts. “Would you mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “In due time,” Walter said. “In due time.”

  He sat in silence throughout the rest of the trip, looking at his phone and ignoring her completely.

  It took them the better part of an hour to get wherever they were going. The driver kept the air conditioner on its coldest setting for the entire trip. Ross folded her arms across her chest in an effort to keep from shivering. Wearing nothing but her damp T-shirt and thin running shorts, she was freezing by the time they came to a stop.

  Walter didn’t even look up.

  “Are we just going to sit here all night?” Ross asked, looking forward to even a brief moment of warm outside air.

  Walter groaned, stowing his phone back in the inside pocket of his wrinkled gray suit.

  “All right,” he said. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t be too excited.”

  Ross had been inside prisons before, but her knees nearly buckled at the sound of the heavy metal door slamming shut behind her. She’d been witness to several. . . intense interrogations, the memory of which only added to the fear roiling in her chest. A second door, identical to the first one, formed a small mantrap prior to the main receiving area visible through a tall, slender window. It began to rumble open as soon as the first door slid closed.

  Walter and another man, younger and blond with bad acne, flanked her, each holding an elbow as if there was anywhere else she could go. A shadow behind the dark tint of a huge window—presumably the control center—buzzed them through another door. A long, polished hallway with tiny windowed cells running the length of both sides stretched out in front of her. She recognized Brigadier General Tim Crutchfield in one of the cells. An Army advisor to the Secretary of Defense, he’d given an interview with Rolling Stone magazine about his views on the new administration—and disappeared shortly after. She slowed to look, but his head ducked away from the window when he saw Walter.

  They picked up the pace and Ross was ushered through another door along the far end of the hall and into a sprawling interrogation room. At least twenty by twenty feet in size, it was surely designed to make the prisoner feel insignificant. It worked. Ross had to concentrate to keep her feet when they led her into the room. Along with being big, it was blindingly bright with glaring light that made it difficult to tell where polished white tile ended and painted walls began. This door had no window, but it was impossible not to notice the cameras at each corner of the ceiling. A stainless-steel table sat in the center of the room, with brushed metal chairs on either side. There was no bunk and the only other furnishing was an institutional combination sink, water fountain, and toilet sitting in the open along the back wall.

  The stark lighting and clinical lack of privacy sent a wave of cramps through Ross’s gut.

  “Have a seat, Virginia,” Walter said, dismissing the acne-covered man with a nod.

  “I prefer to stand,” she said. The door slammed shut and she jumped in spite of herself. Folding her arms across her chest, she paced back and forth, wishing she had the skills to beat the hell out of the man on the other side of the table. She was at least five years his senior and had always been a writer over a fighter, even in her prime.

  “Please sit,” Walter said again. He dropped a thick manila folder on the table between them. “It will make this so much easier.”

  “I expected you to take me to some black-site ship out at sea,” she said, mustering the cool that had gotten her the job of CIA director in the first place.

  Walter gave a smug nod. “Why’s that? Is that what you order your agents to do with spies?”

  “You and I both know I haven’t violated the Espionage Act,” Ross said. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

  Walter picked up the file again, flipping through it. He glanced up now and again to study her, and then went back to the file. After a full five minutes, he tossed the folder aside as if it didn’t matter anyway.

  “Well, I’m tired.” He flopped black in the chair. “So I’m going to sit even if you won’t.” He folded his hands on the table in front of him. “You’ve made some pretty bold statements in favor of enhanced interrogation.”

  “Desperate times,” she said. “The nation is under attack.”

  �
�So it is.” Walter nodded.

  Ross put both hands flat on the table, leaning over it. The sureness in her voice belied the turmoil inside her.

  “Is that your plan with me?” she asked. “Enhanced interrogation?”

  Agent Walter leaned back, resting his hands on his stomach, eyeing her. “That depends,” he said. “Please sit down.”

  Ross sighed, deflated. Her fingers trembled as she pulled back the chair and sat. She was a professor, an expert in foreign affairs and world economies. In the past decade she’d become an expert on espionage. While she’d approved the use of harsh interrogation methods and even sent her agents into missions that put them at risk of enduring such treatment, she was in no way wired to withstand such abuse herself. But then, she remembered, if torture was administered correctly, no one was.

  “Depends on what?” she whispered.

  “On you.” Walter leaned forward, elbows on the table. He rested a smug face in his hands and smiled that horrible half smile. It made her, a grandmother, want to kick his teeth out. “Tell me what you know.”

  Ross’s mouth fell open. “I’m the director of the Central Intelligence Agency,” she said. “I know virtually everything.”

  “Fair enough,” Walter said. “We’ll narrow it down some. Tell me what you know about Winfield Palmer.”

  Ross nodded. So that was it. She’d seen the way both the President and Vice President had glared at her when she’d taken up for him.

  “I’d imagine he’s looking for a job,” she said, forcing a smile.

  “You know,” Walter said, “you guys took ugly interrogation techniques to all kinds of exotic levels—drugs, light, noise. . . .” His eyes narrowed, peering right through her. “In my experience, you don’t need a bunch of fancy things to convince someone to talk. A wet washcloth and a can of Sprite work as good as any fancy waterboard.”

  “I suppose,” Ross said.