Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  "ASAC Seth Castellano, Sheriff. What the hell is going on here? I thought I told you not to approach the property."

  The man seemed to bristle for a moment at the obvious rebuke. Taking a deep breath, he answered. "Two of my deputies heard gunshots from within the building and decided to enter the premises."

  Castellano grimaced. As much as he'd like to, he couldn't really argue with that kind of judgment call and it was clear from the Sheriff's expression that he knew it. "And what did they find?"

  "They witnessed a man coming down the stairs from the second floor as they attempted to get the door open. The guy ran through a hallway towards the garage, but he was gone by the time my deputies got over the fence and around the building."

  Castellano closed his eyes and sighed. Fighting hard to control his anger he asked, "Does this man have a description?"

  "Blonde hair, about six foot, and thin. He was wearing a black raincoat and blue jeans."

  "Sounds like my guy. Any idea what the gunshot was about?"

  The Sheriff pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "Upstairs," he said, as he turned around and held the door open. As they entered Castellano saw the typical handiwork of a crew with a search warrant. Desk drawers and filing cabinets were wide open and papers that had apparently been outside of the scope of the warrant littered the floor. The sheriff led the way through the rectangular office to the left side of the room, where a door led to a set of steps. Following the sheriff up, Castellano turned the corner to a second set of stairs and saw two large holes and a pile of crumbled drywall on the landing above them.

  "What happened here?" he asked, as they topped the steps and he looked closely at the holes and the drywall. "Looks like gunshots."

  "That's what I thought and this seems to confirm that," the sheriff said, as he stepped further into the room.

  Castellano followed the man and saw blood spatter on the wall near one of the two windows that overlooked the parking lot. As he stepped around one of the desks he knew what he was about to see wasn't going to be pleasant. He grimaced as the body of a large man came into view. Around the man's head a massive pool of blood mixed with the gray commercial carpeting and created a dark halo. In the man's meaty hand was a .38 caliber revolver.

  "Who is he?"

  "Tim Sweat. He owns the company. We haven't touched anything so what you see is exactly how things were when my men arrived. It looks self-inflicted to me and there's a suicide note on the desk."

  "Or it was made to look that way," Castellano posited.

  "Exactly," the sheriff confirmed. "I spent a decade investigating homicides in Richmond before moving here so I've seen my share of bodies. I'm sure your people can tell for sure by the presence of gunshot residue on the hands."

  Castellano nodded and looked from the position of the body to the holes in the wall near the stairs. "Those holes look consistent with gunshots so I'm going to go out on a limb and say he was shooting at someone who came up the stairs."

  "My thoughts exactly, and we found evidence of a break in by the garage. Someone used a manual tire jack from one of the vehicles to pry open a garage door."

  Castellano fought a smirk as he looked from the body to the gunshot holes. If he didn't know better he would swear that Declan McIver was trying to help them frame him, because he sure wasn't helping himself. Not only was he on the run, as far as the public knew, but now they had another body tied to him and no witnesses to offer an alternative version of events.

  "What's the suicide note say?"

  "It's right here on the desk. It's an apology to his wife and children and talks about some men threatening them, fits the murder idea more than the suicide one if you ask me. I've known Tim Sweat for nearly twenty years and he's not a man to be threatened by anyone."

  Castellano nodded and turned around to look at the legal-sized piece of paper sitting on the desk, blood droplets soaking through it onto the wood beneath.

  "It says something about some files with the identities of the men doing the threatening," Sheriff Scruggs continued, "but I don't see any folders nearby. My deputies said the guy running away was carrying something, but they couldn't tell for sure what it was. Sounds like a motive to me."

  Castellano felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Just when everything seemed to be going his way there had to be some bad news. Had Sweat somehow managed to get information on the four men, or did the files just contain pictures? He dismissed the bad feeling. Surely the four had been smart enough not to give their real names and it wasn't like he had to worry about them talking to anyone. Declan McIver had again solved that problem for him when he killed them.

  "Then we need to find him before he has a chance to destroy those files. Any idea where he could have gone?"

  "Well, we're guessing the blue Mercedes out front belongs to him because Tim Sweat's BMW is in the garage. So that means he had to have left here on foot. He must've jumped the fence before my men got around the building. I made a call to a guy with some dogs. He's on his way. We'll get a scent off of something in the car and start tracking him."

  "What's around here that he could get to?"

  "The only real development is several miles to the east and my men had the building blocked off from the front so he had to have gone out the back. There's nothing back there but several dozen acres of forest and beyond that some country roads. I sent my deputies to the nearest houses and put out an APB to all of my patrols. They'll be searching along the roads and visiting the homes of the few residents that live out that way."

  "Good. When will the dogs be here?"

  "Should be here any minute, the guy just lives over the way," the sheriff said, making a motion towards the south with his hand. "The way I figure it, this guy has been on foot for less than thirty minutes. If you take into account the fact that the average human male runs five to eight miles per hour, and with the kind of terrain around here there's no way he could keep up a full run that entire time, I'm thinking he can't be more than a mile away, if that."

  "This guy is full of surprises so far, so I want you to expand that APB to the neighboring counties, triple the patrols along the roads and set up checkpoints at every major road into and out of the area. Do you have enough manpower for that?"

  The sheriff nodded.

  "Good. Get it done. I'm calling in the area field agents to assist us and I'll see what kind of help the other agencies in the area can offer."

  "It's going to be kind of difficult to hold every thin, blonde-haired male we come across until you get there for a positive ID. Do you have a picture of this guy?"

  Castellano reached into his suit coat and removed a picture he'd taken from one of the curio cabinets in the McIver's home. "His name is Declan McIver and he speaks with an Irish accent. That ought to narrow it quite a bit."

  "I'll get this photo out to everyone," the sheriff said. "He won't get far."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  12:04 p.m. Eastern Time – Monday

  Wooded Area between Rts. 806 & 122

  Moneta, Virginia

  Leaning against the trunk of a pine tree for support as he caught his breath, Declan looked back in the direction he had come as the sound of baying hounds filled the air. He placed his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths. He knew what the sound meant. The police had brought in dogs and were on his trail. He stood upright and tucked the file folders containing the identities of the four men who had been threatening the Sweat family under his arm like a football and set off at a light jog down a steep incline. Ahead he could see large breaks of sunlight through the thick trees and realized the forested area was coming to an end; soon he would be in open ground. Even in such good shape, there was no way he could cover the kind of distance he needed to on foot. He needed to find a vehicle if he was going to avoid being chased down and caught.

  Undoubtedly the police were looking at him as a suspect in Tim Sweat's death and why shouldn't they? He'd run from the scene as soon as they'd shown up. I
t would take time for a coroner to determine that the gunshot had been self-inflicted and in the meantime they'd arrest and hold him. Declan didn't have that kind of time. On his own, he held the cards and could communicate when and how he wanted. In a jail cell he wouldn't have that choice; plus he didn't want to risk losing the four folders of information he'd got from Sweat. They could help him identify who it was that was trying to kill him and whether or not they had any connection to Seth Castellano, as he suspected they did.

  At the bottom of the incline he stopped briefly as the tree cover gave way to a broad, rolling field that was just beginning to show signs of life in the early spring. It was a hayfield, if he had to guess, and in the distance he could see sunlight glinting off a tin roof. He didn't know if it was a barn or a house, but either way it was the only building he could see and might be his only chance for several miles of finding a car. The baying of the hound dogs sounded again in the distance and he looked over his shoulder. It sounded like they were searching the forest southeast of his current location, where he'd stopped at a set of three metal outbuildings that had been used as a storage area for a nearby farm. He hadn't been able to see the farm from the storage area and there hadn't been anything useful inside so he'd kept moving. Although it had cost him some precious time, in hindsight he was thankful he'd stopped. Hopefully the buildings would slow the pursuing officers as they would surely approach the area cautiously in case he was hiding inside and armed.

  He moved in the direction of the tin-roofed building at a steady pace and as he got closer he recognized the pungent odor of a chicken coop. The smell assaulted his nostrils and brought water to his eyes as he crested the last hill before the end of the field. In front of him a small valley between more hills opened up and he could see that the tin roof did indeed belong to a long rectangular chicken coop. He surveyed the area around the coop for vehicles, but saw none. As his eyes moved across the adjacent fields, he spotted the rear of a brick ranch house surrounded by several tall trees on the opposite side of the property. A one lane gravel road forked about a hundred yards from the house and led past it and over more hilly terrain. He would have preferred to find a vehicle near the farm buildings where there was less chance he would encounter the landowner, but it looked like the house was his only choice; parked next to it he could see a blue pickup truck.

  Declan kept his eyes on the house and the road leading to it as he made his way out of the field on a rough pathway that he thought had likely been made by the frequent passing of a tractor. He didn't like the idea of stealing a car from someone, but how else was he going to get out of the area and to a more secure location where he could take a long look at the information he was carrying? He didn't know exactly what he was expecting to find in the files that would be so valuable, but there had to be something that could help him find a lead.

  Keeping his eyes focused on the house and his ears tuned to the road in case any vehicles approached, Declan carefully stepped over a waist-high barbed wire fence that separated the hayfield from the home's spacious yard. He darted between several tall pine trees as he moved across the yard towards the short driveway that ran off the gravel road in front of the house and ended where the truck was parked.

  The house was a one story brick ranch with its exterior mostly surrounded by tall evergreen shrubs that hadn't been trimmed back in many years. From the looks of the lawn and the lack of any kind of homely decorations, he suspected the owner of the property was elderly and that could work out in his favor. With any luck, if there was anyone inside, he would have the truck started and be rolling out of the driveway before they even heard a sound. Keeping his eyes on what little bit of window he could see through the thick shrubs, he approached the truck low and slow and reached out to touch the hood. The metal was cold, signaling that it hadn't been driven recently. The truck was a navy blue Chevrolet and from the body style he was guessing it was an early nineties model; hopefully it still ran. He moved around to the passenger's side where the body of the vehicle hid him from view, and pulled up on the door handle. He paused briefly to see if anyone had seen or heard him, then rested easy as no sounds came from the house. Looking over his shoulder, he cleared his six o'clock position. The door came open with a low clunk as the latch released and he leaned inside as he pulled it the rest of the way open. The cab smelled heavily of cigarette smoke and the passenger's floor area was littered with old receipts and sales paper inserts that had been trampled by wet shoes and were now a permanent part of the worn carpeting. On the seat sat a bucket of white spackling and a rusted paint scraper. He grabbed ahold of the paint scraper and reached across to the steering wheel to begin prying the casing off so he could get to the wiring underneath.

  As he placed the blade of the scraper into the joint between the upper and lower casings, the sound of crunching gravel drew his attention. He ducked quickly down onto the seat and turned around as he slid out of the truck. Looking towards the gravel road, panic rose as he saw a brown and white Crown Victoria turn right at the fork and head towards the house. He pushed the truck door closed and moved around the front of the vehicle, his eyes darting between the house and the approaching police car as he crouched to hide from the deputy's view. He needed a place to hide before he was seen, assuming he hadn't been already. Spotting a low porch on the front of the house, white plastic lattice work across the bottom to hide the edge of the wooden boards, he moved towards it, looking for an opening. At the meeting of the lattice work and the edge of the house, time had loosened whatever nails or staples had been holding the white vinyl to the wood. He leaned down and tore a piece loose before lying on the ground in a prone position and pulling himself under the porch on his elbows. Sliding around in a circle, he reached out and picked up the piece of lattice work, leaning it against the edge of the deck to hide his entry point. He squinted and held his breath as the dust from the dirty ground underneath the porch settled.

  Looking through the triangular holes in the lattice work, he watched as the Crown Vic, clearly bearing the logo of the Franklin County Sheriff's Office, turned right into the short driveway and pulled to a stop behind the parked truck.

  He could hear the muffled sound of the deputy's radio unit through the closed doors of the vehicle and wondered if the man had seen him as he'd approached the house. The sound of the door latch being released preceded the sound of two feet hitting the gravel driveway as the deputy left the cruiser. Declan scooted back from the edge of the porch, hoping the shadows would hide him from view if the man happened to look down. The short distance still gave him enough visibility to watch the deputy's actions.

  "Dispatch this is 2-Adam-23. I'm 10-62 for a 10-66 at 608 Rucker Road, copy?"

  "10-4, 23, advise 10-8. Over?"

  "Copy dispatch, will advise."

  The deputy walked over the ten foot distance between his cruiser and the edge of the porch. Declan could hear the boards of the weathered porch creek under the man's weight as he passed over him. The sound of a screen door being pulled open preceded a forceful knock on the front door. Slow footsteps sounded heavy on the aged floorboards of the house as the occupant made his or her way to the front door and opened it, metal hinges squealing in protest.

  "I'm Deputy Rogers with the Franklin County Sheriff's Office." the deputy said. "How do you do, Ma'am?"

  "I'm fine, Deputy," an elderly woman answered, a question audible in her raspy voice.

  "Ma'am, I'm here because we're searching for a suspect in a crime that happened a few miles southeast of here. Now, I don't want to scare you, but have you seen anyone you didn't recognize around here this afternoon?"

  Declan grimaced as he waited for the woman's answer. Had she seen him through a window as he'd approached?

  "No. No, I haven't."

  He breathed easy.

  "Okay, Ma'am. The man we're looking for is approximately six feet in height, he has blonde hair and he's kind of thin. At this point he's considered armed and dangerous, so please do not
open your door for anyone and call us immediately if you see someone matching that description. We'll be patrolling the nearby areas frequently until we find him."

  "Oh, dear. Alright, then."

  Declan could hear the fear in the woman's voice and he shook his head. He didn't mean anyone any harm; he just wanted to get back to his wife. There were people out there that did mean harm, though, and they had already killed a lot of good people. If they weren't stopped, chances were that they'd kill a lot more.

  "One last thing before I leave, ma'am," the deputy said. "Would you mind if I had a look around the barn and the chicken coop just in case someone may have tried to hide there?"

  "No, go right ahead. I'm going to call my son and ask him to come over. Will you notify us when you've found the man you're looking for?"

  "Do you have a television or a radio, ma'am?"

  "Yes."

  "We'll be keeping people updated through the local stations."

  "Thank you, Deputy."

  Declan listened as the woman closed the door with a thud and the deputy released his hold on the screen door allowing it to bang closed. The deputy's heavy footsteps sounded over the porch and Declan watched as he made his way back to his vehicle and entered, closing the door behind him. Muffled voices sounded as the man radioed his dispatcher and informed her of his return to his vehicle. The cruiser's engine started up and the deputy backed out of the driveway and drove towards the barn that was a short distance past the tractor path Declan had traveled a few minutes before.

  Waiting until he was sure the deputy was out of sight, he pushed the loosened lattice work aside and slid out from under the porch, his black coat and blue jeans tan with dust. He had no idea how close the lady's son lived, but he knew he needed to get out of the area quick before anyone saw him. He looked at the truck and grimaced. He wasn't as concerned about the woman inside seeing him, but was there really any chance that he could get the thing started and get away without alerting the deputy? He doubted it, but it was the only option he had. He crossed the untrimmed grass to the driver's side of the pickup and opened the door. Closing it as quietly as possible, he tossed the file folders onto the passenger seat and grabbed the handle of the paint scraper that was sticking out of the steering wheel casing where he'd left it. Good thing the deputy hadn't checked the truck or else he would have known someone was around by the obvious attempt to hot wire the vehicle. Prying the casing down far enough to get his fingers inside, he pulled off the bottom casing and revealed the wires underneath. After a quick inspection he identified the two wires that would complete the circuit. With the bladed end of the scraper he tore them loose and twisted them together before allowing them to touch the starter wire. The truck sputtered as he held the wires together and the starter began to squeal. After what seemed like a solid minute but was probably only a few seconds, the engine turned over and the truck came loudly to life. He sat up in the seat and pulled the gearshift into the drive position. The truck lurched into gear and he backed out of the gravel driveway, skidding to a stop as he shifted quickly through the gears and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The truck's rear wheels spun against the loose gravel and churned a cloud of dust as the vehicle shot forward towards the fork in the road. He didn't know exactly where he was, but he took a gamble that the deputy had been coming from the main road when he'd arrived at the house. He made a left at the fork and sixty yards later the road turned from gravel to pavement and he knew he'd made the right decision. As he passed a row of more modern homes he could see the intersection of the main road ahead. He slowed as he approached the intersection. The brakes ground loudly against the bare rotors and he fought to keep the steering wheel from pulling to the left. With his attention on keeping control of the truck, he glanced through the pitted windshield just as another Crown Vic pulled onto the road and blocked his way. He stomped hard on the brakes and brought the truck to a skidding stop, his eyes locking with those of the deputy behind the wheel of the cruiser, who now had his radio to his mouth and was shouting into the mic.