Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  "Turn around and place your hands against the wall," one of them ordered, his slow drawl clearly identifying him as a native of Franklin County. Declan looked them up and down for a moment, wondering why they were removing him from the cell. He knew he had to stand before a magistrate at some point to have the charges against him certified, but he was pretty sure that wasn't going to happen for a few hours since it was barely seven o'clock in the morning. Slowly he turned around and placed his hands against the window sill in a push up position, his legs spread wide. He listened as the deputy inserted the key and pulled open the cell door. The two men stepped inside and stood on either side of him, one holding a pair of handcuffs attached to leg irons.

  This wasn't the first time in his life that Declan had been held in a jail. Internment, as it had been known in Ireland, had been commonplace and he'd been taken in at least a half a dozen times during his years with the IRA. The police in Northern Ireland, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, would hold people for as long as two weeks while they pumped them for information on the movements and plans of suspected IRA volunteers. The treatment was harsh and the governing authority routinely turned a blind eye to the abuses dealt out by the prison guards, known throughout the land as screws. While American jails were a dramatic improvement, he didn't like being held in one any more than he had in the Irish one.

  The last time he had been a guest at such a facility had been after he'd saved Abaddon Kafni's life for the first time. As an illegal immigrant at the time, he'd been held on a variety of charges stemming from the violent incidents surrounding the attempted assassination. He'd spent two months in the Massachusetts prison known as MCI-Norfolk until Kafni had recovered from his injuries and pulled the necessary political strings to have him released. This time he doubted he would be so lucky.

  After snapping the cuffs around his wrists and ankles and securing the excess chain with a heavy leather belt around his waist, the two deputies pulled him out of the cell and slammed the door behind him.

  "Where am I going?" Declan asked.

  "Transport van's here to take you to Regional," the shorter of the two deputies responded.

  While Declan hadn't spent any time at all in any of the local correctional facilities, he knew that the term "regional" referred to the large prison that had been constructed on the southwestern side of Roanoke County and was used to hold the longer-term inmates of at least four different jurisdictions.

  Shuffling down the hallway six inches at a time due to the leg restraints, he waited as they opened the door and pushed him onto an elevator that descended three stories to the bottom floor of the adjoining courthouse, where the sole interrogation room and the small cubicles of outdated computer terminals belonging to the Sheriff's Office were located. The two deputies led him past the office marked Sheriff with gold vinyl lettering and out onto the small parking lot behind the jail.

  There, surrounded on three sides by tall pine trees and a chain-link fence, the cars of the county's civil servants sat, along with many of the police cruisers that he'd seen the previous afternoon. Parked just inside the manually operated gate was a long cargo van with green and gold markings identifying it as a vehicle belonging to the Western Virginia Regional Jail. Upon seeing the deputies approaching, two green-uniformed correctional officers got out of the van with their own set of restraints and prepared to take custody of him and load him into the secured cargo area in the rear.

  "Hold on, boys," a familiar voice said from behind the two deputies holding Declan, "looks like he's not being transported to regional after all."

  "Why the hell not?" the taller deputy asked, as he turned to face Sheriff Steve Scruggs as the superior officer walked around and stood between them and the two COs from the regional jail.

  "Mind your tone, Deputy," Scruggs said with a grimace.

  "Sorry, Sheriff," the deputy said, looking towards the ground. "I know the Sweat family well."

  "I know you do," Scruggs said with a nod, "but this one's outta my hands. There's been a federal warrant issued for him and we've been ordered to hand him over to the FBI. They're here to collect him. It seems Tim Sweat isn't the only person Mr. McIver is wanted for murdering."

  Declan craned his neck over his shoulder and saw a man in a suit and tie walk out of the glass door behind them. Even though he could only see him in his peripheral vision, he recognized the smug face of Seth Castellano.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Declan felt Castellano grasp his shoulder at the same time the agent grabbed the security belt around his waist and began pushing him towards the light blue Crown Victoria that was parked in one of the four spots marked visitor near the front of the lot.

  "You're transporting him alone?" Sheriff Scruggs asked, as Castellano released his grip on Declan's shoulder so he could reach for the handle of the rear passenger-side door.

  "You can thank our current leaders in congress for that," Castellano quipped, "they've cut our budget to the bone."

  "I can send a man with you, and a car to follow and bring him back if you like."

  Declan knew Castellano would turn down the offer before the words were even out of the agent's mouth. Wherever they were going, he had a feeling it wasn't to another jail.

  "I'll be fine. I'm only taking him as far as Roanoke and then he'll be turned over to the Marshals."

  "As you wish," Scruggs said with a wave of his hand, as he turned to look Declan in the eye. "I'll be seeing you again, son. We don't take kindly to murder around here so you can bet this jurisdiction will be pressing maximum charges after the feds are done with you. We'll get our pound of flesh."

  When the deputies had finished releasing the restraints, Castellano cuffed Declan's hands in front of him and pushed him down into the back seat. Declan didn't respond to the Sheriff. He could understand Scruggs' anger, even if it was misdirected. It was the same anger he felt over the deaths of Abaddon Kafni and Levi Levitt.

  After pausing briefly beside the car to sign the necessary paperwork, Castellano moved around the vehicle with a bounce in his step and got in, slamming the door behind him and starting up the car's engine. A deputy unlocked and pulled open the gate leading out of the parking lot and Castellano gave a slight wave as he turned onto East Court Street and the jail began to fade from view.

  After passing the mid-nineteenth century shops and industrial era homes that made up the town of Rocky Mount and crossing into the more commercial section of Franklin County that housed the area's gas stations and fast food joints, Castellano turned north onto the four lane road that would take them all the way into Roanoke, thirty miles to the north, and pressed the accelerator to the floor. As the sedan reached the edge of the acceleration ramp, he spoke.

  "You sure turned out to be a lot more trouble than I'd have thought. I knew I was onto something when I saw your immigration paperwork and it looks like I was right."

  Declan didn't respond. He kept his eyes on the passenger side mirror, watching the vehicles traveling along the road behind them.

  "There's no reason we can't be friends for the short time we have left together," Castellano said, as he glanced into the rearview mirror and flashed a toothy smile. "You know I actually owe you some gratitude. You did me a big favor when you killed Turlington and his men the other night."

  Again, Declan refused to give the agent the satisfaction of an answer.

  "Don't take this so personally," Castellano continued. "We've all got our secrets we want to protect."

  "My secrets don't bomb universities and assassinate decent men," said Declan, finally giving in to the temptation to speak.

  "Like hell they don't." The agent laughed. "Maybe not anymore, but I'm willing to bet you've got a cemetery full of headstones you're responsible for, directly or indirectly."

  Declan fixed his eyes on the road ahead. "So what's the plan? Get me a good ways out of town and then execute me, beat the hell out of yourself and tell everyone I tried to escape?"

  Castellano look
ed into the rear view mirror. "I'll think of something."

  They rode in silence for several miles. Declan glanced several time at the vehicle's mirrors.

  "What are you so interested in back there?" Castellano finally asked.

  "White cargo van with two visible occupants," Declan said. "They've been on us since we left the jail."

  Castellano moved his eyes from the side mirror to the rearview mirror and his expression confirmed what Declan had already suspected. He hadn't known the vehicle was there and that meant the men following them weren't part of his team. He dialed a number on his cell phone and raised it to his ear. "Dammit," he said under his breath as he ended the call after several seconds and the car crossed a concrete bridge over the Pigg River, a broad tributary of the Roanoke River that created the border between Franklin County and Roanoke.

  "Not your guys, old son? Well, we've got one thing in common then," Declan said, his eyes fixed straight ahead so the men following them wouldn't know they'd been made. "We're both expendable."

  A brief flash drew his attention as Castellano piloted the vehicle up a sharp incline a hundred yards from the bridge they'd just crossed. "Watch out!" Declan shouted, as the smoke trail from an RPG shot across the road towards them. Castellano saw the attack a second later, slammed on the brakes and turned the vehicle sharply to the right. The sedan bounced over a concrete curb and into the gravel lot of a public dumping area as the pavement behind them exploded, an orange fireball throwing chunks of black pavement into the air and shattering the rear window. Fighting to keep control of the vehicle, Castellano turned the steering wheel hard and collided with a metal dumpster.

  With no seatbelt or airbag in front of him to deploy, Declan felt his head connect with the back of the passenger side seat as the impact threw him forward, then slammed him back again. Pain shot down his spine and through his legs as he landed sideways on the back seat. He closed his eyes and made a guttural noise as he heard the hiss of steam escaping from the front end of the vehicle. Slowly he raised himself into a sitting position and looked into the driver's seat. The airbag in the steering wheel had deployed and Castellano's head was buried in it, his arms sprawled across the dashboard. Declan couldn't tell whether he was conscious and reached towards his shoulder with his cuffed hands.

  The agent sat up suddenly, drawing his gun from his shoulder holster. His hands outstretched, Declan grabbed the gun barrel with one hand and Castellano's wrist with the other as the agent swung the gun around towards the back seat. Placing his thumb behind the trigger, he prevented the agent from firing. Castellano turned in the seat and grabbed the gun with his other hand, trying to regain control. Declan felt intense pain shoot through his hand as Castellano tried to squeeze the trigger of the Glock service pistol, and he felt the handcuffs tighten against his wrists as he tensed his arms and tried to keep the gun away from his head.

  "We have to get out of here before they come back to make sure they've succeeded," Declan said through clenched teeth.

  "I have to get out of here," Castellano growled. "I just need you to die!"

  Squealing brakes preceded the sound of tires quickly leaving the pavement and bumping onto the gravel lot, and Declan knew the men who had been following them had arrived. Castellano suddenly let go of the gun and pushed open the driver's side door, exiting the car and running towards one of the dumpsters for cover. The reverberation of automatic gunfire erupted from behind the Crown Vic and Declan allowed himself to fall flat onto the back seat as he tried to adjust the pistol in his cuffed hands. He could hear the ping of bullets hitting the row of metal dumpsters in front of the crashed sedan as someone sprayed the area with gunfire. Getting his grip straight on the service pistol, he raised his hands toward the sound of the gunfire and squeezed the trigger rapidly. He heard the sound of his shots hitting metal and glass as the automatic gunfire stopped.

  Launching himself to the other side of the seat, his back braced against the passenger side door to steady his aim, he looked out of the shattered back window as he fired more rounds towards the cargo van that had pulled onto the lot. The rounds shattered the vehicle's windshield and the two occupants ducked into the cargo area for cover. Declan kicked at the opposite passenger side door, trying to get it to open, but quickly realized the futility; this was a police-style vehicle, it could only be opened from the outside. Firing two more shots, he threw himself over the back of the front seat before firing two more as he scrambled out of the driver's side door, left open by Castellano.

  Knowing the magazine in the gun was close to empty, he aimed it towards the van as he escaped from the car and ran towards the row of dumpsters, following Castellano's lead. Two shots exploded from the barrel, followed by a faint clicking sound as the trigger went limp.

  As he ducked behind one of the dumpsters he saw Castellano leaning against another alongside, a red stain formed on the side of his light blue button-down shirt signaling that he had been hit. "Get down!" Declan yelled, as he ran between the dumpsters towards him and pulled him onto the ground by the shoulder. Castellano groaned loudly in response to the impact as the sound of one of the van's doors opening preceded more automatic gunfire. Holding the agent close, Declan hunkered them both as close to the ground as he could as the bullets cut through the thin metal containers like they were made of warm butter and into the sparsely covered hill beyond, creating clouds of dust on impact. He couldn't tell what kind of weapon was being fired at them, but he thought by the sound of the firing mechanism that it was likely something smaller, an Uzi or an MP5 perhaps.

  "Get over there and find them," someone shouted as the gunfire stopped "Make sure they're dead! We have to get away before the police get here!"

  Declan sat up quickly and looked at Castellano, who was obviously incapacitated by his injury. Reaching for the agent's shoulder holster, he unsnapped the compartment that held the extra magazines and pulled them loose. With the press of a button he dumped the empty magazine and slid in a new one. Snapping the slide back and chambering a round, he braced his back against the dumpster as he stood and rolled out into the space between the two containers. He squeezed the trigger rapidly as a heavily jacketed man holding an MP5 machine pistol came into his line of sight. The man was tall, with a narrow scar down the side of his face, and his skin had the same sickly Caucasian tone as the men Declan had seen the night Kafni had been killed. Undoubtedly this man was a Chechen and part of Ruslan Baktayev's crew. But why would they attack Castellano if he was allied with them? The three shots hit the man center mass as he was surprised by the sudden attack, the impact pushing him back into the cargo area of the van.

  "Damn!" the driver yelled. The van's tires spun, shooting gravel into the air as it left the lot and pulled back onto the paved highway, its cargo door wide open and the body of the fallen gunman hanging out. Declan quickly cleared the dumpsters and looked in the direction the van had fled. Several motorists had pulled to the side of the road nearby and were looking on in confusion and fright. With the van now out of sight, he turned back towards the dumpsters and ran between them to where Castellano lay. He bent down and gripped the agent by the shoulder as he laid the pistol on the ground.

  "C'mon, you're not dying on me!" he said, tearing at the man's bloody shirt to inspect the injury. "I need you!"

  Castellano groaned as an agonized look spread across his face. With the bloody shirt torn open and moved aside, Declan felt for the gunshot hole. He applied pressure as best he could with his hands still cuffed together when he found the hole in the agent's side.

  "C'mon," he yelled, "stay with me!"

  He moved his head towards Castellano's mouth and listened for breathing. Hearing none, he looked at the man's face. The serious loss of blood was evident from the ashen color of the agent's skin and Declan knew he'd be dead within minutes without medical treatment.

  "Talk to me! Tell me who's doing this! They tried to kill you, too!"

  He pressed hard against the wound to try and stop the
bleeding, but the jagged hole was too hard to cover with his hands cuffed together. He released the pressure and reached for Castellano's pockets to find the keys.

  "C'mon, c'mon!" he said, searching desperately and finding nothing. He stood and ran quickly towards the crashed Crown Victoria, quickly checking up and down the road before exposing himself. He backed into the driver's seat and reached around the steering wheel for the keys that were hanging in the ignition. Pulling the set of keys loose, he thumbed through them frantically until he found a tiny metal key with a loop on the end. He pushed the metal cuffs hard against his wrists as he tried to position his hands correctly to insert the key. Feeling the cuffs dig into his skin, he inserted the key and twisted it with his fingers, causing the cuffs to fall loose with a snap. He quickly repeated the process on his other hand and tossed the cuffs onto the floor as he left the vehicle and ran back towards the dumpsters.

  Reaching Castellano, he dropped to one knee and leaned over to place pressure on the wound again. The earth beneath the agent had turned black as blood mixed with dirt. Declan was too late. ASAC Seth Castellano was dead.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  7:36 p.m. Eastern Time – Tuesday

  Northbound on Interstate I-581

  Roanoke, Virginia

  "Awful news, David," a male voice said, as Kemiss picked up the phone in the back of his limousine. "I'm very sorry this happened."

  Kemiss grimaced. The voice belonged to Lukas Kreft, an influential campaign donor and his partner in the terror attack that was set to happen in less than a week. Together they had created the character of Levent Kahraman, a mysterious Turkish sheikh whose identity Kreft now used to communicate with and give orders to Ruslan Baktayev.

  "It's over, Lukas. It has to be. Seth's dead and McIver's back in the wind where we may never find him. We can't afford to keep going with this or we'll both lose everything."