Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  It took Petrovich about fifteen minutes to navigate his way to a rental car agency in Laurel, Maryland, and another ten minutes to drive away under one of his three remaining false identities. He disposed of two sets of driver's licenses, passports and canceled credit cards at a Starbucks just off Route One in College Park. Christopher Stevens, owner of a nondescript Toyota Camry previously stored in New Hampshire, and David Harrell, Massachusetts resident, simply ceased to exist soon after Daniel took a test sip of a steaming hot, grande cappuccino with an extra espresso shot.

  He rented the car and took the hotel room under the name Scott Barber, an untraceable New Jersey resident, leaving him with two more clean ID packages. Once he left the hotel room tonight, he was unlikely to return and would be forced to dispose of Barber's ID pack. He was running out of identities, but suspected that General Sanderson could help him with this problem. General Sanderson assured him that his role wouldn't extend past tomorrow evening, so he shouldn't need another hotel room.

  Daniel turned his attention to the maps and started to unfold them. He needed to quickly familiarize himself with the details of D.C.'s mass transit system and stick close to locations that offered him rapid escape options beyond the rental car. His starting point was the Metro rail map and familiarizing himself with the different lines and timetables. With trains running frequently in both directions at every station, this would be his most likely primary emergency escape system. This system would attract the least attention and provided the most anonymous method of travel. He made a mental note to drive over to the Metro station near the University to buy a pass that would allow him unhindered access to the railway.

  He opened a large road map of the greater D.C. Metro Area and placed it on the surface of the oversized desk. The smaller Metro map followed, smoothed over the road map. He would study both maps simultaneously, doing his best to orient the locations of major roads, Beltway exits and Metro stops. He didn't have as much time as he would like for the task, but it would be enough.

  Before he began, he needed to make a long overdue phone call to Jess. He had left a brief message on her office voicemail, which outlined his need to take a last minute business trip to meet with a representative from one of Zenith Semiconductors' largest overseas clients. He left few details beyond that. The less she knew the better. Still, he needed to contact her soon.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  7:45 p.m.

  CIA Headquarters, McLean, Virginia

  Berg sat impatiently inside his office at Langley, waiting for word from his contact at Fort Meade. Cell phone intercepts and electronic cross references had provided enough information to direct the Brown River team to Silver Spring, Maryland, but this was the narrowest geographic corridor the NSA intercept protocols could provide, given the limited amount of cell phone traffic generated by Sanderson's crew.

  Sanderson's people were on the move, and it would take some luck to find them. For Berg, luck came in the form of a highly-placed friend at the National Security Agency, with just enough salt and authority to illegally co-opt one of the nation's most sensitive electronic eavesdropping systems. So sensitive, that the mere mention of the name "Munoz" and "safe house" in the same conversation, on the same phone, triggered a "high probable" alert and gave Berg the confidence to move the Brown River team to Silver Spring.

  His cell phone rang, and he answered it immediately, recognizing the Fort Meade number.

  "Berg."

  "I have a confirmed location of interest. Marriott Inn and Conference Center, College Park."

  "College Park? What happened to Silver Spring?" Berg said.

  "Different cell phones. This is the one you're looking for. Call to a hardline in Portland, Maine. Listen to the tag words. Zenith, Jessica, Danny, Sanderson. We got lucky with the location. He used the words hotel and conference center. Fucked up big time. Cell node for the call is right next to the Marriott Inn and Conference Center in College Park. Do you need the address?"

  "No. I have it up on the computer already."

  "Karl, I need to pull the plug on this thing. I'm working well past my usual hour, and I'm going to start drawing attention from the nighttime duty section. It's a lot easier to pull this kind of shit during the day. They've got nothing better to do than keep an eye on the system right now."

  "I know, Pete. Just a little longer. I promise."

  "I can't be in here past eight."

  "Thanks, Pete. I owe you big time."

  "You said it. Not me."

  Berg immediately placed a call to the leader of the Brown River team, who detached one of the two vehicles to the hotel in College Park. The team had everything they could need to identify Petrovich, but it would still prove difficult. He hoped to narrow things down for them before they arrived at the hotel, which was no more than a ten-minute drive from Silver Spring.

  Fifteen minutes later, Berg was ready to drive out to the Marriott himself to strangle the night manager, who had been extremely uncooperative. Of course, Berg had absolutely no legal authority to compel any information from the woman, but the fact that she had thoroughly dismissed him and threatened to call the police didn't sit well with the senior CIA officer. He felt helpless sitting at his desk. Fortunately, the hotel parking lot had only one point of access from the hotel, and the Brown River team was deployed to cover the approach with optics that would make identification easier. They were already busy scouring hotel guests leaving the hotel.

  Two minutes after his NSA friend's 8 p.m. deadline, Berg's phone rang, and he snatched it off the desk.

  "Tell me you have something, Pete?" he said.

  "This must be your lucky day. I just got a nice intercept. Your target at the hotel just received directions to a Silver Spring address. One minute ago. 8800 Lanier Drive, Apartment 4B. Good luck, Karl."

  "I can't tell you how much this helps. Thanks for hanging in a little longer. Drinks are on me," Berg said.

  "For the whole month," Pete said, and the line went dead.

  Berg immediately relayed the information to the team leader at the hotel. His next call went to Keller, hoping to catch him outside of the Sanctum. He needed to know how much progress the FBI had made since accessing the Black Flag file.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  8:20 p.m.

  Marriott Inn and Conference Center, College Park, Maryland

  Daniel Petrovich walked out of the elevator into the Marriott lobby and studied his surroundings. The hotel's decor was modernistic. Shiny off-white marble floors contrasted with dark, mahogany walls, which were sporadically adorned with bright impressionist art. The lobby of the 226-room hotel was deserted except for the hotel staff at the desk to his left and a small party of adults laughing inside the bar located down the hallway in the opposite direction of the reception area. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary as he turned toward the main door that led into the courtyard adjoining the hotel with the conference center.

  He was dressed in a simple, business casual outfit that wouldn't have garnered a second glance in the Capitol, or any street in America: dark leather shoes, wheat brown pleated pants, and a blue oxford shirt covered by a lightweight, dark blue golfing jacket. The black duffel bag in his right hand was the only part of his outfit that might warrant a second pass from a security guard or police officer, but he didn't have to worry about that here.

  He scanned the remaining lobby space as he passed the desk, paying close attention to the faces of the hotel employees manning the reception area. He didn't register any response other than a smile and a nod from the young black kid talking on one of the hotel phones. The other hotel employee, a middle-aged, white woman with heavy makeup and bleached hair never looked up from whatever she was reading under the counter.

  He didn't expect anyone to have found him at this point, but there was no reason to let his guard down. He wasn't completely sure of Sanderson's intentions, or the extent of his resources, so he would have to assume the worst. Even if he was completely safe for
the moment, treating the situation as extremely hazardous would help him transition back into the mindset that had been drilled into him for close to four years in the Black Flag training program.

  Although it still felt like second nature to him, he accepted the reality that his skills and capabilities had degraded over the six years since he escaped Serbia. He still kept in top physical condition, practiced martial arts, and maintained his marksmanship skills, but nothing could replace continuously sharpening all of these skills in an environment where the slightest advantage gained over an adversary or situation could spell the difference between life and death. Two years in Serbia had sharpened these skills to perfection, and although his current skill level remained at a fraction of his previous level, it would still stack up heavily against any adversary Sanderson might throw at him.

  The lobby door slid open, and he was greeted by muggy, slightly polluted mid-Atlantic air. He noticed a few couples seated in the courtyard, at tables scattered around the patio area, enjoying a temperate, but humid evening. The clear sky still held some light on the western horizon, casting a deep blue ribbon that faded into stars above the hotel, competing with the orange artificial illumination cast by the decorative sodium vapor street lamps surrounding the courtyard.

  A stocky man dressed in dark pants and a short-sleeved green polo shirt sat alone on one of the granite stone benches at the far edge of the courtyard, near the walkway leading to a large parking garage that probably served the University of Maryland College Park campus. Daniel shifted his duffel bag over to his left hand, freeing his most capable side for action. From what he could tell, the man had a briefcase open next to him on the bench and was concentrating on some paperwork inside. He thought it was a little late for glancing at papers.

  Petrovich wandered to the right, away from the man on the bench and toward the parking lot where he had parked the rental car. He didn't look back to see if the man was following him. There was plenty of time to do that without attracting attention.

  **

  Jeremy Cummings, ex-Navy SEAL, flipped his cell phone closed and focused on the green picture cast by a powerful third generation night vision spotting scope. He grabbed a radio handset sitting on the dashboard in front of him and gave brief instructions to his man keeping watch in the courtyard.

  "Garrity, our man might be on the move. Keep a tight watch around you," he said.

  "Stand by," echoed inside the black Suburban, and there was a pause.

  "Did he already exit the hotel?" crackled Garrity over the radio.

  "How the fuck am I supposed to know. This guy is killing me," Cummings said to the two other men in the SUV, who all chuckled softly as Cummings transmitted his official answer.

  "All we know is that he could be on the move. Do you have something?"

  "Affirmative. Male fitting general characteristics carrying a black duffel bag. Headed your way, but his hair is blond, not black. You should have him in a few seconds. He's walking down the stairs to the lot."

  "Got him. We need a positive ID before we move. Garrity, start walking toward the parking lot. Stay out of his line of vision," Cummings said.

  "Roger," they all heard through the radio.

  Ben Sanchez, former Green Beret, lowered his tinted window far enough to push a thick, tubular camera lens through to start snapping pictures. The camera was connected to a laptop that sat jammed against the steering wheel, in Doug Porter's lap. Cummings heard the camera taking pictures and focused all of his attention on the night vision scope. His 5X magnification couldn't make a positive ID until the target moved deeper into the parking lot.

  The team's black Suburban was parked four rows back from the entrance, buried far enough into the lot to blend with the other cars, but keeping an unobstructed view of the walkway leading down from the hotel's courtyard. Once the ID was made, they would slip out of the car and take Petrovich down as he walked through the quiet parking area.

  The car was silent for several seconds, while Cummings watched the man cross a small street and enter the parking lot. He could see Garrity's head emerge over the top of the walkway stair and hoped it wasn't visible to their target. Garrity hadn't been his first choice for this operation, but Mr. Jackson wanted two full teams out the door and on the road immediately, and he had run out of experienced faces at their compound.

  Garrity had joined Brown River's Special Missions Group (SMG) two months ago after leaving the Rangers, where he had seen heavy combat with the 3rd Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, in both Afghanistan and Iraq. Still, Cummings didn't think Sergeant Nathan Garrity belonged with his guys in the SMG.

  Regardless of the 75th Ranger Regiment's classification as a special operations unit, Cummings never saw the Rangers as anything but better trained infantry. They jumped out of planes, fast roped down from helicopters and pulled tough missions, but they weren't "operators." He reserved that term for SEALs, Force Recon, Green Berets and Delta Force. Membership in this club wasn't open to Rangers.

  He started to mumble about Garrity, when he was interrupted.

  "It's him. Confirmed," the driver said, slamming the laptop shut in an overly excited manner and tossing it in the back seat.

  "Let's go. Move fast and stay low. Ben, you hit him with the non-lethal first. Dougie bags him. I'll cover you both and keep Garrity from accidentally killing any of us," he said.

  His last command went to Garrity, telling him to stay up in the courtyard until he received the signal. Cummings quickly attached his radio set to a cord protruding from his black tactical vest. They were now all linked together through voice-activated throat microphone headsets, to keep their hands free. Garrity monitored the situation through a small transparent earpiece hidden in his left ear.

  The entire team exited the Suburban on the driver's side, forcing Cummings to climb over the center console and slide out onto the parking lot's warm pavement, careful not to hit the horn. They quickly stacked themselves along the side of the Suburban, and Cummings reacquired Petrovich through the tinted glass, watching as Petrovich approached the first row of cars in the lot.

  Cummings leaned back. "If he stays in the center, we'll fan out simultaneously and take him down. If he turns, we'll weave low through the cars. Hit him quick," he whispered to his team.

  Once the team sprang into action, they would be on Petrovich with enough electrical current to drop a gorilla. If they couldn't make that happen, then Cummings would cut him down with his suppressed MP-9 submachine gun. Dead or alive, Petrovich would leave in the back of their Suburban.

  Cummings glanced through the large tinted window again and saw that Petrovich had turned in front of the first row and was now opening a sedan parked in one of the handicapped spaces.

  "Son of a bitch. Back into the vehicle," Cummings snapped.

  The team scrambled back into their seats, as a Dodge Charger drifted slowly out of the parking lot and took a left out of the parking lot.

  "Get us moving, Dougie. We can't lose him. We'll have to take him down when he stops," Cummings said, as the Suburban lurched backwards into the lot toward the exit.

  "What about Garrity?" Doug asked.

  "We don't have time for him," Cummings said, just as Garrity appeared running at the top of the stairs.

  "He should be here any—"

  "Step on it!" Cummings interrupted, and Doug Porter pressed the accelerator, leaving Garrity behind.

  Cummings saw a sedan cross Adelphi Road, merging onto Route 193 West, which headed toward Silver Spring, Maryland. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call to his second team, which was positioned to keep an eye on 8800 Lanier Drive in Silver Spring. He wanted the second team ready to pounce when Petrovich arrived. As far as the team could tell, Parker was still inside the apartment, which is where Cummings wanted to keep him. As long as he stayed inside, there was no way Parker could react in time to help Petrovich.

  **

  Petrovich ripped the stolen handicap sign off the rearview mirro
r and accelerated the over-powered Dodge Charger onto Route 193. He glanced into the rearview mirror, just in time to see the Suburban pass through a red light at the Adelphi Road intersection. He could barely believe anyone had found him this quickly, but took some solace in the fact that these were not law enforcement types. If the FBI had discovered that he was staying at the Marriott, they would have probably sealed off the entire building, until they figured out that Scott Barber had checked in late in the afternoon and had rented a car between College Park and BWI. He could have expected a heavily armed SWAT team lined up in the hallway outside of his room.

  Another thing was certain; the team following him in the Suburban was not comprised of clandestine intelligence professionals. The guy sitting in the courtyard would not have piqued Daniel's interest under normal circumstances, but given the very abnormal nature of his visit to D.C., a stocky guy with a tight military haircut raised an alarm. Even if he hadn't been spooked by the guy in the courtyard, the team in the Suburban would have been impossible to miss, even for a trainee. He had identified the oversized black vehicle as suspicious from the top of the stairs, which was confirmed moments later. While he descended the stairs from the courtyard, the rear passenger window lowered several inches, and Daniel caught the reflection of a lens through the opening.

  Regardless of their espionage skill level, he had no doubt that the team was lethal. The guy in the courtyard looked formidable. Definitely ex-military. He needed to warn Parker immediately. If someone could find Daniel this easily, he didn't have high hopes for Sanderson's assistant. Parker might be ex-special forces, but he was worse than the guys in the Suburban when it came to sneaking around.