Special Agent

by Daniel Roland Banks

  It was a pretty good plan. I was concerned about all the things that could go wrong. What if there was another roadblock using the same local LEOs? I knew Doug would have already considered that and had a plan of action. He had spent several days planning the raid and would have spent some time considering every imaginable scenario. This was the kind of thing the FBI knew how to do. They had learned the hard way. I couldn’t help remembering the FBI raid on the Branch Davidian compound in Waco that left 74 people dead, including 20 children. On the other hand, the old farmhouse was not a compound. There were only about a dozen men, and no children. The men inside were not prepared for some sort of government raid. I figured I could count on the FBI. Surely, the mistakes of the past would be remembered and avoided in the present.

  I remembered Doug had handled the unexpected changes in the first attempt at finding the meeting location, with confidence and care. This time there would be air support and the meeting location was already known. I wondered if the FBI helicopter would be able to spot my multi-rotor aircraft. I doubted it. My little flyer would be very difficult to spot against the forest land below, much lower than the FBI chopper would be flying, and when I heard it coming, I could move the multi-rotor away from the area entirely.

  By a quarter to six, no other vehicle had showed up in the clearing. I moved out of my hiding place and got my high-tech little aircraft ready to fly. At about five minutes to six, my multi-rotor was circling over the farmhouse and I was able to recognize Gary’s truck as it came down the driveway. In another five minutes, I had managed to photograph every vehicle parked outside, some in the hay barn and a couple of men who were smoking cigarettes in the yard. A little after six, I had to bring the aircraft back for fresh batteries.

  Six fifteen found my multi-rotor circling the farmhouse again, but everyone was indoors and there was nothing to see. I rotated the aircraft to get a look at the county road in the distance. As I did so, five black federal SUVs in a line, eased to the side of the road and cruised to a stop. They could not have been seen from down at the farmhouse, even if sentries had been posted.

  The sun was low in the sky now and the light was fading. I saw about twenty FBI agents deploy from the vehicles, but they didn’t go down the hill toward the farmhouse. They had their weapons ready and they spread out along the side of the road, but it appeared they were awaiting orders to move in. I took a moment to zoom in and try to spot Doug, but the men were all in heavy, black combat gear and the helmets, ski masks and goggles or face shields obstructed my view.

  I had to bring the aircraft back for fresh batteries. As I prepared for the next flight, I became aware of the sound of a helicopter, a quick search of the sky showed a distant chopper circling high above the farmhouse, the low light of the setting sun showing it to be a black speck. I pulled my binoculars out of the truck and studied the chopper for a moment. It was an unmarked Sikorsky UH 60M Blackhawk, without the stubby wings or weapons pods that attack helicopters typically carried. I figured there were probably eight or ten additional FBI tactical agents on board.

  I sent my multi-rotor back to the farmhouse. A little after six thirty, and still no movement from the FBI agents on the ground, it was nearly dark now. I was proud of my camera. Even in the low light it was sending perfectly clear images to my monitor.

  By seven fifteen. It was fully dark and all the lights were on in the farmhouse. The helicopter was no longer visible overhead, having no running lights, I couldn’t see it. I could barely hear it, somewhere in the area. I lowered my aircraft, now hovering only fifty feet above the farmhouse, to just a few feet above ground and zoomed in on a window, to get a glimpse of what was going on inside the building. It appeared everyone was gathered around the table which had been moved to a more central point in the room. I couldn’t make out Gary or anyone else in particular because the men nearest the window were blocking my view.

  By a quarter to eight, I was on my next to last set of batteries. I had just put the multi-rotor back into its circling program over the farm house. I was watching the monitor as some of the men came out the front door. My camera could see them fairly clearly standing in the yard in the light that spilled out through the windows and the open door. I zoomed in and saw that one of the men was Gary. The men in the group appeared to be talking and relaxed, They were drinking beer and chatting; unaware there were twenty FBI agents just a couple of hundred yards away, an un-marked helicopter and a remote control aircraft circling overhead. More men started to come out of the farmhouse. I panned back out to get a look at the whole scene.

  There was a sudden streak of light and instantly my monitor was overwhelmed with a flash of white light. At the same time, I heard the roar of an explosion. I looked away from the monitor and saw a ball of fire over in the direction of the farm house. I looked back at the monitor and saw that my aircraft had lost the image of the farmhouse and was being buffeted by turbulence, the picture jerky and pixelated. I thought surely it would go down. Somehow, the multi-rotor got itself back under control, as it circled away from the worst of the super-heated air.

  I switched to manual control and got the aircraft and camera pointed at the place where I thought the FBI agents would still be standing out by the road. I couldn’t see anything out there but the reflected light of the burning building, the glare of the fire flickering and rolling over the trees and brush between the house and the road.

  I remembered my thermal imaging camera also had night vision capability, and in a moment I had switched it over. I saw on my monitor many glowing images of men moving fast away from the road and down toward the burning farmhouse. That was the FBI agents moving in. I switched back to the other camera and rotated the vehicle to put the focus back on the men in the yard. Just then, a bright light lit up the yard and I realized the helicopter had arrived on the scene. I had been vaguely aware of the sound of the chopper approaching, but too intent on what I was seeing to have paid it any attention. The Blackhawk was hovering with its spotlight illuminating the men in the yard.

  The force of the explosion had hit the men in the yard, throwing them to the ground. As the FBI agents arrived at the burning farmhouse they began shooting the half a dozen men who were struggling to get away from the burning building. There was no return fire from the men who had just come out of the RAG meeting. I could clearly see Gary where he lay on the ground, staying down and still, just as he had been instructed to do. I saw an FBI agent stand over him and shoot him in the head, more than once.

  I was frozen, stunned by what I had seen and in a state of shock. What had just happened? What had caused the explosion? Why did the FBI shoot everyone? Why did they shoot Gary? Were there any survivors?

  Chapter 56.

  I managed to get my mind and body working again. My aircraft only had a few minutes of battery life left. I circled the multi-rotor up and away from the carnage and switched to thermal imaging, looking for movement away from the scene of destruction. In a moment I saw something on the ground moving fast in my general direction. It was moving too fast to be a person. I could see it was someone on an ATV, traveling without headlights, up the trail away from the mayhem. I brought the multi-rotor back to the truck and was waiting as the ATV eased into the clearing.

  The ATV had some sort of specialized muffler, making it surprisingly quiet. It merely puttered as it approached. When it was about twenty yards from my truck, I switched on the headlights and lit it up.

  Watkins was blinded by my headlights. He stopped the ATV.

  “Throw your hands up, Watkins,” I yelled.

  I had the front sight of my .45 centered on his chest. He had no trouble hearing me, but he couldn’t see me because I was behind the truck’s headlights.

  I could see him thinking about reaching for the gun he had somewhere on his person, but he was just smart enough to know he was probably outgunned.

  The engine on the ATV stopped puttering, and Watkins put his hands up high.

  “Keep your hands up and
step off that thing.” I instructed him.

  He did, and as I approached him with my .45 centered on him, he stood next to the ATV, as still as if he were frozen.

  “Who are you and how do you know me?” he asked.

  My answer was sharp and filled with rage.

  “I’m John Wesley Tucker. Gary Babcock was my friend and because of you, he’s dead.”

  Watkins just stood there, with his hands up, about six from me. I had both my hands extended, keeping the .45 motionless; my sights fixed, center mass, my finger on the trigger.

  “Reach very slowly with one hand and toss your gun off to the side. If you make one wrong move, I’ll blow a hole through you where your heart used to be.” I told him.

  I was aware of the sound of the Blackhawk, still hovering somewhere in the distance.

  Watkins slowly lowered his right hand and gently pulled a revolver from a holster on his right hip. He carefully tossed it aside. A revolver can discharge, if there is a shell under the hammer when it hits the ground, but that didn’t happen. It landed softly in the tall grass on the other side of the ATV.

  “Put both hands on the seat of the ATV and spread your legs, you know the drill.”

  I intended to pat him down and bind his hands behind him with a cable tie I’d tucked into my belt. I was certain Watkins was the only survivor of the raid on the meeting. I needed him alive.

  As I stepped toward him he twisted suddenly and something hit my hands, knocking them numb and my gun fell away. He moved to swing again and I realized he had a telescoping ASP in his right hand. I stepped straight into him, inside the swing, and as I slammed down on his extended forearm at the wrist, with my left hand, I simultaneously drove my open right hand up against his elbow. He screamed as I heard the crunch and snap of his elbow joint being destroyed in the violent hyper-extension, the ligaments and tendons breaking away, the meniscus tearing. Even as he dropped the telescoping baton, I brought my right elbow back in a strike to the side of his face, then I stepped to the side and kicked him on the outside of the knee of the leg that held most of his weight. It popped and gave way under him. He fell to the ground, moaning. I knelt on his back then and pulled both his hands behind him, tightening the cable tie around his wrists. His right forearm was twisted, pulling on the elbow joint. When I pulled that arm up behind him he screamed again. With two major joints badly damaged and his hands bound behind him, Watkins was completely debilitated. I knew the pain would be excruciating. I had a hard time caring. Surgery and time would eventually repair most of the damage.

  I was thinking of Gary, whose body was lying dead, next to a burning building.

  It only took a moment to find my .45 where it had landed after the stinging blow to my hands from Watkins ASP knocked it away. I examined my handgun and found it undamaged. I holstered it. In the process, discovering while my left hand and right wrist were bruised, they were otherwise unimpaired.

  Watkins didn’t even try to get up. I don’t think it would have been possible. I found his ASP in the grass a couple of feet away. I picked it up, telescoped it closed and slid it under my belt. I found his revolver on the other side of the ATV. It was a .357 magnum, loaded with hollow points. I put it in my waistband, in the small of my back. When I patted him down, I found a large folding knife in his right front pants pocket. It had an eagle and snake motif on each side, showing through the clear plastic handle. It was exactly as Gary had described it to me. I put it back in his pocket.

  Watkins could neither stand nor walk, so I grabbed him by the waist band and belt, and half-dragged/half-carried him to the passenger side of my truck. He was in horrible pain.

  I dropped him, and left him there on the ground while I secured my things in the bed of the truck. It took some effort to get him into the truck on the passenger side, but I did it and fastened the seat belt around his waist. With his hands bound behind him, Watkins was forced to lean forward. He couldn’t stand the weight of his body pressing back against his crippled elbow.

  As I loaded my gear and my passenger into the truck, I’d been watching for the FBI helicopter. From the sound, I figured the big Sikorsky had landed in the hay field over by the burning farmhouse. I’d expected it to suddenly come flying over the forest to this clearing and hit us with the spotlight, but I thanked God it hadn’t happened.

  I was confident with the chopper on the ground and all the activity around the burning farmhouse, the sound of my diesel engine would not be heard or particularly noticed, as I drove out of the clearing. Diesel trucks are ubiquitous in farm and ranch country. Because the FBI vehicles were parked around a curve and more than a half mile down the hill from where I came out onto the county road, I would not be observed driving away. I kept my headlights turned off anyway. Better safe than sorry.

  I knew I was headed toward a roadblock. Doug’s roadblocks were the provision he had put in place to prevent anyone from leaving the scene of the raid.

  I drove north about three quarters of a mile before I came to the roadblock in this direction. There were four or five vehicles behind a barricade, with their blue and red lights flashing. I flashed my headlights as I approached, reducing my speed. I slowed to a stop, with spotlights and headlights blinding me. I could see indistinct shapes approaching my truck from all sides. I knew there were probably several rifles and shotguns trained on me by half a dozen Texas Rangers. I sat very still, with my hands clearly visible on top of my steering wheel. Watkins was looking around, trying to see past the blinding lights. He looked emaciated in the glaring illumination.

  Both the passenger side door and the door on my side were pulled open at the same time.

  “Hello John, Fancy meeting you here,” a familiar voice said.

  I turned my head and looked into the face of Texas Ranger Captain, Luke O’Brian.

  “Hey, Luke, you’re a sight for sore eyes. This guy is Kevin Watkins. A few months ago, he murdered a Mexican national named Eduardo Ruiz. He has the murder weapon in his right front pants pocket. If you talk to Lieutenant Tony Escalante of the Tyler, PD, he’ll fill you in on all the details. After what’s happened tonight, I believe Watkins may also be the only living member of the Righteous Patriot’s Brigade. He’s all yours.”

  I got out of the truck and stretched. A couple of Rangers were taking Watson out of my truck. He was groaning with the effort.

  “What the hell happened down there, John? We saw a streak from something, then a huge explosion. Did those RAGs blow the place up?” Captain O’Brian asked me.

  “Luke, tell me about the streak you mentioned. Tell me exactly what you saw from here.”

  He nodded and thought for a moment.

  “We’re probably a mile and a half from the farmhouse. We can’t see it from here because of the woods and hills between here and there, and it’s dark. We were keeping a sharp eye out for any approaching vehicles. We saw something. A flash or streak of light, then BOOM! It was like a rocket hit something. What was it?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. Could you see the helicopter from here?”

  “Yeah, well no, not really. We saw it in daylight, and then later, we saw the spotlight sweeping the ground, you know like they do. We figured it was the same chopper, lighting up the scene. There weren’t any running lights though. All we could see was the spotlight.”

  “That helicopter was lighting the scene so the FBI agents would have an easier time killing the survivors of the explosion.”

  “What did you just say?”

  “I saw it, Luke. The FBI tactical strike team came in and systematically shot everyone who survived the explosion, including my friend Gary.”

  “No, I don’t believe that.”

  “I have it all recorded. You should look this over very carefully.” I handed him a thumb drive. “Keep it hidden and be very careful who you show it to.

  “What about the explosion. What was it, John? What caused that explosion?”

  “I think it was a hellfire missile.” I said.
<
br />   Luke grabbed my arm. “Do you know what you’re saying?” He asked me, intently.

  I nodded and said,” Yes, Luke. Think about what you saw. I believe the FBI used a drone to attack the RAGs meeting. I got a good look at it and there isn’t any kind of rocket launcher on that helo. If I’m right…”

  “…The FBI, using a drone to kill American citizens on American soil? I can’t believe it.” Luke shook his head.

  “We’ll see. It’s all there on that thumb drive. It all needs to be analyzed by someone who knows what to look for, but I’m pretty sure they hit that meeting with a hellfire missile. Listen, Luke, I need to get out of here. I don’t want the FBI to know I was ever here. You need to keep Watkins under wraps for a few days, too. He’s the only other person who knows what happened down there, and the only person who can tell us what happened in that meeting. He’s going to need some medical attention. Keep him hidden.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that. How did you get a recording of what happened down there?” Luke asked.