The Secret Corps

by Peter Telep

  “Whoa, slow down there, Big Sarge,” said Willie. “We ain’t going bear hunting yet.”

  “Hey, they got spotters outside? We’ll go get ‘em,” Johnny said, already losing his breath in anticipation.

  Willie cursed under his breath. “Johnny, you know I’m your friend, but at this point running alone is a bad idea. We don’t know who we’re dealing with. We have to go to the police.” Willie lifted his chin to Corey. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” He faced Johnny. “Whatever you need, you know I’m here, but Willie’s right. We don’t know what’s going on. Then again, if you talk to the police, how do you explain all the evidence you held back? Will you go to jail for that? We should find out. I guess all this is blowing up, but we need to work it out before we do anything.”

  Johnny understood their reservations, yet he continued loading magazines like a machine, working unconsciously, filling one mag then inserting rounds into the next.

  “Johnny,” Willie said, leaning over to make eye contact. “I know you want to kill them because I do, too, but if we go off and do something half-cocked, then what? We wind up in jail? Elina loses you? Your nieces lose you? And they all need you, right?”

  “Everyone, listen up,” Josh began. “For now, we keep this to ourselves, and we follow up on our own. I’ll tell you why.”

  Willie lifted his brows. “I’m listening.”

  “Think about it. Cops are trained to be suspicious. So Johnny gets LaPorte’s name and the location of the stash. He goes over there. The cops don’t know why. No matter what Johnny says, they might think he’s involved. Maybe he’s trying to blackmail the smugglers, maybe he was working with his brother. At this point, the cops might focus on Johnny—and us—and not the real killers.”

  “I guess that could happen,” said Willie.

  “And my point is, Johnny’s already guilty of aiding and abetting—covering for his brother—who might’ve been running a drug trade on campus. We don’t know. And we don’t know if Daniel knew about the boosters inside the coke.”

  “Maybe he did,” Willie said. “Maybe that’s why he had a sample block hidden in his office. He was going to show someone how they were doing it. Or maybe he didn’t know. The block hadn’t been opened, but again, the boosters were still there.”

  “So now Daniel was somehow involved with smuggling drugs and explosives,” said Josh. “And Johnny knew about it. And he didn’t go to the police.”

  “Then he has to explain the dogs,” said Corey. “And the note to back off.”

  “Johnny, you just tell them the truth,” Willie said. “You were in shock when you found the stuff. You didn’t want anyone to think your brother was smuggling drugs or God forbid he was involved with terrorists moving explosives. It was about your brother’s memory, your own reputation, and hell, you can tell them you were thinking about your friends. If your reputation is ruined, that hurts our business, which hurts all of us, right?”

  Josh raised a finger. “Willie, you just hit on something big. Our businesses can’t afford the negative publicity of police crawling through our files. That might scare off clients and get us in trouble with the government. Shit, our security clearances could be pulled. This could go south for us really fast.”

  “That’s not happening,” Johnny said. “I know there’s a lot at stake. Willie, I wish I could go to the police. That would be easy. But I can’t. I’m sorry. When I found that stuff in my brother’s office, I should’ve turned everything over to them. But I didn’t. Now I’ll accept responsibility for that decision.”

  “I hear you,” said Willie. “But yeah, it does affect all of us.”

  “That’s what kills me.”

  Josh raised his voice. “I just thought of something else. If we hand it off to the cops now, Johnny will be charged with something—obstruction of justice, I don’t know. And think about it. Will there ever be any real justice for his brother? They killed his brother and sister-in-law. They killed his dogs. They’ve threatened his wife and nieces. They need to die.”

  “On that much we agree,” said Willie. “And don’t get me wrong. I’m not just thinking about myself. I spent a lot of time letting my emotions get the best of me. I don’t want to see us make the same mistake.”

  “We won’t,” said Josh. “And here’s something else: there’s no guarantee that these guys will ever leave Johnny alone.”

  “That’s right,” added Corey. “These guys said back off. Handing it over to the cops is not backing off, and maybe they’ll still want to punish Johnny for that. He’d always be looking over his shoulder—”

  “And I don’t live that way,” Johnny said. “We let the cops do this, and I’m telling you, they will not work it the way we would.”

  “You mean they’re bound by the law,” said Willie. “And we’re not?”

  “I mean their brother wasn’t murdered. And some of them have the skill sets of Barney Fife from Mayberry. Might as well be him and Opie Taylor working the case.”

  “But they still have assets we don’t,” Willie argued. “We’re talking about a criminal investigation. You think four rednecks can do it alone?”

  “We’ll call on the Agency and the Bureau. In fact, I already have.”

  Willie frowned. “Now I’m confused.”

  “So am I,” said Josh. “If we turn this over to the Feds, and these guys are linked to terrorists or they are terrorists, then operational security is blown to shit and these bastards run back into their rat holes. The jihadis have operatives everywhere just waiting to blow the alarm. Johnny, your friend Mark Gatterton will tell you that. The freaking jihadis are hard-wired into our government.”

  “Mark will be working with us. He knows the Bureau, knows the players. He has the friends we need. We’ll get some intel through him. I told you Pat Rugg is looking into Shammas. What I didn’t tell you is that one of our old buddies from Fallujah, Billy Brandt, is working for the Agency in Riyadh. He’s pulling up some intel but doing it all under the radar. So you see, Willie? We have assets. They’re called United States Marines. And we can trust them.”

  Willie’s expression softened. “Right on, Kemosabe.”

  “So it’s settled. We’re not going to the police,” said Josh, glancing around the room for the others’ assent.

  “I’m good,” said Corey.

  “I said this to Johnny, and I’ll say it to the rest of you,” Willie began resignedly. “If you’re going to do something stupid, you better be hard.”

  “Amen to that,” said Josh. “Now let’s get down to business. Johnny, you pissed off somebody by going to Reliance then going to the storage place. Let’s go back over the players.”

  “The old book buyer guy, Norm, I told you about? I sent him on a recon to plug in the codes at the storage place, but that’s all he did. I didn’t tell him anything about why. I don’t think they were watching him, just me.”

  “What about Bandar?” asked Josh. “He translated the note.”

  “And he knows what it said,” Corey finished.

  “He sent me a text just before he checked himself into a rehab,” said Johnny. “He’s going to try it again. He’s got no phone and no visitors for ten days. I’m glad he’s there. He’ll be safe.”

  “You tripped the wire either at the storage place or Reliance,” said Willie.

  “I think it was Reliance,” Johnny said. “I talked to that kid Kyle. I was asking for LaPorte. I should’ve been asking for Randall, so that kid might’ve suspected something.”

  “Either that or someone else at the shop was watching you,” said Corey. “Don’t you know the owner of that place?”

  Johnny nodded. “SF guy named Artie McNeil.”

  “You were working on a link with them,” said Josh.

  “Yeah. Anyway, he wasn’t there—or at least I didn’t see him.”

  “Whoa. My brother-in-law knows those guys over at Reliance,” Willie said. “Are we saying they’re involved in all th
is? No way.”

  “Kyle told me that ten thousand in gear got stolen from the place, and then LaPorte took off. McNeil asked the police to keep it quiet, so it wasn’t on the news.”

  “So maybe it’s just the kid working for him who’s involved,” said Willie.

  “Kyle was the only one I talked to there. He could’ve tipped off the guy who killed the dogs—”

  “Or maybe it was him,” said Corey.

  “Only one way to find out. Corey, I need you to get on that computer up on the bar and get this kid’s address.”

  “Why don’t we just go down to the shop?” asked Willie.

  “Because we’re going tonight,” Johnny answered.

  “You got a last name?” Corey asked.

  “Nope.”

  “All right,” Corey said, typing furiously on the keyboard. “Sometimes the websites show pictures of the sales associates. No luck there.”

  “Wait a minute. Those guys from Reliance like to compete at Tarheel and Ant Hill,” said Willie. “As a matter of fact, the kid you’re talking about might’ve been down there a few times. They post the results on a website called NC section dot org.”

  “Pulling it up now,” said Corey.

  Willie leaned in over Corey’s shoulder. “They weren’t there today, so go to the last 3-Gun.”

  Corey pulled up the long tables of results. “We’re in luck. Only one Kyle... Kyle Jessup, right there.” Corey did a simple Google search for “Kyle Jessup North Carolina.” They found the kid’s Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook accounts, and Johnny verified his picture. A white pages result yielded his home address. They brought it up on Google Earth. Cape Harbor Apartments in Wilmington.

  “All right, let’s go help the girls load up,” said Johnny. “Then we’re going over to Kyle’s place.”

  “What if somebody tails the girls down to the Keys?” asked Corey.

  “Somebody will be tailing them,” Johnny said. “I called Matt Bowlin. He’s taking his guitar and his guns. He’ll be meeting up with them on the highway, two cars. He’s overwatch. I’m sure he’ll book himself a gig or two while he’s down there.”

  “Right on,” Corey said.

  Johnny faced them and shivered through a breath. “Oorah. Let’s go.”

  Back upstairs, Johnny loaded bulging suitcases into the back of Jada’s SUV. Before they pulled out, he stole a moment with Elina. “Hopefully, this won’t take long.”

  Her tears came fast. “This is all so crazy, Johnny.”

  “I know. Just please... trust me.”

  “You don’t have to ask. But you do need to be careful.”

  He stared deeply into his eyes, and there she was, that sexy Finnish girl he had met at Sloppy Joe’s so long ago. “I’m sorry about all this.”

  “No more apologies. Adjust on the fly, right? We’ll go down there, and we’ll be okay. I’ve spent a lot of years waiting for you, Johnny.”

  “I know. And I don’t say it enough, but I love you.”

  He took her into his arms.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “We were down in Seadrift, watching some of it happen on the computer, and we couldn’t believe it. The whole time I kept thinking, oh my god, here we are, four knuckle draggers in the middle of all this.”

  —Corey McKay (FBI interview, 23 December)

  Allah, the compassionate and merciful, would take good care of Randall LaPorte; of this, he felt certain. The angel on LaPorte’s left had recorded his wrongful deeds, and the angel on the right had recorded all of the great things he had done in the service of Allah. According to his math, the good outweighed the bad, and Allah would forgive him. But would anyone else? He downed the last sip of his Bud Light, crushed the can in his hand, and tossed it out the open window of his old Ram pickup. For several hours he drove aimlessly up and down Ocean Highway, grappling with his excuses and reading an imaginary news story in his head:

  Randall LaPorte, twenty-two, of Raleigh, North Carolina, was found murdered yesterday at a friend’s apartment in Wilmington. He was the only son of John and Beth LaPorte, both serving time in state penitentiaries for tax evasion and for a real estate scam they organized back in 2009. Described as a troubled youth by one of his faculty advisors at the University of North Carolina, Wilmington, LaPorte found solace when he converted to Islam, after which his grades dramatically improved. “He told me that the teachings of Sayyid Qutb and Shamim Siddiqi changed his entire outlook on life,” said Tyrone Legacy, an academic advisor at UNC. “When I researched these men, I learned that Qutb was a harsh critic of the United States and was hung for plotting the assassination of Egypt’s president. Siddiqi wrote a book back in 1989 detailing a plan for Islamists to take over the United States and establish Islamic rule. Needless to say, I was alarmed by what he was reading. However, the changes in his life were positive, and his attitude seemed much improved. I’ve never seen a student turn 180 degrees like this. I knew his parents were in jail and that he had used the money from the sale of their house to go to college, so there was a lot riding on him doing well, and we all wanted him to succeed. I can’t believe someone would want to murder him. I do remember something he once told me. He said the United States was a country of kafirs. I had to go look it up. It means heathens in Arabic.”

  LaPorte popped open another beer, glanced at himself in the rear view mirror, then cursed and sighed. He dialed Dr. Shammas’s number again. Still no answer. He beat a fist on the wheel and took a long gulp of beer. He had avoided alcohol since converting to Islam some two years ago, but tonight he was weak, and he needed something to take the edge off. He had stopped at the Hess Express across the street from the storage facility and had purchased a six pack, intent on drinking every last one.

  Was he punishing himself for his failure? Was he trying to turn himself into his father, an out-of-work drunk who had become a criminal, a man who had browbeaten his wife into submission and wound up ruining her life, too? Fuck him. Dad had allowed a country full of greedy, fat infidels to poison his soul and destroy his life. He should have been stronger. He should have stood up to the bullshit instead of becoming a victim.

  A phone rang; it was one of four prepaid cells on the passenger’s seat. LaPorte almost drove off the road before answering. “Dr. Shammas? I’ve been trying to call you for the last two hours.”

  “I was busy. Did you finish it?”

  “He won’t bother us again.”

  “Excellent. What about the body?”

  “Uh, he’s still alive.”

  There was long pause on the other end. “What do you mean?”

  “I thought the original plan was too sloppy.”

  “So you didn’t do it?”

  “I poisoned his dogs. I sent him a warning. He’ll back off now.”

  Another pause, and LaPorte held his breath. “Randall, this is your second mistake.”

  “Excuse me? Mistake?”

  “Yes, and I’m a fool for trusting you. We need to talk. In person. Go to the Islamic Center in Wilmington. I’ll meet you there tomorrow. Go there and don’t leave.”

  His second mistake. The first, according to Shammas, was stealing all that tactical gear from Reliance and outfitting dozens of operational cells by utilizing the storage facility and their distribution route through Sneads Ferry. Shammas had called it “a grave error,” and that he “should have been consulted first.” LaPorte thought he was doing Allah’s work. After spending a year gathering intel on local law enforcement personnel who frequented the shop, the time had come for a bold move—because those who take bold steps rise higher in any organization. LaPorte had seized the opportunity, but his efforts had gone unappreciated and had triggered Shammas’s wrath.

  Fearing what the professor might do next, LaPorte had volunteered to take care of Johnny in order to redeem himself. Shammas was hesitant, but LaPorte had sworn he could get the job done without compromise or complication. However, when the moment came... He raised his voice now, the beer doing most o
f the talking: “I’m telling you, professor, I made the right decision. This guy’s scared now. He won’t do anything.”

  “You didn’t have the courage, did you?”

  LaPorte stammered, “I could have... I could have easily killed him, but I thought about the ramifications. One brother dies, the other goes missing...”

  “I considered all of that. We’ll discuss this tomorrow,” Shammas said.

  LaPorte flung the prepaid phone out the window, toward the woods along the shoulder. He did this in anger, yes, but the phones were used only once then tossed away. He jammed his foot on the accelerator. The truck leaped forward, the exhaust wailing.

  When he was thirteen, his father had taken him deer hunting, and a majestic buck had been in his sights, but he had failed to pull the trigger. Disgusted, his father ripped the rifle out of his hands and took the shot himself. He missed. They had been waiting all day for that buck. When asked, LaPorte could not explain why he froze. Consequently, as the time had drawn near to kill Mr. Johnny Johansen, LaPorte had fixated on that hunting trip. He vowed that he would not surrender again. However, as he planned the execution in his head, a force like electricity or gravity or air pressure rendered his finger immobile, and he realized he was a prisoner until he could breach all of his fear. He convinced himself that once he received his training in Pakistan this spring, he would be a true jihadi fighter, but not until then. Resignedly, he had come up with the plan to kill Johnny’s dogs.

  LaPorte popped open another beer and glanced down at the speedometer: 88 mph. With a shudder, he backed off and let the truck coast down the highway. He shuddered again at the thought of going to that Islamic center. Shammas’s message could not be clearer: he no longer trusted LaPorte, and given LaPorte’s knowledge of their personnel and operations, he was now a terrible security threat. They would slap a pillow case over his head, tie it around his neck with an extension cord, then drive him out to the game lands. They would shove him to his knees. The report of a rifle or pistol would be the last thing he heard.