by Peter Telep
Corey sat in the driver’s seat like a wax figure, scrutinizing the inn, the grounds, and the carport. “What about our boy?” He lifted his chin at the Chevy parked across the street. “Do we just leave him there?”
“Yeah, just like the first time. That’s what Johnny wants.”
In a matter of seconds, Corey’s mood transformed from exhaustion and dread to near-breathless excitement. He eyed Willie, then stared back at the car. He began shaking his head, then flipped open Easy Money’s phone and dialed a number.
“Who’re you calling?”
“911.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Yes.” Corey grinned like a man who had spent the afternoon munching on tablets of Percocet as though they were M&Ms.
Willie raised his voice. “Dude, I’m serious, who are you calling?”
“Just wait.” Corey lifted his index finger. “Yes, my friend and I were walking by the Pequot Inn and Marina in New London, and we heard some noises coming from a car there. It sounded like someone groaning inside. The vehicle is a Chevy Spark. It’s parked under the carport. Here’s the address...”
When he was finished with the 911 operator, Corey said, “So hear me out, Willie. We took his wallet, his phone, his license. Once his buddies realize he’s been talking to the cops, he’s screwed. He’s another security risk. They’ll want to kill him more than we do.”
Willie considered that, then chuckled under his breath. “Right on.”
* * *
A scant three miles up river, near the bridge and where the calming waters had transformed into a diaphanous gown with tulle glittering in the moonlight, one of the men on the fishing boats lowered his binoculars and regarded his partner. “No call tonight?” he asked in Arabic.
“Not yet. I wonder why he’s late?”
“He always calls after dinner.”
“I’m sure he will. I’m eager to share the good news.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“The mountain wasn’t in the way. The mountain was the way. And we didn’t come down like Moses; we came down like maniacs.”
—Johnny Johansen (FBI interview, 23 December)
“The West Virginia Muslims of Peace” (WVMP) claimed to be an offshoot of the American Muslim Society, although no administrator at the latter would vouch for any official connection to the former. The Raleigh County Sheriff’s Department and the Beckley City Police stated in interviews that the camp was “on their radar” and that the FBI had documented its existence for the past three years. The sheriff estimated that between twenty and forty people lived in the small community, and according to public records, one Mahmoud Fahmi, a real estate broker and American citizen who resided in Richmond and San Diego, owned the land and had gone to great lengths to have public utilities brought up to the mountain.
Since the enclave’s founding, not a single resident had broken the law, not so much as a speeding or parking ticket. They worked in the neighboring towns at a number of businesses and institutions: gas stations, fast food chains, daycares, and one resident was a code enforcement officer for the city of Beckley. A branch campus of Concord University employed an administrative assistant and a professor teaching business classes who were WVMP residents. An investigative report conducted by an incendiary right wing website concluded that the commune was one of thirty-five or more known terrorist training camps in the United States. The authors put forth a simple thesis: Islamic radicals were in the country and preparing for jihad on American soil while the current administration did absolutely nothing to stop them.
During late afternoons and on weekends, gunfire resounded from within the enclave. In one interview the sheriff confirmed that the residents had constructed both rifle and pistol ranges but again, they were within their legal rights to do so. West Virginia was one of the most gun-friendly states in America, and so long as the residents kept five hundred feet away from their own dwellings when practicing, they were fine. The sheriff had been asked if he believed the enclave was a terror camp. “I can tell you what I think, and I’ll tell you what I can do. What I think is that there are Islamists up there engaged in military-style training. What I can do is nothing. Again, they’re not breaking the law, and they’re protected under the Constitution.”
With that irony stuck in his throat, Johnny leaned back and massaged his temples. He was waiting for the shaggy-haired, vacant-eyed clerk at the McDonald’s drive-thru to hand him his order. The town of Beaver was only a fifteen minute drive from the enclave, and Johnny had just sent Josh a text, assuring him that he would return soon with hot coffee and breakfast sandwiches. He had left his friend up in the woods, hunkered down in the frost-covered trees to monitor a feed from the second drone, which they had boldly landed on the roof of a trailer, exploiting the double-wide’s satellite dish for cover. What was more, the Buick was parked just outside and had remained there all night, despite a seven AM bristle of activity. Women wearing hijabs and men in suits or work uniforms had ducked into the cars and left, raising dust clouds into the faces of the two men in parkas manning the gate. If they were carrying any weapons, they kept them concealed. A few other groups, young families with children hopping about, rounded the little ones into minivans and drove off to daycares or schools. Five or six old men in ManJams and sandals crossed from several trailers toward the barn near the corral, a barn that might have been serving as a mosque, since they were carrying their prayer rugs. They seemed strangely unaffected by the cold, shuffling slowly, almost reverently, across the rutted path. They gathered into a knot outside the barn door, then entered carefully, one after another.
With the interminable wait over and his “Mc-order” in hand, Johnny returned to the road and called Elina, putting her on the speakerphone. “Good morning, Johnny.”
Her formality was no act. Elina’s dignity was one of her most important possessions, and she clung to it fiercely, never allowing incorrigible men like Johnny Johansen to wrest it from her. The boys called her a woman of class, while others deemed her sense of decorum a “European thing,” but to Johnny, her elegance was akin to his own sense of duty and desire to be “squared away” in all aspects of his life—no matter the situation.
“What’re you doing?” he asked.
“No ‘good morning?’” she challenged.
He grinned and spoke with deliberateness, “Good morning, Ms. Elina. How are you?”
“Waking up. Do you know what time it is? Or are you in some other time zone?”
“I’m in West Virginia.”
“What’re you doing there?”
“Talking to you. I was thinking about some puppies.”
He could almost hear her frown. “Not yet, Johnny. It’s too soon. We can’t forget about them with puppies.”
“All right. You let me know. What’s the plan for today?”
“Well, Matt’s taking us shooting.”
“He’s what?”
“There’s a gun range down here.”
“Yeah, I know it, Big Coppitt. It’s on Palmetto, over by the Navy Station. What do the girls think about that?”
“They’re excited. Neither one of them has handled a gun before. It might help them with the stress. Kate started having nightmares, and now Isabelle is saying that if Kate doesn’t stop talking about the nightmares, she’ll start having them, too.”
“Well, it’s good you’re keeping them busy. And tell Matt I said thanks. Some shooting might help you, too.”
“You know that’s not one of my favorite things.”
“But you’re still a good shot. You hit the target when you picked me for a husband.”
“Johnny, I have to go. You just made me nauseous.”
He chuckled, then his tone grew more serious. “Hey, one more thing. I need to ask you for some advice?”
“Really? This is a first...”
“We have a chance to find out what happened to Daniel, but it won’t be easy.”
“Okay.”
“Whe
n I say it won’t be easy, I mean”—he hesitated—“it might be dangerous.”
“Illegal?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you want me to tell you if you should go or not?”
“What would you do?”
“You already made up your mind. You want me to make you feel better about it.”
“I don’t know. I just want—”
“Johnny...” her voice cracked. “You know I love you. Just go. You know what to do.”
“Thank you.” He waited for her to say something. “Elina?”
She had already hung up. He reached for the phone but thought better of it. The rift in her voice got under his skin and raised his hackles.
“Just go.”
He grabbed his coffee and drove on, the terrain filtered through a new and grimmer lens. Rolling hills walled in both sides of the road, and the power cables draped from ancient poles seemed to gravitate toward him, threatening to collapse. He passed a mom-and-pop sports bar with a tattered banner flapping from the gabled roof. The windows and doors had been boarded up against an economic hurricane that had already ravaged the area. Down the road lay a hapless transmission shop whose bays remained open like empty mausoleums. The used car lot next door featured dust-caked compacts whose bumpers frowned beneath prices no higher than three grand. Across the street was a ramshackle strip mall, its windows stained gray as though from radioactive ash. Only two of the six available spaces were occupied by accounting and printing services, their pathetic placards as weather-worn as the bar’s. He neared the Walgreens and CVS pharmacies, erected at the intersection like modern day monuments radiating promise to a town whose arthritic hands clung weakly to life.
Josh’s observation post was just off Sullivan Road, beyond the turn off at Shady Oaks. The tree-ringed hollow shielded them from the enclave’s traffic. At two minutes out, Johnny received a text from Willie, who apologized for being late. They had grabbed a bite and had admittedly overshot the exit.
As Johnny was reading that text, his phone rang. “Hey, Mark, thanks for getting back.”
“I got your message, Johnny. What’re you doing up there?”
Gatterton’s tone cornered Johnny into an explanation. “Like I said, I’m following up on a lead.”
“What about the police?”
“Somebody needs to write speeding tickets.”
“But you’re wearing the man pants.”
“Right on. So tell me about this jihadi camp. Can you tap any of your contacts?”
“You know me, buddy. I don’t call unless I have intel.”
“And you know me. I’m listening.”
“I have four friends up in West Virginia who’re in serious trouble.”
Johnny sighed in disgust. “Oh, here we go...”
“Hey, I’m not kidding. You need to get out of there. No more playing cop.”
“You never worry about me.”
“I know, but the Bureau has eyes on that enclave. It’s an ongoing investigation. You make an aggressive move, and you could be interfering with that investigation.”
“What exactly are they investigating?”
“I don’t have a case file, just heard they have something going on.”
Johnny snorted. “So they look at satellite imagery once a week and check in with the local L-E-Os, is that what you’re telling me?”
“I’m telling you as a friend to let this go. It’s not worth it.”
“You don’t know the whole story.”
Johnny summarized his findings in Daniel’s office, the trail up to West Virginia, and his desire to learn the truth about Daniel’s death.
“It’s worse than I thought,” said Gatterton. “More than just revenge. Damn, Johnny, for a guy who preaches ‘Easy day, no drama,’ you’re anything but.”
“Look here, I don’t want to drag you into this.”
“There’s no dragging involved. I’m just worried about you. What’s your plan?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Gatterton snickered. “Master Sergeant Johansen? No plan? Ha! You never were a good liar. You got a plan. You’re just not sure if it’ll fly with the boys.”
Johnny winced over his transparency. “All right, you got me. It’s just that we’re close, Mark. We lost two in a row. I need to interrogate that guy up there. I won’t lose him.”
“When do you plan on moving?”
“Tonight.”
“Damn. All right, I’ll see what I can do.”
“I need details on the Bureau’s investigation.”
“Roger that. And do me a favor: text me before you pull the trigger.”
“I will.”
“And don’t shake too many trees.”
Johnny smiled weakly. “Too late for that.”
* * *
The Skyranger drone had a 1.9 mile range beyond line of sight, but it was no electronic soothsayer. It could not detail what secrets Johnny might uncover up on the mountain and what truths might free or burden his heart. For those answers, he would have to venture up there, and he wondered if he should go alone.
He picked up Josh, then drove about a quarter mile southwest where he and Willie linked up and found a single-lane path through the woods. They edged forward about ten yards, flattening twigs and cones with appreciable snaps. A long ridge rising crookedly like a spine suffering from scoliosis appeared to their left, and Johnny maneuvered the SUV behind it. The mound, along with the shortleaf yellow pines and tall brown grasses hissing in the wind, screened them from the road. Josh said they were 1.4 miles away from the drone and that signal strength was in the green.
Willie and Corey climbed into the back of Johnny’s SUV, letting in a blast of pine-scented air. Their sore eyes had sunken into the deeper plains of their unshaven faces, and their once glowing skin had faded to a matte finish. Their expressions suggested they had hiked down on foot from Connecticut, all the while cursing the maniacal jarhead who had sentenced them to become dead men walking toward a West Virginia mountain.
“I know it’s been a long night,” Johnny began. “But here’s where we’re at. You already got the head’s up on Shammas, and the driver is still up there. Not sure what he’s doing. They might’ve moved the body out of the trunk while we were switching drones.”
Willie’s face grew more dubious. “Johnny, I’ve been going over this. You guys have now witnessed a murder.”
“We witnessed the transfer of a body, but I hear you, Willie. We have drugs, explosive materials... Blue Door is somehow involved. That driver killed Shammas and came here to an Islamic training camp. We can’t let this go. We need to interrogate him.”
“You’re sure?” asked Willie. “No chance of going to the police?”
“We’re back to that?” asked Josh.
Willie cocked a brow. “Our operation’s got mission creep written all over it now. Snoopin’ and poopin’ is one thing. That’s what we do, and for the most part we can stay out of trouble. But now we’re talking about something else—because Johnny, I already know what you have in mind. Precision raid. Reliving the days of Fallujah.”
Johnny’s cheeks warmed. “I won’t lie to you, Willie.”
“Listen to me, all of you,” Josh snapped. “We go to the cops now, they lock us up. We’re not law enforcement. We’re not bail bondsman, but we’ve been crossing state lines, following people, and we witnessed a murder we didn’t report.”
“Let’s make an anonymous call,” Willie said. “I mean, look, Corey and I already mugged a guy and we made that call.”
“And you’ll confess to the mugging?” asked Josh.
“I would,” said Corey. “I’ll take my licks.”
Willie shrugged. “Dude, it keeps ramping up until what? One of us gets—”
“Hold on now,” Johnny said. “You know the deal. Admit to nothing, deny everything, and make counter accusations. But hey, Willie, you’re right. It is ramping up, and we’re running out of time. Shammas took that meet
ing, and the wheels are spinning. I don’t know how long we can wait on that driver. I want to get up there, get in tight, survey that place and pick our infil and exfil. Josh, you’re down here, in the car, working the drone. You’ll be ready to go in case our boy drives off. If he stays up there, we’ll snatch him tonight. I’m done with high speed chases and trailing people.”
Willie raised his brows. “So I was right. Direct action. We’re going offensive.”
“Unless you have a better plan?”
“I do not.”
“Johnny, you researched this place, and I did some digging on the drive down,” said Corey. “The FBI knows about it, and even if they can’t do anything, they have eyes on.”
Johnny forced a nod. He was hoping Mark Gatterton’s reservations would not arise, yet he appreciated Corey’s relentless attention to detail. “The Bureau’s hands are tied, just like the sheriff’s and the city police chief’s. It’s a very small group up there with a track record for being peaceful. Hell, they’re so remote hardly anyone has harassed them, except for a few reporters. If the Bureau’s monitoring them, it’s not twenty-four seven surveillance. Their budget would never allow that. They’ll take a peak at satellite intel, but they’ll rely more on the local boys, who probably drive by, maybe head up there once in a while, and they talk to the mail lady, the UPS guy, and so on.”
“But it’s still a training camp,” Corey said.
“And they’re armed,” added Willie.
Corey’s tone grew more insistent. “Johnny, what if we’re wrong? What if there’s an agent working up there? He’s been undercover for a few years. Or maybe they’ve actively recruited a civilian, one of the actual residents. We raid the camp, that blows their investigation, and we’re left holding the bag.”
“We can test that theory,” said Johnny. “We’ll get up there and watch the place. A man arrived last night with a body in his trunk. If your undercover agent is doing his job, the Feds should be raiding the place, right? Hell, they should’ve been here already.”