by Peter Telep
Gatterton balled his hands into fists and shut his eyes. In that speckled darkness, every sensation of committing murder struck him at once:
Plesner’s throat felt warm and rough like sandpaper between his fingers. As Gatterton tightened his grip, Plesner’s eyes bulged, and his glasses tumbled away. He clawed at Gatterton’s hands, but they were a steel vice clamping down. Clamping. Clamping. A hiss came from the back of Plesner’s throat before the final tethers of life snapped. Gatterton screamed and slammed Plesner’s body onto the floor.
That could all happen. Right here. Right now. Gatterton held his breath, trying to decide. He considered Johnny’s brother and sister-in-law and his dear friend Donna. He owed them the truth, a truth that would be lost if Plesner died prematurely.
Gatterton opened his eyes and tanked down air. He would exact revenge on this piece of shit standing next to him. But not here. Not now.
The elevator doors parted with a whoosh and chime, and Plesner strode into the lobby, past a sign atop an easel announcing this year’s World BORDERPOL Congress—the annual gathering of border patrol management and security industries from around the globe. According to the sign, the Congress included a series of workshops and debates focusing on securing borders from cross border crime, illegal immigration, narcotics smuggling, human trafficking, and other illicit activities. Gatterton had attended the conference once before and had lectured on the FBI’s relationship with border patrol agencies in the United States and abroad.
Plesner reached the elevators well before Gatterton could. He remained there, anxiously waiting for another ride up to the thirteenth floor. Within a minute he emerged, winding his way through the knots of attendees, heading toward the Holeman Lounge, where he spotted Plesner having a conversation with a tall, leonine man whose 8 x10 glossy was featured on a placard that read, “How Can the Private Sector Best Support Border Patrol Agencies.” Guest Speaker: Nicholas Dresden, Co-founder, D&S Equities Group. Another man, slightly less gray and more birdlike, joined them. Gatterton drifted to the wall and noted how Plesner led the talk, gesticulating forcefully, Dresden and his cohort nodding and approving of what they were hearing, then yet another man, probably the workshop’s moderator, waved his hand, beckoning for Dresden and the others to come inside.
Gatterton used his smartphone to pull up the wiki page on Dresden and Senecal Equities Group. His mouth fell open as he read the summary and list of companies that fell under D&S’s umbrella, a portfolio that boggled the mind and reached across all sectors of the defense and law enforcement industries.
* * *
Charles Plesner had recognized Mark Gatterton in the elevator, and he was well aware of Gatterton’s record as both a former FBI agent and Recon Marine. While Dresden droned on about border issues, Plesner sat in the back row and consulted his private Dropbox account, where he had stored electronic copies of all of Johnny Johansen’s records.
After a brief scroll through the documents, he found Johnny’s resume and reviewed the various Marine Corps units, comparing them to Gatterton’s resume, which the man had proudly posted on his website. Yes, Johnny and Gatterton had served together in Second Force Reconnaissance Company, as Plesner had suspected. Moreover, Plesner already knew that Gatterton was friends with Donna Lindhower, because she, too, had served with him.
Using one of his prepaid phones, Plesner sent off a text to a man who could help: Yes, I have an issue. He’s in Arlington. I’ll forward his home address.
* * *
While Lance was out paying the landing fee to Bob Tanner, the airport’s owner, the group met up with two of Josh’s partners from Warrick Marine. The men arrived in a pair of black Suburbans. They left one SUV for Johnny, Willie, and Corey, while the other would cart them and Josh back to Corpus Christi. Josh said he would return soon with a few surprises, just in case. They each received new prepaid phones per Josh’s request, and the guys at Warrick joked that they would have added them to the company’s cell phone “family plan” were it not for their particular security needs. In the cargo hold of their Suburban lay a small arsenal of weapons, holsters, plate carriers, and other gear, courtesy of their friends at Sig Sauer in New Hampshire.
Included in the cache were four of Sig’s latest prototype rifle: the MCX, a weapon featuring the barrier penetration and stopping power of an AK-47 while using many standard AR-15 parts. The rifle was extremely quiet, registering with the long Sig Sauer silencer at only 118 decibels. Sig's willingness to provide the epitome of clandestine weapons and several thousand rounds of their recently developed 300 black out ammunition was a testament to Triton 6's favored contractor status with that company.
In addition to the weapons, Johnny and the others were now equipped with regular and night vision binoculars, along with Motorola two-way radios and headsets.
They spent about fifteen minutes doing radio checks and test firing each and every weapon. Since all were suppressed and the airport was out in the middle of nowhere, they accomplished this with impunity. At the same time, Lance had instructions to stall the airport’s owner until Johnny sent word.
Once Lance did return, Johnny gave him a firm handshake and affectionate pat on the back. “You sure I can’t do anything for you?”
“Other than leading me to hell and back and keeping me alive?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“Like I said, Johnny, I’m happy to help out a brother. And don’t worry, I’ll have that nice Buick shipped back to Ann Arbor for you. If there’s anything I need right now, it’s more time. If you got any of that, I’ll take it, otherwise, oorah, on your way.”
“Easy day. Thanks again.”
“Be careful, all right?”
“You know we will.”
As Lance hiked back to his plane, Johnny and the others seized the chance to gear up, and then, with Corey at the wheel, they drove onto State Highway 238. From there they would head south down Farm to Market Road 1289 toward Adam’s Street some eleven miles away. After hanging a left, they would take Adams east for just two more miles to reach the marina. They would be on the target in less than twenty minutes.
The forecast high was sixty-six degrees, a far cry from the meat locker of northern Iowa. Johnny left the window open and brought up Google Earth images of the marina on a notebook computer loaned to them by Warrick. The east side of the port faced the pristine waters of Matagorda Bay, a nutrient-rich estuary and renowned fishing destination for oyster, blue crab, and shrimp. On the south side lay a cluster of smaller islands jutting up like the bones of some predator’s talon half submerged in the blue-gray water. Separating them from the shoreline was a long, mocha-colored pinstripe of land called Blackberry Island.
Johnny zoomed in on the marina. He counted nine boat slips with hookups, a refueling station, and a small, two-story bait and tackle shop/convenience store with several rental apartments accessed by an exterior staircase, balcony, and separate entrance doors. Beside the shop stood a tin-roofed boat storage facility with room for about a dozen fishing boats.
“What do you think?” Johnny asked.
“Intel seems good. Who knows about the timing,” said Willie. “Like we said, the only way the alarm will sound is when they realize the hard drive’s gone at the dive shop. And who knows what’ll happen then. If they’re worried about using phones, they might send a courier or maybe email. Time could be on our side.”
“Willie’s right,” said Corey. “The same jihadi owns the enclave land, the dive shop, and the marina. The courier cards were printed at the shop. We’ll find something. I just know it.”
* * *
They parked the Suburban in the lot of the First National Bank on the corner of Adams and Trevor Streets. Corey remained with the vehicle, keeping his eye on Trevor Street, which served as the main access and exit road for the marina.
Once the highway was clear of traffic, Johnny and Willie rushed away from the SUV, heading down an embankment and into rolling hills of butter-colored
grass. They aimed for the stands of oaks rising sporadically on the north side of the marina. To their right and left lay roughhewn barrens between oases of more forested land. There were no structures or development of any kind. A northeast breeze carried rich pockets of salt, and as they advanced the smell grew stronger, filling Johnny’s lungs and making him feel younger and even more alive. In a moment of weakness, he wondered what Elina was doing today and why she had put up with him for all these years. If he got himself killed, he would never hear the end of it, once she joined him in heaven. Then again, she might have to bail him out of hell first, which would irritate her even more.
With sand in their boots, they reached the trees, then spread out, straying only a handful of meters from each other. The bait and tackle shop faced south, toward the channel, but the parking lot was around back, with a dirt road that returned to Trevor Street. A Lexus, a BMW, and an Audi stood in sharp juxtaposition with the two old pickup trucks with blistering paint and blemishes of rust along their wheel wells.
Willie’s voice buzzed in Johnny’s ear as they reached the last cluster of trees. “I’ll get the tag numbers off those cars, and we’ll have Corey run them.”
“That wouldn’t hurt,” answered Johnny.
“Also, I can see some people in one of the apartments upstairs. Nothing too clear through the window, but I saw a couple walk by.”
“What do you guys think? Should one of us take a peak inside?” Johnny asked.
“Pretty risky,” said Corey. “By now Plesner could’ve circulated pictures of us to these guys. Maybe they’d ID us.”
“Roger that. Let’s sit tight for now.” Johnny checked his watch. “Maybe they’ll go out for lunch.” He tucked himself tighter against the tree and focused on the concrete walk wrapping around the marina’s west side.
Out in the channel, about five hundred yards off, several fishing boats cruised by, their wakes coalescing like bubbling curtains. A crow squawked in the distance, and the sun broke through a long barge of clouds. Shafts of clean-looking light fell across the channel now, the wavelets flashing as the water settled down. Johnny’s boot pressed a little deeper into the leaves and sand, the crunching controlled by the amount of pressure he put on that foot. His senses were beginning to extend themselves, reaching out like the feelers of some giant African beetle, the tiniest sound or movement amplified ten times over.
Within the next hour he had fully surrendered himself to the landscape, to the bark at his shoulder and the bed of gray earth beneath his cargo pants. He alternated between the binoculars and Willie at his flank, consumed by their target. He thought of calling Gatterton for an update, but knowing Johnny’s luck, he would be on the phone and miss something important.
The gurgling came first, accompanied by an asthmatic wheezing. And then it appeared: a twenty-foot long Tran Sport fishing boat limping toward the marina, its outboard Suzuki billowing smoke. The two middle-aged men wearing ball caps reached the dock, tied off the boat, and then shut down the engine. They hurried toward the tackle shop, bickering with each other. One removed his cap and beat the other over the head with it. Johnny took them for locals not having a very good morning. The fumes from their ailing boat motor reached the woods, making him grimace.
Ten minutes later, a third man joined them at the dock and began inspecting their outboard. He was a Santa Claus in grey coveralls, hardly a jihadi at first blush, but they could never be sure.
The repairs went on for another fifteen minutes, and as they did, Johnny felt something tighten in his gut. Not a hunger pang or spasm or hernia but a premonition—a coming together of forces both controllable and uncontrollable. The feeling grew stronger, his hackles literally rising as silhouettes appeared in one of the second story windows.
Abruptly, a door opened and three men stepped onto the balcony. They had dark hair and dusky complexions. Two were dressed in suits, while the third, the tallest and oldest with a bit of ash at his temples, wore Dockers, a collared shirt, and a pullover sweater. Recognition came as a jolt, and before Johnny could open his mouth, Willie spoke for him over the radio:
“That’s him. That’s Nazari.”
Chapter Forty
“I’m not ashamed to admit it. When we realized what they were doing, I closed my eyes and prayed—because at that point, I thought there was absolutely no way to stop them.”
—Willie Parente (FBI interview, 23 December)
Mark Gatterton waited two hours for Charles Plesner to come out of his workshop at the National Press Club. After speaking once more with Nicholas Dresden and Edward Senecal, Plesner proceeded directly to work on Pennsylvania Avenue, where he currently remained. With a GPS tracker placed beneath his car (one of several Gatterton had “procured” during his tenure with the FBI), Plesner was now on a short leash. Eager to do more research on D&S Equities and satisfied that his tracker was functioning properly, Gatterton returned to his small brick home on North Monroe Street in Arlington, where he sat, hunched over his computer, his pulse mounting at every click.
Scattered on the desk were notes taken during his phone calls with Johnny. As he picked up the nearest one scratched with the name of a Peruvian mining company called EXSA, he realized he was trembling. The name EXSA was on the mini boosters Johnny had found inside the block of cocaine. A sales representative Johnny had IDed at Blue Door had a relationship with the Peruvian government, selling arms to their local police. Now Gatterton had discovered yet another connection:
A munitions recycling company in Columbus, Texas called UXD was owned and operated by Nicholas Dresden. EXSA in Peru was one of the company’s primary customers. A secondary search of the name UXD produced a recent news article detailing the bizarre disappearance of Mr. Tom Barryman, the company’s Executive Director of Shipping. He had come to work and gone missing, as though recycled into thin air. A thorough search of the plant by law enforcement had produced no evidence linked to his disappearance. Witnesses had seen him arrive, but none could recall him ever leaving.
Fact: Dresden and Senecal were working closely with Plesner, but what were they doing? Why would they cover for jihadis, unless they wanted certain targets within the United States destroyed and jihadis to take the fall? What did they hope to gain?
Gatterton recalled one of the articles he had just read, an interview with Dresden published in Wired magazine. The journalist had painted a very flattering portrait of him and his company, but there was a moment when Dresden ranted about the inadequate policies of the current administration, the downsizing of the military, the gaping holes in intelligence, and most of all, the general public’s naïve view that they were safe. He had argued that yes, many of his companies were suffering because of false assurances and the administration’s over-reliance on technology to fight its “new kind of war.” He admitted that post 9/11 America had been a real boon for all of his businesses, but now many in the defense industry were suffering while America grew less secure.
And then there was Plesner, who Gatterton knew shared his own point of view. He hated the Bureau’s weakening power and its supervisors hired for their politically correct ideas instead of their ability as investigators. He agreed that jihadis and other informants had penetrated the inner circle. Plesner was an old school administrator whose heroes were Theodore Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan. But now, in many respects, his hands were tied by cowardly politicians, by the endless criticism of a liberal media, and by citizens with smartphones hoping to capture law enforcement brutality and corruption on camera.
What would it take to win back the hearts and minds of the current administration, along with the hearts and minds of every American citizen?
There had been a flicker of it after the marathon bombing. Boston Strong.
How could they become “America Strong”?
They would need something big, something at least as big as 9/11, a jihad on American soil the likes of which the country had never seen.
And what would that require? Rainmakers of
industry. Men like Dresden and Senecal, and men like Plesner with the connections and power to protect their interests. America would die and be reborn, fertilized in her own blood. Meanwhile, this unholy trinity would be there to reap the political and financial benefits. The defense industry would surge. Plesner could set free the dogs of war and fight the jihadis as aggressively as he wanted.
Gatterton reached for his phone. Johnny had no idea what he had stumbled upon, no idea that it did not stop at Plesner. And Johnny deserved to know everything before he made a move. This was—no shit—way beyond their pay grade.
Before Gatterton finished dialing, someone kicked in his back door, the crash reverberating through the entire house. With a start, he crossed the room, wrenched open a drawer below his hutch, and produced his old Glock 22, always stored with a full magazine and one in the chamber. As he drew the gun from its holster, a figure wearing a balaclava rolled into the doorway, raising his pistol.
Gatterton fired, but so too did his assailant, striking him in the right shoulder and knocking him back, into the window, glass shattering onto the concrete walk outside. Gatterton squeezed off two more rounds, striking the man in the head and neck.
While the thug collapsed onto the wall, two more rounds punched into the window frame, and Gatterton threw himself onto the floor. White hot pain seared across his chest, emanating from a spot just beneath his collar bone, and he was not sure he could move his arm.
He gazed at boots shuffling toward the doorway, reached out with one hand, took aim, and fired, striking this second attacker in the foot. The man shrieked like some nightmare creature behind his mask. Gatterton sprang to his feet, burst into the doorway, and caught him unaware, all owl’s eyes behind his mask. Two rounds to the head leveled him, the blood spewing in a tie-dye pattern, the image growing opaque in the haze of gunfire.
