by J. L. Saint
“Holly. Stop. Listen fast. I saw Rico last night. I gave him an emergency cell and he just activated the signal. Rico needs back up now. Find Dekker and move.” He gave her the coordinates.
“General Dekker’s right here. He’s on the phone with President Anderson. I’ll get the FBI on this now. Hold on.”
Jack waited less than fifteen seconds.
“This is SA Gibson. Just exactly when did you see Corporal Santana?”
“Can we have this conversation after you get to him?”
“Already have closer agents heading to the coordinates and we’re on our way. Now talk.”
Jack relayed his midnight visit to Angie’s and exactly what surveillance he’d bypassed and where.
“Heads will roll,” Gibson replied.
“Not too hard. It’s my job to infiltrate undetected and I am good at my job. Otherwise I’d be dead. Have Senior Airman Gear or General Dekker call me the second you reach Rico and let me know if Angela Freemont is with him or not.” Jack prayed not but he had a sick feeling that she was and that was one call to Lauren he would dread making.
“We’ll let you know.”
Jack disconnected and as he drove to Commander Weston’s office, he dialed every number he had for Roger. Everything went to voice mail. On a whim, he cut over to Roger’s apartment first. Neither Roger nor Mari were there. More disturbingly, when he checked at the apartment next door where Roger had been bunking, he’d learned that Roger hadn’t been there since the day before.
On the road to Roger’s office, Jack’s cell rang and the commander’s name flashed on the screen. Relieved as hell, Jack answered. “Tell me Beck’s got Dugar.”
There was a long silent pause then a girl spoke. “Oh God, if you’re a bad guy Jace is so gonna be ‘I told you so’. Your number kept flashing on the screen and I kept thinking that I’d want someone to call back and let me know if it was me, so I’m calling. This cell phone here and a nasty gun are in the parking lot. Just laying here. There’s some blood too, I think.”
“Where?” Jack’s gut clenched.
“I’m at—but if I tell you then you’ll know where I am and you could be bad and that wouldn’t be good. Maybe I shouldn’t have called.”
“Whoa. We’re the good guys. My name is Jack. And you’re going to call the police then go wait someplace safe until they get there. But Roger is my friend and I’m coming too. You’d want your friend to come if you were in trouble, right? Roger must be in trouble.”
“Yeah, I would. Parking lot of the Holsten Inn in Fayetteville.”
“Have you touched anything besides the phone?”
“No.”
“Good. Don’t. Call 911 first. If you’re by yourself, run into the Inn and get the manager to stay with you. Watch the area where the gun is and don’t let anyone disturb anything. If you feel you are in danger or, as you say, a bad guy shows up, you stay hidden until the police arrive. Also call me too if someone shows up, okay? Can you do all of that?” The girl sounded all of sixteen or so. His daughter Livy was ten and were she in the same situation, he’d want her the hell out of harm’s way. He turned and headed to the closest ACP, planning to cover the twenty-minute drive to Fayetteville in ten.
“Yeah, but you’re scaring me.”
“Just call the police and do as I said. It’ll be all right.” Jack disconnected and called the CID office to alert them of the situation with Roger. Army Criminal Investigation Command (CID) first then General Dekker. Rico. Roger. Beck. Everything wasn’t going to hell in a hand basket; it was freaking rocketing there at Mach 6 and it wasn’t quite noon yet.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Atlanta, Georgia
1200 hours
Rico fought to stay sharp against the shock trying to take over his system. His pulse raced. A knife-wrenching pain had settled low on his left side, and he couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. The painful moaning from the man he’d shot moments ago soon turned to pleas for Allah’s blessings—odd he wasn’t begging Allah for help if he was in that much pain. No other gunman appeared. He’d heard nothing from Angie and he couldn’t stand staying away from her another second.
Against his better judgment, he left his hiding place and angled onto the hood of her car. The car shifted to the left and Rico bit back a groan of frustration. Any seasoned pro would know exactly where he was now. Rico moved forward, faster now, uncaring if he was silent or not. If the SOB wanted to nail him, then Rico was going to at least know if Angie was okay.
She lay slumped against the steering wheel and unmoving. The air bag had deflated. He eased her hair back and her pale face came into view.
“God, Angel,” he whispered as he crawled onto the dashboard to reach her. She was ghost white. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth and her head lolled to the side. She didn’t respond when he touched her and her skin was cold to the touch. A quick check to her carotid artery at the side of her neck told him her heartbeat was strong and regular. She was breathing as well, but something was very wrong. She’d been out too long.
He didn’t dare move her. The sound of a footstep in glass from behind him had Rico twisting sharply to his right to cover Angie’s body, his bad arm was so useless that he couldn’t even move it completely to free a clear shot with his left. The man with the Uzi was there, must have come around the back of the motel to come up behind. The man grinned as he aimed the machine gun at Angie. Rico wrenched harder to the side and shot from beneath his right underarm.
A spray of bullets from the Uzi ate up the ground between them and plowed into the hood of Angie’s car as the man’s finger twitched on the trigger. Then he toppled over, dying with a smile on his face and a bullet between the eyes.
The sound of sirens closing in on Rico penetrated his growing haze of pain. He looked down, thinking a bullet had hit him then realized what the pain in his side was all about. From the look of his misshapen side and mushrooming bruise, he had broken the hell out of his ribs.
Christ. He unscrewed and pocketed the suppressor from his Beretta then reached for Angie. He had to touch her. “Angel. I’m sorry. This is all my fault.” God, if anything bad happened to her he would die.
“Corporal Santana, can you hear me?”
Rico winced as his eardrums recoiled from the foghorn blowing at him. He shook loose the haze clouding his vision. “Bum Fuck Egypt could hear you, sir.”
He had to be dreaming, because that was General Dekker shouting at him and General Dekker was at Fort Bragg and Rico was—“ANGIE!” he yelled, everything falling nightmarishly into place. He tried to sit up but his ass was plastered to…what?
Shaking his head again, he realized he couldn’t see because his eyes were shut. He snapped them open and saw General Dekker’s mug glaring at him. Next to Dekker was Senior Airman Holly Gear with a grin splitting her face, and next to her was SA Gibson, who looked pissed enough to kick Rico’s ass to BFE.
“Where’s Angie?” He could hardly draw a breath.
Dekker answered. “On her way to the hospital. Unconscious but stable. You’re on your way just as soon as you tell me what in the hell went down here, Corporal.”
Rico realized he was strapped to a stretcher with EMTs at his head and left side, with his shirt torn open exposing the bruised area over his ribs, oxygen over his mouth and nose and an IV in his arm. How long had he been out? He went through his story, minus the suppressor on his Beretta, describing in detail the trap that had been set for him and Angie.
He could see the back of Angie’s mangled car and the upturned cab. His stomach churned. What had he done?
“How many men were here?” SA Gibson asked.
“Six. One behind us in the black Honda, which we backed into. Look for front bumper damage. One in the cab ahead and four men, armed with guns coming out of the hotel room on the left. They are behind the Piedmont Park shooting. You’ll likely find burkas and a baby stroller in their hotel room.”
Gibson shook his head. “We’re ab
out to check the rooms out now. We’ve only got three at the scene. Two dead men, one in the cab, one on the street beside it. And one injured teen over there,” he pointed to a stretcher closer to the hotel rooms. “Teen says he and the other two are the only ones involved. We’ve confiscated your weapon for ballistics until this investigation is complete. And you’re confined to a hospital room with a guard as well.”
“A teen? Christ.”
“Anything else you want to tell us, Santana?”
“Only that several of the surveillance cameras covering the ATM at the bank over there might make some interesting video.” Rico coughed and thought he would die as his body spasmed with pain.
“We’ve got to take him in,” the EMT said, pushing the FBI back.
“I’m going in with him,” Holly Gear said. “With your permission, that is, General, sir.”
“Permission granted. Corporal, can you still hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Stay your ass in bed. That’s an order, soldier.”
Rico gritted his teeth. He’d stay in bed only if Angie was all right. Once she pulled through without any problems, then he’d only be around until he could walk to BFE. He’d almost gotten her killed and should be shot. He’d been trained to look beneath the surface of what was happening around him and he damn well knew that nine times out of ten a shark waited. What the fuck had he been trying to prove? Had he subconsciously attempted to make up for his lame arm by lone-wolfing the sniper trail? How many opportunities today had he passed up bringing the FBI in on the chase? He was bad news for his Angel.
Dekker left with SA Gibson, moving toward the motel. Holly stayed. As the EMTs slid his stretcher into the ambulance, Rico got full view of the motel and the teen he’d shot. On a stretcher, outside another ambulance closer to the motel, the young man lay with a bloody bandage plastered to his right leg. It struck Rico as odd that the teen had his gaze intensely centered on the FBI agents with a man jangling a set of keys, moving toward the motel room.
The teen no longer moaned with pain, no longer begged Allah for—son of a bitch!
Rico met Holly’s gaze. “The boy. He begged for Allah’s blessings! A bom—”
“Everyone! Get down!” Holly yelled as she spun around from the ambulance. “A bomb! Get down! Get back!” She ran after Dekker and SA Gibson, tackling them from behind. All three hit the ground. The agents close to the motel door dove for the asphalt. The teen screamed.
The front of the motel room exploded in a deadly burst of heat, concrete and glass as a deafening blast rocked the ambulance on its wheels. The EMT standing at Rico’s feet, half in and half out of the ambulance, propelled face-first into the metal frame of the stretcher. The twisted door to the motel room flew sideways like a giant decapitating blade and would have taken the head off anyone standing. Instead it sliced into the frame of the ambulance as glass and concrete pellets pinged off the metal and embedded into flesh. Rico’s chest and face stung with pain.
A fireball ignited inside the motel room as if a tanker had slammed into a volcano. The stench of smoke and gas assaulted his lungs as moans and cries from the downed agents filled the air. Before anyone could move or react, the teen exploded. Body parts of the boy and the EMT at his side along with pieces from the stretcher flew in a horrifying, 360-degree splatter.
Rico blinked in disbelief. SA Gibson yelled for an EMT as he helped Dekker. The general was struggling from beneath Holly because Senior Airman Gear wasn’t moving, and was likely dead or dying. A metal rod protruded from her back.
Debris from both bombs continued to fall in a surreal rain of agonizing death and pain. It stabbed Rico squarely in the gut as two tons of guilt settled on his shoulders. He’d brought this whole damn thing crashing down on everyone.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Outskirts of the White Aryan Vipers (WAV) Militia Training Camp
Harnett County, North Carolina
1400 hours
Dugar felt as if the bugs were eating him alive. Just like they were eating Lloyd’s rotting corpse. He turned down the dirt road leading to the Viper camp and a fly nailed him between the eyes. He couldn’t park the windshieldless Chevy fast enough.
Before reaching the guarded gate, he veered onto an old logging road and parked the vintage ’57 out of sight from others passing by. It wouldn’t do for Slayer or any of his brown-nosed informants to see the missing windshield and dried blood all over the vinyl seat.
Where Bean had shot him in the shoulder early this morning hurt like hell, but Dugar had patched himself fairly well and if he didn’t get an infection then he’d just leave the bullet in his shoulder as a reminder to never let anybody “hang” with him ever again.
The Vipers were going to ask an ass-load of questions. They’d want to know where in the hell Bean was, for one. And when the migrant camp slaughter hit the news, Slayer would get suspicious. Dugar had to have a plan.
He could tell the truth and nail Slayer between the eyes with a bullet before the SOB could eliminate him. He could pretend he didn’t know anything about Bean or the migrants until Slayer challenged Dugar outright then Dugar could kill Slayer and take over as leader. Or he could pretend Bean killed the migrants and headed for Texas. A story that might play well for him.
The more he thought about the unbelievable shit with Bean, the more convinced he became that Bean had to have had someone else working with him, someone else infiltrating the Vipers. And he didn’t have a clue as to who the hell it could be. The only Viper Bean had latched on to had been Dugar himself.
But if Dugar pinned the migrant slaughter on Bean, then whoever challenged Dugar’s story the most, defended Bean the most, would have to be Bean’s partner. He should have thought of all this before he beat Bean to death. Should have asked him some questions first. Might not be too late to find out something, though.
Bean could have some information in his pockets, maybe even a cell phone. And what had happened to that bag Bean had had with him?
Whatever. Dugar needed all he could find before he walked his ass back into camp, which meant he had to go sneaking back into that cave where Lloyd’s rotting body lay with the bugs eating the shit out of him.
Dugar plowed out of the car then shivered and slapped at his face and neck, still feeling the gnats and flies and other shit on him. It took him two full minutes to calm down enough to gather Sugar and enough ammo to pump Bean’s corpse full of lead twice.
Today had been one fucked-up day and he cussed under his breath all the way to the tunnel. His stomach roiled as he reached the entrance. Facing what was left of Lloyd, his mentor, tore Dugar up inside. He didn’t want to end up all rotted like that, with bugs and maggots feeding on him.
Damn that shit. He’d rather go down in a blaze of glory, burnt to a crisp in a flash.
Bean had lied. Lloyd wouldn’t have shot himself just because Bean was arresting him. Lloyd would’ve fought hard. Bean likely lured Lloyd into the cave and shot him in the back like a sniveling coward.
Taking a deep breath, Dugar plunged into the cave and soon reached the spot where he’d left Lloyd’s body. “What the hell?” He spun a three-sixty. Bean’s body was nowhere in sight. The bag Bean had wasn’t there either.
Heart pounding, Dugar searched all legs of the tunnel and found a bloody handprint on a stone near the opening that exited the militia camp completely. There were too many damn leaves on the ground outside to see footprints. Had Bean left on his own? With help? How in the fuck was the SOB still alive and moving? Dugar had wailed on Bean’s ass but good, so he couldn’t be far.
Dugar set out to find Bean.
“Beck should have stayed until I got here.” Jack glanced at his watch and clenched his fist.
Surf laughed, indicating Jack had lost his mind. Mac rolled his eyes. “An army couldn’t have held him back.”
Jack knew that, didn’t mean he had to like it. After following Dugar to this isolated area and realizing a compound was hidden
in the woods, Beck, Mac and Surf had set up surveillance across the highway from the dirt road where Dugar had parked Neil Dalton’s stolen Chevy. Then Beck went lone wolf to check out the situation while Mac and Surf waited for Jack and the other authorities supposedly on the way. They should have been here by now and Beck was taking too damn long.
GPS of the area didn’t show any roads leading into the forest here. They weren’t more than a quarter of a mile from the Cape Fear River, so there was very little distance for Beck to cover, relatively speaking. He walked like a ghost and moved like the wind. There wasn’t a man on earth that Jack trusted more than Beck when it came to undetected recon. Still, it was hell to wait.
Jack had left the Holsten Inn an hour ago. His frustration with the situation was like a squeezing vise around his throat. The teen who’d found Roger’s phone and pistol was named Ella Davidson. She’d been slightly talkative on the phone, but in person had barely answered the investigators’ questions. Jace turned out to be the teen’s mother, jumpy as a cat in a hound pen, and not happy with what her daughter had done.
Any chance they were involved in what happened to Roger was a long shot, but they were guilty of something for sure. They’d been a puzzle Jack didn’t have time to solve, so he’d left them in the hands of the local police and a CID investigator from Fort Bragg.
Something bad had happened to Roger—and Mari—he was guessing. No one had been able to locate her on post. Only a sliver of information had surfaced from everyone questioned. Jace had seen a dark van leaving the parking lot as she and her daughter had entered. No specific color. No specific make. No identifying factors. Just that it was dark in color.
Security cameras at the Inn only covered the building’s exits and the manager’s office. Not the parking lot. A quick run on the last ninety minutes of the videos had produced nothing. No glimpse of any suspicious activity or people. Analysts were going through all of the tapes from the last four to five days, but that would take more time than Jack feared Roger had.
