by JT Sawyer
Dev shouted up to the sky, her tormented yelling blocking out the shriek of sirens in the distance. “No! He can’t leave,” she yelled up in Petra’s face as he reached down to help her. The two men slowly lifted Anatoly and arranged his body in the van while Dev remained frozen to the pavement. She ran up to Ritter, kicking his limp figure in the ribs before Petra grabbed her in a bear-hug from behind and ushered her over to the van.
Chapter 37
When the fighting broke out at the warehouse, Mitch saw Perry bolt for cover to the right of the building, disappearing behind three rows of red shipping containers that stretched for a half-mile along a grassy field. To the far right was a large cement wall that ran perpendicular to the highway. Running in a crouched position, Mitch rounded the corner of the first metal container and scanned the escape routes ahead.
He had noticed earlier that Perry was dressed in his usual FBI attire, including his black Converse dress shoes. Though Mitch wouldn’t be able to discern any tread patterns in the gray pea-gravel between the containers, he saw the faint dishing pattern associated with someone sprinting, the stride increase and blown-out substrate revealing itself to his trained eyes. The tables had turned and now Perry was on the run, only this time there would be no canyons or mesas to disappear into. Mitch had tracked fugitives through urban areas before and knew it involved as much knowledge about human psychology as it did about locating visual clues.
With the sound of gunfire behind him, he slid between the first rows of containers for protection and then scanned the region ahead. The grassy field would be too exposed for Perry to risk fleeing in that direction and he wouldn’t want to get pinned inside the abandoned warehouses lining the street to the left. The route ahead was the best option for evasion. If he sprinted in and out of the containers until he reached the edge of the parking lot a half-mile in the distance, Perry would most likely use the concrete wall to the right for cover while fleeing east back to the city.
Mitch kept his Glock at a low-ready as he maneuvered through the narrow path between shipping containers, following the displaced gravel impressions to stay on the trail. At each juncture between rows, he would have to pause and clear the route ahead. This was burning up too much time and he worried that it would increase Perry’s chance of getting away. He stopped to take a breath, the rattle of gunfire to his rear growing faint. Mitch was going to have to risk what Perry would not and make a dash across the open meadow. It was a gamble he had to take to intersect Perry’s direction of travel behind the concrete wall. If the timing went smoothly, the wall would block Perry’s view of the field long enough for Mitch to beat him to the highway. Mitch craned his head out from between the last row of containers, their red hue reflecting off the tawny blades of dry grass like the tail feathers of a giant macaw.
Damn, this is going to be a shooting gallery without any cover if he sees me. He took a deep breath, convincing himself again that this was the best route, then he darted into the meadow. Mitch’s boots crunched over the dry stalks, his head twisting to the left, looking for any signs of Perry poking up from the wall to snipe him. His heart raced faster than usual and he wasn’t sure if it was from the frantic pace or from the fear of being so exposed. He didn’t bother zig-zagging to make himself a harder target. He just wanted to cover the distance quickly and get to the edge of the wall. In the distance, he could hear the faint hum of helicopters circling the warehouse.
He was nearly at the interface of civilization and nature, the wall forty feet away…twenty…ten. Mitch came to a halt at the edge of the coarse barrier which was nearly two feet thick. He tried to muffle his breath, straining to contain his exhales through his nose, which made him sound like a muzzled bull just before it’s released into the rodeo grounds. He scanned the clay soil ahead but didn’t see any tracks. Mitch looked for any signs of counter-tracking moves but realized Perry wouldn’t have any time to apply such maneuvers. He knelt down and slowly peered around the corner, but did not see any signs of the man or his passage except some crushed grass against the wall, fifty feet away. He crept a few feet along the other side of the barrier, squinting into the sun to study the disturbance. He noticed that there was a tiny triangle-shaped fracture in the wall, obscured by the undergrowth, just large enough to crawl through. Mitch smelled the musky odor of sweat hanging in the air, confirming Perry was close. He turned to backpedal from his location and heard the faint sound of crunching grass coming from the other side of the wall by the meadow. Mitch raised his pistol up with his left hand and grabbed a flash-bang grenade off his vest.
“So there goes my plan for shooting you in the back, ole partner,” said Perry from the other side.
“You did that back in Arizona when you betrayed me—and your own men.”
“Ah, here we go—the dreaded morality tale from you I was hoping to avoid. The world is a nasty place, Mitch, you know that. You just wanted to keep believing it can be a nice and tidy place with a righteous enough cause.”
“Maybe, but at least I have a cause worth fighting for.” Mitch could hear Perry creeping towards the corner of the wall while he stood his ground six feet away with his weapon hand extended.
“Give me a break, amigo. You’re a fucking lost cause if ever I saw one, showing up at work lookin’ like a homeless guy, with an ex-wife who couldn’t live with your sorry ass anymore—you’ve been a cheese-dick since the day I met you.” Perry emitted a high-pitched cackle. “Shit, is that what you think that woman sees you in—someone to redeem from his pathetic life?”
Perry was at the edge of the wall, the shadow of his head stretching across the clay soil on Mitch’s side. “What happens now, pal? You gonna round the corner and start shooting or should I?” said Perry.
“Why don’t we just go at the same time like an old-fashioned duel?”
“Not bad, that’s funny. Not a side I saw of you very much, I have to say.”
“The only side of yours I want to hear about before I kill you is why—why did you sell out your own country?”
“You wouldn’t understand. You seem satisfied with a forty-nine-thousand-dollar-a-year salary and enough beans in your cupboard to get by month-to-month.”
“At least I can look in the mirror every day and not hang my head in shame.”
Mitch pulled the pin from the flash-bang and then tossed the grenade. As it went over the top of the wall behind Perry, Mitch dove to his left.
With the explosion driving Perry forward, Mitch rolled on his left shoulder, firing four rounds, two penetrating Perry’s shoulder and the rest shattering his shooting arm. The man staggered back, dropping his weapon and crumbling to the ground.
Mitch bolted to his feet and ran over to him, grabbing Perry’s pistol. He moved back a few feet near Perry’s head, watching as the wounded man’s ribs tried to push out a breath as his wounds seeped onto the grass.
“I oughta put you down right now. Leave your body here for the sewer rats.”
“Go ahead. I’d do the same if I were in your boots.”
“You can go with Ryker when he arrives and carts you off where you’ll probably be whacked by one of Ritter’s guys for what you know about Aeneid or…”
Mitch removed the magazine from Perry’s Sig pistol, stripping out every bullet but one. He slid it back in and tossed the weapon on the ground a foot from Perry’s damaged arm.
“Or I can go out Samurai style, is that it—with my honor intact.” He slid his hand over the grip of the pistol and began raising it up.
“Something like that,” Mitch said, keeping his own pistol aimed at Perry.
Perry slid the weapon up to his temple, looking back at Mitch and then up at the sky. “Goddammit.” His trembling hand struggled to steady the barrel as he pulled the trigger, the front of his skull splintering over the espresso-colored clay.
Mitch turned his back and walked a few feet away, his mind reeling from the events of the past two days and the betrayal of someone he had trusted. He heard the footfalls
of other men as they trotted across the meadow towards him. He pivoted and saw Ryker in the lead. Is this really over or has it just begun? He wondered how Dev and Anatoly had fared in apprehending Ritter and the terrorists. He would know soon enough. He holstered his Glock and got down on his knees, cupping his hands behind his head as the FBI agents arrived, never imagining he’d be on the receiving end of their charge.
Chapter 38
Dev clutched Anatoly’s lifeless body in her arms in the back seat of the van as they sped along the highway, gaining distance from the warehouse. She felt like she was dead inside—as though the fingers of the grim reaper had plunged into her chest, contemplating removing her heart but then cruelly releasing its grip.
Once they had made it northeast of Anaheim, Petra motioned to pull off along a forested road adjacent to the Chino Hills State Park. Heading back into the woods for a mile, the vehicle stopped beside a small creek. Petra and the other men indicated they would stand watch nearby, giving her time alone to mourn.
Dev had been keeping her anguish padlocked inside in front of the other men but now she wept openly, pleading to go with her father if she couldn’t keep him in this world. With all of the mental and physical hardship she had endured in preparation for becoming a warrior, she never knew there would come a day when her being would drown in such sorrow. After what seemed like an hour, her abs cramped from the strain of crying, the flames of grief consuming her parched soul until her tears were exhausted.
She brushed her slender fingers over his bear-like hands, remembering the strength he possessed in the physical realm and his charismatic nature that commanded respect from everyone around the man. Though she had lesser field experience than many of the other staff at her father’s company, the reins of command would fall upon her. She gulped in several deep breaths, recalling Anatoly’s training, knowing she had to collect herself. She sat up, resting his head gently on the seat and arranging his arms across his chest. Then she covered him with several jackets.
Dev leaned over him one more time, her head lowering, then she felt something deep in her chest begin to burn as the thought of Ritter escaping entered the periphery of her mind. She balled her fists and seethed, the feeling of emptiness inside her filling with rage. The memory of the flash flood she was nearly caught in surfaced and she felt like tearing through everything in her path.
What would happen to Ritter? Would he disappear out of the country, whisked away in his private jet to begin a new life in some foreign land? Would he go into witness protection after snaking his way out of an indictment? Or would his government connections expunge his involvement in the whole undertaking, making him out to be an innocent pawn?
She grit her teeth and smashed her fist against the wall. It wouldn’t matter if Ritter tried to elude justice—regardless of where he went or what pains he undertook to begin a new life, Dev would hunt down and destroy the beast. For now, she would have to wait and see what unfolded once the feds had dissected the entire operation between Fareed and Aeneid. She looked out the tinted rear window at the silhouette of cedar trees in the distance, her eyes narrowing. “I will come for you, Nelson Ritter. I will come for you.”
After she had recited the mantra a dozen times, she wiped the moist corners of her eyes with her shirt sleeve and then inhaled deeply again, casting open the side door. Dev strode through the woods to where Petra stood and called the other men over. She arched her shoulders back and forced her chin up.
“You all need to disperse and find your way out of the country tonight.”
“There was a parking lot I saw a mile back where we can obtain a new vehicle,” said Petra.
“Remember the protocols: different airports, different airlines, and different departure times. I will contact the office back home and have them provide cover stories for each of you.”
Petra placed his hand on her shoulder while glancing back at the van. “What about Anatoly? He deserves a warrior’s burial.”
She saw behind Petra a grove of cedar trees beyond the creek. Dev motioned for the men to help her move Anatoly’s body, the procession transporting him to the sylvan location. They enclosed him in a crude grave of rocks and each man gave a silent nod to the old warrior. When they were done, Dev moved to the side of the grave and looked at the others, who were lined up side by side in formation. “I know he would be honored by your loyalty but he would want all of you to consider your own safety first. Go now, my brothers. I will take care of things from here.”
When the men had dispersed, her disciplined exterior gave way again to the torrent of grief that she’d barely held at bay. She clutched a branch of the cedar tree and removed a palmful of the fragrant sprigs, inhaling their essence.
“Please forgive me for leaving you here away from home. I have little choice, but know that we will see each other again, Poppa.”
She placed a handful of cedar sprigs on the rockpile and then gently put the rest in her shirt pocket. Dev pried herself away from the grave and went back to the van. She drove off silently, her shoulders hunched over the steering wheel, heading back to the highway with the image of the creekside resting place in the rearview mirror never seeming to fade from her vision.
Chapter 39
Two weeks later, outside the federal courthouse in downtown Sacramento, throngs of reporters along with hundreds of spectators stood on the polished granite steps as the single defendant walked down, his limp aided by an ivory-handled cane. Nelson Ritter had a faint grin, his coconut-white teeth showing through his lips as he strode confidently to his curbside limousine. The reporters swarmed around him, thrusting their microphones and cameras in his face. Stopping before the limo door, he adjusted his blue silk necktie and turned to the crowd.
“Mr. Ritter, do you feel that Aeneid was wrongly accused in connection with the thwarted terrorist attacks?” yelled one reporter.
“Sir, is the federal government using your company as a scapegoat for their lack of foresight in handling the situation with assault weapons entering this country illegally?” said a redheaded woman to his right.
He waved his hand for them to be quiet. “Patriotism for this nation has always been my cause and I will continue to push forward with my company’s good name. We will have our day in court and the truth behind this fiasco will be known. That is all.”
Ritter got inside the limo and sat down, reaching for a carafe of chilled red wine in the open ice chest across from him. His chairside phone rang.
“Nice speech that I just saw on TV,” said Monroe. “But take it from me, with all my years in public office, you’re better off just nodding politely to the trolls than trying to present the façade of doing damage control.”
“Relax, I gave the guppies a few morsels to blog about for the next week. Besides, I’ve sat stone-faced through this inane hearing for three days now and I felt like saying a few words on my behalf.”
“The whole matter should be waylaid by the end of the week and your role in the matter resolved, according to my contacts.”
“Ah, you’re too kind. Are you sure there’s a politician inside you?” He chuckled, taking a sip of wine from his silver goblet. “Are we still going to meet on Saturday to discuss moving ahead with Plan B?”
“Yes, the usual location. Have your men secure the area again—and Nelson, try and keep your trap shut for the cameras until then.”
Chapter 40
The aspen logs in the fireplace at Thomas Monroe’s Tahoe chalet sputtered out a succession of hisses as he and Nelson Ritter sat on the elephant-hide recliners, sipping brandy and chuckling.
“And then the judge says, ‘Agent Mitchell Kearns, your testimony is inconclusive. You are still under investigation by your own department which, by the way, is a federal agency,’” Nelson Ritter said while trying to choke down another swig of whiskey in between bouts of laughter. “And the best part is that the woman, Leitner…Sanchez…whoever the fuck she is…she disappeared, leaving Kearns to hang in the wind.”
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Monroe nodded and smiled. “That judge couldn’t be bought off in the beginning so we had to use some incriminating photos of his youngest daughter at college that one of my men obtained with the help of—uhm, what do the kids call ’em these days…ah…roofies.”
Two guards in three-piece suits stood by the front and rear doors, resembling statues except for the automatic weapons slung about their shoulders. Three more men were doing foot patrols along the spruce-lined forest surrounding the luxurious A-frame.
“The FBI is facing a possible scandal if I have my say and the relations with the Israelis could—well, you know—become strained between our two governments,” continued Monroe, the shot of liquid bravery infusing him with more bravado than he was accustomed to.
“There’s still the matter of Kearns. He’s the reason this whole goddamned mess got as far as it did. If he hadn’t helped that woman and eluded my man Drake in the desert this whole fucking thing could’ve ended without incident. Months in the planning to get this Fareed fellow to sign on with the whole religious agenda. Now the Caspian Sea operation is delayed.”
“It shouldn’t be too hard to find another loyal extremist to get on board with a different cause in another region of our country or even Europe. As for Kearns, I’ll see to it he has a horseback riding accident somewhere on that ranch. Shit—why not torch that entire place and finish what he started?”
Nelson raised his glass in a toast. “I’ll have to get another shell corporation created to cloak any movement now that Aeneid is under the spotlight. I hope you can still help with covering the digital trail.”
Monroe shook his head, laughing and pouring himself another drink. “Cheers, my good man.” Raising the golden elixir to his lips, he heard the crackling of wood to his right, realizing it was opposite the fireplace and a higher pitch than the burning aspen. The ear-splitting sound had emanated from the guard by the rear door as his cheekbone split open from a single round, the man collapsing to the oaken floor. Before Monroe could stand, another round sliced through the glass in his own hand, spraying shards into his face. He fell back into the recliner and began yelling as the second guard was cut down by two rounds that pierced his neck.
