by Roger Hayden
“So do we start getting nervous now?” Angela asked.
“Not just yet,” Burke answered. They were still at a close enough distance to turn around, but what would be the point?
On the phone, Martinez was putting on the pressure: “Damn it, Hendrickson, we’re close. I need you and your men there, pronto.” Martinez paused, listening, then continued. “I know there are a lot of cops out. I’m looking at them right now. But they’re all gathered around the stadium. Fairfield Park is safe. Trust me. No one’s going to bother us there.”
As Burke veered off the road and around some buildings to stay out of sight, Angela imagined the worst. She hardly believed their presence was of any concern to the police, and they could still play it off as though they were with the Border Patrol and FBI. What concerned her the most was being stopped from reaching their goal.
Even if I tried to warn them, what difference would it make? Angela thought.
There had been threats against dozens of targets throughout the city. The report on the radio made that clear enough. There could be a very good chance that the power plant, ten miles away, was just as fortified as the stadium. After a few rattling bumps on a pebble-strewn dirt road, the pavement smoothed out. Burke pushed on, instinctively guiding them toward Fairfield Park and out of the view of the authorities.
“Any thoughts on maybe talking to them?” Angela asked with a nod toward the growing military presence around the stadium.
“Sure,” Burke replied. “When all else fails.”
Martinez continued his heated conversation in the back. “We’re almost there. Just hurry up. This city is shutting down faster than a bar at closing time.”
“I don’t know about this,” she said nervously to Burke.
Burke looked beyond the fairgrounds and then quickly veered to the right, driving on the grass toward a shady line of oak trees.
Once Fair Park came into view, over a grassy hill, Angela began to have doubts about the agreed-upon meet-up spot. It wasn’t a park of wide-open fields, but an eighty-acre fairground and historic center of landmarks, buildings, domes, and concert stages. A large reflection pond ran from one end of the park to the other. The premises were ghostly vacant, with the exception of law enforcement. There seemed to be just as many police vehicles and officers setting up camp as there were soldiers outside the stadium.
“What are you doing?” Angela said, gripping her seat as the car shook with sudden intensity.
“Trust me,” Burke said with a calmness that irritated her.
“You out of your mind?” Martinez shouted from the back seat. “Slow down!”
Once under a tree, Burke slammed the brake, causing Martinez to fly up a little and shout out in pain. “Fuck, my leg!”
Angela whipped her head around, angry at Burke and concerned about Martinez. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Martinez gritted his teeth as the car came to a complete stop, and Burke not saying a word as they idled. Martinez answered, “Yeah. I guess.” He then turned to Burke. “How about warning me next time you want to do some off-roading? Not exactly in tip-top shape here.”
Angela turned to Burke. “What’s gotten into you? We have an injured man here.”
Burke stared ahead through his sunglasses, seemingly unfazed by the entire ordeal. “Had to make a quick call before we got made. We have a good view from the top of this hill. Plus, these trees give us the proper amount of cover.” He glanced up at the rearview mirror, looking at Martinez. “You call you friends and tell them to meet us right here.”
Martinez glared at Burke, and then slowly leaned down to grab his cell phone from the floor. “Fucking madman,” he muttered.
Burke turned around with unexpected concern on his face. “I am sorry about that, though. I’ll give you ample warning next time.”
Martinez gave Burke the finger and then held the phone to his ear with his good arm. He called the mysterious Hendrickson again as Angela wondered how they would maintain their cover once the Outlaws showed up in the vans or cars or motorcycles or whatever they would be driving.
Martinez was saying, “We’re under the tree line, overlooking Fair Park. Look for a black Ford Fusion.”
The insistent thumping of unseen helicopters continued, grating on Angela as she sat awaiting the arrival of their own militia. She missed Lisa and Chassity so much it was killing her. Burke remained still and quiet, staring ahead and scanning the area. It seemed they had remained unnoticed.
Martinez hung up his phone, sounding calmer and optimistic. “They should be about five minutes out.”
Burke seemed impressed. “They don’t waste any time.”
“These men are professionals,” Martinez said. “They take this thing very seriously. They don’t like to draw attention to themselves. Anonymity is also very important to them.”
“I know the feeling,” Burke said, turning his head to the side.
Martinez continued. “All they want to do is stop these guys, and call it a day. I wouldn’t expect much more from them after that.”
“Fine with me,” Burke said. He looked to Angela who was looking quietly out the passenger side window. “You good?” he asked.
Angela snapped out of her momentary lapse and glanced at both men. “Yes. Yes, it all sounds good.” Suddenly, she felt a hand touch her shoulder.
“I’m really sorry about everything,” Martinez said. “Everything you’ve been through.”
“It’s okay,” she said with a faint smile, while holding back her tears.
Martinez leaned back and sighed. “I think about back when this craziness happened. Only a few days ago when we were sitting on patrol. Almost like it was destined for us.”
Angela didn’t feel up for making any connections out of fear of reminding herself of what had led to her husband’s death at the hands of terrorists. Instead she let Martinez continue as soothing cool air blew from the vents. Outside, the air was dry, and the temperature remained in the high eighties as the sky grew darker with an approaching afternoon storm that still seemed plenty distant.
News reports continued, detailing the lockdown of the city on a massive scale. Such precautions should have made any terrorist attack impossible. But Angela knew better. The state and federal government had gotten it wrong before, and she wasn’t going to wait for them to drop the ball. Of course, she could always be wrong. Perhaps Asgar had re-directed targets elsewhere. There was no telling just how far he was willing to go.
Behind them, a turquoise VW van with gray parallel stripes rose up the hills. Their heads turned as another vehicle, a silver four-door SUV with tinted windows, followed behind.
“That’s them,” Martinez said.
Burke kept his watchful eye in the rearview mirror. Angela noticed the pistol he was holding in his lap. “How many did you say we were expecting?” he asked.
“Twenty,” Martinez answered. “Maybe more.”
Eager to get moving, Angela began to open her door, but Burke extended his arm across her chest, stopping her. “Not yet.”
Behind the SUV appeared an off-road super-duty truck with dusty seventeen-inch tires and a large bracket with spotlights in the front. Angela found herself nearly amused by the airbrush painting on its side, of a bald eagle and American flag.
“If that’s not the Outlaws, I don’t know who is,” she said.
Martinez tapped on the back of Burke’s seat. “Now’s the time. We need to organize and get out of here before the authorities take notice.”
Ever cautious, Burke stayed in place, eyes in the rear-view mirror watching as the convoy approached with a trail of dust billowing behind them. Martinez’s cell phone rang. He picked it up in a hurry.
“Talk to me,” he said. After a brief pause, he nodded. “That’s us. Just park beside us, and we’ll lay everything out from there.”
The lead van drove past Burke’s car and screeched to a halt ten feet ahead, right at the rock. The SUV and off-road truck followed and parked b
eside the van. Angela kept watch over the hill, where police were setting up shop, surrounding the fairgrounds like watchful overlords.
Fortunately, their meeting hadn’t caught the attention of the authorities. Angela thought it foolish that they were reduced to sneaking around, but Burke had warned her of the reach of the ISIS sleeper cells. You could find them in law enforcement and even within high levels of government. It was unconscionable to consider, and even harder to accept, if that was the case.
ISIS was a very real and effective threat, partly because it operated in the shadows. And there were still many Americans whose eyes had yet to open to the terror on their doorstep. There were those who could see it and those who couldn’t or wouldn’t. Angela opened her door fully, and stepped out, ready to meet the Outlaws and move on with the plan. There wasn’t much time for introductions, however. They could be scorched to ash in a split second if they stalled any longer.
Burke stepped out of the car, opened the rear door and helped Martinez onto his feet. The van next to them quickly emptied, with six men, all with large, bulky physiques jumping out. They were gruff sounding, most with beards or some facial hair, tattoos, sunglasses, and bandanas. The T-shirts tucked into their jeans displayed a skull logo, and below it, two rifles interlocking and angled downward. This, Angela would learn, was the Outlaws’ own symbol. Below the skull was a phrase written in Latin: arte et marte, meaning “by skill or valor.”
In demeanor, they seemed like normal men of all backgrounds and ethnicities, and Angela wondered why the FBI had placed such interest in the group. They did look a little rough around the edges, but they weren’t animals. They certainly weren’t ISIS. Men piled out of the other vehicles and rallied around the rear of the van. Angela quickly counted the number before her. There were eighteen men.
She was ready to count herself the only female in the entire group when two women approached from the SUV. They introduced themselves to Angela as Tara and Taia—sisters from Indiana. They wore tight-fitting black clothing and had several tattoos and piercings. They each had their hair tucked under black ball-caps, and Angela considered doing the same. She just needed to find the right hat.
As a group, they looked to be mainly in their late thirties or early forties. Some older. They were physically imposing and fit. They dressed similarly—blue jeans, T-shirts, leather vests, and checkered bandanas. They had a collective steely glare detectable even from behind dark sunglasses, and were not the type of people someone would want to mess with.
“Welcome,” Martinez said, leaning against the back of Burke’s car for support.
A man stepped forward, digging the tip of his boot into the sand. He was at least six feet tall, with a thick, leathery face, a trim goatee, and short black, curly hair that was graying on the ends. He flipped up his Oakleys, revealing crystal-blue eyes and a wide smile. He had a loaded pistol holster on one side and a knife sheath on the other. In that regard, he nearly mirrored Burke in appearance.
“Damn,” he said, examining Martinez’s frail appearance—bruised face, arm sling, knee braces, and all. “You look like shit.”
Martinez mockingly laughed. “I was captured by terrorists. What’s your excuse?”
The man took another step forward and shook Martinez’s hand, pulling him in closer by his good arm. “Glad to see you, old buddy.”
Martinez smiled and backed away as the man released his grip. “Special Agent Burke. Agent Gannon. This is Hendrickson.”
Hendrickson nodded and shook both their hands. He eyed Angela intently. Almost too long. She got the idea, but tried to remain as polite as possible.
“Manny tells me we have quite the situation,” Hendrickson said, hands at his hips. His “team” stood behind him in a perfect arch, eager to hear further instructions.
“That’s correct,” Angela said, taking a step back. “We don’t have a lot of time, so here are the details. Special Agent Burke and I discovered information that reveals the next terror target as the Dallas power plant. We need to guard it at all costs from what could very well be a catastrophic attack.”
Hendrickson turned to his group with an unseen facial gesture. All their eyes went to him and then to Angela as he turned back around, skepticism evident on his face. “Manny told me as much over the phone, and I don’t doubt you. But we don’t like to put ourselves out there for too long. We move low and stay low. That’s how the Outlaws operate.” He stretched his back with his arms out in the air. “What I’m trying to say is that we’re not guards. We don’t do security details. What we do is kill terrorists.”
His group threw their arms up with a rambunctious cheer. It was clear they were a tight-knit group who did things their own way. There was a certain edge to them, as though they were drifters assigned their own rules with no concern what anyone thought of them at any time. Angela admired them but looked around, afraid that they were already making too much noise.
Burke extended his arms to speak as the cheering died out. “Trust me. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to do so.”
Hendrickson smiled and looked down at the ground, shaking his head, and then back to Burke. “Well, tell me something, Mr. CIA. If you’re so badass, where are the rest of you? Where’s all your government buddies?” He rocked his head back and laughed. “They leave you holding the bag on this one or what?”
The others laughed along as well. Burke remained calm and collected despite the jabs aimed in his direction, though Angela was worried that his inherent distrust of people would make him wary of the Outlaws, or worse, not willing to work with them at all. Instead, Burke seemed to understand. “Let’s just say we’re in the same boat.” He pointed between himself and Angela. “None of this is official.
“I guess you can say that we’re both off the radar.” Burke paused with a deep breath while maintaining the Outlaws’ attention. “Agent Gannon’s husband was murdered by these subhuman cockroaches. Her children were kidnapped. She has no faith in this government or its agencies to handle this, any more than I do. But we do want to stop this thing. We drove hundreds of miles to stop it, and stop it we must. But we need your help.”
Hendrickson crossed his arms, thinking to himself. Martinez opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t seem to find the right words. Angela certainly didn’t want to have Doug’s name brought into the conversation, but maybe it was important for the Outlaws to know just how far the three of them had come and were willing to go. Hendrickson turned to his group. No one else had said a word. “What do you guys think? Time to play hero again?”
Another cheer followed, as though the decision had been made. Hendrickson smiled. “I told Manny we would be there, and I’m a man of my word. Now let’s send these sons of bitches to Allah.”
The group erupted into fervent applause just as something caught Angela’s attention out of the corner of her eye: a police cruiser, driving up the road to their far right.
“Quiet,” she told everyone, holding her arms out as if to tamp down the noise. The boisterous clamor quickly died out. Hendrickson looked at her funny at first but then noticed the approaching vehicle, looking like someone spotting an enemy sub on a radar screen. Angela moved hastily forward, closer to the group, giving instructions.
“You follow us. There’s a lookout point at a safe distance from the power plant. But close enough that if something happens, we can move in. We drive normal, don’t bring any attention to ourselves, and we’ll get there no problem. If security at the plant looks light, we move in closer. Every step we make needs to be determined by the situation.”
“Got it,” Hendrickson said in all seriousness.
Martinez looked around, seemingly satisfied with how everything had turned out so far. Burke opened his door, ready to ride out, as Hendrickson spun around and clasped his hands together. “Let’s go, gang. Outlaws have been called to action.”
Everyone piled back in their vehicles, with whatever firepower they had. Angela wasn’t sure what that might be. They seemed
raring enough, feisty even. As she got in her seat, with the police cruiser still in view, she felt strangely optimistic about how things might turn out, though the storm in the distance might signaled an ominous symbolic warning: that everything could end with the strike of a single bolt of lightning.
Flesh and Blood
They managed to leave together, a short line of vehicles driving carefully in their desire not to bring too much attention to themselves. Angela held the map close, always on the lookout for alternate routes free of traffic, or the presence of police or military. It would prove difficult to get close to the power plant if the authorities were doing their job. Troubling enough were Asgar’s detailed notes on the probability of facing tight security.
The ISIS militants were to engage the power plant from all sides, some teams providing a distraction while the others infiltrated the gates and got in by whatever means necessary. The plan, as written, would take twenty minutes. And once the explosives were attached to the core reactors, all they had left to do was press a button.
The very thought terrified Angela, as they continued past the largely vacated industrial sector of downtown. The wailing sirens in the city faded as helicopters continued their constant and inescapable hovering. They passed a line of military Humvees that seemed to show no interest in them. The soldiers’ attention was elsewhere. Farther down the road, a Dallas P.D. armored truck sped past them in a flash with the roaring engine of a Boeing 737. For a moment, they didn’t see any other vehicles down the street. And not a single person.
“Awful quiet now,” Martinez said from the backseat. “Could be a trap.”
Burke drove on, disregarding Martinez’s suspicion. “I think it’s safe to say that we’re not their top priority right now.”
Martinez shook his head. “You of all people should know about priorities. The CIA has bungled this thing every bit as much as the FBI.”
