“I can’t say my name, someone might be listening, but we met in Eritrea several months ago.”
Acton’s mind raced as he sat up straight, the signal to Laura that something serious was going on. He had met several women in Eritrea when examining the old Roman shipwreck from Pompeii that had caused so much chaos and death. The head of the mission stood out, but she had a distinctive southern drawl absent here. “I met several women there. Could you be more specific?”
“Besides the head of the mission, I was the only other woman taken hostage.”
Lee Fang!
His heart raced as he remembered one of the two Chinese observers, a woman who had inspired him with her courage, and in the end had helped save them all. He and the others were almost positive she was Chinese Special Forces, which posed an important question.
Why is she calling me?
“Yes, I remember you. How can I help you?”
“I’m in trouble. Listen carefully. I overheard something I wasn’t supposed to, then my commanding officer tried to rape me. I killed him.”
“Oh my God!”
It was Laura’s voice that startled him, and apparently Fang.
“Who’s that?”
“I’m sorry, it’s Laura Palmer, James’ wife. I’m on the extension phone.”
“Oh, okay. Is there anyone else listening?”
“Not here,” said Acton, and in all seriousness, added, “but I wouldn’t trust that our conversation isn’t being taped by someone. Things are very chaotic in the United States right now.”
“I know. And I have important information about that. Very important information.”
“What information? Perhaps I can pass it along?”
“No. I need safe passage from China to the United States. By this time tomorrow the entire country will be looking for me. Help get me out of China and I’ll give your government the information I have.”
“I’m not sure what you expect me to do about it,” said Acton, Laura sitting beside him on the bed, the other cordless phone pressed to her ear.
“You have friends,” was the reply. “Connected friends.”
Acton and Laura exchanged glances. He knew she must be referring to his contacts within the Delta Force. “I know who you mean. I could call them but that call would definitely be monitored.”
“That might not be good. This conspiracy runs deep and I don’t know who to trust within my government or yours.”
Laura was snapping her fingers beside him, trying to get his attention. She had her cellphone out, showing her contacts list, one name highlighted.
Dinner, Kraft.
Acton smiled. “I know exactly who we can both trust, but I will need to try and reach him. How can I or he reach you?”
“Take down this number.”
Acton motioned to Laura who was way ahead of him, already opening the Notes app on her phone. “Go ahead,” he said.
Fang gave them a number and a coded phrase. “I’ll know your friend by that. The number will be good for one hour.”
“I’ll call him right away. I can’t guarantee I’ll reach him, but I’ll try my best.”
“That’s all I can ask, but, Professor, please hurry. I don’t have much time.”
“I’ll do my best,” he repeated.
“Thank you.”
The line went dead and Laura dialed the number on her phone for Dinner, Kraft, their coded entry for Acton’s former student and CIA Special Agent, Dylan Kane. It was an emergency number that Kane had given them that couldn’t be traced, acting like a pager. Laura entered their code number at the prompt, then hung up. She looked at Acton, all sexual thoughts gone from both their minds as they sat beside each other naked and scared. “Now let’s just hope he’s available to help.”
Acton slowly nodded, putting the phone back in its cradle. “I wonder what she could possibly know about what’s happening here.”
Laura curled a leg up under her, turning toward him. “Maybe she knows nothing. She’s obviously in trouble and she wants out. Maybe she just made it up to try and get our help.”
“Possibly. She definitely sounded scared, something I don’t think I ever heard when we were together in Africa. She’s the toughest woman I’ve ever met. Almost emotionless.”
“Well, even if the information part of her story isn’t true, if the other part is, she’s a woman who needs help.”
Acton pursed his lips. “Then help is what she’ll get.”
The phone rang.
The Nation’s Gun Show, Chantilly, Virginia
“Of course this is only a prototype, and is also illegal to sell, so I’m sorry boys, this is purely a demo.”
Stan Reese stood among the fairly large crowd gathered around the 3D Gunnery booth as half a dozen 3D printers busily printed out weapons parts, at various stages in the process, the individual parts laid out for the world to see, along with numerous fully assembled weapons. Video played on several screens showing the weapons being successfully fired at ranges.
Including the one he was here to acquire.
A revolver capable of firing six shots.
As the fascinated group of gun aficionados groaned their disappointment at not being able to purchase one of these miracle weapons, the presentation continued.
But Reese could care less.
He wasn’t here because he wanted to be, he was here because he was being forced. His parents were being held and he had been given a task by the same Muslim terrorists wreaking havoc across the country.
Purchase the very plastic revolver now being demonstrated.
“Has it been test fired?” asked someone from the crowd, clearly skeptical.
“Absolutely. If it survives the first test fire, and by that I mean some of the early ones coming off the printer would explode or fall apart due to defects—but we’ve fixed those problems with different materials and designs—so, if they survive that first shot, we find they’re almost always good for the first six rounds. Most are good for a second six, but that’s about it.”
Reese’s heart pounded in his ears. He was carrying a satchel over his shoulder with a quarter of a million dollars in it. And a Beretta. His orders—for they weren’t instructions—were to buy the weapon from the man standing in front of the crowd, or take it, killing him if necessary.
“How much time do you need to leave between shots for everything to cool down?”
“You can fire three in quick succession, then I recommend letting it cool for a minute. I’ve managed all six, but it gets risky.”
Whoever had drafted him into their Muslim army had made a mistake. Yes, he loved guns, knew everything there was to know about them, but he was a pacifist. There was no way he was going to shoot this man.
So you’ll have to convince him to sell you the gun. Or Mom and Dad are dead.
The memory of their voices, especially his terrified mother’s, broke his heart, and he felt his eyes glisten as a freshly printed piece of the weapon was passed around. He blinked his eyes clear and ran his fingers over the lightweight piece, the surface oddly bumpy. He passed it on.
“Do you sell the machine?”
“Ahh, now that’s a completely different question, and the right one. Yes I do, I do indeed.”
“What about the plans for the gun?”
“That too.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five hundred per. We take cash, credit, but no checks.”
The frenzy lasted about twenty minutes with the booth emptied, even the demo units sold. Reese hung back, watching the young man, barely twenty-five, as he packed up the exhibit, his job done, nothing left to display. He headed toward the back and Reese followed him, the Exhibitor badge he wore, which had been delivered to him that morning along with the cash, a hotel key, the gun and a rather odd grocery list, allowing him to pass the light security without any hassle.
The young man was loading a box into the back of his van when Reese found him, the rear parking area a ghost
town. “Excuse me,” he said.
The young man spun around, startled, and Reese tried to force a smile on his face, raising his hands to show he wasn’t a threat.
“Man, you scared the shit out of me! Can I help you?”
Reese nodded. He opened the satchel, revealing the quarter of a million in cash. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You give me the plastic six shooter, I give you the money. Tomorrow morning you call the police and say it was stolen out of your van.”
“I can’t do that!” exclaimed the man, but Reese noticed he couldn’t tear his eyes from the cash.
“The cash is yours. Tax free, to do with as you please. No one will ever know.” Reese lowered his voice. “Please, take the money.”
Finally the man’s eyes rose, looking Reese in the face. “But why? Why do you want it?”
Reese shook his head, knowing full well the phone in his pocket was listening to everything being said. “I’m a collector,” he lied, the only thing he could think of to say. “I promise you, I won’t hurt anyone with it, I just need it.”
The man stood still for a moment, then finally, reluctantly, shook his head. “No, man, I just can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
Reese frowned then reached into the bag, pulling out the Beretta just enough for the man to see it. “I’d really hate to use this, but I don’t have a choice. Please, just take the money, then call the police tomorrow. That way nobody gets hurt.”
The man stepped backward, his knees hitting the bumper of his van, startling him as he fell into a seated position, his hands up. He pointed at a bag. “They’re all in there.”
Reese let go of the Beretta, dropping it to the bottom of the bag. “I only need the one.”
The man grabbed the bag, unzipping it, and rooted through it until he pulled out a bubble wrapped package. “This is it. D-do you need ammo?”
“Apparently not.”
The man’s eyebrows narrowed at the curious answer, and Reese realized he had made his first gaffe. He reached out and took the package, then handed the bag with the money and the Beretta to the young man.
“Remember, call the police tomorrow, not today. If you try to call today, I will know.”
He walked away quickly, the phone in his breast pocket vibrating, his entire body shaking with fear.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Chris Leroux looked at his watch once again, it thirty-four seconds later than the last time he had looked at it. It had been hours since his girlfriend Sherrie White had reported that she was approaching Fort Myer. And not a peep had been heard since.
There was a soft tap on his door and he spun his chair toward it, a smile on his face as he realized his worrying was for nothing. “Enter!”
It had been a carefully chosen word when he actually earned a door. It made him feel like Captain Picard. Sherrie had giggled the first time she heard it, and he had to admit it had hurt his feelings a bit, but she had made it up to him—boy had she made it up to him—and his injured fanboy ego had been soothed.
And he kept using it.
The door opened and to his surprise a solemn looking Director Morrison entered, closing the door behind him. Leroux began to rise when Morrison waved him off, instead heavily taking the seat in front of the desk.
He sighed, and Leroux felt every muscle in his body tighten as anguish fueled adrenaline gushed into his system.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” His voice cracked as the words came out, and a cry escaped him as Morrison nodded.
“I’m afraid it looks that way.”
Leroux gripped the desk with both hands, tight, his head lowering to his chest as he tried to picture the only woman he had ever loved, the only woman who had ever loved him, and he failed. He opened his eyes, tears pouring down his cheeks and grabbed the photo sitting on his desk of her, guilt racking his body that he had been the one to gather the intel that had sent her to her death.
“What happened?”
“It looks like a car accident.”
Leroux’s eyebrows narrowed and he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, the old quickly replaced with new as his sinuses clogged. “What do you mean?”
“They found her car in the Potomac. Apparently according to witnesses she lost control and drove into the river. By the time rescuers got to her it was too late. She must have been able to get out, though, but was too weak to reach the surface.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was no body. Dive teams are out now, but it’s dark so they’re not optimistic they’ll find her body until tomorrow.”
Leroux sucked in a deep breath, wiping his face dry with several tissues, then blew his nose.
“She’s not dead.”
Morrison leaned forward, forcing eye contact with Leroux. “Witnesses saw her in the car. They saw the car go into the river. If she survived, she would have contacted us by now. She left the base hours ago.”
Leroux shook his head, refusing to let go of the single thread of hope he had.
“No, she’s alive. And they have her.”
Morrison sat back in his chair. “Excuse me? Who has her?”
“Colonel Booker.”
“That’s a pretty bold accusation. Care to back it up?”
Leroux nodded, slowly beginning to feel his old self as he kicked into analyst mode, his gift the ability to pull apparently unrelated data together and find relationships that no one thought was there.
And today he was grasping at straws.
“A man dead for years turns up being used on a top secret op probably conducted by part of our military. That means black ops of some kind. Colonel Booker was his commanding officer when he was killed, and miraculously goes from Major to full-bird Colonel in two years. He now heads the rapid response unit meant to protect the White House, and his son, a Major under his command, is married to the head of Raven Defense Services, a private security firm known to make Blackwater look like pansies.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I dig, sir. It’s what I do.”
“Keep going.”
Leroux leaned forward, excited he hadn’t been dismissed already. “Let’s say I’m involved in faking the death of one of my men, a man just used on a critical op, and someone comes asking questions about him. Wouldn’t it raise your suspicions? Especially if you knew the dead captain’s service record you’d know he wasn’t the hero type and would never merit a Congressional Medal of Honor. If I were Booker, red flags would be popping up all around me.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I think they took her prisoner to find out what she knows.”
“But we have the car. Witnesses saw her go into the water.”
“Witnesses saw someone driving her car that went into the water. Someone fully prepared for the staged accident, who probably as soon as she was under the water donned an oxygen mask and tank, then waited for the pressure to equalize and opened the door, safely swimming underwater downstream to be picked up by her Raven Defense buddies.”
“That’s pure conjecture, Chris.” Morrison shook his head, his chin balanced on his steepled fingertips. “You have absolutely no evidence.”
“Then let me get it.”
“How?”
“Let me hack Fort Myer security and tap their feeds.”
Morrison pursed his lips, his head slowly shaking. “It’s against the law. We can’t spy domestically.”
“Sir, the country is falling apart. Maybe we need to stop obeying the law so we can save it.”
Morrison stared at Leroux for a moment, his eyes revealing nothing of what was going on behind them.
Suddenly he rose, pushing the chair out with the back of his knees. “Do it. But don’t get caught.”
He left without saying another word, leaving Leroux to stare at the photo of Sherrie for a few more moments before turning to his computer to violate the Constitution.
Extended Stay America, Eisenhower Avenue, Washin
gton, DC
“—today ordered a freeze on all immigration, travel visas and direct flights from a long list of countries. As well, all citizens of these countries have had their visas terminated and are being ordered out of the United States immediately. Though the White House wouldn’t confirm any commonality among those countries named, it is obvious that all are predominantly Muslim nations. This action appears aimed at quieting those critics who are demanding the President solve the problem by confronting the Muslim community. As White House Spokesman Timothy Humble said today, the President is bound by the Constitution and unable to round up American citizens and imprison them merely based upon their religion.
“Eight more attacks today now seem aimed at our transportation infrastructure. With schools across the country empty, the stock markets closed for the second day in a row, and the dollar taking a beating on world markets, rail infrastructure seemed to be the target in five attacks. Fortunately casualties were light in these isolated attacks. Not so for the other three. Miami, Houston and Phoenix were hit today when individuals blew themselves up inside grocery stores, killing dozens.
“Retaliatory attacks continue with sixteen mosques burned to the ground to date, and today in Detroit, the local fire department refused to put out the flames at one mosque, instead merely making certain it didn’t spread to any nearby structures. This resulted in condemnation from city officials however judging by the reaction on social media, the firefighters are supported by the vast majority. There are still no leads—”
Stan Reese shut off the television then sat at the small, round table perched in the corner of his hotel room. In front of him was a mix of mostly condiments, an exact list provided to him in the courier package from this morning. Specific brands and sizes, with the verbal instructions the mechanical voice had given him clearly indicating no substitutions would be acceptable.
It had taken three stores to complete the list.
He pushed the condiments to the far side of the table and carefully unwrapped the plastic gun. Instructions on how to break it down had been provided on a sheet of paper, and he began, carefully, terrified he might break a piece of what he feared was too delicate a weapon to be handled like this.
Death to America (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #4) Page 8
