“It’s all there,” he said, without looking up from his hands.
Once the red tendrils of blood had stopped flowing across the white ceramic basin, he switched the water to cold and took a handful to splash his face. He rubbed his eyes with watery hands, before placing them on the edges of the counter to brace himself for a few seconds of rest. He stared at the soap dispenser behind the sink, just to the left of the tap. He needed more than a few seconds of repose, but his day was far from finished. He turned his head toward the dining room and saw that everyone was staring at him.
“Did you find anything on his phone?” he asked the others, breaking the silence.
He knew why they were staring at him. Screams and crying from the basement had lasted for nearly an hour, as Aleem perpetrated his finest masterpiece of physical and psychological torture. By the time Estrada had finally expired, the True America militant had been so utterly confused and physically strained that he had rambled completely unrelated pieces of information in the hopes of unlocking the key to his survival. Even Aleem felt slightly sorry for the wrecked human being fastened to the metal basement support beam. The man had endured the most twisted hour of his life, dying unceremoniously in an anonymous basement on the outskirts of a New Jersey suburb. Breaking Miguel Estrada had required little physical torture, beyond a few well-placed kicks and punches. Most of the session had been a mental seesaw attack, designed to rip the psychological rug out from under Estrada, over and over again.
It started when he was shoved into the dimly lit unfinished basement and tied to the thick metal column several feet in front of the Imam. Aleem kept him faced away from Hamid Muhammad, until the Imam’s muffled screams could no longer be ignored. Estrada was free to rotate around the column, restrained by handcuffs and a long U-shaped Kryptonite bicycle lock. When he finally shifted to face the muffled screams, Aleem ripped the duct tape off the Imam’s face and watched as Estrada’s face registered recognition and confusion. At this point, Aleem announced that Estrada’s abduction had been part of an induction ceremony to bring him into the next level of True America’s inner circle and that the raid on the market had been staged as his final test of loyalty and competence.
As the Imam screamed, Estrada was told that he would be given the honor of killing the Imam with his bare hands, but he would not be released until the Al Qaeda terrorist was dead. Aleem released Estrada from the handcuffs and pushed Hamid Muhammad’s chair within striking distance of the militant. It took him nearly ten minutes to pummel the life out of the Imam. Aleem had pulled the chair back several times to keep Estrada from strangling him. He wanted Estrada physically exhausted and emotionally charged for the next turn of events.
When the Imam’s pulse faded to nothing, Aleem unleashed a vicious attack on Estrada, dropping him to the floor. He recuffed his hands and thanked him for doing the Prophet’s work. Sending the traitorous Imam straight to hell on behalf of Al Qaeda would ensure a quick, painless death, he had assured Estrada. He explained how the Imam had double-crossed everyone. He had stolen money from True America, while at the same time giving up the location of the hidden Al Qaeda cells. Estrada knew that part of this was untrue, but any effort to explain how they had tracked the Al Qaeda cells was met with Aleem’s fists. He demanded to know where they had taken the stolen virus canisters, but Estrada held out, even after one of his fingers was bent backward to the point of breaking. At this point, tears started rolling down Estrada’s cheeks, which told him it was time to change back to the first story.
Aleem completely freed Estrada and tossed a water bottle down for him to drink, congratulating him on passing the final test of loyalty. He would now be taken to meet Lee Harding and Jackson Greely for the final ceremony. Estrada grabbed the water bottle and accepted Aleem’s hand, rising back to his feet. He could tell that Estrada wanted desperately to believe that he had passed some bizarre hazing ritual. This was when he slipped up for the first time. He asked if they still needed him for the job in Atlanta. Benjamin Young. Aleem immediately kicked him in the groin and pulled him by his hair back to the basement support column, reattaching the U-shaped lock.
He had almost passed the test, Aleem stated. He’d given up mission details under uncertain circumstances, possibly jeopardizing True America’s inner core. Estrada apologized profusely and took a drink of water, squeezing the rest of the water over his head. The results of the habanero-infused water were immediate. Estrada’s sweat pores and eyes absorbed the habanero oil, causing his face to feel like it had caught fire. The pain in his mouth had probably been beyond comprehension for several minutes. Aleem waited for the screaming to die down before informing him that Jackson Greely had once told him something at the training compound that could save his life. Something important that only Estrada could know.
Aleem spent the next twenty minutes using a flaming aerosol can to keep Estrada talking. He gave up everything in hopes of hitting the one thing that might save his life. He had crossed the line of rational thought, which would have never allowed him to disclose some of the intimate details of his association with True America. He’d confirmed several things they had suspected, but never provided details about the bigger plot. Tommy Brown and he had masterminded the simultaneous hit against Al Qaeda, having tracked and observed the cells for over a year. Brown was the tactical arm of the True America militants.
Beyond shepherding one of the cells to the Mount Arlington pump station, Estrada didn’t have any further details. His next mission after killing the Imam involved killing a man named Benjamin Young in Atlanta. He didn’t have many details about the man. He’d planned to take two other operatives down to Atlanta. He apologized profusely for not knowing more, but assured Aleem that Brown usually gave him future tasking upon completion of each mission. Based on the sheer terror in Estrada’s eyes, he had little reason to doubt the man’s sincerity.
When he informed Estrada that he worked for an “off the books” government agency tasked to stop True America’s plot, the man alternated between rage and self-pity, screaming one moment and suddenly crying the next. Aleem ended his misery with a front kick to the man’s neck, crushing his neck against the metal pole.
“Hello? Earth to fucking techno-geeks. Did you pull anything off the phone?”
His comment jarred them out of their trance, prompting Graves to respond.
“He had several text messages containing addresses in Atlanta. Listed separately as ‘family home, apartment, escort apartment, escort bar, and hotel gym.’”
“Makes sense. His next mission was a hit in Atlanta. A man named Benjamin Young. Start working up a profile on this guy and download the information on this recorder. Is there anything on the phone related to Hacker Valley, West Virginia?”
“Hacker?” Anish Gupta said.
“Coincidence. Hacker Valley is the location of their training compound. You’ll find detailed directions on the digital recording,” Aleem said.
“I’ll start cleaning things up downstairs,” Tariq said.
Graves and Gupta watched Tariq get up from the dining room table and walk into the living room.
“Are they dead?” Gupta asked.
“No. I’m planning on taking them to get a Big Mac and fries after they clean up,” Aleem replied sarcastically.
“Fuck, man. This is getting out of control,” Gupta said.
“What the fuck are you complaining about? Nobody’s asking you to clean up the mess. You think I enjoy this shit? Trust me, I don’t. You do your job, and I’ll do mine. That’s how it works, unless you want out. I’ll make the call to Sanderson myself. If you can’t do your jobs, I need to find a crew that can. Do you want me to make the call?” Aleem asked.
“I’d rather not be taken by one of you to get a Happy Meal at McDonald’s, so I’ll stick around,” Graves said.
“I don’t even like McDonald’s,” Gupta said.
“The comedy duo of Gupta and Graves.” Aleem laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Let’s
get a data package put together for General Sanderson. We’ll clean up the mess and sanitize the house. I’d like to be out of here in less than two hours.”
“Sounds good to me,” Graves said, standing up to grab the digital recorder from the kitchen counter.
Aleem returned to the sink and ran the water across the entire surface of the basin, washing any trace of red down the drain. He’d use Comet later to remove any remaining traces of biological evidence. Before that, they would remove the bodies, placing them in the trunk of the stolen Honda Accord that sat parked in the garage. Tariq appeared in the dining room doorway and held up two black plastic body bags.
“Ready when you are,” he said, grimacing.
“Let’s get this over with. I’ll grab the cleaning supplies,” Aleem replied, turning off the faucet.
Graves and Gupta focused on their computer screens, avoiding eye contact.
Chapter 26
1:21 AM
National Counterterrorism Center (NCTC)
McLean, Virginia
Special Agent Sharpe stood next to Dana O’Reilly and let her explain her team’s findings.
“The mobile investigative team found five vehicles involved in the attack: four located within the immediate vicinity and one found a few blocks away,” she said, looking up at Sharpe.
“We’ll talk about the missing driver in a minute,” Sharpe said.
He probably shared the same concerns about the driver as Dana. It seemed unlikely that additional Al Qaeda elements were involved, which left them with one scenario: Sanderson’s people.
“The assault group had been sanitized of any identifying paperwork. Nothing was stashed in the van besides prepaid fuel cards, Visa gift cards and a small amount of cash. The vehicle registrations belong to a corporate entity that specializes in discreet vehicle leases. We’ll request the appropriate warrants, but you can guess where that will lead.”
“Nowhere, eventually,” Sharpe said.
“Exactly,” O’Reilly replied.
“We’ve identified six of the dead men scouring state and federal databases with our facial recognition software. Nothing unusual about any of them. Two military veterans, a paramedic, a truck driver, restaurant manager…average people on the surface.”
“Clearly not. What about the suspects in custody?”
“The two in the hospital won’t be ready for any kind of meaningful interrogation for at least two, maybe three days. Carlisle has assigned one of his interrogators to each of them, just in case they feel like talking. No IDs on either of them, yet. Carlisle is leaning on the suspect that surrendered in the market. We’ve identified him as John Galick. Married with three children, ages three, six and ten. Lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, less than ten miles from his alma mater, Duke University. Information technology consultant. No military experience. The only red flag I can find are numerous political posts on MySpace and Facebook. The posts smack of True America rhetoric, but they stop cold in 2005.”
“Probably when he was recruited,” Hesterman said, leaning back as far as his chair permitted.
“You comfortable, Eric?” Sharpe said.
“Not really, but Dana won’t give me permission to put my feet up on the desk,” Hesterman said.
“The last thing I need is a pair of size fifteen shoes in my way,” O’Reilly said.
“I can rest them over here,” he said, nodding at the corner.
She just shook her head and continued the briefing. “So far, he hasn’t said a word, but Carlisle is pretty sure he’ll have him talking by morning.”
“Don’t count on it. This group reminds me of another group that gave us a shit ton of trouble and continues to pull the wool over our eyes. I’ll call Carlisle myself and make sure they proceed very cautiously with Mr. Galick. So, why did you really call me down here?”
“Am I that transparent?” O’Reilly asked.
“Considering the fact that you forwarded me this information nearly forty minutes ago, I’d say your deception skills are lacking.”
Hesterman let out a muffled laugh from his resting position.
“We…” she said, hitting Hesterman in the shoulder, “think we’ve uncovered the location of True America’s compound.”
Hesterman sat upright in his chair, quickly adjusting the seat back to accommodate the undesired change in his posture.
“Demir’s agents found a total of six cell phones, five prepaids. One for each vehic—”
“GPS enabled?” Sharpe interrupted.
“No,” Hesterman said. “And they were probably purchased nearby. But cell phone number six isn’t a prepaid. They found it in a backpack that was stuffed in the rear cargo compartment. We have in our possession a Blackberry owned by Miguel Estrada. Resident of Everett, Washington. Served on active duty in the army from 1989 to 2000. Most of his time was spent with the Second Ranger Battalion. Honorably discharged as a captain. Stayed in the active reserves until 2005, when he formally resigned his commission.”
“Looks like True America’s commando training kicked into full gear around 2005,” Sharpe remarked.
“Yeah. It’s starting to look like this has been in the works for some time,” O’Reilly said.
“So, the Blackberry was dead and had to be rebooted, which is why it took us so long to figure this out, but it appears that Estrada was a little sloppy with his OPSEC. With the help of our NSA liaison, we were able to trace his Blackberry’s travels over the past month, right until it ran out of juice yesterday morning,” Hesterman continued.
“Do I even want to know how the NSA could retroactively track a GPS-enabled phone?”
“No, and apparently it wouldn’t matter if you did want to know. Nobody is offering an explanation. I brought the matter to the NCTC watch supervisor, who gave me a number at Fort Meade. All they asked for was the Blackberry’s phone number. Forty minutes later, I received a list of GPS coordinates. Obviously these coordinates are classified,” O’Reilly said.
“Obviously. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.”
“You were napping at your desk, and Mendoza told us not to disturb you,” O’Reilly said.
“I most certainly was not sleeping,” Sharpe said.
“I’m just kidding,” Dana said. “We all wanted to surprise you with a little good news. Go ahead, Eric.”
Hesterman clicked the mouse, and their 27-inch flat-screen monitor showed a map of the northeast corner of the U.S., spanning from Connecticut to Ohio. Hesterman started the show by zooming in on New Jersey.
“Are you kidding me? He was less than a half mile from the Mount Arlington pump station. How does that make sense?” Sharpe said.
“It doesn’t, unless True America was somehow supporting Al Qaeda, or following them. The coordinates are provided in one-hour increments, and we have two hits at this location along Old Drakesville Road. Estrada sat here for more than an hour, which doesn’t sound like he was following them.”
“We can worry about that later. Where’s the compound?”
“Two weeks ago, his Blackberry traveled to an obscure location in West Virginia, northwest of Hacker Valley. Google maps showed a large, natural clearing at the coordinates. The area is heavily forested, and I don’t see a road leading to the clearing,” Hesterman said.
“Did you request recent NRO satellite imagery?”
“I just finished sending the request when you woke up from your nap,” O’Reilly said.
“I wasn’t napping.”
“I’m sure you weren’t. I think the next step is to request live satellite surveillance,” she said.
“Agreed. Send me the coordinates, and I’ll get the ball rolling with Director Shelby. He’ll need to brief the White House,” Sharpe said.
“Do you think they’ll roll in with military?” O’Reilly said.
“It depends on what they find in West Virginia, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they use the military regardless. Our special operations liaison said that SOCOM has assembled one of the big
gest Tier One packages he’s ever seen at Dover Air Force Base.”
“Do you want to talk about the missing driver now?” O’Reilly said.
“Yeah, about that missing driver…two ‘Arab-looking’ men dragged him to safety according to witnesses,” Sharpe said.
“Nobody found it odd that they carried him from the scene?” Hesterman asked.
“Apparently not,” O’Reilly said.
“I think this was the work of our favorite general, which leads me to wonder about their intentions,” Sharpe said.
O’Reilly leaned closer to Sharpe and spoke in a whisper. “I still don’t trust Sanderson’s crew, but we’ve definitely benefited from their participation. Maybe it’s not a bad thing if they have Estrada.”
“That’s the last time I want to hear either of you talking like that. We can’t play by their rules, and we certainly can’t condone what they’re doing, no matter how much we benefit. When the internal investigators descend upon our databanks to audit the inner workings of this task force, we’ll all have to stand on the red carpet and explain why we turned a blind eye to murder, torture, kidnapping…all of it. We’re walking a very fine line as it is. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Hesterman and O’Reilly responded in unison.
“Good. I’ll handle Ms. Stewart and Sanderson. This bullshit ends tonight. E-mail me those coordinates.”
“They’re already waiting for you at your computer,” O’Reilly said.
“Thank you. And by the way, excellent work. Sorry to run, but I need to square away our situation with Sanderson,” he said and turned toward the staircase leading to the second level.
He hoped that his ass-chewing would steer O’Reilly and Hesterman away from the inner workings cast by Sanderson’s spell. He didn’t dare admit to them that he shared the same hope that Estrada was strapped to a chair in some dank basement, awaiting the next round of unthinkable pain and agony. He’d long ago seen the value of Sanderson’s tactics, but he couldn’t come to terms with it. He’d spent most of his adult life following regulations and strictly observing the rules laid out for him by the FBI. He’d strayed from this straight and narrow path two years ago, in his pursuit of Daniel Petrovich, and it now felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Black Flagged Apex Page 24
