Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  Beyond the best clandestine training available worldwide, she was spoiled by the CIA. Indulged in expensive clothing, etiquette lessons, and exposure to the finest food and wine money could buy. She emerged from the CIA’s clandestine operations training program feeling unstoppable. Highly trained, confident and sophisticated, she could breeze through the casinos of Monte Carlo like James Bond or scale the walls of the Kremlin after sipping a martini with a Russian double-agent. The possibilities were endless for the newly minted agent. Even her undercover name sounded like something out of a Frederick Forsyth novel: Zorana Zekulic.

  Her first assignment was to develop Serbian contacts in Paris. Members of Milosevic’s paramilitary organizations made a killing in the black market, selling everything from stolen cigarettes to knockoff Polo shirts. The more cosmopolitan criminals traveled throughout Europe, spending time in cities like Paris and Amsterdam, where they could party like rock stars and try to expand Serbia’s black market reach. These were typically highborn Serbs, who had vacationed with their families outside of the Balkans and were accustomed to more than Belgrade had to offer.

  Family business connections had put them in a position to participate in the paramilitary Ponzi scheme at a high level, but they didn’t mix well with the rough crowd that dominated the ranks of most paramilitary groups. Extended stays in the fashionable European cities served many purposes. Survival sat at the top of the list. The more time they spent outside Serbia, the less opportunity their paramilitary brethren would have to cut their throats open in a dark Belgrade alley.

  For eight months, “Zorana” had lived the life of a runway model, partying with the “long distance” criminal element of Milosevic’s paramilitary regime. Her time in Paris was extremely productive, exceeding CIA expectations. She fine-tuned her newly acquired tastes and broke into nearly every important social circle within the city. As a result of her “hard work,” she developed well-placed contacts from three of the major paramilitary groups competing for Milosevic’s attention in Belgrade. She repeatedly turned down offers to return with them to Serbia. The CIA wanted her to arrive in Belgrade on her own, not beholden to any particular group. Her handlers would direct these efforts once word of her arrival had spread throughout Belgrade. It would also give the CIA time to assess the success of her cover story, as the name started to filter back to Serbia from Paris.

  So far, her “legend” had raised no eyebrows among Serbian expats in Paris, but Belgrade would be a different story. Serbians were suspicious by nature, especially in their own backyard. Her “legend” had been crafted carefully, extensively weaved into her training at the one year mark, where she would start to learn region specific skills that would transform her into Zorana Zekulic.

  Zorana had left her parents when she was seventeen to live in Novi Sad with another girl from her small southern village. For two years, she waited tables at night and cleaned houses during the day, saving enough money to travel to Amsterdam. Two months after arriving in the Netherlands, she learned that her parents had been killed by Bosnian guerillas in a rare reprisal attack against civilians in southwestern Serbia.

  Zorana Zekulic was found dead a few months later, floating in an obscure canal west of the city, the apparent victim of a heroin overdose and possible strangling. CIA analysts given the task to find a new “legend” had struck gold making these connections. Zorana’s death went unnoticed in Amsterdam, since she had never broken into any significant social scene. CIA agents struggled to find anyone that remembered her beyond a hazy “oh yeah, I remember her…she used to hang out at the, uh…one of the cafés in De Wallen…I’m trying to think of the name…give me a second” comment. Agents in Amsterdam calculated that any memory of Zorana Zekulic would fade within three months, long before her replacement arrived in Paris.

  Paris had been like a dream for Jessica, now living as Zorana Zekulic. Three inches taller, and she could have easily broken into the runway model business. She had already turned down several photo-ops for women’s fashion magazines at the request of her CIA handlers. They wanted her to attract attention, but not worldwide attention. Several months later, she was given the “green light” to leave Paris.

  Immediately upon arrival, she noticed that the scene was starkly different in Belgrade. Her “friends” had kept their distance in Paris, despite their wealth and overconfidence. In Paris, she held the upper hand. She learned very quickly where she stood among these “friends” in Belgrade—a few notches up from prostitute. The rest of the men didn’t differentiate. She spent most of her first month crying in her apartment. She was trapped in the most demeaning role imaginable, with no way out. She had been recruited by the CIA because she was “the very best of the best” and accelerated through the most selective training program in the world. All of that had landed her on the streets, fending off the most vile savages on earth. Looking back, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen this coming. She came from nothing. Why would she have expected anything different?

  She looked back at Daniel. He had rescued her from the depths of hell after she had turned her back on him and disappeared in Chicago. He never asked any questions about why she had abandoned him. That was the thing with Daniel; he never judged, and he never hesitated to take her back. He understood her on a core level, which both frightened and comforted her. No matter what she did, he’d always be there for her. She couldn’t ask for anything else. She loved him fiercely and wanted to do what was right for both of them, even if it meant small sacrifices.

  “What’s the risk level?” she asked.

  “Low. Young travels between D.C., Manhattan, and his home in Atlanta. True America wants him dead. Apparently, he knows too much about their organization at this point for them to overlook his addiction to escorts and drugs. Sanderson sent your two friends to keep an eye on him. He wants us to talk to Young before they kill him. This involves you luring him from a hotel lobby bar to a hotel room, under our watchful eyes. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “You’ll be there?”

  “The entire time,” he assured her.

  “This may sound crazy, but I don’t think we should sever ties to Sanderson yet. He may be the only person that can save us if the immunity deal falls apart. Despite his cold, calculating personality, I sense a loyalty to you that can never be broken. As long as we can work together, I’m in.”

  “Nothing crazy about sticking together. Are you absolutely sure about this?”

  “I’m sure. What’s the timeline?” she said.

  “Young is scheduled to be in town for two more nights. Sanderson doesn’t know very much about his Atlanta routine, but the guy’s taken a room at the Ritz Carlton in Buckhead, presumably for extramarital entertainment. The dynamic duo has secured the room across the hall from him. Sanderson wants us to give this a try tonight. He stressed the importance of grabbing him during his normal routine at the hotel. Munoz hasn’t detected any third-party surveillance, but it’s only a matter of time before True America gets some eyes on Young…or stuffs a gun down his throat. They have already issued Young’s death warrant, so Sanderson thinks tonight might be our only chance to do this without drawing attention.”

  “Buckhead is a four-to five-hour drive from here, and I need to do some shopping. Preferably in a few of the boutique shops on Peachtree Road. We need to get moving.”

  “We can finish lunch. Sanderson reserved two seats for us on the 2:15 out of Savannah. Puts us in Atlanta by 3:30.”

  “In that case, I think I’ll order the buttermilk fried flounder and another drink while you give Sanderson the good news.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Daniel said, staring off at the ocean past her.

  She could tell something bothered him about the seemingly simple mission. Something he had chosen not to disclose.

  Chapter 31

  1:46 PM

  North Tract

  East of Laurel, Maryland

  Officer Warren Donahue turned the Laurel Police Department�
�s Ford Explorer onto Hill Road and cruised at a comfortable speed down the dusty service road. Thick foliage from the trees crowded the dirt lane, creating a shaded tunnel around his vehicle. Newly grown weeds lapped at the sides of the SUV. In a few more weeks, some of the sturdier species of brush would scrape the paint if they didn’t get a crew out here to cut everything back. He checked his watch and thought about the end of his shift. Two hours and counting.

  Today’s shift had started normally enough, despite the increased manning requirements dictated by the most recent Homeland Security threat assessment. Two hours into his eight-hour shift, Donahue had been recalled to base to pick up a passenger. Sergeant Bryan Osborne had decided that today would be the perfect day to get out on patrol with one of the rookies. Donahue really couldn’t complain, Sergeant Osborne had even paid for lunch at Pi’s deli.

  He spotted the turn for Combat Road and debated whether to take his sergeant further into the vast tract of forest or turn west toward downtown Laurel. He drove this stretch at least once during every shift, mostly checking for abandoned cars. His route varied, sometimes taking him to the western edge along the Wildlife Loop. He thought it was a waste of time, but the entire loop only took one of their patrol cars out of town for thirty minutes, so his patrol sergeant insisted that at least one of the officers make the trip. As the shift’s rookie, the errand typically fell in his lap.

  He decided to head back to Laurel and started to guide the SUV left at the worn patch of grass and dirt serving as the intersection.

  “Hold on, Warren. Back up and take a right. I thought I saw something down Combat Road,” the sergeant said.

  “Roger that, sir.”

  A few moments later, the SUV headed east toward the outer loop road.

  “Right there. Looks like a pickup truck nestled in the woods,” Sergeant Osborne said as they approached a small turnoff to their left.

  Donahue stopped the SUV and stared down the tight path, which was overgrown with thicket and looked barely navigable by vehicle. From this spot on Combat Road, he could see the back of a red pickup truck, which had been fitted with a commercial cap and roof rack. He wasn’t sure how the sergeant had managed to spot the vehicle from the intersection. He probably had caught a glimpse of the red paint through the forest, which was another argument for assigning two officers to each patrol vehicle. He wondered how many details like this he missed on a daily basis, being more focused on safely navigating his vehicle. Then again, Sergeant Osborne had been doing this for nearly fifteen years and had developed instincts and skills that Donahue could only dream of at this point.

  “Nice catch, Sergeant. Do you want me to squeeze her down the road to take a closer look?” Donahue asked.

  “No. Why don’t you park, and we’ll take a look on foot.”

  With the SUV parked several yards back from the path, the two officers walked down the rough vehicle path until they approached the back of the pickup. A cursory examination revealed that the vehicle was a late model F-150, kept in excellent condition.

  “Kind of seems out of place here, doesn’t it?” Osborne said.

  “I was thinking the same thing, sir. The exterior is pristine, aside from the mud kicked up from this little spot,” Donahue replied.

  The pickup had been forced to traverse thick mud to arrive in a dry patch on the edge of the small clearing. Donahue measured the area and determined that the pickup would barely have enough room to turn around.

  “I don’t know how they plan to get out of here,” he said.

  The sergeant just shook his head and stepped around to the driver’s door to take a look.

  “Door’s locked. Hood’s cool. Just rained this morning, so they couldn’t have arrived last night,” Osborne said, pointing at the tracks in the mud.

  “Should we call this in and have another unit join us for a look?” Donahue asked.

  “Nah. We’ll head out a hundred yards or so and see if we can pick up a trail. If not, we’ll make sure the next shift swings by to check it out before dusk. Probably some yahoo out hunting.”

  “I don’t know, Sergeant. Check out those patterns in the mud over there,” Donahue said, pointing toward the far end of the small clearing. “Looks like they carried something here and put it down. Wheel tracks lead off onto some kind of path.”

  Osborne joined him at the edge of the clearing and looked back and forth between the pickup truck and the new set of tracks. “Looks like something heavy. See how it sank into the mud?”

  “Maybe we should call this in?” Donahue asked again.

  “All right. Call it in to dispatch, and have them send a unit to assist. Tell them to wait at the Explorer until we get back. We’ll poke around the woods for a few minutes and head back to meet them.”

  While Donahue called it in using his shoulder-mounted microphone, Osborne followed the wheel tracks deeper into the forest. Initially, they had to push through light bushes, which showed damage from whatever had preceded them, but within twenty feet, they broke out onto a worn path. The tracks became less apparent on the dry, packed ground, but freshly broken branches on both sides of the trail assured them that the wheeled contraption had been moved forward.

  “What do you think we’re dealing with here? Meth lab?” Donahue asked.

  “Fuck if I know. Whatever it is, I guarantee they’re up to no good.”

  With Sergeant Osborne in the lead, they casually walked about one hundred feet until the sound of machinery caused them both to freeze in their tracks. Osborne cocked his head as if trying to determine the direction of the noise. At the same time, he released the strap on his holster and drew his semiautomatic service pistol. Donahue did the same, pointing the Glock 22 downward at a forty-five degree angle.

  “What do you hear?” he asked, moving closer to the sergeant.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Sounds like some kind of serious work going on out there. Turn your radio down. We’re going to split up and figure this out. Let’s stay within sight of each other. Are you familiar with basic hand signals? Eyes on, stop, move out, down, retreat?” he said, mimicking each signal to emphasize his point.

  “Yeah, I got those, Sarge. We use the same signals hunting,” Donahue said.

  “Good. Move slowly and quietly. If you step on a branch, get down. We’ll see how they react. If we’re quiet, I think we’ll be able to walk right up on them.”

  “Maybe we should wait for backup,” Donahue suggested.

  “Let’s see what we’re dealing with first. You head out maybe 50 feet on the left side of the path, I’ll take the right side, and we’ll move forward until we make visual contact. Keep your finger off the trigger. You don’t want to trip and fire off a round.”

  “Yes, sir,” Donahue said, taking his finger out of the trigger well.

  The two officers split up, fighting through the brush before stopping to establish visual contact with each other. Donahue saw his sergeant wave his free hand forward and start walking north along the direction of the trail. He stepped through the brush, trying not to break any branches or step on anything that looked like it would snap. It turned out to be a nearly impossible task.

  Fortunately, the machine working in the distance would likely drown out any noise created as they pushed through the forest. He felt certain of this, since he couldn’t hear the sergeant’s equally noisy efforts across the one-hundred-foot divide.

  He alternated between watching his footfalls, scanning ahead for the trespassers, and keeping an eye out for the sergeant. As they drew closer to the noise, Donahue recognized the sound of a small generator between the more pronounced mechanical bursts of sound that had originally attracted their attention. Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed that Osborne had stopped moving forward. He turned his head toward the sergeant and saw him lower to one knee. Donahue immediately mimicked the sergeant’s action. The sergeant turned and signaled him by pointing two fingers at his eyes, followed by a single finger pointed north. He had spot
ted someone ahead of them. Three fingers held upward indicated three people. Shit. Three was enough to wait for backup. He anticipated the next signal to be a wave in the opposite direction, but Sergeant Osborne had other ideas.

  Osborne raised himself up and pointed his pistol, signaling that they should move forward. Donahue’s heart started racing as he watched the sergeant move forward and realized he had no choice but to follow. Every step filled him with dread. The possibility of taking on three suspects in the middle of nowhere was a bad idea, even with backup inbound. They were already too far into the forest to immediately benefit from assistance. He couldn’t imagine what these people were doing out here with heavy machinery.

  With every step, he prayed that Sergeant Osborne would change his mind. They could even crouch down right here and direct the backup units toward them. Sergeant Osborne stopped again and lowered himself. His signals indicated that the group of men was directly ahead of him. Donahue squinted, trying to pierce the thick leaves and ground brush with his eyes, but was still unable to spot anyone. The next hand signal scared the hell out of him. Osborne wanted Donahue to join him. He didn’t relish the thought of crossing the path this close to the suspects, but he liked the idea of safety in numbers. He felt extremely exposed by himself in these unfamiliar woods.

  With the racket of machinery covering his own noise, he approached the path as quickly as possible, keeping his eyes focused north. When he peeked around the last tree trunk before the path, he caught a glimpse of movement less than fifty feet ahead of him. They were way closer than he had suspected. The figure stayed within view for several seconds before disappearing behind an impenetrable layer of brush and crowded trees. Overhanging branches dipped low on the path, keeping him from seeing a face, but he could tell the man was Caucasian by his hands. After he was certain that the man had completely vanished, Donahue crossed the path, staying low until he reached Osborne.