by E. E. Borton
“So, are you two friends now?” asked Dallas.
“He’s got a job to do just like us. I think he’s doing the best he can under the circumstances,” said Ryan.
“Speaking of circumstances,” added Tom, “I can’t shake the thought that Arrington was just reacting to us –”
“Not now, Tom,” said Ryan, cutting him off. “I’m going inside to talk to the sheriff. Stow the gear and grab us some coffee from the café across the street. I won’t be long.”
“Sure,” said Tom, feeling like a scolded child. “We’ll make it quick.”
Ryan walked inside the office as his team crossed the street. He knocked on the sheriff’s door which was already open.
“Good morning, Sheriff Parker,” said Ryan, moving inside and closing the door behind him.
“Hopefully it is, Agent Pearson. How’d it go last night?”
“Arrington’s dead. A sniper took him down after he killed his victim and two of my agents. We were a few seconds too late to save her. I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry about? She did her job, right? Being the bait? She served her purpose and you got your man. Now you can write your reports, receive your attaboys from D.C., and ride off into the sunset. Me, I’ve got another home to add to my list of places I have to go to devastate a family.”
He stood there silently taking his lumps from the sheriff. He knew he was the most appropriate target for him to aim his anger. It wasn’t the first time Ryan had to be the punching bag, and it certainly didn’t look like it was going to be the last.
“I also wanted you to know we found the other three missing girls in graves underneath the house. I don’t know when their bodies will be released to their families. I imagine it’ll be a few days, maybe even a week.”
“Well, me and my boys will just sit around, drink some moonshine, and spit tobacco until then.”
“I am sorry, Sheriff. For what it’s worth, I don’t believe they were raped or tortured. I think they died very quickly and in little pain. I know it’s not much, but it may offer some consolation to the families.”
“It isn’t worth shit,” said Parker. “They’re still dead and we’ll probably never know why. And you’re sure as hell aren’t going to tell us. So, please, stop pretending to give a crap about what happened here.”
“That’s where you’re very wrong,” said Ryan, running out of cheeks. “If I didn’t give a crap, I would’ve just left town after we finished. Nobody told me to come here and see you. I told you the men I’m hunting are out of your worst nightmare. I wasn’t being melodramatic.”
“Agent Pearson, you may be surprised at what kind of nightmares I have. You made the mistake of assuming I’m some hayseed born in a barn who stumbled into this job. I was a homicide detective in Chicago for fifteen years. The truth is, I was born and raised here. After seeing the worst parts of what people were capable of doing to each other up there, I couldn’t wait to get back to this small, slow town. This accent is from my memory, and I use it to make folks around here more comfortable talking to me. I’m not the redneck you think I am.
“I was elected sheriff after I returned because the locals thought they’d be safer with a man of my experience watching over their town. All they see now is a weak man powerless to protect their daughters from a monster. A monster that took another one of their innocent girls and two of your best federal agents with him. This town will never be the same again, Agent Pearson. Forgive me if I wanted to give the families answers to questions they should be allowed to ask.”
“Do you have any children?” asked Sheriff Parker.
“No, I don’t. I’ve never been married, either.”
“Well, if you did have a daughter, wouldn’t you want to know why someone murdered her? Wouldn’t you want to put your hands on the animal that did it?”
The sheriff’s questions hit Ryan hard. Of course he would want to know why. Of course he would want to put his hands on the animal that did it. The families did deserve to know what happened to their daughters. Ryan started to feel anger towards everything and everyone associated with the manhunt he was chosen to lead. Ryan pulled up a chair close to the sheriff’s desk.
“What I’m going to tell you can’t leave this office until I find the other three fugitives. You have to give me your word.”
“My God, the other three,” gasped the sheriff. “Yes, you have my word.”
*****
Across the street at the café, Tom, Michelle, and Dallas waited for Ryan to return to the car.
“Tom, I’m sure he has his reasons,” said Dallas, defending his long-time boss and friend.
“I’m sure he does,” said Tom. “I’m just not used to him shutting me up. Sure, sometimes I ramble, but I can’t seem to finish the first sentence before he slams the door on me. Actually, on any of us.”
“He’s been acting odd since the first day he told us to pack our bags,” added Michelle. “On every other manhunt, he’s inundated us with the smallest details of the targets. He pushes us to find answers, and if we can’t, he pushes harder until we do. I mean, think of the countless hours of all four of us sitting around a table full of files, photos, and reports, bouncing questions and ideas off of each other.”
“We’ve never come across anything like this in our careers, Michelle,” said Dallas. “Maybe he’s just at a loss right now. Maybe he needs us to give him a little space while he figures out what the hell is going on instead of bombarding him with theories.”
“Why change what’s worked for years?” asked Michelle. “You can’t just simply dismiss our combined experience and tell us to think outside of the box. I’m sorry, Dallas. But none of this, including his behavior, makes sense to me. And figuring out behavior is what I do.”
“So, what do you want to do?” asked Dallas, becoming frustrated with the mutiny. “Put him in the corner and demand he pay attention to us? Tell him whatever he’s thinking is wrong and we’re right? He’s earned more from us than that.”
“Christ, Dallas, that’s not what I mean,” said Michelle.
“I have to say I agree with Michelle,” added Tom.
“Thank you, Tom.”
“Not with everything,” said Tom, bursting her bubble. “Mainly with the part about none of this making sense.”
“My turn to say thanks, Tom,” sneered Dallas, sticking his tongue out at Michelle.
“Seriously,” responded Michelle. “You just stuck your tongue out at me?”
“It could’ve been worse,” laughed Tom. “Kidding aside, I also agree we’ve always worked as a close team on all our assignments. On this one, he’s keeping us at arm’s length. It’s as if he doesn’t want us to get too involved, which is ridiculous. He cuts all of us off before we can say a word and –”
“Fuck me,” interrupted Dallas. “That’s it.”
“This should be good,” said Michelle.
Dallas put his finger up to his mouth as he grabbed a napkin from the table. He scribbled one word and showed Tom and Michelle.
Bugs.
*****
The sheriff stared at Ryan in disbelief at the revelation that four UA Marines simultaneously turned into serial killers. He was taking a risk telling the story, but Ryan was confident the listening devices were embedded in the team’s cell phones and gear. Both Ryan and Dallas had extensive training in surveillance and, more importantly, counter-surveillance. Training they received courtesy of the FBI and the military.
“We have a lead on the whereabouts of one of the other Marines. We have a plane waiting for us at the airfield,” continued Ryan. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I’m afraid the families are going to have to wait a little longer for their answers. But I promise you I will come back.”
“I appreciate you trusting me with this, Ryan. That took guts. It stays with me until I hear from you,” said the sheriff, as Ryan rose to his feet.
“Thank you, Sheriff. I need to go now.”
“Of course. Goo
d luck, Agent Pearson.”
“I believe I’ll need it,” said Ryan, as he turned to leave.
“One more thing, if you don’t mind?” asked the sheriff. “What were the names of the two agents that were killed?”
“Patrick Barron and Frank Hansen.”
“Patrick and Frank,” repeated the sheriff, committing their names to memory. “I’m sure they were fine men. Their souls and families will be in my prayers, too.”
“You’re a good man, Sheriff. I owe you an apology for throwing my weight around during the briefing. I’m not normally so impatient. When I figure this mess out, I’d consider it an honor to sit around, drink moonshine, and spit tobacco with you and your boys.”
“Wouldn’t that be something?” chuckled the sheriff. “I have to admit, I believe you would’ve thrown me in my own jail. Do you mind if I borrow that line when my deputies screw up?”
“Not at all.”
The two men shook hands and Ryan returned to the car. His team filed out of the café carrying large cups of coffee. Dallas was the first to reach him and handed him a cup and the folded napkin.
“I’ve been getting a lot of these lately,” said Ryan, unfolding the note.
“Sorry it took us so long. There was a line at the cash register,” said Dallas with a smile.
“Did you get in touch with your sister, Michelle?” asked Ryan.
“I did. She’s fine.”
“Houma, Louisiana,” said Tom. “I knew I recognized the name. It’s the setting for the for the ‘Swamp Thing’ comic book series?”
“I never would’ve pegged you for a comic book reader,” said Michelle.
“Love them,” said Tom. “Every week as a kid I’d spend my entire allowance at the corner drugstore. Soda pop and comic books were my Saturday routine. Sadly, the files I read now contain the real monsters that are out there.”
“Well, maybe we’ll run into the Swamp Thing down in the bayou,” said Dallas. “You could ask him to help us find our monster.”
The team arrived at the airport and boarded the Learjet that would take them into the hunting grounds of Richard Elliot. He was also a highly decorated and patriotic Marine who volunteered to become a better soldier through genetic experimentation. His record was spotless until the day he and the others decided to walk away from the lab in Maine and become a ruthless band of murderers.
During the flight to New Orleans, the only team member remaining awake was Ryan. A folder with red stripes marked “Classified” was in the seat next to him. He didn’t bother to open Elliot’s file and bury himself in the pages filled with horrific images and reports. Instead, he sat quietly looking out the window as the world slowly passed underneath.
6
Zydeco
The aircraft landed early in the afternoon at Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans. The team was met by agents from the local field office. They were given vehicles and escorted to one of the FBI’s safe houses located on St. Charles Avenue near the French Quarter. The local agents had no idea why Ryan and his team were visiting their city. They were told to accommodate and provide them with any equipment, information, and support they requested without question.
During the thirty-minute drive, all four agents remained silent. Hardly a word had been spoken since they boarded the plane in Virginia. Each was trying to anticipate Ryan’s next move. But Ryan wasn’t thinking about the complexity of the situation he needed to sort out. He brought his thoughts down to a very basic human level. He was thinking about Sheriff Parker driving down a country road carrying the weight of having to tell a mother and father their daughter was dead. He had to tell them their daughter was murdered by a U.S. Marine.
Ryan wasn’t so naïve to think the chaos of the world owed anyone an explanation for the horror it could produce, but the chaos he found himself in wasn’t one of those situations. The answers were out there to be found. As the vehicles pulled into the driveway of the safe house, he made his decision. He wasn’t going to let the sheriff go down that country road alone.
“Let’s get all the gear inside,” said Ryan. “We’re taking tonight off. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the Quarter, and I think we all could use a drink.”
“Sounds like an excellent plan,” said Dallas, knowing the real reason for the break.
He knew the reason because he had worked with Ryan for over six years. Dallas started his career with the FBI after serving four years with the Marine Corps. Both he and Ryan were stationed at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, but their paths never crossed. Dallas was assigned to the Marine Special Operations Support Group while Ryan was assigned with the 2nd Marine Special Operations Battalion. The same Battalion of the four killers he was hunting. Dallas knew that was no coincidence. Ryan knew as well.
As a Marine, Dallas’s specialty was counterterrorism and surveillance. After his initial training with the FBI, his abilities earned him immediate assignment to the elite Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) based out of Quantico, Virginia. He excelled in both planting and detecting hidden surveillance devices, but his forte was finding foreign and domestic terrorist groups operating within the United States.
While with HRT, Dallas had been the newest addition to Ryan’s already established team. He immediately recognized what made Ryan stand out from the crowd. He was simply relentless and a natural born leader. Ryan recognized Dallas’s abilities as well. When Ryan was selected to lead an Inland Regional Apprehension Team (IRAT), he requested Dallas join him to chase down the country’s most wanted fugitives. He accepted the job on the spot.
In a departure from the normal job description of an IRAT team, Ryan’s group would work closely with the FBI’s Behavioral Science Division, also located at Quantico. It only took a few days for Ryan to understand his team would be charged with hunting the most elusive and dangerous killers who found themselves on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.
Ryan and Dallas possessed the skill set necessary to plan and execute an arrest warrant in almost any environment, but both lacked the experience needed to profile and track their prey. Another positive characteristic of Ryan’s leadership ability was the self-awareness to identify his weaknesses. To compensate, he surrounded himself with agents that would bring strengths he didn’t possess to the team. And two of the strongest profilers were Michelle Dobbs and Tom Freeman. The fact that they also had experience working in the field made them too appealing to pass up.
Before they knew what hit them, they were kicking in doors and practicing assault tactics with Ryan and Dallas. It was less of an invite and more of a draft when they joined the IRAT team. They didn’t put up much of a fight, knowing they’d still be intimately involved with behavioral science. They both found the idea of applying their skills in the field and putting the bad guys in handcuffs very appealing. Ryan succeeded in creating a highly tenacious and effective group that cleared cases with impressive speed.
Dallas, Michelle, and Tom were wondering when their old leader would be returning to the team. They didn’t have to wait long for their answer. After Ryan made a phone call to the deputy director to make him aware of their short break, he hailed a cab and disappeared for over two hours. When he returned to the safe house, he had the cabbie wait out front.
“Are you guys ready?” asked Ryan.
“Yep,” responded Dallas, patting a small leather bag over his shoulder.
“And it matches your shoes,” added Michelle.
“And my eyes,” said Dallas. “You don’t win best-dressed agent by ignoring the details.”
“You’re absolutely hopeless,” said Michelle, closing the door behind them.
“Where are we headed?” asked Tom.
“A quiet little place where I like to relax and think,” answered Ryan.
After a short ride, the cab dropped the agents off on Canal Street. There was still daylight illuminating the Quarter, but it was already filled with loud groups of tourists and locals getting a head start on the evening’s fes
tivities. Most were carrying large plastic cups full of beverages that could power a dragster. About a block away from Ryan’s “quiet little place” on the corner of Canal and Bourbon streets, they could hear the distinct piano accordion from the Zydeco band playing inside.
There was a decent crowd already forming in the bar, but they managed to grab a table in a slightly quieter corner facing the front entrance. Without saying a word, they all dropped their cell phones in the bag Dallas carried. He removed a small plastic case from the bag before he asked the bartender to hold it behind the bar.
Ryan and Dallas then excused themselves to go to the restroom. When they entered, Dallas removed a small device from the case, and Ryan assumed the position of a traveler getting the wand at an airport security checkpoint. Dallas quickly scanned his boss with the RF receiver and no spikes were detected. He removed a second device from the case and pressed the power button to activate the unit. If he missed any bugs, the transmission frequency would be scrambled as long as Ryan stayed with ten feet of the jamming device. The unit was compact and powerful, resembling a walkie-talkie, but only had enough battery life to remain effective for thirty minutes. They returned to the table as the drinks arrived.
“When in Rome,” said Tom, picking up his glass. The rest of the team followed the queue. Ryan wasted no time starting the conversation.
“First, I want to apologize to all three of you,” said Ryan. “I report to and take my orders from Deputy Director Donaldson. From the beginning, I was instructed to give you enough information to keep you safe and nothing more. Any requests for support from you guys was very detailed and scripted. It’s a complete departure from the way we normally operate. When you offered anything more, I didn’t have much choice but to ignore you. When you started putting things together and I suspected someone else was listening, I didn’t have much choice but to cut you off. And for that I am sorry. I especially owe you an apology, Tom.”
