Sports Utility Vehicle. That’s what SUV stands for!
A small window peered into the cabin of the SUV. She could see the slightest profiles of two men. One appeared to be wearing a white coat, though it might have simply been a white shirt. She couldn’t be certain. Her mind soaked up every detail as if by some instinctual process beyond her control. As her eyes wandered to and fro, fighting desperately for focus, her mind labored to remember every detail about the scene and the people within. Perhaps, she thought, some detail of where she was might, in turn, spark a memory that would lead to the realization of who she was, if nothing else, why she was there.
“No reason to be scared, Mrs. Mendez,” the man whispered, reaching into the darkness behind him.
She wasn’t afraid, in pain definitely, but hardly afraid. It wasn’t until she saw the needle that she felt a twinge of true unmaskable fear overtake her.
“We just need to ask you some questions. And this will just ensure that your answers are totally honest.” His voice seemed to be changing.
His accent was becoming muddled. His words lost beneath a deepening ocean of foreign influence.
Her body awash with pain, she barely felt the needle prick her shoulder.
“There now,” he said. “We’ll just give that a few minutes to work and then we’ll get those pesky questions out of the way.” He turned away from her. “Cooperation, Mrs. Mendez, is the key. A concept your husband doesn’t seem to grasp.”
“Husband?” she thought. “Mendez?”
He turned back towards her and slowly reached his hand toward her face.
“That should just about do it,” he said. “Now, let’s begin, shall we?”
***
Good Shepherd Memorial Hospital was a well-respected hospital. Its doctors were among the best and its security was second to none. Both of Alex’s children had been born there. His brother had been taken there many times to get himself patched up. Though he had arrived DOA, it was a doctor in this very hospital that had made official the finality of Ted’s life.
A list of cops a mile long could claim to have seen the inside of one or more sections of one of Longview’s two great hospitals. Over the course of their own careers, both Lisa and Alex had become as intimately familiar with the dimly lit outer lobby in which Alex currently sat as with each and every stale, cramped, plastic-chair-laden waiting room on the numerous floors of Good Shepherd Hospital.
So how two conspicuous-looking men in suits were able to waltz right out the front door carrying his injured wife was the most confusing, sickening, and downright maddening prospect Alex could perceive. Somewhere, someone dropped the ball.
Longview’s finest had a history of bringing in overly intoxicated puke-covered drunks, drug addicts at risk of overdose not to mention a host of victims of knife wounds, gunshots and beatings. They all knew
Alex. Most of them had some level of familiarity with the entire Longview police force. In the last few days, Both Good Shepherd and Longview Regional had found themselves in the unenviable position of becoming intimately familiar with the dying masses of Longview’s police force.
Security cameras showed a very weak Lisa being hurried out in a wheelchair right through the front door, where she was spirited away in a maroon SUV. It looked as if her hands had been bound but she sat relatively still, her head cocked to one side. She was not struggling; her hands were folded in her lap. The “binding” Alex thought he saw might just as easily have been his mind playing unnecessarily cruel tricks on him—a trick of light bouncing off her hospital bracelet perhaps.
The license plates had come back fake. No big surprise there.
Whoever these guys were, they were not legitimate agents of any organization Alex knew of. Even CIA operatives weren’t going to go to such extremes just to question one local Barney Fife. Four men were visible in the security footage. Tucker, Morgan and two guys dressed as doctors.
He wasn’t going to waste time trying to contact the CIA to verify the identities of Agents Tucker and Morgan. He knew the police would do that. They’d follow that dead end. Alex was going to focus on the more important issue. Finding Lisa and beating the living snot out of Tucker, Morgan and anyone else that dared threaten him or his family ever again.
Three small leather couches had slowly filled with policemen and friends that knew Alex and were concerned for Lisa’s welfare. A team of uniformed officers swarmed by, “As many as we can spare” the chief had ordered. The various uniforms told Alex that he was entrusting his wife’s safety to policemen from many of the surrounding cities. Two sheriff’s deputies wandered about looking almost lost; as if unsure what part in this investigation they were to play. Finally, Chief
Steelman ordered them to guard the entrance. It was their job to screen people entering and leaving the hospital.
Two men in suits walked into the hospital, flashed badges at the
two deputies without even looking their way and walked toward Chief Steelman, seated immediately to Alex’s right.
“Which one of you is Captain Peterson?” One man asked. He was a striking figure. Imposing with deep scowl lines in his forehead, his hair was deep ebony, slightly salted. His shoulders were broad, his neck possessing a slight thickness that suggested him to be a regular at a gym somewhere. His eyes appeared serious but concerned. Alex sensed something he could only label as kindness in them.
The other man was younger. Perhaps years younger, only about 5 ft. 8 inches and maybe weighing 170 lbs. Short, not thin but hardly the brick wall his partner appeared to be. His hair was brown, possessing a slight wave. The goatee on his face was thin, trimmed neatly and showed no signs of graying.
“I’m Captain Peterson,” Danny said, standing to meet the two men.
“This is Chief Steelman. And this is Alex Mendez. Lisa is Alex’s wife.”
“Police officer?” The tall man asked, regarding Alex curiously.
“Former,” Alex offered.
“Former in name only,” Tom Steelman said. “He’s as much a cop as anyone in this room with a badge. I would appreciate it if he was given that consideration. He is my personal liaison on this case and has been officially deputized by Captain Peterson and myself until such time as we see fit to rescind it.”
He had? Alex raised an eyebrow. Had he fallen asleep and missed something? Danny appeared as confused, but neither of them said anything.
The tall man pulled out his identification again. “I am Agent Sutton, FBI. This is Special Agent Parker. I understand you’ve had misdealings with individuals posing as federal agents but I assure you we are legitimate and are here to help get Lt. Mendez back and aid in the ongoing investigation as it relates to the attack on the city of Longview.”
“Forgive me if I don’t just fall down and kiss your feet,” Alex said.
“I’ve dealt with too many agents today.”
“Mr. Mendez,” Agent Parker said. His voice was soft, though surprisingly deep for a man of his stature. “We have members of the ATF, FBI and CIA truly standing by to aid in this investigation. Toaid.
This is a Longview police department investigation and we will follow the lead of local law enforcement…”
“We’re not here to interfere,” Agent Sutton interrupted, looking at Chief Steelman. “We are here to help. We’re here in numbers. We’re here to offer manpower, expertise, and resources—nothing more. We have agents on the ground in Oklahoma, Florida, Louisiana, California and a host of other states right now. I can’t say what those teams are doing but the investigation here will remain under the command structure of the Longview Police Department until such time as said command structure deems it necessary to change that. We are here to offer the resources and manpower of the federal government. We are not here under any mandate. The officers and agents we spoke of at our disposal are here strictly on a volunteer basis.”
“You mean…” Alex said, suddenly at a loss for words.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” Danny a
sked Agent Sutton.
Agent Sutton’s expression grew more serious than it already was. He leaned in as if intending to whisper his reply, but his voice remained normal, fixed and determined.
“My immediate superior knows I am here and he knows what I am doing. Knows what I have requested. His immediate superior has knowledge of everything I requisitioned and she has given written permission to all teams to utilize the full resources of the FBI. As I understand it, my counterpart at the ATF, Agent Collier I believe is her name, has obtained similar mandates from her superiors. If you need more than my word I can make a couple of phone calls. We could fly to 935 Pennsylvania Avenue in D.C. but that’ll take us away from the task at hand, which is finding your wife, Mr. Mendez. I understand your hesitation, but you can trust me. You can trust all of us. We want the same things. Justice and we want to ensure the safety of each and every
American. Including, but not limited to, your wife.”
“How can you guys help?” Danny asked.
“Well,” Agent Sutton began. “We can start with information.
Beyond that, I have a team of ten FBI agents at your disposal. I believe there are four ATF’s here, but you’d have to talk to Agent Collier to be sure. We’re here to provide manpower. You’ve heard the saying. We’ll it’s true what they say. These colors don’t run.” With the last sentence, Agent Sutton’s voice filled with a quality that was unmistakably southern in origins. A voice that had started out with an almost
Midwestern quality to it had suddenly filled with the slightest undeniable hint of a drawl that might have otherwise had Agent Sutton sounding like a bad actor in a Civil War documentary.
“Where are your men now?” Chief Steelman asked.
“I sent a team to Mr. Mendez’s house,” he began. Alex’s eyes widened, but a raised hand from Agent Sutton silenced him. “They will not disturb your family, Mr. Mendez. I assure you. Anyone inside will likely not even know they are there. They are simply there to observe, to protect your family from any further intrusion. Rest assured I put the best men on it. We also have a team out looking for Mrs. Mendez. I sent them in advance to simply scour the city. One of them grew up around here. Knows the lay of the land pretty well. We know who we’re looking for. But we’d like to look at the security tapes. Get an idea of the vehicle they might be using.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Chief Steelman said. “You tell uswho we’re dealing with and we’ll tell you what they’re driving.”
Agent Sutton motioned to his partner who retrieved a letter-sized manila envelope from his coat pocket.
“Start with this,” Agent Sutton said. “Let’s sit down. We can fill in the gaps for each other.”
CHAPTER 16
Guess Work
Agents Sutton and Parkerwerewith the FBI. With them was a team of ten agents spread across the county on various assignments. Agent Sheila Collier and Agent Dalton Chang of the ATF had brought a team of six other agents, all waiting Chief Steelman’s word to begin combing the wreckage of the Wal-Mart and Police Headquarters sites.
There were two legitimate agents of the CIA standing by somewhere, according to Agent Collier, but Alex had not seen them, nor did he know anything about them.
All this strange manpower did little to comfort Alex. They weren’t Longview cops. They weren’t from Gilmer, Gladewater, Kilgore or any of the local towns. They weren’t even Texans. What had once been a single unifying cause, the American Tragedy, had suddenly become an American Nightmare for Alex. A terrifying nightmare of increasing uncertainty.
Looking at the sea of strange faces, Alex was dumbstruck at how drastically the game had changed, and in only a few horrific seconds.
***
If you wanted to get lost in Gladewater, or Longview, Kilgore, or even Tyler, the answer was simple. Go to Gilmer. That was Eric Reid’s philosophy. Lake Gilmer was a small lake four miles outside of the small town whose population didn’t even top 5,000. Barely 1000 acres in size, it was hardly anything to write home about. Dwarfed by the 18,000 acre Lake O’ The Pines, spanning the borders of three counties, Lake Gilmer existed under an overpass that allowed travelers on FM 852 to continue northward to bigger and better prospects.
Eric fumbled with the radio, turning past bulletin after bulletin, searching for whatever solace he might be able to capture amid the musical litanies commonplace in his generation. With no luck, he snapped it silent, closed his eyes for a moment, only to find himself lost in a visual exploration of the surroundings.
The lake was small, dirty and possessed no beach. A small fishing pier, barely wide enough for two people to walk single file extended out maybe 100 feet into the water. To its left was a short, steep cement ramp used for loading and unloading what few fishing boats might occasion the small lake, in search of the various species of Crappie and other small fish stocked in the tiny waterway. Lake Gilmer had always seemed, to Eric, to be more of a good-sized pond than a lake. But the breeze spilling over the water served to calm Eric Reid’s troubled spirit, if only a bit. Ultimately, that was what mattered. Maybe you couldn’t get lost on the small waterspout that was Lake Gilmer, but it wasn’t difficult for a weary mind to lose itself amid the calm to which the soul surrendered upon the slightest glance into the depths of Lake Gilmer’s tidal waters. A few precious moments of peace seemed, at last, possible.
Eric’s Pontiac Sunfire was a great car for a teenager on the loose— electric blue metallic with graphite-gray cloth seats, tinted windows and a factory stereo system that didn’t sound too bad if he said so himself. It wasn’t the fastest car in the world, nor the most powerful, but it looked sleek and drove like a dream. And in the heat of summer the primed air conditioning unit was the best selling feature the vehicle had to offer. Whether at a dead stop or going full out, the air conditioning unit blasted frigid relief to all occupants. No doubt, had he been anyone other than Eric Reid, a bevy of women would likely have been at his personal disposal. Since he suffered the misfortune ofbeing Eric Reid, however, he settled for the occasional confused looks of women marveling that such a beautiful product of automotive genius was being driven by such an insignificant speck as he.
***
Agent Collier was a strikingly attractive black woman. Her skin was not much darker than Alex’s, but her eyes were nearly jet black.
Her hair was thick but cropped shoulder length. She wore no jewelry and didn’t appear to find it necessary to embrace cosmetic facial enhancements of any kind. She wore a deep navy blue business suit. In the dim light of Good Shepard’s outer lobby, it had taken Alex several minutes to determine if it was in fact navy blue or black. She possessed an uncanny knowledge of firearms and weapons of varying sort, running down a seemingly endless list of weapons utilized by the two men responsible for Lisa’s abduction.
Agent Collier had reports on the man posing as Agent Morgan. His real name was unpronounceable as far as Alex was concerned, Abdullah something or other. Jordanian born to a Syrian father and American mother, he had only been in America for maybe five years. Little was known of his education. What was known was that he was deemed an extremist by some of the worst terrorist groups in existence.
It’s a bad man, Alex thought, that’s too evil for Satan himself to work with.
It was believed he was being hunted by both sides. One wanting to prevent him from hurting innocents, the other simply wishing to silence him for fear he’d otherwise damage their cause. Agent Collier’s personal assessment characterized him as a man with more guts than brains. Judging by their first meeting, Alex wasn’t so sure. He was composed enough to stay quiet and crafty enough to let Tucker take the lead.
Agent Tucker was a story unto himself—a virtual novel of terrorist accomplishments. Ambitious, he had come to America in the hopes of inciting violence that “would make September 11th disappear beneath a sea of blood and tears.” The words he’d written to terrorist leaders in two countries. Born in Paris to a French father and Saudi mother, Mustafa Muhamme
d Ibrahim assumed the identity of CIA Agent Carl Tucker, whom Ibrahim had personally and brutally murdered, along with several members of his family. Both Abdullah and Ibrahim were married, but Ibrahim’s wife had not been seen in months. Abdullah’s wife was known to have been responsible for a suicide bombing in Israel. Agents Sutton and Parker were as surprised as anyone at the amount of information the ATF had collected on the two men. Agent Collier made no apologies. They’d been secretly watching the two for years. The trail ran cold just before they came to Longview. But not before they hooked up with two others who, Collier believed, were behind the actual bombings at Wal-Mart and the police station.
“The Wal-Mart wasn’t blown up in the same way the police station was,” Chief Steelman insisted. “Witness accounts say that the bomb was placed in a baby carriage. Some sick twisted mother tied her baby to a bomb and blew a department store to smithereens.”
“We know,” Agent Collier admitted. “Similar witness accounts have been given to agents at several other sites—kids walking into schools with bombs strapped to their hands or hidden in their book bags, women walking in to post offices and banks, even police stations, saying nothing. Just blowing themselves up. Then we have attacks very similar to the one at the police station: gun blazing, armored suspect with a real death wish. Truth is—and I think Agent Sutton will agree with me—we aren’t looking at a truly organized effort here. Could be copycats. Our best guess is that it’s a loose band of people just bonded over one cause, perhaps in disagreement on the best way to further said cause.”
“The destruction of all things not Muslim,” Agent Chang finished.
Agent Chang was a richly oriental man. His eyes were serpentine slits, barely allowing passage into a soul that was only visible in a reserved but reasonably friendly personality. His thinning hair was cut military style. On him, it looked almost out of place. His voice posed a bit of a distraction, reminding Alex of Kermit the Frog, provided that Kermit had chain smoked cigars for the last twenty-five years. Perhaps, Alex thought, the deep scar on the left side of his neck had more than a little bit to do with the tenor and substance of Agent Chang’s voice.
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