by Jack Bowie
Special Agent Randolph Washington ducked into the converted Airstream RV that served as the team’s command and control center. The interior was packed with radio scanners, video monitors, and satellite communications equipment. Two FBI communications specialists sat squeezed in the narrow space between the walls of dials and blinking lights. Washington’s boss, Agent-in-Charge Warren Wesley Bradley sat at a small table in the far end.
“How’s it goin’ Randy?” Bradley asked.
“It’s hot, goddamn it! When you gonna let us loose, Wes? My guys are gonna mutiny if we don’t get started.”
“Just tell ‘em one of those stories of yours. That’ll put ‘em to sleep.”
Bradley turned to one of the techs. “What’s the word from AirRover, Chris?” AirRover was the FBI’s newest RRV, Remote Reconnaissance Vehicle. The drone was a three-foot wingspan airplane, equipped with radio remote control and real-time video. For safe, clandestine aerial surveillance it was the best in the world.
“Everything looks quiet,” replied the younger specialist. “Two cells arrived about an hour ago. They’re setting up in the west clearing. Ringo and Santee took teams to cover them.”
“What about the farmhouse?” Washington asked.
“Nothing new. Three men went inside a couple hours ago. Probably getting ready for dinner by now.”
“It’s time to go, Wes,” Washington said to his boss. “We can’t wait any longer.”
“Okay. Pass the word, Chris. We go in fifteen minutes. Give me a yell if you see anything new.”
“Yes sir, will do.”
“Take care, Randy,” Bradley called as Washington left the trailer.
“You got it,” Washington replied, stepping back into the sticky Georgia afternoon. The break inside the air-conditioned Airstream had only made his return more uncomfortable. He was already soaked to the skin with sweat. Between his fatigues, camouflage paint, Class 3 body armor, and ten pounds of electronics there wasn’t any way to stay comfortable. He had to get his team into the field before all their energy was drained.
He walked over to a group of five agents kneeling under an ancient pecan tree. From their bobbing and shifting he could tell they were as uncomfortable as he was. They would be the primary assault team, hitting the farmhouse, backed up by other FBI and ATF teams now deployed throughout the surrounding farmland.
“Shit, Randy. It’s hotter than a barbeque pit out here. When do we go?” It was Greg Franklin, Washington’s partner. They had worked together for five years now, ever since Franklin had graduated from Quantico. Washington thought of the reckless recruit as his protégé and was always on guard for his safety.
“Just wanted to make sure you were warmed up. Let’s do it.”
Washington pulled out his field map and laid it out on the grass in front of them.
“Our target is the farmhouse. Chris says there’s only three of the militiamen inside. Greg, you take Paul and Ted to the rear. Dave, Alex, and I will hit the front. After the house is clear, we’ll check the out buildings. I don’t expect problems but watch yourselves anyway.”
“No sweat, Randy. We can take care of these local yahoos.” Nods around the circle echoed Franklin’s assessment.
“Just remember, these guys don’t seem to care what happens to them.” Washington adjusted his radio headset. “Everybody on-line?”
One by one, his team members reported in. Equipment checked, they half-timed through the woods and down to the access road.
* * *
If he hadn’t been coming from an unfamiliar direction, Wicks probably wouldn’t have noticed. He had been looking for the dirt access way leading to the farm when he noticed an out-of-place Airstream trailer parked by the side of the road. At first glance it looked like any other RV, well-worn and covered with decals proclaiming the glories of Luray Caverns and Iron Mountain, but what was it doing parked on the side of this lonesome stretch of highway?
Wicks slowed down to get a better look and noticed the multiple radio antennas sticking out from every possible surface. Danger signals flashed in his head. As he drove past, he noticed a group of men running through the dense forest. They were dressed in black like commandos, not the normal camouflaging of his militia colleagues.
It could only be one thing. Feds.
Shit! Gary had said they were safe. No one would catch on until it was too late.
Sean was undoubtedly already there. Should he try to warn him?
He reached down for his phone. But what could he do? They were already there!
Wicks saw the access road coming up on his right. Everything looked normal. Maybe it was just his imagination.
He punched his foot on the accelerator and sped toward Tyler.
* * *
“Still clear, Chris?”
Washington and his team were huddled behind a derelict Ford tractor, one hundred yards from the front of the militia farmhouse.
“No change, Randy,” came the electronic response. “Still quiet.”
“Okay. Greg, you in place?”
“Sittin’ pretty, Randy. Behind the old shed out back.”
“See any movement?”
“Caught a couple of heads in the back window. Probably the kitchen.”
“Sounds good. Stay put and we’ll move to the front. When we break through close the door on ‘em.”
“Roger that. We’ll be waiting.”
Washington motioned to his team and they ran to the front of the farmhouse, spreading out along the rotting wood porch. Washington slid along the clapboard, ducking under the occasional window. He was just about ready to go.
CRACK!
Washington whipped his head around and saw Alex Carpentier frozen, his boot sticking through a splintered floorboard. Shit! He heard movement inside the house.
“Now, now!” he screamed into the headset.
He dashed for the front door, threw his not insignificant weight against the barrier, and rolled through the opening as the door gave way. Popping up in a shooter’s stance he scanned the area.
“FBI!” Washington yelled.
Dave Gorpa flew through the doorway and raced into the room to the left. Carpentier came next, running down the hall after a shadow that disappeared around a far corner.
Washington followed his squad and saw Gorpa cuffing a man in his room. Moving down the hall, he spotted Carpentier pinning another on the floor of the kitchen.
Two down. Where the hell was the third?
* * *
Franklin heard the order and dashed with his team to the door at the rear of the farmhouse. As he hopped up on the back porch, the door in front of him flew open and a huge man dressed in fatigues ran through, knocking the agent to the floorboards. Convinced of his ability to avoid capture, the terrorist ignored the FBI agent rushing toward him from the storage shed. Ted Asahi was a second generation Nippon-American, with little sympathy for the self-styled revolutionaries out to “save” his native country. He was also a black belt in both aikido and Isshin-ryu karate, which boded poorly for the success of the escape.
Franklin watched the encounter with a grin as Asahi met the man’s momentum with a precisely executed kote gaeshi, directing the militiaman’s forward motion into a deep spiral, driving him to the ground and converting his kinetic energy into heat and pressure. Concentrating the pressure to a leverage point at the man’s shoulder, the terrorist hit the ground with a resounding crack. Franklin had never been able to understand how Asahi made it look so effortless.
The comm crackled. “Greg. Two down inside. You get number three?”
“Three secured. Ted took him down clean.”
“Good work, Ted.”
“Thanks, boss,” Asahi replied, finally breaking his radio silence.
“We’re clear here. Backup’s coming in for the pick-up. We’re gonna take a look around.”
“Roger that,” Franklin replied. “See you inside.”
He was headed up to the house when he remembered the s
mall shed.
“Randy, I’m going to check out the back shed. May find something interesting.”
“Okay, but take Ted and check-in if you find anything.”
Franklin saw that Asahi had already started toward him so he moved on ahead to the shed. It was a small structure, little more than an over-sized out-house, weathered clapboard siding with an asphalt tarpaper roof. There was a small lean-to attached to the back, next to a poorly kept vegetable garden. Franklin pulled on the plank door and it gave easily and smoothly.
Looking inside, the shed seemed to be a storeroom: sacks of seed and fertilizer, rakes, shovels and other tools leaning along the walls. A well-worn path had been beaten in the dirt floor from the door to the far wall. He walked over and knocked on the wall with the butt of his M16. One section seemed to vibrate more than the others. He grabbed a slat and yanked. The wall suddenly came loose and swung back toward him.
Behind the wall, a concrete staircase led down into darkness. It was clearly a recent addition, in stark contrast to the rest of the farm’s structures. The camouflage of the passage had been well-conceived. This was obviously a very professional operation. But what kind of operation?
Franklin pulled out a flashlight and shone it down the steps. All he could see was a landing in the darkness.
He turned hearing a sound and saw Asahi enter. “Ted, I found something.”
“What is it?”
“Some kind of underground passage. I’m going down to check it out.”
“Greg!” The call came from his headset. “It’s Randy. Wait for the rest of the team. You don’t know where it goes. We’ll be done here soon enough.”
Franklin was tired of waiting for everyone else. He had discovered the passage, and he was going to find out where it went.
“Sorry, Randy. I missed that. I’ll report back as soon as I find something.”
Waving off Asahi’s grimace, he held the flashlight high in his left hand, got a firm grip on the assault rifle with his right, and started down the stairs.
When he reached the landing he discovered a heavy sealed door. Shining his light through a thick glass porthole in the door, he saw an apparently empty room filled with desks of some type. He tried the door latch and it unlocked easily. Standing to the side, he took a deep breathe, swung back the door, and spun into the room.
His flashlight scanned across the space. A laboratory! The desks were lab tables, covered with beakers, bottles and test tubes. Around the room were additional pieces of technical equipment. And the place smelled like his college chemistry lab.
“Randy, it’s Greg. Found something real interesting.”
Washington’s reply came a second later. “It’s about time. What have you got?”
“Some kind of underground laboratory.” As he replied, he made a tour of the room’s perimeter, looking for anything that would help him identify the militia’s goals. “Looks like a chemical operation. First class setup.”
“Explosives?”
“Probably not. Too extensive. If I had to guess, it’d be drugs.”
“Well, that’s one way to fund a revolution. Don’t touch anything, the lab boys will figure it out.”
“No problem. I’ve got no interest in messing with . . .”
He had made a complete circle of the room and was back to the door. The dust he had kicked up disclosed an odd red shimmer in the space across the opening. He knelt down and saw that the beam was coming from a small box on one side of the doorframe. A red light on the box was flashing rapidly.
“Oh, shit.”
* * *
Washington was searching the cabinets in the kitchen when he heard Franklin’s expletive.
“Greg? What was that? Repeat!”
He turned to look out the kitchen’s rear window toward the shed. At first it was just a muffled rumble. Then a spear of flame burst from the shed and the ground around the structure jumped. Next came a deafening roar as sod, trees, and dirt flew into the air, followed by a cloud of dark smoke and more flames.
The explosion shattered the window Washington was facing, spewing shards of glass everywhere, but the agent stood transfixed, unable to take his eyes off the devastation that moments before had been a bucolic garden.
“Greg!” he yelled into his microphone. “Greg!”
Chapter 46
Tyler, Georgia
Sunday, 12:15 a.m.
The appearance of the FBI at the farm had driven Wicks into a panic. With Holly gone, they would blame him for all the trouble! And what had he done? Just what Gary had told him to. It wasn’t his fault. He was just playing along.
Shit, Gary was crazy. The mercenary might have killed him!
He had to get away and think. O’Grady and the others would give up his name as soon as they had a chance. They would be pointing the finger at him! He knew he didn’t have much time before the Feds would be on his tail.
He had rushed home, thrown some clothes in a duffel bag, and taken off in his wife’s Chevy Malibu. Lou Ann had been screaming questions at him—she could be such a bitch—but he had just ignored her. What the hell did she have to worry about? The Feds weren’t after her. Anyway, the less she knew the better.
There was this motel down toward Columbus that he and Donna, his secretary at the dealership, used when they needed to get away. Wicks knew the owner; he could keep his mouth shut for a fifty. A few days to think and then he’d resurface. That’d do it. He’d have everything worked out by then.
On the way south, Wicks pulled off at a Speedway Liquor. He needed something to calm his nerves.
* * *
27 . . . 28 . . . 29. Times four is one hundred sixteen. Damn! Still not high enough.
Flynn was marking time at the corner of M and 31st Streets, hoping she had gotten her pulse rate up enough to call it a morning. Frustrated, she turned down 31st toward the jogging path along the B&O Canal.
She could have gone into work and used the training room at headquarters, but it was a beautiful, sunny morning and she needed the fresh air. They had tracked the progress in Georgia all evening the night before. She hadn’t gotten home until midnight. Now after seven hours of solid sleep, she almost felt normal. No point in ruining that by going back to the office just yet.
The booby-trapped lab had been a frightening development. Besides another agent’s death, two more had been injured in the blast. What the hell were these bastards doing?
The rest of the raid had gone smoothly. One of the cell’s leaders was still missing, but Flynn was sure he’d be captured by the end of the day. Someone had better break. She needed to show some progress to Carlson and the advisory group. Her job depended on it.
She turned left at the foot of the hill and headed east. The path ahead was clear. With few other runners out this early on a Sunday, she shouldn’t have any trouble getting her pulse rate up.
Damn she hated running! What a useless form of exercise. It was a helluva time for Robinson to take a vow of chastity. Working out with him was a lot more fun than this. He’d lived this long without any morals. Why the hell did he . . .
Ouch!
Her right foot slipped on a loose rock in the pathway and she fell hard to the dirt.
Dammit! That’ll teach me to not watch where I’m going.
“Can I help?”
Flynn looked up and saw another jogger framed in the bright sun. Where had he come from? An arm reached out in her direction.
“Looks like you took quite a tumble,” the shadow said.
She reached up and grabbed the outstretched hand. “Thanks.”
Pulling herself off the ground, she leaned back against the metal railing that separated the path from a ten-foot drop to the canal bed.
“You, okay?” the man asked.
“I think so. Wasn’t paying enough attention.”
“I bet you were thinking about work. Jogging is supposed to be a way to get away from your job, not be an extension of it.”
He was slim and
tall, over six feet, with slicked-back black hair and wearing a light blue jogging suit, unadorned except for a prominent Nike swish. His voice was deep and resonant, with a playful lilt that was missing from those she normally dealt with. Maybe this run hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
“How’s your leg?” he asked.
Flynn took a tentative step, then shifted her weight onto the foot. A little sore but nothing major.
“It feels fine,” she said. “Just a stupid mistake. Thanks for stopping.”
“No problem,” he said with a smile. “Y’all be careful now.” Before she could reply, he gave her a quick nod and sprinted away down the path.
Damn. Another opportunity down the drain.
* * *
Wicks sat quietly in the chair trying to make sense out of the last eight hours. It was hard to do anything else, handcuffed to the immobile table.
After finishing the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he had finally passed out. Then he had been rolling in white Gulf Shore sand with Donna, when a loud crash broke him out of the surreal splendor. Five men, dressed all in black, had stormed into the motel room and thrown him on the floor. Everyone was yelling. He couldn’t understand anything. It sounded like the building was being torn apart.
One of the men said something to him, he couldn’t tell what, and he shook his head. This seemed to anger the man and Wicks felt a heavy boot crush his side. Then something hit his head and things went fuzzy.
He vaguely remembered getting dressed, being handcuffed, and thrown into the back seat of a car. He had no idea how long he had traveled; he must have passed out somewhere along the way. He awoke when another set of men, this time in street clothes, dragged him out of the car and through the back door of an old building. His watch said it was 8:30, he assumed it was the morning. Now he sat here, chained to the desk like a goddamn criminal, wondering what was going to happen next.
They would certainly interrogate him. The room was tiny and filled with the smell of sweaty exertion. Or was it the smell of fear? The walls and floor were tile—to make them easier to clean—and the light above his head was covered with wire mesh. Across from him, the wall was covered with a huge mirror. He tried to look into it but it only reflected the visage of an ugly, disheveled man, so he turned away. But he knew what was behind it. He had seen the TV shows. It was his interrogators, waiting for the right moment to make their entrance.
