A partial fingerprint was lifted from the soda can and a match was found. The print belonged to one Nathaniel Weimar, believed to be the head of a militia group in southern New Jersey, the ALBH. The group had a fenced-in compound in the Pinelands a short distance from Hammonton, New Jersey. According to FBI files, the group consisted of approximately twenty-four men and four women. Weimar, the supposed leader of the group, was drummed out of the army in the late nineties for spreading racist conspiracy theories targeting Jews and Blacks. He was also convicted of stalking one Constance Weimar, his estranged wife, and was given a suspended sentence with two years’ probation. Eighteen months after the incident, Constance Weimar disappeared, never to be heard from again. Files on the remaining members showed a smattering of mostly misdemeanor offences. Six men now lived at the compound. The rest lived within a ten-mile radius.
A meeting with CIRG (the Critical Incident Response Group), the FBI’s SWAT team, was held at Quantico. Attending the meeting were Kintrell, Alvarez, Special Agent Dixon, who now headed the task force assigned to the case, and Dixon’s assistant, Agent Sheady.
Weaponry, egress and rules of engagement were all discussed. After three hours of back and forth a plan was put together scheduling the assault for two days hence at 3:00 AM.
“Any questions?” asked Dixon.
Kintrell spoke up then, “Something doesn’t add up here…”
Dixon gave him a long-suffering look, “Go on.”
“The two previous hits were carried out perfectly. The only evidence left behind was something they wanted us to find. Now they leave a discarded can with a fingerprint and a weapon that we can trace to a specific individual? Did these guys turn into the Keystone cops all of a sudden? A net was thrown around that airfield within minutes of the incident. How did they get away? Do they even have the resources to successfully pull something like this off, a bunch of yokels running around in the woods playing cowboys and Indians? How could they know of the congresswoman’s schedule? If indeed a Stinger destroyed that engine, it wasn’t packing any explosives. Would they have the wherewithal to remove the explosives without damaging the guidance system of the weapon? And why would they do that? They could have hit the aircraft with a Stinger just as it lifted off and probably killed everyone inside the plane. They seemed to take a lot of pains just to kill one person. Do you think these clowns would care about collateral damage? It just doesn’t make sense.”
“How do you explain the Stinger? The number matches one that was stolen. The evidence speaks for itself,” replied Dixon.
“I can’t explain that, but it seems we’re being led around by the nose here. Whoever these guys are, they are meticulous planners, and these ALBH characters don’t fit the bill. Raiding this compound, in my opinion, is a bit premature. When threatened, these guys will lash out and all that will lead to, most likely, is a pool of dead suspects.”
“Thank you for your input, Agent Kintrell. Now are there any other constructive comments?” asked Dixon.
The meeting broke up and Kintrell and Alvarez headed for the door, Kintrell seething.
“Agent Kintrell.”
Dixon motioned for him to stay.
Kintrell went to the front of the room while Alvarez waited at the door in the rear of the room.
Kintrell stopped two paces from Dixon. “What’s on your mind?”
Dixon, two inches taller than Kintrell but twenty pounds lighter, tended to elevate his chin when he talked to people, making him appear taller than his already six feet four inches.
“Are we going to have another problem like in New York? Your issue, Kintrell, is you’re not a team player. You’re dangerous, that’s why I ran you out of New York.”
Kintrell smiled at Dixon. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but let’s not rewrite history here. You didn’t run me out of New York. I requested a transfer because I couldn’t stand working for an ass-kissing phony, who blows everyone above him and shits on everybody below him. You have a nice day now.”
Kintrell turned on his heel and headed towards Alvarez at the back of the room, while Dixon sputtered something unintelligible.
Alvarez, noting the exchange, said, “What was that all about?” as they exited the room.
“Oh, nothing much, just a little personal matter we had to work out,” said Kintrell.
“Dixon didn’t look too happy with you. Are you sure you worked it out?”
“Oh yeah, we’re besties now,” said Kintrell.
Chapter 15
“Something stinks here,” said Kintrell.
“I agree, but what can we do?” said Alvarez.
“We can continue to work the case. Knowing Dixon, he’s going to assign me to the most bullshit job he can think of.”
“So, you’re not besties after all?” replied Alvarez, not at all surprised.
“Not hardly.”
Alvarez concentrated on the list of special operators while Kintrell dug up all the information he could find on Nathaniel Weimar—average grade on his GCT test, assigned to the motor pool after boot camp, no evidence of marksmanship, wore corrective lenses, left-handed. Hmm. Kintrell decided to call DC to check on something. He was routed to the evidence room and identified himself as an agent working with the task force. The agent on the other end told Kintrell he would have to confirm his identity before he released any information. “Fine, call Special Agent in Charge Diane McGriff in the Philadelphia office. She’ll verify who I am.”
A short time later, Dede called him.
“Tom, what are you up to?”
“Dede, we’re missing something here.” He then laid out his suspicions for her.
“What do you want from the evidence locker?”
“This bozo Weimar is left-handed. I want to see if the AR-15 he supposedly used is set up for a leftie.”
“How would you know that?” asked Dede.
“The safety switch on the weapon comes standard for right-handed fire. It’s on the right side of the housing so the shooter can easily engage or disengage the safety with his shooting hand. The weapon can be ordered either way, for left-handed as well as right-handed shooters. I can’t see this guy going after a target with a weapon unsuited to him.”
“What about the fingerprint?” asked Dede.
“I know, it looks like a slam dunk, but all my instincts are screaming that something is off here and this, if my hunch is correct, will be one more confirmation.”
“Okay, Tom, but step lightly around Dixon. He’d like nothing better than to hang you out to dry.”
A short time later Kintrell received a call from the agent in charge of the evidence locker. Kintrell told him what he wanted, and the agent said he would call him back. He did within twenty minutes and confirmed the weapon was set up for a right-handed shooter.
Kintrell then turned his focus to the registered owner of the weapon. The rifle had to be purchased before Wyatt went to prison, else he would never have been cleared to buy the weapon. He checked his rap sheet to see if there were any known aliases for him. Wyatt had two AKAs, R.C. Wyeth and R.C. Wyman. Not very creative, thought Kintrell. He then did a DMV search for all three names in Virginia, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. He got a hit on an R.C. Wyeth in Hammonton, New Jersey.
The address in Hammonton was within ten or fifteen minutes of the compound.
“What can we do? Dixon would never allow us to arrest this bird. He would claim it would remove the element of surprise from the assault,” said Alvarez.
“A list of other members of the ALBH has been circulated along with their addresses. I’m sure there will be agents assigned to each of these addresses, with orders to breach and arrest at the same time the raid on the compound goes down. Maybe we can grab this character before that. We’ll take him back to the same holding area, but we’ll have time to question him ourselves and get a handle on what he knows, if anything. We’ll then keep him incommunicado till the raid,” said Kintrell.
“Risky, what happe
ns if we get into a shooting match with this clown?” Alvarez asked.
After thinking about it, Kintrell said, “You’re right, Lanny, bad idea. I’ll turn the info over to the task force and let them deal with it.”
“Whoa,” Alvarez smiled. “Did you just agree with me?”
Kintrell smiled back holding up his empty coffee cup. “Need a refill?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Instead of grabbing another coffee Kintrell found an empty conference room, closed the door, and called Stryker.
“What’s up, Tom?”
“Norm, you got a few minutes?”
“Sure, where?”
That’s one of the things Kintrell liked about Stryker. He didn’t waste words.
They met on Chestnut Street in front of Independence Hall. Kintrell cut right to the chase, laying out his suspicions.
Stryker nodded, “I agree with what you’re saying Tom, but what about the Stinger and the fingerprint?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. If we’re correct in assuming that the guys behind this are former operators, who better to pull something like this off? They kill two birds here. They deflect us away from them. Once these idiots from ALBH are either killed or captured and held out as the culprits, the tightened security around Congress loosens up, which will make it easier for the real culprits to carry out their next operation.”
Stryker pondered this for a while, nodding his head. “Does Lanny share your concerns about this?”
“Yeah, but I told her I wasn’t going to do anything about it. She has a bright future with the Bureau, and I’ve already got one foot out the door. If I go down for this, I don’t want her going down with me.”
“Oh, but it’s okay if you bring my ass down with you?” said Stryker
“Well yeah, you’re just a dumbass jarhead.”
Stryker laughed. “Yeah, there is that.”
“I’ve located the goof that the rifle was registered to. He has a few outstanding warrants in Virginia. I say we brace him. I think we’ll be able to tell, after we talk to him, if he’s had a hand in these assassinations. We’ll keep him on ice till after the raid goes down, so he won’t be able to warn anyone in the off chance that he is involved with this thing. We can keep him incommunicado at one of your precincts, maybe, till after the raid then we can turn him over to the task force guys.”
“Lotta loose ends here, Tom. What if someone else is in the house with him? We grab him and his little housemate blabs to his friends. This could blow up in our faces.”
“All that’s true, Norm, and I wish I had a better answer for you, but this is what we got.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” said Stryker, less than enthusiastically.
Chapter 16
Talmadge was cleaning a weapon when the encrypted phone on the work bench vibrated. Had to be a team member or the judge.
“Talmadge here.”
“Hank, take this number down.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The FBI is going to raid the ALBH compound tomorrow at 0300. Here’s what I want you to do …”
After the judge finished his instructions, Talmadge acknowledged, dismissed the call, then punched in the number the judge had given him.
“Hello,” said Weimar
“Weimar, you know who this is…”
“That you, Tommy?”
“No names, just listen,” said Talmadge.
“The compound is going to get hit tonight by a group who are going to identify themselves as FBI. They’re not FBI. They’re part of a certain South American faction that wants to push you out of the meth business. They’re not going to be taking prisoners, if you get my drift. Their assault team will consist of approximately thirty men in body armor with automatic weapons. They’ll hit at 3:00 AM, good luck.” Talmadge then disconnected the call.
“Hello, hello?” said Weimar. Caller ID came back Unknown. What the fuck!
Weimar immediately started making calls.
***
The street in Hammonton was tree-lined and dotted with small ranchers, wooden-sided with shingled roofs. The neighborhood was dated but clean. Kintrell pulled the car past the house and circled the block. Fortunately, on the block directly behind Wyatt’s house, there was a boarded-up place. Kintrell stopped the car and Stryker got out with the clip board he brought. “Always bring a clipboard, son, for the neighbors.”
Stryker started taking notes as he looked at the boarded-up house then walked along the side to the back where he discarded the clipboard and hunching over, silently made his way to the rear of Wyatt’s place.
Inside, Wyatt was just hanging up the phone after talking with Weimar when he noticed Kintrell approaching the front of his house. He quickly entered the small kitchen and removed the Glock 9mm that was taped to the underside of the table.
As soon as he heard the knock on the door, he shouted, “Be right there,” then silently exited the house through the back door and started running. He didn’t see Stryker till he tripped over his outstretched leg. Stryker was immediately on top of him, his gun pressed against the back of Wyatt’s neck.
“Okay, cowboy, take it easy. Release your hold on the piece in your right hand. I don’t want to kill you and you don’t want to be dead,” said Stryker.
“Who the fuck are you, what do you want?” said Wyatt as he released his hold on the gun.
By this time Kintrell had made his way to the back of the house and seeing the situation, strode over and picked up Wyatt’s gun.
“Do you want to do the honors or should I?” said Stryker.
“Hey, listen man, don’t kill me, I hardly know those guys and I ain’t involved in no fuckin’ drug bidness. Please man, I can tell you things, I can help you,” said Wyatt.
Stryker cuffed him and gave Kintrell a questioning look.
Kintrell shook his head at Stryker then said, “How can you help us, you piece of shit?”
Wyatt was shaking. “I know where they keep the shit, I know who their main dealers are.”
“Okay, we’re going back in your house and have a little talk. You know what happens if you make any noise, right?” asked Kintrell.
“Yeah man, I know, I know, just give me a chance, you won’t regret it,” said Wyatt.
Stryker led Wyatt inside. “Anybody else home?”
“No, man. It’s just me.”
“If I find anybody else here, you and I are going to have a problem,” said Kintrell.
“I swear, it’s just me.”
Stryker forced Wyatt into a seat at the kitchen table while Kintrell cleared the house.
“Clear,” said Kintrell as he reentered the kitchen.
Stryker sat at the table with Wyatt. Kintrell stood behind Wyatt, where he could view the front door.
Wyatt requested a glass of water which Stryker fetched for him.
“Okay dipshit, start talking,” said Kintrell.
“They make the shit in a lab they set up about five miles from the compound. You can’t get in there with a car or even a jeep. You need one of those little four wheel all terrain do-hickeys.”
As Kintrell listened to Wyatt, Stryker decided to go through the house looking for anything that would tie into the executions.
“A few of the guys’ wives work in the casinos in Atlantic City. They unload a ton of the shit there. The wives also have contacts that unload the shit in the truck stops along the Parkway. They have a contact in New York that comes down every two weeks, weird fuckin’ dude, dresses up as a priest.”
Stryker reappeared. “Where’s the gun?”
“What gun?” said Wyatt.
“The AR-15 you bought in Virginia.”
“What … who the fuck are you guys?”
“Never mind who we are, answer the fucking question,” said Kintrell.
Wyatt mulled it over for a while, then said, “I gave it to one of the guys in the compound. I’m through with that life.”
“You trying to tell us you know n
othing about the killings,” said Stryker.
Wyatt, genuinely perplexed, said, “What killings?”
“The three politicians,” said Kintrell.
“This is a federal rap with special circumstances. Someone’s going to fry for this,” said Stryker.
Wyatt looked from one to the other, totally confused now.
“What da fuck you talkin’ about?”
Kintrell pulled Stryker aside, out of earshot of Wyatt, but able to keep an eye on him.
“This guy’s either the best actor in the world, or he really has no idea what’s going on,” said Kintrell.
“I agree, let’s read him his rights and get him back to Philly. There’s a district facility not far from the Tacony Palmyra Bridge. We can put him on ice and decide what we’re going to do.”
Stryker read a mystified Wyatt his rights.
“So, you weren’t sent here to kill me?” asked Wyatt.
“What gave you that idea?” said Kintrell.
Wyatt started to say something then thought better of it. “I want a lawyer.”
“What were you going to say?” said Stryker.
“Lawyer,” said Wyatt.
“You know, Wyatt, it’s a long way back to Philadelphia, especially if you’re bouncing around in the trunk,” said Stryker.
“Lawyer,” said Wyatt.
They packed Wyatt into the back seat of the car and drove back to Philadelphia. On the way back, Kintrell told Stryker that he thought it best if he took Wyatt into FBI headquarters.
“What are you going to tell them?”
“The truth,” replied Kintrell.
Stryker thought about it for a few minutes, then reluctantly agreed with Kintrell.
“They’re not going to be real happy about this, Tom, especially your buddy from New York.”
“Yeah, it’s going to make his day,” said Kintrell.
Kintrell dropped Stryker off at the Roundhouse and promised he’d keep him in the loop. On the way back to the FBI office he called Dede and told her he arrested Wyatt and was bringing him in and wanted to set a meeting with her and Dixon.
Termination Limits: Tom Kintrell Book 1 (Tom Kintrell Thriller Series) Page 8
