Wolfe Trap

by S L Shelton

  He had been the one who had so rudely interrogated me after I had captured Mark Gaines back in July.

  He said something in a low voice to both the men, sending the hairs on the back of my neck rising.

  “I don’t give a damn what they have!” the man with the white hair said loudly in a thick accent that sounded to me like German.

  Ned Richards looked around nervously before seeing me standing there. He nudged the white-haired German and whispered something to him. Whatever he said must have been impactful, because the German whipped his head around and looked at me with genuine surprise.

  Richards and the German immediately turned before hurrying down the hall and out the exit as the other man returned to the office.

  Several more minutes passed before the door on the conference room opened and the lawyer poked her head out again.

  “You can come in now,” she said.

  As I followed her into the conference room, I noted that Carrie Cantor was in a huddle with a man at the head of the table. She had a piece of paper in front of her, pointing at names—it appeared to be a printout of the account list that Storc had uploaded.

  As I went to sit, Ms. Cantor looked over at me.

  “Can I get you down at this end, Scott?” she asked. I moved down to her end of the table and sat next to her.

  As I was getting settled, the side door opened, and the man who had been talking with the white-haired German came into the room.

  “You’d better have a damned good reason to drag me in here on a Saturday,” he said as he closed the door and strode in. But he froze abruptly upon seeing the man Cantor was speaking to. “Joe, what are you doing here? Am I in the wrong room?” The look of confusion on his face was almost cartoonish in its exaggeration.

  “No. You’re in the right room. Have a seat,” Joe said.

  “Judge Chambers. Would you mind telling me what’s going on here?” the confused man said. “I thought I was called in to hear a motion to block.”

  “Judge Gunlock,” Chambers said. “I’ve been called in for a motion to recuse…on you.”

  “Nonsense,” Gunlock scoffed. “It’s just a ploy because the AG isn’t getting his way on my ruling.”

  Ah, these are the FISA court judges. It’s about to get interesting in here, I thought.

  Judge Chambers took the piece of paper that Ms. Cantor had under her hand and slid it toward Gunlock as he sat down.

  “What’s this?” Gunlock asked as he pulled out his glasses to read it.

  “It’s a name and account listing of everyone who received payments from the phantom Cayman bank accounts,” Chambers replied, watching the man’s face closely. “It appears the accounts are blind accounts, using multiple pass-throughs to shield the funds’ origins.”

  “I’ve already ruled that the names on those files were to be sealed,” Gunlock protested. “It would require violating privacy rules to subpoena the banks for the identities.”

  “This list didn’t come from the US banks…it came from the accounts in the Caymans.” Chambers replied, squinting his eyes in suspicion as he continued to watch Gunlock.

  “Impossible!” Gunlock exclaimed. “Those accounts were expunged—”

  Chambers’ eyebrow hooked high on that comment before Gunlock could cover. There was no need for microexpressions on that response blunder…we all saw the discomfort in Gunlock’s face.

  “I mean, the DOJ said itself that the accounts were missing,” he said quickly but nervously.

  “Forensic software was used to recover the accounts from the source,” Cantor inserted with a bit of satisfaction. I felt a stab of pride for my man Storc with that disclosure. “We were quite surprised by some of the names that were recovered…particularly number twenty-three, two from the bottom.”

  Gunlock looked down at the bottom of the page and then jerked his head up in anger. “Is this some sort of shake down? Do you think you can threaten me?” he asked Cantor with bile in his tone.

  “That’s enough,” Judge Chambers said. “Ms. Cantor. I’m going to grant the motion to recuse and will either review your previous requests myself or assign them to other judges to ensure there is no question. I should have a ruling on your other motions in a few days.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” Ms. Cantor said.

  “This is outrageous!” Judge Gunlock hissed. “If you think I’m just going to stand for this, you’re sadly mistaken.” And with that, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  I leaned over to John and whispered, “Does that mean Ned Richards isn’t coming in?”

  He looked at me with a questioning glare. “Why would you think Ned Richards would be here?” he asked.

  “He was in the hallway, with Judge Gunlock and some German dude with white hair,” I whispered in reply.

  John pulled his head back in shock. “When?”

  “Just a few minutes ago…in the hall,” I replied quietly. “The German guy seemed pretty angry. He was yelling at Richards and I think the judge. He stared at me like I had two heads.”

  John stood abruptly and ran to the door. He was outside the building before I caught up with him. He stood on the stairs of the courthouse, looking out toward the street.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He ignored my question as he jogged back into the building and down to the office door that Judge Gunlock had been arguing with the German in front of. Without knocking, John stormed in.

  Judge Gunlock looked up from his desk in surprise.

  “Knock before you enter a Judge’s chambers,” Gunlock yelled as he quickly stowed a folder in a desk drawer and locked it.

  “Who was the German you were talking to in the hall?” John asked.

  “I don’t know who you think you are—”

  John rushed to the edge of the desk and slammed his hand down loudly. “You won’t be a judge for much longer,” John said. “If you want any cover at all, tell me who the German was.”

  “How dare you!” Gunlock spat, his face turning red with rage. “I’ll have you behind bars before the end of the day.”

  “Tell me!” John yelled, leaning forward threateningly. Gunlock withdrew in fear.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Gunlock exclaimed defensively. “Get out of my office.”

  His pleas sounded almost pathetic. I suspected he was well aware that his life was about to be turned upside down.

  It serves you right, you fucking traitor, I thought, enjoying a brief taste of vengeful dessert.

  John turned and stormed back out. From the hallway, he called over his shoulder. “I wonder how many other names on that list are willing to withhold information…and how many will roll over on everyone else.”

  John walked back outside of the courthouse, pacing angrily back and forth across the top landing of the steps.

  “What, John? For Christ’s sake, tell me what’s going on,” I pleaded.

  He turned and stalked toward me, placing his mouth only inches from my ear.

  “Gaines said a white-haired German was leading the assault team that killed the other investigator and that a white-haired German visited those rednecks who killed his sister.”

  “And now a white-haired German is ordering Ned Richards around and yelling at a judge on Gaines’s case—” I looked away and shook my head. “This is bad.”

  “Tell me about it,” John replied harshly. “It would seem that our government, or at least a significant chunk of it, is for sale to the highest bidder.”

  “Well at least Gaines will be freed up to help with the investigation,” I said as if it were some consolation. “With the heat on them, they might back down.”

  I realized how ridiculous that was before it even left my mouth.

  John just scoffed and walked toward the SUV. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got to get you back to the Farm.”

  six

  December

  6:30 a.m. on Friday, December 17th—The Farm, Ca
mp Peary, Virginia

  The knife came at me with a speed I hadn’t expected. Kobe lunged with perfect form, bending his non-knife-wielding arm low and to the front in defense against any counter I might offer. I pushed his assault to the side with a glancing blow and then whipped around for a head strike.

  A second knife appeared in his defending hand and sliced me across my kidneys—thank God it was a wooden practice knife.

  Where the hell did that come from? I asked myself.

  Kobe followed up with a kick to my shoulder, spinning me away and to the ground.

  “Your posture is better, but your response time is slower,” Kobe said as he stepped back. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I think maybe my body is rejecting the discipline,” I replied with a crooked grin as I stepped forward in a renewed assault.

  He sliced down at me with the fake knife to my right. The follow through was on its way already, but I didn’t wait for it. I stepped into the attack and slapped my hands together, trapping his wrist and sending the first knife flying across the gym. As his other arm whipped around, I stepped onto his thigh, blocking the knife in his other hand, and rolled my body sideways for the kick to his shoulder.

  He quickly adjusted his attack and withdrew, taking only a glancing blow from my foot before stepping backward. When he dropped to his knee, I froze.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, concerned, though still wary of an attack.

  He nodded through a scowl of pain. “It’s just my hip,” he muttered.

  I had launched off his thigh pretty hard to execute the kick. I must have hurt him. I dropped any pretense of defense and ran to his side.

  “Come on,” I said supportively as I helped lift him to his feet. “That’s enough for this morning.”

  He nodded and let his weight rest on my arm as we walked to the bleachers. We sat for a moment, catching our breath as we drank from our water bottles.

  “Your form is already much better,” Kobe said after a moment of massaging his hip. “But I’m concerned that it’s reducing your response time.”

  I nodded.

  He turned and stared at me for a moment before chuckling. “You are a strange bird,” he muttered but then grinned. “How’d you beat Gaines?”

  The question caught me off guard. At the time I had beaten Gaines, I had no idea that a chemical/virus cocktail from GGP labs had enhanced me. But how was I supposed to explain it to Kobe?

  “I honestly wasn’t myself,” I replied, keeping all my emotional response markers in place so he couldn’t read the partial deception. “I took a blow to the head, and as I started to black out, I just seemed to go medieval on him.”

  Kobe nodded as if accepting my explanation. “Bullshit,” he said with a mild grin. “If you ever decide to tell me what the deal is with you, you can count on my discretion—I’m too old to try and fish it out. No patience for the spy shit.”

  I laughed and was about to try to cover some more when Maria came through the door to the left.

  “Are you guys done with your workout?” she asked.

  I looked at Kobe for guidance before he nodded his head.

  “Nick said he needs to talk to you when you’re done,” Maria continued. “Something about your brother getting out of jail…? You never mentioned a brother before.”

  Gaines, I thought. Nick’s got an update for me.

  “I don’t have a brother… It must be code for something, but it went right over my head,” I replied to her disappointed expression. “I guess I’ll have to go find out.”

  I turned to Kobe as I stood. “Are you gonna be okay now?”

  “Get the hell outta here,” he scoffed, throwing a towel at me.

  I smiled as I draped the towel around my neck and grabbed my gym bag before jogging to the exit.

  “Where’s Nick?” I asked Maria as I met her just outside the door.

  “In the armory,” she replied and bit her lip as if she had more to say.

  After a second of continued silence, I asked, “What’s up?”

  She shook her head unconvincingly. “Nothing.”

  I smiled. “Come on,” I replied. “I can keep a secret.”

  “Obviously,” she muttered.

  I simply adjusted my towel on my shoulders and ignored the jab at my secretive nature…it wasn’t as if I had much choice.

  “It’s just that some of us have been talking about the possibility of you being here as another test for us,” Maria said finally, though the doubt in her tone made it clear she wasn’t certain it was wise to broach the subject with me. “I mean, they’re constantly screwing with our heads anyway—it’s the only reason we can think of to explain why you are here.”

  I shook my head. “I can promise you…I’m being trained like everyone else.”

  “But you seem like you already know what you’re doing,” she added with almost a pleading sound in her voice. “Be honest. You’ve been in the field already.”

  I stopped and faced her. She stopped and turned toward me. I looked at her for a moment before deciding to give her some juicy gossip to take back to the others.

  “I was untrained…but yes. I’ve been in the field already,” I replied in a low voice.

  A smile washed over her face. I suddenly wondered how much money she’d won in the “who is Scott Wolfe” pool that the other students had been trying to maintain without my knowledge.

  “Like what?” she asked, suddenly emboldened by my frankness.

  I grinned and shook my head. “If you want any more information than that, you have to give me half your winnings from the pool.”

  She shot me an offended expression and broke out in a laugh. I walked away from her, still smiling as I headed toward the armory. When I arrived, Nick was in the back, pilfering ammunition.

  “Maria said you wanted to see me,” I called to him as I walked back. With him were two students and Penny Rhodes, doing some sort of inventory.

  Nick looked up. “Sunday,” he said simply, putting together the last piece of the puzzle for me. Gaines will be transferred to Department of Justice custody on Sunday.

  I nodded but noted the confused expression on Penny’s face.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked, attempting to shift the subject.

  “We’re missing some munitions,” Penny replied. “Ray wants a full inventory to see how much we’ve lost.”

  “Who would steal ammo from a CIA training facility?” I asked. But a better question was “who could steal ammunition from a CIA facility”?

  “It’s not ammo that clued us into the problem,” Penny said, giving the two students a sideways glance. “It was C-4.”

  Explosives! I thought. Holy shit.

  “Did you inventory everything after the SEALs were here?” I asked with a crooked grin.

  Nick chuckled without looking up from his task. I realized he was custom cutting .357 rounds.

  Penny raised an eyebrow and shot me a flirty smile. “That’s something we hadn’t considered,” she said. “Maybe we should put a call in to Arrow.”

  “Don’t tell him it was my idea,” I said over my shoulder as I turned to leave. “They’re hating me enough as it is.”

  **

  7:30 a.m. on Sunday, December 19th—Norfolk Naval Brig, Norfolk, Virginia

  MARK GAINES was wide awake when the US marshals came to transfer him to Department of Justice custody. In fact, he had been awake all night. He kept expecting someone to show up outside of his cell to shoot him through the door. He had been so suspicious of any attempt on his life, now that the DOJ deal had been approved, he’d even refused his meal the night before, worried it might be poisoned.

  “I’m Marshal Supervisor Bill Wilson,” the man said as the door was opened. He stepped into Mark's cell and sat down on the desk across from him. “I’m in charge of this little parade today.”

  Mark nodded and reached out his hand to shake. “Marshal,” he said in greeting as Wilson reached out and shook h
is hand. Gaines smiled inwardly at the marshal’s appearance—he looked like a younger, fitter Wilford Brimley, right down to the droopy, thick mustache.

  “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me,” Wilson continued. “But I’m gonna give you respect from the outset…I hope you’ll do the same.”

  “You won’t get any trouble from me,” Mark replied quietly.

  Wilson measured him for a moment with a piercing stare before standing and motioning for another marshal to hand him something. When the other man came forward with a handful of shackles, Mark suppressed a wave of disappointment.

  “I know you’ve got some sort of immunity deal with Justice,” Wilson said, possibly having noticed the expression on Mark's face. “But rules are rules.”

  Mark nodded and let the man place a bulletproof vest over his head before the shackles went on: first his ankles and then his wrists. As he stood and began shuffling out of the cell, four more marshals closed in around him. They marched at a slow pace down the winding hallways and through several gates as fast as Mark could comfortably move in shackles. When they arrived at the rear loading area, two marshals lifted Mark by both arms across a narrow gap in the loading dock and then set him on his feet again inside an armored transport.

  “Where are we flying out of?” Mark asked as Wilson helped Mark sit in the prisoner cage inside the transport vehicle.

  “We’re driving,” Wilson said.

  Mark set his jaw in agitation. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Wilson shook his head with a confident grin. “Don’t worry,” he replied as he stood to leave. “You’re in an armored transport, and you’ll have two vehicles filled with trained marshals, front and back…no one’s going to mess with us.”

  Mark grabbed Wilson’s arm as he turned. The marshal turned and shot Mark a warning glance.

  “You don’t have any idea who’s after me, do you?” Mark asked in a low voice as the marshal pulled his hand away.

  “Son,” the marshal said with paternalistic patronizing. “I’ve been doin’ this for goin’ on near thirty years. I think I can handle a simple prisoner transfer.”

  “This isn’t a prisoner transfer,” Mark said coolly. “This is a slow-motion escape from a black Ops assassination attempt.”