Threat Zero

by Nicholas Irving

  He was okay with that. Two down, one to go. While he doubted there were more than the three, he couldn’t be sure. He inspected the rest of his house. The garage. The side yards. Nothing.

  He called Command Sergeant Major Murdoch, his mentor.

  “Blue on blue,” Harwood said when Murdoch answered.

  “Roger that,” Murdoch replied.

  He pressed End and found the closet, gained access to the stairway, and climbed into the tunnel leading to the safe room. He stooped as he walked twenty meters past concrete blocks on either side and two-by-eight flooring above. He spun the dial on the heavy metal door, opened it, and found Monisha inside working on the computer.

  “I watched it all, Reaper,” she said.

  Harwood had outfitted the entire perimeter with cameras, which Monisha had been monitoring from the basement. “Damn, you good.”

  “Work on the grammar, will you, Monisha. I’m not raising a hood rat.”

  Monisha cackled.

  “Yes, sir, Reaper. I’m going to be a doctor, for sure. But like you say, you’ve got to remember where you’ve been to know where you’re going.”

  Harwood nodded. “That’s right. And where you’re going is to stay with Minnie and Pops for a few days until we figure this out.”

  Monisha leapt out of her chair and did a slight moonwalk, spun around, and high-fived the air.

  “Yes!”

  Harwood nodded.

  “Not that I don’t love you, Reaper, but they’re the best.”

  Harwood was concerned about the child’s apparent unconcern about the events that had just occurred. She compartmentalized too well and needed to be more afraid, or at least more aware of concepts such as danger and risk. When he found her a few months ago, she had been tied to a bed naked by two white supremacists who fully intended to rape and murder her. They ended up dead by his hands and even then, she had responded coolly, as if she was just turning another trick.

  “You know we have a dead man in our kitchen, right? And that I just shot a man in the street. These men were trying to kill us.”

  Monisha’s eyes grew wide. She stuttered, then stopped and looked down.

  “Yes, I know, Reaper. I’m scared, and I cover that fear with the good stuff.”

  “As long as you can feel that you’re scared, Monisha. Like we talked about. You need to feel that. You need to know it’s real.” He touched his chest with his hand. “We lost Sammie.”

  “I know it’s real. I watched it too, Reaper.”

  He had never been married and had no previous children. Adopting Monisha to keep her out of the court system and from being pimped out again was his solution to saving her. The FBI had allowed him to keep half the money that his previous adversary, the Chechen, had deposited into his account in an attempt to frame him for the murders of high-profile generals and politicians. The $250,000 was in a secure investment trust and could only be used for secondary education and associated expenses. Harwood paid for everything else out of his own pocket and meager sergeant’s salary. He wrestled with balancing his time between parenting Monisha and doing his soldierly duties. Mostly, though, he struggled with raising a fifteen-year-old girl, a chore for anyone, he presumed.

  “How we going to clean up the dead guy?” she asked.

  “I’ll call the right people,” Harwood said.

  “The cleaners? I watch TV, movies and stuff,” she said.

  “No. I’m calling the police. Keep this aboveboard.”

  “All right. What about school? Is it dangerous for me?”

  “We’ll probably keep you at Minnie and Pops’s place for a few days. Minnie was a teacher, so she can work on things with you.”

  “Roger that, Reaper man.” Monisha smiled. She was a smart child but aged beyond her years from a childhood that no child should have to endure.

  The combination lock to the outer door clicked and spun until Command Sergeant Major Murdoch opened the door. A former collegiate heavyweight wrestler, Murdoch had to lean well forward to navigate the low tunnel to the safe room. He popped up and looked every bit the impressive Ranger that he was. White sidewall buzzed haircut. Bulked chest and arms. Square chin and chiseled face.

  “Status?” Murdoch asked. “Other than the guest you’ve got in your kitchen. Looks like he’s making himself comfortable.”

  “Damn, you funny, Sergeant Major,” Monisha said.

  “Who gave you that mouth, young lady?” Murdoch snapped.

  Monisha stepped back, shut her mouth, which was the typical reaction most people had when Murdoch spoke.

  “Pretty sure I killed one guy in a four-door Ford Taurus sedan. Got the license plate on my scope video. Samuelson committed suicide.”

  “Samuelson’s dead. We know that much. Let’s not jump to conclusions about anything else,” Murdoch said.

  “You saw it?” Harwood asked.

  “Son, half the world’s seen that by now. It’s all over the news. Most of the Rangers in the barracks watched it. It’s everywhere. The questions are, why would he do that? And, if he didn’t do it, why would someone want him and you dead?”

  Harwood flashed back to the Chechen and his need to confirm that kill, but there was no confirmation. Some blood in a life raft was the only indicator that the Chechen had been wounded. Was he still alive?

  “Hundred bucks says it’s not the Chechen. This feels different,” Murdoch said.

  “It’s got to be something Sammie found.”

  “In Maryland?”

  “He’d gotten a job as a tech guy at a subcontracting company working on defense programs near Frederick, Maryland. Western part of the state. He sent me a bunch of texts.”

  “Let me see,” Murdoch said.

  Harwood pulled up the message function of his MacBook and clicked on “Spotter.”

  DUDE, CHECK THIS OUT

  SEND IT

  CUT/PASTE FROM DEEP WEB: FAMILY DAY AT CD IS BEST LOCATION. EASY. BLACK SUBURBANS W DODGE CHARGER CHASE CAR. HAIRPIN TURN.

  “What’s CD?” Monisha asked, looking over their shoulders.

  “Camp David. He lived in a town just outside of Camp David.”

  “Look at this,” Murdoch said. He pointed at the television monitor tuned to a news program. A news helicopter showed a road with four black Suburbans destroyed and smoking, the Dodge Charger chase car relatively intact. Bodies littered the field on either side of the narrow road.

  “Women and children,” Harwood said.

  “Some look my age,” Monisha seconded. Her voice was quiet, subdued.

  Harwood pulled up the Facebook video of Samuelson’s apparent suicide. The live feed automatically converted to a video on the individual’s Facebook page. He fast-forwarded until he could see the window behind Samuelson.

  There was a field and a road with a hairpin turn.

  “Looks like a good spot to attack the convoy. Right there from his window,” Harwood said, pointing at the paused frame of the video. He saw things he hadn’t noticed before. The window was half open. A chair sat facing the window. The bottom sill of the window had light scratching. Saw the silver edge of what looked like a MacBook. Harwood could almost smell the acrid aroma of burning gunpowder.

  “You don’t think Sammie did that, do you?” Monisha asked. Not much was lost on her. She studied the images with Murdoch and Harwood.

  Murdoch’s phone buzzed.

  He answered and muttered a few, “Yes, sirs,” before hanging up.

  “I’ve got to send you packing,” Murdoch said. He turned from Harwood to Monisha and nodded. “First, I’ll take Monisha to my parents. I’ve already got someone coming to clean up your house. Meet you at the headquarters where I will sign your papers. I’ll get next-of-kin notification rolling on Samuelson once we have confirmation. He was out but he’s still a Ranger. Always will be.”

  Harwood nodded. The thought of a mission sent a charge through his body. All he ever wanted to be was an Army Ranger. He was excited, but Murdoch was giving him
that stare to keep his mouth shut, a look Harwood knew well.

  “Who were next of kin?” he asked anyway. He had spent less than a month in combat with Samuelson as his spotter. They had shared some time convalescing after the Chechen incident in Savannah, but still, they didn’t talk about much other than the superficial niceties that prevented them from sinking into the analytical depths of their dangerous profession. He couldn’t recall Samuelson mentioning any of his family. Maybe a sister? Or maybe that was a girlfriend.

  “His parents are living. And a sibling out there somewhere that they’re checking on. They’re in his paperwork. I’ve got it. Meet me in an hour. Pack your shit.” Then to Monisha, “Let’s go, Monisha.”

  Monisha hugged Harwood and said, “Don’t get killed or nothing, Reaper. Need my brothers. Sucks about Sammie.”

  Harwood hugged Monisha and watched her exit with Murdoch. He gathered his SR-25 and other tools of war before heading to Fort Benning.

  CHAPTER 3

  Harwood landed at Dulles International Airport’s Signature Private Jet facility late in the same evening of the ambush at Camp David. He had received credentials from his command sergeant major that he hoped would clear a path for him instead of having to fight his way into the crime scene.

  Being a Ranger was everything to him and to Samuelson. His sadness about his former spotter was balanced by his appreciation of being able to investigate Samuelson’s death. One last “send it” with his buddy, if nothing else.

  He carried his duffel bag off the airplane and found the 2019 BMW 5 Series vehicle that was waiting on him. He located the keys on the rear wheel and clicked the button, half expecting it to blow up. Images of combat were hard to erase. They stuck with him like childhood memories, indelible markers of his life. But instead of an explosion, the lights winked and the doors unlocked with a click. Tossing his bag in the back seat, he unzipped the outer pouch and retrieved his Beretta, checked his magazine—full—and then slipped into the front seat. He punched up Samuelson’s address and prepped for the one-hour drive. He’d be arriving around midnight, which was perfect, he thought.

  He found Highway 15 and began following the Google Map route on his phone, which he had placed in the cup holder. As the female voice soothingly told him to “turn left” and “turn right,” he thought of Samuelson and the unthinkable. Was he involved in the slaughter of ten Secret Service agents and twelve family members of the president’s cabinet? No one had survived. The EFPs had killed half of them at the outset and then the snipers had mowed down the remainders. The youngest was a seven-year-old girl in second grade. The oldest was the wife of the secretary of the Interior, who had been an Army Green Beret and twelve-combat-tour veteran.

  Harwood had studied the names and dossiers of each individual on the flight into Dulles. Was there a point to the attack? Of course. There always was. Was it to inflict terror? Perhaps. Was one single person targeted with the others as collateral damage to hide the truth? Maybe. Did Samuelson kill himself or was someone on the other side of that phone camera? Anything was possible.

  Discovering the truth would involve being allowed inside the ropes of the crime scene, which Murdoch had assured him would not be a problem.

  His phone buzzed. Monisha.

  “Hey,” Harwood said, pressing the button. The BMW’s Bluetooth had picked up the audio.

  “Hey, Reaper,” Monisha said. Her voice was sullen.

  “What’s wrong? Minnie and Pops okay?”

  “Yeah, they okay. Just wondering if you are?”

  Harwood smiled. “Yeah, I’m good. Just trying to figure this thing out. I talked to your principal today on the way to the airport. He said it was cool for you to miss a few days as long as Minnie gave you the lessons. One of your classes is flipped anyway, right?” One of Harwood’s new roles as Monisha’s guardian was learning about the K–12 education system. A flipped classroom was one where the teacher made videos of the class, uploaded them to a website, and the students watched them at home after school. The next day, all of the students received a quiz on the material, allowing the teacher to divide the class into those that had mastered the material, had a few questions, or didn’t understand it at all.

  “Yeah. It’s easy. We watch it on YouTube. Teacher gets all crazy, but she’s good. Makes me laugh.”

  “Easy thing to do.”

  “Just because you lack a sense of humor, Reaper, doesn’t mean I have to.”

  “I’m working on it,” he joked.

  “Yeah, keep working on it. Long way to go.”

  Their faux criticisms were a symbol of each of them testing the boundaries of their developing parent-child relationship.

  Silence filled the airwaves for a moment, unusual for any conversation with Monisha.

  “I heard what the sergeant major said. Send you packing can mean lots of things.”

  “It can,” Harwood said.

  “Nothing to do with me, I hope?”

  Typical child response. Blame herself. He could hear the question in her voice.

  “Nothing to do with you. Come on, Monisha. We’ve talked about this. We take care of each other,” Harwood said.

  “True that. You’d be lost without me.”

  “Heard that.”

  “I ain’t stupid, you know,” Monisha muttered.

  “Never said you were, Monisha. Now you should get some rest.”

  “I know you on some kind of dangerous mission.”

  “I’m always on a mission, young lady. Now go to sleep,” Harwood said.

  In the distance he saw spinning blue lights and telescoping spotlights surrounding the crime scene.

  “Night, Reaper. Don’t get killed.”

  “Night, Monisha. I’ll do my best.”

  “You always say that,” she said. Her voice was drifting.

  “And I always do,” he said. “Now, get some sleep.”

  “K.”

  They hung up as Harwood approached the crime scene. He loved Monisha as any adoptive big brother/parent could love a child. His heart ached for what she had endured during her first fourteen years and if he could change the course of her life for the better then he would be accomplishing something productive.

  He approached the cluster of vehicles parked randomly all around the apartment building sitting off the main highway about a quarter mile. He passed a couple of gas stations and convenience stores before turning onto the feeder road to the residential area. A Maryland State Trooper flagged him down immediately. Smokey Bear hat, crisp uniform, Glock perched on the wide leather belt, and flashlight shined into Harwood’s face.

  “Off limits,” the trooper barked.

  Harwood grabbed the leather credentials from his coat pocket.

  The trooper’s pistol was in his face quickly. Flashlight in his eyes, pistol aimed at his temple.

  “Disarm,” the trooper said.

  “I’m showing you my credentials, Officer.”

  Harwood had been pulled over many times for “Driving While Black,” and understood the latent sentiment that the officer perhaps felt. Still, it sucked. He was an Army Ranger on a mission to help his buddy.

  “What credentials?”

  “I was sent here to link up with the investigation team and to identify the remains of former Army Ranger Sammie Samuelson.”

  The pistol lowered. The flashlight canted to the coat pocket.

  “Slowly.”

  Harwood retrieved his orders assigning him to the President’s Task Force on Counterterrorism.

  The trooper studied them with the flashlight and nodded.

  “Sorry, Ranger. Tough day up here.”

  “No worries, Officer.”

  “I was Airborne. Thanks for what you do.”

  “Likewise.”

  “You’re the second to arrive. The task force is meeting in the apartment manager’s office. They’ve cleared out. You can go there and they’ll show you up to the shooter’s room.”

  The shooter.

&
nbsp; Samuelson?

  No way.

  Harwood parked, retrieved his rucksack and slung it over his shoulder as he walked into the manager’s office. Three desks were evenly spaced apart in the room with a large-screen television showing the news in the background. Reporters were flocked about a half mile away with the ambush location in the background. The office had become an operations center, with FBI agents and assistants looking at MacBooks, leaning over shoulders, and talking to one another.

  Deke Bronson, the head of the domestic terrorism task force, looked up and said, “Oh my God. Who let you onto the premises?”

  Harwood half expected Bronson, whom he had previously interacted with on a different case, to smile and shake his hand. But neither the smile nor the shake was forthcoming. Bronson was serious.

  “Samuelson was your spotter, Harwood. You can’t be in here. You’re not objective.”

  Harwood nodded and said, “Good to see you, Special Agent. Seems someone else has a different concept of the operation here.”

  Harwood handed Bronson his papers. The agent read the first page then flipped the second page over, showing a powerful forearm beneath the trademark rolled-up sleeves of his button-down shirt with English spread collar. Bronson had been a marine infantry officer in Iraq then transitioned to the FBI upon separation. When the spate of killings that ignited the Black Lives Matter movement began a couple of years ago, the FBI appointed Bronson, an African American, the head of the task force investigating the shootings and other incidents.

  “This is bullshit,” Bronson said.

  “But official bullshit,” Harwood replied. The two men squared off as the room grew quiet. Bronson’s assistant Faye Wilde tugged at his shoulder. During the debriefs from the Poppy Slave Scandal as the media had named it, Harwood had befriended the redheaded beauty. They had even been out for drinks a couple of times.

  “Let’s go outside,” Bronson suggested.

  Wilde joined them as they huddled in the dark recesses of a stairwell leading to the apartments above. The spinning blue lights bounced off the walls.

  “Faye still checking your Match dot com?” Harwood poked.

  “Vick, stop,” Wilde said.