The Presence of Evil

by J. T. Patten

  “Might?” Dexter shoved the knife into his hostage’s throat. As he twisted the blade, he yanked the man backward, sending him to the grave, as well. “How about now?” Dexter asked, taking a step forward. “I am here to teach you about war and sowing chaos. And I have less than a day to do it.”

  Chapter 44

  Mena’s eyes were fixated on Drake’s erratic hand movements. Stained a dark red with cuts and bruises across his knuckles, they danced on his lap as though he were signing to a deaf person. He was visibly deep in thought, staring beyond anything she could see outside the windows. Drake was saying nothing, but his lips were moving. Every now and then his eyebrows would lift or he would make a brief facial expression.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked gently, touching his thigh in case he couldn’t hear her.

  He blinked and turned to her. “What?” Drake’s eyes dropped, trailing her hand as it pulled away from his leg.

  “I was just seeing how you were. You look really tired.”

  He smiled without looking at her. “Yeah.” Drake tapped on his mobile device, pulling up the tracking app. Dexter’s phone was still off. Drake fiddled with the app’s features and noticed, however, that Gebran’s device was on but hadn’t moved in a while.

  “Ocean, can you hear me?”

  “Yeah, are we changing call signs?”

  “Not today. I’m hoping this is over soon. One of the lines we were following went dead. Our original is still live. Did you notice anything in particular about where they went stationary, who they linked to, or anything else?”

  “They were practically on top of each other.”

  Meaning Dexter was with the scientist.

  Mojo continued, “Other proximate devices, and I mean like same location too, have been in the range where there were criminal reports in the last week. But those phones must be throwaways judging by carrier and registrations. Just burners.”

  And they’re interacting with local thugs or criminal leaders. Marriage of convenience, community of purpose. “Can I load one of the code packets on my device into the phone that was turned off so I can hack in and look around?”

  “Dude, you can totally power it on, load the exploit, and see the activity. The exploits are designed to override frequency, power, modulation, and slave it for interoperability if you want. Same types that you would find with Kali Linux and the NSA ones you’ve used in the field. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Walter, how much further?”

  “We are just about in shitville now. You can tell me where you need to go or I can put it on my iPhone. But don’t take my phone away after.” Walter stretched an arm and readjusted his back. “I’m getting hungry. You guys in a rush?”

  * * * *

  “For the last time, Sean, you’re not going to Chicago.” Sebastian gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I came to get you so you could recover in your own home, not get in the way of the team.”

  “Chicago’s my home. Lars and I were living out of an extended stay. I’ve got nothing left keeping me in DC, and most of my personal items are in storage.”

  “You know what I’m saying, mate. You’ll not be gimping around making things worse.”

  “Sebastian, you’re asking Drake to do something completely unrealistic. That girl may be bright, but she’s not going to be effective in the field for him, and as slick as Mojo may be with stuff at the Fort, he can’t juggle everything by himself for tactical support.”

  “The Iranians are on it. He’s got a team of their top soldiers going in to take out their cells.”

  “He’s as in Drake’s working with the Iranians?” Havens shook his head in disbelief. “There’s no way. What’d I miss?”

  “A phone was delivered to the State Department early this morning by an Iraqi diplomat. There was a voice message from General Soleimani. Apparently he, Soleimani, used to do this in the Gulf Wars with Petraeus when the IRGC wanted to disavow involvement that could be perceived as being driven by their hand.”

  “We know they were involved in the attacks by the Mohawks over the past month.”

  “Indeed. This, however, may be different. He claims that the theft of the radioactive material was done by an overly ambitious lone wolf inspired by Hezbollah. NSA has corroborated communications data and voice from Tehran frantically trying to get their arms around the situation and sending in a kill team.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s not bullshit. One of their generals was found dead in Chicago along with what we assume to be his associates. Lebanese and Iranians with Venezuelan passports look to have had a shootout with each other. We don’t have much of the details though. They may be covering up that aspect so this WMD threat isn’t tied to the other domestic attacks. That or the new sanctions or someone up top got wind of the looming attack and decided it would have too dire of consequences. I just don’t know.”

  “Does Drake know this, or was it Drake?”

  “He wasn’t in that location according to our tracker.” Sebastian expelled a breath of air. “Sean. President Ross will need to know about this operation. With the Iranians involved, it complicates who I’ll be able to say is driving the mission. Since it isn’t sanctioned, it would help if we are in a position to say two rogue brothers have a hand in it. The narrative is too perfect. It fits.”

  Tell the story. Make the story fit. “This brings me back to a place I thought would never come back. I’m not putting our own guy out to burn.”

  “We have to let him go. He’s bad news. It’s a matter of time before he offs himself, regardless of whether he survives any next missions. He’s already dead. There is no blowback to anyone or any program.”

  “What’s that supposed to exactly mean?”

  “He’s sick.”

  “Who isn’t after doing all this shit.”

  Sebastian dismissed the remark. “I was able to get a security team over to Bob O’Toole’s file safe.”

  “What?”

  “Drake’s brother, Dexter, came to my home. Bob had mentioned him to me once. Casual remark about running assets, but he said that if anything ever happened to OT, he had a file on that boy.”

  “Did he?”

  “Nothing I could find.”

  “So, what’s the big deal?”

  “I found medical files on Drake. He can’t stay with this unit. Regardless of Chicago. Goddamned psychomotor agitation, it said. As a bloody child. Prone to violence, it said later. And that the bastard enjoys his manic symptoms and states. They damned well diagnosed him with a diminished capacity for trust and collaboration. Did you hear me? Diminished capacity for trust and collaboration, and he was selected for a tier-one unit, much less basic infantry training. Be real, man.” Sebastian took a hand off the wheel, holding it up to stop Sean from commenting next. “I sent Mena to terminate Dexter Woolf, if she has the opportunity to seize. I know Drake won’t. In light of these files, if she has the opportunity, I strongly advise putting Drake down, too.”

  “Back up. That Iranian wallflower?”

  Sebastian gave Havens a knowing glance.

  “Shit.”

  “Your reaction to Drake? If you didn’t hear me, I’d like to take the opportunity to take care of Woolf, too. Mojo contacted me. Warren Woolf murdered multiple American citizens this morning and a police officer. That won’t do. Technically, as I stated, he’s already dead. It could allow us greater security for the task force to continue on. You could handpick. We still have full funding. This capability can’t be risked with someone’s mental health that has been clearly covered up for the entirety of his career. And likely worsened. You yourself saw it. Can you put your life in the hands of a man like that?”

  “I heard you. I’m just mixed. Not about offing him. That’s ridiculous. But honestly, if I rationalized things, I’m at both ends of the spectrum. Frankly, we
’re all crazy like that. Brain chemicals simmering in constant fear and guard, desensitized and obsessive. Drake’s scales may be tipped a little more in one direction, but I’ll tell you this much, he’s absolutely not a person I feel I can count on if I trust my head. If I trust my gut, he may just be the only person in the world I would trust and the one person who will always get the job done.”

  “Lad, then I agree. I think you’re as mad as Woolf. That doesn’t change the fact that he committed atrocities. Crimes against US citizens. It’s tantamount to terrorism. He needs to be put down. I don’t want this on my hands as a program director.”

  “Then let me take over. Let me run Task Force Orange.” I’ll be Nick Fury without the eyepatch.

  Chapter 45

  “Walter, we need to put distance between us and the SUV following us. Turn right up here at the next light,” Drake suggested, following his digital map. He turned around to look out the back window. “Hang a right at the next street. Then make a quick left to the first street or side street. I need you to accelerate when you do that. Understand?”

  “Just like Person of Interest. This is so cool. I got it.” Walter punched the gas pedal.

  Mena turned around as well. “Are they following?”

  “I think so. They were a few cars back, so I couldn’t see the license plate.”

  “Dude,” Mojo interjected, “why don’t you ask me? I assumed you knew. I have them still pulled up.”

  “Sorry, man. I’m still a little out of it. I appreciate it. Are we gaining distance?”

  “It’s cool, brah,” Mojo eased. “Draw them to the right, and then make two quick lefts. If you get good enough space, it should buy you time to get where you’re going and ditch the car.”

  “Right.” Drake turned again, looking for the tail.

  “Right?” Walter swerved.

  “Yes, but I didn’t mean you,” Drake corrected. “Too many people talking. Walter. Take two quick lefts next. Give me a minute, Ocean, I need to do something. Walter, real quick, hand me your license.”

  “What?” Walter looked back in the mirror.

  “Quick.”

  Walter struggled to pull his wallet from his rear pocket while belted in and driving a surveillance detection route for the first time in his life. He started to hand it back. “Why do you—”

  Drake snatched it from his hands, opened it and pulled out the man’s driver’s license. Woolf snapped a picture of it, then compared it to what he had up on his mobile device. Handing it back, Drake threatened, “I know where you live, where your son and daughter go to college, their names, and from the social media profiles that I just snapped, I have friends and other family, too.”

  “What a dick.” Walter shook his head in disappointment. “You didn’t need to do that. I wasn’t going to say anything.” He shook his head again. “That’s not right. I don’t care who you work for. You’re not a good person.” Walter looked into the mirror, setting eyes on Mena. “You guys aren’t good people. You’re evil.”

  “Pull over to the side, Walter. Please.”

  Walter pulled the car up to the curb and watched a few hundreds fall out of Drake’s hands onto the front seat. As he looked back to his passenger, whoever he really was, Drake hammered him with a fist to the temple, knocking Walter out, much to the shock and astonishment of Mena.

  “He’s right, I’m not a good person. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 46

  The two dead gang members lay dead on the floor, their blood pooling and spreading across the grimy auto garage floor.

  “I don’t know if you all just bury your homies in the sand, but you can see I got a problem now,” said Two-bags.

  “Then that’s your second lesson. Body disposal. Who do you have, how fast can they get here, and what do you do with bodies to make sure they aren’t discovered or are discovered later? I suggest chopping them up and making sure they can’t be identified.”

  “Motherfucker, you don’t know Chicago. We punch up on a nigga like a mothafuckin’ balla pro. We pole that bitch and leave their shit in the street. Fuckin’ po-lice deals with that shit. But this. Man, this is our crew. They mammas need to have a funeral, proper like.”

  “Not my problem. What is my problem is tomorrow. How many busses do you have?”

  “I got four.”

  “Okay. Perfect. Gather up your drivers by ten a.m. tomorrow. I’ll need you to take me to the busses tonight. I’ll drive the van.”

  “Hol’ up, hol’ up for one minute. I know your people said I’m to help you out an’ do what you say, but tell me the part where you helpin’ me with my issue an’ how I’m gonna take more space in this area an’ sell more product. How ’bout you start by teachin’ me that shit before I go helpin’ yuz. I’m the Sheck Wes mo’fuckin’ Green Goblin here. No frontin’. Feel me?”

  “I understand you need to take out rival gangs, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “What do you think is going to happen when a dirty bomb goes off during a parade and then another one goes off later when you drive busses full of panicking people to an FBI emergency trauma and disaster aid area at the Soldier Field and McCormick Place parking lot?”

  “You gonna smoke a lot of people. But that don’t help me. You killin’ a bunch of drunk white people is all.”

  “And where are the police going to be?”

  “All at the place where the bomb’s going off,” Two-bags’s soldier answered. He fist-bumped the crew chum to his right. “I got that answer all Jeopardy like. Alex, I take bomb those motherfuckers for $400.”

  “Top quality talent you attract here,” Dexter remarked. “And where are any other police and emergency response people going to be going? You two, shut up.”

  Two-bags drew an ear-to-ear grin. He nodded. “They gonna be headin’ to the lake, too.”

  “And who’s going to be able to respond to your outside areas if you start throwing Molotov cocktails and start other neighborhoods on fire, and you start looting your competitors’ areas and start more looting? And when you drive through and kill your competition while they’re carrying shoes and televisions?”

  “All right. All right. While the cat’s away the mice shall play. And the Lawndale Legends make their claim.” Two-bags raised his fists to his lieutenants. They pounded to the thought of a major victory dance.

  “Now where do you guys hang out or headquarter so you can prepare your army for tomorrow night?”

  The gang members said nothing but looked to their leader. He looked down to his shoes and pursed his lips. “We sometimes use the Lawndale Theatre. I own it now. Of course, through other ownership structure,” he bragged. “But that shit’s mine. Private property. Boarded up windows an er’ythin’.” Two-bags gave a laugh, and the others chimed in.

  “And you’ve got the costumes for the kids? The kids have to look like they’re dressed like a community group that’s part of the parade.”

  “Those munchkin midgets’ll be running around like Lucky Charms. An’ that means, you need to pay ole Two-bags here some more Benjamins for lost revenue if you blowin’ their shit up, too.”

  Chapter 47

  Drake hurried Mena along the sidewalk adjacent to their destination, according to the readout.

  “Was that really necessary?” she asked, still incredulous.

  Drake looked back to see if the SUV had found their location. They were clear. “Listen. I didn’t ask you to come here. I didn’t ask to be here. But I came to help, and this is what I do. Where I come from on the other end of the world, that guy would have been expendable. He’s lucky he’ll wake up at all. We’re all expendable. Sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be. We’re just fodder.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Drake snapped and literally spun his hands and arms outward to stop from attacking his teammate. He gritted
his teeth and leaned in as she backed up. “You’re goddamned right I am. I can hardly hold it together. I’ve got shit in my head screaming to kill you and another bunch of voices telling me to sit with you, have a cup of coffee, and see what you think of this whole mess we’re into. But if I stop, then my body shuts down. And not only do I hear more things but I start thinking shit. Shit that I’ve done. Shit that I did today. Shit that I’ve done all my life. And the only guy who could have ever helped me is dead, and the only other guy is lying in a hospital or something in DC. And the fucking guy who evidently knows what’s going on is a fucking ghost from my past playing some fucking game like I’m supposed to follow bread crumbs, and I don’t know if he’s helping me or setting me up to kill me.”

  “We’d better go.” Mena stomped off ahead.

  “Well you wanted to hear it.”

  “No, we’d better go. Look what’s coming.”

  * * * *

  Blocks away, Special Agent Tresa Halliday bypassed the visitor processing at the Chicago FBI Field Offices on Roosevelt Road with a series of ID flashes and waves. The new building was considered Fort Apache centered in one of the city’s less affluent areas, thereby constraining many Bureau employees to the secure confines, which raised productivity since no one was stepping out for coffees, long lunches, and early evening “source” meetings in the city’s financial district Loop, as they once had before relocating to the new facility.

  Waiting for her local contact to come down and greet her at the entrance, she used the hallway restroom and peeked into an arrest artifact room just across the hall. Tresa examined the glass cases of weapons and mug shot faces of arrest over the Chicago field office’s years. Many of the white-collar crime and syndicate arrests involved her father’s outfit in the Chicago mafia. With the exception of her boss, Earl Johnson, no one would know her witness protection name nor her family’s unflattering history.