Storm Clouds Rising: A Chuck McCain Novel

by David Spell

  “Sure, whatever you think. The less I have to see of little Max naked, the happier I’ll be.”

  Hughes pushed the cursor forward on the screen and then hit “Play.” Sterling was still in bed with the two girls. The younger one was crying, trying to get away from her abuser. Suddenly, Maxwell slapped her hard across the face. A scream came over the audio.

  “You little whore! Do what I tell you!” he yelled, slapping her again.

  The nude adolescent jumped out of the bed and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door. A minute later, a loud banging came from the room door and a muffled voice yelled something. Sterling walked over to the entrance.

  “Yeah, we’re fine. One of the girls just slammed the bathroom door by mistake. All good,” he said, glaring at Isabella who was sitting up in the bed, glaring at him.

  The voice outside the door said something else that was unintelligible on the video, causing Sterling to sigh.

  “Yeah, sure,” he answered. “Tell Alfie I’ll be right out.”

  He began to dress, not looking at the teenager who picked up her clothing and that of her friend and hurried over to the bathroom door. She knocked lightly, speaking to her friend. The door opened and Isabella disappeared inside, shutting it behind her. Maxwell finished and left the room as the video ended.

  Disgusted by what he had just seen, the FBI agent shook his head. He took a closer look at the young CIA agent as she sat back down on the other side of Sandra. She was petite but fit, definitely with an athletic build. Her face had a softness and gentleness that she could use to manipulate men who got in her way when she was performing a mission. Men like Ethan Sharpe. Sucks for him, he thought.

  “What do you think?” Dunning asked. “Is this enough to move the investigation forward?”

  “Oh, yeah, it definitely adds to our case, especially with Alfie telling Max how old the girls were. If you’ll let me take this, I’ll call in some people and we’ll get to work on it this afternoon. I think we may have enough now to have a chat with the Attorney General and the President, hopefully tomorrow or Tuesday.”

  “Wow, that’s fast,” Sandra smiled. “I always thought the Bureau moved much more slowly and deliberately.”

  “Most of the time we do. If there are any delays on this, though, it’s not going to be because of us. This is good evidence. We still have the problem of jurisdiction on the sex with minors, but I’m pretty sure we can build a case on Max trying to have you killed. And, with this video the police in BVI would love to make an international case against the American CIA Director.”

  “Jennifer, do you have that book?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, reaching into her backpack and withdrawing a leather-bound journal. She opened it to a particular page, handing it to Thomas. She pointed at an entry.

  “Nicholson used initials for all of his guests. There he wrote ‘MS,’ the date when he was there, and that he paid ten thousand dollars for his visit. That date corresponds to the same one on the video file.”

  Burns flipped through page after page of entries, looking over at Dunning.

  “Are all these other people on video as well?”

  She nodded. “Like I said, you’ll see a lot of well-known people on these two hard drives. We’re still working on the other one and will get it to you as soon as we can.”

  “Why not let me have everything now? This is technically withholding evidence,” the FBI agent said.

  “Thomas, I trust you,” she smiled sweetly. “We trust you. We don’t necessarily trust the system, though. Let’s see how things go with prosecuting Sterling and we’ll look at giving you the rest of the files.”

  Once a spook, always a spook, Burns thought again, a slight grin on his face.

  “Fair enough.”

  “I told you he was the real deal,” Sandra said, looking at Jennifer.

  That comment caught Thomas off-guard but he laughed it off, never being one who took compliments well.

  “Let me go so I can get to work. I’ll touch base with you tomorrow.”

  Fleming had watched the FBI agent from the front door until he was in his vehicle and rolling. Twenty minutes later, Burns had pulled into the underground parking garage at the FBI Headquarters and was making his way to his office. It was going to be a long afternoon and evening. His tail had followed him to where he had turned into the secure parking garage and then continued down East Street.

  After racing past Agent Burns, Scotty Smith had stopped directly behind the minivan and exited his pickup. Josh Matthews climbed out of the passenger side, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. They both felt that something was wrong. This van just did not fit here.

  They didn’t want to draw attention to themselves so they left their long guns in the truck. Wearing photographers vests over their body armor and concealing their sidearms, Smith walked up to the driver’s window and tapped on it. The combat veteran felt terribly exposed at not being able to see through the heavy tint. When there was no response from inside, the muscular man slammed his hand on top of the van causing it to shake.

  The window immediately slid down a few inches, a young Asian man peering out at him, uncertainty in his eyes.

  “What do you want?” he asked, a tremor in his voice.

  “Hello, sir!” Smith bellowed. “My name’s Richard Johnson. I’m with the enforcement team of the local homeowner’s association. We received a complaint on this vehicle for parking in the road. Our HOA rules state very clearly that there is to be no parking in the street.”

  As Scotty spoke, he saw a white male sitting in the passenger seat, his right hand hidden from view.

  “Uh, what?” the Asian man asked, confused. “I…I can’t park in the street?”

  “That is correct, sir. This is an expensive infraction. Which house do you live in?”

  As the bearded man spoke, he raised his right hand over the top of the minivan, pointing at the passenger side, making a pistol with his thumb and forefinger for Josh to see.

  “I don’t…I don’t live in here. I’m just waiting for a friend,” the driver said, clearly flustered.

  “Oh, you don’t live in the neighborhood? Well, why didn’t you say so? Which house does your friend live in?”

  “Uh, well…”

  The Asian’s stammering was cut off by the sound of breaking glass. The passenger had been so focused on Smith, he had neglected to watch his mirrors, allowing Josh to slide up beside him. Matthews slammed the metal slide of his Glock 17 into the window, shattering it, and dumping glass onto the white guy. The passenger instinctively started to raise the suppressed Sig he was concealing between the seat and the door.

  “Don’t do it!” the former SWAT cop told him, his own pistol mere inches from the other man’s skull. “Drop it and put your hands on your head!”

  The passenger reluctantly obeyed. Scotty had drawn his own Glock, directing it towards the driver.

  “Unlock the doors and put your hands on the steering wheel. Let’s all be friends here. No one needs to get hurt.”

  The two men were quickly secured with flex cuffs and their weapons placed on the top of the van. A search revealed that both men were carrying their CIA identification packets.

  Smith slowly shook his head, glancing over at Matthews. “Partner, these have to be two of the worst spies I’ve ever seen. Here they are tied up, disarmed, and the dumbasses are carrying their Agency ID.”

  Matthews shrugged. “It’s hard to get good help anymore. We leave and the place goes to hell.”

  Josh knelt down to where he could speak to the passenger. “What are you doing here?”

  The man looked straight ahead, not answering.

  Scotty shook his head and made eye contact with the driver. The bearded man pulled out his Benchmade Auto Stryker knife, holding it near the man’s face. The wicked looking blade flashed open at the touch of a finger, locking into place.

  “I’d like to be friends but we need some answers and I’m star
ting to get impatient.”

  “What…what do you want to know?” the Asian stammered.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Don’t tell them anything.” the passenger ordered.

  The dull side of the blade touched the Asian’s neck.

  “I’m not asking again,” Scotty said, softly, applying pressure to his throat.

  “Don’t hurt us. We’re just watching that house down in the cul-de-sac. Someone who used to work for us is working with ISIS and we’re trying to find her.”

  “And what if you do find her?”

  The man hesitated, sweat pouring down his face. Smith pressed the cold steel against his flesh again.

  “We’re to try and take her into custody, if we can.”

  “If you can’t?”

  “We’re to terminate her.”

  “Who gave you those orders?”

  “Director Sable, the Ops Director.”

  “How many more team members do you have?”

  When he didn’t answer, Scotty reached over with his left hand and grabbed a handful of hair, twisting it backwards, exposing his victim’s throat. He laid the blade sideways on the man’s trachea.

  “Whoa! There are four of us. The other two are following the vehicle that just left the house.”

  “Last question: what’s your team leader’s name?”

  “Aaron Richards.”

  The muscular man withdrew the knife and closed it, standing up straight.

  “See, that wasn’t so hard and neither one of you lost any body parts,” he said, flashing a grin.

  He nodded at Matthews and they placed duct tape over both men’s mouths, and then used more duct tape to reinforce the flex cuffs on their wrists, as well as wrapping their ankles. The CIA agents were relieved of their car keys, guns, cell phones, IDs, and camera with a long-range lens. As a parting gift, the two men drove their knives into all four tires, making sure that the agents weren’t going anywhere.

  As Scotty turned them around and aimed his Dodge back the way that they had come, Josh called 911 to report a suspicious vehicle parked in front of the home the van was at. Smith and Matthews laughed at the idea of the two spies trying to explain to the local police what had just happened to them.

  Near FBI HQ, Washington, D.C., Sunday, 1600 hours

  CIA operative Aaron Richards had maintained his distance as he followed the Durango into DC, watching it pull underneath the FBI building. They had been staged several streets up from the other team. When the man in the SUV left Dunning’s house, Danny Choi had alerted Aaron so that he could tail them. The surveillance team had gotten pictures of the middle-age man going into the home. The photos would be run through facial recognition to see who he was. With him driving right into the FBI’s secure lot, Aaron wasn’t sure that Director Sable was going to like the answer.

  “What now?” Angela Upton asked from the passenger seat.

  “Good question. Why don’t you call Danny or Mike and see if they’ve got anything to report?”

  The former spec ops soldier had taken Angela with him because he was hoping to talk her into coming over to his apartment after work. In theory, he should’ve left her with one of the other men on the surveillance since a man and a woman sitting in a vehicle were much less suspicious than two men.

  Aaron could tell that she was interested. He was several years older than Angela was and knew what to say to make her think he really liked her. If things went according to plan, he’d have a new plaything before the night was out.

  Danny’s phone was answered on the first ring, Angela’s phone set to speaker mode.

  “Hello? Is this Aaron?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

  Richards felt his blood run cold.

  “Who is this?” he said, snatching the phone out of Angela’s hand.

  “Let’s just say I’m a friend. Your guys are OK. They’re a little tied up and that van’s not going anywhere, but, all in all, it could’ve gone much worse.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Great question, Aaron. I’m guessing you probably saw where that vehicle you were following ended up. That should tell you that there is more to this than meets the eye.”

  “I’m listening,” Richards said, a hint of doubt creeping into his mind.

  “Obviously, I’m not going to get into a lot of detail on a phone call, but you need to know that things are not what they appear. The agent that you’re going after isn’t rogue or dirty. The only dirt she dug up is on the CIA Director and it’s pretty bad. Max is sending you guys in to clean up a mess that he created.”

  “How do I know you aren’t working with her? Maybe you’re ISIS yourself.”

  A loud laugh erupted on the other end of the call.

  “That’s funny, Aaron. I’ve killed a lot of the bastards but have never been accused of being one of them. Look, I know you’re just doing your job and I respect that. In this case, though, if you keep coming, you’re gonna get hurt. Your two boys are fine, you’re safe and sound, but trust me, this is your only warning.”

  “You don’t threaten me, you son-of-a-bitch! You don’t know who you’re dealing with!”

  There was no laughter this time. The caller’s voice had an icy tone.

  “No, Aaron. You don’t know who you’re dealing with, but if you want to find out, keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “Oh, I’m going to find…” Richards started to yell before realizing that the caller had disconnected.

  The CIA agent stared at the phone before handing it back to Upton. He turned his vehicle around and headed back to where he had left the surveillance team, unsure of what he was going to find.

  The White House, Washington, D.C., Monday, 1425 hours

  President Benjamin Asher had stared transfixed at the computer screen, his fury rising, watching the video of his Central Intelligence Director speaking with the late Alfie Nicholson. Asher’s eyes had grown wide as Sterling forced himself on the two young girls in the guest room on Nicholson’s island. When it was over, he turned towards the Attorney General.

  “What the hell is this? How long have we known about this sick bastard?”

  The AG, the FBI Director, and the Director of Counter-Terrorism all looked at Burns.

  “Mr. President, I received a short video clip of that movie about a week ago. An anonymous source had it delivered to our front desk, addressed to me. Our tech people confirmed that it was Maxwell Sterling but we didn’t have anything else to work with. No victim’s names or ages, and no location of where the crime took place. We took what we had to Director Pickard.”

  “That’s correct, Mr. President,” Pickard confirmed. “I instructed Agent Burns to launch a discreet investigation to see if he could come up with any corroborating evidence. He was able to locate the entire thirty-minute video and other corroborating evidence.”

  “Good work, Agent Burns,” Asher commented. “How did you obtain these video files?”

  Thomas glanced over at the Attorney General who nodded that he could share his source.

  “Sir, I was approached by an employee of the CIA, an intelligence officer. Director Sterling sent her to Nicholson’s island in the Caribbean last week to look for evidence that Alfie had been supporting and funding ISIS. Her contact there was a contractor for the Agency. He let it slip that Sterling was a pervert and that they were actually looking to recover his own porn videos to make sure they didn’t fall into the wrong hands.

  “The agent showed great initiative in how she handled this situation. She located and broke into a wall safe in Alfie’s mansion. The hard drives she gave me actually contain a number of other high-profile figures in similar movies.”

  “Who else?” the President demanded.

  “I don’t have the list with me because we’ll have to work each case separately. The former AG is in there, Supreme Court Justice Brown, and quite a few more. Also, sir, the agent told me that she has another hard drive and five thumb disks that she is willing to give
us.”

  “What does she want?”

  “Nothing. She’s not asking for anything except protection and that we’ll do the right thing. Her fear is that the CIA will target her for assassination. She’s in a safe place and is being protected by good people. I think she wants to see if anything is going to be done about Maxwell Sterling. The agent also gave us a handwritten journal that Nicholson kept. It gives the dates that Sterling was there and the fact that he paid ten grand to abuse those girls. The dates line up during his second congressional term.”

  The President shook his head with disgust. “Is the FBI protecting her?”

  Burns locked eyes with the President. “Sir, she’s in a safe place with excellent security.”

  The President nodded. He could push the issue but he appreciated the FBI agent sticking to his guns. If he says the girl is safe, that’s good enough. He turned his attention to his AG.

  “Okay, Sam. How should we handle this?”

  “Mr. President, I have a couple of options that I’d like to present,” the Attorney General answered, handing Asher a manila folder.

  Staples Center, Los Angeles, California, Saturday, 4:15pm

  Tonight was the night, Sterling thought nervously as his Secret Service detail led him out of the makeup room deeper into the bowels of the arena to the waiting area. At 4:50pm, he was scheduled for a five-minute CNN interview. Saleem had announced Maxwell as his running mate the first night of the convention. Tonight, Bashir would be nominated as the Democratic candidate for President of the United States and would give his acceptance speech. Both men would spend the next few months on the campaign trail.

  Everything would kick off at 5:00pm in order to hit the 8:00pm prime time audience on the east coast. Maxwell quickly checked his phone. No update from Vijay. What was his team doing? Why was it taking them so long to locate the woman? Well, she was a CIA trained spy, he reminded himself. It felt like a black cloud was hanging over him, not knowing what was going to happen.