“This is Cooper, DOJ,” Bolan said. “We need to talk.”
Webber heaved a sigh. “Listen, I’m in the middle of something right now. Let me call you back.”
“Just listen. I have some critical information and need to discuss it with you. Now.”
“Oh? Does it concern our mutual acquaintance, Consuelo Diaz?” The FBI agent’s voice could barely conceal his mirth. “Perhaps something about a flash drive?”
Bolan said nothing.
“You, better than anyone, should know that all outgoing calls from this building are monitored,” Webber said. “Now give me a number where I can reach you, and I’ll get back to you once I have things well in hand. But only as a courtesy.”
“Agent Webber,” Bolan said, “is Consuelo with you now?”
“I don’t see where that’s any of your concern, Agent Cooper.”
“It’s all of our concerns if Lieutenant Romero is also with you.”
Webber’s sharp exhalation was audible. “Look, I’m not going to listen to that kind of crap. We thoroughly vetted the man, and found your allegations and those of your partner totally without merit.”
“I need to speak with Consuelo. She contacted me and expressed her concerns.”
“I don’t blame her. I’d be concerned, too, if I concealed vital information from the Bureau, when we were good enough to expedite her safe travel to the United States.”
“Where is she?” Bolan asked.
“In good hands,” Webber said. “Goodbye.”
Bolan was suddenly aware he was listening to dead air.
Aaron Kurtzman answered on the second ring and Bolan recited Webber’s cell phone number from the FBI agent’s card. “See if you can do a location trace on this number, would you, Bear? We’re trying to find this guy. I believe he’s in the FBI building at the moment, but I think he’ll be on the move shortly.”
“Satellite tracking is always kind of tricky inside the capitol grid zone,” Kurtzman said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Bolan thanked him and hung up.
“What now, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked. He turned on the adjustable viewfinder on a pair of binoculars and did a quick sweep of the building.
“We wait. Chances are they’re going to be taking Consuelo back to her hotel to retrieve that flash drive. If we can get an idea as to their location—”
“Ask and ye shall receive,” Grimaldi said, pointing to the drive on the far side of the building. A blue Ford sedan was pulling out, and even at this far distance, Bolan could discern that Agent Louis was behind the wheel and Agent Webber was in the front seat next to him.
“Consuelo and Romero are in the back,” Grimaldi said, lowering the binoculars. “We’d better get down.”
Both he and Bolan ducked until they were sure the FBI vehicle had passed them. Grimaldi twisted the key in the ignition, let a few cars go by and then did an illegal U-turn after pulling onto the street.
“Don’t hug them too closely,” Bolan said, punching a number into his cell again.
Grimaldi snorted. “Hey, you’re talking to the guy who wrote the book on this kind of stuff.”
Bolan got through to Kurtzman again and told him to disregard the cell phone trace. Instead, he asked him to hack into the Bureau files and find out which hotels in the area they might use as safe houses. “I’ll get right on it, Striker.”
The Executioner terminated the call and buckled his seat belt as Grimaldi accelerated.
* * *
Tragg waited in the van on the top floor of the parking facility across from the Metropolitan Correction Center. The top level was only moderately full, and he knew that soon it would begin to fill up with an assortment of cars to provide the evening’s “entertainment” for the inmates housed on the east side of the building. It was common practice for incarcerated prisoners to request friends to arrange some live sex shows on this upper level. Women would be imported to strip in plain view of the MCC, thus relieving some of the boredom of those inside.
Tragg was amused at the thought, and figured the authorities knew all about it, but did nothing to curtail the activity. The probability that it was being monitored was strong, however, so he was careful to use a rented van, bought and paid for with the same bogus credit cards that he’d been using at various junctures. He’d activated the tracking device before they’d left Sinclair’s office, watching Maria as she pulled up her dress and abandoned any modesty to secret the item as instructed. Tragg stood and turned his back, shielding her movements from Sinclair, who’d been watching with a lascivious expression on his fat face.
“I thought you wanted to maintain plausible deniability?” Tragg said.
The lawyer had blushed, then averted his eyes.
That had been the better part of an hour ago. Now the two of them were inside the MCC, and Tragg’s man on the laptop was tracking their movements through the facility.
“Working like a charm so far, boss,” Williams, the computer geek, said. He wasn’t part of the react team, but Tragg had found his cyber expertise useful.
He checked the computer to verify. The screen showed a representational schematic of the massive building, indicating that Maria and Sinclair were on the fifth floor. At least Tragg assumed that Sinclair was with her. Since she had the tracking device, it verified only her movements, and soon it would show Sergio’s.
This tracking would go on all night, just to make sure they didn’t try to remove Sergio from the facility in the wee hours. Tragg figured the chances of that were slim, but the operation was delicate enough to require that every contingency be planned for and addressed.
His cell phone rang: the burner number he’d assigned to Tyrone Dean.
“What’s up?” Tragg asked.
“I received a call from our friend. They’re taking her to do that pickup.”
“Are you in place for an intercept?” Tragg asked.
“Affirmative.”
“Charlie Mike,” Tragg said. Continue mission.
“Roger that.”
Dean terminated the call.
Tragg would have preferred to be in DC running down that errant flash drive. That was where the action would be, and he liked action, but as the overall team leader he’d also learned the importance of being able to delegate tasks and responsibilities. Dean was competent to handle that phase, and the device was apparently encrypted so even if its recovery wasn’t accomplished, it wouldn’t be a catastrophe. Tragg knew that another essential element of a leader’s success was to keep your eye on the ball, and right now the ball was across the street from him being passed from one player to the next.
“I’m showing movement,” Williams said. “Inside the facility.”
“Where’s he at?”
“Still on the fifth floor. Now, keep in mind that tomorrow we’ll probably lose him if they take him down into the basement.”
“That’s expected.”
Tragg focused his binoculars on the front exit, and after about ten minutes or so he saw Sinclair, his Spanish-speaking associate and Maria walking across the concrete expanse toward the main sidewalk.
“Target’s stationary now,” Williams said. “No movement.”
Tragg blew out a long breath. That meant the transfer had been accomplished without a hitch. Now all they had to do was wait to hear from Dean and get ready for tomorrow’s phase.
Action, he thought. There should be plenty.
* * *
Bolan wasn’t surprised that the Feds had chosen a hotel in Alexandria. The location was close to both the Metrorail and the freeway system, so Diaz could be evacuated two different ways. Grimaldi maintained a respectable distance, making sure that a few cars always remained between them and their quarry. His eyes kept going to the rearview mirror, though.
“What’s wrong?” Bolan asked.
“Not sure,” Grimaldi said. “But there’s a black van that’s been on our tail since we left FBI headquarters.”
Bolan turned in his seat and surveyed the traffic. He picked up on the vehicle almost immediately. The sun’s glare on the front windshield was just enough to obscure the occupants. It had Maryland plates.
He took out his phone and called Kurtzman once again.
“Still nothing on that hotel,” the cyber team leader reported.
“Forget that one,” Bolan said. “We’ve been shadowing them. I’ve got something else.”
“Which is?”
Bolan read the van’s plate off and told him to run a check on it.
“Bad guys?” Kurtzman asked.
“Not sure. Maybe, maybe not.” Bolan could hear the clicking sound of fingers running over a keyboard.
“Shouldn’t take too long. Just have to run it through a couple of filters so the hacking doesn’t get traced back to Stony Man.” More clicking of keys... “Okay, it’s a rental out of Baltimore-Washington International. Want me to do some digging?”
“Yeah,” Bolan said. “Let me know what you find.”
He terminated the call and brought Grimaldi up to speed.
“So whoever they are,” Grimaldi said, “they aren’t Feds. No way the FBI would do a rental out of the airport.”
“Probably not,” Bolan said in agreement.
Grimaldi blew out a slow breath. “It could be coincidence, but...”
“You know how I feel about coincidences,” Bolan said, finishing the sentence for him.
The FBI vehicle went through an intersection and signaled that it was turning left. A large hotel was on the other side of the street.
“This must be it,” Grimaldi said, continuing past the structure. His eyes went to the rearview mirror. “Looks like the van’s going past, too.” He drifted to the right and slowed to make a turn into a fast food restaurant. The van shot by them. “See anything?”
“Windows were too dark to make out much detail,” Bolan said. “Somebody was riding shotgun, so there’s at least two.”
Grimaldi went through the drive-through lane and pointed the vehicle toward the hotel across the street. “How you want to handle this?”
Bolan thought for a moment before answering. The Feds were out of sight across the street.
“Let’s go over and give them some assistance,” he said. “Technically, they can’t force Consuelo to turn over that flash drive unless they have a warrant.”
“And considering that they didn’t know about it until they listened in on her phone call this morning, they probably don’t have one yet.”
“Yet being the operative word. Webber operates strictly by the book, so he might have already set the request in motion.”
“Which means,” Grimaldi said, pulling out of the parking lot and looking both ways before zooming across the highway, “time is of the essence.”
“Isn’t it always?”
Law Office of Kenneth G. Sinclair
Chicago, Illinois
Tragg stood and watched as Sinclair lowered himself into the plush office chair behind his desk and heaved a sigh of relief. The woman, Maria, was obviously feeling relieved, as well. She sat in front of the desk and opened her purse, taking out a pack of cigarettes and shaking one loose.
“Ah, I’d rather you didn’t smoke in here,” Sinclair said.
She ignored him, her dark eyes drifting up to Tragg as she placed the cigarette between her lips. “Got a light?”
He took out his lighter and snapped the wick, holding the yellow flame to the tip of the cigarette.
“It’s prohibited by law,” the lawyer said. “The Illinois Clean Air Act, and all that.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Maria asked, blowing a plume of smoke his way. “Have me arrested?”
Her full lips stretched back over pure white teeth and she laughed, exhaling a smoky breath as she spoke.
Sinclair’s face twisted but he said nothing. He picked up his phone and pressed one of the buttons. “Janice, could you bring an ashtray in here now?” After a pause of a few seconds he added, “I don’t care what you use. Just find something,” then slammed the phone back into its cradle.
Tragg suppressed a chuckle and eyed the Mexican beauty as she drew deeply on the cigarette. It was inherently sexy, even though he couldn’t stand the smell or taste of tobacco himself.
The inner office door opened and Sinclair’s secretary, a middle-aged woman with a severe look on her face, stepped in, her gaze settling on the smoking woman. She set a small paper cup on the desk in front of her and left.
As the door hushed closed behind her, Tragg glanced back at the lawyer.
“So everything went off without a hitch?”
Sinclair’s smile appeared forced as he nodded. He was still glaring at the glowing cigarette in Maria’s hand. She took another drag and tapped some ash into the cup.
“What did you do with the condom?” Tragg asked.
“I flushed it down the toilet,” Maria said. “Just like you told me.”
Tragg turned back to Sinclair. “And court’s still on schedule for tomorrow morning at ten?”
“Of course.” Sinclair’s voice was laced with irritation. Maybe the smoke, or the usurping of his authority in his own office, was getting to him.
Tragg reached over and snatched the cigarette from Maria’s mouth. She glared up at him sharply, but didn’t say anything.
Tragg pinched out the smoldering embers and crushed the cigarette into the paper cup. He then stuck it in his pocket.
No loose ends, he thought.
“Why don’t you give your associates and your secretary the morning off tomorrow?”
Sinclair’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Because it would be a good idea.” He flashed an authoritative grin at the lawyer.
Sinclair compressed his lips, his head canted slightly.
Tragg stared down at him. “If they follow the same procedure as last time, they’ll be transporting Sergio to the Federal Building between eight and eight thirty. Any reason to think they’ll vary it this time?”
Sinclair shrugged, his irritation obvious. “How would I know?”
Tragg resisted the urge to reach over the desk and slap the arrogant son of a bitch.
In due time, he thought. Instead, he held out his hand toward Maria. “Right now, I’m going to put this young lady on a plane back to Mexico. Tomorrow, I’ll meet you here, in your office, at 8:00 a.m. sharp, before you leave for court, with the next installment of your fee.”
“That’s pretty early, isn’t it?”
“It’s best we conclude our business before the rest of your staff arrives.” Tragg’s eyes drifted toward the inner office door. “The fewer people we have witnessing that, the better, right?”
Sinclair, who was obviously relieved now that the cigarette had been extinguished, smiled warmly. “As I said, maintaining plausible deniability.”
Tragg’s cell phone rang and he checked the screen.
It was Dean.
He held his palm toward the lawyer and took the call.
“We’ve followed the target to their destination,” Dean said.
Tragg knew this meant they’d used the tracking device in Romero’s phone to locate the hotel where the Diaz woman had stashed the flash drive.
“Roger that. Complications?”
“I think there may be some other players in the game,” Dean said. “We noticed them doing a tail.”
“FBI backups?”
“Don’t think so. They’re driving an Escalade. Maybe it’s those guys we heard about from Cancun.”
Romero had said they were DOJ, but Tragg still hadn’t been able to confirm that or identify those other players who’d wreaked havoc south of the bord
er. But the chances of government agents driving a Cadillac were slim and none, and, as they say, slim left town. This could complicate things depending on the degree of interference these new guys might cause. Still, Dean had four well-trained operators with him, and they were well armed. That was surely more than adequate to handle things.
“Charlie Mike,” Tragg said. Continue mission. “Your main concern is the flash drive. And remember, no loose ends.”
Alexandria, Virginia
As they pulled into the circular drive in front of the hotel, Bolan saw the FBI sedan parked haphazardly in the check-in spot next to the front entrance. Grimaldi pulled in behind it, and they both got out. The double doors opened automatically, and Bolan scanned the lobby. He saw Consuelo Diaz getting in the elevator with Lieutenant Romero. Special Agents Webber and Louis were holding the doors.
“Agent Webber,” Bolan called out.
Webber’s head jerked toward them, and he frowned. He said something inaudible to his partner, who stepped inside the elevator car. Webber stayed back, letting the doors close. Bolan and Grimaldi arrived a few seconds later. The frown was still frozen on the agent’s face.
“Agent Louis said he thought someone was following us,” he said.
“Yeah?” Grimaldi grinned. “He must’ve been talking about somebody else. But he’s obviously the sharper of you two.”
“We need to speak with Ms. Diaz.” Bolan reached over and pressed the call button. “What room are they going to?”
“That’s none of your business,” Webber said. “This is a Bureau matter, and I want to see your IDs again.”
“Agent Webber, as I said previously, Ms. Diaz contacted me earlier this morning.”
Webber said nothing.
“Did you have a warrant to listen in on her phone call?” Grimaldi said, pointing his finger in the Fed’s face.
Webber’s head jerked back defensively. “That call was made from one of our phones. Inside the Bureau headquarters. We didn’t need a warrant.”
“But you do if you want that flash drive,” Grimaldi said. “She wants to give it to us, not you.”
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