by Jack Carr
Only one person on earth knew he was going to the cabin.
Reece now knew the final name to add to his list.
CHAPTER 66
KATIE BURANEK’S STORY WENT live on a lesser-known, though legitimate, news site at 5:00 a.m. Eastern Time. Her more mainstream outlets wouldn’t touch it, fearing backlash from the administration in the name of limited access and IRS audits. Drudge picked it up by 6:00 a.m. and it was on all of the morning political talk shows an hour later. The conspiracy theorists bought into the story hook, line, and sinker. Talk radio hosts were jumping up and down over it by noon. Stories like this popped up all the time, but Katie’s credibility as one of a few true investigative reporters left in the business gave this one legs.
She didn’t make accusations, despite having the evidence to do so, but instead asked the readers to think for themselves. What was a Bentley-driving political bundler with close ties to the Hartleys doing in the WARCOM admiral’s office in the first place? Why didn’t the secretary of defense acknowledge her close relationship with Tedesco during her remarks? Why would a highly decorated SEAL with a half-dozen combat deployments suddenly go rogue and start taking out members of his chain of command? She had on-the-record quotes from former commanders, peers, and subordinates of Reece who all agreed that he would never do such a thing, a few throwing in the caveat “without a really good reason.” They also agreed, to a man, that he would have never hurt his wife and daughter. And why would the SECDEF not accept the alibi that he was at Balboa Naval Medical Center when his family was killed, as the police investigators did? Why deal in facts when you can simply issue statements that the media will parrot?
Katie posed questions about Capstone Capital and its status as one of J.D. Hartley’s clients. Why was a California-based private equity firm getting an annual $100 million appropriation out of his wife’s budget? Wasn’t the idea of having the spouse of a cabinet secretary lobbying her agency fundamentally corrupt? These questions, which the Hartleys had successfully avoided in the past, were now too juicy for the mainstream press to ignore and could seriously damage her chances of becoming the next president.
Hartley’s communications staff was in full crisis mode, putting far more time and effort into this story than they ever did to any Pentagon issue. Though Hartley’s close advisors were all technically DOD employees, they were political professionals who had followed her into the job and would follow her out. They decided that the best course of action was to stonewall and retaliate. They refused to acknowledge that the article, which they dismissed as “fake news,” raised any real issues of substance and they attacked Buranek as a “conservative bomb-thrower,” despite her history of equal criticism of both political parties. The secretary herself made no official statement in response to the article, instead coordinating a contrived scene with a friendly reporter as she and her staff walked into the White House for a briefing.
“These people have been attacking J.D. and me for years and they’ve always lied. Conservatives can’t swallow that the real threats to America are among their own ranks. They’re focused on foreign ‘threats’ when we are radicalizing our own citizens into extremism through talk radio and the Internet. This blogger is part of the problem, not part of the solution. We can be free from this fear with the passage of the Domestic Security Act.”
Chew on that, Katie whatever your name was.
CHAPTER 67
Bennington County, Vermont
“WHAT KIND OF a shopping list is this, Reece?” asked a skeptical Liz Riley.
Reece smiled. “It’s one for the ages, Liz. Any questions about it?”
Liz and Reece had flown from Florida to a small private airport in Vermont used mostly by retired locals with a passion for flying and a few wealthy families from New York and Connecticut who liked to escape to the woods on the weekends. They were able to rent a small private hangar to use as a home base while preparing the final phase of their mission. Liz arranged it en route and explained to the manager that they were doing a site survey for her boss for an upcoming retreat. After Reece aborted the ambush of the assault force sent to take him out at Ben’s cabin, he made his way back to Liz at the airfield to begin final preparations for the remainder of the list.
“A glassware chemistry set? Round-bottom flask? Catch flask? Clamps?”
“It’s for distillation,” explained Reece.
Liz raised an eyebrow and continued, “plastic five-gallon bucket, a wooden broom, fertilizer, high-yield stump remover, Liquid Fire drain cleaner, a bedsheet set, a string of Christmas tree lights, a hot glove, fifteen-inch-long, six-inch-diameter plastic PVC pipe with collar; copper bowls, coffee filters, candles, cold packs? You sure you need all this?”
Reece just nodded. “Any questions?”
“Let me see: um, concrete cleaner, pool cleaner, hydrogen peroxide, a set of shot glasses, a heat lamp, a wireless doorbell? Are you doing what I think you are doing, Reece?”
“Probably. Don’t worry, Liz. This is for one person in particular. It will be precise and is meant to send a message.”
“You certainly know how to send a message, my friend. Okay, I’m on it. Guessing you want me to spread this around and not pick it all up at Terrorism ‘R’ Us?”
He ignored her attempt at humor. “I’ve already identified the chemistry equipment on Craigslist. Just explain that your high school kid loves science and asked for a set for his birthday. Pretend like you have no idea what it’s for. Everything else, spread out and pay cash. We still have plenty from the stash that Marco gave us. I have a list of stores here that should carry what we need,” Reece said, handing Liz the list, which included addresses. “It’s going to be a long day, Liz. Even though you could get all this stuff between a couple of hardware stores, a nursery, and a Radio Shack, visit multiple stores in multiple towns so it doesn’t look like you are doing what you are actually doing.”
“Is making this thing dangerous? I don’t want you to blow yourself up. Or me, for that matter.”
“It’s not without danger, I’ll tell you that. Remember the EFPs in Iraq?”
“Of course. Those fucking things,” Liz said with disgust, shaking her head.
They both knew people killed and others maimed for life from the plague of explosively formed penetrators. A basic and effective weapon, EFPs consist of pipes, explosive chains, and metal plates that, when detonated, turn into molten slugs or “penetrators,” focused from the high-velocity force of the charge and allowing them to slice through armored vehicles with ease. Although developed in World War II and later tested extensively by Hezbollah in Lebanon, they really came into their own and into the public consciousness following the invasion of Iraq. With significant assistance from Iran, they were smuggled into Iraq across centuries-old ratlines, predominately to Shiite militias and Badr Brigade splinter groups. Introduced to that theater in force in 2005, they would defeat the world’s most technologically superior armor, causing death, destruction, and psychological terror. One of the deadliest asymmetrical weapons used against Allied forces in modern times, EFPs and other Improvised Explosive Devices accounted for more than 50 percent of all U.S. causalities in Iraq and Afghanistan and untold suffering from the 33,000 physically wounded. The corresponding psychological toll was incalculable, but extended well into the hundreds of thousands.
For a minor investment in personnel and material, the enemy was able to bring a superpower to its knees. This rudimentary, cheap, and relatively small tactical weapon caused damage far in excess of its size and became a weapon of strategic importance. Reece had spent years of his life pressuring the enemy threat network in Iraq, mapping out, dismantling, and destroying IED cells throughout the country. Now, on home soil, he planned to turn this weapon against one of the men who stood to profit from the deaths of his troop and his family.
“And I need you to do me a big favor, Liz. I need you to get in touch with Raife.”
Liz paused. Raife had been like a brother to Reece in
the Teams. They had met in college and entered the Navy together, one as an officer and one enlisted. An event in Iraq years earlier had caused Raife to leave the SEAL teams under circumstances no one but Reece fully understood.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Do you think he will help?”
“I know he will. It will just be better coming from you. You might have to do a little sleuthing to track him down. You can get to him through his family offices if you get creative. I hate to add this to everything else I need you to do today, but it’s the only way.”
“I got it, Reece. I still have his sister’s contact information, so I’ll get through to him somehow.”
“Great. When you do, read him this,” Reece said, handing Liz a folded-up note. “It’s detailed instructions and a big ask, but I know he’ll do it.”
“I sure hope so,” Liz said, reading through the note with a hint of skepticism in her eyes.
“Oh, and we need a Sprinter van.”
“Oh, just a Sprinter van?” Liz quipped.
“I located a used one online not far away. It doesn’t have the New York plates that I’m looking for but we can steal some along the way.”
“Won’t buying it in cash seem suspicious?”
“Possibly. It’s a year old and it looks like the guy just needs money. If it does arouse suspicion, by the time it’s followed up on it will be too late. I just need something that can blend into the New York delivery vehicle scene, and this should be perfect.”
Liz looked at the floor, opened her mouth to say something, and then stopped.
“Liz?” inquired Reece.
“James, what happens when this is over?”
“Focus on the mission, Liz.”
“I knew you would say that,” she said with a hint of disappointment in her voice.
“I’m sorry you are so deep into this, Liz. That was never my intention and it’s my one regret about this whole thing.”
“Fuck you, James. I am in this because I choose to be. I want to be here and I want to take these guys down. They have it coming.”
Reece nodded. “First thing we need to do is get you a wig or something for your shopping spree today. They will eventually piece this together, Liz. Have no misconception about that. A disguise might just slow them down a bit. I’ve talked with Marco. When this thing goes south—and Liz, it will go south—he’s got a place for you in Mexico. I’ve been there. It’s not the States, but you will run his Mexico flight operations and live on his estate south of Puerto Vallarta. He has lawyers who can help work on a deal to get you back to the U.S. and keep you out of prison. Whatever they tell you to tell investigators about me, do it. Unfortunately, that’s the best I can do for you.”
Liz bowed her head again. It was a lot to take in.
“Focus on the mission, Reece,” she said, turning to go borrow the airfield’s loaner car.
• • •
It took Liz a full day and into the evening to track down everything on Reece’s grocery list. They had driven together to the home of the man selling the Sprinter van. Apparently his wife was not as excited about converting it into a small camper van as he was, so he was selling it to get them something she would enjoy as well. He had purchased it as a cargo van so he could outfit it himself, which made it ideal for the job Reece had in mind. If he thought it was odd that Reece stayed in the airport’s vehicle, he didn’t let on. He was just happy someone was willing to pay cash for his impulse buy. After Liz acquired the Sprinter she switched vehicles with Reece and began her quest for the items on her shopping list.
When Liz returned to the hangar later that evening she found Reece securing something to the inside of the Sprinter van. It was a desk he had liberated from a small office attached to the hangar. On the wall of the hangar was the outline of what appeared to be a large SUV.
“What’s up, Reece?”
“Just getting prepped. How’d it go? Any problems?” Reece asked.
“Surprisingly few. I did some quick research on the more obscure items and came up with a backstory in case anyone started asking questions. Most of the guys were extremely helpful.”
“I’ll bet,” Reece said with a knowing gleam in his eye.
“They all just seemed happy someone was buying their stuff,” Liz said with a grin.
“Great. And how’d it go with Raife?”
“I got through to his sister, Victoria. She gave me his current contact numbers and said she would pass on the information. We also coordinated a place for me to drop off your gear for Raife after we part ways here. That was the best I could do.”
“He’ll take care of it.”
“I sure hope so. How’s your science experiment preparation going?”
“I’ll be able to build the device with the materials you picked up today. Remember the July seventh bombings in London a few years back? Similar stuff. Though this one will be targeted and more precise. I am in no way an explosives expert, so I want you to stay clear as I do this. I could very well blow myself sky-high.”
“You’re a Navy SEAL, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you build a bomb that won’t blow us up?”
“We have EOD guys that are the real experts in this sort of thing. I learned all this from studying the enemy overseas, taking down their bomb factories. They don’t quite take the precautions we would here in our explosives courses in the States. Every now and then the enemy would do our job for us and blow themselves up by being careless. I wish I had a few more blocks of C-4, but I used what I had on the admiral, and my claymores are back in the New Hampshire woods, so I’ll have to do this the insurgent way.”
“What’s this?” Liz asked, pointing to the vehicle outline on the wall.
“J. D. Hartley moves around New York in an up-armored Suburban. It’s a serious setup. Withstands up to 7.62 ammunition and even smaller IEDs. We used the same ones protecting the interim Iraqi government officials back in Iraq. It seemed like everyone wanted to kill those guys. Anyway, that is a measured outline of a Suburban. I want to know exactly where I have to stop the van to line up the EFP I’ll have secured on the desk in the back. The explosive will turn the copper bowl you purchased into a molten slug, which will cut right through the armor—and right through J. D. Hartley.”
“What if he has someone with him?”
“Then it just wasn’t their day.” He paused, “Liz, I’ll do everything I can to make sure it’s just Hartley.”
“When is this going down, Reece?”
“A reporter friend of mine contacted a paparazzi photographer she knows in New York City to ask about Hartley. She said she was doing a piece on him and wanted some up-to-date on-the-ground information. Apparently he is spending his nights with a blonde real estate agent in SoHo. I even have the address.”
• • •
Liz watched Reece from across the hangar. If he blew himself up, he did not want her to die as well. She watched as he cautiously emptied fertilizer into a bucket of water, stirring it with the broom handle before adding a golden-red fluid from the chemistry set catch flask. He then slowly poured what had then transformed into a milky white froth onto one of the bedsheets he had strung between a set of chairs. To Liz it reminded her of the jellies she would make with her grandmother as a child, watching the liquid slowly drip through cheesecloth over the kitchen table. Reece focused the heat lamp on the bedsheet and then moved to a table farther away from the concoction he had just created, presumably to limit the damage in case the next batch did not go as planned. From her vantage point, it was difficult for Liz to tell what he was doing. She could see him mixing shots of what appeared to be the pool and concrete cleaners with nail polish remover into the chemistry glassware, swirling it around and then pouring it into a coffee filter he had secured over a round-bottom flask. She could tell he was being as meticulous as possible during this portion of the process and she wondered whether this was the part where terrorists sometimes unintentionally exploded.
With pliers he pulled
the bullet out of a 5.56mm cartridge case and poured the powder on the table. Liz was transfixed, thinking that at any moment she might watch as the man she was closest to in this world entered the next. From a string of red, green, yellow, and blue Christmas tree lights, Reece cut a single bulb, heating up the end with a candle, before dipping it into water to break off the tip. She knew this was a delicate part of the procedure as she watched Reece pack the cartridge case with his newly created mixture and place the broken light inside, securing it with hot glue. It dawned on her that from elements that usually brought happiness and joy, Christmas and swimming pools, Reece was brewing up a mixture of death.
When he was done, Reece stood and slowly moved away from the table. He looked tired and relieved.
“That went well,” he said. “The good old ‘mujahideen slam.’ And, we’re even still alive.”
“Will wonders never cease,” Liz replied, obviously as relieved as he was.
“It will take at least overnight to dry the urea nitrate on the bedsheets. That’s the equivalent of TNT and will be the primary explosive. The heat lamps should help speed up the process. The dangerous part is done. Tomorrow I’ll pack the PVC pipe with the explosive and place the copper bowl under the collar, set the firing cap I just made into the back, and attach the lightbulb to the wireless doorbell. Not bad for an amateur.”
“I’m just glad we are all still in one piece,” Liz stated.
“Me too. Let’s get some rest. Over the next few days we’re going to need it.”
CHAPTER 68
New York, New York
ANTHONY CRAIG DID NOT like his job. Well, it wasn’t his job per se; it was the person his job required him to drive around New York that he disliked. As a young black kid growing up in Brooklyn in the 1960s and ’70s, he had been headed down a dark path. That was until his father took a day off from his janitorial duties at an investment bank on Wall Street, something Anthony could only remember him doing that one time, in order to take him to lunch. Instead of getting a bite to eat, they had walked to the Marine Corps recruiting office on Chambers Street. The Marines had knocked the chip off his shoulder and turned his life around. After his father’s early death from a heart attack, Anthony left the Corps and returned home to New York City. He married a woman whom he’d met at church and they raised two children, who were both now in college on academic scholarships. Now in his mid-fifties, he was proud of the life he had created. He was not proud of the man he was driving around.