The second SUV skidded to a stop crossways to the road, and armed men in full tactical gear scrambled out on the far side. At the same time, the lead SUV completed its cartwheel, landing upside down in the depression beside the road.
Right on top of Merc Four.
The operation died in that single instant of time. As Carl watched the monitor, the Feds deployed behind their armored SUV and concentrated their fire at the flower truck and the tow truck. The camera feed jittered violently as hundreds of rounds impacted the cargo box of the truck.
It didn’t appear to Carl that Klipser’s agents engaged in any kind of verbal or signal communications at all. For the moment, the six agents remained sheltered behind their armor-plated SUV, firing at the flower truck, but Carl knew it was inevitable that they would press their advantage in numbers and surround or kill his mercs.
“Shit!” Carl said. “Get them out of there now!”
Garcia listened intently to the chaotic noise coming from his speaker phone, but Carl couldn’t make sense of the panicked shouts that were mostly drowned out by the clattering of automatic weapons fire.
“Three is down,” the young man said. “But Two is still in the fight. He says he’s almost out of ammunition.”
Carl saw two dark round objects roll across the ground toward the Feds’ SUV. The first grenade stopped midway and exploded harmlessly. The second bounced against the front wheel of the SUV, but its blast did little more than rock the heavy armored truck.
Garcia lowered the cell and turned to face Carl. “Two says they can’t get to the Pathfinder and even if they could, they’d get nuked before they got a hundred yards away. He’s requesting instructions.”
“Fuck!” Carl reached for the phone. “Two, I want you to throw out your weapons and surrender. I’ll do what I can for you on this end, but this isn’t your mission to die for. You’ve done all you can for us. Cooperate with them and stay alive.”
“Copy that.”
The surprise ambush had turned into exactly what Carl didn’t want—an extended firefight against highly trained and well-armed federal agents.
“Alright, Mr. Erickson, close up shop. We’re leaving right now.” Carl looked at Garcia. “We’re going to need replacement mercenaries to continue the mission. And a new operations house ASAP.”
He was just about to say more when he was distracted by movement on the monitor. A flash of flame and smoke erupted from beneath the front portion of Cummings’s upside-down SUV and streaked toward the second Fed truck. The armored vehicle exploded in a massive spew of fire and ripped metal as engine parts, tires, doors, weapons, and human parts flew everywhere. Klipser’s men had absolutely no chance for survival as fragments from the blasted SUV sliced right through their body armor and literally shredded the men.
Carl gasped and involuntarily took a step back from the monitor as bloody pieces of the agents were tossed dozens of feet from the destroyed vehicle. Whatever excitement and thrill he had previously felt evaporated immediately at the sight of the strewn body parts. He saw heads, arms, legs, boots, and wads of bloody guts flop onto the asphalt, and now the war zone was completely still.
Carl shivered and leaned over to brace his palms against his kneecaps. Nausea gripped him, and he found himself unable to control the trembling in his arms and legs. This was the real war he had become involved in. This was the mission.
He breathed through his open mouth and tried to prevent his stomach from bringing up his lunch. Erickson raced from his laptop and threw up in the trash can. Next to Carl, Garcia echoed his astonishment.
“Fuck me!” He paused. “Did you see that shit?”
With great effort Carl squashed his nausea and stood up. “Get our people the hell out of there! The Feds have had plenty of time to call for help, and the cops will be all over their asses within five minutes.”
On the TV screen Merc Four slithered out from under the first SUV. Her partner, Merc Three, joined her in front of the upside-down truck. He had his exterior Kevlar vest unstrapped, and his desert-camo combat shirt was ripped open. He massaged the center of his chest. Carl listened to the exchange through the cell phone headsets that each merc wore.
“You okay, babe?” Merc Four said.
“Got hit in the chest, but the vest saved me. You?”
“Goddamn thing landed right on top of me,” Merc Four said. “Pinned me in the space between the windshield and the engine hood.”
The two mercs moved to the driver’s door, but it was locked.
Four said, “She’s conscious, but she won’t open the door, and we don’t have time to wait her out. She just got off the phone, so I’m thinking she’s got help coming.”
Carl pulled out his cell and selected Cummings’s number. When she answered, he said, “This is Carl Johnson. Open the door or I’ll strap your daughter to a table and do to her what Agent Klipser did to me. I’ll put it on YouTube and show the world how an FBI agent let her daughter get tortured.” He disconnected the call.
“Okay, she’s opening the door.”
A few seconds later, they dragged Cummings into the dirt. When they stood her up, Merc Four punched her hard in the gut with one hell of a wind-up that she launched from the center of the Earth, and her partner dragged the agent over to the Pathfinder.
Carl said, “Drug her up and strip her naked, undies and all, in case she has any kind of transmitter or beacon on her clothes.”
Merc Four said over the net, “And don’t have too much fun doing it either.”
Erickson regained his seat and hit some keys on his keyboard, and the wall monitor split into the east and west views again. On the west view Merc Three dropped Cummings to the asphalt behind the Pathfinder. He injected her in the neck with the contents of a syringe prepared specifically to render captives unconscious and keep them that way for several hours. It was the same type of concoction used on Carl. That was, in fact, the experience that gave him the idea.
Merc Three grabbed a wicked-looking knife from a leg sheath and expertly sliced the back of Cummings’s black jacket and both her pants legs. Then he sliced her shirt and underwear. He rolled her onto her back and pulled all her clothes off with one yank. Then he pulled off her combat boots and socks. He wadded up the garments and carried them back to the SUV while Merc Two dumped the agent unceremoniously into the back of the Pathfinder.
Carl studied the naked agent sprawled face-down in the back of the escape truck. She looked about like he expected. Her legs, butt, and back were white while her arms were slightly tanned. She appeared fit and muscular—not petite, but not chunky either. She looked maybe thirty-five or forty.
He started formulating a plan to take advantage of his captive, but the female merc interrupted his thoughts.
“Looks like Agent Klipser is still alive too, but unconscious. Dumbass wasn’t wearing his seatbelt.”
“Drug him up and strip him too,” Carl said. As an afterthought, he added, “Can you get to the other FBI agent?”
“He’s dead for sure,” Merc Four said. “Head’s damn near severed from his shoulders.”
She dragged Klipser’s from the vehicle and hauled him around to the front. She pulled a syringe from a Velcro pocket and jammed the needle into his thigh. She squeezed the plunger down to its limit. Her partner came over to help get the agent across the street, out of his gear and clothing, and into the back of the Pathfinder.
“Alright,” Carl said. “Evac as fast as you can.”
Merc Three said, “You want us to bring back Trevor’s body?”
Trevor Flosk was Merc One.
The voice of Merc Two answered. “Which part?”
Four said, “Leave him. It’s not like we can bury him or anything.”
Carl said, “He did his job and now he’s gone. The FBI will take care of him.”
Three said, “They’re going to ID him.”
“That won’t help them. Return to base. Take Cummings and Klipser to the warehouse Mr. Garcia set up. I’l
l meet you there.”
“Roger that.”
“And nuke that SUV with an incendiary grenade. I want the FBI to have to do some serious CSI work before they figure out I have their agents. That’ll give me a few hours to get personal with them.”
He was one step closer to McGrath.
“Mr. Garcia, they’re going to try to back-trace Cummings’s cell, so dispose of all our used cell phones, tell the mercs to toss theirs, and go to backups. And see if you can get us moved in two hours. Get Erickson set up with new equipment too, and dispose of his old stuff.”
He glanced at the fidgeting computer geek.
“You can have your fix now and some downtime to enjoy it.” He patted the man on the shoulder. “You’ve done good, Mr. Erickson. Real good.”
“Mr. Garcia,” he continued. “Have the team get off the interstate ASAP.” They’d be headed north on I-25 back into the city. “If Cummings reached her people with a distress call, the FBI and local police are already on the way, and they probably already have a police chopper in the air from their other op. Have our guys cross the median and go south to Rio Bravo, then go west and hit Second Street northbound to the parking garage where we’ve stashed our backup vehicles. Have them switch vehicles twice at the other garages before proceeding to the warehouse.”
Carl considered that the operation ended well, despite the near disaster. The final mission objective was now in play. He wanted information—the identity and location of McGrath—and now he had two people in custody who possessed that information.
And they knew about the missing girl, too. He wanted that girl.
Chapter 38
0004 EST Tuesday
Arlington Heights, VA
After reviewing the after-action report from SAC Figueroa’s office, Aaron McGrath had zero doubts about who they were dealing with. He was certain Nancy Palmer needed no further convincing either.
“Mercenaries, I can understand,” McGrath mused aloud. “I can even see how he could come across cash and guns. But high-explosive, armor-piercing, rocket-propelled grenades? Where the hell does a citizen, a goddamn real estate broker, acquire that kind of weaponry?”
Palmer nodded her agreement. “My guess is he hired the mercenaries first and tasked them with weapons acquisitions. That’s what I’d do if I was in his situation.”
McGrath was troubled that he had not considered Carl Johnson more of a threat. He was clearly more than simply an ordinary civilian. He was steps ahead of the TER at every turn, and he’d predicted their actions and reactions. McGrath had helped him by severely underestimating the man.
That the lead SUV had been gutted by fire caused by an incendiary grenade only compounded the mystery until the field investigator reported there appeared to be only a single occupant inside that vehicle. The corpse was burned beyond recognition, but McGrath knew what it meant.
“So he has Agents Klipser and Cummings. By deliberately burning the SUV, he delayed discovery that they were missing and earned himself a few hours to advance his agenda.”
Palmer nodded and said, “And it’s curious that they left their dead soldier behind. Johnson would know we’d identify him.”
“Even if they took the body away, the FBI’s crime scene investigators could ID him through a DNA analysis of his blood, though it would take longer. Johnson is smart enough to know that.”
“So Carl is not the insane, out-of-control lunatic bent on revenge that he’d like us to believe,” Palmer said. “He’s pragmatic. He knows the FBI would dispose of the body in their normal course of doing business. That means identifying Trevor Flosk is no threat to his plans.”
McGrath glanced sideways at Palmer. They were standing in front of the monitor wall behind Joey, the big bald analyst, so he gave her a head-nod to follow him into the hallway.
“You’re on a first-name basis with this guy now?”
“I’m in his head, Aaron,” Palmer said. “And you better get there too. Carl Johnson is not the mission. He doesn’t have Melissa.” She paused. “We lost that battle, Aaron. Let’s get back to the main objective.”
“He’s an amateur, so he’s unpredictable. But he has an agenda, and he’s a professional planner with a shrewd command presence for someone with no formal military combat training. And he’s learning to adapt extremely fast.” McGrath paused. “And he’s after us.”
“And he’ll continue to adapt and escalate as long as we keep playing his game.”
McGrath looked down at the floor for a moment. “You’re suggesting we close the book on Johnson and abandon his hostages.”
“Let the FBI deal with him. Pete Klipser won’t talk, and Lenore Cummings can’t give him anything.”
McGrath didn’t like that the terrorist had no formal knowledge of covert ops and couldn’t be expected to follow wartime rules of engagement. He wouldn’t likely do what was expected even of a run-of-the-mill terrorist, because those individuals also received training in their craft at established training camps. Standard terrorist training was also well understood.
Johnson was likely making up his own rules of engagement as his plan progressed, which made it almost impossible for McGrath’s team to plan counter-strikes against him. Even FBI criminal profiling depended on the systematic collection of data to establish a pattern of criminal behavior, and Johnson was moving too fast and too unpredictably. Eventually, they’d profile him, but not in time to help the hostages he held.
McGrath also didn’t like that his second in command was right about their course of action. He had a personal interest in the operation.
He nodded. “Very well. Let’s get the local FBI on comm.”
They went back into the ops center and waited while the analyst secured the video link. Figueroa looked as tired as McGrath felt. The SAC’s white shirt was crumpled, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The man had dark shadows under his eyes.
McGrath said, “We no longer believe Alfonso Reyes is the key suspect in today’s events. The most likely suspect is Carl Johnson. He strongly resembles Alfonso Reyes, and we brought him in for questioning a month ago. His son was collateral damage in the investigation, and Johnson blames the FBI for his death.” McGrath paused. “And he blames me and my people.”
Figueroa leaned back in his chair and considered this new information.
“Okay, so he’s got a vendetta, and he’s clearly got skills and resources. How much damage can we expect from this man? What is he, a former Delta operator or a SEAL? Is he one of yours, or maybe a rogue CIA specialist?”
“No,” McGrath said with a sigh. “He’s a pissed-off father with absolutely nothing to lose and no reason to continue living except to kill us.”
Chapter 39
0230 MST Tuesday
Albuquerque, NM
He watched Special Agent Lenore Cummings drift slowly out of her drug-induced sleep. She moaned a bit and her eyelids fluttered.
He whispered in her ear, “Hey, sweetie. Time to wake up.”
She smiled and purred, then frowned as she must have realized she was restrained. Suddenly, she was fully awake and saw Carl’s face near hers. A slew of language that would make a sailor blush exploded from her mouth. Carl just chuckled and stood up straight. She struggled against her bindings, then raised her head—her only body part not strapped down—and examined her surroundings.
“You’re not so tough strapped to a table, are you?” He paused. “Special. Agent. Cummings. In a moment, we’ll discuss the time when you felt empowered to beat the shit out of me, when you had me chained to a chair. I’m sure you realize that was illegal for so many reasons. But I’ve found that’s typical of you and McGrath’s people. You all think you can do any damn thing you want to anybody you choose, don’t you?”
Cummings didn’t answer, but he didn’t expect her to.
She was strapped to a hospital gurney with her legs spread wide apart and her arms extended over her head. Her wrists were duct-taped to the metal edge of the bed. Yea
rs ago Carl had read in a psychology book that specific positions create ultimate fear in people. For men, that position was being restrained naked on their knees with their head forced to the floor, with their butt sticking up in the air, available for abuse. The book said that sometimes even the strongest men could be broken in minutes just by forcing them into that position, so great was the fear of assault on their manhood.
For women, the position of ultimate fear was being restrained naked, spread-eagled. It was in that position of helplessness and vulnerability that Cummings now found herself, and Carl enjoyed her discomfort immensely.
He had no doubt the FBI gave its agents intensive training in resisting interrogation and psychological torture, but he doubted their training included resisting physical torture. One thing Carl now knew from personal experience was no amount of training could prepare any man or woman for the real thing. When it happened, the only thing one could do was suffer through it. Either you were tough enough or you weren’t. Either you would break or you would not.
Having survived severe torture—if one could call going berserk and declaring war on the US government survival—Carl now knew that every human being had a breaking point. It was only a matter of finding that point. In most cases, it was more a matter of discovering what a person was afraid of, and exploiting that fear.
He didn’t know how tough the FBI woman was, and unfortunately he didn’t have access to the government’s torture table, or its electro-shock device, or its collection of pain-inducing chemicals. Cummings was probably tough enough to withstand rape, fingernail pulling, bone breaking, or other kinds of physical beating or disfigurement. She might even resist waterboarding, though probably not the method he’d endured, having a funnel tube shoved down her throat.
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