Carl looked at Palmer. “Would a TER assault team kill civilians if ordered?”
“Never.” She shook her head. “None of Aaron’s directors or commanders would ever follow that kind of order, no matter who issued it. Nor would the SEALs nor Delta nor the CIA wet work teams.”
Carl nodded. “So our adversary likely has an illegal kill squad in the US. Probably mercenaries. They’re in New Mexico right now preparing to murder women and children to make it look like I did it.”
Palmer added, “So what are we going to do about it?”
“Excuse me?” Merc Three said. He looked around the cabin and made a finger movement like he was counting people. “I don’t know if you all are keeping score, but we just got our asses handed to us on a silver fucking platter. My wife is down there in that fucking crater along with the rest of our goddamn team!”
Carl turned and spoke quietly to him. “My son is in that crater too, Trent, and if we don’t somehow fix this, more innocent women and children, including the president and her daughter, are going to be in there too.”
“But what can we do against this kind of adversary? This guy commands US military assets!”
Carl spoke loud enough for everyone, including the pilot, to hear him. “They’re not going to stop hunting us. They’re not going to assume we’re dead; I wouldn’t. They hit us hard, gave us a bloody nose, so we hit them back. We hunt them down and kill them before they kill us.”
“News flash,” Merc Three said from the front seat. “We’re fighting the US fucking government. By definition that makes us the bad guys.”
“That’s not news to me,” Carl said. He looked over at Palmer. “You know the address of McGrath’s op center in Virginia?”
She told him. “You’re going to terminate him?” Her voice held surprise, so he gave her a devious smile. He wasn’t sure she saw it in the dark cabin. “But why?” she continued. “He doesn’t know what our next plan is. Hell, we don’t even know what our next move is.”
“Naw, Sista. He’s an asset and we need him. He implied that his op center is no longer secure, so I’m going to have Mr. Garcia send mercs out there to rescue him. Then I’m going to save his family.” Carl paused. “And then he’ll owe me. Forever.”
Chapter 32
1810 hours MST Friday
Albuquerque, NM
Young Mr. Garcia’s fear manifested itself as a knot in the pit of his stomach. He now knew the new TER guy, August Spoke, was the enemy. His gut had told him that fact hours ago, but his brain hadn’t listened. The whole operation had transitioned from what Garcia could consider normal into something that didn’t seem very governmental at all. He now saw the government trying to run a complex infiltration op in a foreign country to find out who kidnapped the president’s daughter with only one agent on the other end handling everything.
How long does it take to fix a damned satellite or get a new one into position or whatever the government does with those things up there? With an op this important, you’d think they’d pull out all the stops to support the mission.
When Garcia thought about it from that perspective, nothing made sense anymore. The new agent named Spoke had somehow reeled him into the change of procedures, slowly stringing him along while giving him nothing in return. But that’s what government agents did, wasn’t it? They lied, if necessary, to achieve their mission.
If he’d followed Carl’s protocol, he and his family would be on the road right then, with a couple million dollars in two duffel bags and a bazillion more in offshore accounts. He should have turned his back like his boss had told him to, yet he hadn’t. He couldn’t abandon the op center because he’d had a panicked feeling that Carl needed him. He had to be there…just in case.
On the plus side, he’d been able to act on Carl’s text message, and had just dispatched a three-man team from Mexico to the address in Carl’s text. They’d be in position to extract Director McGrath in a couple hours. But now it was time for Garcia to leave.
He would set up a new private operation center without government involvement or interference. Then if Carl needed assistance, he could provide support.
He went over to the wall where all his dozens of backup smartphones were connected to chargers. He selected one and entered a brief text to his wife. She also had a one-time-use phone that she never used. It simply sat connected to a charger on the dining room table.
GET READY.
That was their emergency code. It didn’t mean get ready. It meant get out now! It meant, pack nothing, not even baby supplies, and meet him at their prearranged rendezvous place.
He hit send, but the device immediately beeped at him. When he looked at the face, it gave him an error message.
MESSAGE NOT SENT.
He narrowed his eyes at the cell, then noticed the signal strength indicator in the upper corner showed no bars. He grabbed the second cell and discovered the same condition. Two others at his feet showed the same.
“Fuck!”
Garcia turned off the phone and raced to the door. He punched the self-destruct button and grabbed his duffel. He was rewarded by a flash of heat behind him and heard the sizzle of plastic and metal melting. Within two seconds the innards of the computer were a molten puddle of ooze on the metal table. The circuit breaker on the power strip feeding the equipment quickly tripped as the computer’s melting power supply shorted.
He yanked the door open and ran full speed down the hall to the elevator. He cursed himself with every footstep. He should have done what Carl told him to do. He should have gotten out sooner. Somehow, Agent Spoke had found his op center. The fact that they were blocking cell signals confirmed what Merc Two told everyone last week.
“Before they breach, they’ll block all cell transmissions and landlines so we can’t communicate. Then, they’ll shut off the power. Then, they’ll come in shooting.”
The mercenary had been wrong. The invaders hadn’t revealed their presence by shutting off the power. They were already in the building. Panic spurred him to run faster. The elevator was still in operation because the UP arrow above the door was lit. He could hear the elevator’s mechanism purring.
Fuck! They’re coming up in the elevator!
Garcia ran past the elevator to the nearest fire escape stairs. It was actually farthest from his unit, so he hoped—no, he prayed—if they were also coming up the stairs they would choose the fire escape closest to his unit at the other end of the hall. He realized the futility of his prayer as soon as he opened the fire escape door.
He eased the heavy metal door open slowly and quietly, half expecting a barrage of gunfire to welcome him. Instead, he noticed two things almost simultaneously. The electronic locks on the doors were normally card operated. The doors could be opened from the inside simply with a push bar like he’d just done. From within the stairwell, though, only people who lived on each floor could open their door and only with a card key. The indicator light on the key panel was always red except when it shone green for two seconds after a card swipe. Now, however, the green light was constantly on and it stared him in the face. The assault team, whoever they were—cops, SWAT, FBI, covert government agents—had disabled all the stairwell locks with a master command. The second thing he noticed was the trample of boots echoing in the stairwell, coming up from below.
He was trapped.
Chapter 33
1815 hours MST Friday
Albuquerque, NM
With the fire door open just enough to stick his head through, Garcia listened to multiple sets of combat boots pounding quickly up the stairs. The reverberating echo in the silent fire escape made it sound like a whole SWAT army was coming up, but Garcia figured it was probably only three or four. After all, the deployed force would also have teams coming up the other fire escape stairwell and the elevator.
They were close, maybe just below him on the third-floor landing. If he stayed in the hallway or in the condo, he was dead. The chime of the elevator arriving
at the fourth floor reminded him he had no choice but to enter the stairwell. He pushed the door open a bit more and slid through. Then, he realized the pounding boots had suddenly stopped.
Shit! They heard the elevator chime through this open door!
In his mind, Garcia pictured the leader holding up his fist to stop his team members. He pictured them straining to hear something, anything. So he froze in the stairwell with his hand holding the big metal door open. He couldn’t let it go because the hiss of hydraulic air would betray the door closing.
There was only one direction for him to flee—up—but he dared not move. The slightest squeak of his shoes on the concrete floor would betray him, as would the rustle of the denim fabric of his pants rubbing together as he moved forward. So he froze…until he heard someone speaking.
“Copy that,” the voice below him said. “Almost in position.” The voice took a different tone and said, “Let’s go.”
The boots pounded the concrete again and Garcia let go of the door, hoping the echo of boots would cover the sound of the massive door closing and of his footsteps. Fortunately, because the building’s upper floors were all residential, the metal fire escape doors were cushioned against the frame by rubber molding. The door closed with a barely audible bump that was lost in the boot noise.
Garcia got himself around the turn of the steps halfway between the fourth floor and the fifth and waited. There was a moment of silence as the unseen assault force gathered at the fire door.
“Go!”
The force moved quickly through the doorway, but before the door closed behind them, Garcia heard the voice trailing up the hallway.
“Copy that. Reengage all locks and secure the building.”
Shit!
A moment ago, he’d been trapped in the hallway. Now, he was trapped in the stairwell. He heard a chorus of electrical clicks as the fire door locks engaged in the stairwell. At the fifth floor landing in front of him, he heard the sound of the locking mechanism accompanied by the green light extinguishing and the red light illuminating at the fire door.
He had no choice now. He had to go down to the first floor. That was the only door that was always unlocked in accordance with fire regulations to let people get out safely. He didn’t want to go down there because he knew there would be someone on guard, but he couldn’t stay where he was.
When the force discovered the melted computer equipment and realized he was not in the condo—they probably were making the discovery at that exact moment—they’d canvas the entire building. They’d go up first to clear the fifth floor. Then they’d make their way downward, clearing each floor as they descended. When that happened, he’d better be out of the building.
He unzipped his small duffel bag and pulled out the gun. It was a Glock, but Garcia found no comfort in the possession of the weapon. He’d fired guns over the years growing up in Mexico, but he wasn’t fooling himself into believing he could survive a gunfight with the force in the building searching for him. The problem was, if there was a man downstairs on guard, he wouldn’t get out of the building without a gunfight. And as soon as the shooting started, the force would be all over him.
He looked the weapon over and decided quickly that a gun wasn’t going to help him in his current situation. He put it back in his bag and ran quickly down the stairs. He tried the fire doors on each level as he passed even though all the red indicator lights were lit, and they were all locked as he expected. At the bottom of the stairwell he stopped and peered through the small window in the door. The window was too small for any person to fit through, and even if it had been large enough, it was laced with thin wire making the window virtually penetration-proof.
The condo building butted up against a public parking structure, but the portion of the ground-level parking area reserved for condo residents was fenced off from the public parking areas. Somehow the assault force had gained access through the card-access gate and two big black SUVs were parked haphazardly in that area.
Even if Garcia managed to sneak past the single guard that he saw, he’d still be trapped inside the fenced area. There was one access gate for cars and another, smaller pedestrian gate, but the guard was stationed close to both. Garcia couldn’t get through either one unnoticed. The guard was glancing around, but he was still facing away from the fire exit. At first, Garcia didn’t understand until he heard the voice in the stairwell above, accompanied again by the thunder of fast-moving boots.
“…on our way down!”
The guard looked down and began fiddling around. Garcia realized the man was zipping his fly. He’d been peeing up against Garcia’s car, which was parked right next to one of the black SUVs.
Garcia smoothly and quietly eased the fire door open and gently let it close. He stepped one pace to the right and crouched between the concrete wall and the small trash compactor. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, but it was somewhat in the shadows and no one would see him unless they were actually looking right at the compactor.
He grabbed the gun from his bag again. His goal wasn’t to win a battle. On the contrary, when he started shooting, they’d shoot to kill. He knew what the government had done to Carl. He knew of the harsh interrogation methods used. There was no way in hell he was going to let them strap him to that table and torture him.
The fire door burst open. The first man stopped and held the door for ten more men and he talked on an unseen radio at the same time. He was close enough for Garcia to touch his leg. If the man even glanced in his direction, he’d be found.
“He was long gone, Mr. Drake.” There was a long pause. “Negative on the hardware. He triggered a heat charge. There was nothing left but a puddle of plastic fused to the table.” Another pause. “The heat was intense. They knew eventually someone would find them. They were prepared.”
The speaker released the door after the last man exited, then said, “Copy that. He’s got maybe a five-minute head-start on us. Have local PD cordon off a three-block radius around his house. He lives in what is called the South Valley. We’re fifteen minutes out.”
The black-clad force loaded into the two SUVs and the gate opened as they pulled in front of its motion sensor.
Still concealed, Garcia reached into his duffel and pulled out a cell phone. He had three bars so the assault force had turned off their jammer. He sent the same brief text message to his wife’s one-time-use phone—GET READY—and this time the text message went through.
Their prearranged meeting place, Lumpy’s, was their favorite burger joint out on west Central Avenue. It was a mile from their home, so he knew she’d be out of the cordoned area.
If she left right now. If, unlike Garcia, she followed Carl’s instructions.
Chapter 34
2105 hours MST Friday
Albuquerque, NM
The adversary wanted Special Agent Cummings and Anita Chapman and their families dead, so Carl wanted them alive. Their deaths figured into the adversary’s plans somehow. Maybe it was as simple as Palmer thought—the adversary wanted to make the kill look like Carl was resurfacing as the terrorist. Maybe it was true that his opponent was using one of his tricks—throwing a head-fake at the world so law enforcement would be preoccupied with Carl while his opponent roamed free to complete his plans, whatever those were.
Carl didn’t think the events could be viewed so simply, though. There was a reason for what the adversary was doing, even though Carl didn’t know what that reason was. Nevertheless, he wanted to negate whatever advantage his opponent was seeking. He wanted to force him or her to adapt and possibly make a mistake.
Besides, he felt responsible for the targets’ lives. It was because of Carl that they were on the kill list. They weren’t combatants. They didn’t deserve to be pawns in his war with the adversary.
Two days ago Carl found the whole process of transiting the southern border of the United States rather mundane. He had simply driven across the border at the Columbus, New Mexico, Port Of Entry in pl
ain sight, using a disguise that matched his fake-but-legitimate ID and passport. He’d returned with the president’s daughter aboard the helicopter belonging to the now-deceased El Patron.
This morning he’d flown south across the border compliments of the covert TER agency. Now, he had just returned to Albuquerque on the same government plane. Colonel Vesario Reichert, the Gulfstream’s pilot, told him they were listed as a private jet bound for Houston from Mexico City, even though they didn’t leave from that airport. As soon as they were airborne, the superintendent Carl had paid off altered their flight plan, and they were given permission to fly directly into Albuquerque.
It sounded easy enough, but Carl still wasn’t convinced the feds wouldn’t be waiting for him at the cargo hangar when they landed. His worrying was for naught, because the customs officer that met the plane at the cargo hangar allowed him through with barely a perfunctory glance at his passport and a few questions about what he was bringing into the country.
He retrieved his SUV from the cargo hangar parking lot and left the airport through the south gate while the colonel, also with a false identity, stayed with the plane and got it refueled. A few minutes later, Carl merged his SUV onto northbound I-25.
Sooner or later, Carl knew the adversary would see through his deception. The adversary wouldn’t expect him to fly back to Albuquerque in the middle of a mission, but every hour his plane sat at the airport increased his risk of discovery.
Suddenly, his paranoia kicked into overdrive and he wondered if his adversary hadn’t somehow marked his SUV while he was gone. Maybe someone had attached an electronic transmitter to the car on the premise that he or someone else on his Albuquerque team would retrieve the vehicle. Maybe they were tracking him right now.
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