by J. M. Lanham
“But it still doesn’t solve the issue at hand,” Lancaster said. “These people have the potential to shut down the entire agency. What once could’ve been written off as a conspiracy theory has metastasized into a legitimate threat with the compromised project files now in their possession.”
“Not to mention the program Claire Connor tried to execute at Skyline.”
“Ramírez tells me they wouldn’t need the broadcast tower at Skyline to complete their original mission,” Lancaster said. “Do you agree?”
“Yes. And it’s a possibility we’ve already accounted for.”
“How so?”
“I’ve got the Consultants on it.”
The Consultants, thought Lancaster. The Caribbean PI firm hired by her predecessor that had remained on-tap for the CIA’s most politically sensitive operations. Overthrowing dictators. Blackmailing political opponents. The mere mention of them made her sick to her stomach, but she also knew that shutting down Project THEIA would mean calling them in for one last job.
Reluctantly, “And you’ve got them on surveillance, correct?” Lancaster asked.
“Yes. Twelve teams monitoring twelve broadcast towers deemed vulnerable in the immediate DC area. If they try to play that hand again, we’ll know about it.”
“Are you confident that coverage is sufficient?”
Cline leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “These people aren’t professional operatives; they’re a motley crew of misfits brought together by circumstance. Sooner or later, they’ll slip up. And when they do we’ll nail ’em.”
Lancaster shot forward, visibly agitated. “That ‘motley crew’ broke into a top-secret facility and launched a program that has brought a major pharmaceutical company to its knees, Stephen. And the week’s not even out yet. If it weren’t for blind luck, it could have brought the agency down, too, so don’t for one second take these individuals lightly. Any more dismissive comments like that and I’ll have your ass pulled from the assignment. Are we clear?”
Startled, Cline straightened up and nodded. They were clear.
“Now,” Lancaster leaned back, “I want you to handle the Freeman interrogation once she arrives here. And contact Ramírez at Skyline. Tell him he can give Graham six more hours to make a deal. If we can’t get the detective to play ball, we’ll have to up the ante.”
Cline asked, “Is that an official authorization to use enhanced interrogation techniques?”
It was clear Lancaster wasn’t going to answer the question. But one look at her face, and Cline knew.
Chapter 3:
The Enemy of My Enemy
The rental cabin was a good three miles outside of the town of Spring Hill, Georgia, with two of those miles veering off the pavement down a ditch-laden dirt road shaded by thick stands of towering pines, with the occasional hickory or white oak filling in the gaps of the mostly evergreen woods surrounding the way in. The potholes, puddles, and ruts scattered along the backcountry drive would’ve proved too rough for Dawa’s low-clearance four-door sedan, but fortunately, the group had landed a deal on a shiny new 4X4 SUV courtesy of Donny Ford Motors. (Fenton’s high-tech approach to stealing a car would have been impressive to watch, but it didn’t hold a candle to Donny’s low-tech method of checking dozens of car chassis in a grocery store parking lot for magnetic hide-a-keys.)
The old cabin was rustic, weathered, and rotting faster than the surrounding underbrush; certainly nothing to write home about. The porch roof sagged across the front like a tarp full of water about to spill over onto the warped floorboards at any second. Torn and tattered screens flapped in the breeze from opaque, dirty windows. And the number of holes in the cedar siding either meant the cabin was located in some foreign war zone, or the indigenous woodpeckers had declared war on domestic soil.
The cabin was also off-the-grid, with a gas-powered generator nestled under a lean-to providing the only source of power for lights and a minifridge and a water pump tucked away at the bottom of a hundred-foot well. With a trickling creek just a few feet from the open front porch, the place was the perfect getaway for suburbanite souls looking for a little taste of the country lifestyle. It was also the perfect hiding spot for federal fugitives at large and on the run.
On the porch, Paul stood and stared into the gently flowing stream, hands in his pockets, mind a thousand miles from the north Georgia forest. Once again, he had let his wife and son down, hammering another wedge into an already unstable marriage. But this last FUBAR was different from any other.
Now, there was a real chance Michelle and Aaron could be hurt—or far worse. Of course, there was no way of knowing where his family was, considering the only way to contact Michelle had been left on the monastery floor for the CIA to find the moment they searched the place. Unbelievable, Paul. Just unbelievable. He might as well have laid breadcrumbs out for Langley’s goons to follow. He kicked an old soda can off the dusty porch, mumbled something under his breath, and stepped inside.
Inside, the rest of the outliers stood around the wooden kitchen table and looked over the litany of documents Fenton had obtained about Project THEIA. On the surface, it seemed like they had everything they needed to expose the CIA’s illegal pharmaceutical weapons program. Unfortunately, Paul knew nothing was ever that easy. He found a place at the table just as Alex began to speak.
“I still don’t understand why we can’t just turn this over to the press,” Alex said. “Hell, every illegal thing they’ve done to us is right there in the files. Why can’t we just call the news? Air it all out? Get this shit over with?”
Claire said, “Because the moment we do we’ll be on the radar. Once that happens, we won’t make it to the end of the week. Remember the Truth Hunters scandal? Same thing’ll happen to us.”
“Truth Hunters?” Alex scratched his head. “Who are they?”
“They were the organization that obtained top-secret documents from federal employees with top-tier security clearances back in 2009. The leaks led to a lot of changes in protocols and fired officials, but none of that mattered for the leakers.”
Paul asked, “Didn’t they all go to prison?”
“The ones who stayed stateside, yes. But the guy who headed up the organization has been holed up in Ecuador’s Embassy for the last twelve years. Is that how you want to spend the rest of your life, Alex? In prison or on the run?”
The question was met with silence.
“There’s another glaring issue with the files, too,” Claire said. “The information the Truth Hunters disseminated was believable. Illegal drone strikes. Corrupt government officials. Political payoffs and pork barrel spending. All those scandals made excellent fodder for prime-time cable news hosts, but documents pointing to a mind-control program? I’m telling you, it’ll get us nowhere.”
“Except maybe on some conspiracy theory website,” Donny said. “And what good is that going to do?”
“Exactly,” Claire said.
“So we’re back to square one,” Paul said, sifting through the documents. “Only this time our cover’s been blown.”
“He’s right,” Fenton said. “Even if we could get to another broadcast tower near Washington, there’s a good chance they’re being watched by the CIA. They slipped up once at Skyline; they’re not going to slip up again.”
“Well shit,” Alex groaned as he walked to a window. “If we can’t tell the press, and we can’t go to the cops, what in the hell are we supposed to do? Stay in hiding for the rest of our lives?” He leaned on the dusty windowsill, grimacing as he rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.
“Everything okay over there?” Paul asked.
Alex said, “Yeah man, just these damn headaches again …” The young hunter turned to see Claire and Donny cutting their eyes toward one another. “Don’t worry, guys. I’m fine. Haven’t had Ocula in my system for months now.”
That was good enough for Claire (at least, on the surface), who returned to the pile of documents on
the table. She came across a name, and suddenly it clicked.
“Sturgis.”
“What was that?” Paul asked.
“George Sturgis. Asteria’s CEO. He’s just been royally fucked by the intelligence community—”
“—and would have every reason to want to call out the CIA for what they’ve done,” Donny said.
“I don’t know,” Paul said. “I mean it’s obvious he’d love to see the CIA burn for what they did to his company, but wouldn’t he be implicating himself in about a hundred different felonies?”
“Plea bargain,” Claire said. “He could offer to hand over all the information on the Asteria-CIA connection in exchange for immunity.”
“And why exactly would he want to do that in the first place?” Paul asked. “Certainly not out of the kindness of his own heart. Sturgis has been involved with the program since the beginning. He knew about Costa Rica. Signed off on Tanner and Doyle’s experiments. No way he just turns himself in, immunity or not.”
“We don’t know that,” Claire said. “If the destruction of the facility in Costa Rica taught us anything, it’s that the CIA will do whatever it takes to make the Ocula problem disappear, even if it means killing U.S. citizens in the process. For all we know, Sturgis is just as spooked as we are.”
“I can’t believe we’re even talking about this,” Paul said.
“Well if you’ve got a better idea,” Claire said, “feel free to speak up.”
He didn’t, and that was the worst part. Cooperating with George Sturgis might be a huge risk, but at least it was a calculated one. He was the one man who could expose every aspect of the illegal Ocula program from start to finish. And, unlike the flurry of illegally obtained documents scattered across the kitchen table, any information Sturgis came forward with would be admissible in a court of law. If they could get Sturgis to cooperate, they could bring the entire agency down for its misdeeds.
Donny rubbed his chin and thought on the plan. “This could actually work, guys. I mean think about it: even if no one’s fully convinced about Ocula’s side effects, we can still nail the CIA on the illegal detainment and experiments they carried out on U.S. citizens. That alone should be enough to get Washington talking.”
“The press, too,” Claire said.
“This is a big if,” Paul said, shaking his head. “Not to mention the fact that there’s no way the CIA isn’t watching this guy like a hawk right now. I mean how would we even contact him?”
“I’m not sure right now,” Claire said, “but sooner or later we’re going to have to come out of hiding, just like before.”
On the table, the letterhead boasting George Sturgis’ name stared up at the original group like a bright neon sign pointing the only way toward resolution. Behind them, Alex began pacing the creaky wood floor, the hollow crawlspace below amplifying his footsteps. It didn’t take long for Paul to pick up on his brother’s anxious behavior. He stepped into the small den and took Alex by the shoulder. Quietly, “Hey, man. You sure everything’s all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”
“You and me both,” Paul said.
“About that,” Alex said. “Really hope Michelle and Aaron are okay.” There was an awkward pause, then, “Sure you don’t have some other way to get ahold of her?”
“She only had the burner phone. We’ve been off-the-grid for the last six months.”
“Uh-huh,” Alex said before changing the subject. “You really think we can trust this Sturgis guy?”
“Trust? Hell no, we can’t trust him. But Claire’s got a point. I don’t think there’s a person alive right now who wants to expose the CIA for all their corruption and misdeeds more than George Sturgis. Well, besides us.”
Alex turned toward the window as he thought on the notion, wincing at the afternoon light coming in from the west.
Paul asked, “How’s your head?”
Alex had popped the top on a bottle of pain pills before he could answer. He forced one down without a chaser, then said, “I’ll live, with a little help from my friends here.”
Seeing the familiar orange and white prescription bottle slide back into Alex’s shirt pocket reminded Paul of something. “We’ve covered a lot of bases over the last few days,” Paul said. “But there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you …”
Claire’s ears perked up. She turned around and walked over.
“You were part of the clinical trials long before I even knew what Ocula was,” Paul said. “I’ve never taken a sleeping pill in my life. It’s just … there was something Michelle asked me on my way to work the day I was kidnapped. Something about how well I slept the night before. It’s all she wanted to talk about, like she knew something I didn’t.”
“What are you trying to say, Paul?”
“I’m just wondering, did you give Michelle some of your medication to try on me? Just to see if it would help me sleep better or something? I know you and Michelle didn’t talk much, but she’d been worried about my insomnia for a while and you—”
Alex shook his head before Paul could finish. “Nah, man. Wouldn’t have helped ya anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“Damn, Paul. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one in the family.” He took a breath, then, “The drug only works on folks who have a specific set of genes linked to insomnia. I had to go and get genetic testing done before they’d even let me participate in the clinical trials. Forking over a few pills for your wife to slip to you wouldn’t have done any good.”
“He’s right,” Claire said. “At least, about Michelle slipping you a mickey. The truth is, your wife had nothing to do with Ocula getting into your system.”
Paul’s eyes sharpened. “What would you know about it, Claire?”
“Kovic told me the whole story at Skyline. Said the reason Ryan Tanner hired you at Asteria Pharmaceuticals had nothing to do with your résumé, and everything to do with your family connection to the clinical trials. Tanner was testing a theory on heredity and outliers, and when he lost track of Alex, he decided to focus on you.” There was a pause, then, “I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you—”
“The right time? It’s been three days since the operation, and you’re just now telling me this?”
“Sorry, Paul, but it wasn’t exactly at the top of my list of priorities. What would you have done during our flight from the monastery if you’d known Michelle was innocent? Would you have turned the car around and gotten us all nabbed by the CIA?”
Silence.
“Of course you would have,” Claire said. “You were emotional, and understandably so. But don’t you see why I couldn’t risk you making a decision that would undoubtedly affect the rest of us based on your emotions?”
Paul’s abrupt departure from the conversation made it clear he’d heard enough. He stormed out of the cabin and slammed the screen door behind him, dropping an F-bomb or two before getting as far away from the others as he could. Back inside, Claire turned to Alex. “Think he’s going to be all right?”
“Ah hell, he’ll be fine,” Alex said. “Let him walk it off.” He turned his wrist to check his watch, then glared into the kitchen, obviously looking for something. “Hey, Paul didn’t take the car key just now, did he?”
“Why do you need the car key?” Claire asked.
“Need to run into town, get supplies.”
“If by supplies you mean cigarettes, I think it can wait. We don’t need to make unnecessary trips into town—”
“You want power tonight, don’t ya?” Alex said, motioning toward the lean-to shed that was visible from the den window. “Checked the gas earlier. We’re almost out.”
“Okay,” Claire said, moving toward the door. “I’ll go with you.”
Alex’s hand went up. “No, no. I can handle it just fine. Johnson’s Market is only a couple of miles up the road, and y’all need to stay here and work on a plan, right? Don’t wo
rry. I’ll be back in no time.”
Alex’s insistence on making the trip alone seemed strange, but before anyone could protest he had already snatched the key from the kitchen counter and left. Claire walked to the screen door and watched a cloud of gravel dust follow the SUV up the ridge and out of sight. She watched the truck disappear into the distance, then curiously walked over to the lean-to shed. She pulled a piece of tin off a large wooden crate by the generator and immediately cursed the younger Freeman.
The gas cans were still there.
Chapter 4:
Interrogations
The short and narrow table centered in the middle of the ten-by-ten interrogation room at Skyline was rigid and cold; far from a king-sized bed adorned with fine linens and freshly fluffed pillows. But from the warm and peaceful sentiment radiating from Dawa Graham’s resting face, one might easily think he was sleeping soundly in luxurious five-star accommodations. He lay on his back, eyes closed, hands across his chest and feet propped up when the door swung open. It was Ramírez.
“Make yourself at home,” Ramírez said.
Calmly, Dawa opened his eyes and rose up. “Sooner or later, everyone has to sleep, Mr. Ramírez.”
“Yes, well. Now it is time to get down to business.”
Dawa hopped down and took a seat across from his interrogator. Ramírez searched the table for the plea bargain he’d left earlier only to find it tossed on the floor. He picked up the file, dusted it off, and slid it across the table.
“I thought I made myself abundantly clear, Mr. Ramírez. I cannot take this deal.”
“And I thought I made myself clear as well, Mr. Graham. You really need to consider this.”
Stoically, “I have.”
Ramírez sighed. “You do know what this means, don’t you?”
“It is not what you want, and that cannot be good. But I have had plenty of time to think about the matter at hand, and I simply cannot trade my well-being for the well-being of another.”