by Brian Shea
“No, but he tried. He convinced my supervisor to investigate my use of force when I was placing her in handcuffs. When that didn’t fly, he tried to say that the buy/bust itself was not within policy. All his efforts to screw me failed.”
“It seems pretty harsh to go after you. Maybe if he had done a better job raising his daughter then it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.” Izzy’s voice rose slightly at this statement, and she heard Nick stir behind her, but his eyes remained closed.
“The media got hold of the story and ran wild with it for several days. That seemed to be the final straw in our delicate relationship. I knew that I was on borrowed time, but I never thought that it would end the way it did.
“Within hours of my shooting, someone in the media found out about my military past and labeled it an execution. That phrasing made headlines and experts came in to dissect every little piece of my actions that night. Some went so far as to say that my shot grouping showed a level of premeditation.” Declan felt himself rambling and stopped to collect his thoughts.
“It was an impressive shot group, but labeling it premeditated murder is one of the most ridiculous things that I have ever heard.”
“Well then wait for the kicker. The guy I shot turned out to be holding an empty gun. No bullets and no magazine. The critics said that I was skilled enough to see the weapon was empty. They had a computerized simulator show the distance and my line of sight. It showed a dotted line covering the fifteen feet to the bottom of the gun. Then they showed a close up of a similar gun stating that it would have been easy to see that there was no magazine, even in low-light conditions.” Declan rolled his eyes, punctuating the preposterous nature of such an assertion.
“Who fed the media that load of crap? Don’t answer. I already know too many ex-this and ex-that making their way around the network expert circuit. Ridiculous!”
“Well, it’s over now. I’m just trying to pick up the pieces for my family. We’re juggling a lot. This is the longest I’ve been away from my girls since Laney was born.” Declan’s mind drifted to his family.
“She is sweet. When did she get diagnosed?” Izzy’s tenderness was evident.
“Around eighteen months. Laney didn’t communicate. She was non-verbal and had little to no expression. It was a huge learning curve for me. Val was more up to speed on it because of her educational background, but I was lost.”
“You obviously love your daughter. It was evident that day at your house.”
“Thank you for that. It’s so hard to look at her and see nothing in return. I’ve waited for three years for a real hug. It’s been tough on Ripley and Abigail too. Val and I spend a lot of our time and energy with Laney. Sometimes I feel like we have left them out.” Declan paused. “That’s what angered me most about being fired. They took my ability to provide for my family. It drained our financial resources so quickly that we couldn’t get our foothold.” Declan realized that he may have said too much, but for some reason, he trusted Isabella Martinez completely.
“Maybe when all this is over Nick and I can help sort some of that out. After all, we are the FBI.” Izzy said this last part sarcastically and winked. “And for what it’s worth, Nick and I agreed that you were one hundred percent justified in your shooting. If anything, you should have gotten a medal.”
44
Khaled drove east across America’s heartland toward his next objective. He took in the rippling effect of his three previous attacks. The damp road from the early morning rain now gave way to a slow rising fog, as the sun made its first appearance of the day. As he proceeded into the valley region of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Khaled pulled off the interstate and into a Waffle House.
The rustic city of Roanoke, located in the southwest corner of Virginia, displayed the influence of The Seven. Hand-made signs and banners hung from many windows on the neighboring businesses and houses. Much of it was second amendment gibberish about arming the militia to fight. It was working, he thought. The country was starting to divide, and people were preparing to take action. But it’s difficult to fight an enemy that you can’t see, and when that happens you take arms against the enemy you can. In this case, it was the American government.
As Khaled walked into the diner he was surprised when hit with the heavy smoke that filled the air. One of the throwbacks of American eateries. The Waffle House had resisted the popular trend that started in the late nineties, banning smoking. Somehow the chain restaurant lasted some twenty years later as if locked in time.
Khaled did not mind it at all and found a spot in the smoking section. He opened his tin of hand-rolled cigarettes and awaited the service of his overworked and overweight waitress. As he scanned the sea of truckers and early risers, he noted that many of these citizens were openly carrying firearms. It appeared that the U.S. was beginning to resemble the lawlessness of a third world country. Open defiance of state laws would max out law enforcement and additionally burden legislators.
The mumbled talk in the diner was focused on stopping the terrorist attacks. Khaled could not hear all of the banter, but the gist was that they all had to be prepared for anything. The irony was that for all the tough talk, they were completely defenseless, as they sat only mere feet from the most wanted man in America.
On the television, he could hear the mumblings of the President, but with the background noise of his fellow eaters, he could not clearly hear the words. Khaled read as the delayed closed captioning at the bottom of the screen revealed the President’s message.
We have reached the highest state of emergency within this country since the attacks of September 11, 2001. Until we can resolve this issue and locate the threat, I am calling for all Americans to remain home. Only essential government personnel at state and local levels should report to their assigned duties. All schools and universities are to close immediately. Any recreational centers and athletic events are canceled until further notice. I give this message with the support of your state’s representatives. It is with a heavy heart that I am delivering this message. Know that we are using every asset available to resolve this quickly and bring this group to justice. Your safety is paramount, and I appreciate your support.
The once loud roar of conversations and clatter of porcelain plates ceased as the message completed. A look of shock permeated the restaurant goers. The realization that their government was unable to stop the attacks was evident. The deeper and more profound impact was that no place was safe, and no target was off limits. Khaled feigned his own shock to maintain his disguise as the waitress lumbered over to take his order. He looked at her with his non-prescription glasses. This addition to his ensemble gave a humbling appearance to his features, further reducing any possible perception of the threat he imposed.
“What can I do you for, honey?” She said this with no emphasis and with the stale performance created by the daily grind of her life.
“Two eggs over easy on rye.” Khaled closed the menu and took a second look at this woman. Her crooked placard affixed above her left breast was embossed in the blue letters, Nancy, a name befitting her. Nancy’s forehead had already begun to perspire from the morning’s laborious tasks. “Crazy things going on in the world these days.” Khaled slowly shook his head for added effect. He knew that not to mention the current state of affairs would be out of place. Especially following the President’s most recent declaration.
“Don’t get me started. This country is going to hell in a handbasket.” She said this with a slight drawl and shuffled away to place his order.
Hell in a handbasket. That phrase would soon take on an entirely new meaning for Nancy and her restaurant’s patrons.
“Has the President lost his ever-loving mind?” Chimed in Nick, sitting up after hearing the radio announcement from the President. “I mean, shit, he just gave in. He has just put the entire country on lockdown!” This was said in a tone that blended equal parts anger and bewilderment.
“Never in my life…”
Alex started but seemed to drift off before completing whatever thought had caused him to open his mouth.
“There’s one benefit to that message.” It was Declan who now spoke out.
“And what’s that?” Nick said still shell-shocked.
“It won’t be suspicious that we have Mason and his family remain together at his house. They will appear to be following the White House’s directive. The Translator won’t be able to draw out his children or send us on a wild goose chase. He’s going to have to come and get them. Hopefully, we’ll be there. And ready when he does.”
“That’s if he’s not already there now. Or worse.” Nick did not finish the comment, but the message was received. Both Declan and Alex had resigned themselves to the possibility, no matter how remote, that Richards might be somehow involved.
As if on cue, Declan’s phone vibrated. “Moose, what’s up? Did you find anything on the bombs?” Declan looked at the others as he asked.
“Did you hear?” Mason’s normally calm, raspy voice was at a higher pitch. If Declan didn’t know the man, he would have said he sounded scared.
“Hear what?” Declan retorted.
“Another bombing!”
“What do you mean another bombing?” All the others stared in the direction of Declan as he said this.
“He’s in Virginia! A damn Waffle House in Roanoke. He hit them during the morning rush. It was devastating.” Mason’s voice softened as the impact of his message was delivered to Declan.
“When? Jesus, we just passed through there a few hours ago. We are on I-66 now passing exit 18 in Linden. About an hour out.” Declan signaled Alex with his hand to accelerate.
“It looks like maybe an hour or so ago. It just hit the media now. Looks like he is heading this way too. I tried to tell the agents assigned here that he was probably coming, but they were redirected to the bomb site. Only two agents remained, one internal and one on the perimeter.” Mason’s rasp was more prominent now, sounding more like a wheeze. “It will be better when you guys get here.”
“Let the perimeter guy know that we will be arriving in a black Chevy Suburban. There are four of us. See you soon. Steak Sauce out.” Declan slid the phone back into his pocket and looked around at the group. The impact of another soft target attack was disheartening and infuriating. Both emotions fluctuated in their facial expressions.
“He sounded genuinely shocked by this latest development. I know Mason and he was truly frazzled.” Declan proclaimed this to the group and Alex nodded in relief.
“Either way we need to be prepared for a battle when we reach the destination,” Nick said, reaching into the back compartment. He began distributing the gear bags so they could load up.
An uneasy silence fell over all of them. The only sound was the voice on the radio describing in detail the carnage witnessed at the Waffle House explosion. Nine dead and twenty-three wounded.
45
The agent was standing in plain sight near the edge of the long driveway in anticipation of the SUV’s arrival. Alex slowed the Chevrolet as he approached the decorative red brick half-moon retaining wall adorning the end of the driveway. The agent looked young and held a hand up, signaling Alex to stop. He walked toward the driver’s side. He exposed both badge and gun on his right hip, declaring his authority to the vehicle’s occupants.
Alex nodded. “Richards is expecting us. Tell him that the Steak Sauce has arrived.”
The agent, who identified himself only by his last, Munson, relayed the strange greeting over the radio. Mason confirmed that it was okay to let the visitors in.
Munson waved them forward and then resumed his statuesque position, looking out toward the street. Alex wanted to tell him that the bad guys never used the front door but figured it would be wasted on him. He was too green to be taught the finer points of security during this brief encounter. Time demanded their efforts on other preparations.
The driveway ended in a roundabout and Alex pulled to a stop in front of the red brick-faced colonial. The massive white pillars that spanned the front porch gave way to a handcrafted oak door with an ornate frame painted in classic white. Nick leaned over to Declan and said, “Remind me what your boss does for a living. I may need a job after this is over.”
Declan chuckled, “Don’t think that I haven’t thought about it too. He does some type of governmental consulting and develops tech for special ops guys. Totally outside of my skill set. I’m a better soldier than a scientist. Mason was the rarest of breeds. He excelled at both.”
The door swung wide and the broad shoulders of the man, appropriately nicknamed “Moose,” filled the extra-wide frame. It became readily apparent how this man had been so aptly named. “Thank God you guys are here.” He extended his hand to both Nick and Izzy as they exchanged pleasantries. Declan and Alex each received an enormous bear hug.
Nick noted the larger-than-life charisma of Richards and instantly realized why the accusation of his involvement was challenged so heavily by his former teammates. Nick regretted having made this judgment. There was no way that Mason could have had anything to do with the terrorists. As they entered the massive dwelling, Nick noted that the walls were decorated with paintings depicting every U.S. conflict dating back to the Revolution. Everything about this man screamed patriot.
“Where’s Trish and the kids?” Alex asked of his former commander.
“I have them tucked down in the basement.” Richards gave a quirky smile and continued, “It’s more of a fallout shelter slash man-cave than a basement.”
“What’s the deal with all of you ex-special forces guys? Have all of you prepared for Armageddon?” Izzy jested sarcastically.
“Life has taught me that if you don’t prepare, then someone else will. You know the old saying, luck favors the prepared,” Richards raspy voice boomed. “And I consider myself a very lucky man.” He finished this statement with a playful wink.
Mason punched a code and the heavy door released its lock. Nick looked at the thickness of the door as it opened and realized that it could probably stop a rocket. As an Army Ranger, he had the opportunity to move in the special operations circles, but he could tell these guys were at a totally different level. It was humbling to be in their presence. Three of the four remaining members of a unit that nobody knew existed were taking him into a secret hideout. It was like Batman inviting him to see the Bat Cave.
Mason began his tour of the lower lair. A soft electronic whir of a line of computers filled the air. The room looked like something that you would see at NASA or the Pentagon. It was clean and organized with one large table that had multiple workstations. Nick noted something familiar about the table but couldn’t place it.
“Wow. This set up is impressive,” Izzy spoke up.
“Thanks. I’m completely autonomous down here. This is incredibly important for my work.”
“What work is that?” Izzy asked, noting that Richards was being extremely vague and not expecting an answer.
“Not sure you have the clearance.” He said this in a way that was not condescending or rude, but clear enough to drive home the fact that the details of his work would not be discussed with anyone in the room.
“Moose, it looks like you created your own skiff,” Alex said, surveying the equipment.
“Skiff?” Izzy asked.
“It’s slang for Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. We used them a lot for intelligence sharing and operation planning. A great way to communicate without fear of compromising your intel,” Alex explained briefly.
“In its simplest form, that’s exactly what this is. But I don’t want to bore you with the nerdy details,” Mason Richards boomed. His gregarious laughter that followed snapped the group from their trance-like stares.
On the far wall was another door with a keypad similar to the one upstairs. Richards gestured for them to follow. “The next room will not be as cold. I keep this one at a lower temperature because of the heat generated from the computers
.”
The thick door opened to a room that seemed out of place from where they had just come. It was as if they had walked through the wardrobe into Narnia. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace. The center of the room had a red felt-covered pool table. Leather couches and recliners were centered around the fireplace with a large wall-mounted television affixed above it. There was a full-sized kitchen and dining area that could comfortably seat twelve.
“Hey Moose, when can I move in?” It was Declan that spoke this time. Nick realized that this must be the first time he had seen this too.
“Any time my friend. You just have to get these kids to leave.” He laughed as he pointed to his children that were sprawled out in various positions of comfort. “Hey guys, get off your lazy butts and come give Uncle Declan and Uncle Alex a hug.” At this command, four of Richards children leaped up and moved in on the two former members of their dad’s old unit. The twin teenage boys were in that too-cool-for-school awkward phase of their lives, giving a fist bump before immediately returning to their video game. The youngest two girls, who looked to Nick to be between five and eight, gave wonderfully tight hugs. He watched as Declan twirled the youngest around, arms tightly wrapped around his neck and her feet dangling in the air.
“My girls ask about you all the time. I can’t wait to tell them that I saw you.” Declan was down on one knee and holding the little one’s hands, looking deep into her eyes and speaking with a soft sincerity. Nick watched this battle-hardened soldier’s tenderness and found a new level of respect for the man. The girls then retreated to their play area.
“Where’s Mandy?” Declan asked, not seeing Mason’s oldest daughter.
Richards gave a dismissive shrug, “I couldn’t convince her to come. She’s as stubborn as her old man.” As he spoke, Declan thought that he registered an underlying sadness in the large man’s response.