“We can do this, Danny,” she said. “We have the manpower. We can assemble our Hostage Rescue Team. We can rescue Toni and protect the key at the same time.”
“By first thing tomorrow?At a remote site? Jen, if I really believed that,” I said, shaking my head, “I’d have you do it. I’m in no great hurry to walk into a shitstorm. But—and don’t take this personally ’cause I don’t mean it that way—you guys have your way of doing things: the FBI way. It’s designed for certain types of situations. And it’s probably really good in those circumstances. But in my opinion, this isn’t one of them. Marlowe already outsmarted the FBI earlier today. I’m afraid that if I involve the FBI again, Toni might get hurt this time. And I will not allow that to happen. Will. Not. There—that’s as honest as I can put it.”
“So you’re saying that you and what—two or three other guys—you’re better at hostage rescue than the FBI?”
“I’m saying in this particular case, with this particular set of constraints, yes—we’re better than the FBI. We can move faster, quieter, and more autonomously than you guys. We can bring the appropriate levels of firepower to bear at exactly the right moment.”
“And you’d rather do it alone. Great. Can you at least give me the details of when and where, even if you don’t want us there?”
Hate to say it, but I didn’t trust Jen to not try something behind my back. “All I can say is, tomorrow morning, and north of here.”
It was quiet for a second, and then she said, “Look, Danny, you may not believe it, but you can trust me. For you, I will go against everything I’ve been taught and let you do it on your own. This conversation never took place. You’re bound and determined to do this anyway, and I don’t want to mess up your plan and get anybody hurt—especially Toni.”
“Thank you,” I said, relieved. “I’ll always owe you one for this.”
“Damn straight you will,” she said. “And one day, I will collect. But meanwhile, are you sure you don’t want us in some capacity? Reserve? Anything? What are you planning to do with these guys? Execute them? Or were you going to have somebody arrest them? Think about it. Think of the legal aspect. If we’re there and shooting starts, no heat falls on you guys.”
“Well,” I said, “we had planned on calling you guys in to mop up.”
“Great,” she said. “Mop up. Is that it? We are pretty good at certain things—as you point out. Sure you don’t need us for something that you might consider a little more critical than just mopping up?”
I thought about this for a second.
“Since you offer—and this is only if I have your absolute word that you’ll not try to do anything else—you won’t try to follow me, for example, you won’t suddenly drop in out of the sky, nothing like that. If you’ll agree not to try and bust into the operation, then yeah, we have a role for you.”
“I promise,” she said. “What is it? What do you need us for?”
I spent twenty minutes explaining a part of our plan to her. I couldn’t reveal the details of the whole operation because, despite her assurances, I still didn’t trust her completely. She worked for the government, after all. But she was right. There was a role that they could play—something they were very good at.
* * * *
I needed to be on the road by about six. I was meeting the boys at a rally point in Mount Vernon at eight in the morning, and in order to safely be there by then, I wanted to leave the house early. Assuming six hours of sleep, I needed to hit the sack by tenthirty or so, allowing half an hour for tossing and turning.
Turns out that half an hour wasn’t nearly enough tossing and turning time. I went lights out at tenthirty, as planned. At eleven, I was still thinking about what was going on—what had happened, what might happen. At eleventhirty, my mind was stuck on a potential problem with our plan. By midnight, the good news was that I’d worked out a solution—or rather, figured out that what I’d thought was a problem really wasn’t that significant in the first place. The bad news was that, realizing this, my mind was free to go back to worrying about Toni.
My emotions swung from anxiety to nervousness to anger to fear. Marlowe was going to seriously fucking pay for messing with my friend.
My friend. I ran the thought back through my mind. She was my friend—my best friend. She was a colleague. A mentor, even—sometimes, anyway. But there was something else, something more making me feel this way. If I was completely honest with myself, I had to admit that even though we weren’t lovers, Toni meant more to me than any other person on this earth except maybe my parents (and they were a given). That’s how important she was to me—that’s what she meant to me.
Lying there alone, thinking about her held hostage by Marlowe, I could picture her—afraid and vulnerable. Then, suddenly, it hit me. For maybe the first time in my life, I truly understood what “empty” really means. It sucks. It’s like a big, gaping hole, right in the middle of your being. It’s impossible to ignore, impossible not to address. It dominates your consciousness in the way that thoughts of Toni now dominated mine.
And not long after I realized this—that’s when my feelings changed from fear to something else. I could literally feel the fear falling away. That was over. At a deep primal level, I was now angry. This man Marlowe had stolen something from me. He’d come like a petty thief in the night and stolen my best friend. I knew her—I know how she feels, what she thinks. I knew that she’d be pretending to be tough in front of Marlowe, but that she’d really be scared underneath. The very thought of this enraged me. This was unforgivable. I couldn’t wait for tomorrow. With every fiber of my being, I pledged that in the morning, I’d go get Toni. I’d save her—of that there was no longer the slightest shred of doubt. And tomorrow, if I found that he’d hurt Toni in any way—anything—then Gordon Marlowe was a dead man. The prick.
I rolled over and fell asleep. I slept like a log the rest of the night.
Chapter 21
MY ALARM BEEPED softly at five the next morning. After I awoke, I lay in bed for a few minutes and thought about the events that were about to unfold later in the morning—or at least the events I hoped were about to unfold. Today was going to be a big day—that much was certain. Lives were going to change—some for the better, some for the worse. There were a few ways things that could go right, but unfortunately, a bunch of ways things could go wrong. One thing was for sure, though—if I let myself dwell on the negative, I’d start getting scared. I didn’t want to do that. We’d worked out a decent plan last night. Now, it was time to execute. I hopped up out of bed and got started.
I took a quick shower, dressed and went into the living room. I turned the TV on with the sound off and selected the Weather Channel. The forecast said it would be gray today with rain off and on, all the way from Seattle to the Canadian border. The temps were supposed to be in the highforties/lowfifties range—about typical for this time of year. Based on this, I chose a pretty standard winter outfit—jeans, running shoes, and a dark blue T-shirt that said Vancouver Winter Olympics 2010. Since the rain was going to be spotty, I topped it off with my well-wornbrown leather bomber jacket.
I vacillated about which sidearmto carry. My standard carry weaponis a Les Baer Thunder Ranch Model 1911.45-caliber that I carry in a belt holster. Compared to the modern polymer-framed “black” guns like the Glocks, my stainless steel 1911’s a bit of a throwback. Then again, I’m a lights-out shot with the 1911, while I can barely hit the proverbial side of a barn with a Glock—something to do with the different trigger action, I think. I was fortunate enough to get introduced to the 1911s with a Colt M1A model in Iraq. When held up against our standard-issue 9mm Berettas, the .45-caliber 1911s were like switching from a BBgun to a Howitzer. We loved them. The bad guys didn’t. And now, as good as the Colt was, my Les Baer is a quantum leap better—deadly accurate and 100 percent reliable. I rarely venture out without it.
The problem I was having, though, was that I had a very high probability of losing
ittoday, at least temporarily. My instructions from Marlowe were to go to the meeting alone. Unfortunately, our team felt there was only a slim chance that Marlowe would actually be alone himself when I got to the meeting. He was likely to have a whole team of people there. We anticipated this—even planned for it. But it meant that, at least initially, I’d be outmanned. And that, in turn, meant that I could very well be disarmed. I would never give my sidearm up voluntarily, but I wasn’t naive enough to believe that I was immune to surprise or even to being overpowered.I’d probably get my itback when we prevailed in the end (not if we prevailed—when we prevailed). But once the weaponwas out of my control, there was no guarantee. I’d hate to lose my trusty Les Baer—thus my dilemma. In the end, I elected to take it. After all, what’s the point of developing trust and confidence in a weapon if you’re afraid to bring the damn thing with you when you’re likely to need it the most?
I did decide to strap on my ankle holster with its tiny little Kahr PM9. It’s small, it holds only seven rounds, and it shoots 9mm bullets (not my favorite). But if Marlowe’s guys take the Les Baer from me, the Kahr’s a hell of a lot better than throwing rocks. Assuming they miss it.
At 5:20, my phone rang. Caller ID: Unknown. I picked it up, and Richard said, “Good morning, Danny—I mean, Yankee 2.” We’d named our rescue operation “Operation Yankee,” seeing as how our adversaries seemed mostly to be Brits—rogue Brits to be sure, but still Brits. Each of us had a code name—I was Yankee 2. Toni herself was Yankee 0. Richard was Yankee 1 since he’d be acting as coordinator for the operation. Doc was Yankee 3, Kenny was 4, and Bobby was 5. “Yankee 3 just called in,” he said. “Right on schedule. You ready for your briefing?”
“Shoot,” I said as I finished loading up my spare magazines.
“He made the crossing and reached Delta at 0240. He said he moved to Foxtrot without being seen. From Foxtrot, he watched for thirty minutes. He saw two—repeat—two Tangos on patrol. He timed their patterns and was then able to recon all six Bravo buildings. He’s secure in position at hotel now.”
This was good news. We’d decided to use code words for the rest of the operation as well on the offchance that Marlowe had some way of tapping into our cellphone conversations.We labeled each objective on the map with a name that would mean absolutely nothing to an outsider, but we’d know exactly what we were talking about. Anyone listening in would have to guess. For example, our office was Home Plate; our rally point at a Starbucks in Mount Vernon was labeled First Base; the Skagit Regional Airport, Second Base; and the house at 1217 Marsh Road—my objective—was Third Base. Foxtrot was one of many landmark points we’d identified on the Google Earth map of the property. Finally, Tangos were code for Marlowe’s men—Marlowe himself being Tango 1.
In one respect, Marlowe had chosen the house on Marsh Road well. Since the property was triangular-shaped, and it backed up all the way to the river, the only traditional way in and out was right out in front on Marsh Road itself. A couple of sentries at either end of the property, and the place would seem secure. It would be really difficult to sneak someone in—at least on land. We assumed Marlowe would cover this base. But the property had one glaring weakness, and that was the long shoreline along the river. The farm was clearly vulnerable to an assault by water. Marlowe wasn’t a military man, and we presumed this was apparently something he’d not recognized or, at least, not worried much about. Doc and I, on the other hand, were military men, and we saw the opportunity immediately. As soon as we identified the shoreline, Doc volunteered to swim the river in order to insert. This became one of the cornerstones of our plan.
Kenny dropped him off on the east side of the river, upstream from the property near a grove of trees, at two o’clock this morning. Safely hidden, Doc donned a wet suit and fins. He entered the chilly Skagit River and swam across in the middle of the night, quietly pushing a floating waterproof duffle bag that contained his dry clothes and his weapons. He’d emerged on the west side, where he immediately took cover in some trees (Point Delta) in order to dry off, rest, and dress in dry camos. Once he was ready, he crept southward onto the Marsh Road property to begin his surveillance.
“What’s the situation on the Bravos?” I asked. The Google Earth map showed that there were six buildings on the property.
“Doc says Bravo 1 is a house, and it’s empty. Bravo 2 is a garage with two cars inside. Bravo 3 is the main house, and it’s occupied four times. Apparently, that’s where the Tangos are staying. Bravo 4 is a greenhouse—empty. Bravo 5 is a barn. Also empty. And Bravo 6 is some sort of processing building—it looks empty as well.”
“Okay.” I studied our maps and took a few moments to digest all this.“I think this is good stuff. Great that Doc’s across.”
“Absolutely,” Richard agreed. “Unbelievable, really.”
I looked at the clock. “You guys about ready to leave?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Bobby—Yankee 5—just got here.”
“Good. I’m waiting for my other half; then we’ll be on our way, too.”
“Okay. We’ll see you at First Base,” he said. We were scheduled to meet at 0800.
* * * *
Kenny arrived at 5:40. He wore his black tactical gear and carried a large duffle. Kenny is short and skinny; he normally looks like a nerdy techno-geek. With his helmet, his tac vest and his Glock semiauto strapped to his thigh—complete with a tactical holster, Kennydidn’t look like a techno-geek now. He looked like a proper war fighter.
“What time’d you get back?” I asked.
“About threethirty,” he said. “After I laid all my gear out, I had just enough time for a short nap.”
“You keep everything packed in your go bag, just like I told you, right?” I was referring to a small duffle that held—or was supposed to hold—a bulletproof vest, tactical holster, shirt, pants, gloves, boots—basically everything needed for a quick deployment except the weapons themselves, which were always kept secured. In other words, always be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Eliminates confusion.
“Yeah,” he said. “But I still wanted to double-check everything.”
“That’s cool,” I said. “So you okay?”
“Hell, yeah,” he said. “I’m ready.”
“Good. Coffee?”
“Thanks.”
While I poured him a cup, I nodded toward his duffle. “Everything fit inside?” I referred to his large duffle. His go bag and his long gun and ammunition would be packed inside.
“Yep. The AR’s in a soft case. The ammo and all the magazines are in the go bag. Damn thing weighs a ton.”
Two years ago, I bought four Colt AR-15 rifles for the office plus a Benelli M4 shotgun. The Benelli came with a collapsible stock. We changed out the factory stock on the ARs and outfitted them with collapsible stocks as well. This made them quite a bit easier to transport. We kept the rifles in the safe, and we trained with them every couple of months. In addition to the one Kenny carried, Doc had one in his waterproof bag, and Richard had another. Bobby was more comfortable with a scattergun, so he chose to carry the Benelli. This was good because the semiauto shotgun carries a wicked punch.
“Excellent. How about your sidearm? You have plenty of extra magazines?”Kenny’s Glock 21SF fires the same .45-caliber ammunition that our 1911s do, but its magazines hold thirteen rounds apiece, whereas our 1911 magazines only carry eight.
“I’ve got five extra,” he said.
This gave him nearly eighty rounds. “That ought to do it,” I said. If we got to the point where Kenny needed more than eighty rounds of handgun ammunition, we were probably in real trouble.
“Bring your coffee, and let’s check the Jeep; then we’re out of here.”
I’m lucky in that my apartment comes with a small one-car garage. By using some overhead racks and a little creativity, the Jeep just barely fits inside. Kenny and I went over every inch with lights and mirrors, including underneath. We were looking for anything that might have been
stuck to the Jeep that could be used to track us electronically. We found nothing, so we loaded up and hit the road at 5:55.
* * * *
I didn’t want Marlowe knowing my whereabouts until the moment I drove up to his property. I figured the two easiest ways he could tell where I was would be either to plant some sort of tracking device on the Jeep, or, failing that, he could simply follow us. I presumed he knew where I lived. They knew that I’d be on my way this morning. All they had to do was park outside, wait till I left, and then simply fall in line.
We’d eliminated the first possibility with our vehicle search, so I figured I’d take a little time to make certain no one was on our tail. Instead of heading west on Mercer to join I-5 north—the direction of LaConner—I jumped on Aurora southbound at Mercer—the opposite direction. Then, only a half mile later, I caught a green at Denny, so I made a sharp U-turn around the median. Anyone following would have stood right out. No one followed.
I drove north on Aurora, crossed Mercer, and immediately exited east on Aloha—only about a block from my apartment. Still, no one followed us.
“Well, I’m dizzy,” Kenny said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Me, too.” I checked the rearview mirror one more time as Kenny did the same with the side mirror. “I think we’re clear. I don’t see anyone.”
“That’s because no one’s there,” he said. “I think you’re good. Marlowe doesn’t need to follow you. He already knows where you’re going, and he knows when you’re supposed to be there. The only road in and out of his place is easily watched—I bet he’ll have just a few guys out on those roads. That’s all he needs.”
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