The Beltway Assassin

by Richard Fox

  “Greg, what Ritter and his group are doing is against everything America stands for. Do you agree?” Cox asked.

  Shelton nodded.

  “I’m part of a…a movement…that’s trying to crush that shadow organization. We have some very high backers within the government, men and women who’ll make sure Ritter can never influence you again. Will you join us?”

  Shelton pressed his lips together and looked away. More secrets, more shadows to deal with. “What is it you’re after?” he asked.

  “Justice.”

  “I’m in,” Shelton said. Pride, absent for so many years, filled him as Cox reached into his desk and pulled out an American flag lapel pin, the gold border glittered in the light.

  “You’re one of the president’s men now. President Benson founded our organization once he realized that organization was running rampant through the government and military, and we report directly to him. Wear this with pride,” Cox said. “Now, we need to get the story about Jefferson ready for public consumption. Then, you’re going on vacation.”

  ****

  Shelton had been to rock concerts with less enthusiasm than this press conference. Reporters were packed together so tightly that the room was beginning to fog up; the smell of stale cigarettes and body odor wouldn’t thankfully translate through the TV and print mediums. Assistant Director Cox stood behind a dense thicket of microphones attached to a podium.

  Shelton, who felt several years younger after a hot shower and a shave, looked several years younger too, thanks to a quick touch-up by someone from FBI’s public affairs office with foundation and concealer. This would be the only time he’d ever have to explain to his wife why he came home smudged with makeup. He hovered just off camera, waiting for his cue.

  “It came down to a great investigative effort from the FBI to track down the Beltway Bomber. While the loss of life prior to last night’s event is a tragedy, no one else is at risk from Erasmus Toolidge, also known as Jefferson,” Cox said. Cameras flashed to capture Cox’s perfect smile.

  “Do you think the Occupy movement was involved with the bombings?” came a voice from the crowd.

  “There’s no evidence of that. But what we in the Bureau, and other agencies in the government, are looking at is the risk posed by veterans of the armed forces,” Cox said.

  Shelton’s head jerked up at the suggestion. This wasn’t part of the official story he and Cox had agreed to hours before.

  “Jefferson’s bomb-making skills came from his army training, and while the vast majority of veterans are law-abiding citizens, we saw the impact of what that training can do here in the homeland. On the flip side, the key agent in this investigation was Greg Shelton, a combat veteran and recipient of multiple Purple Hearts. Let me turn it over to him. Greg?”

  Shelton walked up to the podium. He felt like a turkey that had finally figured out what Thanksgiving was all about.

  “Do you think veterans pose a threat to society?”

  “Should the government track individuals who possess deadly skills?”

  “Do you think PTSD makes people more violent?”

  The questions came fast and furious, and Shelton couldn’t use the tried-and-true deflection technique of referring the reporters to the public affairs office, not in the proverbial and literal spotlight.

  Shelton took a sheet of notes from his pocket and read his prepared statement.

  ****

  “Daddy, we saw you on TV!” Shelton’s daughters squealed when he finally made it home. He handled their questions with a good deal more grace and candor than his first foray on the national stage. He had to assure them several times that he wasn’t famous, and no, he couldn’t introduce them to movie stars.

  Hours later, when the girls were in bed, Shelton and his wife drank beer in the kitchen.

  “What the hell was up with the ‘dangerous veteran’ questions?” Mary asked.

  “I don’t know. It was a surprise to me too. The important thing…I don’t owe Ritter a damn thing now. We’re out from under that shadow. The Bureau is going to take him and the rest of them down, and I’m on the task force,” Shelton said. “The key to unraveling their plot is a man called the Iranian. He’s our focus for the time being.”

  The cell phone in his pocket buzzed. Hadn’t he turned it off the second he got home? An unlisted number was calling.

  “Speak of the devil,” Shelton answered and stepped out onto the porch. The January air leeched heat from him.

  “Well, well, well, look who’s the big hero,” Ritter said. “Clever with the handcuffs. Didn’t see that coming. Looks like you and the FBI came up with a decent cover story, which is fine. I can handle the cheap shot and the double cross—par for the course, really. Devious. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “This isn’t over, you understand? Right now, I have enough evidence to burn you for murder. And I’m just getting started,” Shelton said.

  Ritter chuckled. “Oh, Greg. You’re adorable—you really are. My knife vanished from the Fairfax County evidence locker yesterday. Such a shame that things like that get misplaced but thanks for finding it for me. For what it’s worth, I didn’t kill Garcia. I was at the little dust up at TEDAC extracting an asset when Garcia got himself perished.

  “And this isn’t over. You’re right on that one. Something is happening. Something much bigger than you or me. We’re just ants scurrying between the boot heels of giants, and it’s up to us not to get crushed.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “A warning. You’re a good soul, Greg. Be careful what you believe and who you trust. Send my love to Mary and the girls.” Ritter hung up.

  Shelton stayed in the night air, his spirit growing cold with his body.

  ****

  The private jet was up to Shannon’s high standards. The art deco interior and aged oak furnishings smelled brand new and had nary a scratch on it. Ritter set a highball in front of Shannon and joined her at a table for two. There were no flight attendants for this trip.

  “Crazy question, but where are we going?” Ritter asked.

  Shannon, a few more gray hairs in her black mane, stirred her drink. The normally inscrutable woman had an air of sadness to her since he’d boarded the plane. Whatever weighed on her must have been something exponentially worse than the terrorists and wet work that encompassed most of their dealings.

  “Canada. Then you’re going to the Ukraine to help Cindy and the rest of the team,” she said. “Keep up appearances that all is well.”

  “I thought I was too hurt for fieldwork. Not that I’m saying no,” Ritter said. His cracked ribs flared against his will.

  “You are, but I need to stick you somewhere safe and around friends. Ukraine is about to turn into a war zone, but that’s a better place than anywhere stateside. Once that situation’s resolved, you will find the Iranian,” she said.

  “Or whatever he is.”

  “He’s Iranian. That’s for sure. Tony may be a slob, but he knows when to share and when to play something close to the vest. There were two DNA hits on the crush wire that went to TEDAC for analysis. The first for Jefferson, the other for a detainee from Iraq named Javad Lajani, which is certainly fake. The Iranian is Quds force, Iran’s CIA and the main boogeymen of the Middle East. We’ve tangled with him before in Yemen and Oman.”

  “What’s a Quds force operative doing in the States…and with that kind of access?”

  “I’d like you to ask him yourself,” Shannon said. She took a long sip from her drink and stared out the window at the cityscape below, a glowing grid in the night. From under her bra, she took out the sheet of paper with the list of names Ritter had retrieved from Jefferson’s tent. She unfolded it.

  “Bendis, the first victim, was the director who recruited me into the program. That’s how it works. Each director had his or her own team. He was the only director I had the identity of. The rest of the directors…They don’t know who the others are either. I’m going t
o make an educated guess and assume that the rest of the names on this list are also directors.” She traced her finger under each name as she read them.

  “If they don’t know each other, then how did Jefferson get the list?” Ritter asked.

  “There’s a higher authority. The first authority formed the program after 9/11 to hunt down those responsible for the attack and safeguard the nation. His replacement has had other priorities,” Shannon said.

  Ritter didn’t need to ask who it was. There was only one person on earth who could command the loyalty of a group like the Caliban Program. The President of the United States of America.

  “What does this mean?” Ritter asked.

  “It means that authority gave Jefferson the means and the targets to start killing us. It means we are at war with our own government. That nuclear warhead you procured in Africa was the catalyst, but I don’t know how it fits into all this,” Shannon said.

  “So what now?”

  “We’re ronin, samurai without masters. I’ll get in touch with the rest of the directors and let them know about the threat. Then get Tony and Irene to find more evidence of what the authority is up to,” she said.

  “And what do we do about the authority?”

  “I don’t know yet,” she said. “After your mission in the Ukraine…if you and Cindy don’t want to come back, I’ll understand.”

  That Shannon knew about his relationship with Cindy wasn’t much of a surprise. She was in the business of knowing. He considered the idea of being free from the life of secrets and lies for a moment, but only for a moment.

  “Shannon, whatever is going on right now with the authority and that nuke is…worse than anything al-Qaeda can do. For the nation, for our way of life, I’m in this until the end,” he said.

  “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me,” she said.

  ****

  Zike stood beside Assistant Director Cox and Admiral Gage, head of Special Operations Command. The trio had been on the receiving end of ass chewings before, but this day was something special.

  “How do you expect me to believe that the plan in still on track? One target was eliminated. One,” their leader said.

  “All the directors who could go underground did so within hours of the first death. We didn’t anticipate that, but it works in our favor. Now we know their methods, and we will take the rest out in one fell swoop…when we can catch them in the open,” Admiral Gage said. A veteran SEAL, Gage’s black uniform boasted medals from three decades of service and his face bore scars from a firefight gone bad in the Afghan mountains.

  “They don’t know? They think that Jefferson idiot did this by himself?”

  “The move on Hawker fits that pattern. We’re planting more evidence to strengthen the lone-wolf scenario. The director we have under out thumb will dissuade the rest from thinking otherwise,” Cox said.

  “Fine. The plan moves forward. Where are we on the Iranian and his team?” their leader asked.

  “He’s retrieving them from the border now. The supplemental package will arrive by sea in a few days. Phase two and three will be ready in two weeks,” Zike said.

  Hector Benson, president of the United States of America, looked over his lieutenants. His dark eyes had a way of making Zike’s skin crawl when he was angry, and this was definitely one of those times.

  “Our plan must succeed for this great nation to endure. You all understand that. Eliminate the Caliban Program before the final phase by any means necessary. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” they said.

  ****

  The Iranian pulled onto the side of the dirt road ten yards from two idling Border Patrol trucks. The transponder guiding him to his team was in one of those two trucks. The coyote, local parlance for a human smuggler, had been paid a ridiculous sum to bring the Iranian’s team from Mexico to Phoenix to prevent this exact scenario.

  Yet, here he was, deep inside the Coronado National Forest northwest of Sierra Vista.

  The Iranian came to a stop quickly, using the cloud of dust his truck had kicked up to conceal himself as he got out of the truck. The Glock in the side of his door was already cocked and loaded. He’d need only a few seconds.

  “I’m from the Tucson field office. Do you have those special interest aliens in custody?” the Iranian said as he approached a pair of Border Patrolmen, both in the deep-green uniforms of their service. He held an ID open at eye level, meant to distract from the pistol held behind his back as he approached.

  The pair, Liu and Contreras by their name tags, exchanged a glance.

  “We called that in maybe half an hour ago. How did you—”

  The Iranian put two round in his chest before he could finish, then two rounds into his partner’s head. He sprinted forward to the lead vehicle. He found another Border Patrolman in the cab, fumbling for a radio and his sidearm. Two rounds through the glass ended his life.

  The Iranian reloaded a fresh magazine and opened the prisoner cabin on the green-and-white truck. There were five terrified men, their hands over their heads. Fear turned to joy on four of the faces.

  “What part of ‘Don’t get caught’ didn’t you understand?” the Iranian said in Farsi.

  “We tried to come over during the night, but the guide thought we might get lost,” said Farid, the oldest Iranian in the truck, his bald head at odds with his bushy beard.

  The coyote, spouting off nonstop and rapid-fire Spanish, jumped from the cab and backed away from the Iranian, hands in the air.

  “What’s he saying?” the Iranian asked. He bent down and pulled a pistol from a dead Border Patrol agent’s holster. He slid the upper receive back to confirm there was a round in the chamber.

  “‘So sorry. I’ll get you a refund.’ That sort of thing,” Soheil, a studious young man just out of his teens, said.

  The Iranian shook his head and shot the Mexican in the chest with the Border Patrol agent’s weapon. He dropped the smoking gun next to the uniformed corpse and tossed his Glock next to the dead Mexican. The next person on the scene would find the Border Patrolmen and the Mexican smuggler killed in shoot out, the byline practically wrote itself.

  “Get out. We have work to do,” the Iranian said. The four men were some of the best bomb makers and engineers in the Quds force. The Iranian needed them in Washington, DC immediately. It was their time to shine.

  THE END

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  Thank you for reading THE BELTWAY ASSASSIN. I want my next book to be better than the last, and for that, I need your help. Please leave an honest review and let me know what you liked, and where I can improve.

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  Also By Richard Fox:

  THE RED BARON

  At the dawn of the First World War, Manfred von Richthofen sought glory. What he found was misery. Sentenced to a meaningless staff position after losing his first battle, Richthofen joins the fledgling German air force and discovers his deadly talent for air to air combat.

  In the air, victory and renown come at the expense of other men’s lives and with a burden that grinds against his soul. To the soldiers and people of Germany, he was the pride of an empire. To his foes, he was the Red Baron. As wounds to his body and spirit mount, Richthofen learns that even heroes have limits. As the war enters the final stages, finding the strength to keep fighting will be his greatest battle.

  The Eric Ritter Spy Thriller Series:

  THE CALIBAN PROGRAM

  When the CIA summon young Lieutenant Eric Ritter to Pakistan, they throw him into the cloak and dagger war against al Qaeda. A war Ritter isn't ready for.

  INTO DARKNESS

  A Deadly ambush leaves two soldiers in terrorist hands, and their only chance at rescue is the connection between Eric Ritter and the al Qaeda masterm
ind behind the attack.

  THE SOCOTRA INCIDENT

  Somali pirates hijack a fishing boat smuggling a nuclear warhead and a frantic race for the weapon ignites. Al Qaeda wants the bomb to strike a devastating blow against the West. The North Koreans want the nuclear weapon back before their role in nuclear terrorism is exposed. The CIA want their operative Eric Ritter to seize the bomb intact for later use…and Ritter doesn’t know why.