Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “Still,” Riggs said, turning back to his file, “with the amount of ground troops roaming the vicinity, and the Sentinels and fighters flanking the zone, I’d give a rogue missile one chance in three of making it through. And that’s only if there’s one missile deployed.” He gave Hatfield a long look. “That good enough for you, Bill?”

  Hatfield allowed a deep breath to convert itself into the tiniest of nods. “If that’s the best we can do.”

  Matt looked away from Hatfield and shook his head, fighting to maintain control.

  “You got those reports?” Jackson asked.

  “Right here,” Riggs said, sliding a large, folded piece of paper from the file and opening it all the way. He moved the stack of files to the side and laid the paper across the middle of the table. As Riggs leaned over the paper, Nick could see that it was a map of the United States.

  Riggs removed a pencil from his breast pocket and hovered over the map. With millions of dollars worth of computer technology surrounding him, Riggs was going with his strength; a pencil and a piece of paper. He drew a straight line from Hoover Dam to Las Vegas. “Three-thirty this morning, an operative in Nevada made an ID on a KSF soldier traveling from Arizona to Las Vegas.”

  “What happened with him?” Hatfield asked.

  Nick winced. Hatfield had obviously never been to a Riggs briefing before. Riggs didn’t tolerate interruptions when he was disseminating intelligence. He would almost always answer your question at some point during the briefing, and the ones he didn’t answer usually weren’t pertinent enough to warrant an explanation.

  Riggs simply gave Hatfield his game face. The Chief of Staff developed a sudden fascination with the diagram of Hoover Dam. Riggs returned his attention to the map.

  “Now then,” he continued. Drawing a line from Flagstaff, Arizona to Santa Fe, New Mexico, he added, “Four-fifteen this morning, an experienced trucker traveling east on Interstate 40 near Flagstaff noticed a truck pulling a trailer that didn’t match the markings on the cab. He called DPS and they discovered two KSF soldiers transporting explosives.” He looked up at Hatfield. “They made the arrest without incident.”

  Drawing another line from Yuma, Arizona, to San Diego, California, he said, “At five-twenty AM, a highway patrol officer discovered a car making a U-turn on a grass median, trying to avoid a road block on Interstate 8 West. He called for backup and they arrested two more KSF soldiers with a trunk full of explosives.”

  Riggs pointed to Jackson, “I assume you have the samples back.”

  Jackson nodded, taking his cue to finish the intelligence report. “Yes, we took soil samples from all of the captured soldier’s shoes. There’s trace of Pinyon Juniper present in each of their samples. This particular type of plant is most commonly found in higher elevation. In the four-to seven-thousand-foot range.”

  Jackson took the pencil from Riggs’ hand and traced a serpentine oval around the northern Arizona portion of the map. “This puts them either up here in the Flagstaff, Prescott, Payson area, or down here around the outskirts of the Tucson. It’s a large region to cover in such a short time, but we should focus in or around the small towns. They need supplies, so we have to gamble a little here.”

  Riggs stood upright from his hunched position, as if to get a better perspective of the markings. He looked around the table, while pointing to the areas Jackson had just circled. “Gentlemen, the enemy is here somewhere. We just need good old-fashioned investigative skills to sniff them out.”

  Walt must have read Nick’s face because he looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You have something to add, Nick?”

  Nick looked up at Matt, but his partner’s face was shut tight. This was Nick’s call and he knew it.

  “Nick?”

  Nick looked at his watch, then back to Jackson. There wasn’t time for the usual political dance. He either opened up and risked a scandal that made Watergate look like misdemeanor trespassing, or keep quiet and possibly watch the White House light up the night sky. He thought about Julie, and how desperate she looked when she pleaded for him to keep going. To find Kharrazi and kill him.

  “Something wrong, Nick?” Ken Morris said.

  Nick felt a drop of sweat tickle the back of his neck. “They’re in Payson,” he said.

  “Is that a hunch?” Riggs asked.

  Nick shook his head. “I have an informant.”

  “Who?”

  Nick shrugged, but before he could pry open the can of worms, Matt stepped into the fire. “It’s an operative we have working undercover,” Matt said.

  Hatfield glanced at Matt for a brief moment, then back to Nick. “Is that true, Nick?”

  It was almost true, but not quite. He felt his stomach move ever so slightly upward. He was now in a corner. If he gave up Sal, then Hatfield would have questions. Questions that he couldn’t be allowed to have the answers to. And if he contradicted his partner . . . well, he couldn’t do that either. His brain swelled with frustration.

  Suddenly, a commotion erupted in the back of the room.

  “Get him!” someone shouted.

  Nick looked up and saw a dozen analysts cheering in front of a big screen video monitor as if they were watching the Super Bowl. On the screen, a dark-haired man in jeans and a long-sleeve shirt ran through a backyard, being chased by another man wearing an FBI windbreaker. The view was from overhead and it resembled video that reality cop shows would film from a helicopter. The clarity on the screen was remarkable. Nick could tell that the dark-haired man wore black, high-top sneakers. But they weren’t watching a shot from a helicopter; they were watching an image projected from a spy satellite hundreds of miles in space. Nick had heard stories of its capabilities, but when he saw the picture himself, he was amazed.

  Walt Jackson was having a conversation on his headset. “Bring it in closer,” he said.

  Nick thought if the image were any closer, he could tell which brand of hair gel the guy used.

  Matt looked over his shoulder at Nick. “Recognize him?”

  Nick squinted, trying to catch the face of the fleeing man. “Bali?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Who’s Bali?” Riggs asked.

  “Reyola Bali,” Nick answered. “He’s one of Kharrazi’s top soldiers. They call him the ‘Specialist.’”

  “What’s so special about him?”

  “Well, it’s common knowledge that everyone in Kharrazi’s organization uses a knife as their weapon of choice. Bali is one of the few who prefers a gun. He’s their premier sniper.”

  Riggs pointed at the screen. “Do you think this agent chasing him knows that?”

  Nick watched the chase, anxiously tapping his fist to his lips. He saw the face of the young FBI agent and it reminded him of himself his first couple of years with the Baltimore P.D.—brash, aggressive, too aggressive. As if the aggression could somehow make up for his lack of experience. The agent was running recklessly toward Bali, practically stumbling on every third step. Nick could feel the agent’s adrenal gland surging unnatural levels of hormones through his blood system.

  Nick suddenly felt someone watching him. Riggs was staring at him, waiting for a response to his question. Nick considered how much an ordinary field agent would know about Bali. Finally, he looked away from the screen just long enough to make eye contact with Riggs and give him a grim shake of his head.

  “Shit.” Riggs turned back toward the screen.

  Nick watched the action on the satellite feed with a new sense of dread. Now Bali was hopping a block fence and running down a dirt alleyway. The young agent was fifty feet behind him. He was a little sloppier with the fence and landed awkwardly, but he immediately jumped to his feet and started gaining on Bali. The angle of the screen was so close that it was hard to see the terrain, or what was ahead of the two men.

  “Where is this? Nick asked.

  “Gary, Indiana,” Walt said, without removing his eyes from the screen.

  “Where’s his backup?” />
  “It’s coming.”

  The cheering in the War Room grew louder as the FBI agent drew nearer, sending shivers up Nick’s spine. Bali was quick, but he had to make decisions of direction that seemed to slow him up. The FBI agent appeared more familiar with the surroundings, and all he had to do was follow Bali.

  Finally, a beam of swirling lights preceded the entrance of a local police car taking up the chase from the left portion of the screen. The buzz in the War Room grew intense with an ovation for the backup.

  “Here comes the cavalry!” someone shouted.

  Nick still tapped his lips with his fist, only his grip grew tighter.

  The police car was spitting up dirt with its tires while fishtailing down a dirt alley, leaving a trail of sideswiped garbage cans in its wake. The driver slowed when he approached an intersection of alleys. As the car nosed its way into the intersection, Bali ran directly across the front bumper of the vehicle without even turning his head. The car backed up and attempted to turn down Bali’s alley. The FBI agent banged the hood of the car with his credentials as he fled past the vehicle. The turn was too sharp for the police car so the cruiser had to make several back-and-forth maneuvers, costing precious seconds before finally returning to the chase.

  Suddenly, Bali made a wide right turn around the corner of a block fence. The width of the turn made it appear as if he was picking up speed, but the moment Bali felt the agent was out of sight, he darted straight right and crouched up against the fence for cover. The agent couldn’t see Bali double back, so he kept barreling forward. The entire War Room took a collective gasp. Someone yelled at the screen to look out. The agent couldn’t hear the pleas from the War Room, nor could he see the man pulling a gun from his belt in the back of his jeans. Like watching a motorboat speeding toward a hidden waterfall, Nick cringed at the sight.

  The agent slowed slightly as he turned the corner, but he obviously expected Bali to be in a full sprint. By the time his momentum took him past the fence line, it was too late. Bali was waiting for him, arms outstretched, gun trained on the agent. The soundless picture added a creepy element to the inevitable shooting. The agent tried desperately to get down, but Bali was too quick. When the agent hit the ground, he was already immobile. Bali moved closer. Someone shouted, “Let him be.” But Bali was ruthless. Even with the police car approaching, and maybe because the cruiser approached, Bali edged to within three feet of the fallen agent. He pointed his gun down at the man’s head.

  Nick cupped his hand over his eyes. He heard the groans, first from the men around him, then from all four corners of the underground bunker.

  Riggs slammed his fist onto the oak table and the War Room turned deathly still. The whir of the computers filled the silence as analysts found their way back to their desks, and their seemingly futile assignments.

  Nick looked up in time to see Bali hopping over a fence. Eventually, Bali would be caught, or more likely, killed—but not until he took as many lives as possible; none more important to the agents in the War Room than the man who lay motionless on the ground. The police car finally reached the agent and the officer jumped from the vehicle and ran to him. The satellite camera focused back on Bali who jerked open a side entrance door to a large office complex. Screeching police cars suddenly surrounded the building. It was only a matter of time, but Nick knew that nothing good would happen inside of that building. Bali killed one of their own. He would never be allowed to leave the structure alive.

  Nick waited for Riggs to resume his questioning about the identity of his informant. Instead, Riggs placed a hand over his mouth and slowly rubbed, as if he was measuring the precise amount of stubble his face could sprout after pulling an all-nighter. He appraised everyone at the table, eventually settling on Nick.

  “Payson, huh?” Riggs said. He circled the small town on the map with his pencil, then looked at Jackson. “Now, we can go in heavy or go in silent. Which do you think would be more effective?”

  To his credit, Jackson blew by the informant issue at light speed, “With such a short window, I think silent might be more effective. If we go bullying our way into such a small arena, the KSF will hear us coming and dig in. Maybe even detonate the missiles early.”

  Riggs nodded his head. “That’s right. If they think they’re secure, they’re more likely to make a mistake. Maybe even get a little careless.”

  Hatfield seemed unable to restrain himself. “What are you talking about? Are you saying that we don’t send every available resource to that town immediately? That’s insane.”

  Riggs did something that brought a huge grin to Matt’s face. He turned to Jackson and continued the discussion unabated. “We send a small, tactical team of agents. Nick’s team. Have them work with the local Sheriff’s Department—with plainclothes.” He looked at his watch. “If we hustle we can get the team on the ground in five hours. That puts them there by three o’clock Pacific time, and gives them six hours to find Kharrazi’s headquarters.” He made straight lines across every road that passed through Payson. “In the meantime, set up roadblocks here, here, and here. If we don’t succeed in finding them tonight, then we can always have ground troops there by morning.”

  Jackson took the map and pushed a button on his transmitter. A minute later, he was speaking with a deputy in the Gila County Sheriff’s Office in Payson, Arizona.

  Hatfield shook a fist at Riggs. “Listen here, Martin, I’m not telling the president that we know where they are, but we’re going to be clandestine about it. We should get the media involved, have them broadcast that reward money promo all over the networks. We’ll get information, fast. Send in the damn military now for crying out loud.”

  Riggs glared at Hatfield’s fist and it melted to the table like an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Riggs scrolled his eyes right up into the Chief of Staff’s face. “You can tell the president that we’re doing our jobs to the best of our ability. With all of the years of experience putting our lives on the line defending our nation from domestic and foreign enemies, we feel that this tactic has the best chance to succeed. Unless you have some law enforcement training, or military service in your background that I’m not familiar with—we’re not taking any requests.”

  Hatfield pursed his lips, but stopped there. Nick could see the frustration in Hatfield’s face. Riggs knew that Hatfield was a former corporate attorney, who stepped in a pile of good fortune by marrying President Merrick’s sister back when he was still a senator in Indiana. Still, Hatfield could make everyone’s life miserable, adding pressure from the executive branch that no one wanted to deal with. He sat back in his seat with a childish frown on his face. With one final act of misguided authority, he said, “Proceed.”

  Riggs stood at attention. He pointed to Nick, then Matt. “You two need to get going. Gather the team and head down to Dulles. There will be a Defense Department plane waiting for you. My plane.” He looked at Jackson almost as an afterthought. “That okay with you, Walt?”

  Jackson nodded. “Of course. They’re our best assets.”

  Riggs looked at Hatfield, who sat rigid, attempting to appear important. Riggs said, “Don’t you have some shoes to shine or something?”

  For a moment Nick thought Matt might stick his tongue out at Hatfield. Instead, Matt motioned to the door and said to Nick. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 26

  Nihad Tansu entered the hospital wearing green surgical scrubs and a stethoscope draped around his neck. He strode into the lobby with a confident swagger and leaned over the half-circle reception desk, both hands on the white countertop. “I’m Doctor Marshall,” he announced to the white-haired woman sitting behind the desk. He managed to transform his Kurdish accent into a Latin-flavored mixture of Italian and Greek. Just enough to add mystery without being mysterious. “I was called down to see a new patient—Julie Bracco. Could you please direct me to her room?”

  The woman scrolled a finger down a laminated sheet of paper hanging from the upper p
ortion of the countertop. “Dr. Marshall?” she said, curiously. “I’m sorry, I’ve never seen your name before. Do you have privileges here?”

  Tansu smiled. “Of course, it’s just that I only moved here a couple of days ago and the administrator hasn’t gotten around to adding me to the roster yet.”

  The woman nodded her head, but continued to follow her finger up and down the sheet, even turning it over to scan names posted on the opposite side. “I see,” she said.

  “I’m a plastic surgeon,” he said. “I’m only here to meet the patient and confer with Dr. Williams about her case.”

  With the introduction of Dr. Williams’ name, the woman seemed to perk up. “Oh,” she said, “well, yes. Dr. Williams just operated on her last night. Poor thing, got a bullet right in the back of the head.” She pointed for effect.

  Tansu cringed, but not for the same reason the woman thought it was for. He grimaced at the knowledge that Julie Bracco had somehow survived his gunshot. “Ouch,” he said. “That’s not good.”

  The woman looked at him. “But, you must know all about it already?”

  He froze.

  “I mean if you’ve spoken with Dr. Williams already.”

  “Actually,” Tansu breathed relief, “I only received a voice mail from him. He just told me to meet him here at ten-thirty.”

  The woman appeared to be checking her computer screen for something. Tansu feared she was checking to see if Dr. Williams was even there. Tansu got the doctor’s name from the newspaper that morning and hoped that would be enough of a password. He cupped his hand under her chin, holding it there as if he were framing her face for a portrait. “I hope you don’t think me rude,” he said, “but I only started seeing patients on Tuesday, and . . . um . . .”

  This got her full attention—a plastic surgeon actually examining her face. “Yes?” she said, anxiously.

  “Well, it’s just that, being new and all . . . I could use some work to keep me fresh.”

  Her eyes widened as he moved around her, touching her cheek ever so softly. She sat perfectly still, as if the slightest movement could cause a miscalculation.