“Right. Black Flag operatives are trained as small teams, according to their assigned area of operation. They are selected for the area of operation first, then brought into the program. Daniel Petrovich was assigned to Serbia, which makes some sense given his background. Father Serbian, mother Polish. Not sure if he spoke Serbian before the program, but it’s fair to make that assumption. McKie said the selection process was the key to Black Flag’s success.”
“Success?” said Sharpe.
“I asked. McKie wasn’t willing to share any operational details. Like my fax implied, this group is extremely dangerous. They have the skills to survive and escape nearly any situation, backed by extensive experience putting these skills through the wringer. I assume the takedown teams know what they’re facing?”
“They’ve been thoroughly briefed. I could read between the lines of your fax. It must really burn Munoz to have been caught like this. He turned his back on Sanderson pretty quick,” said Sharpe.
“Maybe they were all dragged back into this against their will. The Black Flag program was run exclusively by Sanderson. I didn’t get the impression there was any oversight. These rogue programs always have problems. Who knows? But Munoz wasn’t exactly living like some disgruntled, mentally scarred burnout. He left one of his coffee shops in the middle of the afternoon yesterday, for an appointment that wasn’t on the books, and wound up unconscious in Newport. Hell, maybe we’ll find a few more of these guys sitting around, waiting to chat about General Sanderson,” said Mendoza, and they both sat quiet for a few moments, contemplating Mendoza’s comment.
“I wonder if Petrovich falls into this category,” Sharpe muttered, just above his breath.
“Why the focus on Petrovich?”
“Something about him didn’t fit from the start. He only lives a few miles from the murder scene, which seemed a little close to home…”
“Convenient. Knows the landscape, traffic patterns, can dress like a local. I think it’s perfect. Shit, if Munoz hadn’t slipped, we would never have found Petrovich,” said Mendoza.
“I know,” Sharpe whispered, “but none of the other suspects live closer than sixty miles. Most live even further away. And then there’s the operative in Concord, NH. Steven Gedman. Our team just discovered some interesting news about him.”
Mendoza shrugged.
“A National Crime Information Center (NCIC) database search,��� Sharpe continued, ���turned up a quick hit. Mr. Gedman was recently picked up by police for a domestic incident. We called the Concord police, and learned that he’s an involuntary guest at Concord Hospital’s inpatient psychiatric ward. His wife said he had a breakdown, and started running around the house packing suitcases, yelling…are you ready for this?”
Mendoza nodded.
“He kept screaming ‘They’re trying to drag me back in!’ and all kinds of stuff that made no sense to her.”
“No kidding. Are you thinking-”
“Yes. That Gedman was supposed to be the one to kill Mohammed Ghani, but he crumbled under the pressure. I can’t imagine any of these guys can remain stable for the long run. Especially if their main mission was undercover work.”
“Still, Sanderson had other choices. A guy in upstate New York could have made the trip,” countered Mendoza.
“I don’t know. Gedman was hospitalized one night before the murders. Petrovich was right there. I think he’s their weak link. We find him, we find Sanderson. At the end of the day, I just want confirmation that this isn’t the beginning of a bigger attack. I’ll need Sanderson for that. The FBI and White House can figure out what to do with his pet project later.”
Sharpe’s desk phone punctuated the conversation with a shrill ring tone, causing the agent to quickly sweep it out of its cradle.
“Special Agent Sharpe,” he said, and listened.
“Give all locations a ten minute warning. I want a coordinated strike at 2100 hours, eastern time. We’ll be right there,” Sharpe said, and hung up the phone. “All of the teams are ready.”
“Let’s go fishing, sir,” Mendoza said, rising from his chair.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
8:47 PM
Portland, Maine
Special Agent Justin Edwards felt like a second class citizen. He sat in the front passenger seat of a rented Chevy Impala, parked deep inside the Longfellow Elementary School parking lot and hidden from the light traffic on Stevens Avenue. Underneath his navy blue, nylon FBI parka, he wore a stripped down tactical vest, loaned to him by the Portland Police department, His service pistol, a boxy Glock 23, was jammed uncomfortably between his waist and seat, causing him to continuously squirm and fidget, like a child on a long car trip. This Impala, supposedly the best car available on the FBI’s budget, smelled like stale cigarette smoke and cherry air freshener. The car’s windows had been open since they drove it off the rental lot at the Portland Jetport, but the nasty odor continued to permeate the car, and his lungs itched.
Nearly a dozen police vehicles crowded the southern corner of the lot, casting long shadows across the parking lot from the orange security light glowing over the gymnasium entrance doors. Five black and white Suburbans formed a row, extending from an industrial dumpster near the kitchen delivery dock to the edge of the ancient, three-story school, positioned for a quick exit onto Stevens Avenue toward their target. Several fully equipped SWAT officers stood in a loose circle around the second SUV in line, and he could see at least a dozen more heavily armed officers scattered throughout the rest of the vehicles.
The other cars were unmarked sedans, like Edward’s car, filled with at least twenty additional plain clothed and uniformed law enforcement officers. They had arrived at the parking lot two hours earlier through a back entrance to the lot, and waited while the sun disappeared below the trees. He was accustomed to long, boring stakeouts, but the situation was different in this parking lot, and he detested the dynamic that had developed.
Every time he approached the SWAT huddle up near the half dozen Portland Police Department SUV’s, he got cold looks from the heavily armed, black clad men. So he sat back with the rest of the FBI team, crammed into a crappy, American made sedan that he wouldn’t be caught dead in on the weekend. At least he wasn’t in the minivan with the forensics equipment and the real geeks. One of the younger agents, whose name he didn���t care enough to remember, suggested that the minivan should be his command post. He just shook his head at the kid.
Technically, Justin Edwards was in charge of this entire operation. The investigation fell under federal jurisdiction, and he was the senior agent on scene. Unfortunately, the FBI had no organic assets in Maine or New Hampshire, and nobody cared enough to send Boston SWAT assets up Interstate 95 to give him some semblance of authority here. Instead, he had been forced to grovel with the Portland Police department to assemble their SWAT team for the takedown at 18 Lawn Avenue. After placing an uncomfortable call to FBI headquarters, right in front of Edwards, the Portland Police liaison officer got the ball rolling for him.
Within an hour, he had Portland and Maine State Police SWAT teams at his disposal. He briefed the teams about the threat level and rules of engagement (ROE), and that was when he lost control of the operation. Once the SWAT teams had their target and ROE, it became frustratingly clear to Edwards that they didn’t need or want his input. They started planning the operation and scouting the location without seeking his input, or keeping him informed. He knew they had a few cars on Lawn Avenue, keeping an eye on the house, but beyond that, he didn’t know very much about their planned raid.
At this point, Special Agent Edwards had been relegated to relaying information from headquarters, and several times over the past few hours, he would reluctantly get out of the car to let them know that the other teams were still assembling. They never said it, but he could read their faces, which said “Why don’t you stay in the car until you have something useful to tell us?”
Edwards stretched his body in the car
, purposefully hitting the driver, Special Agent Derek Ravenell, jarring the agent out of a light sleep. He had worked with Ravenell on a few bank robbery cases in Boston, and found him to be competent, but more importantly, obedient. He understood the importance of the rank structure, and the subtleties of loyalty, although the look he flashed Edwards didn’t exactly comport with this assessment.
“Stay sharp. You don’t see those guys napping out here,” Edwards said, and examined the agents in the back seat.
Of course, Special Agent Olson had assigned him the ugliest female Special Agent on the East Coast, Special Agent Sara Velasquez, after his efforts to wrangle the chick from Counter Terror fell flat. So, now he had the dream team sitting in his car. A black driver, an ugly Latina and Paul Adams, who was about as exciting as his name. No wonder the SWAT guys wouldn’t deal with him. He didn’t say a word to the agents in the back of the car, who both nodded apathetically.
Edwards��� cell phone mercifully rang and delivered some good news. He listened intently and acknowledged the call from Task Force HYDRA’s operations center. He turned around and nearly yelled into the back seat, startling Velasquez and Adams.
“Ten minute warning. We hit the house at 2100 hours,” he squawked excitedly, and jumped out of the car, yelling the same words at the SWAT teams as he rushed across the parking lot.
“Douche bag,” Special Agent Sara Velasquez uttered, and everyone in the car mumbled their agreement.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
8:50 PM
FBI Headquarter, Washington D.C.
Special Agents Sharpe and Mendoza entered the Task Force’s operations center, which was scrambling to pass the word to FBI teams in a dozen cities across the East Coast. The coordinated raid was a major undertaking, and every workstation was occupied with an agent scrambling to issue orders and ensure that the rules of engagement were established with local law enforcement units used in place of FBI teams. Agents ran from one workstation to another, shouting information, and Sharpe could see that one of the plasma screens served as a status board for live information from each site. Sharpe knew the clamorous activity would fall deathly quiet at the prescribed time, as everyone waited for word from the tactical teams.
Mixed SWAT units sat ready to pounce on nearly two dozen residential locations and commercial establishments in the hope of capturing another Black Flag operative. Since his Task Force received the list of Black Flag operatives, law enforcement agents had been quietly investigating the most probable after work locations for the suspects. So far, the team had no confirmed sightings, which didn’t leave Sharpe with a hopeful feeling for the operation, but he just needed to get lucky in one of the locations.
Sharpe walked over to Special Agent O’Reilly, who worked at a computer station powered to access several national and international criminal databases. Special Agent O’Reilly scratched her tightly pulled black hair, staring between two widescreen monitors as Sharpe approached. She had put together comprehensive information packages for each of the SWAT teams, and didn’t appear to be resting like several other agents. She didn’t notice him kneel down next to her chair until his face broke her peripheral vision. She turned her head slowly, still examining the data on the screen, until she noticed who was next to her.
“Oh…sorry sir. You know, I have a hard time believing that none of these guys have any kind of criminal record. Not even a speeding ticket,” she said, and leaned in a little to whisper. “I mean, we can all read between the lines here. Right, sir? Eight murders, an organized list of suspects, strict ROE to the SWAT teams. This is a dangerous group of individuals, probably professional assassins, yet I’m getting nothing. I’ve worked organized crime, and their enforcers always had the worst records. Mafia, Russians, cartel groups. Without exception, they’d all done hard time, or had at least been arrested on murder charges. This group is too clean.”
“Dana, you’ve always been one of the most perceptive agents on the Task Force, and you’re right about this group. They’re different. I need you to check a different source. Have you run this through INTERPOL yet?”
“Yes. The potential for an international connection was too strong to ignore, but I got the same result,” she said, typing at the keyboard and bringing up the INTERPOL search results.
Sharpe stared at the data on the screen, deciding to skirt the boundaries of his information security arrangement with the Pentagon. Agent O’Reilly was not authorized for CIS Category One information, and he didn’t plan to directly pass her any information. She had already thought of an INTERPOL search by herself, which was not a violation. Still, by nudging her further, Sharpe was probably crossing a line that could heat things up for him, but he was accustomed to taking chances, and a little heat never bothered him.
“Dana, did you submit a photo identification match request through INTERPOL’s database?” he said, and that was all it took for her to run with it.
“No, sir. Not through INTERPOL. National NCIC does it automatically for us. Same with VICAP. Do you think they’re foreign operatives? They all have pretty solid histories here in the U.S.,” she said.
“No assumptions,” he said, and leaned in closer to whispered. “Start with Petrovich…and let’s keep this between the two of us, for now.”
“Alright, I’ll start working on this,” she said, and started typing.
As Sharpe stood up to walk over to Special Agent Mendoza near the front of the operations center, he saw pictures from Daniel Petrovich’s current Maine driver’s license and former Department of Defense military ID flash onto her screen. She looked back at him, and he nodded before turning away.
Chapter Thirty
9:00 PM
Portland, Maine
The Chevy Impala crept down Lawn Avenue, preceded by two Portland Police Department Suburbans. Beyond the vehicles, invisible to Edwards on the dimly lit street, two additional Suburbans approached from opposite direction. From the front seat of the Impala, Edwards secretly admired the heavily armed men standing on the running boards of the trucks, clinging with one hand to the roof bars. Though technically a two way street, Edwards watch uncomfortably as the thick Suburbans squeezed through cars, and the men tucked their bodies tightly against the truck.
He had voiced his desire to ride on one of the trucks with the SWAT team, but his request was shot down immediately. The SWAT commander wanted Edward’s entourage to wait in the parking lot, with the other non-tactical units, until the house was secured, but Edwards finally put his foot down. He wasn’t about to sit back like some loser, waiting for the “all safe” signal. He’d rushed through plenty of doors into dangerous situations before, and this situation was no different. They agreed on a compromise. Edwards would follow the SWAT team into the house, while the rest of his FBI team secured the front of the house.
Edwards felt a flutter of adrenaline when the Suburban’s brake lights bathed his car in red light, illuminating its occupants and momentarily blinding him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, which he tracked in the side view mirror. Two figures darted across the back of his car, causing Edwards to go wide eyed. He quickly assumed this was the surveillance team that had been stationed across the street from Petrovich’s house.
He turned his head back to the front and caught a glimpse of another figure positioned behind a tree ahead of the Suburbans. He could see the outline of a tactical helmet, so he knew it was one of their own, but it still unnerved him to see someone emerge from the darkness so quickly. The figure braced a scoped assault rifle against the tree, pointing toward the front of Petrovich’s house. He felt a little better knowing that they had someone covering the assault run on the house. A few more feet and they should be in position. His headset crackled to life.
“Standby. Standby…Go. All teams. Go!”
The team attached to Suburban in front of him jumped to the pavement and sprinted toward the front door of Petrovich’s house and Edwards scrambled out of the door, finally drawing his servi
ce pistol for the first time in two years. It had been a while since Special Agent Edwards had participated in a raid, and he found himself a little disoriented on the street. He ran around the front of the Impala, noticing that the passenger compartment light grossly illuminated his entire team. That stupid ass Ravenell had forgotten to turn off the interior lights, and now he’d probably have to endure some kind of a lecture from the SWAT guys.
He raced between two parked cars and sprinted through the shattered white picket fence gate, slowing as he approached the team. None of them acknowledged his approach. They were focused on their objective, which was a highly trained, extremely dangerous terrorist operative. The SWAT team finished stacking up on the front door, and Edwards just hoped they didn’t kill Petrovich on sight.
Another team, just out of his sight behind a large evergreen bush to his right, swarmed around the mudroom door. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure, since he had been excluded from the assault planning phase, but he thought there was another team around back doing the same thing. As soon as everyone at the front door stopped moving, he heard more reports on the radio, as each team reported that they were ready. The final round of reports unnerved him, and he felt his bladder loosen just slightly.
“All teams be advised, there is movement in the kitchen. Rear team will take this suspect. Stand by. Stand by. Breach. All teams. Breach.”
The second SWAT member in line rushed the door carrying a portable battering ram, which resembled a thick metal cylinder with two handles on top. He swung the solid metal ram at a spot on the door just above the handle, and the door swung inward, releasing the acoustic guitar sounds of the Gypsy Kings into the neighborhood. The ram had barely receded from the open doorway before seven heavily armed men disappeared into the house.
Special Agent Edwards moved forward with the team onto the porch, but stopped when he heard crashing glass and screaming. He decided to stay out of the house until things calmed down, and he wasn’t altogether convinced that the SWAT guys wouldn’t try to knock him flat. He didn’t like the way they looked at him.
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