Black Flagged

by Konkoly, Steven; A. Sullivan, Felicia

  “Anything on the other operatives?” Sharpe said, eyes still fixed to Petrovich’s image, or whoever he claimed to be.

  “Nothing yet. The INTERPOL system has finished with two-thirds of the list. They have a pretty efficient setup. I wouldn’t be surprised if we receive a phone call from INTERPOL at some point tonight,” said O’Reilly.

  “Can you pull the details of this warrant from the INTERPOL system? I need to know everything possible about this guy. Actually, pull everything we can get on Petrovich, and make it available under my access code,” said Sharpe, who drifted toward Mendoza.

  “If you give me a second, I can pull the detailed warrant right now,” she said, and Sharpe pulled back toward the screen.

  The warrant came up on the second screen, and Sharpe read the details.

  He had expected a laundry list of crimes, but found himself staring at one charge, and it was enough to turn his stomach. Marko Resja was wanted for the brutal torture, mutilation and murder of Zorana Sekulic, a Serbian national. He continued to absorb the details, shocked by the excerpts of testimony included with the warrant. Multiple beheadings? He couldn’t believe this guy was loose on American soil, and that he was a product of a rogue U.S. military program. No wonder the Pentagon had put an end to Sanderson’s career, and sealed the evidence.

  Now he understood why the Pentagon had assigned a special handler to the file. The mysterious Mr. McKie carefully parceled out information, keeping the potentially explosive information sealed away forever. He would need to double the Task Force’s efforts to crack open the day’s conspiracy, and it would start with Munoz.

  Based on his knowledge of the forces at work today, he highly doubted anyone would have a problem with keeping Munoz in FBI custody for the moment. The Pentagon obviously felt that the need to unravel today’s conspiracy was worth the risk of unearthing the Black Flag file, and potentially exposing its toxic contents. He’d start with Munoz, but he had another idea brewing, and he’d have to be extremely careful if he turned in this direction.

  “Jesus, this just gets worse. Dana, I’m going to need to upgrade your CIS agreement,” he said.

  “I kinda figured that when Petrovich popped up under an alias on an INTERPOL wanted poster,” she said.

  “Consider yourself under this agreement now. You know the deal. Only Mendoza and myself are cleared for CIS Category One information, and our CIA liaison, Keller. I’m going to need to relocate you to one of the private workstations near the front of the room,” he said.

  “I’ll get the tech’s working on that immediately,” she said.

  “Perfect,” he said, but his mind was already miles away.

  He wondered what Petrovich’s current wife would think about the details of Marko Resja’s activities in Serbia? As he moved away from Agent O’Reilly’s station, Agent Mendoza rushed over and intercepted him.

  “You need to hear this. Something big is going on up in Montgomery County, in Silver Spring. Comms says every law enforcement channel up there is going crazy. It’s like world war three broke out. Every available unit within the area is responding,” he said.

  “Did the raid in Portland turn up anything on Petrovich?” interrupted Sharpe.

  “Nothing so far, but I have a strange feeling he might be here. Wait until you hear this,” Mendoza said, and Sharpe stopped in his tracks.

  Something on a gut level scared Sharpe. Just the thought of this guy roaming the D.C. area made his skin crawl. Glancing at the communications section, Sharpe saw Special Agent Keith Weber talking on a phone, nodding excitedly and taking notes. As they approached this chaotic part of the of the operations center, he could hear Weber’s conversation.

  “…two trucks, and…hold on, did you just say a taxi? The guy is in custody. Alright. Detective, I assure you this is not an FBI operation…Yes. Thank you. Keep an open line for us, this might be related to an ongoing investigation. Thanks again,” Weber said, and hung up the phone. He turned to the two senior agents and said, “Wow. They have a serious situation up in Silver Spring.”

  “Give me the short version,” said Sharpe.

  “Right. Silver Spring police have two dead bodies inside of a Whole Foods. One with his throat cut, the other shot in the face. Nobody inside heard any shooting. They’re reviewing the surveillance videos as we speak. Out in the parking lot, they found an off duty detective between two parked cars, dead from multiple gunshot wounds. Pronounced dead on the scene. They also found a shot up Suburban with one guy in the driver’s seat. Dead. The guy I just talked to said the Suburban looked like a portable armory. Tactical vests, night vision, radio equipment, two assault rifles and a shotgun. All high end, U.S. issue stuff…”

  “Do they have anyone in custody?” said Sharpe.

  “Not from Whole Foods. They nabbed two guys down the street, but they don’t think either is the shooter,” stated Weber. “A few minutes after the first units arrived on scene, officers in the parking lot heard automatic weapons fire, and received reports from a nearby neighborhood that a gun battle had erupted on their street. Responding units found another SUV, loaded to the gills with weapons and dead guys dressed like commandos. They pulled one survivor from the truck and rushed him to Holy Cross Hospital. He was unconscious with massive external bleeding.”

  “You said they grabbed two guys?”

  “It gets better. They caught another guy who showed up in a taxi just as the police converged on the scene. Apparently, the cab driver jumped out of the cab and ran screaming to the police. He told them that the guy in the cab had put a gun to his head and told him to run the police road block. They have this guy in custody, and he swears that his team is part of an official counter-terrorism operation. He’s a Brown River employee.”

  “Oh shit,” muttered Mendoza.

  “Get this. One of the neighbors ran into the suspect on her driveway, before the police arrived, and she said he threatened to cut her head off,” said Weber, muffling a laugh.

  “Got a good look at the suspect before he took off. Car and everything. Said he was dressed like some kind of hippie. They’re mobilizing everything to find this guy,” added Weber, but Sharpe’s mind was somewhere else.

  “Frank, we need to sit down in my office. Agent O’Reilly is now cleared for CIS Category One, and she’s putting together a complete workup for Petrovich. Help her out with this. I want to sit down and analyze his file. We have nothing from any of the other raids?” he asked.

  A young female agent at another station answered the question. “Last units just reported. Nothing, sir. It looks like all of the suspects have gone underground.”

  Sharpe looked at Mendoza. “Apparently all but one,��� he said, ���and we’re not the only ones interested in finding him. I want agents talking to this Brown River guy immediately, and I want to see the surveillance tapes from that Whole Foods. Tell the team up in Portland to tear Petrovich’s house apart. Start by scanning every picture of Petrovich in that house for our new facial recognition software database. We can create a composite picture that won’t be fooled by anything short of plastic surgery. Let’s get this rolling immediately. Meet me in ten minutes. I need to make some phone calls.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mendoza, who immediately walked over to Agent O’Reilly.

  Sharpe didn’t like the sound of this at all. He briefly considered calling home and checking on his family, but he knew it didn’t make any sense. Something about Petrovich sent a visceral signal through Sharpe, activating a strong instinct to protect his wife and two teenage daughters. He knew what bothered him. Sanderson had apparently created a highly trained serial killer. He wondered how many people Petrovich had beheaded under the guise of military service, and if he had stopped after Serbia.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  9:17 PM

  Washington D.C.

  Daniel Petrovich emerged from the New York Avenue Metro station and studied the area around the exit structure. The street looked well-lit and relatively
uncrowded, which suited him well. He merged with a small group of young adults headed toward N Street, and followed them at a close, but unintimidating distance. He had chosen to get off the Metro before hitting one of the transfer hubs deeper in the city, figuring that the police presence at one of D.C.‘s major metro stops would be elevated. The Metro Police kiosk at the New York Avenue station contained two extremely vigilant looking officers, who tried to scan the emerging passengers without being blatantly obvious. They did a decent job, but he could tell they weren’t trained for this type of work.

  Petrovich drew a few conclusions from the Metro Police officers’ behavior. He decided that a wide scale alert had been issued to all D.C. area law enforcement agencies, which didn’t surprise him. He had killed a police officer, and the police would turn the city and surrounding counties inside out trying to find him. He also concluded that the police were being cautious. They knew what they were up against, and he could tell that the two officers at the station didn’t feel very confident about their situation. They had made a good assessment, which ensured that they would return safely to their families tonight. Neither of them had any idea how close to death they had come, as Daniel walked within ten feet of them, his new disguise not even attracting a second glance.

  Daniel just wanted to get through the rest of the day to see Jessica again. They had more than earned the right to be together, and he would show little mercy for anyone standing in their way. He hadn’t asked for any of this, and had thought he had sent a clear enough message, several years ago, that he was done. He had topped that message with more than a hundred million dollars, which apparently hadn’t been enough. It was never enough for General Sanderson, but none of this really mattered now. He had to figure out how to move forward and start over. This was how he had been trained to think. Two steps ahead, and never look back.

  Just as he turned onto N Street, a D.C. police car pulled up to the metro station, and parked right in front of the exit. Two officers emerged from the patrol car, and hurried toward the Metro entrance, neither of them glancing around at any of the emerging Metro passengers. One of them carried the patrol car’s shotgun. He was glad he chose to get off the Metro before Union Station. A few more minutes on the train, and he would have been forced to walk through a chokepoint of police officers emboldened by reinforcements and heavy weaponry.

  Daniel planned to work his way toward the Mall area, sticking close to other groups of people on heavily commercialized streets. It was still early for D.C., and he didn’t see this as a problem. He liked the idea of the Mall area, since it was always filled with tourists and locals of every type. He’d have no trouble blending in with the crowd there, while waiting for Parker to pick him up. The Mall was roughly one mile away.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  9:05 PM

  CIA Headquarters, McLean, Virginia

  Berg sank back into the deep leather chair, and called Jeremy Cummings��� cell phone again. The phone abruptly went to voice mail. He had lost contact with Cummings just over thirty minutes ago, after his team had pulled into a Whole Foods parking lot in Silver Spring, Maryland. He’d given Cummings the order to terminate Petrovich, and had expected to hear back from him within ten minutes. Despite a burning desire to personally avenge Nicole’s murder, he forced himself to acknowledge the bigger picture. The man was a trained intelligence operative, on the run from the authorities, and it was only a matter of time before he spotted the teams trailing him. He didn’t have any more favors to use at Fort Meade, and if he ditched the Brown River teams, they might never find him again. When Cummings reported that Petrovich was headed into a grocery store, he knew this would be their best opportunity, so he gave the order.

  He knew something wasn’t right, and decided to call CIA headquarters’ communications desk. He placed the burner phone on the table next to his chair, and pulled out his personal cell phone. An automated system answered, and Berg spoke several passwords to authenticate himself.

  “Good evening, Mr. Berg, how can we assist you?” said a calm voice.

  “Thank you. A friend of mine from Silver Spring called asking if something big was going on up there. He thinks I’m some bigwig over at the FBI, so I always get calls from him about stuff like this. Most of the time it’s his imagination, but he insists that the Metro station down there is swarmed with cops,” he lied, and wondered if his voice was being analyzed by any electronic equipment.

  “Stand by, sir. Looks like your friend is not imagining things today. I’m showing a D.C. metro area APB for a suspect in the murder of a police officer,” said the voice.

  “Well, I guess that would explain the activity,” said Berg, wondering if maybe Cummings��� cell phone had died.

  “Wait…the same suspect is sought in connection with multiple homicides. This all happened in the same area, at the same time. The police officer was found shot to death in a Whole Foods parking lot, and several other bodies were found at the same scene. More bodies were recovered a few blocks away, in a residential neighborhood. Yeah, your friend was not imagining this. Sounds like a small battle took place in Silver Spring. Every law enforcement agency in and around the beltway is looking for the shooter.”

  “Sounds like a bad night to be on the streets up there. I’ll give him a call, and tell him to stay inside until the police figure this out,” said Berg.

  “I think that’s probably a good call. Is there anything else we can help you with?”

  “No. Thank you very much. Sorry to bother you guys with something like this,” he said.

  “No trouble at all, it’s been an unusually quiet night,” the voice said, and Berg heard a click.

  Berg decided he would take a walk, and destroy the cell phone used to contact the Brown River team, but first he needed to make one more call. He used a third, separate cell phone, reserved solely for the purpose of calling this number. The phone rang for what seemed an eternity to Berg, but was finally answered by a familiar voice.

  “I assume the team took care of your business,” said Darryl Jackson.

  “I think we have a problem,” said Berg.

  “You mean I have a problem,” stated Jackson.

  “I talked with the team lead right before they followed him into a grocery store. I lost contact with them after that, and now every cop in the D.C. area is converging on that same area. Multiple homicides, dead cop…I just wanted to give you the head’s up. It won’t be long before you get a call,” said Berg.

  “Fuck. I thought two teams would be enough,” said Jackson.

  “Sounds like he took them both out. There is a report of multiple homicides in two different locations. I know these are your guys, and I’m sorry, but…did you cushion yourself from this operation?”

  “Shit. As much as I could. Nothing in writing. Cummings assembled the team. I gave him complete authority on this one. I didn’t want a big trail,” said Jackson.

  “This is going to sound bad, and I apologize, but if Cummings was killed, would any of the other team members know who issued the orders?”

  “Not likely…are you suggesting that Cummings take the fall for this?” said Jackson.

  “I’m just suggesting that if Cummings is dead, why expose anyone else?”

  “Alright. I don’t like it, but reality is reality. I can tell from your voice that this wasn’t exactly a legit mission on your end, so that leaves a lot of asses hanging in the breeze.”

  “Precisely,” said Berg, relieved that his friend could see the big picture.

  “So here’s what I need from you. A large sum of money,” said Jackson.

  “I don’t understand,” said Berg, hesitantly.

  “Not for me, you jack ass. For Cummings. Let’s just say that it’s possible for some of our team leaders to have undisclosed accounts, into which money is sometimes deposited for extra work. Work that nobody wants to acknowledge here at Brown River, or perhaps at the Pentagon. I might have access to some of these accounts, and a large,
untraceable payment to the right account, very fucking soon, might give me all of the plausible deniability I need to steer this thing well clear of Brown River…and you. Do you know anyone that might be able to do us…you, a favor like this, and deposit some cash into the right account?”

  “I think I can figure something out. I’ll call you back when I’m ready,” said Berg.

  “Perfect. The larger the sum, the better. Six figure range. I’m willing to personally stake this cash to keep my ass out of jail, so don’t be shy…and don’t hesitate to throw some money into the pot yourself. I know you’re not used to throwing your own money around, but this would probably be the right time to make an investment,” said Jackson.

  “I agree,” said Berg.

  “And make sure you toss the cell phone you used to call Cummings.”

  “Now you’re giving operational security advice to a CIA operative?” joked Berg.

  “Well, I’d like to continue to have the opportunity to sit around and sip fine Scotch with that operative, and I don’t think they allow alcohol in prison…so, don’t take offense,” said Jackson.

  “Get me the account information, and I’ll call you as soon as I have something. Sorry about the mess,” said Berg.

  “It’s not your fault, really, and regardless of what happens today, I still owe you. I’ll be waiting for your call, but please don’t ponder this for too long. With a dead cop involved, things might move quicker than either of us expects,” Jackson said, and the line went dead.

  Berg thought about their situation for a few minutes. He was utterly disappointed that this opportunity had slipped through his fingers, but he might still get another shot at it. Petrovich would have a difficult time snaking his way out of this one. Everyone was looking for him at this point. He was now the key figure in both a federal and local manhunt. He had few doubts that Petrovich was capable of eluding everyone, but he liked the odds, and if Petrovich surfaced again, Berg would kill the murderer himself.