by Bob Blink
"And then we can go afterwards?" Jason asked.
"I guess so," Bo replied. "If it still seems necessary. What will I do with my guns?"
Who cares, Jason thought, but instead said, "We'll figure out something."
The day-long practice session seemed to steady Bo. Jason didn't know what he was thinking, but as he watched the bullets strike the impossibly far away targets, he could see the groups converging as the day wore on. In addition to watching the targets, Jason kept his eyes open for any sign that someone might be looking for them. He couldn't help remembering that when they'd signed into the hotel there hadn't been any fear they'd been identified, and they had used their real names. From their modified perspective that seemed like it had been monumentally foolish.
As soon as they were back at the hotel, Jason fired up his computer again, and checked every news source that had anything to say on the matter. There was much new, an interview with both the President and the Vice President, but nothing that suggested they had been discovered or that new facts had been uncovered in the criminal investigation. Jason did get to see a photo of the smallish man who apparently was the detective Eric Craig had hired and who had been instrumental in breaking the case open. Maybe this would work out after all.
After an anxious night, Jason woke and checked for further developments, but whatever the Justice Department might be doing, the news media apparently were unaware of anything new that might have been learned. He and Bo had an early breakfast, then headed out to the range. Shooting was schedule to begin at 9 AM, and would run through most of the morning as various stages of elimination were executed. Once again, Jason worked as Bo's spotter, but now the game was real.
Bo's performance was not as sharp as the day before, and he he knew he wasn't going to finish in any kind of meaningful position unless he shot better from this point on. Somehow he found the fortitude to settle down, and hung on for the third round.
It was between the second and third rounds while they were waiting for the new targets to be set up and the shooting to begin that Jason noticed the cops. He hadn't been aware of them earlier, especially in this number, but they seemed to be paying abnormal interest in the shooters as opposed to the somewhat marginal crowd who had come to observe. Jason's skin prickled, as he worried that he and Bo might be the object of their interest. He tried to pay attention to their movements, but his duties as spotter were a hindrance and by the time they finished up the round, barely making the cut, he realized the watchers had departed. He wasn't certain what that meant.
The fourth round and final round didn't go well at all for Bo, who was clearly losing his focus and was increasingly displeased with himself, which only made matters worse. By the time he'd finished, he simply sat back and said, "There's no point of sticking around. I blew it again."
Jason could almost feel the waves of disappoint off Bo, who seemed to have lost a skill that was so effortless before. He was certain the marksman was punishing himself for the perceived misdeeds resulting from his involvement in the killing of Mrs. Craig, but there was nothing Jason could say that was going to make a difference. Quietly, he helped Bo pack away the gear in the clever Truckvault layer in the back of his pickup, then they drove back towards the motel.
It was midday and the motel parking lot seemed surprisingly vacant, but then Jason hadn't been there at this time of day before, and the emptiness probably accounted for the transient nature of the patrons. Somehow he would have thought that more of the guests would be in town to watch the match, but it was possible they hadn't returned as yet and might be staying for the awards portion of the event.
Bo pulled into the slot in front of his room, and morosely stepped out onto the blacktop. Jason had one leg out and was stepping down when he detected movement next to the corner of the hotel building, and realized that he was seeing the barrel of a rifle of some sort.
"Trouble, Bo," he shouted, and jumped the rest of the way out of the vehicle, reaching for the small S&W on his belt as he found cover behind the bed of the truck. The little gun wasn't going to be much protection, but it was all he had.
Bo, who had heard him, seemed slow in reacting, but then pulled out the Sig .45 and found a spot next to the open driver's door as he scanned to see if he could locate whatever had caught Jason's attention. A warning was issued from somewhere near the motel entrance, and a shot was fired, probably into the air since nothing impacted anywhere near them.
Now Jason could see more of the police. It looked as if there were also several armed men in suits, who Jason correctly guessed were FBI. So now he understood. They had been discovered, and somehow the Bureau had managed not only to identify them, but impossibly had quickly located them this far from home. They had chosen the motel as the better, more controlled environment to take them down. That's why it had looked so empty. People had almost certainly been moved out, and the few cars here were mostly likely window dressing, using official unmarked vehicles. He moved quickly, finding more substantial cover behind a concrete pillar holding up a large advertising sign.
Jason lifted the small semi-auto and considered his options. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Bo was also looking around, the big Sig held like he was ready to fight, although his eyes seemed focused inwards rather than toward the motel where their adversary was hiding. It was a simple decision. If they knew who they were, then it wasn't going to go well if they were captured. He knew the FBI were professionals and would treat them perhaps better than they deserved, but in the end it was a long time in prison, most likely followed by the death penalty. That wasn't an ending Jason considered acceptable. He'd rather go out now if he couldn't get away, something he was desperately trying to figure out how to manage. Without further thought, he took aim and fired a round at the small discontinuity along one wall, completely missing the cop he'd attempted to shoot.
His action, however, triggered an immediate response. Multiple gunshots were directed toward his location, the bullets slamming into the wooden supports and whining off the concrete base. Bits of small rock spattered his face, burning where they broke the skin. He fired a couple of rounds back toward a spot where he'd seen muzzle flashes, mindful of the face the magazine only held six rounds, and he had one eight round spare.
A glance toward Bo was disheartening. Bo was still crouched behind the door of his truck. In a police cruiser that might be effective cover since the doors were often armored to provide a safe shooting location for the officers. Bo's truck hadn't been similarly modified, and the protection offered by the door was about as effective of a couple of sheets of paper Christmas wrap. Bo was firing, but the normally exceptional shot was simply scattering shots in the vicinity of the barricaded cops. If he didn't know better, Jason would have sworn that Bo was simply shooting to antagonize and draw the fire of the lawmen. He should have guessed. Faced with the inevitable Bo had concluded he desired to be punished, but wasn't taking anyone else with him.
Even as he had the thought, Jason saw several rounds slam into Bo, all of them having passed unrestricted through the thin metal of the truck's door. Bo was flung back, hitting the rear frame of the door before tumbling out into the open and falling toward the pavement. Another round struck him as he fell, where he lay motionless, blood already pooling under his inert form. There was little doubt in Jason's mind that Bo was dead.
The killing angered him. Bo clearly hadn't been a real threat, and yet they'd gunned him down. Well, that might have been partly his fault, shooting when the police had called for surrender. He raised the little pistol and fired the remaining rounds at a dark spot across the way, satisfied to see whoever had been hiding there drop to the ground wounded. He was in the process of reloading his last magazine when a pair of shots from different shooters struck him solidly in the side and gut.
He lost all ability to control his fingers, the little gun dropping to the ground, with him following almost immediately after. There wasn't that much pain, but he was having trouble focusing
. A big guy in swat gear kicked aside the 9mm, really unnecessary since the little gun was empty, and the spare magazine was trapped somewhere under him.
Another set of shoes appeared, and one of the FBI agents knelt beside him. "It's over the guy said. You're the last. Your entire group has been taken down. If you hadn't heard, we got your boss the other day."
Jason struggled to speak. Jason noted that the first guy had wandered off to check on Bo. He didn't know why he bothered, but it annoyed him that all of them were dead, well he was certain he would be in a minute, and Mark who started all of this was still alive and would probably escape the whole thing. It wasn't right. Also, he wanted to show this smug bastard that he hadn't figured it all correctly the way he implied.
"It wasn't Earl," he said finding it much harder to speak than he'd expected. "And CC was never involved. You got that wrong too. He was one of you. We almost got busted by him in Stanford. Earl wasn't the leader. That was . . ."
The last words never came. The agent looked at Jason, and realized he'd died a moment too soon. He'd have to tell headquarters. If this low life hadn't been lying, there was at least one more out there.
Chapter 42
Washington, DC
Early AM, 3 November 2024
The FBI Director carefully reached across the bed, careful not to disturb his wife, and picked the bedside phone out of its cradle.
"Crampton," he said, glancing at the display on his now illuminated iWatch as he did so.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" he asked, as he tried to think about the request he'd just been given. He knew his comment was out of order, as the NSA Director on the other end had clearly been at work most of the night.
"That little matter you mentioned to me late yesterday," NSA's Anthony Maggiora replied pointedly. "I believe we need to talk about it. I believe we have a smoking gun."
Brad Crampton groaned. He'd been afraid of this. He'd wanted to simply bury the information, but he wasn't that kind of person.
Only the one FBI agent had been able to hear the last words of Jason Thompson the day before as he lay dying on the pavement in Georgia. That agent had been clear-headed enough to see the potential impact of the man's last words, and had kept it secret, only telling the Director himself. The Director in turn had only told one person thus far, the man on the other end of this line. There were potential ramifications to the unfinished comment that had been bouncing around in the Director's mind for some time, even before the fateful words had been delivered.
"Who do you want there?" Director Crampton asked. "I get it set up for first thing, even if I have to trash my existing morning schedule."
"From here, just myself and one analyst. I'd like the independent investigator that's been hanging onto this case since the beginning. Other than that, yourself and whomever you feel appropriate. I think the meeting should be kept small though."
"With thoughts of what this all might mean hanging over him, there was little possibility of his getting more sleep. The Director rolled out of bed, glanced at his wife, once again amazed that she could sleep through these kinds of things, and headed for the shower. He chugged down a liquid breakfast, then headed into the office.
But a quarter to eight they were all present, the doors discretely closed with directions for no interruptions, and they saw no reason not to begin. It was anyone's guess just how long this was going to take. The NSA's Chief had brought a senior, extremely sharp analyst named Connie, while the FBI Director had brought along his Assistant Director, and Karl Baxter, as requested.
NSA's Director went first.
"Yesterday afternoon Director Crampton called me and explained that the remaining two individuals being sought in regards to the death of Mrs. Craig had been located and killed. I was also told, in secret, that the man named Jason Thompson didn't die outright, and as he was fading he had a message for us. The Director has kept that close, but agrees that everyone in this room needs to know what was said to put this meeting into context."
Director Maggiora looked towards Director Crampton, receiving a nod of agreement.
"The words, exactly as I copied them from the Brad Crampton, and which he assures me are exactly what the agent at the shooting say were spoken are as follows.
It wasn't Earl. And CC was never involved. You got that wrong too. He was one of you. We almost got busted by him in Stanford. Earl wasn't the leader. That was . . .
"You understand what this implies. Mr. Thompson is saying that our understanding of this affair is incorrect, and that Earl Campbell, the man we believe to be the mastermind behind events really was only an implementer, and that his son, Agent Chris Campbell, known to his friends as CC wasn't in any way part of the plot. Unfortunately he never was able to finish, and point the finger where he was claiming it belonged."
NSA's Director looked around at the three representatives from the FBI before continuing. He didn't need to query his analyst. They had discussed this at length during the many hours of the long night.
"The obvious question, of course, was he telling the truth, or were his words his dying attempt to misdirect us, and cause us to believe we had made a grievous error. I pondered this for some time trying to think of how I might verify his claim, or disprove it which would be better. I finally concluded the only thing at our disposal was to go back through the data we have collected, and I asked Connie to help me with this task."
"I'm going to show you something, and I ask you bear with me. I know you'd like me to simply spit out my conclusions, but there is a reason for my approach, which I believe you will appreciate once we have finished."
He nodded toward his assistant, who pressed a button on her laptop thereby projecting the first of the planned series of slides onto the large screen across the table from the group.
"This chart is a simple map of the United Sates with a call using one of the secure phones marked on it. The little green box indicated where this call originated, and the blue one where the call was answered. The line between isn't particularly important in this slide, but helps track the calls in later slides when multiple calls are shown on a single chart."
He used a pointer to trace the line from the green box near El Paso to the blue box near the White House.
"We are all pretty familiar with these calls and their destinations, so I doubt this chart poses any problems for you."
He nodded toward his assistant. "I'll leave it to you to explain the rest. You did all the hard work."
Connie looked nervous, but accepted the pointer and with a deep breath began her explanation.
"Here is a mosaic of all the calls we have discovered. I won't say this is every call, but it is every call we know about. Not surprising, given what we know, most of the calls connect Texas and the White House, with the majority originating in Texas, but a reasonable number initiating on here in Washington. Now, despite some deliberate changing of the phones SIMs in order to mask what was going on, we are certain that there are really only two physical phones, one that had been located in Washington the entire time, and the second moving between Texas and the other sites shown on the map. I can provide you with the analysis that makes us certain there were always only two phones if you would like."
"The Texas, or El Paso, phone was in the possession of Earl Campbell, and the other, the one here in Washington, was carried by his son," the Assistant Director of the FBI said.
"That had been the theory, and is one of the things we intend to explore," Connie said. When she was certain everyone was following along, she continued.
"Let's call the phone calls originating out of other cities to Washington roving calls. We have interrupted those to be the senior Mr. Campbell traveling around as he followed Mrs. Craig on her campaigning. We still believe that."
"We've never found his phone, so we can't state that as an absolute given," the Assistant Director argued.
"Agreed, but for the moment let's go with the idea, "Connie replied smoothly.
&nbs
p; She checked to see that her requested had been agreed to, then continued on.
"Now, let's consider one particular call."
She put up a third slide with just the one call marked on it. The green box originated in California and connected to the White House area as usual.
"The old man calling his son again," The Assistant Director said.
"No its not!" Karl said.
Connie smiled.
"You are right!" Mr. Baxter. "It's not what it seems."
"What's different about it?" The Assistant Director asked. He hated all these slides and the intricate details these people loved to diddle with.
"We have to consider the context as well as the tracking information," Connie said. "Let's look at the date and location of the call. This call was made during the Democratic debates held in Stanford. But that means the Agent Campbell, who was assigned to the protection detail of Mrs. Craig at that time had to be with her there in Stanford. By other data, we know Earl Campbell was also there at that time. If they were both in Stanford, they could have communicated directly, a phone wasn't required. More importantly, Earl couldn't call his son in Washington, because he wasn't there. Yet the call that happened doesn't make sense."
"Then who answered the call in DC?" the Assistant Director asked.
"That's the question, isn't it," The NSA Director asked, interrupting the discussion. "We have been operating under the assumption that the son was the contact in Washington. What we have here appears to be proof the someone other than Agent Campbell, Earl's son, was actually in possession of the Washington phone."
"Jason Thompson wasn't lying about CC. Earl's son wasn't in on the plotting. Earl was calling someone else," Karl said, agreeing with the analysis, something he had already figured out.
"And if Thompson wasn't lying about CC, then it stands to reason he was probably telling the truth that someone else was the mastermind behind the plot to kill Craig."