The Blowback Protocol: A Sam Jameson Thriller

by Emmerich, Lars

  She looked at the first body. It was crumpled in a heap in the corner, legs twisted beneath, as if death had come while standing and the body had simply collapsed on top of itself. Two neat bullet holes in the forehead. No powder burns.

  “I can’t believe this,” Hayward said.

  Sam couldn’t believe it either. She looked again at the first corpse. A man, dressed in cargo pants with a sidearm holstered at his waist.

  She turned to view the second dead body. Male, dressed in khakis, slumped over in a chair. There was an assault rifle still on his lap and a smartphone sitting in a pool of blood beneath him. The marksmanship wasn’t as impressive with this guy. One round had blown away half of his neck; the other had taken off the top of his head.

  “This is not at all what I expected to find here,” Sam said.

  But Hayward was already running out the door.

  62

  They’d become all too familiar with the route north from the boondocks, where the Agency kept a gaggle of semi-secret safe houses, back to Washington, DC. They didn’t have an exact address in the city but were working on it, and there were enough indicators pointing in a certain direction that it would have been folly to ignore them. Sam had a theory, and she was busy shooting holes in it when her new burner rang.

  “Pizza by the slice,” she answered.

  She heard a familiar chuckle on the other end. “Smooth,” Dan said.

  “Can’t be too careful,” Sam said. “Did you do that thing I asked for?”

  “Do I ever disappoint?”

  “Only your wife,” Sam said.

  “Touché,” Dan said. “For a big-time journalist, William Nichols didn’t know much about computer security. I hacked into his server and sent the story to the Times, the Post, both cable news outlets, both LA papers, and the BBC for good measure.”

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Sam said.

  “I try.” He paused, switching gears. “You didn’t find anything, did you?”

  “On the contrary,” Sam said. “We found plenty, but not at all what we expected. It was definitely a cleanup operation, but it was the Agency goons who got cleaned up. Somebody put four rounds into two of their shooters.”

  “Holy smokes. Any sign of the hostages?” Dan asked.

  “It looks like they spent a lot of time chained to the wall,” Sam said, “but they were long gone by the time we got there.”

  Dan digested. “You’re saying Grange killed the guards and ran off with the hostages?”

  “No,” Sam said. “I’m saying the guards were killed and the hostages are missing. The shooter is another question, but I think Grange is as good a guess as any. He’s my favorite for the Oren Stanley murder, too.”

  “He’s making sure no one with ties to him is left in any condition to talk,” Dan said.

  “That’s what it seems like, but I still have no idea what he’s after. He could have had the world’s most valuable paint recipe in his hands days ago. He could have been rid of the hostages, and he could have ridden off into the sunset.”

  “I don’t think he has that kind of an exit in mind,” Dan said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because his cell phone just popped up on the network again. He’s in Crystal City.”

  “Where?”

  “Inside an office building. Hold on, let me check the address.”

  Sam heard computer keys clicking. “Can this be right?” Dan mumbled. Then he said, “Sam, it looks like Grange is inside the National Intelligence Directorate building.”

  Just then, Hayward’s cell phone vibrated with an incoming message. He started to look at his phone, but Sam swiped it from him. “You’re a bad enough driver when you’re not distracted,” she said.

  She looked at the message. She didn’t recognize the source, and it contained nothing but a link. Against all the IT world’s advice, she clicked on the link. It took her to a naked IP address—just a computer address with no fancy English-language domain name wrapped around it. The page loaded and Sam saw another video loop that played over and over. The clip was extremely uncomfortable to watch. It depicted Katrin and Joao, both comatose and bloody, lying next to a copy of the day’s Times. They were hanging on by a thread, only hours from death.

  “Hayward,” she said. “You need to drive faster.”

  63

  “Director Worthington,” Grange said, holding the cell phone to his ear, “there is a situation.”

  “What kind of situation?” Worthington’s voice was mellow with alcohol-softened consonants. Grange imagined the DNI lounging about in his sprawling mansion sporting a smoking jacket and house slippers with a brandy in hand.

  “James Hayward and Sam Jameson are heading to your office building at this moment,” Grange said. He said it as though it were a fact. Grange didn’t have firsthand knowledge, but he knew it would only be a matter of time—his use of his own cell phone guaranteed it.

  A long pause. “I don’t understand,” Worthington said.

  “They’re driving a white delivery van.”

  “Hayward and Jameson? How—”

  “You understand the implications, do you not?”

  Another pause. “Yes.”

  “You know how to reach me if you need assistance.” With that, Grange ended the call.

  It was an art form, to create a situation where the mark’s own nature compelled him to do your bidding without your ever having to stoop to the level of articulating your wishes. It was rarely easy to accomplish, but Grange was as adept as anyone.

  Grange placed his cell phone back inside the manila envelope and put it in one of Worthington’s desk drawers. He left the phone powered on. He leaned back in Worthington’s opulent leather chair and propped his feet on top of the desk. He looked at the photos on the wall of Worthington smiling next to various political luminaries. The desk placard read: Alexander Worthington, Director of National Intelligence. Grange smiled. Not for long.

  There was plenty of work left to do—perhaps even the hardest work still lay ahead—but he liked his odds. He was a student of human nature, and he knew that context and cognition went hand-in-glove. He began the last manipulation he had planned for the evening. He did this by simply changing his clothes.

  Grange checked one last time to ensure the van’s cargo had been deployed properly inside the building. Satisfied, he left Worthington’s twelfth-floor office and rode the elevator to the lobby. There, he had a brief exchange with the security guard. After the exchange, the security guard left for the evening.

  Grange settled into a chair, put his feet up on the desk, and waited.

  64

  Sam dialed FBI Special Agent Alfonse Archer’s phone number. Archer was a straight-laced Bureau man with a good heart, a bright mind, and a bright future. She and Archer had worked together on several cases over the past few years, and she had grown to like and trust him.

  “Big A,” she said when Archer picked up. “Long time no talk.”

  “Sam?”

  “In the flesh,” Sam said. “I’d love to catch up, but things are a little dicey right now.”

  “I’m sure they are,” Archer said. “I’ve seen the news. You’re a popular lady.”

  “Right. My fifteen minutes of fame,” Sam said. “Anyway, I’m calling to advance your career by leaps and bounds.”

  Archer laughed. “How could you possibly do that?”

  “How would you like to collar an infamous international fugitive?”

  “Little ol’ me?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. Your investigative powers are second to none. At least, that’s how it will look when you bring me to justice.”

  It took Archer a moment to respond. “Bring you to justice? As in, arrest you?”

  “Yes, please,” Sam said.

  “I’m not sure what to say.”

  “I can’t run forever,” Sam said. “And I might as well help one of the good guys earn a few points.”

  Archer chuc
kled. “I’m flattered, of course.” He paused a beat. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what do you want in return?”

  “You know me too well,” Sam said with a chuckle. “Just a small favor. I’m going to have an important conversation, and I need to you fix me up with a wire.”

  Archer thought it over for a moment. “I can’t put a listening device on a fugitive,” he said. “I’m required to arrest you on sight.”

  “That’s what makes this a small favor,” Sam said.

  Archer laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  “What if the wire could prevent the death of two hostages?”

  Archer was silent for a moment. “That would certainly change things. You’d better fill me in.”

  Sam gave him the highlights of the situation. When she finished, Archer said, “This is going to end badly.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re right,” Sam said. “So you’re in?”

  Sam heard a deep breath. “All right,” Archer said.

  65

  Alexander Worthington’s security team arrived at the nondescript Crystal City office building in a small armada of black SUVs with darkly tinted windows. Worthington had dispatched the team with simple instructions: apprehend James Hayward and Sam Jameson. If necessary, lethal force was authorized.

  The fleet of Suburbans wound its way through the subterranean parking garage beneath the National Intelligence Directorate until they spotted the target vehicle: a white delivery van. The security team parked their SUVs around the van, boxing it in.

  The men exited the vehicles without a word. They wore standard-issue blue suits with oversized jackets designed to fit loosely over the ballistic vests they wore beneath. Just like the cliché, they wore earpieces with a curly wire protruding beyond their close-cropped hair. They wore extremely serious expressions on their faces. Their weapons were drawn.

  They spent a bit of time verifying the emptiness of the van. Their task was aided by the fact that the doors were left unlocked. This was unusual, particularly given the bloodstains they’d found in the back of the van, but that fell under the category of someone else’s problem. The security team’s problem was James Hayward and Sam Jameson.

  Will Fleming was the commander of the security detail. He was six-two, two hundred pounds, wore a graying buzz cut, and had acne scars and permanent frown lines on his face. He had years of military, paramilitary, and VIP protection experience, and his men respected him but did not much like him.

  Fleming posted a two-man guard at the empty van. He ordered the remainder of his ten-man team to clear the stairwells leading up from the subterranean parking garage to the office building.

  Fleming followed the team responsible for the eastern stairwell as they cleared each of the three parking floors. As they ascended past the lobby, the commander exited. He approached the security desk with a confident gait.

  “Who has been here tonight?” Fleming asked without preamble. His condescension for the rent-a-cop wasn’t disguised.

  The man behind the desk adjusted his wheel cap and shoved thick glasses back up to the bridge of his aquiline nose. “Excuse me?”

  “Who has entered the building this evening?” Fleming said, more impatience in his voice.

  “Do you have some ID, sir?”

  Will Fleming flashed a badge. It had the anticipated effect. The man behind the desk rose to his feet and straightened his back, like a soldier standing at attention in front of a superior. “No one, really. I mean, just a couple of people,” he said.

  “Which is it?” Fleming asked.

  “Which is what?”

  Impatience on Fleming’s face. “Did no one enter the building tonight, or did a couple of people enter the building tonight?”

  The man at attention behind the desk looked visibly shaken. He didn’t seem accustomed to receiving a wire-brushing. “A couple,” he said.

  “A couple, as in two? Or a couple, as in more than one but you’re not sure how many?”

  The glasses had snuck down the security guard’s nose, and he used a thumb to shove them up again. The movement had an awkward, unpracticed quality to it. Nerves, perhaps. “Definitely two,” the man said. “One man and one woman.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “Well, the man had a cast on his arm, and the woman had red hair.”

  “Did you recognize them?”

  The security guard shook his head. “They had badges though.”

  “Where did they go?”

  A shrug. “Into the elevator. Haven’t seen them since.”

  “Motion detectors?”

  A nod from the man behind the desk. “Top floor, easternmost room. The motion sensors go off and on, just like you’d expect. They’re working at their desks or something. Is there a problem?”

  Fleming ignored the question. He spoke into his cuff. He listened to a response in his earpiece. “Let no one through,” he said to the guard behind the desk. He turned on his heel and walked away.

  The man behind the desk adjusted his glasses and sat back down.

  Fleming rallied his team on the eleventh floor. They were all combat veterans. Three were former Delta commandos and two were SEALs. They knew how to breach a floor, knew how to neutralize enemies, knew how to handle themselves in exigent circumstances. They formed a plan.

  Like most successful plans, it was simple. It relied on the skill and experience of the team.

  They took the stairs up from the eleventh to the twelfth floor, made their way slowly and silently through the door, fanned out, covered perimeters and rear quarters, achieved the desired vantage points, and prepared for contact.

  Guns drawn, two men charged into the easternmost room.

  No shots were fired.

  “Jesus, Will,” one man said. “You’ve got to get in here.”

  Will Fleming entered the room. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Jesus,” he said.

  Fleming pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed. “Mr. Worthington,” he said. “You need to get here right away, sir.”

  66

  Hayward parked, and he and Sam got out of the car. FBI Special Agent Alfonse Archer greeted her with a smile that was only slightly forced. “Never a dull moment with you,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “It always seems to be interesting, doesn’t it?” Sam said.

  “Is this the part where I arrest you?”

  Sam shook her head. “Not quite,” she said. “First you have to put me in mortal jeopardy.”

  Archer obliged. It took just a few minutes to fit her with the listening device. When Archer finished, Sam looked at Hayward and nodded. Hayward took out his burner and called Artemis Grange’s number.

  * * *

  In the easternmost room of the twelfth floor of the Directorate of National Intelligence, which also happened to be Alexander Worthington’s office, security detail commander Will Fleming surveyed the scene with a grimace on his face.

  “Ambulance?” one of his men asked.

  Fleming shook his head.

  “Boss, I really think—”

  The sound of a ringing telephone cut the man off. Will Fleming instinctively checked his pockets, then realized the noise wasn’t coming from his own phone.

  The ringing continued. He looked around at his men, wondering which of them had violated his strict no-phone policy, but they were clean. Fleming walked around the office to isolate the noise. It was coming from Worthington’s desk. Fleming opened drawers until the noise intensified. He eventually found a cell phone stuffed inside a manila envelope. He grabbed the phone and looked at it for a moment, then pressed the green button.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “You’re not Grange,” said a man’s voice.

  “Who is Grange?” Fleming said.

  “You answered his phone. Get him. Now.”

  Fleming was perplexed. “I don’t know anyone named Grange, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to find him at this hour.”

  The ma
n cursed. “Who are you?”

  “I might ask you the same thing,” Fleming said.

  Silence. Then a muffled conversation in the background. Then a woman’s voice: “This is Special Agent Sam Jameson. James Hayward is with me. It’s time to end this.”

  Fleming was confused. “Where are you?” he finally asked.

  “Stay where you are,” the woman said. “We’re coming to you.”

  * * *

  Sam and Hayward knocked on the heavy glass double-doors at the National Intelligence Directorate’s main entrance. No response. They knocked harder, and saw motion behind the security desk. A rent-a-cop rose from his seat, adjusted his cap, pushed a pair of very large spectacles up his nose, scratched his prominent chin, and walked with a noticeable limp toward the entrance.

  As he neared, he pointed at his watch, waved his hands, and mouthed, “We’re closed.”

  Sam held out her Homeland badge.

  The guard unlocked the door and opened it. “Help you, ma’am?” he asked, inspecting Sam’s badge.

  “My colleague and I have business here tonight,” she said.

  “Sure about that? Nobody works weekends around here, and anyway it’s pretty late.”

  Hayward cocked his head. Something about the guard bothered him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “We’re sure,” Sam said.

  The guard shrugged and held the door open for them. “Suit yourselves,” he said. “Earning your big federal paychecks tonight, aren’t you, then?”

  “Something like that. Anyone else here?”

  The guard nodded. “Few other hard-chargers trying to impress the boss, I guess. Burly guys.” He flexed his arms to demonstrate.

  “Do you know where they are?” Hayward asked.

  The guard adjusted his spectacles and averted his eyes. “I don’t pay much attention to what the office folk do once they’re inside. Their business, not mine. But last I checked, everyone was up on twelve.”