Ethan gingerly slid on the new jeans and t-shirt, wincing with each move. He forced himself to laugh, pursing his lips as he eyeballed his shirt in the mirror.
“I can’t believe I’m wearing this,” Ethan said to himself looking at the falcon plastered across the t-shirt. “Sorry Dallas, it’s only temporary.”
Sliding a hand through his close-cropped hair, Ethan sighed. He was still in disbelief as he examined his transformation. The shirt was large, but it would conceal the pistol stashed between his hip and waistband easily.
Suddenly the door knob rattled, creaking and squealing. Ethan whirled around, reaching for his gun. Then he relaxed and let a small smile breach his face; he felt sheepish at his edginess. Of course it was just a customer who needed to relieve themselves.
Taking one last glance in the mirror, he shook his head and let out a deep breath. He gathered up his old clothes and placed them into another plastic bag and tied it shut. Ethan swept up the remaining bag and took inventory one last time. The last thing he needed was to leave something suspicious lying around.
Satisfied, he opened the door and walked out, nodding to an elderly gentleman waiting patiently outside in the cold. Ethan put the bags down and slid his arms into his jacket and grabbed up the bags again.
Scanning the area as he walked, Ethan made his way to the car and stepped in. For a long while he sat silently, wishing he could somehow wake up – that it was all just a horrible nightmare.
CHAPTER 21
January 29 at 1:35 p.m. EST
Washington, D.C. – FBI Headquarters
Director Hunt barked orders across the room. Dozens of agents hurried back and forth about their duties, all trained on one matter: the domestic terrorist in Atlanta.
Richard was in a morning briefing when Agent Day had relayed the news. Less than a half-hour later, the Director showed up at SIOC, the Bureau's Strategic Information & Operations Center.
Day gave over the reins the moment Richard entered the room. It had been one of his agents that had gone rogue. He felt responsible for the situation.
Within minutes they had a decent array of intel on their suspect, Agent Ethan Shaw. Medical records. Mental evaluations. FBI performance reports. School, library, and military records. All filed away and ready to display on one of the multiple workstations or LED monitors covering the main wall.
They knew who Shaw was: his habits, his likes and dislikes, who he talked to, when. They had pried into the lives and records of his family and friends to be sure nothing was missed.
They were still unsure where Shaw had run to, but they had an idea where he might be heading. An hour earlier they had intercepted a call made to Shaw’s love-interest, a Kate Conners.
“Sir, Shaw indicated that he planned to meet Connors in Rockingham, North Carolina at a ‘safe house,’” Agent Day began. “However, he told her to meet with a man by the name of Gray in Greensboro first. We're ninety percent sure he is referring to Agent Grayson Whitaker, who works with Shaw. He also mentioned two others by the name of Dante and Austin. We know the couple has close ties to Agents Dante Mercer and Austin Conway as well, his other colleagues at our Norfolk Field Office.”
Kate Connors’ phone line was the first that Hunt had tapped, among a few others. Shaw had been smart, he had not used his own phone; the GPS tracker in it had ceased to bleep on the screen hours ago. Shaw knew how not to be tracked. Yet he had taken the risk of contacting the woman.
“More agents? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Richard’s tone became irate as he shook his head. “What about this safe house? Do we have any record of a safe house in Rockingham that any of them used?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. We don't know where this house is. Agent Grayson Whitaker received a phone call approximately five minutes after Shaw contacted Conners though.” Day motioned an analyst to bring up Agent Whitaker’s profile. The screen lit up with information: date of birth, home, height, weight, service and medical records, all set next to Gray’s Bureau ID photo. His jaw line was rigid and narrow, his brown hair messy yet somehow professional.
“That call came from Kate Connors, sir.”
“So have we talked with Whitaker yet?” the Director asked.
“No, sir. We only discovered the conversation under an hour ago, while going through Dr. Connors’ calls,” Aran informed him, hesitating to continue.
“Well?”
“Agent Whitaker left the Norfolk Field Office immediately after the call, at around 1:30 this afternoon,” Aran explained. “We were able to get a match on his plates on interstate eighty-five south just past South Hill headed toward Greensboro. We have a team en route as we speak with orders to bring Agent Whitaker and Dr. Connors in for questioning.”
Director Hunt shook his head, “No. Have them follow Whitaker, but don't engage. Hopefully he can lead us to Ethan.”
He looked around the room sternly, soaking in the activity. A skinny female analyst a row ahead of Richard was checking police reports. A blonde analyst in a tasteful black skirt was contacting law enforcement agencies along Shaw's projected path, fielding information and seeking tips. Others scoured Agent Shaw’s full record for any patterns in his character or past events that might explain his decisions. Nothing was off the table.
Up on the main screen, Richard examined the service photos of the two agents – one gone rogue, the other a possible accomplice. Both men were trained FBI agents, and could be very dangerous. On top of it all, Shaw was former Special Forces, Marine Recon. There was no doubt he could take care of himself. That worried Richard. He was taking every possible precaution to minimize casualties and error.
“While you were in your briefing sir, we compiled additional information on Shaw,” Aran reported, walking over to a terminal manned by a slender female analyst. Hunt followed.
“Following Shaw’s financials has shown some interesting tendencies.” Aran pointed to the monitor. “Over the past four years, he' made several contributions to various anti-government, quote-unquote ‘constitutional’ groups.”
Aran stood up straight and motioned Hunt to another station operated by a young black man sporting a trimmed mustache and goatee.
“Shaw’s social media habits seem to back up his financials. He belongs to several groups dedicated to state sovereignty and reducing the government to nearly nothing, along with other we’ve tagged as borderline hate groups on our watch list.” Aran pointed to several groups listed on the screen: the Virginia Tenth Amendment Center, Citizens for Constitutional Government.
“He also had frequented regular meetings of so-called limited-government groups in the Norfolk-Virginia Beach area, though his attendance in the last year is negligible. Agent Whitaker, on the other hand, seems much more moderate. However, he and Shaw have worked together for years now, so there is no telling how committed he’ll be to Shaw. Same goes for Conway and Mercer,” Aran explained.
Richard Hunt could not help but chuckle a little inside. Shaw was trying to convince his friends of some conspiracy against him, that he did not commit the heinous crimes Richard was chasing him for. But the points to the contrary were continuing to line up. He was attached to every group possible that spelled out his motive and capacity to commit them.
Aran pressed a key on the next workstation, replacing Agent Whitaker’s bio on the main screen with a photo of Dr. Kate Connors. Aran drew Hunt’s attention to the screen with a nod.
Hunt nodded at the photo approvingly. Who would not fall for a woman like that? Dark brown eyes, long, soft sandy blonde hair tied up into a bun. She was professional but a beauty nonetheless.
“Shaw’s fiancé, Dr. Kate Connors. Age thirty-four, Caucasian female. Ph. D. in Political Science, teaches political science at North Carolina State.” Hunt scanned the biographical information as Aran continued.
“Dr. Connors’ research focus centers on election issues like voter fraud and institutional barriers to voting, but she also does some research and writing on national defense p
olicy and terrorism.”
Aran looked to his boss, one eyebrow cocked high. Hunt returned the expression and shook his head.
“How did she end up with Shaw?” he asked.
“Well, it gets better. Through her writings, reviews of her research, and from her colleagues, we’ve been able to determine that she’s far right politically, with major libertarian leanings. She calls herself a strict constitutionalist. She has been openly hostile to several intelligence gathering operations of the major intelligence agencies. She’d have a fit about what we’re doing right now. She was also one of the vocal supporters of Camille Lowe back in 2014,” Aran added disdainfully.
Richard remembered the whistleblower. Lowe had leaked thousands of documents outlining NSA projects which the FBI had used to protect US citizens from terrorism. He could not wait until the feds finally brought Lowe to justice for her treason.
“And each semester, Agent Shaw gives a guest lecture to Dr. Connors’ classes on domestic terrorism,” Aran told the Director with a wry half-smile.
“Anything else?” prompted Hunt.
“Dr. Connors recently wrote a scathing paper criticizing defense spending on what she deems hyper-militarism. She also advocated for ending all offensive wars and repealing the Davidson Act, among other surveillance legislation.”
“We’ve got ourselves a real stellar couple,” Hunt chuckled contemptuously, his lips pursed. “What about the other two? I believe you said Conway and Mercer,” the Director inquired.
Aran nodded and advanced the display to the next photo with the press of a button. Dr. Connors’ face disappeared and was replaced by a man with short, dark auburn hair and dark brown eyes. His place of birth immediately caught Hunt’s eye: Glasgow, U.K. His looks certainly lent credence to his Scottish lineage.
“Agent Austin Conway, age thirty-two, white male. Masters in Information Systems. Agent Conway is part of our cyberterrorism defense team in the Norfolk office – one of our best, actually. He was born in Scotland, but he became a US citizen at the age of five. He immigrated to the States with his parents and has lived here ever since.”
The Director dropped his head in exasperation. Could it get any worse? Now one of Shaw’s possible accomplices specializes in hacking. He returned his gaze to the screen just as Agent Day pulled up the last profile: a broad-shouldered male with dark brown hair and sky-blue eyes.
“Agent Dante Mercer. Age thirty-four, white male. Holds a bachelors in criminal justice. His record, like the others, is clean. However, his financials show that over the past three to four years he has spent a good sum on firearms and ammunition. More than your average Joe’s stockpile. But his record doesn't indicate any anti-government sentiments.”
Hunt sighed. With Mercer as an ally, Shaw potentially had access to a full arsenal of weapons, and a formidable bodyguard.
“If all three of these men are going to Shaw’s assistance, and we must assume they are until we can prove otherwise, we’re going to have a tough time finding and containing them,” Richard commented. “We have to take a careful and tactical approach. Have there been any hits on Ethan’s current location?”
Aran shook his head. “The only hit we’ve had is Shaw’s phone call to Dr. Connors. He called from a pay phone off of New MacLand Road in Georgia, but we’ve had no luck tracking him down since then. He’s managed to avoid traffic cameras for the most part.”
“For the most part?” the Director pressed, arching an eyebrow.
Aran looked up to an analyst a few workstations over who had been waiting for the cue. “Bring up the tag photo.”
Hunt only nodded his head imperceptibly, but he was pleased.
“We were able to get a faint shot of his license plate,” Aran said, brightening. On the screen, a standard white Georgia license plate appeared, the famous orange peach centered on the plate below the state name.
“Georgia plates, PHP1970. It’s registered to a late model silver Nissan Maxima. Belongs to a Gary Rollins in Atlanta.”
Hunt impatiently cut in, “Shaw most likely stole the vehicle. The car’s owner won’t give us any leads, but have local authorities question him anyway, just to be thorough. Get the plate designation to local police departments and our agents. Focus on those police departments located on or near possible routes to Rockingham, North Carolina.”
“Yes, sir.” Aran had carried out those orders over half an hour ago, but he did not bother to mention it.
“And get a reconnaissance drone over those routes as well.” After the not-so-public proliferation of drones in the States, their utilization had become standard procedure for the Bureau. The extra eyes in the sky had been invaluable in a number of past investigations. He hoped they would prove useful again.
Agent Day agreed and turned to walk away.
“What was the name of the agent who tried to stop Shaw?” the Director asked.
Day stopped and looked back at the Director, “Agent Sean Abrams, out of the Atlanta Field Office.”
Hunt nodded, “Thanks.”
CHAPTER 22
January 29 at 3:15 p.m. EST
Greensboro, NC
Gray struggled to keep the accelerator steady. His foot itched to drive down harder on the pedal as if eighty-five in a sixty-five zone was not expeditious enough already. He abruptly flipped the vents shut; the hot air pouring into the BMW was suffocating.
Gray had casually left the office for a "quick break" after hanging up with Kate. He did not know what to think yet, he needed to escape somewhere to clear his head. And the last thing he had wanted at the time was to face a stack of loaded questions.
His mind had trouble with the rest. She claimed that she knew what had happened but would not talk about it on the phone. Instead, she kept repeating that Ethan was innocent and that they needed to get to the safe house.
Gray had urged her to stick to Ethan’s instructions to meet him in Greensboro. He needed to meet her, but he worried she would never forgive him.
I want to believe you Kate, he thought. He did believe her. Then he did not believe her. His mind struggled between two possible realities – the one he wanted and the one the FBI was running with.
He hoped there would be time to talk before the Bureau sent someone to bring them both in for questioning.
What could Ethan hope for? Running from the FBI, CIA, NSA? Who knew what other acronyms might be chasing after Ethan this very moment? It was inevitable he would be caught. It was only a matter of time and in what state he came back. Running would only make it worse.
If Ethan is innocent why is the FBI claiming he’s not? What do they have to gain? No, there is a logical explanation. There has to be.
In the end Gray knew there were only three real scenarios. Either the FBI had screwed up, they were falsifying what happened or Ethan was actually guilty. His heart would not allow him to find Ethan guilty
No. Someone, somewhere just screwed up. It's just one epic, out-of-control, screw up.
Maneuvering between a semi-truck and an old Buick going ten under in the fast lane, Gray flicked his blinker on to turn off the interstate. He tried to assure himself that everything would be alright.
Just listen to her, Gray. Just listen. Then the Bureau can take care of the rest. They’ll work it out.
He could not throw away everything he had worked for his whole life to come to Ethan’s aid. Not without proof. Betting against the Bureau would be foolhardy.
Ahead the diner came into view.
Please understand, Kate.
CHAPTER 23
January 29 at 3:30 p.m. EST
Greensboro, NC
The warmth of the diner was welcome after confronting the nippy evening air. Kate sat at a petite corner booth inside AJ’s, a local mom and pop’s joint. The booth was old and uncomfortable. A stray spring had pricked her shin and the smell of grease hung in the air.
She felt out of place. This was Ethan’s restaurant of choice. She had never been without him, until today. Ka
te stared across the table at the empty seat opposite her. Ethan's absence made her feel desolate.
I don’t know if I can do this.
Kate sipped on her coffee, thinking how much she would prefer a bottle of vodka. Anything to ease the pain and slow her racing thoughts.
No. Kate, you can’t be like that. Calm down, get a hold of yourself. You’re in control.
She tried to quell her fears, but she knew she was lying to herself; control was way beyond her grasp. This course of events had been forced on her. All she could do was ride it out.
Ding ding.
The bells at the entrance door jingled. Kate’s eyes darted to the entrance, anxious to see Gray. A tall black man with graying dread-locks down to his waist bobbed in. He looked too old to be sporting such a look. She returned her gaze to the coffee cup in front of her, her hands still clasped around it tight.
Her eye caught the engagement ring on her finger. She sighed, remembering the joy that had filled every part of her being when Ethan had presented it to her. A warm smile crept across her lips. She could do this. Ethan needed her, and she needed him.
Ding ding.
Her eyes shot to the entrance door again. Gray strode in. Still donning his black slacks and a white button up, he searched the small dining room. Kate waved, trying to be discreet.
Gray grinned when he saw her, but Kate could see the reservation in his eyes. There was something uneasy in his eyes, something that made Kate nervous. He walked over, avoiding eye contact, and sat in the seat opposite her.
Kate’s mind drifted to the day she met Ethan. It was nearly four years ago, an Independence Day celebration. Gray and his wife, Sofia, who had been Kate’s roommate in college, hosted the party every year until their divorce. It was Gray and Sofia who had introduced her to Ethan. Kate had arrived at the party, an unsuspecting victim of a matchmaking scheme.
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