Killed in Action

by Michael Sloan

  3:00 P.M. CDT

  McCall was sitting in his Buick rental when Dr. Patrick Cross pulled into the parking lot of the Alamo Plaza Bar and Grill. It was just after 3:00 p.m. McCall recognized Cross’s BMW and the license number. When Cross stepped out of his car, stretching his back, McCall recognized him from Control’s profile. Cross spotted the SUV belonging to Bo Ellsworth and walked into the Alamo Plaza Bar and Grill. McCall got out quickly and ran to the front door. Inside he was greeted with a wall of sound: people talking and laughing, country-and-western music blaring from an old-fashioned jukebox.

  McCall was in time to see Dr. Cross and his brother Bo Ellsworth embracing each other. They moved to a table and sat down, talking animatedly. Cross was the cooler one, but Bo was grinning and got in another hug for his brother. McCall made his way to the bar, found a seat, and ordered a local beer, a Blue Star. He watched Cross and Bo in the big mirror behind the bar. At one point they got up abruptly and exited. McCall left his beer and hustled to the front door. He was in time to see Cross lifting something in an Atlanta Greenbriar Mall shopping bag from the trunk of his BMW. He moved with Bo to a side door of the Alamo Plaza.

  McCall went back to the bar. Two minutes later Cross and Bo came back. Cross had obviously left the shopping bag somewhere in the restaurant, perhaps in the kitchen. The two brothers resumed their seats, but now Cross was doing all the talking and Bo was listening.

  McCall waited.

  CHAPTER 45

  3:12 P.M. CDT

  Hayden Vallance walked into the lobby of what had been the Valencia, now called the Riverwalk Hotel, at 3:12 p.m. Two other mercenaries were waiting for him. Gabriel Paul Dubois was an Algerian in his midthirties who had been fighting Boko Haram in Nigeria since the beginning of 2016. He had no allegiance to any country and fought his battles for the highest bidder. He had rescued four of the Chibok children from the Sambisa Forest who had been taken prisoner by Boko Haram and was looking for the rest of the victims. He’d come back to visit his mother, who was at a hospice in New Jersey, when Vallance had reached out to him. Vallance hadn’t given Dubois any details except the flight number. That was all that Gabriel had required. If Vallance had called for his services, he was there, no questions asked. He would negotiate his fee later.

  Clive Ashley-Talbot was a Brit who came from a family who had had a seat in the House of Lords for three hundred years. He was in his late twenties, amoral and feral. He had been fighting in the conflict between separatist forces of the self-declared Donetsk and Luhansk People’s Republics and pro-Russian forces in the Ukraine. Clive made a lot of money and owed no one anything, not his loyalty, not his respect, nor his allegiance.

  But he owed his life to Hayden Vallance.

  Vallance had pulled Clive out of a battle where pro-Russian insurgents had surrounded the Donetsk International Airport. Clive had been badly wounded. Vallance had airlifted both of them to a hospital in Gӧdӧllo just outside Budapest.

  Clive didn’t like to be in debt to anyone.

  The two mercenaries checked in first. Both of them had weapons stashed in their leather bags. They went up to their rooms. The reception girl, who was seriously cute with short-cropped blond hair, asked Vallance why he was in San Antonio. He told her he was there to visit the Alamo. The girl smiled and said he wouldn’t be disappointed.

  But he wasn’t listening to her.

  He’d seen one of the rogue mercenaries, as McCall had labeled them, sitting in a rattan chair. He was casually dressed in slacks and a black cashmere turtleneck and loafers with no socks. Vallance figured he was in his thirties. He was reading a paperback thriller.

  There was no mistaking the silver demon-claws skull on his right hand.

  Vallance walked to the elevator to go up to his room.

  Tom Renquist barely glanced up from his book. He thought Vallance looked like a mercenary, but it didn’t matter.

  Renquist’s target was Robert McCall.

  3:22 P.M. CDT

  Control sat at one of the tables along River Walk. It was crowded with tourists. One of the flat-bottomed boats floated by, the guide extolling the charms of the many restaurants and galleries. Looking up, Control could see the façade of the Riverwalk Hotel with its cascading gardens and steps leading down to the river. He knew that Hayden Vallance and his mercenaries had already checked into the hotel.

  Maybe for no reason.

  It wasn’t hard to spot Todd Blakemore. He stood out from the crowd as if he had a sign around his neck that read FEDS. He was carrying a manila folder, his eyes hidden behind dark Ray•Ban aviator sunglasses. Control signaled to him, and Blakemore slid into the table opposite Control and set down the folder.

  “FBI special agent Todd Blakemore.” No preamble.

  “James Thurgood Cameron.”

  “I ran your name through Bureau records. Not only was there no intel about a clandestine intelligence outfit called The Company, we couldn’t find a single piece of evidence that you exist. Not a driver’s license, a Social Security number, a residence, a high school or college you attended, no relatives, no family, zero.”

  “The Company is a black-ops operation that officially doesn’t exist. My identity was carefully eradicated in a power struggle. None of that matters now. We have only hours before three separate terrorist attacks are going to be carried out.”

  “If your story has any validity. This is the file we’ve compiled on Bo Ellsworth and his Texas Minutemen Militia. They’re a paramilitary unit who hold meetings, organize rallies for patriotic Americans, rail against the government and all kinds of ethnic groups, mostly Muslim. They’ve been disruptive at marches and have taken to guarding federal buildings in the name of homeland security. There are at least a dozen of these groups on our books. They rarely disturb the peace, and we’ve never found anything incriminating against any of them.”

  “But you keep an eye on them anyway.” Control looked through the folder. “What is it about the Texas Minutemen Militia that doesn’t sit right with you.”

  It wasn’t a question. FBI agent Blakemore looked out at the boats on the river and the crowds of tourists surging along River Walk. The ambience was festive. No one was paying the least attention to their quiet oasis.

  “There’s something about Bo Ellsworth that sticks in my craw,” Blakemore said. “I can’t put it into words. Just a gut feeling.”

  “Would you describe him as an urban terrorist?”

  “Bo Ellsworth and his militia are dangerous because of their misguided loyalties and hate rhetoric.”

  “Do you believe they would ever carry out a terrorist attack like the ones in Paris or Brussels?”

  “No way in the world. Bo Ellsworth stands for American values, John Wayne, the Ku Klux Klan, and is one step away from white supremacy.”

  “So he would have nothing do with the Insurgent fighters in Syria?”

  “Only what he reads in the newspapers or sees on Fox News.”

  Control closed the folder. “Do you have any closer shots of Bo Ellsworth’s compound?”

  Blakemore took out his Android cell phone, scrolled down, then handed it to Control. “This is footage from a drone we sent over the compound two days ago.”

  Control looked at the footage, noted the main ranch house and the smaller buildings, the SUVs parked in the compound, kids on the property, horses in a corral.

  “I understand you searched the compound.”

  “From top to bottom. Bo Ellsworth has a lot of firepower, 9mm pistols, M4 assault rifles, all legally obtained with the necessary permits.”

  The drone footage ended, and Control handed the Android phone back to Blakemore.

  The FBI agent took off his Ray•Ban sunglasses and regarded Control frankly. “I can’t confirm your credentials. You say there’s going to be a terrorist attack. Maybe here in San Antonio. But you’ve got no corroborating evidence to back this up. Why shouldn’t I believe you’re just another crackpot with conspiracy theories? I’ve got a bunch o
f them in my office that I make paper planes with.”

  Control took a breath, then told Blakemore everything he knew about the plot against the United States by three American citizens. He left out only the part about the rogue mercenaries from The Company who were guarding the American terrorists. When he’d finished, Agent Blakemore stared at him for a long time.

  Then he put his Ray•Ban sunglasses back on. “What do you need?”

  “I’d like to see Bo Ellsworth’s compound.”

  “I’ll have to talk to my boss.”

  Control nodded, got up, and walked away. Blakemore dialed his cell phone. Control called McCall on his burner. McCall told him that he was in the Alamo Plaza Bar and Grill and that Dr. Patrick Cross and Bo Ellsworth were there having some beers together.

  “All it tells us is that they’re brothers and they’re reuniting,” McCall said. “Nothing suspicious or threatening. What about you?”

  Control said he was enlisting the help of the FBI to take a look at Bo Ellsworth’s compound. “But I don’t think they really believe me.” Control gave McCall Todd Blakemore’s cell phone number and said he’d urged the FBI agent to call in Homeland Security. “I’ll call you if go to Boerne.”

  “What about Hayden Vallance?”

  “He checked into the Riverwalk Hotel this afternoon with two mercenaries. Call me back if you can.”

  Control hung up as FBI agent Blakemore ended his call, got to his feet, walked over, and said, “Let’s go to Boerne.”

  5:10 P.M. EDT

  Tom Coleman came out of his apartment building and walked briskly down Eighteenth Street to a parking facility near Union Square. Kostmayer and Gunner followed him in the Chrysler and waited. Five minutes later the NYU student drove out of the garage in a classic red 1979 VW Beetle cabriolet. He headed west. Kostmayer gave him two minutes, while Gunner ascertained that the tracking device was working, then followed.

  4:20 CDT

  McCall sat in the Alamo Plaza Bar and Grill, nursing his Second Blue Star beer. In the mirror behind the bar he watched Cross and Bo’s reunion become more intense. McCall was looking at Dr. Patrick Cross’s eyes. They were cold and lifeless. The eyes of a dead man. But his body language had passion. He took out his iPhone and scrolled through some pictures. McCall got up and made his away past their table. He saw that Cross was scrolling through pictures of atrocities—Syrian and Iraqi civilians being massacred. Bo was staring at them, unmoving. Both men looked up as McCall murmured an apology as he passed by.

  Neither of them had ever seen him before.

  McCall went through the front door, gave it a few moments, then reentered the restaurant with his burner phone in one hand, as if he had forgotten it in his car. He went back to his barstool and picked up his Blue Star beer. In the mirror, Cross had put away his iPhone and was gripping Bo’s hands. Bo nodded, like what Cross was saying made sense. Finally Cross let him go. Bo stared at his brother for a long time. Then he handed Cross a small .25 Colt semiautomatic pistol, which he put into his pocket. Bo slid out of the booth and headed to the corridor that led to the restrooms and the kitchen.

  McCall slid off his barstool and followed him.

  The corridor was deserted. McCall strode to a clear pane where you could look into the kitchen. Bo was moving to a large stainless-steel refrigerator.

  The loop was thrown around McCall’s throat and pulled tight.

  McCall tucked in his chin and raised his right shoulder, trying to get his hips perpendicular to his assailant. At the same time he barreled back into him, sending both of them down the corridor, inside the men’s room, smashing right back into one of the stalls. The severity of McCall’s backward propulsion had taken his assailant completely by surprise. His head snapped back against the enamel. McCall smashed his elbow into the assailant’s groin. When he doubled over, McCall gouged his right eye almost out of its socket. He savagely pulled the belt from around his throat, hauled the assailant in front of him, put his knee into his back and his arms around the man’s neck, and twisted. The man’s neck snapped and McCall caught his weight as he fell forward.

  The entire attack and counterdefense had taken less than five seconds. McCall’s adrenaline was pumping and he had to slow down his breathing. Clearly the man was not an assassin and had no real training. He had seen an opportunity and had slid his belt out of his jeans and looped it around McCall’s neck, thinking the element of surprise and the sudden choking spasm would have done the trick. If it had been a cheese cutter looped around McCall’s neck, he would have not survived.

  He recognized the assailant as one of the men who had been guarding Control in the house in Virginia. A young guy with strawberry-colored hair and bad teeth. Cassie had described him as right out of Deliverance. McCall grabbed the fingers of the dead man’s right hand and noted the silver demon-claws skull on his ring finger with the silver ring beside it. McCall put his arm around the dead man’s shoulders, moving both of them out of the stall just as the men’s-room door was pushed in by a cowboy who was in a real hurry to piss. Passing them, he shot McCall and his burden a look.

  “Clay can’t hold his liquor the way he used to,” McCall explained, opening the men’s-room door. “Come on, dude, let’s get you back to your table.”

  The corridor outside the restrooms was deserted.

  McCall pushed through the side entrance to the Alamo Plaza Bar and Grill. A blue Dumpster was in an alleyway. McCall opened it, revealing black polyethylene bags, and heaved the man inside. The Dumpster lid slammed down. McCall looked around, but no one was in the alleyway. He went back inside, moving to the kitchen door. A server carrying a tray piled with food almost barreled right into him.

  “Sorry!” she said, and moved into the restaurant.

  McCall looked through the clear plastic panel. Bo was gone, presumably having taken with him the shopping bag that he’d stashed in the refrigerator. McCall ran into the restaurant and saw that Dr. Patrick Cross had paid his check and left. McCall moved quickly outside.

  In the parking lot Bo was just slamming down the trunk on his Ford Explorer. Cross sat in the passenger seat. McCall walked to his Buick and slid into it. By that time Bo Ellsworth was pulling out of the lot. McCall turned out of the Alamo Plaza Bar and Grill heading back to Main Street after the Explorer.

  5:53 P.M. EDT

  Kostmayer followed Tom Coleman through the Holland Tunnel into New Jersey. Tom kept going on through Five Corners, down Hoboken Avenue, and then down Summit Street. He turned onto Vroom Street, then onto Bergen Avenue, and parked beside the old Bergen church and cemetery in Jersey City. He climbed out of his vintage VW Beetle and entered the cemetery. Kostmayer made sure the tracking signal in Gunner’s hands was still registering an intermittent red blip, then he climbed out of the Chrysler.

  The Old Bergen Cemetery had an iron fence surrounding it. Parts of it were overgrown at the back where Tom Coleman’s figure had disappeared. The cemetery had no other mourners or visitors right now. Kostmayer skirted around headstones in the gray afternoon light. He noted that the markers faced away from Bergen Avenue, the souls of the dead waiting for the coming of the Day of Judgment. Many of them were from Bergen’s founding Dutch families, judging by the names: Brinkeroff, Van Reypen, Van Wagoner. Kostmayer spotted Tom Coleman kneeling beside a marker where he had just placed a single white rose. The headstone said Cornelia Van Wagoner, b. 1859, d. May 1945, age Eighty-Six years. To have died in 1945, Kostmayer thought, she might be Tom’s great-grandmother.

  Tom sat down beside the marker. He might have been praying or just meditating. Kostmayer moved to the wooded area that started just beyond the fence at the back. He watched Tom Coleman’s profile and waited.

  5:06 P.M. CDT

  Control sat in the back of a cramped panel truck that was parked down a canyon road in the mesquite brush about a mile and a half off State Highway 46. Another road that branched off Highway 46 led directly to Bo Ellsworth’s compound. Control had noted a sign that said MINUTE
MAN RANCH. Two other FBI agents were sitting among some sophisticated electronic equipment and monitors. One of them was tall and lanky, looking like he’d been born in the saddle. He was in his late thirties, and if he had any facial expressions, they were fleeting. Blakemore had introduced him as FBI agent Hank Fulton. Beside him was a stocky agent named Willis Deevers Sutherland, whom his colleagues called Deaf because he had a discreet hearing aid in his left ear. He had just sent another drone soaring high above Bo’s compound. Deaf told Control it was a DJI Inspire 1 Raw quadcopter with a Zenmuse X5R camera. The pictures the drone sent back were all benign: kids playing in the compound, some of the Texas minutemen, in uniform, patrolling the perimeter, wives and girlfriends watching the kids.

  “Where’s Bo?” Blakemore asked.

  “In town,” Hank Fulton said. “It’s his day off today, so he’s probably in the Alamo Plaza Bar and Grill.”

  “Are you keeping him under surveillance?” Control asked.

  “He goes there virtually every day,” Deaf said. “All the minutemen congregate in there. We can’t track Bo Ellsworth twenty-four/seven.”

  “Deaf’s right,” Blakemore said. “These agents have been on duty for six days here, three eight-hour shifts. I’m pulling them at the end of this cycle.”

  “Give it a little more time,” Control said.

  The two other FBI agents glanced at each other, clearly irritated that an outsider was calling the shots here.

  “Do you have a timeline for this terrorist attack, if it happens?” Blakemore asked.

  “I don’t. Except today’s date. The seventeenth.”

  “I’ll give it another two hours,” Blakemore said. “Then I’m pulling the plug.”

  CHAPTER 46

  5:08 P.M. CDT

  Bo Ellsworth’s Ford Explorer approached the West Texas Regional Water Treatment Plant just off the I-10. McCall pulled off the road, sheltered by some hickory trees. Five three-story buildings were protected by an eight-foot fence with coiled barbed wire at the top. An American flag and a Texas flag flew above a guard hut built into the sandstone wall that wound around the property. McCall was surprised to see a guard’s hut on a local wastewater-treatment facility. Landscaped lawns were on either side of the buildings. The plant reached back probably a half mile, with massive circles laid out symmetrically behind the five main structures.