“Yes, but admittedly, she escaped.” Farsing responded.
“Yes, that’s true.” Connelly couldn’t deny, but he’d been counting on the fact of Farsing bringing Shannon Hunter’s escape into account. He’d actually needed it to come about. “But I feel that her escape is due to Special Agent Black’s presence and involvement.” He turned on the very man who had delivered the news of his relief of duty.
“Arthur Black? How so?” Farsing questioned, brow and eyes narrowing as he suspected Connelly of merely blaming it on the closest available agent to relieve himself of responsibility, and Connelly could see it. He almost could have laughed, for what Michael Farsing suspected was indeed true, though he was going to make it seem as though the opposite was truth. He was lying to a superior, but only in order to get his full argument across the table. Afterwards, it wouldn’t matter what was a lie and what was not.
“Because, there are things he instructed me to leave out of my report.” He admitted, as if having never planned to omit them entirely. “Things I believe to be of instrumental importance to the developments of the Murton and Norton incident, as well as the death of Agent Fastez and the disappearance of not only the task force, but also the escape of Shannon Hunter, which occurred under his supervision as well as my own.”
“You withheld information from your report?” Farsing asked, arching a brow.
“Yes, but only to protect it from Agent Black. I had no intention of withholding it from you, sir, and I have prepared all of my notes.” He revealed, lifting his briefcase onto the table. “You’ll have to forgive the less than formal format of it all, but I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”
“That’s alright Ben, just let me see what you have, and I’ll be the judge.” Farsing permitted him to proceed, and with laptop and papers extricated Agent Connelly went to work. He slid a photograph of an older, mountain-man-looking fellow across the table.
“Are you familiar with this man?” He asked, and Farsing shook his head.
“Should I be?” Michael took the bait.
“That is the Olympic gold medalist, sixty-five year old, Christopher Crowe Stevens, whose students affectionately call Crow-Elf.” Connelly said it fairly casually.
“Do you know what field he was in?” He hesitated, and Farsing shook his head. “I’ll give you a hint. It has to do with his nickname.” Of course, Farsing was too far detached from the entire E.L.F. ordeal to gather it in. He shook his head again.
“I don’t have time for guessing games, nor Olympic Games right now, Ben, and neither do you. Just tell me what’s going on.”
“Christopher Stevens, the Crow-Elf, shot singles archery in the Games, and is now the oldest gold medalist in the history of the Olympics. His nickname, given by students after the publication of his book in wake of his gold medal, is a direct play on creatures out of fantasy games.
Of his many students during his seminars and instructional events held at the University of Washington in Seattle, most were young adolescents. However, two were young adults. Their names you will find in the report of the incidents surrounding Agent Fastez’s death. Jason Brooke and Devin Lock.” He halted, seeing understanding in Farsing’s eyes.
“As stated in ballistics testing and autopsy, Agent Fastez was indeed shot by a sniper from a hill during the attack on Murton and Norton, but it wasn’t a gunman. It was an archer. Stevens lives in a town called, Enumclaw, roughly an hour south and east of Seattle. I believe, in contact with Jason Brooke and Devin Lock, that Mr. Stevens could have been sympathetic to the Earth Liberation Front’s cause. I believe that he has either trained them to make the shot that killed Agent Fastez, or he was there in person himself to make it. I think you’ll have no trouble agreeing that a fifty-plus yard shot at a moving target in the dark and through cover is not a particularly easy shot to make, especially for an archer.”
“Agent Black informed you to withhold this information?” Farsing asked, sounding quite upset, and he certainly didn’t believe it.
“No.” Connelly admitted. “Not directly sir, no.”
“Then why did you withhold it?”
“I didn’t, sir.” Connelly spoke reverse now. “I only discovered this in route to D.C. as I pondered what it was that Agent Black advised me to withhold. But, I also found evidence to suggest that what I was told to withhold for my own good, should not be withheld, but rather, investigated through the apprehension and questioning of Christopher Stevens.”
“Which is what exactly?” Farsing asked patiently, and Connelly drew out the book, “How to shoot like a fantasy” by, Christopher Crowe Stevens. He slid it across the table.
“Mr. Stevens wrote a book about his archery after winning the medal, and has won many endorsements, as medalists often do. His teachings during summer events for youths at the UW rest under the shortened title of ‘Shooting like Elves.’
Likely to attract a larger, younger crowd.
In that book, he gives acknowledgements to a certain Jason, who helped to organize the event as well as studying beneath Mr. Stevens.” Connelly then slapped down a stack of paper, the faxes from the library.
“I contacted Mrs. Jennifer Riley at the UW, in charge of making the event possible on the campus grounds, and she faxed me the names enlisted to study for the week beneath the master himself. On this list are the names, Jason Brooke and Devin Lock. I believe the Jason in his book’s acknowledgments and thanks, as well as in a few of his memoir-like stories, is the Jason Brooke on the list, which of course, is our Jason Brooke placed as the mastermind at the scene of Murton and Norton Industrial.” He drew a heavy breath and settled in for the hardest part of the argument to get his involvement back in the game.
“However, Mr. Stevens also details something in that book, something that I believe could have been used in the efforts to help Shannon Hunter’s escape. In that book he describes a technique used in hunting, a technique similar to those employed by special ops military forces. Camouflage, environment optimization, persistence of optical illusions by deceiving the human mind and eye. He called it none other than Elf-walking, in that book. He’d developed it in the eastern Rockies when he was a child, beneath his father’s tutelage as an accomplished woodsman, and he later perfected it there in the Cascades of western Washington.
Not only do I believe it to be a valid technique if used properly in hospitable, optimal conditions, but I know it to be so, for what Agent Black instructed me to withhold from my report depends upon the validity of this technique, which also puts Stevens into closer lines for sympathizing with the E.L.F. by the very term he’d used to describe it.” He was suddenly cut off by Director Farsing.
“Did someone use this technique in the escape of Shannon Hunter then?” He asked, entirely anticipating where Connelly was going with all of this. Agent Connelly nodded seriously.
“As we were entering her room for a second round of questioning, the lights had been off and it was dark. We hadn’t even gotten through the door when I thought I saw someone through the glass in the door, standing in the room, covered in a black robe or cloak of some sort. We didn’t have time to even reach for the light switch before the explosion went off. By the time the debris cleared and the lights were on, she was gone.”
“However, I don’t believe they had gone anywhere in the chaos that followed.”
Farsing’s eyes widened. He saw exactly what Connelly had intended.
“I believe they used the oldest trick in the book, and due to the haste with which Agent Black assumed control of the situation, drawing us all away from the room, the girl and whoever was there in the room with her, slipped out right behind our backs.”
“I don’t believe it.” Farsing responded immediately. Connelly lowered his features, and shook his head.
“I didn’t either, at first, due to Agent Black’s insistence, but I assure you, Mike. You’ve known me for a long time now. I’ve never lost a case, and I’m not about to lose this one. This has nothing to do with Fastez’s death, but i
f I can catch his killer while I’m at the unraveling of the entire E.L.F. foundational structure, just beyond my reach as it stands right now, then I may as well. What I need is for you to sign off on my reinstatement. Send me back to Seattle.” He tried not to sound insistent, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted this. He wanted it bad. And he let Farsing see it.
“Alright, here’s the deal. I’ll get you cleared, but only so far as being able to apprehend and question Mr. Stevens. If he reveals any helpful information, or if he turns out to have actually been the smoking gun, then you’ll have your reinstatement.” He slid the book and the papers back across the table.
“Understand me, Ben. You are not to do anything else. Get Stevens. Question him, but go no further until you have confirmation on his involvement, or his students, or the whereabouts of anyone involved in the Murton and Norton incident.”
“Understood, and thank you, Michael.” Ben Connelly offered his hand, and Farsing took it strongly.
“You just better hope you aren’t wrong, Ben.” Farsing warned, but it was a wishing of luck in his own way. Connelly knew it for what it was, and with that, he’d gotten all he’d wanted.
In very little time, he would be on a small federal jet-plane in the company of a new group of agents under his direct authority and supervision, and they would have lift-off by day’s end. The flight would be a long one, and he would finally be allowed to get some serious flight-rest. It was always good for helping create jetlag, but Connelly didn’t care. He could finally rest easy, knowing he was at least back on track toward being in control of the events in his life.
He was going back to Washington.
Chapter 12
Once again the ripping of landing gear tires on concrete sounded out as a newly formed group of federal agents now beneath Agent Ben Connelly touched down in Washington State. However, rather than Sea-Tac International Airport, they landed at Boeing Field in the southern reaches of Seattle. Agent Connelly jerked awake with the touchdown, grunting and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He sat up, asked for water, and caught a bottle tossed his way by one of his four new associates.
In little time, the unmarked twin engine plane came to a smooth halt, allowing them to disembark. Before the engines were even fully winding down, Connelly was descending the stairs provided and being greeted by a ranking military officer. A pair of personnel choppers waited a short distance off, propellers already in motion. Boeing Field had been commandeered especially for their operation, all flights redirected for the hour of their arrival and departure.
“Welcome back to Seattle, Agent Connelly.” The officer offered his hand, falling in stride and veering his path towards the choppers, whose blades were quickly winding up, engines whining.
“Lieutenant Allen. I trust you’ll take good care of us.” The lean man chuckled, but seeing Connelly was in no mood to laugh, he corrected himself properly and went on.
“We’ve been briefed on your high value target at the wishes of Director Farsing and have prepared accordingly. You’ve a twenty man squad trained well for such a snatch and grab. Five up-armored Hum-V’s are waiting in Sumner, twenty minutes from Enumclaw. Area surveillance tells us Stevens has not tried to flee the state. We presume he believes himself undiscovered for his participation in the attack on your agent.”
They were nearing the choppers, and the blades were going full tilt, kicking up a commotion.
“Good! Thank you, Lieutenant.” Connelly called, ducking low instinctively beneath the whirring of helicopter blades. “Brief me the rest on the way. Let’s get moving.” And without delay, the Agents, under cooperation with the local military, out of joint base Lewis/McCord were in route to Sumner. The choppers’ engines accelerated, and with passengers boarded, lift-off hastily brought them away from Boeing Field.
Aiming southbound, they followed the general lay of I-5 for a short distance, flying low over Tukwila and route 405, to end up vaguely following highway 167 southbound to Sumner where it rested at the foot of Eli Hill, nestled between 167 and SR 410, which went knifing up the first step of the foothills towards Mt. Rainier National Park, some hour long drive beyond Enumclaw.
Touchdown came in what could have been a daffodil field in the spring, and the five Hummers were waiting as promised, each touting a manned M114 turret. A little overkill in the firepower department, but Connelly just tried to ignore the fact. A local P.D. squad car was on hand to ensure swift, unhindered travels through stoplights in Bonney Lake at the top of the hill and Buckley further up the state route 410.
They rushed from the choppers to their new rides, and were swiftly off and running. The trucks followed the squad car onto SR 410 at its very base, and the drivers opened them up, engines growling proudly as the work-horses that they were. The policeman’s lights and sirens were going already, and Connelly turned to Lieutenant Allen immediately.
“Can you radio him and tell him to turn off the sound before we get close?!”
Allen nodded promptly, leaning forth to the soldier riding shotgun, slapping him on the shoulder without a word and pointing to the squad car. The soldier understood implicitly and hopped on the radio as Lieutenant Allen turned back to Connelly. The soldiers were prepping their rifles as the federal agent had one forced into his hands.
“It’s your standard issue M-16, burst-fire automatic.” The Lieutenant was speaking up to be heard over the road noise as they howled up Eli Hill, accelerating harshly despite the healthy grade. Agent Connelly looked from the weapon to Allen and offered it back.
“No thanks, Lieutenant.” He nearly had to shout to be heard fairly. “We’re not out here to kill this man.”
“Understood, sir, but it can’t hurt to be prepared.” Allen responded. “Your report said he was a dangerous individual, a sniper of the highest quality”
“Yes, but an archer cannot hope to stand against assault rifles, Allen!” He answered wisely once more, glancing ahead as they crested the rise of Eli Hill, blazing through a stoplight beneath the guidance of their police escort. There rose up Mt. Rainier before his eyes. It was a giant of impossible solidity and beauty framed on the roadway, as if SR 410 simply ended and Rainier began.
That of course, was not the truth, but it was a rather convincing illusion for a string of seconds until they reached a new stoplight and went blazing through, descending as the road swooped to the left and began to rise again through the minor shopping district of Bonney Lake.
“He may be more than an Olympic medalist in archery, Sir!” Allen shot back smartly. “I’m familiar with Christopher Stevens! I saw him shoot in the Games! I’m well aware of what we’re up against.” He informed, pushing the weapon back towards Connelly.
“I don’t believe we’ll need those.” He denied the weapon a second time.
“Surveillance reports no moves to escape his fate, you said! We’ll catch him sleeping, and unawares, I’m sure.”
“Though, that could be exactly what a man like this expects us to think, Agent!” Lieutenant Allen added, once again, smartly. He’d been through this scenario a dozen times in his head already, and Connelly could see it. “Make no mistake, Connelly! A man like Stevens could very well have more than a few tricks up his sleeve!”
“Nevertheless, Lieutenant! I’m in charge here, and no one is to fire on this man unless I call for it! We need him alive for questioning, not in a box!” He ended it, pushing the rifle back a final time.
“And besides! I’m a better shot with my own!” Connelly was certain and it was resolved as he peeled back his coat’s length to reveal the burly handle of a black desert eagle. Lieutenant Allen arched a brow and half-tilted a nod of appreciation, but he couldn’t help seeing the humor in it.
“I thought you said we weren’t out to kill this man, sir!” He chuckled.
“Oh, we’re not!” Connelly answered back. “But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared!” And the soldier, as well as his boys who had listened to the entire exchange found the humor in it as well. They shared
themselves a laugh and turned to waiting for their arrival as the lieutenant went on, producing a map marked with black and red markers. He leaned into Connelly across from himself, drawing the Agent forth as he held low the map to be shared. It was nothing less than a satellite photograph.
“Stevens’ property isn’t exactly an unwise position for a man like him!” He began. “He owns a plot of twenty acres out in the sticks, only technically part of Enumclaw because there isn’t another town near enough for him to be part of.
His drive is a quarter mile long, off an old logging road -gravel, unmarked. It is heavily wooded property, fronted by tall hills, and the house rests here at the back of a low valley. But, it is raised from the foremost acres, sitting on a gradual hill. Beyond the house is a break in the hills surrounding at a range of a hundred yards.
If he sees or knows we’re coming, he won’t have much difficulty making a clean escape before we’re even on him.”
“And what if he doesn’t see us coming?” Connelly asked with a certain grin. He just had a feeling the man wouldn’t be expecting them.
E.L.F. - White Leaves Page 15