Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  "Do you have to look at this here?" Parker said, glancing nervously over his shoulder at two women who occupied brown leather chairs several tables away.

  "You need to relax. I didn't drag the gun out, did I?"

  Parker didn't look relieved by his response and continued to look over his shoulder while Daniel unsealed the packet. Daniel extracted the contents and placed them on the table next to his coffee. The top item was a picture.

  Petrovich opened and read the contents of the envelope and replaced the letter. He put the envelope back into the briefcase and took the picture off the table. Staring at the picture, he asked, "I suppose this gentleman needs to take a permanent vacation?"

  "Something like that. His name is…"

  "I don't need to know his name. I assume this packet contains all of the information I'll need? Places of business, hours of work, gym, favorite bars…though I get the feeling this guy might not partake in the consumption of alcohol or bacon."

  For the first time since Daniel placed a gun against his head, Parker cracked a smile.

  "Ah, a sense of humor. I don't think the general likes those either," Daniel said.

  "So, I'll track this guy down and find an opportunity, but I need to talk to your general personally, right now, or this whole thing is off."

  "The general isn't available to talk right now. He went offline right before I arrived in Portland."

  "Get him on the phone, or you're going to have to kill this guy yourself. I don't think this kind of work would suit you."

  "I'll try, but I'm serious about…"

  Daniel's cell phone interrupted Parker's sentence. Unknown number.

  "Daniel Petrovich," he answered dryly, now pretty sure he was under surveillance. Another deception by Parker.

  "Danny! It's been a while. Great to hear your voice."

  "Well, you can play it back all day and night, I suppose," Daniel said.

  "Newest technology on the streets. Turned Parker's cell phone into a bug without him knowing," General Sanderson said.

  "Congratulations. I'm glad to know you didn't spend the Hadzic trust fund all in one place," Daniel said.

  "I need you in on this operation, Daniel. We're sending a strong message to the Muslim fundamentalist movement here at home…"

  "Are you fucking kidding me? Save that bullshit for the rest of your zealots. I'll take a look at the file. If I agree to do this…I don't want to hear from you again. Ever. Is that clear?"

  "If that's what you want."

  "It's what I always wanted, but here we are. I'll need a few days for reconnaissance…"

  "I need this done tonight. Our timeline is set in stone," the general said.

  Parker shifted in his seat uncomfortably, as if he sensed an immediate threat to his existence, which couldn't have been further from the truth. Daniel's brain worked like a perfect machine when under pressure, and his processors analyzed hundreds of solutions to his current dilemma within seconds. Killing Parker in a suburban Designer Grinds never passed through Daniel's neural connections. Petrovich knew that the general had the upper hand and that all paths led to the completion of the task outlined in the briefcase. It had been no accident that Parker arrived only hours before the mission's deadline.

  "I'm done after this. You understand that, right?"

  "I understand. I apologize for pulling out the trump card—"

  "Apologies never suited you, General, and I don't believe it for one fucking second," Daniel said, shaking his head slowly.

  "Whether you believe it or not, your actions will make a huge contribution to the war on terror, and—"

  "Save the elevator speech for Parker. I have a long afternoon ahead of me. My slate is clean."

  "Clean," General Sanderson said.

  "I'm curious, how long have you known about her?"

  "Do you remember one of the first things I told your training class? There's no such thing as a coincidence," Sanderson said and disconnected the call.

  Petrovich set the phone down on the target dossier and glanced up at Parker. The former special operations soldier looked tense and ready to make a bad decision.

  "Parker, chill out and drink your coffee. You're making me nervous. I need a contact number in case I run into unforeseen circumstances," he said.

  "You'll find instructions for that in the file. I'll need to collect the dossier and the gun when you're finished," he replied.

  "I'll leave it all at the scene for you," Daniel said and slipped the file into the briefcase alongside the table. He collected his cell phone and picked up his coffee. "Don't bother getting up. Thanks for the coffee, by the way."

  "My pleasure," Parker said.

  Daniel left with the briefcase, checking over his shoulder once to make sure Parker stayed seated. As soon as he walked out the door, he was hit in the face by a cloud of cigarette smoke from a homeless man sitting at one of the coffee house's outdoor wrought iron tables. The tobacco smoke reminded him of a past he apparently couldn't escape.

  He walked back to his car, sipping coffee and firmly clutching the briefcase. Sanderson was a careful and thorough operator, so he felt considerably secure that he would not have to play the counter-surveillance game this afternoon. If he suspected any possibility that his plot had been detected, he would have given Daniel some warning. Not for Daniel's safety or wellbeing, but to give Daniel the best possible shot at accomplishing the mission.

  The outcome had always been the general's only true concern. He could be unfailingly loyal, as long as your usefulness outweighed your burden. Daniel had learned this early and leveraged it throughout his "stay" overseas. Unmarked graves scattered across the continents covered the remains of "graduates" that never quite grasped this concept.

  Daniel reached his car and deactivated the alarm system, which emitted two sharp chirps. Three low chirps would have indicated that someone or something had made contact with the car in his absence. The vibrational sensitivity of the system could detect someone leaning against the car, or even the slightest bump of an opening door. The alarm would only sound if someone tried to open one of the doors or forcefully hit the car.

  He started the car and moved it to an empty row in the back of the parking lot, where he opened the case and pulled out the file. He quickly thumbed through the documents, taking in all of the salient points. The general's operational files hadn't changed in years. Functional and easy to navigate, Daniel had a solid assessment of the job within minutes. A rough plan developed before he could shift gears and speed out of the parking lot. He had a lot to accomplish before soccer practice tonight.

  Chapter Two

  8:20 p.m.

  Portland, Maine

  Daniel checked his watch before opening the door to the house, determining that he was well within the range of returning from soccer practice. He pressed the garage door button and stepped inside as the door motor hummed behind him.

  "That you, Danny?" he heard from deep inside the house.

  "Were you expecting someone else?" he yelled back, kicking off his running shoes onto the gray tile floor.

  He placed a dark blue gym bag down on a small white bench in the crowded mudroom and turned to the closet to pretend to hang his work clothes. He opened and shut the closet, spying the work outfit that he'd stuffed between jackets earlier in the day. He just wanted to make sure it was still there. He had visited the house during the late afternoon to change clothes and pick up a few items. He was long gone by the time Jess returned home from work.

  Jessica appeared under the soft glow of the kitchen's pendant lighting and placed a book on the butcher-block island.

  "Yeah, I keep bringing Thai food home for Antonio Banderas, but to no avail. You want some Thai food?" she said and ran both hands through long, dark brown hair, tying it with a black scrunchie she had kept hidden on one of her wrists.

  "Now how do you think that makes me feel?" he said, stepping into the kitchen.

  "You don't like Thai food anymore?" s
he asked, closing the distance between them.

  Daniel took her hand and pulled her in tight, giving her a passionate kiss. Her arms wrapped around him, and she pressed her body against his. They kissed for several moments before Jess untangled herself.

  "You…need a shower. How was soccer?" she asked.

  "Not bad. We needed this practice badly. We got our asses handed to us last night. Did you eat?" he asked and opened the refrigerator.

  "I was waiting for you. It's still bagged up in the fridge," she said.

  He saw one large brown take-out bag and reached for it, but his hand swerved toward a corked bottle of white wine in the door.

  "How about we both take a shower and bring this bottle along with us?" he asked, pulling the bottle out and shutting the door.

  "Sure you're not biting off more than you can chew? Late game last night, extra practice today, late dinner. Can you handle it?" she teased and turned to walk toward the staircase.

  "I can handle it," he said.

  **

  Sitting on the floor in front of the couch, Jess and Daniel finished the last of the Thai dinner and Riesling about an hour later. Two pillar candles burned low on the round coffee table, casting a flickering orange glow over plastic take-out containers and empty plates.

  "That was great," Daniel said, leaning back into the couch. "This turned out to be the perfect night. Surprise take out, good wine, great sex. What's next? A massage for these sore legs?"

  "Dream on, lover boy. This girl is done for the evening. I'll let you clean up down here while I get ready for bed. It's been a long day," she said, getting up.

  Daniel didn't budge. "Long day is right," he whispered.

  "Hey, do you have anything in your gym bag that needs washing? I can grab it on the way up," she said, heading toward the kitchen with her plate and wine glass.

  Daniel popped up and rushed behind her into the kitchen. "No, I'll take care of it. Some two-week-old shorts in there. Not the kind of thing you want to deal with, trust me."

  "Thanks for the warning. I'll be upstairs," Jess said.

  Daniel walked over to the mudroom and listened for her footsteps on the creaky stairs. Once he heard her start up the stairs, he opened the gym bag and removed the briefcase. He heard the bathroom door shut, and several seconds later, the water started to run. He walked out of the mudroom with the briefcase and opened the cellar door. He needed to find a secure location to hide the briefcase until he had the time to properly dispose of its contents.

  PAINTED BLACK

  May 26, 2005

  Chapter Three

  4:52 a.m.

  FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

  Special Agent-in-Charge Ryan Sharpe replaced the handset of his desk phone and lowered his head all the way to the surface of his cluttered desk. He exhaled deeply and ran his hands through his thinning brown hair, keeping his head down for a few moments.

  Sharpe turned his head slightly and glanced out of his window onto 9th Street. The traffic had already thickened. He saw a long ribbon of light blue over the vast sea of buildings. He wished the chaos in D.C. didn't start so early. He could use just a little more time today to figure out exactly what had destroyed his three-year-long investigation. He raised his head off the desk, ending what would likely be his only quiet moment for the next few days.

  A few minutes after one in the morning, Sharpe had received a call from Operation Support's duty section head with news that one of his red-flagged profiles had been murdered. When his cell phone rang again before he had even reached the bathroom, he knew this might be the shittiest day of his career. The second phone call confirmed his suspicions. Two of eight key targets in his ongoing investigation had been murdered within the span of a few hours. He didn't have high hopes for the remaining six, and by the time his car passed through the security station at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, he had received four more ominous calls.

  Task Force HYDRA was finished. The damage done to his investigation permanent and unrecoverable. All eight heads had been cut off at the same time, and he needed to quickly determine what had happened. He had solid evidence linking all of them to Al Qaeda's financing arm, and their sudden termination sounded an earth-shattering alarm. He didn't have long to come up with answers. He heard a knock and barked at the door. His immediate assistant, Supervisory Special Agent Frank Mendoza, stepped into the doorway of the office and nodded.

  "Everyone's ready. Need any coffee?" he said, walking all the way into the office.

  "I've already had three cups. I just got off the phone with Delgado," Sharpe said grimly.

  "Shit. How high has the news gone?" Mendoza said, wincing, waiting for the answer.

  "All the way to the president. Homeland raised the threat level to Orange until we can provide solid evidence that we're not on the brink of another 9/11. Obviously, the director is hot on this, so I wouldn't expect much breathing room today. We've been given top priority for resources."

  He decided against mentioning the director's immediate concern that Task Force HYDRA had been compromised by a traitor. Sandra Delgado, his immediate superior, had kindly informed him that the Internal Affairs Department would quietly pursue this possibility from the sidelines, for now.

  "I think we already commandeered half of the building," Mendoza said.

  "Stand by to grab the other half. We'll be in the frying pan until we figure out what happened last night. Let's go."

  He stood up from the desk and walked out of the office, pulling the door closed. Mendoza fell in behind him as they approached the door to his task force's operations center. He heard considerable chatter behind the door and paused for a second before opening it. The room fell silent when the door swung open, and Sharpe walked to a desk that had been reconfigured to serve as a makeshift podium. The air quality in the room had deteriorated significantly. Rank and humid, the room reeked of bad coffee and faint cologne. The building's air circulation system was unable to compete with a room stuffed to nearly four times its intended capacity.

  He glanced behind him and saw that one of three enormous, side-by-side-mounted plasma-screen monitors showed a map of the East Coast. The map stretched from South Carolina to Maine and contained markers that indicated the location of each murder. Charleston, South Carolina; Virginia Beach, Virginia; Annapolis, Maryland; Long Island, New York; Manhattan, New York; Rye, New York; Newport, Rhode Island; Cape Elizabeth, Maine. Sharpe turned to face nearly sixty agents, hastily assembled hours ago to start unscrambling the mess."All right, so what do we have?"

  A young special agent stepped forward with a few sheets of paper in his hands. "Sir, as you can see, we're dealing with what appears to be a coordinated strike on all eight of our key surveillance targets. Most of the murders appear—"

  "Rob, are you going to tell me anything I don't already know?" Sharpe interrupted.

  The young agent looked to his supervisory agent for support.

  "I'm not trying to be an ass here, agent," Sharpe explained.

  "I just don't have time for a recap of events. We need to move this investigation forward at a record pace, and I don't need to remind everyone here of the implications surrounding these murders.

  "These guys," he continued, pointing behind him at the screen, "were conduits of financing for dangerous people. We need to figure out exactly why this coordinated attack occurred. The director is under increasing pressure from the White House, so you can imagine what it's going to be like for the task force as the day progresses. The primary concern is that we have another 9/11 imminent, and that Al Qaeda is cleaning house and cutting ties. This is our focus. Investigations, where do we stand at the different sites?"

  A female agent sitting on the edge of one of the closest desks stood up. Her suit looked crisp, and her face appeared unaffected by the early wake up. She stood in stark contrast to several of the agents clustered near her as she spoke. "Sir, Supervisory Special Agent Olson. Agents from the closest field offices were dispatched a few ho
urs ago to each site to assist local law enforcement in their initial assessment of the scene. I've taken reports from each site's lead agent. So far, we don't have any witnesses, and evidence appears scant. I think we'll start piecing this together once the sun is up, and we can take a hard look at each site. Start knocking on doors. We'll get this moving fast. I've also requested additional agents from other field offices within each region. I want to establish a second tier of FBI support at each site."

  "Let's get a third tier in the works. I want to send a headquarters team to each site. Four agents minimum. Let's make sure we have one member from Terror Financing in each group, then a good mix of agents from Investigative and Counterterror. We need our own agents on scene ASAP. We can't afford to miss anything," Sharpe said.

  "I'll work with Agent Mendoza to get the teams assigned and out the door with the necessary field support," Olson responded immediately.

  "Great. I want those teams on site by mid-morning," he added, and both Mendoza and Olson nodded vigorously.

  "Next. Comms. Anything?"

  Special Agent Keith Weber walked forward a few steps from a position against the left wall of the room. He flipped open a battered pea-green government-issued logbook, which barely looked more weathered than he did. Sharpe saw that he had a sizable coffee stain on his light blue oxford shirt, which could not be hidden by fully buttoning his rumpled suit jacket. Weber pushed up a pair of wire rim glasses to squint at the logbook through puffy, red eyes.

  "I've been on with Fort Meade all night. Nothing unusual prior to the murders. We've been poring over this for hours, and we don't see any chatter or patterns that I would classify as suspicious, or even remotely interesting."