He approached the north side Metro entrance, pulled his prepaid Metro card from his front jeans pocket and swiped it on the turnstile access, then rode the escalator up to the Metro platform. He felt the warm steel of his smaller, more concealable Gerber knife as he grabbed the card. He would take the next southbound train into D.C. and figure out where to meet Parker, or even better, General Sanderson. The outdoor platform was large and still busy with commuters, which was a good sign. According to the digital sign hanging above the tracks, the next train was scheduled to arrive in two minutes, which would be an eternity. He pulled a cell phone out of a small compartment in his backpack and dialed General Sanderson, who answered on the first ring.
"You're all right?"
"For now. I'm waiting to get the fuck out of Silver Spring on the Metro. Headed into the city. Did Parker get out?" he said, in a low enough voice not to attract unnecessary attention around him.
"Yes. Apparently the team waiting for him barreled out of there right after you called him," General Sanderson said.
"I'm surprised Parker could pick them out," Daniel said.
"Don't underestimate Parker. He's better trained than you think. He just doesn't have the same real-world experience."
"He doesn't have the edge needed for this work. I just ran into some Brown River contractors with a similar problem."
"Brown River? Are you sure?"
"I had a little chat with one of them. Are you ready for this? He was under the distinct impression that I was an immediate terrorist risk to national security. Black flagged by whoever hired them," Daniel said.
"He used those terms?"
"Yes. I specifically asked about that."
"Daniel, this changes things drastically. I need to accelerate our timetable. Keep this phone on at all times. Parker will call you shortly with a rendezvous location. What the hell happened out there?"
Daniel didn't care to hear the word "timetable."
"They tried to kill me, and I responded," Daniel said, looking around the crowded platform for any sign of law enforcement.
"Jesus, Daniel, it sounds like you did more than just respond. I'm picking up cross-county chatter on all police bands," Sanderson said.
"My train's coming. I'll be waiting for that call," he said and wondered if Sanderson would abandon him if the heat intensified.
Nobody gave him a second glance as he boarded the train headed for the city, wondering exactly what Sanderson meant by "our timetable."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
8:45 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Special Agent Frank Mendoza shut the door to his supervisor's office, locked it, and walked up to Sharpe's cluttered desk.
"Grab a seat, Frank, and tell me about Black Flag. Based on your fax, I can only imagine the worst," Sharpe said.
He glanced out of the window onto 9th Street and could see the windows of the Market Square North building sparkle. Low in the western sky, the sun peered around the corner of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, casting deep orange rays onto the seven-story building. A few of the rays poked through the blinds, stabbing deep into Sharpe's office. He could imagine some of the nation's preeminent powerbrokers sipping a few too many drinks over dinner below, in the exclusive Caucus Room restaurant, oblivious to the implications of the day's events, telling jokes about dead Arabs. He looked back at Frank, who appeared equally troubled.
"It's not good. I think we may have found our next investigation."
"Black Flag isn't our mess to unscrew. I just want to unravel enough of it to figure out what happened today," Sharpe said.
"We'll need to nab a few more of them. Munoz is useless to us at this point. He's covered by a nice immunity agreement," Mendoza said.
"We'll see about that. I'm not ready to release my only link to Black Flag. I've given Boston orders to transport Munoz here. Olson will lead the prisoner transport convoy. We should have Munoz at HQ early in the morning."
Mendoza failed to hide a disapproving glance.
"We can't let him walk free until we've determined exactly what happened today. For all we know, Munoz and his friends might be part of an Islamic conspiracy, or worse. We don't know anything right now, and people are getting nervous. Very nervous. We should have some new leads within the hour. I've mobilized SWAT and FBI field teams to take every operative on the list. I'm just waiting for word that all of the teams are in place, ready to go, and we'll hit them all at once. I want a coordinated move against Black Flag. I don't know if they're all talking to each other, but I'm not taking any chances," Sharpe said.
"Well, sir. I wouldn't get your hopes up too high. Munoz took his sweet time spilling information. Probably long enough to miss a few pre-assigned check-ins. I'd be surprised if any of these guys were still around," Mendoza said.
"Yeah, the thought wasn't lost on me, but we might get lucky one more time today. So, what are we really dealing with here?" Sharpe said.
"From what I've been allowed to see by this mysterious Mr. McKie gentleman, Black Flag was a highly-specialized program designed to create undercover operatives for our military. McKie said the program training lasted approximately four years, which is a long time for any training program. Hell, the CIA doesn't even train field agents for this long."
"CIA agents are usually assigned to legitimate jobs as cover. This sounds dramatically different," Sharpe interrupted.
"Right. Black Flag operatives are trained as small teams, according to their assigned area of operation. They are selected for the area of operation first, then brought into the program. Daniel Petrovich was assigned to Serbia, which makes sense given his background. Father Serbian, mother Polish. Not sure if he spoke Serbian before the program, but it's fair to make that assumption. McKie said the selection process was the key to Black Flag's success."
"Success?" Sharpe said.
"I asked. McKie wasn't willing to share any operational details. Like my fax implied, this group is extremely dangerous. They have the skills to survive and escape nearly any situation, backed by extensive experience putting these skills through the wringer. I assume the takedown teams know what they're facing?"
"They've been thoroughly briefed. I could read between the lines of your fax. It must really burn Munoz to have been caught like this. He turned his back on Sanderson pretty quick," Sharpe said.
"Maybe they were all dragged back into this against their will. The Black Flag program was run exclusively by Sanderson. I didn't get the impression there was any oversight. These rogue programs always have problems. Who knows? But Munoz wasn't exactly living like some disgruntled, mentally-scarred burnout. He left one of his coffee shops in the middle of the afternoon yesterday, for an appointment that wasn't on the books, and wound up unconscious in Newport. Hell, maybe we'll find a few more of these guys sitting around, waiting to chat about General Sanderson," Mendoza said, and they both sat quietly for a few moments, contemplating Mendoza's comment.
"I wonder if Petrovich falls into this category," Sharpe muttered, just above his breath.
"Why the focus on Petrovich?"
"Something about him didn't fit from the start. He only lives a few miles from the murder scene, which seemed a little close to home…"
"Convenient. Knows the landscape, traffic patterns, can dress like a local. I think it's perfect. Shit, if Munoz hadn't slipped, we would never have found Petrovich," Mendoza said.
"I know," Sharpe whispered, "but none of the other suspects live closer than sixty miles. Most live even further away. And then there's the operative in Concord, New Hampshire. Steven Gedman. Our team just discovered some interesting news about him."
Mendoza shrugged.
"A National Crime Information Center (NCIC) database search," Sharpe continued, "turned up a quick hit. Mr. Gedman was recently picked up by police for a domestic incident. We called the Concord police and learned that he's an involuntary guest at Concord Hospital's inpatient psychiatric ward. His wife said he had a bre
akdown and started running around the house packing suitcases, yelling…are you ready for this?"
Mendoza nodded.
"He kept screaming, 'They're trying to drag me back in!' and all kinds of stuff that made no sense to her."
"No kidding. Are you thinking—"
"Yes. That Gedman was supposed to be the one to kill Mohammed Ghani, but he crumbled under the pressure. I can't imagine any of these guys can remain stable for the long run. Especially if their main mission was undercover work."
"Still, Sanderson had other choices. A guy in upstate New York could have made the trip," Mendoza countered.
"I don't know. Gedman was hospitalized one night before the murders. Petrovich was right there. I think he's their weak link. We find him, we find Sanderson. At the end of the day, I just want confirmation that this isn't the beginning of a bigger attack. I'll need Sanderson for that. The FBI and White House can figure out what to do with his pet project later."
Sharpe's desk phone punctuated the conversation with a shrill ring tone, causing the agent to quickly sweep it out of its cradle.
"Special Agent Sharpe," he said and listened.
"Give all locations a ten-minute warning. I want a coordinated strike at 2100 hours, Eastern Time. We'll be right there," Sharpe said and hung up the phone. "All of the teams are ready."
"Let's go fishing, sir," Mendoza said, rising from his chair.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
8:47 p.m.
Portland, Maine
Special Agent Justin Edwards felt like a second-class citizen. He sat in the front passenger seat of a rented Chevy Impala, parked deep inside the Longfellow Elementary School parking lot and hidden from the light traffic on Stevens Avenue. Underneath his navy blue, nylon FBI parka, he wore a stripped-down tactical vest loaned to him by the Portland Police Department. His service pistol, a boxy Glock 23, was jammed uncomfortably between his waist and seat, causing him to continuously squirm and fidget, like a child on a long car trip. This Impala, supposedly the best car available on the FBI's budget, smelled like stale cigarette smoke and cherry air freshener. The car's windows had been open since they drove it off the rental lot at the Portland Jetport, but the nasty odor continued to permeate the car, and his lungs itched.
Nearly a dozen police vehicles crowded the southern corner of the lot, casting long shadows across the parking lot from the orange security light glowing over the gymnasium entrance doors. Five black and white Suburbans formed a row, extending from an industrial dumpster near the kitchen delivery dock to the edge of the ancient, three-story school, positioned for a quick exit onto Stevens Avenue toward their target. Several fully equipped SWAT officers stood in a loose circle around the second SUV in line, and he could see at least a dozen more heavily armed officers scattered throughout the rest of the vehicles.
The other cars were unmarked sedans, like Edward's car, filled with at least twenty additional plain-clothed and uniformed law enforcement officers. They had arrived at the parking lot two hours earlier through a back entrance to the lot and waited while the sun disappeared below the trees. He was accustomed to long, boring stakeouts, but the situation was different in this parking lot, and he detested the dynamic that had developed.
Every time he approached the SWAT huddle up near the half dozen Portland Police Department SUVs, he got cold looks from the heavily armed, black-clad men. So he sat back with the rest of the FBI team, crammed into a crappy, American-made sedan that he wouldn't be caught dead in on the weekend. At least he wasn't in the minivan with the forensics equipment and the real geeks. One of the younger agents, whose name he didn't care enough to remember, suggested that the minivan should be his command post. He just shook his head at the kid.
Technically, Justin Edwards was in charge of this entire operation. The investigation fell under federal jurisdiction, and he was the senior agent on scene. Unfortunately, the FBI had no organic assets in Maine or New Hampshire, and nobody cared enough to send Boston SWAT assets up Interstate 95 to give him some semblance of authority here. Instead, he had been forced to grovel with the Portland Police Department to assemble their SWAT team for the takedown at 18 Lawn Avenue. After placing an uncomfortable call to FBI headquarters, right in front of Edwards, the Portland Police liaison officer got the ball rolling for him.
Within an hour, he had Portland and Maine State Police SWAT teams at his disposal. He briefed the teams about the threat level and rules of engagement (ROE), and that was when he lost control of the operation. Once the SWAT teams had their target and ROE, it became frustratingly clear to Edwards that they didn't need or want his input. They started planning the operation and scouting the location without seeking his input, or keeping him informed. He knew they had a few cars on Lawn Avenue, keeping an eye on the house, but beyond that, he didn't know very much about their planned raid.
At this point, Special Agent Edwards had been relegated to relaying information from headquarters, and several times over the past few hours, he would reluctantly get out of the car to let them know that the other teams were still assembling. They never said it, but he could read their faces, which said, "Why don't you stay in the car until you have something useful to tell us?"
Edwards stretched his body in the car, purposefully hitting the driver, Special Agent Derek Ravenell, jarring the agent out of a light sleep. He had worked with Ravenell on a few bank robbery cases in Boston and found him to be competent, but more importantly, obedient. He understood the importance of the rank structure and the subtleties of loyalty, although the look he flashed Edwards didn't exactly comport with this assessment.
"Stay sharp. You don't see those guys napping out here," Edwards said, examining the agents in the back seat.
Of course, Special Agent Olson had assigned him the ugliest female special agent on the East Coast, Special Agent Sara Velasquez, after his efforts to wrangle the chick from Counterterror fell flat. So, now he had the dream team sitting in his car. A black driver, an ugly Latina, and Paul Adams, who was about as exciting as his name. No wonder the SWAT guys wouldn't deal with him. He didn't say a word to the agents in the back of the car, who both nodded apathetically.
Edwards' cell phone mercifully rang and delivered some good news. He listened intently and acknowledged the call from Task Force HYDRA's operations center. He turned around and nearly yelled into the back seat, startling Velasquez and Adams.
"Ten minute warning. We hit the house at 2100 hours," he squawked excitedly and jumped out of the car, yelling the same words at the SWAT teams as he rushed across the parking lot.
"Douche bag," Special Agent Sara Velasquez uttered, and everyone in the car mumbled their agreement.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
8:50 p.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Special Agents Sharpe and Mendoza entered the task force's operations center, which was scrambling to pass the word to FBI teams in a dozen cities across the East Coast. The coordinated raid was a major undertaking, and every workstation was occupied with an agent scrambling to issue orders and ensure that the rules of engagement were established with local law enforcement units used in place of FBI teams. Agents ran from one workstation to another, shouting information, and Sharpe could see that one of the plasma screens served as a status board for live information from each site. Sharpe knew the clamorous activity would fall deathly quiet at the prescribed time, as everyone waited for word from the tactical teams.
Mixed SWAT units sat ready to pounce on nearly two dozen residential locations and commercial establishments in the hope of capturing another Black Flag operative. Since his task force received the list of Black Flag operatives, law enforcement agents had been quietly investigating the most probable after work locations for the suspects. So far, the team had no confirmed sightings, which didn't leave Sharpe with a hopeful feeling for the operation, but he just needed to get lucky in one of the locations.
Sharpe walked over to Special Agent O'Reilly, who worked at a computer
station powered to access several national and international criminal databases. Special Agent O'Reilly scratched her head, staring between two widescreen monitors as Sharpe approached. She had put together comprehensive information packages for each of the SWAT teams and didn't appear to be resting like several other agents. She didn't notice him kneel down next to her chair until his face broke her peripheral vision. She turned her head slowly, still examining the data on the screen, until she noticed who was next to her.
"Oh…sorry, sir. You know, I have a hard time believing that none of these guys have any kind of criminal record. Not even a speeding ticket," she said and leaned in a little to whisper. "I mean, we can all read between the lines here. Right, sir? Eight murders, an organized list of suspects, strict ROE to the SWAT teams. This is a dangerous group of individuals, probably professional assassins, yet I'm getting nothing. I've worked organized crime, and their enforcers always had the worst records. Mafia, Russians, cartel groups. Without exception, they'd all done hard time, or had at least been arrested on murder charges. This group is too clean."
"Dana, you've always been one of the most perceptive agents on the task force, and you're right about this group. They're different. I need you to check a different source. Have you run this through INTERPOL yet?"
"Yes. The potential for an international connection was too strong to ignore, but I got the same result," she said, typing at the keyboard and bringing up the INTERPOL search results.
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