This sense of satisfaction faded within seconds, as the full scope of his situation started to sink in. He realized that his entire team had probably been at the house all night, while he had disappeared. What had he done? He thought he remembered having dinner with Jessica Petrovich, but the memory was a fleeting blur. It was jarred out of his mind, along with every other rational thought, as a bright light flashed and the room exploded.
Several heavily armed black-clad men poured into the room, filling every corner. He could barely see them through the retinal image burn of the flash-bang grenade. The ringing cleared enough for him to hear what they were yelling.
"Clear! Clear! Room is clear! Agent Edwards appears unharmed! No sign of the suspect! Agent Edwards, are you all right?"
Edwards opened his mouth to answer, but decided against worsening his situation. Instead, he squinted his eyes, wishing he was dead as Sergeant Jimmy Haldron, Portland's SWAT commander, walked up and rested the butt of his rifle on the foot of the rumpled king-sized bed, a few inches from his bare leg. The impossibly tall Lieutenant Ken Moody followed, accompanied by Special Agent D'Angelo, who had a disgusted look on her face as she surveyed the room. Sergeant Haldron broke into a wide smile.
"Looks like party central in here. Let's get Agent Edwards a paramedic and some fluids. Lover boy had a rough night," he stated in a strong Maine accent.
Edwards sank back in despair. He had no idea what had happened to him the night before, but he was pretty sure it wouldn't help his career.
Chapter Forty-Eight
8:20 a.m.
CIA Headquarters, McLean, Virginia
Audra Bauer, director of the Counterterrorism Center, contemplated Berg's proposal in her office. It represented a very interesting opportunity for the CIA, and he could have kept this to himself and possibly even run a sideline operation to support the whole idea.
"This was his idea? Nothing in return?"
"I wouldn't say nothing. We turn a blind eye to their operations throughout the world and provide resources where practical," Berg said, shifting in his seat.
"I don't know. Sanderson's crew killed two CIA employees this morning and burned down one of our safe houses. Not exactly a friendly act. What makes you think we can trust him?"
"Sanderson could have finished the job at the safe house, but he's extremely practical. He ran the Black Flag program right under our noses, in several countries, and his program closely resembled our Covert Operations Resident Program. In many ways it might be superior to our program. Regardless, if we play our cards right with Sanderson's new program, we stand to benefit. Deep intelligence and the ability to conduct sensitive operations at arm's length. Put a little more distance between the CIA and the dirty work."
Audra wasn't in love with the idea, but it truly wouldn't cost the CIA anything to try the relationship. They'd made deals with people far worse than General Sanderson, people with no sense of loyalty or honor. At least with Sanderson, they had a decorated soldier who had dedicated his life to defending America. Something was definitely wrong with him, and they'd have to keep that in mind, but there was very little downside, though they'd have to keep their distance until the FBI lost interest in Sanderson, which could take a while. Based on yesterday's events, the Department of Justice's "number one son" took a beating on all fronts. Same with the Department of Defense, which worried her more than the FBI. The FBI was limited in its ability to reach overseas, but the Department of Defense didn't have this issue. They'd have to walk a fine line until the dust settled, but she agreed with Berg. Sanderson's new program represented a solid opportunity for the Counterterrorism Center.
"Tell me more about their Middle East program," she said.
"It supposedly extends beyond the Middle East. He calls it their Muslim Extremist branch. Operatives are trained specifically for placement in Afghanistan, Iraq, Germany, France, the Netherlands, the Russian Republics. Over thirty Arab-descended operatives ready for deep immersion within one year."
"All right, I'm sold for now. I'd like to talk with General Sanderson," she said.
"He said he'd be in touch within a few weeks. I believe he has a national and international dragnet to evade," Berg said, and she nodded.
"This stays between us. I can't bring this up to the deputy, or anyone else," she said.
"Of course. We're good at keeping secrets," Berg replied.
"I'm really sorry about Keller," she said.
"I wish I could have dragged them both out of there, but Keller was dead, and I thought there might be a chance to save Claire," he lied and buried a few more secrets.
Chapter Forty-Nine
10:48 a.m.
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Sharpe finished his presentation well aware that he had broken into a sweat. He hadn't slept in nearly thirty-six hours and had poured nearly all of his remaining energy into sounding coherent. Truthfully, he didn't care how he looked at this point. Immediately prior to the start of his performance, he had stared into the bathroom mirror at his puffy, bloodshot eyes and sallow face. He looked like shit, so a little sweat was just the icing on the cake for his unusual audience.
He had expected to brief his direct boss, Sandra Delgado, associate director for the National Security Branch, but the sensitive nature of Black Flag excluded her from this briefing. The director of the FBI, Frederick Shelby, sat in front of him, along with the deputy director, and they didn't want a watered-down briefing. Sandra's boss, Fred Carroll, executive director for National Security, sat toward the back of the room. Several individuals that remained unidentified filled in the gaps. He assumed they were from the White House, Justice Department and the Department of Defense. As the most junior person in the room, Special Agent Frank Mendoza stood near the door. Sharpe envied his position near the only escape route from this nightmare.
Frederick Shelby leaned back in his seat and pressed his hands together like he was about to start praying. He moved the joined hands to his nose and took in a deep breath. He exhaled deeply.
"Agent Sharpe, do you see any way to salvage HYDRA's investigation at this point?"
"Negative, sir. Each head of the HYDRA led my task force to a primary contact, and in some cases, a secondary contact within the Muslim community. We've been monitoring these contacts for several months, trying to penetrate one of the terrorist cells. As of yesterday, everything went cold. There was a flurry of electronic chatter yesterday morning, and now all of our sources are silent. The suspected cell in Cleveland disappeared yesterday afternoon. We had a full surveillance package in place, watching a group of three suspected Al Qaeda operatives. They vanished."
The director turned to Fred Carroll. "I want that group found and removed from U.S. soil immediately."
"Yes, sir," Carroll replied, who looked just as terrified as Sharpe felt.
"Well, this has been the worst couple of days for the FBI in my recent recollection, though it could have been worse, I suppose. I agree with Sharpe's assessment that we have been manipulated on an unprecedented scale. I can only imagine that General Sanderson hatched this plot years ago. Colonel Farrington's placement in the Pentagon twenty-six months ago was no coincidence," the director said, pausing for a few moments before continuing.
"Effective immediately, Special Agent Frank Mendoza will lead a much smaller Task Force HYDRA, in an attempt to salvage something from the task force's three years of hard work."
The words hit Sharpe like a sledgehammer. That was it for him. Summarily replaced by the director. Three years of backbreaking work, late nights, and an estranged family. Now he had nothing to show for it but a sidelined position somewhere unimportant and forgotten.
"Don't look so depressed, Agent Sharpe. You came into this room looking like a warmed-over pile of dog feces. Now you look worse," he said, and only the deputy director stifled a brief laugh, which drew a strained look from the normally deadpan serious director.
Sharpe didn't know what to say, or do at this mom
ent. His career hung by a thread, or maybe it was already done. He had no idea. Director Shelby was feared by everyone within the FBI and was infamous for dismissing agents on the spot for failure or incompetence.
"I've heard good things about you from Agents Delgado and Carroll. Pretty much from everyone. Task Force HYDRA had great potential, and frankly, yesterday's events went beyond our control. General Sanderson is a grave national security threat. A dangerous rogue, who feels he is above our laws, and shows no hesitation to strike at the heart of the Pentagon, FBI…even the CIA. I don't believe for one second that the strike on that Georgetown safe house was conducted by Serbian Ultra-nationalists. That's a pile of crap higher than the Capitol Building. Sanderson is up to something big, and I want him stopped."
He paused and glared at Sharpe.
"Agent Sharpe, you are now in charge of a new task force dedicated to putting an end to General Sanderson's activities domestic and abroad. I want this man behind bars. Nobody tramples on the FBI without severe consequences. Not while I'm in charge. Work with Mendoza to keep the right people on HYDRA, and start working with your directors to form the new task force. ASAP. One of your first tasks will be to figure out who paid the Brown River contractor. The Serbians? I don't think so. We need to start making a few connections," the director said and stood up.
"Thank you, sir. We'll put Sanderson out of business," Sharpe said.
"That's my expectation. Sooner rather than later. All of your people are okay?" the director asked.
"Some of my best agents got banged up pretty bad, but they'll be fine, sir."
"Good. Nothing better than a bunch of talented, pissed off agents on a task force. Make sure you keep those people close," the director said and walked toward the door, which Mendoza had opened.
"Mendoza."
"Yes, sir," Agent Mendoza replied.
"Don't you have something more important to do than hold the door?" Director Shelby asked.
"Yes, sir. Thank you for the assignment," Mendoza said.
"Don't thank me, thank Sharpe. He went to bat for everyone on the task force, except himself. For the life of me, I don't understand why my agents can't recognize their own success. Get out of here," he said, and Agent Mendoza met Sharpe's eyes briefly before he scrambled out of the conference room ahead of the director.
Chapter Fifty
2:15 p.m.
Allegheny Mountains, West Virginia
Daniel rested on a rocking chair and stared out at a vast sea of spruces and firs, which was occasionally interrupted by a cluster of red maples and beech. An unimproved dirt road exited the thick forest and ended in a large field next to an old, gray two-story barn. The field held a dozen cars, with license plates from several different states. He had only seen one car arrive since he had parked himself on the covered porch of the main house, a restored farmhouse. The man who got out of the car looked Hispanic, and Daniel figured he was a former operative assigned to Central or South America. The man had walked behind the main house to a new structure connected by a breezeway.
Daniel had been treated for his injuries by a doctor in the new building and had been fed a hot meal. He still felt dizzy from whatever neurotoxin Farrington had used to disable him. Sanderson had been smart to keep them separated while at this compound. He had seen neither Parker nor Farrington since he had arrived. He had awoken in a stolen car halfway to West Virginia and rode in dead silence with the two of them for the remainder of the trip. Only Parker broke the silence during the initial few minutes. He informed Daniel that Jessica was safely on her way to the compound.
Petrovich wondered how long this place had been in operation. From what he could tell, it hadn't served as a farm in at least two decades. The barn showed signs of permanent neglect, and the majority of the house's restoration efforts had been focused on the inside. Driving up the dirt road, his first impression was that Sanderson had somehow mismanaged Srecko Hadzic's involuntary donation of nearly one hundred million dollars. But upon further inspection, he could tell that the shabby initial appearance was intentional. Subtle camouflage for anyone that wandered down the wrong road and then somehow managed to turn down three more unmarked roads to stumble upon the farm. The compound was secluded, and at the moment, well guarded by patrols and a hidden security checkpoint along the dirt road, far from the house.
He heard the screen door open and glanced lazily in the direction of the front door. General Sanderson pushed the squeaky door further out and stepped down onto the wide planked porch. Out of instinct, Daniel tensed in preparation to stand respectfully for his commanding officer, but that was as far as it went. Still, it shot a blinding pain through his ribcage. His knee throbbed sympathetically as the muscles in his leg also tightened. He might reconsider the offer of pain medications once Jessica arrived, but until then, he wasn't about to dull his senses any further.
The general was dressed in old blue jeans and a flannel shirt, tucked in of course, his tan work boots planted firmly on the deck. He stared off at the dirt road, waiting for his flock to arrive. Without looking at Daniel, he began to talk.
"Feeling better?"
"About what?"
"Moping around doesn't suit you, Daniel. I've built you up as a legend around here, so I suggest you ditch the 'poor me' act and start showing your true colors," he said, burning a serious look into him.
"You're really a piece of work," Daniel said, shaking his head.
"Do you know the first trait I look for in my operatives?" Sanderson asked, leaning up against the weathered porch railing with both hands.
Daniel remained silent.
"Unhampered pragmatism. The test you took while rotting away on that tin can in the navy? It was designed by a team of psychologists to gauge this trait. On paper at least. When I saw your results, I thought there had been a mistake. Your score was off the charts, and I was skeptical. I thought you would turn out to be some disgruntled, sarcastic junior officer messing with the test…but you lived up to the results in person. Exceeded them, even. Others might call you a sociopath, however, I like the term unhampered pragmatist."
"Maybe you should patent it," Daniel said.
"Not a bad idea. I know you're pathologically practical, and you've already moved on. This is how your brain works. Now it's just a matter of figuring out exactly how we can work together moving forward. I need instructors, and you need a safe place to stay off the radar for a while. I have a nice warm weather location in mind, a new training site already built. You and Jessica can start a new life in a familiar setting. Not that phony suburban existence the two of you have suffered through for the past five years."
"Our so-called existence worked pretty well."
"Barely. I know all about your trips into the woods of Maine, with a trunk full of rifles, ammunition and survival gear. Vast tracts of land purchased in the middle of nowhere, so you could return to your natural state for a few weeks at a time and keep from killing everyone in your cubicle block. You kept your skills intact, which is not the behavior of someone who has abandoned their past. You still embrace the true nature we unlocked. I sense the same with Jessica."
"Who are you, Darth Vader?"
General Sanderson laughed. "Give my proposal some serious thought. Did you know that your graduating batch was the most successful in the program's history? One hundred percent survival rate, and they all volunteered to come back. I don't need staff psychologists to tell me that the success stemmed from your influence during training. I need this in the new program."
"I think your concept of the word 'volunteer' is different than mine."
"I know you don't want to believe it, but everyone else did volunteer to join the new program when asked."
"Except for the guy in New Hampshire. How many other nervous breakdowns do you have on your hands?"
"One exception to the rule. An outlier. We need you back, Daniel. I'm asking you to volunteer."
"We'll ask Jessica. If she shows," Daniel said.
; "She's less than two hours away."
"Is she?" Daniel asked, and Sanderson shot him a strange look. "I am, after all, the most practical person you've ever met."
For the first time ever, Daniel sensed a momentary lapse of confidence in General Sanderson's face as he processed Daniel's last comment. He saw the general's eyes involuntarily dart to several locations along the tree line.
"In order to truly walk away from all of this," Daniel continued, "I would have to offer up a pretty big fish. A fish big enough to buy me the biggest immunity deal in history."
"You might be pathologically practical, but you're also one of the most loyal soldiers I have ever worked with," Sanderson said.
"You don't sound so confident," Daniel said, leaning back in his rocker.
General Sanderson glared at him for a few seconds and broke into another laugh.
"You're fucking relentless, Petrovich. I look forward to meeting Jessica in person. We have women in the program now, and I lack an experienced edged weapons instructor. Someone with recent real world experience," Sanderson said.
Petrovich stifled a laugh. "Was it that obvious?"
"To me it was. I only had one knife guy assigned to a target. You are not a knife guy, my friend. Far from it. I knew the two of you were onboard as soon as I saw the details in the news," Sanderson said.
"She was onboard. I tried to convince her that your mission had absolutely nothing to do with crippling Al Qaeda operations in the U.S., but she still believes what they sold her in Langley, even after the hell they put her through. I told her I had no intention of carrying out your plan, but she insisted that it needed to be done. That was my mistake…telling her about Parker's visit. I should have skipped town with her that afternoon. Sadly, she's desperately seeking some kind of redemption, and she still buys all of this nationalistic, Uncle Sam shit. A dangerous combination."
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