The Assassin's Trail

by J. C. Fields

  Before Ortega sat down, he handed the man an envelope with cash. The man fanned the bills in the envelope and nodded. After the picture was taken, the man disappeared into another room behind the office.

  Exactly ninety minutes later, Ortega was presented with a new Utah driver’s license, passport and a Gold American Express card in the name of Duane Horton. Ortega examined them and said, “Nice work. I'll get you the balance.”

  He reached around, pulled the CZ from his belt, pointed it at his contact’s head and said as he pulled the trigger, “Sorry, man. Can't let you talk to the Feds.” The shot reverberated in the empty warehouse.

  Ortega retrieved his initial deposit and found an additional sixty thousand dollars in another desk drawer. He smiled and glanced at the dead body. “Don’t think you’ll be needing this—man.”

  After wiping down all the surfaces he might have touched, he spent another ten minutes searching for the ejected casing from the CZ. He found it lodged behind a filing cabinet and placed it in his jean pocket. Finally he stepped into the room where the man had been for an hour and a half.

  The computer was still on. He searched for any files containing information he didn't want the FBI to know. Not knowing where to look didn't help. After several minutes of searching he gave up and deleted the entire My Document file on the computer. It was getting late and he needed to get on the road toward Utah. After looking around the rooms one last time, he exited the warehouse and made sure both the office and outside warehouse doors were locked.

  Sitting behind the wheel of his car, he examined Duane Horton’s new driver’s license and passport. The man did excellent work. Too bad he was collateral damage. He drove out of the parking lot and started the long drive to Provo, Utah.

  The next morning, shortly after eleven, Ortega pulled into the Discount Sporting Goods and Gun Shop's parking lot in southern Provo. The place was busy, which was good. With a lot of customers in the shop, there was less possibility someone would remember him if the FBI showed up and started asking questions.

  Once inside the store, he was pleased to see every salesperson occupied. A rack of long guns was behind the counter on the right side of the store. It extended the entire length of the wall. In the middle he found a Remington 700 SPS Tactical. Combined with the Bushnell Elite Scope laying on a glassed-in shelf beneath the counter, he would have a formidable combination for the task ahead.

  It took fifteen minutes before a busy salesperson walked over and said, “Did you find anything you need?”

  “Yeah, let me see the Remington 700 SPS.”

  The salesperson handed it to him and said, “Great rifle, last one in the store, too.”

  “I'll take it and the Bushnell Elite,” he said, pointing at the scope on the shelf.

  The salesman nodded and said, “Great combination. Goin' for elk?”

  Ortega nodded and said, “Yeah. I need to sight it in; do you know of any local ranges?”

  The salesperson said, “Sure do, I'll give you one of their cards. It has directions. If you’ll follow me, I need you to fill out some paperwork.”

  Thirty minutes later, Ortega walked out of the gun shop with the Remington 700 SPS, Scope and 400 rounds of ammo legally purchased under the name of Duane Horton.

  In the afternoon, he paid cash for a 2007 Jeep Wrangler with 81,112 miles. Thirty minutes after walking onto the car lot, Ortega had paperwork showing Duane Horton as the new owner. He drove back to the hotel, removed the license plates from his car and placed them on the Jeep. Next he drove the car to a local Walmart Supercenter and parked it among the employee’s cars on the west side of the store. He locked the car, threw the keys into a trash receptacle and walked into the store.

  It took forty-five minutes to find everything he needed: a suitcase, underwear, socks, jeans, shirts, hooded sweatshirt, hiking boots, toothpaste, deodorant, shaving cream, razors, a cell phone with two hours of prepaid time, and a small electric screwdriver. After paying cash for his purchases, he used the new cell phone to call a taxi for a ride back to his hotel.

  Sunday was spent at a rifle range in the foothills east of town zeroing in the Remington 700 SPS and Bushnell scope. It took 150 rounds of ammunition, but Ortega was centering shots at 500 yards with regularity. Pleased with the rifle and scope combination, he felt ready to get back to his mission.

  Early Monday morning, after loading the Jeep, he drove north toward Salt Lake City and I-80 west. Before heading west on the highway, he cruised through one of the long term parking lots at Salt Lake City International Airport, searching for a similar color and model year Jeep. Locating several was not difficult in this part of the country. One in particular met his needs. It was in the most isolated section of the lot and was next to a large van. Parking his own Jeep several rows away, he checked to make sure he knew where all the security cameras were located. Satisfied he could accomplish his goal without being recorded, he walked to the target Jeep and using his newly purchased electric screwdriver, removed the license plates. He returned to his Jeep and left the parking lot.

  Once outside the airport complex, he stopped, changed the license plates, and then followed his GPS to I-80 West. San Francisco was now only twelve hours away to the west.

  ***

  Houston, TX

  Abbas stood on a wooden deck outside of a popular night spot on the northern side of the Port of Houston. He leaned forward against the handrails. His gaze was on the tranquil water of the harbor, but his thoughts were on the coming two weeks.

  He sensed rather than saw someone walk up next to him and lean against the handrail.

  “The lights are pleasing to view, yes?”

  Abbas nodded. “Yes, they are pleasing. How are you, my brother?”

  The newcomer stared out over the harbor. “I am well.”

  “Thank you for avoiding our traditional greeting. It might draw unwanted attention.”

  The man next to Abbas chuckled. “I have been in this country too long, Aazim, I know what to say and what not to say.”

  “Soon, my brother, we will go home. The Americans will then know jihad has reached their land.”

  “How is your diversion going?”

  “I did not choose wisely, Naadir. It was discovered too early.”

  “The Americans are undisciplined. They are distracted by too many electronic toys.”

  Abbas nodded. “Yes, this is true. But the one I chose is not. I am not sure how he was discovered, but he was. There is one more task he must accomplish, then he will be useless to us.”

  “Have you changed our plan?”

  Silence was Naadir’s answer.

  The two brothers did not say anything for several minutes. Finally Aazim stood up straight. “We have been blessed by Allah to bring this upon the infidels. Our plans have to be flexible, to follow his will. My ultimate goal has not changed. The path however, is subject to change.”

  Naadir nodded.

  “I need you to arrange for the containers to be delivered to the warehouse in Tulsa.” Aazim looked at his brother. “Have them picked up on Tuesday and delivered on Wednesday. You will need to meet them and make sure they are secure. I will correct my mistake when I meet Ortega there. Until then, secure the containers. We will have help arriving by the end of the week.”

  Smiling, Naadir stood straight and glanced at his brother. He nodded and walked quickly to the interior of the restaurant. Aazim watched him exit the building, get into a Ford pickup and drive away. He turned and leaned against the railing again. A slight grin came to his face as he watched the lights of the harbor.

  Chapter 33

  Kansas City, MO

  Saturday evening

  Upgrading to first class had been easy; Kruger’s frequent flyer miles had accumulated to a point he could fly anywhere in the world first class. As the plane chased daylight across the country toward Kansas City, Kruger sat in his window seat and stared out into the early evening sky.

  Before leaving FBI Headquarte
rs, he had been briefed on interviews conducted with the supply sergeants now in custody. The one in Florida identified Ortega as the driving force behind the group. The other sergeant in Georgia told interviewers a similar story and corroborated what was known about the organization. Ortega had recruited both men in Iraq before the withdrawal. Neither of them knew the other members or where they lived. The recruiting process had been carefully done. Each man had lost close friends in the war due to poorly designed equipment. Equipment that should have protected them, but had not.

  Both men were bitter and returned stateside vowing to make things right for their fallen comrades. Kruger understood their motives, and was sure they felt they were being patriotic. What he didn’t understand was why the specific targets were chosen. There was something else more sinister underlying the misplaced patriotism of the sergeants. Unless they were lying, which was a possibility, he would need to interview them personally.

  He awoke just as the plane touched down in Kansas City. Realizing what was going on, he glanced at his watch and was glad to know it wasn’t too late; he called Stephanie as the plane taxied to the terminal.

  ***

  The sounds of The Plaza winding down after a busy Saturday night served as the background to their late dinner at the breakfast bar. Kruger ate sparsely, concentrating more on several glasses of wine than his plate of pasta. Stephanie noticed and said, “You want to talk about it, or just drink a couple bottles of wine tonight?”

  He smiled and looked at her. “Talk about it—and drink more wine.”

  The frustration on her face was apparent as she said, “Sean, I can't help you if you keep everything inside. Talk to me.”

  “Paul Stumpf will be the new director, Alan will be the new deputy director, and they offered me the SAC position in Kansas City.”

  “What? You're kidding! How wonderful. When did all this happen?”

  “Today.” He chuckled. “Wagner was fired while Alan and I sat in front of his desk. The president named Paul the acting director, pending congressional approval, but Paul’s got lots of contact in Congress. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “This is perfect, Sean, you accepted didn't you?”

  He shook his head. “No, I wanted to discuss it with you first.”

  She put her fork down and looked at her husband, her head tilted slightly, her eyes sad. “I’ve worked all my career for the next promotion. Things are different now aren’t they? Any decision you or I make affects both of us.” Her melancholy vanished as she smiled and took a sip from her glass of wine. “What do you want to do?

  “Not sure.” He held his glass at eye level. “I was getting used to the idea of retiring soon.” He swirled the remaining liquid in his glass watched the fingers of wine run down the side. He took another sip and continued, “If we get this baby, I really don't want to be tied down to a management job and I certainly don’t want to travel any more. Besides, being the Special Agent in Charge is time-consuming and you deal with personnel matters more than investigative matters. Not sure that’s what I want.”

  She got off the bar stool, stepped over, hugged him and put her head on his shoulder. “Lately, I’ve had doubts about my job too. Do you think it’s time to make a change?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  He hugged her, kissed her forehead and said, “You always help me put things in perspective. Whatever we decide, we do it together. I like that part, doing it together.”

  “So do I.”

  ***

  Later, as they lay in bed together, Kruger’s arm was around her shoulders and her head on his chest, their conversation concerned the adoption and what to do about the condos. Neither one felt comfortable raising a child just off The Plaza. So the decision was made to sell hers and start looking for a house. After the conversation, they both fell into a long silence, but neither one slept.

  “Stef, let me ask you a question. The men they arrested on the army bases said they joined Ortega to make changes. They wanted to bring attention to contractors putting profit ahead of the safety for the soldiers. If this is your goal, how would you go about accomplishing it?”

  She was quiet for a few moments, considering. “Work within the system, suggest the changes, get support from others to make the changes happen. Why?”

  “Exactly. These guys said their goal was to draw attention to poorly manufactured equipment being used in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  She rose up on one elbow and stared at him. “These guys are killing people.”

  “Yes, they are. Why?”

  She was silent, a look of understanding crossed her face. “It’s not their true motive.”

  “Exactly. There’s something else going on here. I understand how the military guys believe they’re helping their buddies. But someone else is using them for another purpose.”

  They were quiet again. Stephanie said, “What if this is just a distraction. You mentioned an Imam in California suddenly visiting young men who attend his mosque. Is that related?”

  “Don’t know.” Suddenly his weariness faded, pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. “JR keeps talking about how the contact he found in Dallas was the information provider and financier of the group. What if that person is the one manipulating the rest of them? It would make sense.”

  Stephanie nodded. “All this person has to do is provide just what they wanted the team to know. Ortega wouldn't realize they were being manipulated.”

  Kruger threw the sheets back, found his cell phone and sent JR a text. The call came thirty seconds later.

  “Question for you,” Kruger said, “Can you zero in on the guy in Dallas?”

  “Yeah. He’s in Houston right now.”

  Frowning, Kruger paused for just a heartbeat, “Where exactly in Houston?”

  “He keeps accessing the internet around the Port of Houston.”

  “Damn.”

  “What am I missing here, Sean?”

  “He’s waiting on a container.”

  “Uh, oh.”

  “Yeah, uh, oh. Can you find what he’s looking for?”

  “We don’t know his name, how would I be able to find the container? Do you know how many containers go through the Port of Houston on a daily basis?”

  “No.”

  “Roughly twenty five to thirty ships arrive daily. Each ship has at minimum of one thousand containers on it, and by the way, that’s a low estimate. So all of a sudden, we have, at minimum, twenty-five thousand containers arriving daily. If we narrow our search to just containers arriving from Europe and the Mediterranean area, we could narrow the number of containers, to oh, let’s say seventy-five hundred containers—a day. I don’t have the computer power or the manpower to even do that kind of a search. Plus, limiting our search to just that part of the world means we could still miss something.”

  Kruger was silent, waiting for JR’s next rant.

  “Even if I had the manpower, which I don’t, and had the computer power, which I don’t, who would we be looking for? Answer that question?”

  “JR, take a deep breath.”

  “You’re not listening to me.”

  “Yes, I am. Find out who the contact is. Then finding the container becomes easy.”

  Kruger could hear heavy breathing on the other end of the call. After two minutes, JR said, “Yeah… Okay, that’s how Charlie and I need to approach this. Find out who this contact is. Got it.”

  The call ended abruptly. Kruger smiled, JR was on the job with a purpose. If the name could be found, he would do it.

  ***

  The alarm clock on his nightstand showed 9:05. He had slept in. He reached for Stephanie and found her side of the bed empty. He heard music coming from the living room and smelled coffee and a fabulous combination of peppers and onions. Realizing she was probably fixing brunch, he threw the bedcovers back and grabbed a pair of boxers, a t-shirt, and sweat pants. After dressing, he brushed his teeth and headed to the kitchen.

  Steph
anie was pouring coffee when she saw him.

  “Good morning. Do you realize this is the first morning since we've been married you slept longer than I did?” Smiling, she added, “I marked it on my calendar.”

  He walked over to her and said, “Ha, ha, I was tired.”

  “You drank a bottle of wine.”

  He shrugged and kissed her. “What’re you doing?”

  “Making us a fantastic Sunday brunch, like the ones I used to make before we got married, remember those?” she said with a grin.

  He smiled and said, “Oh, yeah...”

  Before he could finished the comment, his cell phone vibrated. Glancing at the caller ID, he recognized only a Kansas City area code. He frowned. “It’s local, but I’m not familiar with it.” He accepted the call.

  “What did I ever do to you?” the voice said, slurring the first and last words.

  Kruger looked at the ID again and said, “Who is this?”

  “Of course you don't know! You don't care...” The words continued to be slurred. “You're the one that ruined my career...”

  Finally recognizing the voice, Kruger said, “What do you want, Dollar?”

  “What do I want? I want my career back.”

  “I didn’t take it from you. You lost it.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Franklin, you're drunk.”

  “No shit.”

  “Why are you calling?”

  “I've been transferred to Fargo, North Dakota as an agent. For gawd sake, I was a Special Agent in Charge, and now…” There was silence on the call. “I'm just an agent again. Because of you!”

  “Franklin, the only reason you're an agent again is because you're incompetent.”

  His cell phone was silent. Kruger almost ended the call when Dollar spoke again.

  “You've always had it in for me Kruger. Always… Why?”

  “Because you won't do the work, and you always take the easy way out. Franklin, I really don't have time for this conversation.”