The Assassin's Trail

by J. C. Fields

She relaxed slightly, but was still hesitant. “Yes, but he had an accident with it this winter. He parked it and hasn't ridden it since.”

  Disappointed, Kruger said, “Mrs. Morgan, I apologize for the intrusion, but it’s critical I see the motorcycle.”

  “It's in the garage. What's this about, Mr. Kruger?”

  He closed the Mustang’s door, approached her and offered his ID again. She looked closer at it and noticeably relaxed. He said, “A bike similar to your husband’s was identified at a crime scene. I really need to see the motorcycle, Mrs. Morgan. If it’s damaged, then I can clear it.”

  She opened the garage with the remote and showed him the motorcycle. It was definitively not the bike they were looking for. The front wheel was bent and the rear tire flat. He then noticed that the bike was missing its license plate. He said, “Mrs. Morgan, did your husband remove the license plate?”

  She looked at the bike and said, “I don’t know; he didn't mention it. Is that important?”

  He said, “It could be. Would you call him and ask?”

  She nodded, went back to the driver’s side of the SUV, reached in for her purse, found her cell phone and made a call. While she was talking, Kruger used his cell phone to take several pictures of the wreaked motorcycle.

  As he was reviewing the pictures, she returned to the garage and handed Kruger the phone, “Phillip wants to speak to you.”

  Kruger took the phone and said, “Agent Kruger.”

  ***

  After checking the other two motorcycles on his list, Kruger was confident the Morgan bike was the one he needed. It was almost 6 p.m. when he returned. Phillip Morgan was waiting for him in the garage when Kruger parked his car in the drive way.

  Kruger introduced himself and said, “I appreciate you taking time to tell me about the bike, Mr. Morgan. What happened to it?”

  “I used to really enjoy riding it, you know. But as the boys got involved in more activities, not so much. The last time I rode it was last March. I hit a patch of wet pavement, lost control and hit a curb. That bent the front wheel, scraped the paint and blew the rear tire.”

  Kruger looked closer at where paint had been scraped away in the accident. He noticed some of the metal parts were starting to rust. He said, “Where would you have lost the license plate?”

  “I’m afraid I don't really know. It’s been here since my accident, except for the short time it was at a repair shop by Reagan National. They wanted too much to fix it, so I brought it home last weekend. I'll probably sell it before I fix it.”

  Nodding, Kruger said, “Could you give me the address of the repair shop?”

  Thirty minutes later, Kruger parked his rental in front of the repair shop. It was almost seven on a Friday night, and he was concerned the shop would be closed. To his surprise, someone was still there, doing paperwork. He knocked on the office door and said, “Are you the owner?”

  “Yep, name’s Doug Sanders, owner, mechanic, janitor, you name it, I do it here. What can I do for you?”

  Kruger showed his ID and said, “I'm Sean Kruger with the FBI. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “If it’s about the bikes that were stolen, yeah, you can. Not sure what I could help you with if it's about something else.”

  “What do you mean, stolen bikes?”

  “Already talked to the police. They weren't much help, haven't seen a detective yet.”

  Kruger tapped his foot and took a deep breath. “What about the bikes?”

  “Last Friday night, someone broke in here and stole three bikes, two Hondas and a Yamaha. Broke the lock on the back door, pushed them out the door and loaded them onto a pickup. At least that's what the cop said. Haven't spoken to a detective yet. That part of it kind of pisses me off. I can't file an insurance claim until they do their report. Can you file the report for me?”

  Smiling, Kruger said, “No, I'm here for a different reason, but they may be related. Could you look at your records and see if Phillip Morgan's Yamaha was still here when the other bikes were stolen?”

  “Don't have to look it up. I can tell you it was. I was tired of it taking up space. I finally told him I was going to sell it for storage fees if he didn't pick it up. He did last Monday. Why?”

  “Was the bike functional?”

  “Hell, no, he hadn’t taken care of it for years. The bike had mechanical issues, not including the bent front wheel.”

  “His license plate is missing. Do you remember if it was on the bike when he picked it up?”

  Sanders chuckled. “Son, I've got a good memory, but it's not that good. No, I wouldn't be able to tell you. I was just glad the bike was gone.”

  “Mr. Sanders, I'm going to do you a favor. A bunch of really good FBI investigators will be coming here to check out your robbery. That should help you get the paperwork to your insurance company.”

  “Hallelujah. I can get three owners off my back.”

  An hour later, Seltzer and five forensic techs arrived and went to work. While waiting for them to arrive, Kruger had contacted the owner of the stolen Yamaha and asked her to come to the repair shop with pictures of her bike.

  When she arrived, Kruger took the best picture of the Yamaha and photographed it with his cell phone. He immediately sent the picture in a text message to JR for comparison with the security video from Griffin's house.

  Thirty minutes after their arrival, one of the techs walked up to Seltzer and said, “Sir, I think I found something in the back.”

  Seltzer said, “Sean, this is Julie Bergman. She specializes in vehicle tracking. What’d you find, Julie?”

  “Well, sir, I found distinct tire tracks back there. I can see where the three bikes were loaded into a van. The width of the rear axle is consistent with an older model Ford Econovan. Tire tread and type indicate it was more than likely a U-Haul. I've seen enough of them to recognize the pattern.”

  Seltzer pulled out his cell phone. “I'll make a call. We’ll start contacting local rental locations and see which ones had a van out that night.” He walked away, the phone against his ear.

  At the same time, Kruger received a text message from Charlie. It read: “Stolen Yamaha is the same make and model as bike in security photo.” Kruger looked at Julie and said, “If we find the right U-Haul van, can you match it to the tracks back there?”

  “Yes, sir, I can.”

  Kruger smiled.

  Chapter 40

  Tulsa, OK

  Saturday

  The drive to Tulsa had taken over fourteen hours. Ortega had spotted the surveillance teams at the Minneapolis airport just before he entered the gate area for his flight to Tulsa. Realizing what they were, he left the airport and took a taxi to the Mall of America. There he wandered around trying to decide how to get out of Minneapolis.

  Most of the mall stores closed around 9 p.m. After determining the only way to secure a car was to steal one, he settled on an elderly man who he had eavesdropped on earlier in the evening. The man worked in the suit department at JC Penney. He lived alone and was planning on going straight home after work.

  Ortega waited outside the employee entrance and followed, at a discreet distance, the man to his car. As the elderly man fumbled with his keys to the ten-year-old Honda Accord, Ortega came up from behind, grabbed him by the neck and swiftly broke it. He lowered the limp figure to the pavement and unlocked the door. He then opened the back door and lifted the dead man into the floor of the back seat.

  An hour after leaving Minneapolis, just north of Faribault, he stopped the car on the bridge over a tributary of Wells Lake. I-35 was deserted at this time of night, so he waited until no headlights could be seen in either direction. Opening the passenger side back door, he lifted the body out of the back floor and eased it over the short railing into the water below. After hearing the splash, he quickly shut the door and returned to the driver’s side.

  The remaining part of the drive was uneventful.

  Guided by the GPS function on his cell ph
one, Ortega arrived at the address texted to him several days ago by the man he knew as Acosta. Its location was just north of I-244 and south of the airport. The building looked abandoned, as did the rest of the warehouses in the industrial park. He parked the Honda next to the loading dock and got out. The only sounds he could hear were birds chirping and the muffled roar of jet engines in the distance.

  He walked around the building until he found a door to what looked like office space. Turning the handle of the door, it opened. Weaponless, he cautiously opened the door. The interior was dark and smelled of dust and rotting paper. He closed the door and walked back to the Honda. When he got back to the car, the man he knew as Acosta was leaning against it with a Glock in his hand. He said, “You’re late. About two days late. Where have you been?

  “Couldn’t help it.”

  “Why?”

  Ortega shrugged. “The FBI found me, somehow.”

  Abbas’ expression stayed neutral and he continued to glare at Ortega. “What do you mean, ‘The FBI found me, somehow’?”

  “Just that. They had the airport staked out. I couldn’t get on my flight in Minneapolis. I had to drive.”

  Abbas was quiet. His eyes narrowed and he stopped leaning against the car. “Where did you get this car?”

  “Let’s just say I borrowed it. The owner didn’t need it any longer.”

  Abbas was on Ortega in a flash. He grabbed him by the collar and put the barrel of the gun under his chin. He said through clinched teeth, “You fool. Have you led them here?”

  Ortega pushed Abbas away. “No. I’m not stupid, Acosta. Apparently they’ve been tracking me through the computer. I haven’t used it since I was in San Francisco.” He paused and watched a passenger jet flying low on its approach to the airport. “My guess is they found Cooper’s computer.”

  “Get the car into the warehouse. There are not many people around here, but I do not need attention from the ones that are.”

  He turned and walked toward the now open freight door. Ortega got into the Honda and thought about leaving. He stared at the open warehouse door for several long moments. Finally, he started the car and drove into the warehouse.

  Chapter 41

  Cherry Hill, MD

  Saturday morning

  The owners and managers of the rental facilities were not happy about having to meet the FBI at their facilities this late on a Friday night and, in some cases, very early Saturday morning. Most took their time arriving. Finally at four a.m. at a location in Takoma Park, MD, they found the van. Julie was able to match the tread marks and found several traces of motorcycle oil in the back cargo area. Seltzer arrived at 5:30 a.m. with a search warrant after the owner refused to provide the identity of the renter.

  Even with the search warrant, the owner refused to turn on his computer. Seltzer turned to Kruger and said, “Place him under arrest, Sean. I'm tired of fucking with him.”

  After the owner was in the back of a local police car, Seltzer turned to Julie and said, “Can you get that computer working?”

  She smiled and nodded. Ten minutes later, she said, “Found the rental agreements. Hmmm... No wonder this guy didn’t want us on his computer. He’s been filing false insurance claims for already existing damage.”

  Kruger chuckled. “Go for it, Julie, you can have the bust. I want the guy who rented the van.”

  “Here it is.” She paused as she read the information. “There's a reference to a paper file. Check one of the file drawers under Reid, Billy.”

  Kruger opened the drawer labeled N-S and found the file she identified. A signed renter’s agreement was there. The first piece of paper after the rental form was a paper copy of a driver’s license for Billy Reid, Beltsville, MD. He immediately called Charlie and gave him the driver’s license number.

  Charlie said, “Do you want me to call you back or wait?”

  “I'll wait.”

  Two minutes later, Charlie was back on the phone. “Sean, the guy’s ex-military. Didn't serve under Ortega, but was in the same locations in Iraq. Here's the clincher. He's a decorated marksman. Pistols and rifles. He's won a bunch of inter-service competitions and has all the citations to prove it. He went through sniper training, but was injured in an IED explosion on his first mission.”

  “Good work, Charlie, keep digging.”

  He turned to Seltzer and held the paper up.

  “This is our guy. He was a certified marksman in the army, trained as a sniper and served in the same area of Iraq as Ortega. We need to find him. Now.”

  ***

  The apartment was strategically surrounded by FBI tactical agents and the Baltimore SWAT Team by 7 a.m. Kruger was suited up just like the rest of the assault team, Kevlar Tact Vest and helmet. He would be the fifth agent to enter the apartment. With his Glock out and ready, he gave the order to breach the door.

  The two agents in front swung the breaching bar. With a loud crack, the door jamb splintered, and the door flew open crashing against an inside wall. Two FBI tactical agents entered first, AR-15s in ready position, yelling “FBI...FBI...” The agents who popped the door dropped the breaching bar and immediately followed. As Kruger entered the apartment he heard the words, “Drop the weapon—now.” There was more shouting, and finally, “All clear. Suspect in custody.”

  He holstered his Glock and watched as a thin man with burn scars on his face, hands cuffed behind him, was escorted down the narrow hall. Kruger stood in the middle of the living area, arms crossed, as the two FBI agents stopped the prisoner in front of him.

  Kruger said, “Are you William Reid?”

  The man just glared at Kruger, his brown eyes staring straight ahead.

  An FBI agent stuck his head out of a bedroom further down the hall and said, “Sean, you’d better see this.”

  Before walking down the hall toward the bedroom, he was struck by the austere furnishings of the place. A worn sofa with sagging cushions, a cheap pressboard stand with a high-end flat-screen TV and a single bar stool scooted under a breakfast bar were the only furnishings of the living area. Not a single picture hung on the dingy walls, and the paint was so old that it appeared discolored in various locations. Stacks of gaming magazines littered the corners of the room. Fast food wrappers were scattered on the kitchen cabinet top. Dirty dishes were stacked so high in the sink, they touched the faucet. Kruger even detected a faint residual odor of marijuana.

  As he entered the room, he immediately saw why the agent called him. A large cork bulletin board was nailed to one of the walls. Pictures of Congressman Roy Griffin and his house were pinned to every square inch of the surface. Kruger examined the pictures. Each had been taken from different angles and locations. Every picture had a clear view of the front door and had handwritten notes notating direction and a number. Kruger stared at the numbers and realized what they were.

  “He was scoping the house, measuring distances from each location,” he said. A grim smile appeared, and he tapped the one picture with a circle drawn around it. “Good thing we found him. He had a sniper hide picked out.”

  ***

  Kruger returned to the street. In the command car, Seltzer’s cell phone was pressed to his ear by his shoulder. After the call was completed, Seltzer looked up at Kruger, his eyebrows raised. “Well?”

  Kruger said, “Reid’s got a wall full of pictures of Griffin’s house. All of them have distances marked. One has a circle around it.”

  Seltzer nodded. “I’m heading back. Are you staying, or do you want a ride?”

  “I’ll ride with you. There are too many agents up there. Besides, I want to watch the interrogation.”

  Billy Reid sat with his head down, staring at the top of the table. Two FBI agents, neither of whom Kruger knew, were firing questions at the young man. So far Billy had not answered any of them. One of the agents stood and walked out of the room. He looked around and spotted Kruger. He walked over, turned and glanced at Billy through the one-way mirror. He said, “The guy’s stubbo
rn. He’s not talking.”

  Kruger nodded and continued to watch Reid. After a few moments, he said, “He knows all we have on him is the motorcycle theft and taking pictures of Griffin’s house. Let me try something.”

  The agent nodded and both men walked to the interrogation room door. Kruger entered and sat in the empty chair across from Billy.

  Billy looked up, a small smile came to his lips. “Who are you?”

  “Agent Sean Kruger, Billy. I’ve come to ask for your cooperation.”

  Snorting, Billy shook his head. “You want my cooperation, that’s funny.

  Kruger smiled ever so slightly. “Why do you find it funny, Billy?”

  “You guys bust into my place, tear shit up, drag me down here, and you want me to cooperate. That’s what’s funny. No way I’m cooperating. I want my lawyer.”

  “I understand and I agree, you do need a lawyer. He’ll be here soon. But until he gets here, I need you to tell me something. Where’s Ortega?”

  Billy’s eyes widened, but he quickly recovered and sat further back in his chair. “I don’t know anyone called Ortega.”

  “Sure you do, Billy. He’s the one who told you to shoot Kyle Rousch in his Mercedes at the Starbucks.”

  Billy’s eyes grew scared, but he remained quiet.

  “You see, Billy, the Starbucks had a security camera that took a perfect picture of you pointing the gun at Rousch’s head and pulling the trigger twice.”

  Billy looked away from Kruger, his eyes darting around from the other agent in the room to the door and then back at Kruger. “No way, I had my helmet on…” Realizing what he had said, Billy slumped in his chair.

  Kruger turned to the other agent and said, “Could you excuse us for a few minutes?”

  The agent nodded and left the room. When they were alone, Kruger said, “I need your help Billy. I need to find Norman Ortega.”

  “I don’t know where he is. I never talk to him.”