The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3)

by Phelps, T Patrick

  “Not sure if I feel good about that,” Derek said, trying to smile.

  “Means you’re considered skilled and valuable. I’d say it is a compliment.”

  “Um, not to disregard the compliments, but. . .”

  “You will be paid your normal fees if that’s what you’re about to ask.”

  “While that’s good to know, it isn’t what I was going to say. I was going to ask what the skills are you believe I possess that you feel will be most useful? I mean, I have a reputation of being a rogue.”

  “And as being someone who follows through, no matter what. We know you took a bullet in the gut to save a client. And we know you didn’t have to put yourself in the situation that resulted in your getting shot. But you did it anyway, out of commitment, I assume. That, coupled with your military and police experience, tells us you can follow orders when needed and are smart enough to follow your instincts when the orders don’t apply.”

  “So you need someone to freelance?”

  “Maybe. But I need to tell you the parameters of what we are asking you to do.”

  “As of now, I do not understand what you need me to do. So I'll appreciate anything you can tell me,” Derek said.

  Mark leaned in closer to the table and slid a small, manila envelope towards Derek. “Everything we have is in this folder. What’s not in there, unfortunately, are any solid leads. You also won’t find anything you can use to verify that you are working with us if you get into any hot water with the NYPD.”

  “That’s a tad concerning,” Derek said as he pulled the folder towards him.

  “Trust me,” Mark said, “if you get into trouble, I’ll get you out.”

  Derek never liked when people told him to trust them. He felt people who told others to “trust them” were the people least deserving of trust. Despite Derek’s reservations, something about Mark’s appearance, the way he spoke or the urgency that Derek could see in his eyes made him feel he could trust Mark Henderson.

  “So what’s my first step?” Derek asked.

  "It’s up to you,” Special Agent Cortez said. “The whole idea about hiring you, which I think was a bad idea, was that you’re gonna run the way you run. We give you the info, and you take it from there. Either you sit back and observe this whole thing happen, or you figure out a way to stop it. Observe or engage. That’s up to you.”

  Cortez spoke with a slight Hispanic accent that seemed designed to hide a much stronger accent. Unlike his partner, Juan Cortez looked like a hardened investigator, who had not only seen and knew about things that would scare the crap out of most Americans, but had also taken some hard knocks during his time. His nose slanted a bit to the right of his face, his eyes held a 100-yard stare that suggested both vacancy of fear and hidden terrors. Sitting next to Mark, Derek estimated Juan had at least 80 pounds and eight inches on his partner.

  “I’m picking up you’re not a fan of my work,” Derek said to Juan.

  “Brilliant deduction,” Juan shot back. “I’m not at all happy about your being hired to do whatever the hell it is they think you can do. And I’ll tell you one thing,” Juan said, his finger trained on Derek, “I better not find out you’re running around like some bad-ass tough guy, throwing the FBI’s name all over the place.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Derek said, unconcerned that Juan was not one of his fans. “But if I do?”

  “Don’t,” Juan barked. “Here’s a little hint for you, keep the phrase ‘Unwanted Nuisance’ in your mind.”

  “Well that is certainly helpful. Looking forward to working with you Special Agent Cortez,” Derek said as he began to open the manila envelope.

  “Not yet,” Mark said, slapping his hand down on the envelope. “We need to go over a few things first. Give you an overview of the do’s and don'ts.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Mark paused, glancing out of the window as the waitress strolled by their table. He waited until she was far enough away before continuing the conversation.

  “Unless you’ve been living under a rock,” Mark started, “you’ve heard of ISIS, al Qaeda and a few hundred other terrorist organizations. Every one of them has made threats to our homeland. Some we take seriously and some are made only to gain notoriety. What concerns us most are the threats we never hear about from terror groups that seem more concerned about their mission and not getting their names plastered all over the headlines. The chatter we had been hearing was cross-chatter, meaning we were picking up what a bunch of these terror groups have been talking about, but which none are directing. Almost like these groups are in the dark about something that is about to happen.”

  “Every one of them?” Derek asked.

  “On any given day, intelligence is tracking no less than 75 groups around the world; some are two or three person cells that have split off from a larger group and some, like al Qaeda or ISIS, are full blown organizations. The chatter we heard was what we call ‘reference chatter.’ Many of these groups, especially the larger ones, were talking about some event but none of them know too much about it.”

  “Another offshoot trying to make a name for itself?”

  “Doubtful” Mark said. “These groups have their own intel and way of vetting each other. For there to be as much chatter as there was, the group or groups behind whatever is being planned would have to be very sizable, powerful or have designed a damn good plan.”

  “Think some groups have joined forces for an attack?” The prospect of what Derek suggested chilled him. Though he had no interactions with any terror groups during his eight years as an MP in the Army, he had sat through enough briefings to know terror groups often split apart. The idea that some would come together for a single mission could be devastating.

  “That’s what we thought at first,” Juan interjected. “How about you ask less and listen more?”

  Mark reached his hand over and grasped Juan’s shoulder. “We’re here as a team, Juan,” Mark said. Juan’s reaction was immediate. He shook his head then shrank his body low into his seat. It was clear that while Mark and Juan shared the same title, Mark was clearly in charge of this case. “Like Juan said, that’s what we thought at first, but none of these groups seem to know who is behind whatever is being planned, and none of them seem to want the spotlight. Whatever it is, and whoever is behind it, must be very powerful and very secretive.”

  “Did the other terror groups seem excited about whatever they were talking about?”

  “That’s a good question,” Mark said as he shot a glance at Juan. “The groups who were chattering revealed a mixture of excitement and concern.”

  “Concern about what?” Derek questioned.

  “Bad things, Cole. Very bad things.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Derek walked from the diner and towards his parked rental car. He felt compelled to rip open the manila envelope and begin reading about the case he had just accepted. The conversation with Special Agents Cortez and Henderson produced significantly more questions than answers. There were a few things, however, that the agents were crystal clear about.

  “You need to keep your involvement in this matter absolutely confidential. That means no calls to your friends, family or associates. Any information shared with you is to be considered top secret. Any information you learn from your investigation is immediately the property of the US Government. Should you be found to have shared any information with anyone, you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

  Derek was on his own.

  Though Mark Henderson told him that if Derek got into a challenging situation, he’d be there to help, Derek knew that once he shook hands and walked away from the diner, as far as the FBI was concerned, Derek Cole was nothing more than a US citizen. He knew that his cell phone was or soon would be tapped and all of his communications would be monitored. He knew that his movements would be tracked and, even if he hadn’t agreed to work on the case, his privacy was a thing of the past.

  As s
oon as he got into his car, Derek started the engine, pulled out onto the street and headed towards the nearest shopping center he could find. He wanted a place where he could both search his car for tracking devices and read the contents of the folder. Within 10 minutes of leaving the diner, he found a strip mall, parked his car in front of a UPS Store and exited his vehicle. After he checked the area to make sure that his intended actions would not draw attention, Derek began a thorough search of his car. After 15 minutes, he sat back down in the driver’s seat.

  “Nothing?” he asked himself. “Can’t believe that I’m not being tracked by someone or by something.”

  He grabbed the manila envelope, broke the seal and removed the folder’s contents. He was concerned over how few items the folder contained: three pictures of men who looked to be of Arabic descent, a list of mosques in the Greater NYC area, and a single page of typed “instructions.” A quick glance at the instructions gave him no substantial information to start working the case. While Henderson’s contact information was included, the rest of the instructional letter only offered a repeat of what he had been told at the diner.

  “You are considered a consultant to the FBI. This designation does not infer any access to information, resources or protection from local laws.”

  “Your engagement can be terminated at any time, without warning or explanation.”

  “Above all, your primary objective is to cause no harm to this investigation. Should you be found to have caused disruption or interference, your role will be immediately terminated and you may be subject to criminal charges.”

  Lastly, there was a small sheet of paper, folded in half with Derek’s name written sloppily on the forward facing side of the paper. He put everything beside him on the passenger’s seat, unfolded the note and read.

  “Cole, throw this note away as soon as you read it. Trust no one, including me, on this case. We are up against something much bigger than what you could possibly imagine, and some very powerful people are willing to do almost anything to keep the truth a secret. Trust no one! Don’t try to contact me to discuss. I probably will be dead by the time you read this.”

  The note was signed J. Cortez.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Dead?” Derek said, then checked to see if anyone was within earshot of hearing him. “You may be dead after I read this note? What did I get myself into?”

  After shredding the note and using the three different garbage cans spread out along the front of the strip mall to throw the note away, Derek returned to his car. A sense of foreboding spread across his body. He didn’t feel comfortable sitting in such a public, and therefore, vulnerable spot. Without hesitation, he started his car, pulled out onto the road and headed south.

  “Why would Cortez write me a note?” he wondered as he started to follow signs to Manhattan. “That guy acted like he hated me.” His instincts told him to contact Henderson to tell him he had made a mistake and didn’t feel that this case was right for him.

  “After much thought and deliberation,” he thought to himself, “I’ve decided that my services are not well suited for this case. While I appreciate the offer, I have decided to return home and to catch up on some other casework. Thank you again. Now, if you can just let me know where I can return this highly confidential case information, I can arrange to meet you at whatever location best fits your scheduled. And, of course, I double pinky promise not to tell anyone about this whole case.”

  As he headed south on the Henry Hudson Parkway, Derek knew that there was no going back. He knew that there would be no calls to the FBI to tell them he had changed his mind. He wouldn’t be able to just “sit this one out” and watch how things unfolded. Though he didn’t question his skills as a private investigator nor his love for his country, he knew he was already in way over his head.

  After making the 35-minute drive into Manhattan, Derek followed the signs to the Port Authority Parking garage. Once his car was parked in the long-term parking area, Derek headed on foot east on 55th Street. He walked several blocks until turning south onto the Avenue of the Americas that would lead him to Bryant Park. Derek kept the manila folder shoved tightly and securely under his right arm and was careful to check its position every few steps. He didn’t think that Bryant Park would be a safe area to study the contents of the folder, but it was the only park, besides Central Park, that Derek was familiar with. He also knew that Bryant Park was directly behind the NYC Library.

  Though it was nearing 8:30 PM when Derek arrived, the park and the restaurants on its grounds were bustling with activity; the mid-August Sunday evening’s weather had drawn out residents and tourists. The park was a short walk from Times Square and was a popular spot for tourists, local residents and those who lived on the margins of society. Discovering that the library had closed at 6 PM, Derek walked through the small park to collect his thoughts before heading towards Times Square to find a hotel.

  As he passed others walking in the park, people sitting together on the park’s benches or enjoying a meal on one of the outdoor patios, the realization of what Derek was doing in the city startled him. He saw no worry in the faces of those he passed, no concerns over the information he had clutched between his arm. No one displayed a hint of fear as he passed by.

  “Innocent people, all of them,” he thought to himself. “But not innocent enough to whomever or whatever is behind this terrorist plan.” He felt guilty as he passed them for not alerting them to some planned event that could very well take their lives. He wanted to tell everyone he saw to “be careful for the next few days,” or to “avoid populated areas.” But he knew that his warnings would be passed off; included in the myriad of dire warnings residents and visitors to this city had become immune to. He could show them the pictures and the notes on the case to prove that something was being planned. Maybe those would persuade a few to leave town or to at least take precautions. And if he could convince just one person, others would follow.

  “If it saves just one life,” Derek chuckled to himself. He always hated that expression, one used by politicians and activists. “If our actions today can save the life of just one person, the actions taken will be worth it.” It was a rock-solid argument that few would ever argue against. Saving a life was important and anyone who suggested otherwise would see their career in public service ended. But what the tired and overused expression didn’t account for was all the lives the action could end in its mission to save just one. It didn’t allow for debate over any of liberties and freedoms that those eventually affected by the action would be forced to sacrifice.

  Derek knew that he couldn’t tell anyone about the case. Not yet, anyway. Not until he knew what exactly what he was up against, how to prevent it and if unpreventable, how best to mitigate the damage.

  As he made his way to Times Square and passed a thousand nameless faces, he wondered how many people he could convince of the threat. Would it be possible to reach a critical mass of people: to hit a tipping point and to create a mass exodus from the city? He stood in the center of Times Square, surrounded by flashing neon lights, barker calls from minimum wage workers desperate to hand out their quota of pamphlets and swathed in the artificial lights pouring out from the unofficial epicenter of commercialism. He stood and realized that he was impotent in getting anyone to leave. No matter how compelling he crafted his warning, no one would listen. His voice would only blend into the dissonant cacophony of harsh and brutal sounds that formed a union; that somehow created a symphony.

  He turned his mind and thoughts away from trying to persuade people to leave and towards stopping the attack. He wondered, as he made his way towards the Marriott Marquis, if any attack was planned at all or if something was about to happen, if he’d have any ability to prevent it. As he entered the expansive and opulent lobby of the Marquis, Derek’s thoughts were centered on Special Agent Juan Cortez. During their brief meeting, Cortez made no attempt to hide his dislike of Derek’s involvement in the case, yet the note
seemed to be written by someone who cared about his safety.

  “Mr. Cole,” the desk clerk said, “you have enough member points to pay for a two night stay. Would you like to use your points for your stay with us?”

  “Sounds good,” Derek replied. “Can I reserve the room for a week and either shorten or extend it if needed?”

  After racing his fingers across the computer’s keyboard, the clerk responded, “Mr. Cole, just let us know, and we will accommodate you. Here is your room key,” he said as he handed Derek a white envelope, “and instructions on how to use our wireless network. Can I get someone to help you with your baggage?”

  “All set, just tell me where I can get a bottle of scotch around here.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Derek was less interested in the incredible view of Times Square that the floor to ceiling windows in his hotel room afforded than he was in drawing the blinds shut and setting up his room. Derek unzipped his computer bag and removed two silver pens. Pulling the tops of both, he placed one on the desk pointing towards the bed, and the second was placed on the top shelf in the closet nearest the door. He quickly retrieved his laptop, connected to the hotel’s WiFi, then entered a secure IP address into his browser. Within seconds, the tiny cameras located in each end of the pens he had positioned began streaming a low res video of his hotel room to his computer.

  “Perfect,” he said softly.

  He then turned the TV on to a local sports channel, messed up the bed, dampened a few towels which he then tossed onto the bathroom floor, before leaving the hotel room. Though he was on the 23rd floor, he took the stairs down to the first floor — which was one floor beneath the main lobby — exited the hotel towards west 45th Street and headed towards the liquor store the front desk clerk gave him directions to.