“She’s a known CLM operative?” asked Leeds.
“She is now,” said Flagg. “We’ve added her to the public list of supporters.”
“Anything else before I head up to Pendleton?” asked Leeds.
“The cops have been all over the Fisher property since about four-thirty. Initial reports filed by the lead detective are sketchy at best. I don’t think they have any idea what happened there. They did manage to find the bullets, despite the confusion.”
“I would hope so,” said Leeds. “It’s not like I buried them in the backyard.”
“They also found the Fishers’ personal phones,” said Flagg. “At the bottom of a pitcher of water, in the refrigerator.”
“Clever.” He hadn’t been able to locate the phones during his abrupt visit to the house.
“Too clever,” said Flagg. “Be careful with Quinn. You’re operating on his home turf up there.”
CHAPTER 53
Jon Fisher drove east into the foothills of the Lolo National Forest. Asphalt had yielded to hard-packed dirt a few miles back, starting his mileage countdown. The turnoff on Forest Service Road 1308 toward his friends’ survivalist compound was precisely 3.9 miles from the last patch of asphalt. Scott Gleason would meet him at the end of the service road and guide him the rest of the way. Reaching the compound required navigating a series of forested jeep trails to reach a gentle valley cut by a little-known creek.
Scott, a retired Marine first sergeant and unabashed survivalist, had established the small homesteading compound six years before with the help of Gary Hicks, a retired gunnery sergeant, who’d spent the last several years of his service in various jobs at the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Center in Bridgeport, California. With Gary’s help, they’d turned the purchase into a self-sustaining, off-the-grid community.
It was the first place Jon had considered when Stuart Quinn told him to “go dark.” Not only was the compound isolated and well hidden, it was heavily defended. Scott guessed that the eleven households scattered throughout the property could bring more than two hundred firearms to its defense—far more than the twenty-six residents could possibly use. He’d even hinted that one of the households had a functional 50-caliber heavy machine gun in its arsenal. Another reason he’d feel safe leaving his wife here while he linked up with Stuart to figure out how they could help their sons.
A swollen, fast-moving creek peeked through the trees lining the road on the right, giving them a glimpse of the freshwater source that made this remote patch work of hills and gullies viable for off-the-grid living. As the hillside closed around them, he knew without looking at the odometer that they were getting close to the end of Forest Service Road 1308. A glint of sunlight off metal in the distance confirmed his instinct. Scott’s tan Jeep Wrangler blocked the dirt road where it narrowed to a trail between the tightly spaced trees.
“We’re here,” Jon said, nudging his wife.
Leah stirred in the front seat but didn’t answer. No surprise after their six-hour midnight run out of Idaho, followed by the few hours of shut-eye she was able to get while reclining as far back as the 4Runner’s front passenger seat allowed. Jon wasn’t feeling so great either. Close to a decade had passed since he’d last pulled a near all-nighter on guard duty.
He’d finally passed out in the driver’s seat after two uneventful hours in the darkest recesses of the Food Mart parking lot at the turnoff to Old US Route 93. The sun gave him about an hour of uneven sleep before appearing between the peaks to the east and exposing his vehicle to the locals. He’d called Scott after grabbing coffee and some snacks at a nearby Conoco station.
He slowed the 4Runner now, stopping it far enough in front of the jeep to give Scott room to pull a U-turn. Scott hopped down from the jeep, his behemoth frame crushing the gravel beneath him. His friend stood six three, and easily weighed 240 pounds. Thick muscles stretched his dark-blue polo T-shirt and threatened to rip his pant thighs. To this day, Jon scarcely believed this man had spent years mountaineering. He appeared to be the antithesis of today’s compact, agile alpinist. Of course, when you’re nearly strong enough to move mountains, you had a distinct advantage over the rest.
Jon met him between the two vehicles, grasping Scott’s hand in a near death grip. The obligatory man-hug was crushing, popping a few tight joints in his back.
“Jesus, Scott. You look strong enough to lift boulders.”
“And you ain’t lookin’ so pencil-pushy no more,” replied Scott, nodding at the 4Runner. “Leah got you shovelin’ snow or something?”
“That’s the least of it,” said Jon. “Leah’s still crashed out. Long night.”
“You shoulda rang when you got in,” said Scott. “I’d uh come down to get ya.”
“I didn’t want to bother you that late,” said Jon. “Among other reasons.”
Scott stared past the 4Runner, examining the long stretch of road behind it. “I appreciate your concern for operational security,” he said, patting his friend on the shoulder with a slightly pained look. “But I have to be honest with you, Jon.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” said Jon, knowing what Scott was about to say.
“My guess is that this ain’t a social visit,” said Scott. “Sounds serious.”
“Well, I’m not going to bullshit you. My son got wrapped up in something nasty down in California. Not his fault, but it’s coming down on him hard. Possibly coming down on all of us. Remember Lieutenant Colonel Stuart Quinn?”
“Shit yeah,” said Scott. “I kicked your whole battalion’s ass for two weeks in Bridgeport. The two of you made a good fuckin’ team. One of the best sergeant-major–commanding-officer combos I recall down there. What’s he got to do with this mess?”
“His son is a captain with two-four in Pendleton. Got wrapped up in this trying to help my son. Quinn senior works for the DIA in a very hush-hush capacity. He did some digging, and here we are.”
“That bad?”
“Quite possibly,” said Jon. “We’re not taking any chances. I’m mainly looking to stash Leah somewhere safe while I try to sort this out.”
“Given the circumstances, I have to tell the others. My vote is obviously a big fuckin’ hell yeah, bring it on, but it has to be a group decision. Sorry about that.”
“No apology needed. I don’t want to put anyone in danger. There’s plenty of places to go. I thought of yours first because of you and Kim,” said Jon. “And that fifty-cal you mentioned might have weighed into my decision a little.”
“Ha! I bet it did!” said Scott. “But don’t mention that when we get into the valley. That’s supposed to be secret. We’ll get you fed and rested before we bring it up with the rest of the crew.”
“Sounds like a plan. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Scott. “Worst-case scenario, they say no and I let you use our apartment in Missoula. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep Kim from revolting out here. She gets her sushi fix once a month, and I get another hunting season.”
“Sounds like a reasonable compromise.”
“It’s very reasonable. Half the folks up here keep a place in Missoula. Some even stay there during the worst of the winter,” said Scott. “Before we drive in, I need you to cough up your phones—anything that transmits or receives.”
“We left the phones at home. I have a DTCS secure satphone, compliments of Stuart Quinn,” said Jon. “It’s not traceable.”
“Everything’s traceable for the right price or with the right connections.”
“True, I suppose,” said Jon. “How can I check for messages? I need to get in touch with Quinn and my son at some point.”
“Let’s see what the verdict is first. Then we’ll figure that out. Maybe drive you to Missoula and have you make some calls?”
“Sounds good. I also have a laptop computer that I can use through the satphone. Other than that, we’re riding pretty low tech for gear.”
“Cellular or wireless capabl
e?”
“Wireless, but I have that disabled.”
“Remove the battery, if possible,” said Scott. “If not, the bag I brought in the jeep will keep the wireless signal contained. They can fly over and turn that shit on if they want to. Not much they can’t do these days. What about the 4Runner? You hooked into automatic roadside assistance?”
“No. They use stuff like that to track you in California and a few other states. Didn’t want any of those systems onboard.”
“All right. Let’s get the phone and the computer in the bag, and we’ll head in. Kim’s excited to see y’all. She’s got a whole griddle packed with bacon, eggs, toast … you name it. Hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” said Jon. “Had some coffee and beef jerky at the Conoco, and yes, I paid with cash.”
“Read my mind. Can’t be too paranoid.”
Apparently not.
CHAPTER 54
David Quinn checked his rearview mirror again, observing the sporadic traffic following him on Basilone Road. The car behind him displayed red DOD tags in the bottom left-hand corner of its windshield, indicating that the car was registered to an enlisted Marine or sailor. With a single occupant, though, the gray sedan didn’t hold his attention. He took a sip of hot coffee from a black USMC travel mug and nestled it back into the cup holder, eyeing his phone. Still nothing from his dad.
He’d expected to hear something from either his father or Nathan’s by now, but the two of them had gone dark. Nathan’s dad had sounded like he was a few minutes from heading north when they’d last spoken, but oddly stopped taking calls for the rest of the evening. His own father had done the same. David hoped their silence had something to do with the vulnerabilities inherent in cellular communications.
If Cerberus had the capability to turn Nathan’s cell phone into a transmitter, as his dad suspected, it was entirely reasonable to suspect they could tap into the cell towers serving Camp Pendleton and work some surveillance magic. One particularly effective trick, which Quinn’s unit had employed in Kabul, was to comb tower traffic with sophisticated voice-recognition software. When the software registered a confirmed voice hit, they dug a little deeper into the signal and extracted the call’s digital footprint, including the phone number. His father knew that trick better than anyone else. He’d helped to pioneer the tactic in 2019 during the second war in Afghanistan. David needed to find another way to call his father, which might be possible where he was headed.
Driving to the opposite side of the base was the last thing he wanted to do under the circumstances, but he could stop by his father’s old unit in the same area and see if the good legacy his father left behind in First Radio Battalion might score him a few minutes on an encrypted satphone.
Failing that, he could buy a few commercial satphones with cash at the Marine Corps Exchange. The registry process and call-plan selection for these phones were handled directly via satellite connection by the manufacturer, with the required Federal Communications Commission information sent in a massive data packet detailing countrywide purchases at 11:59 p.m. PST each day. Cerberus would not learn that he was a new satphone owner until midnight on the day he activated each phone, at which point he could assume the phone was tapped. Of course, if Cerberus continually voice-filtered every call entering each regional ground station, which he had to assume, they could unravel his trick posthaste. He’d have to limit the calls to two minutes or less.
A few minutes later, his phone buzzed. The screen indicated it was one of the burners he’d given to his wife. Shit. He’d told her to only use it in an absolute emergency. Cerberus would be tracking and actively pinging every prepaid phone purchased by Corporal Cerda yesterday afternoon. By inserting the battery, she’d likely given up her location. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, ready to turn the car around at the next safe opportunity.
Alison was holed up in one of his barracks rooms back at Camp San Mateo. He could be back at the camp in twenty minutes.
David pressed the screen, accepting the call. “Make it quick and watch what you say. Thirty seconds.”
“Did you see the news?”
“No. I’ve been in meetings, and I’m driving to Las Pulgas. Are you in immediate danger right now?”
“No, but you need to hear this.”
“Before you say another word, grab your bag and start heading to the backup location. Toss this phone as soon as we hang up. What’s going on?” he said.
“Nathan Quinn is the subject of a statewide manhunt,” said Alison. “According to the police, he’s a suspect in the murder of a police detective. How well do you know him?”
“I sort of knew him in high school. Last night was the first time I saw him in more than ten years.”
“You’re already risking enough here. More than enough,” she said. “I’m walking out of the door, by the way.”
“Good. Take in your surroundings. Do like I said.”
“I know,” she replied. “I think you should strongly consider cutting ties with this guy. Hiding a fugitive cop killer will not end well.”
“I highly doubt Nathan Fisher killed a police officer.”
“Are you willing to bet everything on that?” she said. “Lose everything?”
“I already crossed that line when I delivered the phones,” said Quinn. “Take the battery out and toss the phone. Love you.”
“Love you more.”
He kept his phone on, planning to ditch it at Camp Las Pulgas, halfway between San Mateo and his real destination at the other end of the base.
David thought about what she’d said. Either Fisher was a cop killer, and Quinn was the victim of an elaborate con, or Cerberus had framed Fisher, making it infinitely more difficult for both Nathan and him.
With Nathan’s name plastered on every police blotter from here to the border, he had little chance of escaping California. Every mode of travel short of hiring a boat to land him on a Mexican beach was out of the question. And leaving Camp Pendleton might not be an option, shortly, when local authorities learned that Fisher entered the base last night. As they had in the past when dealing with fugitives, San Diego County PD would petition the base for search authority, which the Marine Corps would refuse—igniting a standoff outside the gates.
The thought of it made him uneasy. He’d have to explain why he’d brought Fisher on base last night and what he did with him. David had no idea what he might say to investigators. Hopefully, he’d have a few more hours to come up with a story. Until then, he had to balance his attention between his job as Captain Quinn and his responsibilities as a husband and son. By the end of the day, he suspected he’d face a difficult choice between those duties.
CHAPTER 55
Leeds sat in a government-registered SUV parked in front of the Surfside Coffee shop next to the barracks building where they traced Alison Quinn’s call. She’d disappeared again quickly, suggesting she was in the same barracks quad. They couldn’t be sure, and it really didn’t matter. Unless she screwed up and took a walk outside, or made another call, they’d never find her. The Cluster B San Mateo barracks quad was composed of four buildings, each with four levels—representing more than four hundred rooms assigned to Second Battalion, Fourth Marines. She could be in any of them, locked away safely, and he had only four men, plus himself, to watch the building.
He considered recalling the group assigned to watch Quinn, but dismissed the idea. Quinn had kept his cell phone activated on purpose and was almost certainly up to no good. He wanted to keep as close an eye on the counterinsurgency-trained Marine as possible. Quinn had already delivered one very costly surprise. Leeds wasn’t about to let him spring another on this operation. He wouldn’t be surprised if Flagg was on the verge of “relieving” him, which didn’t mean he’d get to enjoy his Cayman Islands townhome with a golden parachute package. More like he’d be thrown out of a jet over the Cayman Islands without a parachute.
He dialed Flagg’s number, wishing he could report
that Alison Quinn was sedated in the trunk.
“Any luck?” asked Flagg.
“Negative. She disappeared before we arrived at the barracks.”
“You weren’t already at the barracks?”
“We’re split between twenty barracks buildings. The first guy arrived within two minutes. She’s close. I suspect in the same cluster of buildings.”
“She vanished in two minutes, evading your people?” asked Flagg.
“If you want to give me forty guys,” said Leeds, “I can watch every side of every building at once.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Flagg. “What about her car?”
“I have over a thousand cars parked in San Mateo alone. We’ll focus on the Cluster B parking lot, but who knows where the fuck she parked it. Knowing Quinn, it’s parked at a different camp.”
“This Quinn guy is really starting to piss me off.”
“Quinn is going about his day like nothing has happened,” said Leeds. “What if he drove Fisher off the base at two in the morning and stayed here to keep us distracted?”
“We should only be so lucky.”
“Did I sleep through a meeting? How would that be lucky?”
“You didn’t see the news?” asked Flagg. “The San Diego County Police Department, in conjunction with the state police, have issued an all-points bulletin for the arrest of Nathan Fisher, a key suspect in the murder investigation of Detective Emma Peck, who was discovered deceased in her apartment after failing to report for her shift. Someone leaked this shocking development to the media, which has resulted in Mr. Fisher’s face appearing on every television news channel and Internet media site alongside the words cop killer. If Fisher is anywhere outside of Camp Pendleton, I suspect his time on the run can be measured in hours.”
“If he’s cornered, the police might do our work for us,” said Leeds. “Especially if the Special Activities Group gets there first.”
Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Page 23