by Jay Klages
“Good morning, Brendan,” Velasquez said. “We also have Neil Graves from the DEA Seattle Division on the call. With me here, I have Agent Rob Morris and Carla Singleton, an analyst from Counterterrorism.”
Velasquez pressed the mute button.
“We also have Alderville and Jerry Lerner listening in,” he said. After Morris nodded, Velasquez unmuted the phone.
“Okay, folks, let’s get started,” Velasquez said. “We’re now eighteen days into the operation and it’s progressed on schedule. We have about one more week of activity remaining from our source, give or take a few days, with June thirty being the target end of operation. In the meantime, we’ve become more concerned about the militia activity associated with AgriteX as we’ve further developed the profile for CEO Marshall Owens. Carla is going to summarize that for us now.”
Carla Singleton slid one of the flat microphones toward herself. She had short brown hair in a pixie hairstyle, dark-brown eyes, and pale skin. Although she was lithe and petite, her speaking tone and energy seemed to multiply her stature.
“Hello, everyone,” she said. “So we know from all of the available documentation we’ve gathered that Marshall Owens has taken a fatalistic tone in most of his public and private communications. We again reviewed the interview transcripts from Wade Rooker, the former AgriteX employee who agreed to speak with us last year. Owens had spoken in internal AgriteX meetings about how this year would be instrumental and revolutionary. It would involve some kind of new beginning, and he regularly alluded to a launch of some kind. But after checking with AgriteX and their existing customers for information on new product or service lines, we haven’t been able to identify any launches within their legitimate business.
“We’ve been trying to track Owens’s personal activity, and it’s been difficult since he also resides in the AgriteX headquarters. His corporate credit card has been used for legitimate business purchases and any flights or rental cars appear to be directly related to current or prospective business activity around the country. We ran several aliases that Owens had reportedly used in the past through a number of databases and came up with one hit. A database compiling all domestic medical record numbers listed a patient visit earlier this year, on January twenty-ninth, under the name of Morgan Oliver at the Portland VA Medical Center. We confirmed from reviewing old surveillance video that it was in fact Owens who visited the VA during that time frame. While there, a Dr. Carlton Price ordered some blood work and imaging tests for Owens.”
“Any relationship between Price and Owens?” Velasquez asked.
“Not completely clear,” she said. “But both were former Army Special Forces—Price a medical sergeant, Owens a former warrant officer on a B Team. They were both assigned to the Seventh Special Forces Group in the late eighties.”
“Probably doing counternarcotics in South America,” Graves commented.
Singleton continued. “There weren’t any documentation notes on those ordered tests,” she said, “but Dr. Price ordered a CT scan with contrast on Owens. We were able to obtain all of the images and have one of our physician consultants review them. The bottom line is that Owens has a grade-four glioblastoma multiforme—a malignant brain tumor.”
“What’s the prognosis?” Graves asked.
“Six to twelve months from the time of that test,” Morris said. “So he’s most likely not going to make it past the end of the year.”
“We’ve found no indication that Owens has sought surgery, radiation, or chemo for treatments,” Singleton said. “For all his love of the latest technology, he indicates a strong interest in naturopathy when it comes to his own medical treatment.”
“They have an employee health clinic at AgriteX,” Velasquez added. “But there’s no way it would be adequate for cancer treatment.”
“Carla, not to steal your thunder,” Morris said, “but moving us along here . . . We’re worried that the dismal prognosis for Owens might cause him to shift to a more dangerous course of action, for whatever this launch activity might be.” Morris looked back to Singleton for confirmation.
“Yes,” Singleton said. “That’s the consensus of Behavioral Analysis.”
“Who inherits the keys to his kingdom?” Collins asked.
“Maybe a VP of business development or a chief scientist,” Singleton said. “We’re not sure. We hope our source can fill in some gaps in the org structure very soon.”
“Okay,” Velasquez said. “Brendan, can you fill us in on anything you were able to find?”
“Yeah, I have two reports, one coming from just yesterday,” Collins said. “We have a source inside Oeste-13, the gang controlling the largest amount of turf in the triangle west of I-5 and bordered by the Columbia and Willamette Rivers. We received word yesterday that Oeste-13 received a hit order—a subcontract passed through several layers of contacts. That order can be connected to a Juan Messia. Messia is a suspected Sonora lieutenant with U.S. citizenship who is well trusted by Sonora captain Eduardo Tesar. Messia operates primarily out of Arizona when he’s in the States, but he turned up in the Portland area. We also received confirmation that he spoke into a phone that was present in the area of AgriteX yesterday. We can’t draw a thick line between the two reports, but it’s hard to believe they’re coincidental.”
“That’s good,” Morris said. “Neil, do you have anything else to add related to gang activity?”
“Not much at the moment,” Graves said. “We’ve seen an increase of voice and Internet communications pertaining to gang and cartel contacts in the greater Portland area, but a seasonal increase is expected. The spike we had in arrests is also normal, but we’re reviewing arrests made, including those in the state forests. We found no arrests connected to AgriteX.”
“Weapons?” Morris asked.
“Yeah, I’m going there next,” Collins said. “We had a gang source with access to a particular Portland storage unit facility used earlier this year as a transit point for weapons and drugs. The source claimed he saw what looked like four custom hard-shell golf travel cases passing through that storage unit, and the contents of those cases were identified to him as weapons. Since the cases were locked, he copied down the alphanumeric sequence on the outside of the cases. We know those alphanumeric sequences—the Sonora cartel uses them to track their most high-value weapons. That particular sequence is for an SA-7 Grail, a shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile.”
“But no visual confirmation of an actual missile?” Velasquez asked.
“No,” Collins said.
“Missiles would add a new dimension to this threat,” Morris said, “but I’m not seeing a connection to AgriteX.”
“When you mentioned Owens’s reference to a launch,” Collins said, “I just thought about it literally, like a missile launch.”
Morris, Velasquez, and Singleton looked at one another.
“Carla, what do you think about that?” Morris asked.
“It’s plausible,” she said. “But I’d think going after commercial jets with a SAM wouldn’t quite fit Owens’s profile. I looked more closely at his time as founder and CEO of NetStatz, and the company had a unique culture. Inc. magazine did a piece on it. They called themselves the NetStatz Nation. Employees loved their big parties and stock grants. NetStatz contributed to charities benefitting veterans and deployed military service members. Quarterly, the company did local volunteer environmental work during paid company time. So Owens is more antigovernment, promilitary, and pro-environment. If he had missiles, I’d think he’d prefer a government target, like Air Force One.”
Morris nodded side to side as though he was weighing everything.
“This is good information, thanks,” he said. “It gives us a few more avenues to explore and only heightens our urgency. Chris and I have to run to another meeting now, but if we need to all reconvene before next week, let’s do it.”
Twenty minutes later, Carla Singleton sat at her cubicle reviewing her notes and updating her analys
is on her computer to reflect the information just discussed. She sensed someone standing behind her, and sure enough, it was Zach Poole. The office project manager, Zach was both a beanpole and a bean counter, a tall, lanky fellow charged with monitoring current and projected operations, personnel assignments, and budget adherence in order to optimize the office’s labor resources and expenses.
With budgeted headcount examined so closely these days, a greater appreciation for this role had replaced some of the grumbling about someone looking over everyone’s shoulder.
But now that someone was literally looking over her shoulder.
“Hi, Zach,” Carla said.
“Hey, Carla, I was afraid to interrupt you. I need to update my project matrix. You just got assigned to another op. How long is your involvement going to last?”
“Yeah, I’ve been on it since Monday the tenth. I’d just put down that I’ll be assigned to it through mid-July, to be safe.”
“Okay, thanks. Sounds like you’re pretty loaded at the moment.”
“No rest for the wicked,” she said.
“Well, good luck with it.”
“I don’t need luck. I need caffeine.”
CHAPTER 25
Tuesday, June 25
8:47 a.m. (PDT)
Nehalem, Oregon
After driving more than an hour on AgriteX’s private dirt roads and the Necanicum Highway, Walter finally turned on to the Oregon Coast Highway at Nehalem Bay. Kade sat in the second-row left seat with no one to his right, and Hank, who hadn’t spoken during the entire ride, was riding shotgun. Sentry Cummings sat behind Kade in the third row, alone, his PPK pistol out of the holster.
Kade looked out the window toward the shimmering Pacific. His brief, pleasant thoughts admiring the scenic beauty were replaced by nervousness as he realized he could be within minutes of seeing Alex. It felt like a long shot that he’d show up. Alex was a wonderful friend, but his general reliability for being on time wasn’t his strong suit.
“So why does AgriteX support the clinic?” Kade asked, to break one of the many long spans of silence.
“It’s an important part of the AgriteX program, giving back to the community,” Walter said.
Kade had to restrain himself from laughing out loud. That sounded like something the company must have put in Walter’s download. But then Kade had a sobering thought. He might be due to receive the same canned phrase in a future download. It might be a requirement to reach the bronze coin reward.
This is madness.
After a few more minutes, they turned right at a blue-and-white road sign that read “NEHALEM COMMUNITY HEALTH CLINIC” and pulled into the visitor/patient parking lot. Walter turned off the engine and passed the keys back to Cummings before they all got out of the vehicle. Kade looked up at the overcast sky and felt a fine mist in the air coating his exposed skin. Hank walked over in his direction, and when Kade glanced up at him, he didn’t sense any more animosity.
The clinic was a one-story red-brick building less than one-third the size of the Chapter headquarters. Kade noticed a vacant helipad beside the building and an ambulance bay.
“So what now?” Kade asked.
“Lefear does his work until the afternoon,” Cummings said. “You and Stanfield park your asses in the waiting room where I can keep my eye on you. When Lefear clears out the morning rush of patients and gets some downtime, then we can go back with him.”
“Awesome. Glad I can help out,” Kade said.
Walter shot Cummings a pissed-off look as he popped the hatchback on the SUV and pulled out a small duffel bag. “I’m sure after you come along a few times, Cummings will loosen up and let you help more,” he said to everyone.
“It all depends on Sims and his behavior,” Cummings said.
The four walked through the automatic sliding doors with “URGENT CARE” stenciled on the glass and operating hours of 6:00 a.m.–10:00 p.m. listed underneath.
“So do they ever bring AgriteX patients here?” Kade asked.
“Sometimes,” Walter said. “There are some really good docs at AgriteX, and decent equipment, but they’re more R&D-focused up on the second floor. Still, most treatment for our own is done at the headquarters by our own. We try to keep it in-house, and it’s provided free as an employment benefit.”
In the waiting room, Kade scanned the patients sitting in four of the ten orange vinyl chairs. Alex was not among them. Behind the waiting area, a middle-aged woman with spiky gray hair sat behind a small window marked “PATIENTS MUST REGISTER HERE” and nodded at Walter as he opened the adjacent door.
“I’ll see you guys a little later,” Walter said over his shoulder. The door pulled closed behind him.
Kade sat down in one of the waiting room chairs so he had a good view of the door, and Hank sat down to his left. The smell of the room was a pungent mix of various cleaning solvents and floral fragrance. This added to the uneasiness in his stomach. Would Alex show? How would he try to deliver the Glock? If Alex just tried to hand it to him here, that could be a disaster.
Cummings sat down across from them both, picking up an Us magazine and flipping through the pages.
“Hey, Kade,” Hank said just loud enough to get Kade’s attention. “I’m sorry about what happened before. I didn’t mean it.”
Kade looked over at Hank, surprised to hear him speak, much less apologize. Since Hank had seemed sullen on the drive out, Kade had been hesitant to strike up a conversation with him. But Kade nodded, encouraged at the gesture. At least for today.
“That’s cool, man. We’re good.” He offered Hank a high handshake and Hank slapped his hand in his palm and locked thumbs like they were going to arm wrestle in midair.
“Thanks,” Hank said.
There was no real privacy in the room, and so Kade watched the cute young female nurse with short brown hair and blue scrubs come in and out to evaluate the patients. A teenager with a dog bite got treated first, then an obese woman with a constant hacking cough. More patients came and went. A bearded man limped in with a friend, saying his ankle was broken. A mother brought her daughter in who was throwing up. Kade’s stomach was on the verge.
By the time they had been sitting there for about an hour and a half, his butt was numb from the hard plastic seat. Another woman with a dislocated shoulder was treated. A man with an asthma attack.
That’s when he spotted Alex outside, recognizing his ambling walk seconds before the entrance doors slid open. He took a deep breath and tried to track Alex’s movement out of his peripheral vision.
Alex was dressed in full hiking gear with a sizable backpack. Sunglasses with dark orange lenses disguised his appearance, but his favorite Stewart plaid bandana was like a flare gun signal if Kade needed one. Kade leaned back in his chair a bit and stretched his arms upward with his fingers interlocked. That was as big of a signal as he was going to broadcast back.
He saw Alex pause, scan left and right, rub his nose, then walk to the opposite side of the waiting room toward a door in the back, at the corner of the hall leading into another clinic area. It was a unisex bathroom. Kade read Alex’s plan in a mental snapshot.
He’s a backpacker, hiking the coast, in need of a bathroom break.
Not a bad idea. Simple.
Alex pulled off the backpack and set it on the ground outside of the bathroom. Then he entered and pulled the door toward the inside, pausing for a half second before completely shutting it.
Kade was a little confused now. Was the gun in the backpack? Or was Alex going to leave the gun in the bathroom? Or still try to give it to him?
“Hey, Cummings, I’ve got to piss.” Kade pointed to the bathroom door. He knew Cummings hadn’t paid attention to Alex’s entrance other than a quick glance.
“Okay, make it quick.”
He got up and moved to the bathroom door. He looked at Cummings to make sure he wasn’t watching at that instant, and then he ran his hands over the top flaps and pockets of the backpack sitting th
ere. He didn’t think the gun was inside. He’d used that pack a few times, and the way it was laid out, Alex would’ve left it near the outside for easy access.
He stood outside the bathroom door and heard the toilet flush, and in another minute the bathroom door lock flipped and the door opened. His eyes connected with Alex’s for a split second and he saw Alex force a quick, polite smile as he walked by and headed toward the nearby coffee station. Kade stepped into the bathroom, shut the door, and flipped the dead-bolt latch.
The two Hispanic men entered the waiting room area through the sliding doors and scanned the room before being noticed by the nearby nurse. One man was in his early twenties, a gash on the top of his arm wrapped in a blood-soaked towel. The other man, in his early thirties, looked like a relative or coworker providing assistance. Both were dressed like they’d been working outside doing landscaping or maintenance. Cummings also noticed their entrance and kept his eye on them. The nurse walked up to the two men as they stood in place.
“What happened to your arm?” the nurse asked the younger Hispanic man.
“Cut with saw,” he said, making a slashing gesture.
“Okay, let me have a look,” she said, unwrapping the towel. “And are you okay, sir?”
“Okay,” the older man replied.
The older Hispanic man’s eyes searched the room and fixed on Alex, watching him pour a cup of coffee. He looked at the backpack sitting on the ground next to Alex, then he stepped away from the nurse and pulled out a pistol.
Kade scanned the inside of the bathroom. He looked in the trash can, in the small supply cabinet, the other cabinet under the sink, behind the back of the toilet. No weapon. He lifted up the toilet lid and seat. No weapon. He was lifting up the lid on the toilet tank, seeing there was nothing inside, when he heard a female yell from the waiting room, followed by two gunshots. Shocked, he hesitated a second before he clanked the tank lid back in place, turned, flipped the lock open, and burst out of the door in a crouch.