by Russ Snyder
"No, sir. Again, I meant no disrespect. I only thought I was putting my time where it was most beneficial."
President Herbert Lamar didn't believe him for a minute. One of the few things that President Williams had spoken with him about was Backersley's constant ignoring of protocol. "Get in line, Bernie. We won't have this conversation again. I want you to concentrate your efforts on the assassination of President Williams. Anything you discover will immediately be reported to Coverley Merritt. Irving Vickers will escort you to the office where I believe Matt and Elliott are waiting." He waved Backersley out, who got up and left without saying another word.
Styles pulled up next to Christman in the rear of the McDonald's parking lot. Christman walked over and climbed in. Rather than starting the Jeep, Styles turned and asked, "J. C., I'm trying to figure out if these CIA guys are here because of us or if it's a coincidence. Let me ask you something. Is there any way our jet can be traced to us?"
He was quiet for a few moments before answering, "No, not directly. It's registered as a federal government aircraft, but it's considered a loaner. There's no easy way to say who might have it on any given trip." Then he added, "But say Phillips wanted to find out. I have no doubt that using her black magic on those computers of hers, she could. And if she could, we'd have to be really naive to think it were impossible for someone else not to be able to do it. She's already told us that this CIA bitch is nosing around. My guess is it's at least fifty-fifty she may have put it together. If she's done that, I'm betting there's also a good chance that they think there just might be a bit more to DPO than what is officially acknowledged."
"I was afraid you were going to say that. I'm kind of surprised Phillips didn't offer that possibility."
"That would be a guess on her part, and we know how much Phillips doesn't like to guess. I'd bet she's already looking into it, and when she has something definitive to offer, our phones will start ringing."
"What do you think about this? Say they did follow the plane here. What would you think would be the easiest way to get them off our backs for a bit?"
"That's easy---leave in the plane."
"J. C., I need you here. I've got a plan in the works, and you're indispensable. I know you've been teaching Starr how to fly it. Is he there now? Can he fly that plane solo?"
"Yeah, I think so. I wouldn't want him getting our asses out of that slam like before, but just take it somewhere and bring it back; yeah, he should be good to go."
Styles thought for a minute. "Where could he go---an easy flight, mind you---that would take him four or five hours out?"
"Albuquerque, New Mexico. That'd be simple enough. What do you want him to do when he gets there?"
"Take a nap, I don't care. I just want our plane gone from here for eight hours or so. I want them off our track. If he leaves, we'll have Phillips track him, and if nobody takes the bait, we can bring him back."
"Okay, you want me to call him?"
"Hell no." Styles grinned. "I want to give him the news. I owe him one."
Rijah Ellhad was just finishing lunch with Ryyaki Ali. Only the two of them were in the room.
"Are you set to travel, Rijah?"
"Yes. I am picking up the rental camper shortly. Everything is set. I only need to pick up the package."
"You may pick it up when you begin your journey."
"How big is it?"
"Come," Ali said, standing and then walking toward a door Rijah had never entered.
He followed Ali silently. They walked down a hallway to an elevator. Getting on, they descended two floors. The doors opened into a spacious room where everything appeared to be stainless steel.
"This is one of my preparation rooms," Ali informed him. There were two men in white uniforms resembling what one might find in a restaurant kitchen.
"Who are they?" Ellhad asked.
"They are of no consequence to you."
Ali kept walking toward the far end of the room to a set of double doors. He punched in a password on the electronic keypad. The doors opened silently. Upon entering, one of the first things Ellhad noticed were large red panic buttons, two on each wall. He didn't ask their purpose. Ali led him to a table. On it sat a metal crate with a hinged top. It was the size of a small microwave. Next to it sat the wooden crate it had arrived in. Ali opened the top. Inside, set in a foam-like material, similar to what would be found inside a gun transport case, were four aluminum vials. They were sealed at the top by what appeared to be a strange-looking cork.
Ellhad was apprehensive even approaching the table.
"Come, Rijah. There is nothing to be afraid of. Look." Ali leaned over and picked up one of the vials. "See, nothing to be concerned about. Just don't break the seal." He held it up for Ellhad. "Take it."
Ellhad cautiously took it from Ali's hand. He was struggling to control his nerves. He had seen horrible things through the Iraqi wars with the Americans, he had performed horrific acts on people Saddam Hussein considered his enemies, but what he had seen on that small lake in Alaska had made him gasp in fear. To think what was responsible for that was in this container scared him like nothing before.
"That seal will dissolve on contact with water. It will take approximately two minutes, more than enough time for you to toss them into the lake and withdraw."
Ellhad handed the vial back. "Yes."
"Come pick this up when you are ready to leave."
Twenty minutes later, Ellhad was back at his cabin. He walked next door and knocked.
Sahleea Mahad answered and smiled at him. "Rijah, come in. You know you don't have to knock."
"Yes, I do, for appearances."
"If you insist." She closed the door and kissed him. "I miss you."
Ellhad grinned. "I only left you a few hours ago. How can you miss me already?"
Sahleea smiled. "I miss the things you do to me."
"Then I should do them some more."
Styles made a sudden U-turn and headed back toward the Holiday Inn.
J. C. asked, "What's up?"
"I want to see if Phillips and Starr are being watched."
"Okay. Good idea. What's the plan?"
"You stay with the Jeep."
"Gotcha."
Nine minutes later, the Holiday Inn appeared up on the right. Styles pulled into a Red Lobster restaurant and parked.
"You stay put. Call Starr and Phillips and tell them to stay put. I'll call them if I want them to do anything." He jumped out of the Jeep and began walking. He was dressed casually: blue jeans, black Reeboks, gray short-sleeve sweatshirt. To a casual observer, he was just a guy walking. To someone paying strict attention, they would be surprised at the rock-hard muscles in his arms. Not overly bulging like a bodybuilder, different, just skin stretched tightly around each individual muscle that was extremely definitive in form.
He approached the Holiday Inn and acted like someone who was a guest there just out for a walk. He stopped as though he were catching his breath and surveyed the entire grounds and saw nothing. He kept walking, ending up at the registration lobby. He walked in and grabbed some of those brochures advertising tourist destinations in the area. He walked back out acting like he was studying them. He took the stairs up to the second floor and walked its entire length. Nothing. He took the stairs up to the third and final floor. Nothing. He walked around to the back side and stopped just short of the railed walkway that led past all the rooms. This was obviously an older Holiday Inn. He looked very carefully over the pool area and spotted an observer. A woman was in a lounge chair by the pool with a book. Styles noticed something wrong. Hard to read when you're not looking at the book. He watched her for six minutes. Not once did she turn a page. What Styles didn't understand is why she was watching the wrong side of the motel. Did I miss somebody? He withdrew, and from the corner, he watched the parking lot. He checked
each vehicle in the area. No one sitting in a car, no cars with dark-tinted windows. The fucking registration clerk. He had video to watch with.
He called Starr. "You still with Phillips?"
"More or less. She's next door on her computers."
"At least one of you is being watched. A female out by the pool and the registration clerk. Call Phillips. In exactly twelve minutes, I want you guys to bug out. Take everything. Try to wipe your prints. Don't get in your vehicles. Cross the street, go left, Red Lobster, get in the Jeep."
"What about the security video? Do you want Phillips to hack in and erase it?"
"No. I'll take care of it. I'll see you at the Jeep."
"Roger that."
Styles made his way back down toward the registration lobby. He walked back in, directly up to the desk.
"Yes, sir?" a well-built blond man in his early thirties asked. "How can I help you?"
"I have a question."
"Do my best to answer it."
"Who are you watching?"
"Excuse me?" he asked, his tone turning.
"Who are you watching? You're no damned clerk."
The smile disappeared. "Well, now I guess I'm watching you."
"Not for long."
The blond-haired man hopped over the service desk and approached Styles. "You're going to have to come with me."
Styles didn't reply. He merely turned slightly as the man approached him. Styles saw him move up on the balls of his feet. He saw the man's left knee bend ever so slightly. Kick to the chest. Then he sprang, foot striking out with fury to where Styles's chest had been an instant before. It caught only air, and in the split second that he withdrew his foot, Styles struck, a savage kick to the outside of the man's right knee, the leg holding his weight. The knee snapped sideways, sending the attacker to the ground. Styles was surprised he made little noise. The man reached behind his back, and Styles was on him. As the attacker's hand came out from behind his back holding a nine-millimeter Glock, Styles grabbed the man's right wrist with his right hand, twisted it hard in a counterclockwise direction, straightened the man's arm, and brought his left fist down through the side of the man's elbow, shattering that joint. The gun fell to the floor. Styles had driven the fight out of the man. Styles knelt down beside him and saw the hate pouring from his eyes. He'd been badly beaten and hated it, hated that more than the pain.
Styles asked him once more. "Nothing personal, but I've gotta know who you're watching. I won't ask you again."
"Fuck you," he said between clenched teeth.
Styles was caught in a dilemma. He remembered President Williams's directive: "No innocents will be hurt." He quickly searched the man and found his CIA identification. "You don't belong here. Sorry."
Grabbing the back of the man's head with his left hand and his lower jaw with his right hand, he violently snapped the man's neck. Styles picked him up, slung him over his shoulder, and carried him back into the office sitting him in the desk chair. He turned the chair to make it look as though the man was merely looking out the window. He saw the security equipment on a shelf mounted on the wall to the right of the desk. Styles walked over and pushed the button that ejected the DVD. He slipped it into his pocket. He noticed two flash drives plugged into the computer. He grabbed both of those. He was tempted to try to see if there was a backup on the computer, but he was worried about time. Phillips can deal with that. Before he left the office, he unplugged the entire system. Seeing some low-voltage wires running from a cabinet, he took his knife and cut them. Sure enough, a nice spark arced. So much for the battery backup. He was already on his cell phone calling J. C.
"As soon as Phillips gets there, have her run a check on that hotel's security system. I think I've got it, but see if she can get in to see if there's some kind of backup. I unplugged everything and cut the battery backup power, so I don't know if she can do that now or not, but it's a priority. I don't want any pictures of any of us in their system."
"Got it.
"I'll be there in three minutes."
"Waiting on you."
24
President Herbert Lamar was meeting with his chief of staff, Irving Vickers, who was disagreeing with his boss about Bernard Backersley.
"Sir, we have two monumental issues at hand. I don't know if the two are directly related, but we can be sure that in one form or another it will track back to the jihadists. We are at war, sir, and I think we need to give the CIA some wiggle room on their mandate, as long as they can keep their operations behind a curtain."
An exasperated President Lamar responded, "Irving, I don't entirely disagree with you, but if we knowingly allow Backersley free rein, and it's discovered, they will crucify us up on the Hill."
"What is the worst of two evils, sir? Getting heat from some senators or saving this country? Because that is what it comes down to. We have a biological agent that by all accounts will be released shortly, with everyone agreeing the Labor Day weekend would be the prime time. Sir, that's in three days. We need to do everything in our power to stop this, and right now, the question of legality isn't at the top of our concerns."
President Lamar was silent, but in his mind, he knew Vickers was right. "Get Backersley, Sanderson, Ragar, Rockford, Clayton, and Merritt here immediately."
Vickers was out of the Oval Office like a shot.
Herbert Lamar was born and raised in the Bible Belt. He was a God-fearing man, considered by most ultraconservative, and had been placed on the ticket for the Far Right's vote. He had not gotten along with his former president because of some fundamental differences in ideology. For the good of the party, they had kept those differences in check, at least from the public eye. Privately, they had downright disliked each other. Lamar now found himself in a position he never imagined. Confident in his ability, he strongly wished he was working with people of his own choosing. Right now, that was simply not possible. He had to play the hand he was dealt. He was coming to grips that he was going to have to make concessions, but that didn't mean he had to like it. This is going to be a very long weekend. God, help me get through this.
Styles quickly climbed into the back of the four-door Jeep Wrangler. The Jeep, with Christman driving, was moving before the door had closed. Quickly, he relayed what had happened.
Starr, sitting next to him, asked, "What made you decide to kill him?"
"No choice. He's trained. He would have given an accurate description of me. I remember what the Man told us: no innocents. He was CIA, illegally operating within our own borders. That is expressly against the law. For what it's worth, I didn't like it." He leaned up to Phillips riding in the front passenger seat. "Here," he said, placing three items in her hand---a recordable DVD and what he thought were two flash drives. "I took these from the security recording unit."
She looked at them closely. "This is a wireless connector. That means that the recording unit was integrated with the computer, which means that all the images from the security cameras will be stored in its hard drive, as well. This might be to our advantage. J. C., find someplace to park, quick."
Christman pulled into a strip mall.
She turned back to Starr and handed him one of her laptops. "Open it. On the desktop, you'll see 'cabin.' Left click that. When it opens, you will see a split screen, each with a transcript. On the left is Ellhad's cabin; on the right is the woman's. Read through it, and see if there is anything mentioning when he might be leaving. I need to concentrate here."
No one spoke.
Styles and Christman watched in amazement at the speed of Phillips's fingers flying back and forth between two open laptops, one sat in her lap, the other precariously perched on the Jeep's center console. Christman cautiously reached over and held it steady.
"Thanks," said Phillips. Six minutes went by, and no one spoke a word. Unconsciously, everyone was even breathing quietly. "T
here," she said triumphantly.
"What did you do?" asked Styles.
Phillips wiped her brow, as she was actually sweating. "First I hacked their computer and confirmed that no one had seen any of the footage. Then I transplanted Styles's face with one of a known terrorist. Then I had to match the skin tone of Styles's hands to match his new face. Now when they go back through the video, they'll think it was a terrorist who killed that CIA agent."
"What?" exclaimed Starr, looking up from the laptop Phillips had given him.
"Don't make me explain it again. Just read."
"There she goes, getting all bossy again."
"Wouldn't have to if you did as you were told."
"Like I said," he remarked, bringing a chuckle from everyone.
"We need to talk," pronounced Styles. "J. C. and I think that the CIA somehow traced the plane to DPO, and that's why they were sitting on you two," he explained, referencing Starr and Phillips.
"You're half-right," interjected Phillips. "It's me. They caught my photograph leaving it. That was the next thing I was going to bring up. The CIA is here because they are right behind us on Ryyaki Ali's ass. Protocol would be for them to photograph or video anyone arriving on public and private aircraft. I'm sure I came up on facial recognition. I was probably followed from the airport. It was only a matter of time. The CIA does have some talent, and they are relentless, particularly Backersley. He won't play by the rules. He'll tell Lamar whatever he thinks he wants to hear. I'm sure at some point he'll have to play with the FBI and Homeland, but until his ass is against a wall, he'll act on his own."
Starr asked, "Do you think he's put it together about this team?"
Phillips was quiet and then replied, "He probably has suspicions. He's the CIA. It's what they do, so that will probably be his first guess."
"So what do we do?" continued Starr.
"If we want to continue this, we have no choice. We have to go dark. I mean completely dark. I know you guys know what that means."