by Russ Snyder
"So when do we go in?" asked Phillips.
"I'm going later tonight to plant some more cameras. We'll go in tomorrow after Ellhad leaves. Do you have access to their camera feeds in the field?"
"Styles, please."
"Sorry, I withdraw the question."
"You are forgiven."
"Thank you. I'm going to go for a run. When I get back, we'll get some dinner. That okay?"
"Fine," they said in unison.
Phillips left to go back to what originally had been J. C.'s room, wearing her hair up under a ball cap.
Christman went back to study the laptop that he'd been watching earlier for any signs of further conversation.
Styles changed clothes. Rather than his usual running attire, he changed into sweats, including a hooded top. He tied it in place and went out the door looking like a boxer in training. He stretched and then started out along the road. Twenty-five minutes later, he was within sight of the Holiday Inn. The motel was still closed to the public, although the action had died down. Styles ran through the parking area as though he'd done it a thousand times before.
"Hey, where do you think you're going?" shouted someone.
Styles turned and yelled back, "Just cutting through here like I always do!"
"Not tonight. Don't you see the crime tape? It doesn't say, 'Welcome.' Now turn around."
"What happened?"
"Read the fucking papers. Now move along."
"Sure, Officer; didn't mean any harm." Styles withdrew and headed back to the Comfort Inn.
Arriving back at the room, Christman was absent. Styles grabbed a quick shower and had just finished changing back into his familiar clothing of choice: jeans, sweatshirt, and athletic shoes. He was still sporting his three-day growth on his face---something Starr pointed out at every opportunity.
"What's up?" he greeted Christman.
"Been over with Phillips. I was wondering who the CIA was watching over at the Quality Suites since we're here, and they were at the Holiday Inn."
"Funny you should mention that, J. C. I was thinking the same thing running back here. I went by there just to check it out. Nothing new. Then I got thinking ..."
"Well, Phillips says she knows why. She booked a room there under D. Phillips. Guess that got the CIA's attention. I think she was just screwing with them. I have a feeling she knew they were onto her, as far as DPO goes, anyway."
Styles lay down on the floor, hooked his feet under the bed, and started doing sit-ups. "You know, J. C., now with the president gone, we're going to have to make some hard decisions. It's not a problem for me, and I know how I can square it with my dad."
"How, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Not at all. I'm just going to lay the cards on the table about everything. Then I'm going to tell him he has to go dark too. That way we can still have a relationship, and no one will be able to find him to use him against me."
"How would they find that out---about you, I mean?"
"Don't know that anyone would, but plan for the worst. That's what's kept me alive all these years." He paused doing his sit-ups for a moment to look at J. C. "I've been through some really deep shit, and that's how I got through it: always plan for the worst."
The practiced sequential knock sounded from the door. J. C. opened it, and Phillips came walking in with four bags. "Beef stew and biscuits from Cracker Barrel. I thought we could use a change."
"Thanks, D," said Styles.
Phillips grinned as she spread the food around the table. "Everybody has two orders; they aren't real big. Don't worry, J. C. I got extra biscuits."
"I was concerned," he joked.
While they were eating, Styles asked Phillips, "So do you think the CIA was there specifically to watch you?"
"No, two birds with one stone. They're onto Ryyaki Ali, just like I said. So is the FBI. I guess J. C. told you about the room I booked. Funny how such a simple trick can fool those agencies. It just confirmed what I strongly suspected."
"How deep are you being investigated?" asked Christman.
"Myra Banks would love to know what I had for breakfast."
T-Minus 22 Hours
Styles's phone rang, and it was Starr. "I'm back. Anybody need anything?"
"No, we're set. Grab yourself some takeout if you're hungry and get back to the Comfort Inn. You're bunking with J. C. and me in my room. Phillips is in yours.
"Gotcha," he said and hung up.
"Flyboy back okay?" Christman asked.
"Yeah, he's on his way back here." He continued, "Phillips, you've been unusually quiet. Something on your mind?"
"A lot, actually. As much as I've been searching, I haven't been able to gather much new information, at least not as quickly as I expected. This issue with Myra Banks is starting to piss me off. If Backersley spent the time working what's important rather than what feeds his damned ego, he'd get more done."
Styles got up from the table and sat down across from her. As usual, she was sitting on a sofa with three laptops open in front of her.
"Talk to me."
She sighed. "Backersley is going to be a problem. He's got Banks running every search on me possible: phone records, credit cards, bank accounts, probably the library. She's even hacked the Interstate Highway System checking for my E-ZPass cards. She's the one who got my photo at the Portland airport, possibly that hunting store, and at the car rental center. They have cameras there, and I didn't see them. I'm really pissed I didn't pick up on that. I was sloppy, and sloppy could get us all killed."
"It could have been any one of us at that counter. Don't beat yourself up over it."
"But it wasn't; it was me, and I'm supposed to think about that shit. That's my job."
"No. Your main job is gathering intel. You were picked for a reason, because the president thought you were the best person for this job. He was right. That is the only thing you need to keep in your head. Like I've said, we all have a specific job within this team, though I'll be damned if I can figure out Starr's." That brought some much-needed laughter. "We all need to keep in mind that at any time, shit happens. How all of us remain focused determines how we deal with it," Styles continued. "Look, as we go forward, all our roles will continue to expand to a degree, but we all will always have our primary responsibility. Hell, Starr just flew our plane. You'll be in the field. J. C.'s helping on the computers. I'm even cooking. Darlene, please, let it go."
"You're right. I have been kicking myself, and it's been affecting my focus. I've set a trap for her. I know one more place she will eventually get to, and when she does, she'll know she bit off more than she can chew."
"Phillips, you're not going to blow up Langley or anything, are you?" Starr asked.
"Relax, no. But I am going to send Ms. Banks a very strong message, a very strong personal message. It should stop her from any more searching, but if it doesn't, well, she'll only have herself to blame for what will follow. Guys, I'd really like to leave it at that."
"That's fine by me. You okay with that?" Styles questioned.
"Okay with what?" Christman replied innocently.
"Thanks."
Styles asked, "J. C., get me those video bugs and a GPS transmitter. I'm going to place that in the clearing where I want you to land the copter if we need you. I was going to show you this afternoon, but that's all down the tubes. Make sure everybody has their comm sets on. Tomorrow is going to be a hell of a day, so get some rest. I won't be gone very long, a few hours at most. This is a get-in, get-out deal."
It was just after nine when Styles found himself back in the same place as the previous evening. He'd had no problem remembering where the security devices were hidden. He was just inside the tree line with the cabins to his right. He carefully made his way to a tree he'd spotted where the lights for the parking area would not cause a g
lare on the camera lens. He attached one of the video cameras, which featured both wide-angle and zoom capability. Looking hard at the rooftops, he saw guards positioned as previously. The one closest to him was paying more attention to the back of the cabins. Odd. The second guard was on the far end. He could see the glow of the cigarette he was smoking. Styles paused and carefully smelled the air. Despite the different fragrances that the woods offered, he could make out the odor of the tobacco. They're upwind. That was good not only for scent but noise, as well. Again he was dressed head to foot in full camo, including face paint on his face and hands. The BMW that he was certain Ellhad had left in the night before was parked in the third parking spot from his position. To its right sat a pickup truck and a four-wheel-drive dually pickup. That will be the tow vehicle. Only the cabin at the far end had lights on. He calculated his odds as very strong that he could make it to the truck to plant a transmitter on the large truck. He made his way along the tree line until he was at the most advantageous point of attack. He estimated he was eighty feet from the truck. One place, just about middistance, was going to be the most dangerous. It was the area that was bathed in the most light by the streetlamps. He got down and started to belly-crawl. He would advance a body length at a time and then pause and repeat the process. He went through the lighted area nonstop. A few seconds later, he found himself at the rear of the target. He crawled underneath and affixed the transmitter. This was a strong unit with a range of just over one hundred miles. This will save Starr some hassle.
Suddenly, a door opened, and Styles froze. The cabin up at the end with the lights on had an individual walking out of the door. He lit a cigarette and continued walking toward Styles, in front of the parked vehicles. A second man emerged and walked around the far end of the last cabin. Fucking guard change. The man on the roof to Styles's right moved off the platform and started down the ladder. The two engaged in a short conversation before the new arrival went back up the ladder. The second guard went into the cabin directly in front of Styles. Lights came on. Shit. Seconds later, the man who had been on the far end of the roof came walking toward Styles. He entered the cabin just to Styles's left. Lights came on. Styles had no choice but to lie and wait under the truck. The front windows of both cabins did not have any curtains or blinds drawn, and light was pouring out. It was too risky for him to move. He waited. Within ten minutes, the lights in the cabin directly in front of him were turned off. One down. Unfortunately, the lights in the cabin to Styles's left remained on. Fifteen minutes went by, and nothing changed. Styles had not seen any movement from the cabin. He studied the area directly behind him. There was a large clump of bushes sixty feet away at his five o'clock. After waiting another five minutes, he decided to go for it. The ultimate destination was the main house to place surveillance cameras. Silent as a cat, he belly-crawled backward, five feet at a time. Still nothing changed. He kept going, finally reaching the shrubs. Now all he had was ten feet to the paved drive and the tree line ten feet past that, and he was on his way. So far, so good.
Undetected, he arrived at the main house. He secured the first camera, much more advanced than the ones he'd had the previous evening, capturing the front door, a second to capture the driveway out to the main road, and a third and a fourth to capture the front and sides of the house. Satisfied, he began the trip back to his Jeep. He was only fifteen feet back into the trees when the front door of the house opened. Styles saw a man he thought was Ryyaki Ali. The second man was unknown. They were speaking in Arabic. While not fluent, Styles had picked up enough to make most of the conversation out. The blood in his veins froze when he heard a word that translated to assassination.
He crawled back as close as he dared. The two men continued speaking quietly. He was not able to pick up much more of the conversation. One name was overheard: Nazir al-Hadid.
Six minutes later, the second man started walking toward the cabins, while the man Styles was sure to be Ryyaki Ali went back inside. Twenty seconds later, the lights in the stately mansion began to darken, and Styles was making his way behind the tree line, headed for his Jeep.
Less than two minutes later, the familiar odor of cigarette smoke alerted Styles. Thankfully, there were many pine trees in these woods, which meant pine needles on the ground, making it easier to be quiet. He got a fix on the location from the wind direction and started scoping the area with his night goggles. It took him less than twenty seconds to locate the source. Another guard on a platform built into a tree. He was surprised. How did I get through before and not see one of these? Then he realized that he was at least two hundred feet to his right from where he'd come through before. After checking for the pressure plates, he'd become complacent, which was not like him. Mentally, he slapped himself on the back of his head. He studied the man carefully, coming to the conclusion that he was not wearing night-vision gear, at least not for the moment. He slowly eased off to his left, being careful to keep trees or shrubs between him and the man on the platform. In less than five minutes, he was comfortable he was out of any danger of the man spotting or hearing him. Then the lights came on.
Styles didn't know how, but he'd triggered something that caused lights that were secured to the very base of trees that illuminated upward, virtually lighting up the whole area. He heard men yelling. He was on the fringe of the area that was lit, so he did the unexpected: he retreated back toward the main house. With his silenced Beretta in hand, he walked as briskly as possible without sounding like a herd of deer. He zigzagged from large tree to large tree, constantly keeping aware of the direction voices were coming from. He was virtually surrounded. He could now make out voices coming up from the cabins. He weighed his options and decided on doing the unexpected. Rather than run away from them, he would advance directly at them. Shots rang out, but he heard no bullets whizzing through the trees near him. He continued his backward retreat. He froze and got down on the ground. Two guards were coming straight at him, not more than fifty feet away. He remained motionless. Suddenly, the area he was in lit up. The two guards had triggered what he now surmised was a battery-powered light system. If he stood up, he would be seen. Shit!
Frozen to the ground, the guards passed him by less than ten feet. As soon as they were thirty feet behind him, he stood up in a crouch and started to move. Suddenly, a searing pain shot through his right calf, followed by the loud crack of a gunshot. A guard on a tree platform had spotted him. Now he had no choice; he had to run. Continuing his zigzag pattern, he tried to keep trees between where he thought the gunshot had come from and himself. He had no intention of getting into a firefight at the moment. Escape was the only thing on his mind. Three more gunshots followed, and he heard the bullets crashing through the branches just above him. He kept going. His calf was burning like hell, but he wasn't having any difficulty in moving, so he guessed it was merely a flesh wound. On he went.
Styles was still making his way back to his Jeep when again he froze. Now that he was wearing his night-vision goggles as a precaution, the flare of a match lighting a cigarette up ahead in the trees was the equivalent of a strong flashlight being shown in his eyes. The bright mini-explosion calmed down, and he could see another guard perched approximately fifteen feet off the ground, his AK-47 held at the ready. This time he could determine it was a hunter's deer stand, an aluminum unit that could be easily transported and set up. These guys were not here last night---has to be the toxin! As before, he eased back and around this new threat. He skirted past on his highest mental alert. No doubt Ryyaki Ali had stationed security in the woods surrounding the property. The only question was how many? Silently, he continued his trek back to his Jeep. He did not run across any more sentries. The moon had come out from behind the clouds and was now shining quite brightly. Not quite full, it still lit the area up well enough that Styles comfortably discarded the night goggles. He reached the tree line and could see his Jeep less than a hundred feet to his left. Still cautious, he stayed just inside t
he woods until he was opposite his Jeep. He removed the small pack he was wearing that contained his gear. He walked up and opened the driver's door, intending on tossing the pack onto the passenger's seat. What he got was a gun barrel thrust in his face.
Styles put his hands out to his side and backed up two steps with the man dressed all in black following him, the gun barrel never wavering from his face. The two men didn't speak.
A second man came up from behind the Jeep. He appraised the man in front of him, dressed in full camo gear, including face paint, being held at gunpoint by his partner.
"Just who the fuck are you?"
Silence.
"I asked you a question."
Silence.
The second man nodded at the man holding the gun, who lashed out with his pistol and cracked Styles across the forehead. Styles flinched, but nothing more. Blood began running slowly down the right side of his face. Still he said nothing.
"Hard-ass, huh? Okay, I'll ask once more, and either you answer, or you lose a kneecap. Now who in the hell are you?"
Silence. Once again the second man nodded to the man holding the gun on Styles. The instant the gun started to move downward, Styles jerked to his right, reached out, and snatched the gun right out of the hand of the man holding it. He did not want the gun to go off. The gunshot would be as loud as a cannon in the still woods, and it was certain the guards in the woods would hear it. As the gun cleared the man's hand, Styles stepped up and punched the man viciously, directly in the throat, killing him. The second man had made a horrible mistake by not having a gun trained on Styles. As he was trying to draw his weapon, Styles delivered a hard palm strike to the man's chest, just below his heart, knocking all the breath out of him. Styles wanted him alive. The man fell to the ground gasping for air. Styles did a quick search and found some wire tie cuffs in his back pocket, and he secured the man's arms together by his hands behind his back. He quickly scanned the area and saw no sign of a vehicle. He went back to his Jeep, opened his small pack, and removed a roll of Gorilla tape. He ripped off an eight-inch piece, put the roll back, and walked back to his captive. He firmly placed the tape over the man's mouth, making it even harder for him to try to breathe.