by Russ Snyder
"We've got company coming up from the cabins. My guess would be the CIA response team." She watched her electronic notebook that was receiving the security camera signals Styles had placed.
"How far out?"
"Two minutes, three at the most. I need ninety seconds for his computer to download on my portable hard drive. I need that flash drive left in place."
"I'll get it. Get to your observation point. Now."
Phillips took off at a run without even looking at him.
Styles whirled back to Ali's desk and waited for the red light to turn green. It seemed to take forever. The instant the color changed, the portable hard drive was his, and he was sprinting back from the lower level to the second floor and crawling out onto a balcony. He stayed low. He didn't want to have to fire on the CIA team if it could be avoided. He knew the basic CIA clearing technique would leave one man outside, figuring he would have two minutes, maybe three, before his own position would become precarious. The idea was to get away without being detected, which was not going to be easy. Depending on where the one agent set up outside, he was hoping to swing down and take the man out without killing him. After all, he'd already killed three, and though he had little use for them, he really wasn't trying to start a war with the CIA. The time the response team would take in clearing the remaining parts of the house should allow Phillips and him to get away. That was the plan, anyway. He clicked his comm set. "J. C., get your ass in the air to the extraction point. We've got company."
"On-site in twelve minutes."
"Roger."
Twenty-five seconds later, peering through a potted plant, Styles saw four figures approach. They know what they're doing. He saw that the first man was extremely large and immediately knew who it would be. Silently, the men approached the house, and he heard the front door open. He heard his comm set click, and then Phillips's voice came over quietly. "Minus one at the house."
Styles thought for a second. He clicked back at Phillips and said low, "Watch your six." So much for that idea. He was in a dilemma, and he knew it. Phillips came first. He clicked her again. "Climb a tree and stay rock steady, but be ready for anything." Receiving a double click in return meant she'd understood. Styles secured his AR-15 firmly against his back and got ready. This was not going to be fancy. Silently, he eased out and looked below. Sure enough, there was the agent four feet to his right. Styles eased over the top railing and lowered himself by grabbing the bottom rail, now hanging well over the edge of the massive porch, moving three feet to his left hand over hand, and then dropping the six feet to the ground, striking the agent at the base of his neck and rendering him unconscious. So far, so good. He rolled and quickly stood, unslinging his rifle in the process.
The noise of the front door opening sounded like a cannon shot in Styles's ears, and after dropping his AR, he was instantly moving toward it. Robert Randall walked through, coming face-to-face with Styles. His expression was of shock seeing his own agent on the ground and a man dressed in full camo moving in a blur toward him. Randall had shouldered his assault rifle, not expecting to find trouble in the yard, a mistake caused by arrogance.
"What the---" was all he managed to get out before what felt like a wrecking ball explode into his chest as Styles launched a vicious attack. Randall was kicked so hard that he bounced back off the wall next to the door and right back toward Styles. Most men would have collapsed under the assault, but Randall managed to stay on his feet. He was hurt, but not down. He immediately tried to circle Styles. His ego would not allow him to go for his weapons, a critical mistake. Randall took a step toward Styles and promptly received a brutal kick to the side of his knee. Styles, inwardly, couldn't help but be impressed. Randall threw a monster haymaker at Styles's head, which Styles narrowly avoided. A second punch by Randall, a body shot, was blocked by Styles, who then turned into his man and drove his elbow squarely into Randall's face, breaking his nose and the orbital bone in his left eye socket. This seemed to only enrage him more. He swung wildly at Styles's head, catching him in the shoulder enough to send Styles sideways two steps.
Strong.
Randall paused for a second to catch his breath, and that's when Styles moved to finish the fight. He started with another kick to the already injured knee and then instantly sprang into a front jump kick, catching Randall full under the jaw and causing him to bite his own tongue in half. Howling with rage, Randall still did not go down.
Fucking guy's a bull. Styles then drove two brutal punches into the man's broken nose, blinding him with his own tears. Finally, after a crushing punch to the bridge of the man's nose, he crumpled to the ground. Styles turned to dash across the road only to see a figure in black leveling an assault rifle at him. Just as he started to hurl himself to the ground in a desperate attempt to avoid the bullets he knew were about to spit at him, he saw the man's knee explode, bone shards and blood tearing out of his pants as the man fell to the ground screaming in agony. In three seconds, Styles, after grabbing his AR, was across the road and into the trees. Fifteen feet past the tree line, he could hear all hell breaking loose behind him. Six strides later, Phillips was at his side. He could see the grim look on her face. He only nodded at her as they both disappeared into the woods, bullets whistling about them.
President Lamar told Irving Vickers, "I want to split the responsibility of finding this toxin and the assassins into two groups. I'm convinced that everybody right now is trying to do too much. What are your thoughts?"
Vickers paused before answering, "I agree, but we need to have the right bunch on the right topic."
"I agree. Bring Laura Green in, and have her help you decide. She would have a better feel for whose strengths would better fit where than we probably do, and she wants to help."
"I would have suggested that myself, sir. I'll call her immediately."
As Vickers left the Oval Office, President Lamar was concerned. He couldn't help but feel that somehow the two issues at hand were connected, though no one had yet been able to connect any dots. He called A. J., his secretary. "Get me Coverley Merritt on the phone," he said. Two minutes later, his phone rang. "Merritt? Have you heard of any possible connection between the assassination of President Williams and this toxic agent?"
"Nothing solid, sir, but there are rumblings among some that there very well could be. Personally, I find it too coincidental."
"I feel likewise. Get with the directors, and be sure that they understand the importance that any correlation between the two must be found."
"I'm sure they already know that, sir, but I will remind them."
"Good."
President Lamar sat at his desk feeling a bit overwhelmed. He knew he had to make a televised address to the nation, but he wasn't sure exactly what to say. Everything he kept thinking sounded redundant. He also couldn't even hint at the bio issue. He called Irving Vickers.
"Get a speech prepared to address the nation on President Williams for me. I want to see a draft in four hours."
"Already been working on it, sir."
"Irving, what would I do without you?"
J. C. Christman was hurtling his rented helicopter to the designated landing spot as fast as it would go. He knew that thirty seconds could make the difference between a successful extraction of Styles and Phillips or a disaster. He keyed his comm. "One minute out."
"Roger that," came Styles's reply.
Fifty seconds later, the bird flared in for an emergency landing, with the skids just touching the ground, when the door flew open with Phillips and Styles bursting through.
"Go!" yelled Styles.
Christman had the copter back in the air before the shock absorbers in the landing gear had even rebounded. He was flying ten feet above the treetops with the throttle to the stop.
Phillips had made her way to the rear seat and was buckling in while Styles was strapping into the copilot's seat.
"Where to?" hollered Christman.
"Find Starr." Looking back at Phillips, Styles wasn't the least bit surprised to see she already had two laptops open.
She looked up at Styles. "Ali's security footage is uploading into this second laptop. It wasn't wired into his hard drive that we downloaded."
"How long will it take?"
"Depends on how much info we upload. I'm trying to get all I can. Could be ten minutes; could be an hour."
"Any chance that CIA team could screw that up?"
"No. They'll bring in an FBI tech forensics team, and that'll take a bit. Besides, if they try to remove that flash drive I stuck in, it will self-destruct and take out the computer's hard drive. When the upload is complete, it's all going to be history, anyway. We don't need the CIA getting in our way."
Styles nodded. "Where was the second computer for the security system? I didn't see it."
"On a shelf. You were busy interrogating Ali. I figured that's what it was, so I stuck an upload stick in it. Saved me the time of having to hack it."
"You mean that flash drive-looking thing?"
"Yeah."
Bernard Backersley was in his office glued to his large flat-screen monitor. He was watching events unfold in real time via a helmet cam of the raid on Ryyaki Ali's compound. Myra Banks, head of his cyber unit, was with him. They didn't speak once the assault began. When the suspected terrorists had been found dead, words were finally exchanged.
"What the hell is going on?" Backersley snapped to Banks and the agent wearing the helmet cam.
"We're not sure, sir. We're clearing the area."
"Looks like somebody beat us there," observed Banks, which drew a hard look from Backersley.
"Could Sanderson have sent in a team?" he asked, referencing the director of the FBI.
"Doubtful. I would have heard about it."
"You sure?"
"Absolutely. We've been monitoring all FBI communications," assured Myra Banks. "No mention of any tactical advance."
"Then who the hell killed those guys?"
"Bernie, I don't know any more than you."
Backersley hit his desk in frustration. "I don't like anybody interfering in something we've got our hands on."
Realizing his mood, she did not remind him of the fact that their action was completely illegal.
"Director," a voice was heard over the speaker. "We're coming up on the main house. So far, all hostiles found are down."
"Any idea of who's been there?"
"No, sir. I'll not be in vocal contact while we clear the house."
"Understood."
Not taking his eyes off the flat screen, Backersley asked, "Have you found out any more on Darlene Phillips?"
"No. We've confirmed she spends a lot of time away from home, as you already know, but I can't establish where. I've investigated the DPO inside out. I can dig so far, and then it's like hitting a wall."
Backersley turned and looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"Like I told you, by all appearances, it's strictly an intelligence-gathering operation, but as I've said before, I think there is more to it."
"What have you learned from Merritt?"
"Not a damned thing. Bernie, if there is another aspect of the DPO, I'm not sure that even he's aware of it. I've hacked his e-mail, his in-house communiqués, phone calls, and absolutely nothing comes up. I mean nothing."
"How could something be going on in his own agency and he not know of it?"
"You tell me. You're the king of working around the rules."
"And your point is?"
"There isn't one. President Williams set that up. It's possible, and quite highly probable, that if there is a tactical or operational aspect within the DPO, President Williams might have been running that himself. To me, that would make perfect sense."
Backersley nodded. "I see what you mean. Good catch."
Banks nodded at the screen, and they both began paying close attention as the main house of Ali's compound came into view.
31
T-Minus 3 Hours
Starr was about half a mile behind Rijah Ellhad's rented RV. They were traveling toward Lake Mead at a leisurely pace. Starr's earpiece crackled.
"I've got our cargo, and we are headed your way," Christman informed him.
"Roger that. We're on I-84 eastbound and probably headed to State Route 93. That goes straight into Vegas and Lake Mead. We're only going about sixty-five, and traffic is pretty heavy."
Styles broke in, "You're tracking device working okay?"
"Affirmative."
"Good. We're going to find some place to rendezvous so Phillips can join you. It'll be easier to work her computers from your rig than this copter."
"Copy. Let me know where you want me to pull off."
"We'll get ahead of you and scout out some truck stop where we can land, and get back with you."
"Roger that. You guys get what you need?"
"We think so. Confirmed some suspicions and got more intel. Phillips will bring you up to speed. We should close on you within the hour."
"Let me know."
Starr had unwittingly crept closer to the rig he was following and had just begun to drop back when he saw the turn signal activate. Ellhad was leaving the interstate and pulling into a large fuel stop with several retail stores within. Ellhad bypassed the fuel pumps and headed straight to a large Hess retail store. He parked in the specified parking for large vehicles, and with the woman accompanying him, he walked inside.
Starr pulled over in front of a Wendy's. Pit stop. Might as well go too. He hit the can quickly, washed his hands, and then grabbed two burgers and a large water to go. He'd eaten all but one of his breakfast sandwiches out of boredom. He was back in his Yukon and had finished one sandwich when he saw Ellhad and the woman reappear. They were immediately under way again.
"Hell, I never realized how damned boring following somebody could be," Starr muttered to himself. "This is getting on my nerves."
"Stop your whining," Styles said over the headset, laughing.
"Screw you," Starr snapped back, forgetting that everyone could hear what he'd just said.
"Maybe we could all sing songs," Christman suggested, bringing more laughter.
"One more crack and I shut off the headset."
"Don't be so touchy," joined Phillips.
"I'm not touchy, I'm bored. We're driving sixty, maybe sixty-five, and it's taking forever to get anywhere."
"Enjoy it while you can," directed Styles. "The shit'll hit the fan soon enough."
"Guess you're right."
Christman interrupted, "I gotta call in the flight plan change."
While Christman was talking to flight control, Styles turned in his seat and asked Phillips, "You find anything?"
"Yeah. One of the guys on the CIA team is wearing a helmet cam and providing a live feed back to Langley, probably Backersley."
"Did they get us on camera?" Styles questioned with concern.
"No, I don't think so. I'm following four different programs at once here, but it appears that when we were engaged outside, the cameraman was in the house. Backersley found out about six minutes after we hit them. From the conversation I've heard, they don't have any clue who we are."
Christman broke in. "We're all cleared for Lake Mead. We've got the copter for as long as we need it."
Phillips interjected, "Backersley just found out about his guys we took out. He is not happy."
Bernard Backersley slammed the top of his desk. "What the hell happened?" He saw two of his agents on the ground. One was screaming with pain, while the other was unconscious.
"Don't know, sir," the agent in the field reported. "We've got one man shot through the knee, from the rear, and Team Leader Randall is out cold.
No wounds visible, other than he looks like he got the living hell beat out of him."
"Hell beat out of him? Randall is a fucking animal! Who could do that?" screamed Backersley.
"Don't know, sir. We heard one shot and came out of the house. This is what we found. We are already in pursuit through the woods. One of our agents got a glimpse of someone running away. No contact as of yet."
"Keep me updated constantly." Backersley shut off the monitor. Turning to Myra Banks, he fumed, "Find out who the fuck was in ahead of us. I want answers now!"
T-Minus 2 Hours
After pulling ahead and scouting the interstate ahead, Christman, via the comm set, said to Starr, "Hey, about ten miles ahead of you, there is an off-ramp. Get off and take a right. About a mile ahead, there is a tree line with a large field next to the road. We can land there without drawing too much attention. Phillips and Styles are going to join you while I return and get the jet. Then I'll figure out how join you when I get back."
"Roger that, J. C."
"We'll be on the ground in ten minutes."
Fourteen minutes later, Starr came wheeling in, finding Styles and Phillips standing out by the road. Four large duffel bags were with them. Styles turned and signaled Christman, who immediately took off. Starr pulled up next to them, immediately opened the trunk, and jumped out and helped load the duffel bags. Then Styles jumped into the front passenger seat, with Phillips in the back. Before Styles got his door closed and seat belt latched, Phillips had three laptops open with fingers flying.
Starr spun the sedan around and sped back toward the interstate.
"I'm glad you got a big sedan; I was worried the gear wouldn't fit. How far ahead of us is he?" Styles asked. Calculating in his mind, Starr answered, "Maybe four miles, five at the most."
"Don't get pulled over for speeding. I don't want to explain the duffel bags."
"Under control, Marv."
Turning back to Phillips, Styles asked, "You onto anything?"
"Nothing threatening. Langley is trying to find out from the FAA who took off from the woods we just left. They don't appear to be able to identify the aircraft; J. C. was doing some of his transponder magic. Must've worked, whatever it was."