She nodded, the warmth of his hand welcome in the still chilled cabin. And she found it created a warmth that spread throughout her.
“I think someone is going to try to assassinate your President.”
Kane turned and shoved the throttle to full.
Capitally Capitol Catering, Taylor Street NE, Washington, DC
Antonio Cruz hung up the phone, his face pale, sweat beaded on his forehead. He stared down at the box of condiments that had just been delivered by courier, confused. The computer modified voice on the other end of the call had been clear—they were watching his every move, and unless he put this box of condiments in with the morning delivery, his family would be killed.
Which meant he had no choice. He knew the condiments must be poisoned, but he was also sure that everything brought into their destination would be tested.
Security will catch it for sure!
All he wanted was his family back, safe and sound. He had no doubt he had just been “drafted”, as the bastard had put it, into the insanity that had been gripping his country for almost two weeks now. The death toll was approaching ten thousand, and the damned government was doing nothing about it. The solution was obvious. Lock up every damned Muslim in the country, then start deporting them back to whatever shithole they had come from originally.
He didn’t care that most were innocent. Innocent people didn’t sit quietly by while atrocities were committed in the name of their so called “religion of peace”. If they were truly opposed to the actions of the apparent fringe, then they should be up in arms protesting their deeds. Instead they remained silent.
Conspicuously silent.
And our President still does nothing.
He looked at the condiments.
Perhaps he should be given some of this.
He hated himself for thinking that the death of his President might be a good thing. After all, he had been a disappointment in so many ways, and his foreign policy initiatives were an embarrassment, so much so that America was now considered indecisive enough that terrorists were willing to attack so brazenly and so openly.
They don’t fear us anymore.
The radio he had been listening to before the phone call said the death toll among Muslims from vigilante attacks was now in the hundreds, and he had little sympathy for them. When he spoke of it with friends, especially those who disagreed with the reprisals, he pointed out that not a single Muslim woman or child had been targeted—only healthy, young men. Not so with their victims. Men, women, children, the elderly. All were fodder for their violence.
He rose, grabbing the box, and carried it out into the warehouse. He nodded to the driver of the refrigerated truck idling for the priority delivery. “Last minute addition,” he said, showing the contents with a grin. “Somebody is jonesing for some sandwiches, me thinks.”
The driver laughed, taking the box and shoving it in the back. He closed the doors and climbed in the cab as a convoy of several vehicles pulled away, a security vehicle leading the way, one trailing.
For nothing could interfere with the morning fresh food delivery to the White House.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Chris Leroux yawned. He took a sip from his Red Bull, his third since he had begun this all-nighter, the gray and blue mini-cans, along with a box of Krispy Kreme’s fueling him, he only having given into sleep once, and that for a mere thirty minutes until his phone’s alarm blared at him to wake up. He knew Sherrie would give him shit for falling off the Red Bull wagon, but he figured she’d forgive him since it was because of her that he had needed them. If she were dead, it wouldn’t matter, and he’d give anything for her to give him shit for breaking his promise.
I just want to hear her voice one more time.
Tears filled his eyes and he wiped them away as he looked at the screen. A smile spread slowly across his face as he saw the status message of his attack on Fort Myer’s network.
Success!
He was in. He had initiated an attack on several different Department of Defense installations, making them look like they were originating from China, meaning a fairly normal occurrence, then snuck in over the secure hard lines only government agencies shared, installing a backdoor that he could now access through the Internet. Any breach, if discovered, he hoped would be blamed on the brute force attack they had been defending against.
And now with the attacks over, their network connections were back up, and his worm had just dialed home.
He immediately began quietly hunting to see what he had access to. It took several hours and another can of Red Bull before he had catalogued their network structure and devices, finally stumbling upon a list of validated Internet Protocol addresses for internal security cameras.
With a grin he began to pull up the feeds to each one, showing a grid of a dozen on one of his screens while he tried to locate where the archival footage was being stored on the network.
A quarter hour had the data located as he flipped to another set of camera views.
Main gate!
The camera footage was stored in a directory structure that matched the IP addresses, then were broken down by date and hour to manage file sizes. He found the footage for when he estimated Sherrie would have been at the main gate and pulled it up, fast forwarding until almost the end before he saw a car that matched the description of her rental.
He zoomed in and matched the plate numbers.
He could barely see her face through the window as she handed over ID to one of the MP’s manning the gate, he imagining he could recognize her bare wrist even from here, every inch of her body deliciously familiar to him.
Unfortunately the truth was he couldn’t be sure it was her, but he had to assume it was. The date and time matched when she should have arrived, the car matched, and her general features obscured by the windshield and angle of this particular camera matched.
And he could think of no reason why anyone would try to intervene at this point regardless.
The car pulled away and out of sight. A little more searching and he found several more cameras and was able to trace her to the main headquarters, this time a camera showing her clear enough that he had no doubt it was his beloved Sherrie. As he spliced each segment of footage, moving it to his own local server, he noted the timeline of her movements. There were no cameras that he could find inside the HQ beyond the main security area that showed her being led through a door and out of sight, he assumed to Colonel Booker’s office.
He forwarded through the footage and not even fifteen minutes later saw her reappear, this time with Booker in the lead, Leroux recognizing him from the file he had read earlier. They exited the building and climbed into a Humvee, the Colonel driving. Leroux searched more camera feeds and found two more showing the same Humvee heading deeper into the base then entering a large warehouse, the doors closing behind them.
Leroux’s heart was already racing as he watched his girlfriend disappear.
Why had they gone there?
It made no sense. She was there to ask about a dead man under the guise of him having been nominated for a Medal of Honor. Why would she head deeper into the base and into this warehouse?
The doors began to open and the Humvee exited, the tags matching and the passenger seat occupied by Sherrie. He traced it back to the HQ where another soldier, not Booker, and Sherrie exited the vehicle, salutes were exchanged, and Sherrie took the rental vehicle to the main gate. She handed something to the MP who then saluted and ordered the gate open. The vehicle left with Sherrie at the wheel and was soon out of sight.
He hit pause, sitting back, his heart sinking.
Something twigged.
He wasn’t sure what it was, all he was sure of was that there was something his subconscious had noticed that wasn’t right.
Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking.
No, he was certain there was something. His gut told him so, and he had learned to trust his gut over the years of doing
this job. Something was wrong, he just hadn’t noticed it yet. He reversed the video and watched the feeds from the warehouse to the main gate again, over and over, trying to find what it was, each time the frustration level rising as adrenaline, despair and a Red Bull infused sugar and caffeine rush competed for his attention.
He snapped his fingers, pointing at the screen, turning to the empty room as if to show someone, anyone, that he wasn’t crazy.
But he was alone.
And certain that Sherrie was alive.
He downloaded the file to a memory stick and headed for Director Morrison’s office with the evidence he needed to prove Sherrie was still alive, and most likely still on the base. The base that claimed she had left it hours ago.
But he knew that was a lie.
For the woman who had stuck her left hand out the window to return something to the Military Police officer had a watch on that wrist. A watch that Leroux knew his Sherrie always wore on her right wrist, and a watch that hadn’t been there when she first checked in at the gate.
Sherrie was alive, and someone wanted them to think she was dead.
Unknown Location
Sherrie White woke with a start, a searing pain burning her right cheek, the aftermath of a backhand from her interrogator ringing through her body. She gasped, then sucked in air, blood and saliva mixed, going down the wrong tube causing her to cough. Recovered, she looked up at the man delivering the beating.
And spat on his shiny shoes.
“My little sister hits harder than that.”
She was rewarded with a punch to her midriff that had her doubled over, her handcuffed wrists burning in protest as her body weight pulled at them.
It was worth it.
She had been trained at The Farm to withstand torture techniques, including receiving a pretty severe beating over many hours on several occasions. Sometimes when you were prepared for it; sometimes when you weren’t. The worst was the first time when she had been hauled out of her bed in the middle of the night, blindfolded and taken in silence to some small room then subjected to various forms of interrogation for two days. Sleep deprivation, bright lights, loud death metal, waterboarding and a good number of punches were administered, along with a few good stun guns to the neck and chest.
But she had endured, and in the end when finally released, she had made it a point to blare death metal from her car dash every time she drove by the building where it had taken place, waving with a smile and a middle finger salute.
They had been harder on her the next time.
But it had prepared her for this.
Beat me all you want, bitch, you’ll never break me.
“Why are you asking about Captain Lewis?”
It was Booker’s voice this time. It had begun with someone else yesterday evening, and continued all through the night, but now it was the big cheese himself. The four people she had been exposed to in the small room she was held in were all dressed in black, none wearing any type of insignia, making her think private security.
At least that might mean whatever is going on here doesn’t involve too many military personnel.
But Booker was a full-bird Colonel, which meant at least one member of the military was involved, and with what happened to the F-35, she had to assume more.
What are you up to?
From the intel Chris had shared it appeared no money was exchanged for the delivery, instead a favor had been asked and granted.
Not to interfere.
Interfere with what?
The only thing she was aware of was the constant terrorist attacks they were under, but that was being orchestrated by Islamic fundamentalist nutbars, not Colonel Booker and some private security.
Another smack against the face, this time the hand coming to rest on her cheek, the thumb shoved into her mouth as the man gripped the skin and pulled, her split lips crying out in protest.
She felt her eyes tear, but she didn’t care. Pain was pain and you reacted to it the way you needed to. Cry out, scream, moan, it didn’t matter. Whatever release you needed to get through the torture without using actual words.
“You’ll tell me what I need to know sooner or later, Captain.” Booker stepped into sight, the only light a large, round one glaring into her eyes. She blinked as he cast a shadow over her face, the brief respite welcome. “But I doubt you’re even in the army.”
She remained silent, and for the first time noticed the camera perched up in the corner, a single red light indicating it was on.
Someone was watching, somewhere.
Maybe they’ll have a conscience and put an end to this.
The White House, Washington, DC
Maxwell Logan fist bumped the delivery guy, Jim, before lifting a box of condiments from the back of the catering truck as others from the kitchen staff swarmed the rear, an efficient line formed to unload and store the massive amount of food the White House needed each day.
“How they hangin’, Max?” asked the driver as he supervised the chain gang.
“Can’t complain.”
“Cuz’ nobody’ll listen, eh?”
“Not even my wife!”
Jim roared with laughter, smacking Logan on the back as he walked away with the box. “See you tomorrow, Jim.”
“Same bat time, same bat channel!” Another roar of laughter from Jim.
Nice guy.
Logan had known Jim for years. The White House liked routine. They might mix up schedules and routes, but they liked to see the same faces. New guys made Secret Service agents like him nervous, but Jim was as familiar as you could get.
He turned, pushing the door open with his back, the box of condiments a curious mix of the mundane and hard to find.
Worcestershire sauce?
He had heard of Worshter sauce, or something like that, but Worcestershire? He couldn’t even pronounce it.
And if I can’t pronounce it, I ain’t eatin’ it!
He passed through the kitchen and another set of doors then approached the men’s room, stopping in front of the doors and looking about for a place to put the box then shrugged at the camera at the end of the hall. Entering the bathroom he saw he was alone and went to the far handicapped stall, it the largest available.
Locking the door, he rested the box on the toilet seat and quickly opened all the jars and bottles then carefully pulled out the sealed plastic baggies inside, using his fingers like squeegees to return as much of the mayonnaise and mustard among other things into their containers. He then placed each bag on the top of the toilet tank.
He soon had all the parts he was told to look for and had made a minimal mess. Resealing the jars, he used toilet paper to clean them up then made sure the box was as he had found it. He opened each baggy then wiped his hands clean. Next he carefully removed each piece of plastic from the open bags, lining them up on the toilet tank.
He listened.
Still alone.
He took the box out and placed it on the counter, stuffing the baggies into the trash after rinsing them off as best he could. He then thoroughly washed and dried his hands, returning to the stall and locking the door once again.
It took less than two minutes to reassemble the weapon, the only piece not provided in the delivery the firing pin. He removed his weapon and upturned his holster, the spare pin he had brought from home falling out into his cupped hand. He inserted the critical piece then snapped the final few pieces together.
Amazing!
He had of course been briefed on these new printed plastic weapons, but he had never actually held one. It was remarkably light, and his trained eye knew all the essentials were in place. He just couldn’t see it firing successfully, though that wasn’t his job. He had his instructions, and only three things remained.
He removed his shoe, popped the heel out and removed six bullets, the shoes sitting on his doorstep last night when he got home. He loaded the gun, a revolver—which he found even more amazing but had been briefed on seve
ral months before after the arrest of a Japanese professor who had designed and printed one, then shared the plans.
The bathroom door opened and he felt his heart race with a surge of adrenaline. Controlling his breathing, he stuffed the gun in his pocket then quickly wiped everything down, flushing the toilet. He stepped out and saw one of the kitchen staff using the urinal.
Nods were exchanged and Logan washed his hands, drying them with a paper towel. He grabbed the box, carrying it tilted so the staff member couldn’t see what was inside.
Within minutes the box was sitting in the kitchen and he was on the way to fulfil his second last instruction, the image of the man he was supposed to supply the weapon to burned into his memory.
Stan Reese.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
It had been another all-nighter and Chris Leroux was crashing. Red Bull and snacks from the vending machine were no longer able to fuel him, and after witnessing his hand shake so badly he couldn’t open the last can of his forbidden caffeine and sugar infused drink, he had pushed it aside.
And now his eyes were drooping beyond his control. If he had toothpicks he would try shoving them in place to keep his eyelids open, but he knew he had to rest, even if just for a few hours.
Yet he couldn’t stop. He knew Sherrie was on the base somewhere, and he also knew they might discover his hack at any moment, locking him out perhaps permanently. He had sent the footage he had gathered to Director Morrison who had only replied with, “Keep digging.” Leroux had hoped for a major invasion of the base instead, but had to settle for his boss’ continued support into his technically illegal activities.
And during it all the bulletins had kept arriving in his email. Another four attacks had been carried out. An NYU campus had been targeted, its common area obliterated with hundreds dead or wounded. An oil pipeline in the mid-west was now in flames, LAX had been hit at security with hundreds in line, and a rock festival had also been hit. Four hundred dead, nearly a thousand wounded by the blast and in the panic as fifty thousand people fled.
Death to America (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #4) Page 10