Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel

by Miller, Randall H

  “I’m on my way,” Mark reported. “Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I should be there in less than an hour. Do you still have eyes on the objective?”

  “Yes,” Kenny answered. “For now at least. I have no reason to think we’ve been compromised, but that can’t go on forever. Eventually, either the true owners of the drone will discover they’ve lost control of it or it’ll run out of gas. I’d prefer to give it back before either of those things happens.”

  “That makes two of us. As soon as I get close to the cabin, you can send it home. Have you seen anything new?”

  “Not really. There’s some light spilling out of a few of the windows that wasn’t there before, but I don’t know if that tells us much.” Kenny stated.

  Mark drifted from the center of the three-lane highway to the far left to pass the only car within sight of him. “It might. If he thought he might have been followed or was being watched, he would keep the place buttoned up tight. If he just opened the windows, that might mean he’s less worried so he’s getting comfortable. If that’s the case, let’s hope it continues. In this game, the line between comfortable and sloppy is very thin. And you only have to be sloppy once to get killed. Keep watching and take a quick look at the surrounding area if you can. I’d prefer not to bump into anybody during my approach.”

  “Will do.”

  Mark took a deep breath and continued. “Listen, I appreciate everything you’ve done so far, Kenny. I’m impressed. You’re a pro. But even if we do everything right, there’s always a chance that this thing goes south and we both end up with a lot to answer for. My boss has already had to save my ass once this week. I’m not so sure even he could do it a second time.”

  “It’s a little late for either of us to back out, Mark. Are you saying you’re screwed if we get caught? Join the crowd! My only friends are virtual and anonymous. And I doubt the authorities would be nice enough to provide me with an encrypted Internet connection to contact them for help anyway. I don’t have any real friends. I’m just doing this because if we don’t stop this guy, innocent people will die. What’s his next target? A school? A mall? A day care center? No way can we let that happen. Essentially we’re both doing the wrong things for the right reasons, if that makes any sense.”

  “It does. And it pretty accurately describes much of my career the last few years,” answered Mark. “Listen closely for a minute, okay? If things do go to shit and you end up in somebody’s custody, I have one piece of advice: don’t say anything. Not a word, okay?”

  “Go on,” said Kenny.

  “Don’t tell them anything. Don’t answer any questions. I won’t let you hang out to dry, but you have to trust me to take care of it. They’ll try to trick you. They’ll lie to you. They’ll rough you up just enough to scare the shit out of you and maybe more. They’ll make horrifying threats and offer bullshit deals to get you to talk. Don’t do it. Just keep your mouth shut and stay strong. I will not abandon you. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I understand.” Kenny answered. “But how the hell are you going to help me when you just said you don’t think you can count on your boss to save you? That doesn’t make any sense, Mark.”

  “Because there’s someone else I might be able to count on. Let’s just call it a higher power. It’s not necessarily a ‘get out of jail free’ card, but it could be. Regardless, it’s the only play I have left if things get hot. Let me worry about that if the time comes, okay?”

  “Sure,” Kenny answered.

  “One more question on an unrelated topic. You mentioned something yesterday about a big-time government data breach. If you wanted to, do you think you could determine who was behind it?” Mark asked.

  “It depends. With the tools I have, it would be tough but not impossible. But if I had access to the right tools—yeah, I don’t see why not.”

  “Good. That’s good to know. Keep an eye out and call me if anything changes.”

  One hundred twenty-one

  The plan was simple. Ghassan Massoud’s cabin was located on a wooded hilltop on the outskirts of his sparsely populated New Hampshire town. A serpentine gravel driveway stretched nearly a quarter-mile from the main road to the front porch. The rest of the property was heavily wooded with no visible trails. Mark would park near a public camping and fishing area half a mile north of the cabin and make his final approach from there on foot. Dressed in civilian hiking gear with an innocuous-looking backpack, he would easily blend in and not attract attention from anyone he might encounter along the way.

  Mark pulled into the campground entrance and followed the dirt road to the very end. Vehicles and tents dotted the scenery along the way. While most people slept, a dedicated few guzzled beers and passed bottles of whiskey around the orange glow of their campfires. At the end of the main road, he turned left and parked.

  Mark rolled down the window and took several minutes to acclimate to the sights and sounds of the area. Satisfied that there were no nosey campers nearby, he locked the car, tightened the backpack around his shoulders, and walked due south into the woods. One hundred meters into his walk, his cargo pocket vibrated. It was Kenny.

  “Mark, nothing has changed, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold onto this drone. My guy is freaking out. So far I’ve been able to threaten and coax him into keeping it in the air, but I don’t know how much longer I can do that for you. I see where you are, but how long do you think it’ll take to get into position so I can cut this thing loose?”

  “Not long. Just a few more minutes once I gear up. If things get too hot, send the drone home. Just be sure to continue monitoring local authorities and any other chatter you think is important. Do you see anything in the woods between me and the objective? If I know it’s clear, I can move a lot faster.”

  “A couple of dogs or coyotes when you get closer to the cabin, but other than that I don’t see anything.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

  Mark ended the call and slipped the phone back into his cargo pocket. He pulled the backpack from his shoulders and knelt on the forest floor. After securing the four-eyed panoramic night-vision goggles to his head, he reached into the bag for the Colt M4A1 carbine and quickly twisted the suppressor onto the muzzle. Once the holographic sights were switched on and glowing, he loaded a thirty-round magazine, strapped the backpack on, and sprinted due south.

  One hundred twenty-two

  The imminent loss of his eye in the sky driving his sense of urgency, Mark traveled through the forest with extraordinary speed. The terrain had been just as he expected—flat for the first half of the journey and then a slow, steady incline. He traveled straight ahead, cutting through several open areas that he would normally have skirted around to avoid exposing himself if there was more time. Ghassan’s home sat atop one of only two hills in the area, so he didn’t have to constantly check his compass heading. As a result, he closed the distance between his car and the cabin remarkably fast.

  Mark paused and took a knee approximately one hundred yards from the objective to make final preparations. Sweat poured down his head and back. He pulled a bottle of water from a cargo pocket and guzzled it. The phone in his pocket vibrated. A text from Kenny.

  MESSAGE: DRONE IS GONE.

  It doesn’t matter. I have my own.

  Mark made a final check of his equipment and headed toward the cabin at a deliberate pace.

  One hundred twenty-three

  Two vehicles: a Toyota sedan in the middle of the driveway and a Chevy truck pushed approximately twenty feet into the tree line. Likely a third vehicle under a tarp next to the truck. Mark approached the Chevy and glanced inside: empty. Crouching low, he moved around to the other side and slowly lifted the tarp, finding a police cruiser with the dashboard electronics ripped out. He scanned the area and quietly approached the Toyota in the middle of the driveway. Empty. Keys in the ignition.

  Mark retreated behind the two vehicles in the tree line and pulled a smal
l black plastic box from his backpack. He opened it and removed a tiny gray pouch and a handheld device slightly larger than an iPhone. Once the device had booted up and indicated a ready status, he grabbed the gray pouch and dumped the black, four-propeller mini-drone into the palm of his hand. Seconds later it silently lifted off and hovered above his position. Live thermal images appeared on the control screen as Landry sent the drone high above the cabin.

  Let’s get the bird’s eye view first.

  After scanning the perimeter for movement from above, Mark had the drone hover about fifty feet from one of the open windows—far enough away that no one inside the cabin would see or hear it. From there he inched it closer until he had a good view of the building’s interior.

  Besides a small light above the kitchen sink, the only other light in the home came from the television, tuned to Fox News. Mark maneuvered the drone from side to side to observe as much of the interior as possible. On the floor at the far side of the room were a half-dozen or more rifles and an assortment of magazines, ammunition, and several tactical bags. On the table were several knives, a sharpening stone, and a case of military-style MREs.

  Mark flew the drone to the next window for a better look at the television area. The quality of the lighting depended on the ever-changing banners and other graphics coming from the broadcast, but he could clearly make out the figure of a man sleeping in a large armchair. Landry nudged the drone slightly closer to the window to improve the camera angle as a commercial brightened the room.

  There you are.

  The fourth shooter was asleep in the armchair. A pistol sat atop a small table within arm’s reach, and a rifle rested against the armchair between his legs, the muzzle pointed at the ceiling. He was fully dressed and still had unlaced work boots on his feet.

  Landry flew the drone up and over the house to peer through a window on the opposite side next to the front door. A trail of blood led from the fireplace to what looked to be the door to a basement. He scanned the interior of the cabin and committed the floor plan to memory. Satisfied that he knew what to expect once inside, he brought the drone back to his position.

  Crouched low with his carbine at the ready, Mark tiptoed up the front steps of the cabin and quietly sidestepped down the farmer’s porch until he was in front of the screenless window he had chosen. After quickly peeking to ensure that the target was still in the chair, he retrieved the flash-bang device from his cargo pocket. He took a deep breath, pulled the pin, and lofted the device through the window toward the television.

  Landry bolted for the front door and paused momentarily. The device landed on the hardwood floor with a thump. A fraction of a second later a blinding flash of light burst through the windows, followed by a nearly two-hundred-decibel bang that shook the cabin. Landry lunged forward and kicked with everything he had. The door flew open and he rushed into the building with his carbine held high.

  One hundred twenty-four

  Landry could hear his interrogation instructor’s voice in his head as he prepared to question his prisoner.

  Interrogation is more art than science. Once a man studies the different approaches, like a sculptor learning to wield his chisel, a personal style begins to form. Some men are soft-spoken, with an almost soothing presence meant to build rapport and attract the detainee like a moth to a lantern. Others are horrifyingly brutal, with the goal of compelling the detainee into cooperation through fear and pain.

  Mark Landry’s approach was a hybrid of the two.

  Landry unscrewed the cap from the bottle of cold water and held it upside down over Amir’s head until it was empty. “Wake up.” Amir was securely fastened to a wooden chair with his hands bound behind his back. Mark placed another chair approximately five feet in front of his prisoner and sat down with his rifle cradled in his lap. “I said, wake up!” he yelled.

  Amir bobbed his head from side to side and spat up a mouthful of saliva mixed with blood. The flash bang had taken him from a state of deep sleep to complete disorientation long enough for Mark to enter the room, strike him in the head with the butt of his rifle, and bind his hands and feet with zip ties.

  From there, Landry went to work clearing the rest of the cabin. Crouched low, he bolted room to room, quickly checking under beds, behind doors, and inside closets on the main floor before turning his attention to the basement door in the kitchen. He turned off the light over the sink, flung the door open quickly, and stood to the side for several seconds, then peered down the stairs and activated the tactical light mounted on the barrel of his rifle.

  Green light spilled down the stairs and illuminated a small, unfinished cellar. At the bottom step was the body of a young, Middle Eastern–looking man with a bullet hole where the bridge of his nose used to be. Mark descended several stairs and swept his muzzle from left to right. He saw stacks of napkins, cups, and paper plates overflowing from three boxes labeled “restaurant supplies,” but nothing else. He focused the light on the dead man’s face and recognized Yasir from the photos. Satisfied that the cabin was clear, Landry sprinted back up the stairs to prepare his prisoner for questioning and look more closely at the equipment spread out on the floor. He counted nine Sig Sauer M400 rifles and discovered a pound of factory-sealed C4 plastic explosive material inside a backpack.

  Amir slowly opened his eyes and tried to regain his bearings. He struggled violently for several moments to free his arms and legs before noticing the shadowy figure sitting in front of him. He blinked furiously to adjust his vision to the darkness. The only light in the cabin came from a burning candle somewhere behind the masked man.

  “What’s your name?” Mark asked.

  The prisoner struggled again to break free. “Please! Quick! You have to help me! He’s going to kill me! Get me out of here, please!”

  “Who is going to kill you?”

  “I don’t know what his name is. Yasir, I think. He and his uncle are terrorists. Please help me!” Amir begged as tears rolled down his panic-stricken face. “I don’t want to die! I swear I haven’t done anything wrong! Just get me out of here and I’ll tell you anything you want!”

  Landry stared at Amir through the wide, oval opening of the black ski mask that enveloped his eyes. He showed no reaction to the prisoner’s words. He simply waited patiently and watched the show in silence until Amir had finished pleading.

  “You shouldn’t lie to me. I can’t help you if you lie to me. Now tell me your name.”

  Amir gasped for air and contorted his face like a three-year-old who just had all his toys taken away. “No! Please! I swear I’m telling the truth. I’m in danger. I’ve been held here against my will. Why don’t you believe me?” he sobbed.

  Mark held up his hand, indicating that he had had enough. “I don’t believe you because Yasir is in the basement with a bullet in his head. And I’m guessing the bullet came from the .45 you had with you when I caught you napping. Listen, if you lie to me again, I’m going to hurt you. Do you understand that? Do I look like I’m fucking around? Look at me.”

  An effective interrogator knows the importance of setting precedent from the very beginning. If he threatens violent punishment for non-compliance but doesn’t follow through, he effectively transfers power to the prisoner. Furthermore, when the interrogator does follow through, the violence must be sufficiently shocking to the prisoner. Insufficient force that is easily tolerated may actually empower and motivate the prisoner to continue his resistance.

  Mark did not plan on making either of those mistakes. He was fully committed to setting the precedent early, and more than ready to get violent if he had to—especially with a man he already knew to be a cold-blooded murderer.

  Landry leaned his rifle against the table, reached a hand up under his long-sleeve hiking shirt, and pulled out the karambit-style, curved blade from the sheath that hung around his neck. “I’m going to count to three. If you lie to me, if you say anything other than your name and why you shot up those innocent people two days
ago, you will regret it. One …”

  Amir’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened.

  “Two …”

  He shook his head furiously.

  “Three.”

  “Wait! Wait! Wait! I swear I had nothing to do with it!” he screamed out.

  “Wrong answer.” Mark leapt from his seat, grabbed Amir’s right ear with his left hand, and held it tightly. With his right hand he slid the razor sharp karambit’s blade down the side of Amir’s face and separated the ear from his head in one clean motion.

  A thin stream of blood spurted from the wound as the prisoner screamed out in anguish. He gasped for air and struggled to free himself. Mark returned to his seat, tossed the ear onto the floor between the two chairs, and waited patiently for the screaming to die down.

  “You bastard! You pig! You better kill me now … if I ever get the chance I will cut off your head!”

  Amir’s fake tears and false claims of innocence had changed to pure rage. With one single knife motion, Mark had peeled back the mask of the innocent young man and exposed the terrorist. The next few minutes would be crucial. As the interrogator, Mark had established precedent with his swift and shockingly violent follow-through. But now he needed to evaluate the likelihood of gleaning any valuable information from the prisoner. In his past experience he had seen plenty of men, true believers in their cause, endure ruthless violence without uttering a word. And he had seen others soften up quickly and spill their guts when threatened with much less. Mark had a feeling that this one would end up in the former category, but he needed time to make an educated assessment.

  “I saw you on the roof. I saw you shooting. Tell me about the attack. Who chose the target and why?” he asked calmly.