Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  Kirkland used his cell phone to speed dial the mobile crane driver, who had moved from the truck cab to the crane cab. The outriggers had been extended from the chassis to level and stabilize the crane. Almost immediately the hydraulics began extending the boom. Next, Kirkland activated the signal on the jammer. From this point, there would be no communication from inside the warehouse to the world beyond its walls.

  * * *

  It was several minutes before one of the men inside the warehouse noticed that the video image from the surveillance cameras had failed. He walked over and began examining the monitor. He twisted some knobs, slapped it a few times then shrugged, signaling to the others that he didn’t know what was causing the problem. They walked over to him and began adjusting and shaking the monitor.

  * * *

  While Kirkland stayed with the monitoring and jamming equipment in the truck, the crane operator lowered a cable from the drum. It had a weighted ball on the end and came to rest on the ground near the Tundra. One by one the men scaled the cable. When all men were on, the operator gently raised the boom and swung it over the high fence with enough height for the ball to clear it.

  On the other side, the men, led by Whelan, descended the cable and dropped quietly to the ground. The operator rewound the cable, swung the boom back into position on the truck and retracted it. In moments he had scrambled back into the cab of the truck, retracted the outriggers and driven away.

  Outside the warehouse, Stensen strategically placed C-4 explosive compound in gaps between the heavy entrance door and its frame. It had been specially made without the usual marker or odorizing taggant used to help detect the chemicals in the explosive and identify its source. When he was finished, Stensen placed a detonator in it. He looked at Whelan and nodded. All of the men moved swiftly along the wall and away from the door. At Whelan’s signal, Stensen detonated the charge using a remote. It blew the door completely off its hinges. The force of the blast sent chunks of bricks and metal shrapnel flying backwards into the warehouse. The man who had been driving the Mercedes, standing just inside the door, was killed instantly.

  Whelan and three of the others burst through the gaping hole where the door had been. Thomas remained outside in case any of the unfriendlies managed to escape from the warehouse. The men inside were momentarily stunned by the noise and shockwave generated by the explosion. Levell was experienced enough to react on instinct. He threw himself sideways, tipping the wheelchair and sprawling on the hard, filthy concrete floor.

  Whelan, the first one inside, saw the two guards reaching for their weapons. He shot one, the forty-caliber slug tearing through the man’s left shoulder and spinning him to the floor. The other guard quickly raised his hands in surrender.

  The third man, who had been the passenger in the Mercedes, moved with incredible speed. He sprinted up a pile of crates and boxes stacked against the front wall of the warehouse and burst through a papered-over window at the top. On the other side, it was ten feet to the ground. The man spun gracefully in mid-air, feline-like, and landed on his feet almost on top of Thomas.

  Caught by surprise, Thomas reached out to grab the man. The man easily swatted Thomas’ arm away. In the same motion, and with shocking speed, he crushed his right fist into the side of Thomas’ head. Thomas was barely able to tuck his chin toward his shoulder or he would have caught the blow flush on his jaw, shattering it. He blacked out momentarily and collapsed.

  The other man whipped a SIG Sauer P229 forty-caliber pistol from the waistband of his trousers and aimed it at the helpless Thomas. Simultaneously, Almeida burst from the warehouse. He squeezed off several shots. One of them grazed the man’s right arm, tearing out a chunk of flesh and causing him reflexively to drop the SIG. The man spun around and raced toward the fence behind him. Just before he reached it, Whelan and Larsen emerged from the warehouse, having left Stensen to guard the prisoners.

  They each fired at the man as he raced for the fence. One of the rounds tore through his shirt, narrowly missing his flesh. Realizing he would not make it to safety, he stopped and slowly raised his arms above his head.

  “You all right?” Whelan said to Almeida.

  “Yeah.”

  Whelan and Larsen sprinted toward Thomas, who was struggling to get to his feet, holding onto the side of his head where he’d been slugged.

  “Cuff that sonofabitch and drag him back inside,” he yelled to Larsen and Almeida. “And be very careful. He’s a helluva lot quicker than he looks.”

  “The way he came out that window and slugged Quentin, he sure ain’t your average bear,” Almeida said. He and Larsen bound the man’s wrists behind him with double loop EZ Cuff nylon restraints. They spun him around and shoved him toward the blown out entrance to the warehouse. Each stayed slightly to the side and behind him, just out of kicking range. The muzzles of their weapons never strayed from a direct line to the middle of the man’s broad back.

  Inside, Larsen and Almeida shackled the man’s ankles, then bound the ankle cuffs to the ones binding his wrists. They shoved him into one of the folding chairs at the rickety card table. The cuffs made his position awkward and uncomfortable.

  Whelan eased Thomas down onto a crate and then went to assist Levell, who was struggling to get back into his wheelchair.

  “Man,” Thomas said through teeth clenched in pain. “I’ve only been hit that hard sparring with you or Larsen.”

  “You sure took your sweet-assed time getting here,” Levell said.

  “We knew you had it under control,” Whelan said.

  “Nobody likes a smartass.”

  “All small talk aside, do you know who these guys are?”

  “Sure,” Levell said. His eyes had narrowed and his upper lip was curled back in a snarl. “I know exactly who these bastards are.”

  “Who’s the guy who performed the defenestration?”

  “He’s the guy who was sent to kill me. Says his name’s Maksym.”

  “Guess our timing was pretty good after all.”

  Levell glared at him. “You know, you really are a fucking smartass. And where the hell is McCoy in all of this?”

  “Don’t be too hard on the General. He’s the one who orchestrated the efforts that figured out where you were being held.”

  “Great. I’ll buy him a beer,” Levell said dryly. “Where is he now?”

  “Negotiating for your release.”

  “Yeah? What’s the tradeoff?”

  “We are,” Whelan said and looked around at Larsen and the others.

  Levell nodded. “A Russian, guy named Federov, was here earlier and shared some information with me. POTUS has become a pain in the left’s collective ass. They want him removed.”

  “I thought he was an odds-on favorite to lose his bid for reelection,” Kirkland said.

  “Apparently they aren’t willing to wait. They want him removed now. And permanently.”

  “I think I’m beginning to get the picture,” Whelan said. “The puppet masters of the Far Left want POTUS assassinated. But they want it to appear as if it was done by right wing zealots.” He paused. “And we would be those zealots.”

  “And, by logical extension based on what Harold Case uncovered, so would the rest of us.” Levell said. “It would set the Society’s efforts back a full generation. By then, it will be far too late.”

  “Do we know where this Russian, Federov, is?” Kirkland said.

  “My money says he’s the one who’s negotiating with McCoy,” Whelan said.

  Larsen looked at Whelan and motioned with his head toward their three captives. “What do you want to do with these guys?”

  “First, let’s see whether they have anything of value to tell us.”

  He looked at the two guards, both large, burly men, and said, “We’re short on time. You’re gonna tell us who’s behind all this,” he waved his hand that was holding the HK P30L pistol at them. “And you’re gonna do it quickly. Otherwise, I’ll shoot all of you on the spot and l
et the rats dispose of you.”

  Maksym sat calmly, although clearly uncomfortably, and looked at the two Ukrainian guards. They, on the other hand, tried to avoid eye contact with him.

  After a few moments of silence, Whelan brought the muzzle of the HK around and shot the wounded guard between the eyes. His lifeless corpse hit the floor with a dull thud. The other guard’s eyes opened very wide in fear. As Whelan aimed the weapon at the man’s forehead, his eyes seemed to open wider.

  In a thick Eastern European accent, he said, “Please, if I am speaking to you, he is killing me.” He nodded toward Maksym, who was staring impassively at the man.

  “You’re afraid of this guy?” Thomas said and slammed the barrel of his weapon into the left side of Maksym’s face. The blow split open the skin over his eyebrow and cheekbone. Maksym turned his head slowly, as blood began to flow down his face. He smiled at Thomas, but the look in his eyes was chilling.

  “Drag that sonofabitch to the far side of the building and stuff a rag in his mouth. If he blinks, kill him,” Whelan said to Larsen and Stensen. He turned back to the surviving guard and said, “Maksym’s not going to live long enough to be a threat to you. I’m the one you need to fear.”

  With Maksym no longer in his immediate presence, the guard loosened up and told Whelan and Levell as much as he knew. It wasn’t much, but combined with what Whelan already knew and what Levell had learned from Federov, a picture began to emerge.

  A Russian agent, Federov, was orchestrating a plan to assassinate the president of the United States, and probably other targets as well. It was designed to create the impression that a right wing cabal was responsible. The guards at the warehouse were part of the large security detail that worked for Chaim Laski. All were Ukrainians. Maksym was their leader. All of the guards were tough and ruthless men whose backgrounds were more than unsavory. Still, they seemed to fear Maksym, who was present at the warehouse for the purpose of killing Levell once he received the signal from someone else, presumably Federov.

  When the guard had finished, Whelan turned to Levell. “What do you want to do about this situation?”

  “Right now, we need to get out of this warehouse. I have to talk with McCoy and some of the other leading members of the Society. We have work to do and time is short.” He looked at Maksym. “Bring the beef. I think he’s more than just hired muscle.” Levell glanced at the remaining guard for several moments, debating the man’s fate. “Him too,” he said at last.

  62 The National Mall

  Major General Buster McCoy exited from the front passenger seat of a nondescript tan colored sedan. As he stepped up to the curb, the driver, wearing a Marine Corps Service A uniform, pulled back into traffic and drove away.

  McCoy was in civilian clothes, but maintained the unmistakable ramrod bearing of a Marine lifer. He turned and looked across Constitution Avenue at the Federal Reserve Building, and stared for a while at the Paul Philippe Cret designed structure. Its stark white marble exterior always seemed cold and austere to him, even now, in the broiling late August heat and humidity of Foggy Bottom.

  He turned back, crossed the sidewalk and began striding briskly into the National Mall. In a few minutes he found his objective, a bench at just about the midpoint of the Reflecting Pond. A tall man in his late forties, with the build of an athlete was sitting on the bench. He wore tan slacks with a striped polo shirt, brown tassel loafers, sunglasses and a Washington Nationals baseball cap. There was a guidebook in his lap. To anyone who bothered to notice him, the man seemed to be the quintessential tourist.

  McCoy paused in front of him. The man slid his sunglasses partway down his nose and peered out from under the bill of his cap. His eyes were blue and cold. “General McCoy,” he said. “Please sit down.”

  McCoy settled onto the bench at an angle and continued to look at the man. “So you’re Federov.”

  The man nodded.

  On his way to this meeting, McCoy had received Whelan’s coded message that Levell had been rescued. He was confident that Federov was unaware of that fact or that Maksym, the man assigned to kill Levell, had been captured. McCoy’s purpose was to play along with Federov’s demands in order to learn what his end game was.

  “What’s Levell’s status?” he said.

  “He’s fine.”

  “I have no way of knowing that.”

  “Trust, General. It is a matter of trust.” Federov smiled pleasantly as he said it.

  McCoy cocked his head to one said as he regarded the Russian. “Like President Reagan said, ‘trust but verify’.” His voice was gruff and raspy.

  “You don’t enjoy the same leverage Reagan had.”

  Unctuous Russian prick, McCoy thought. “All right, what is it you want in exchange for Levell?”

  Federov’s smile broadened. “I knew you would be a reasonable man, General.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Do you know the Hotel L’Orange?”

  “On East Capitol Street? Used to be a group of old brownstones that had seen better days. What of it?”

  “Room three thirty three is on the top floor, southwest corner. You will have these Sleeping Dogs of yours – all of them – there tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. They will be unarmed and will not be accompanied or supervised by anyone. Otherwise, your friend Mr. Levell will pay dearly for it. Do we understand each other?”

  McCoy was pensive for a few moments. “As I recall, there should be a good view down East Capitol Street to the steps of the Capitol Building.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Tomorrow is Labor Day and the President and other dignitaries are scheduled to speak at that location around ten in the morning.”

  “You are very perceptive, General McCoy. No wonder you and your colleagues have been such a pain in the ass over the years.”

  “You’d do well to remember that it ain’t over ‘til it’s over, you bastard.”

  Federov rose from the bench and gave McCoy a puzzled look. “I do not understand you Americans. That is the same expression your friend Levell used. I do not grasp the meaning of such foolishness…it is not over until it is over. That does not make sense.”

  “With any luck at all, you’ll understand exactly what it means just as you’re dying.”

  Federov glared at the general. He spat on the ground in front of McCoy and said, “You Americans are naïve and too full of yourselves. You are finished as a superpower. Your people have lost the will to fight, to struggle. They expect everything to be given to them, to be easy. Like the Western Europeans, you want your mommy, the State, to take care of every problem in your worthless, pathetic little lives. Your end is at hand. We have conquered the mighty United States of America!” He spit the final sentence out in undisguised contempt.

  The general rose from the bench. Although Federov was much younger and appeared to be in superb physical condition, McCoy stepped toward him until his face was six inches from the Russian’s.

  “The stupidity is all on your part,” he said softly. “You have done something the great English poet Chaucer warned against.”

  Federov looked amused. “Really? And what is we have done?”

  “You’ve awakened sleeping dogs.” McCoy paused. “Or, more properly in this case, sleeping wolves. Killer wolves. Wolves from Hell, the likes of which you cannot imagine.”

  Federov shook his head. “You are a fool. Americans are fools. They believe in fairy tales. No gods or demons can save you now.”

  Once he was in the car, Federov pulled his cell phone from a trouser pocket and called Chaim Laski’s personal number. When the other man was on the line, he said in Russian, “The transaction has been settled.”

  “Can the other side be trusted to fulfill their end of the bargain?”

  “We have the resource they seek. They will not be so foolish as to jeopardize its safe delivery.”

  “And you are certain you can handle the resources to be delivered to us in exchange, as well as the other matter
that is to follow immediately?”

  “Yes. This will be no problem. The resources to be received in the exchange will be dealt with as planned. The matter that follows will be made to appear as if it was occasioned by those resources.”

  “Very good. Call me when the transaction has been completed. At that time, I will advise Maksym to eliminate that annoying problem at the warehouse.”

  “You will hear from me,” Federov said, and terminated the call.

  Laski, enjoying the warmth of the late summer weather from the pool deck of his home in Potomac, Maryland, smiled. Life was good. The plan was coming together beautifully. The president would soon be dead. The vice president was a fool and would be easy to manipulate. He would finish out the term, then step aside so that Howard Morris could become the party’s nominee. The sympathy vote for the slain president together with revulsion toward the right for its apparent involvement would propel Morris into the White House.

  What was that expression from the old A Team series on television? he thought. ‘I love it when a plan comes together’? Yes, that was it. Laski smiled again and repeated it to himself: I love it when a plan comes together. He reached for his phone again. It was time to call Maksym for a status report on Levell.

  63 Fredericksburg, Virginia

  Scarcely seventy miles from Laski’s estate in Potomac, in the large, stately manor home outside Fredericksburg, Virginia eight men were gathered around a huge table. Two centuries earlier a craftsman had patiently and skillfully made it from pieces of solid oak. It looked as if it had been crafted for this particular room, giving it the appearance of a refectory, with its high vaulted ceiling and exterior wall of perfectly fitted large stone blocks. Sunlight streamed through tall, narrow casement windows.

  Three open laptops sat on the table amid a dense scattering of aerial photographs, building plans, sketchpads and miscellaneous descriptive materials. Almost all had been gathered over the past few hours in anticipation of the mission planned for the next day.