by Van Torrey
“We found numerous photos of Rachel Hunter, printouts of online maps of the Stanford campus with her office at the center, photos of her car and license plate, and photos of the front of her house on the campus.”
Moore continued, “Although we didn’t have a FISA warrant or even a subpoena, our friends at the NSA were able to produce cell phone records for two of the phones we found. I’m sure you will be interested in mining those for information about these guys and their friends. I know our people at Quantico are going to be all over this.”
“And finally, perhaps the best thing,” Moore added with a flourish as he produced a plastic Zip-lock bag from his pocket containing two depleted .12 gauge shotgun rounds, “are the shells that we carefully removed from a shotgun we found in the house. I think your forensics guys will have fun with this. Also here’s the model and serial number of the shotgun so you can try tracing it.”
The Investigator, impressed by the array of evidence illegally collected by the FBI infiltrators, remarked, “There’s enough circumstantial evidence here and with what we’ve already collected to hang all three of these guys for this hit-job. Problem is, the D.A. is a political animal and he sees no chance for an indictment, let alone a conviction, on what we have so far. And gentlemen, we have no other leads. It’s clear to everyone here, except the legal system, that these Pakistanis did the job.”
“Well, sir,” replied Randy Moore, “we’ve done what we were sent to do and we have to head back. No way is this going to be a federal beef against these guys, so you’ll have to take the ball and run with it. Tell you what we can do, we can place a miniature GPS transmitter on the car in question and as long as they’re in range of a cell tower, we’ll be able to track them for you.”
The investigator’s response was immediate. “Yeah, please do that, Randy. I’ve got to get with my boss to see how they want to handle this. Thanks for all your...ah...professional help.”
*
Two days later Director Wheatley received a phone call from the Manager of the FBI Field Communications Center in Quantico. “Director, we have movement of the vehicle belonging to the Pakistani suspects in the Bay Area. It left the house early this morning and is headed down the interstate in the direction of Southern California.”
“Thanks, please keep me informed. See if you can get the California Highway Patrol to discreetly keep tabs on them and see how many occupants are in the car. We want to know the eventual destination of these guys.”
*
Later in the day, the California Highway Patrol reported the car being tracked containing three males passed through the United States - Mexico Border crossing station at San Ysidro, California, into Mexico. This was immediately confirmed by GPS tracking.
One hour later, border control agents from Mexico, in an unusual overt gesture of cooperation, made United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) aware that three men, traveling on Pakistani passports and American student visas, with surnames of Kassar, Wattu, and Lanjar, had crossed into Mexico and had been given two-week tourist visas. Given the fact that the men were not wanted for any criminal complaint in the United States and Mexico’s notorious lax enforcement of tourist visas, there was a strong possibility that the three Pakistanis had left the United States, never to return. The cruel fact was they had committed a serious felony and were now out of reach of American law enforcement.
*
Raymond Rollins met privately with President Jonathan Braxton in his private quarters on the second floor of the White House. Over drinks and dinner, prepared by Braxton’s personal chef, Maurice, consisting of broiled sea bass, crusted scalloped potatoes, and fresh asparagus accompanied by a superb, properly chilled Chardonnay, Director Wheatley summarized the investigation of the Pakistani suspects to the President.
Wheatley began by telling the President there was overwhelming circumstantial evidence that the Pakistanis were the ones who made the intended hit on Rachel Hunter. “The reality, Mr. President, is that these guys are out of reach of us. We probably couldn’t do anything if they came back and jumped in our lap.”
“I’m extremely disappointed about this, Clayton. This was a blatant act of terrorism that may now go unpunished. With all respect to Doctor Ryan and his surviving family, I feel terrible that Rachel will never get closure on this. She deserves better.”
Clayton Wheatley took a long sip from his dinner wine and cleared his throat. “May I speak freely and off the record, Mr. President?”
“Of course,” replied Braxton.
“I may have a solution to this problem, sir. It’s somewhat...unconventional...but potentially very effective, particularly in a case such as this. Given that our law enforcement resources are unable to deal with these men, there are other trusted and highly trained people we can use to affect a resolution to this issue while sending a message to others who may follow with intent to perpetrate similar acts of domestic terror.”
“I’m listening,” replied Braxton dryly.
“Sir, you may remember a former U.S. Navy SEAL operator, a Lieutenant Chance Lyon...I believe you know the family,” continued the FBI Director discreetly.
“Of course, he’s a fine young man with an exceptional military record.”
“Yes, well, he was retired, as so many of them are, for medical reasons by the Navy. In his case, multiple neurosurgeries to correct combat sustained wounds, and you’re forced out...that sort of thing. He has a private security agency now located in San Diego. We use them occasionally when more conventional resources are inappropriate. Unless you want to know more, I would prefer to keep this very general in nature, even between the two of us.”
“Probably better if I play dumb...no jokes, please, Clayton.”
“We have a Black budget for this type of thing, sir. It’s buried so deep even an Inspector General couldn’t find it. I think this is a job for his company, SEALyon Security Services. With no objection from you, sir, I can make this happen.”
Without hesitation President Jonathan Braxton raised his glass and said, “For Rachel Hunter...here’s how.”
The next morning Clayton Wheatley called a cell phone number which was answered by Chance Lyon, “SEALyon.”
“Good morning, Chance. This is Wheatley. Can you come to Washington as soon as possible? I’ve got something interesting to discuss.”
CHAPTER 3
JUSTICE AND REVENGE
“Revenge is a dish best served cold.”
Italian Mafia Mantra
*
Chance Lyon woke up a little after noon in his Grandfather’s home in Georgetown after taking a red eye flight from LAX the night before. This night there had been no bad dreams or flashbacks to warfare in Afghanistan or Pakistan, only glimpses of Stephanie Morris, his former girlfriend, as they walked on a sunlit beach...and then she was gone. Chance had begun to interpret this recurring dream as a sign of ebbing grief for the tragically departed Stephanie.
Chance wrenched himself awake and made way in the direction of the aroma of coffee that would be his only reward for enduring an uncomfortable night and early morning of travel after being summoned by Clayton Wheatley, Director of the FBI. After reading a note left by his grandfather, Doctor Macklin Lyon, indicating he had gone to play golf, Chance poured coffee and glanced at the Washington Post Sunday edition. Politics and more politics, thought Chance. Politics is the life’s blood of this damned place.
Lieutenant Chance Lyon’s promising career as a U.S. Navy SEAL operator had been cut short earlier in the year after a determination that he needed another neurosurgical procedure to repair an aneurysm that was a probable complication from a previous neurological procedure relating to a gunshot wound suffered during a combat mission in Afghanistan. Although this was a fairly routine procedure, it triggered a “two strikes, you’re out” protocol within the Navy bureau of personnel requiring Chance to retire with a medical discharge after having two such procedures. Such an ending to the career of a Navy SEAL was not
uncommon, considering the extraordinary physical demands and harrowing combat experiences endured by these elite warriors.
Now the former SEAL leader found himself without a Naval career but still possessing the combative spirit, the intellectual prowess and physical skills incidental to gathering intelligence and, when necessary, reducing bad guys to a more docile level, read dead. All he lacked were legitimate targets and the legal authorization to exercise his skills for the benefit of ethical paying customers. Lyon soon found that there was no shortage of potential business in the back offices of Clayton Wheatley, Director of the FBI, and Marilyn Mitchell, Director of Central Intelligence.
Of course, Lyon’s business connection with these government agencies was that of a “consultant”, and the details of his consultancy were frequently worked out with officials at levels far below the Director level. However, in the case of the attempted hit on Rachel Hunter, Lyon found himself dealing directly with Clayton Wheatley.
Wheatley was old school FBI and had worked his way up from rookie Special Agent after a stint as a federal prosecutor right out of law school. With over 30 years’ experience in his beloved FBI Clayton Wheatley was no idealistic choir boy, ever vigilant of constitutional guarantees for the accused. He knew the Pakistanis were the perpetrators in the Rachel Hunter hit. Now that he had the tacit imprimatur of President Braxton to use unconventional means to deal with the matter, he knew that Lyon and his company were the go-to guys to wrap it up efficiently and quietly.
Monday morning Lyon and Director Wheatley met at an unassuming office on K Street that Wheatley frequently used for meetings that would not have to be logged-in to his formal offices at the Hoover building. Security was excellent, and underground parking assured visitors using car services would never be identified by any onlookers.
After a few moments of small talk Lyon and Director Wheatley got down to business. News of Rachel Hunter’s brush with death had been substantial, particularly on the West coast, so Chance had been following developments with interest. All Wheatley had to do was fill him in on the details that the media would never know.
“These guys are beyond our jurisdiction now, and we couldn’t do much if they were parked across the street. Bottom line, Chance, we want you and your people to find these guys in Mexico, or wherever they get to, and terminate them with extreme prejudice. If you can somehow manage to do this in such a way that their friends get a message not to try this shit again, that would be a plus.”
Chance thought a moment and replied. “So, not a whack on the wrist, but the whole enchilada?” replied Lyon.
“Extreme prejudice, Chance. For my money it would be better if you could draw it out for a while, but that’s not an imperative. I don’t want to micromanage this, but next stop for these guys needs to be catching up with Allah and the 72 virgins.”
“Can do, Director. I met Director Hunter a couple of times when I was back in the states on TDY from Bagram. She was an extraordinary woman and extremely professional. Knowing her gives me a little special motivation to be extra tough on these thugs.”
“We should talk about the fee, Chance. Can you give me an estimate?”
“Well, this is going to take me and at least one other guy, maybe two, and we’re going into Mexico. I’d say it may take two weeks. Why don’t we say five thousand a day, plus expenses. I think we’re talking a little less than a hundred grand, total.”
“Done! Cheap at twice the price I would say. If we had to prosecute them we’d be talking a million or more easy, with no guarantee of outcome.”
“Well, Director, I could charge more but I want to stay in your good graces. I’m just a struggling entrepreneur. I don’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden egg.”
“Chance I think you’ve got a good thing going. You could still be slugging it out with the ragheads over in Afghanistan or Somalia, or some other shit-hole and eating MREs for all your meals. This is easy money. One last thing; you know you’re on your own down in Mexico. If you get your ass in a crack, I can’t help you.”
“Roger that, Director. We’ll try to be careful.”
“Chance if you wanted to be careful, you’d be a stockbroker.”
With that, Lyon shook hands with the FBI Director and headed for Reagan International to catch a flight back to LAX to plan the mission.
*
John Olyphant had been given a medical discharge a few months before Chance Lyon. The former U.S. Army Ranger officer had been on the same highly classified operation as Lyon in the Iranian desert where Olyphant’s Ranger platoon ambushed an Iranian convoy, seizing hijacked nuclear fissile material it was carrying. At the same time Lyon’s SEALs had taken down a secret nuclear processing facility just a few miles away and detonated what amounted to a dirty bomb there, rendering the site unusable by humans for many years. Olyphant had engaged the occupants of one of the Iranian trucks in a short range gunfight and lost an eye from flying glass from a shattered truck window, as an Iranian shooter barely missed his face with a pistol shot. Olyphant did not miss as he fired back at his assailant in reprisal. Rather than push papers for the balance of his military career, Olyphant took the honorable way out and opted for a medical discharge.
Due to the overwhelming strategic success of the mission, both lieutenants received their respective branch’s Distinguished Service Medals with classified citations in a private ceremony at the White House several months after the operation.
Like Chance Lyon, John Olyphant, now a civilian, still had a warrior’s attitude, physical skills, and the intellect to make life difficult for America’s shadowy enemies. After his injury he saw his life choices far more clearly, albeit with one eye.
The two men had stayed in touch after the Iranian operation. When Lyon decided to open his own security agency, he asked Olyphant to join him. Both men still retained many contacts from their respective military academies and active service assignments. Lyon had the added advantage of having known several former and current high ranking officials in the U.S. intelligence establishment and Special Operations commands. These contacts were valuable in helping SEALyon Security gain a foothold in the lucrative private security business. His sometime partner and collaborator, John Olyphant, was a bulky six-foot-two, weighing in at a solid 220 pounds. With his black eye patch and bushy black mustache, he had earned the nickname of “Blackie” after the infamous Blackbeard of Caribbean pirate lore.
Operating out of rented space on the second floor of a custom yacht builder and marine services contractor in the back reaches of San Diego Harbor, SEALyon Security was perfectly hidden off the beaten track. Chance Lyon and Blackie Olyphant met there the next morning Chance had returned from Washington.
“Blackie, we’ve got a contract from the FBI to take down some terrorists who pulled that hit on Rachel Hunter up in San Francisco about three weeks ago. These guys slipped through the conventional legal net and are now on the lamb in Mexico. I’ve got a ton of intel on them collected by the FBI and the San Francisco P.D., so they should be fairly easy to I.D. once we track them down.”
Lyon went on to fill Olyphant in on the entire case and everything that had happened in the aftermath. “We’re 100 percent certain that these are the guys who pulled the job, and our mission is to mete out the punishment and send a signal to their bros that this kind of shit won’t fly here. If we don’t get them in Mexico, they’ll probably escape to Pakistan, Yemen, or Somalia and they’ll never be any justice for Rachel Hunter or Doctor Ryan.”
As Olyphant carefully sifted through the pile of visual evidence, asking an occasional question, Lyon continued his summary.
“They dumped the car in Ensenada and chartered a small plane to Puerto Vallarta on the Pacific coast where the FBI is reasonably certain they are holed up. We’re going down there to find them, do them in, and come on back. We might even get in some deep sea fishing while we’re there,” Lyon said cryptically.
*
Two days later Lyon and Olyphant a
rrived in Puerto Vallarta, Olyphant from L.A. and Chance arriving on another flight from Guadalajara. After checking into one of the exclusive seaside villas of the Westin, they began to put their plan in motion.
Lyon’s first step was to contact “Senor Leon” in the Puerto Vallarta office of the Policia Federal Ministerial, PFM, the Mexican equivalent of the United States’ FBI. This contact was given to Lyon by Clayton Wheatley, who vouched for the man’s integrity and incorruptibility as a veteran of the drug wars that had plagued Mexico for nearly half a century. Contrary to popular myth, there was a spirit of close cooperation between the American FBI and the Mexican PFM when important matters of criminal justice were in their mutual interest. Mexico was not interested in being known as a safe haven for international terrorists and this was an opportunity to root some of them out. Lyon identified himself on the phone with the prearranged nom de guerre of Senor Monroe and made small talk about specific aspects of American baseball to verify their mutual credentials prior to meeting.
Their initial meeting took place as both men strolled along the sport fishing docks on the bay side across from the Westin resort. The two men, using their assumed names, recognized each other from their unique wardrobe of the day and struck up what would be seen as a casual conversation by any onlooker.
“Thank you for meeting me, Senor Leon,” remarked Lyon. “I have a strong interest in determining the location of three men who have recently come to Puerto Vallarta from the USA. They entered on tourist visas from the San Ysidro crossing point, made a stop in Ensenada, and arrived here by private plane a few days ago. They are Pakistani nationals who have committed a serious crime in the United States.”
Senor Leon answered, “It is my impression that you are not part of the conventional law enforcement structure in the USA. We work with your FBI from time to time, and they always identify themselves as such. In this case, Mr. Wheatley was rather vague about your relationship with him.”