Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  As soon as the front passenger’s head came into view through the rear passenger window, Aleem fired a short burst, immediately seeing the bloody result on the front windshield. He aimed through the shattered window into the back seat, confirming that it was empty. He continued forward, but was unable to get to the front passenger window. It took him a brief moment to realize that the car was moving forward. He fired a round through the passenger window and tried to aim at the driver’s leg, but the car accelerated rapidly, headed straight for a white pickup truck parked several spaces down. He sprinted behind the vehicle with Tariq, who no longer held his submachine gun.

  “I tossed it in the fucking car to keep the wires intact,” he hissed, anticipating Aleem’s question.

  The Explorer slammed into the rear of the pickup truck, causing a deafening crunch. The SUV’s engine continued to scream, pushing the vehicle against the pickup truck and edging both vehicles forward. The engine’s whine drowned out the sounds of gunfire, bringing the neighborhood to life. Porch lights snapped on up and down Westminster Street. They needed to get out of here immediately.

  Tariq reached the Explorer first and yanked the driver’s door open for Aleem, who grabbed the driver by the left arm and pulled him free of the vehicle, silencing the hideously loud engine. He dragged the convulsing man several feet onto the sidewalk, while Tariq retrieved the MP9 in the dead passenger’s lap and disabled the Taser. In the few seconds it took for Tariq to do his job, Aleem searched the man for weapons, finding only a wallet in his rear pants pocket.

  “Grab the radio and find his phone,” he said.

  Five seconds after the Explorer had crashed into the pickup truck, he jogged down the sidewalk with their target in a fireman’s carry, while Tariq covered their one-block retreat to their vehicle on Argyle Road. Through his own labored breathing, Aleem noticed that the distant shooting had stopped. He hoped Sayar and his team had survived, but given the amount of gunfire they had heard approaching the Explorer, he wasn’t very optimistic. Sanderson had been right about the Imam. Killing him had been extremely important to True America’s leadership. Important enough to send more than a dozen highly trained commandos to conduct a brazen hit-and-run attack. His deadline for extracting information from the man slung over his back would be accelerated. There would be no way to keep the FBI’s direct involvement a secret, which meant that True America might hasten their timeline upon learning that some of their operatives had been captured alive.

  Chapter 23

  8:59 PM

  National Counterterrorism Center (NCTC)

  McLean, Virginia

  Ryan Sharpe removed his headset and stared at the main screen. The market operation had been a success, yielding three live suspects for background searches and interrogation. They also had thirteen dead True America militants, which they could identify and research. For an investigation that had essentially stalled earlier in the day, this would breathe new life into the search for the remaining virus canisters. He glanced up at Callie Stewart, who had chosen to watch the operation from the balcony above. She met his glance and nodded before walking into her office, presumably to report to her master.

  Her team—Sanderson’s team—had lost two of their undercover operatives in the attack. The two survivors had been rushed to the Brooklyn Hospital Center’s Level II trauma center with multiple gunshot wounds. According to Damon Katsoulis, the mobile task force’s tactical commander, Diyah Castillo had been listed in critical condition by EMTs. She had departed on the first ambulance to leave the scene, immediately followed by her team leader, Abraham Sayar, who was listed in serious condition. Two FBI agents had been wounded in the fierce gun battle, both of them hit by armor-piercing rounds fired at the snipers in the apartment. The bullets passed through the building’s brick façade, striking a pair of headquarters agents as they entered the sniper’s nest to provide additional firepower. Fortunately, the armor-piercing rounds had lost much of their velocity punching through centuries-old bricks and didn’t penetrate the ceramic plate inserted in the lead agent’s tactical vest. The round that struck the non-hardened ballistic material covering his right shoulder was another story. The “through and through” projectile lost some more velocity tearing through muscle and bone, but continued down the hallway undeterred, glancing off the second agent’s head before finally lodging in a doorframe on the other side of the apartment. A few more millimeters to the right, and the bullet would have punctured her skull.

  Katsoulis had arrived in one of the first vehicles to reach the market, but by the time they rushed through the front entrance, most of the battle was finished. After a brief exchange of gunfire that killed one of the suspects, the last standing True America commando surrendered. They found two more alive in the storeroom, bleeding through multiple wounds. Katsoulis said the inside of the market looked like a slaughterhouse. He had no idea how their undercover operatives had managed to survive a simultaneous, two-sided attack.

  According to agents covering the back alley, at least seven heavily armed attackers emerged suddenly from one of the houses behind the market to breach the rear entrance. By the time the agents had assembled to respond as a group, the firefight inside the market had ended. The entire event had lasted roughly forty-five seconds and yielded a fresh start to their investigation.

  He still didn’t trust Sanderson any further than he could throw Hesterman’s massive linebacker body, but he felt a debt of gratitude. Without Sanderson’s involvement, they would still be scratching their heads, waiting for a warrant to enter the Imam’s mosque. This thought made him wonder about the Imam’s fate. Just as he felt his moral center start to wander, he remembered the dark side of Sanderson’s involvement. Operating outside of the law always came with a hefty price tag. Sharpe knew this better than anyone.

  He had distinctly crossed that line two years earlier, pitting Agent Edwards against Jessica Petrovich. Only a hefty dosage of sedatives and alcohol, presumably provided by Jessica against Edward’s will, had saved Sharpe from answering some serious questions about his investigative methods. Luck had intervened, along with something else. Every record of the emails he had sent to Agent Edwards had disappeared. Agent O’Reilly had checked, knowing that the trail would lead back to both of them. She couldn’t find a single trace of the emails anywhere.

  There was only one possible explanation. The system had been hacked through Edward’s computer. For obvious reasons, he couldn’t push the issue, although a thorough risk assessment had been conducted on Edward’s laptop. Standard procedure for a laptop that had been left “unattended” in the presence of a criminal suspect. The assessment hadn’t uncovered a security breach, which further unnerved Sharpe. Why would Sanderson go out of his way to help him like that? Blackmail further down the line, or a sense of duty to protect the good guys? He couldn’t begin to guess, let alone spend time worrying about it. Still, the seed had been planted, and every once in a while, it dominated his thoughts. Right now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Sanderson was pulling all the strings.

  He patted O’Reilly on the shoulder and walked toward his office. All of their marching orders had been issued. They would start searching for commonalities between all sixteen True America operatives. Travel patterns, purchase history, friends, email, phone records…everything. Interrogation of the survivors would begin immediately. Agent Carlisle eagerly awaited their arrival at the Newark field office, though he would only have one customer tonight. The other two would need medical treatment and rest before they could be questioned.

  He hoped they could turn up the heat on the prisoner at the field office. Collating and analyzing data for trends could take too long. He had no doubt it would yield valuable results, but he needed something now. Carlisle’s interrogation tonight would be their best hope for moving things along quickly. Part of him wished they could divert the van carrying the prisoner to Sanderson’s people. An even darker part of him hoped that this plan was already in the works. He knew Sand
erson’s people were capable of taking down a prisoner transport van without causing friendly casualties. They had done it before. He erased the thought as quickly as he had formed it, angry that he had even let it slip through his moral safeguards.

  Chapter 24

  11:21 PM

  Hilton Hotel

  Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

  Jackson Greely had penned a few changes to the speech he’d given to the University of Pennsylvania Libertarian Association earlier that evening in Philadelphia. The event had been well attended by university alumni, students and members of the greater Pennsylvania Libertarian Party. He also recognized a few familiar faces from his own organization at the dinner. Typical of his university appearances, campus political organizers had protested his talk, citing many of his “old” talking points as reasons to ban him from the institution. Of course, he steered clear of these topics, playing to the crowd of libertarians who shared many of True America’s core beliefs, but shied away from True America’s concept of isolationism.

  Greely didn’t like using the libertarian favorite foreign policy word: non-intervention. Non-intervention was part of True America’s philosophy, but Greely and others felt that the concept was misleading. The U.S. would be forced to intervene in order to enforce the isolation necessary for the New Recovery. The international community had become reliant upon U.S. involvement, without realizing the scope of their dependence. Lost behind a tide of resentment, foreign politicians rallied against U.S. foreign policy without giving much thought to the consequences of its absence. When the Aegis shield held over them by the U.S. was suddenly lowered, chaos would ensue, requiring intervention to keep the backlash from reaching North American shores.

  Even U.S. sworn enemies in the Muslim world would panic. Without their convenient “bogeyman” to blame for the Middle East’s current state of decay, the Imams would be forced to come up with new material to inflame the expanding mass of Muslim youth. They’d still blame everything on Israel, but without U.S. support, even Israel’s “defiant” existence in the Holy Land would fade from relevance to many followers. Greely predicted a massive wave of violence from Muslim extremists, as they came to terms with the fact that they would soon lose their only connection to Muslims worldwide. Standoff intervention might be required for decades to keep this threat at bay, but he downplayed those aspects of True America’s core beliefs when speaking to libertarians. Their support would be crucial in the upcoming days and essential to 2008 election efforts to put the first president outside of the entrenched two-party system in the White House since Millard Fillmore was elected from the Whig Party in 1850.

  Jackson wished he could have spent more time in Philadelphia. The city radiated a palpable current of political vitality that never failed to energize him. The founding fathers had spent months creating the documents that had shaped this great nation, debating and deliberating with great care. Current politicians barely bothered to read the bills they signed or voted into law. Senators and congressmen utilized entourages of poorly paid staffers or volunteers to sift through the nonsense that none of them seemed qualified to examine on their own. All of this would change. The next few weeks would catalyze the American people and give them the courage to demand a new course of action for the nation.

  His cell phone rang, and he snapped it off the desk before it could ring a second time. He had expected to hear from Brown earlier. The operation in Brooklyn was of paramount importance to their organization. True America’s militant arm could not be connected to the events leading to the inevitable coup. Distanced from the rational, public face of the True America movement, the political leadership would rise to lead the nation into the New Recovery. But the rise would be tenuous, and any ties to Al Qaeda, regardless of the necessity, could foment opposition to the movement at a vulnerable stage. Brown’s orders had been explicit. Eradicate the last remaining link between the two organizations.

  “Give me some good news, Tommy,” he said.

  “We have a major problem. Possibly several,” Brown said.

  In the decade that Greely had known Brown, he had neither seen nor heard even a trace of panic or exasperation from the man. Brown kept his emotions in check, betraying nothing, even to his closest friends. Greely detected a shift in his tone, a combination of fear and dread that immediately set off every one of Greely’s internal alarms. He considered disconnecting the call until he could verify that Brown wasn’t speaking to him under duress.

  “What the fuck happened? This was an easy mop-up job.”

  “Not so easy when…one, you’re expected by the FBI, and two, the entire area is covered by SWAT. The teams got inside, but the feds had people in the market as well. Two of our operatives were captured. The rest were killed in the assault.”

  “This is a fucking disaster!” Greely roared. “Tommy, did they at least kill the Imam?”

  “Not that I can tell. My sources can’t confirm this one way or the other. I rather doubt the Imam was anywhere near the market.”

  “What does Estrada have to say about this clusterfuck? What does he know?”

  “That’s the worst part. Estrada is missing…and I don’t think he was taken by the FBI. His truck was found a few blocks away, crashed into a parked car. Davis was still buckled into the passenger sea—”

  “They caught Davis too?” Greely interrupted.

  “No. Davis was still strapped into the seat, shot through the head. Executed. Someone ambushed the car. My local PD contact said that two Arab-looking men helped the driver of the crashed SUV out of the truck and carried him down the block running. Do you think it was Al Qaeda?”

  “I doubt it. Al Qaeda is out of business from what we can tell. We know they grabbed the last cell in Bayonne this morning. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Maybe a cell operating outside of the Imam’s network? A cell activated to shadow the operation?” Brown suggested.

  “Maybe. Either way, we need to significantly accelerate our plans. If we fell victim to an FBI sting operation, then they have the Imam and he’s talking. Where are you right now?”

  “I’m on Interstate 79 outside of Morgantown, heading to Hacker Valley. I should arrive at the compound within the next two hours.”

  “Good. I need three things from you in the next twelve hours. First and foremost, get the compound ready to repel an immediate attack. You know what to do. Second, activate our insurance policy in D.C. I know it’s a rush job, but the feds are putting the pieces together quicker than we had anticipated. I want him ready by tomorrow evening. Lastly, send another team to deal with Young. Terminate with extreme prejudice, and tell them to be extremely cautious. They might have competition.”

  “Understood. I’ll start making some calls right now. How long do you think we have at the compound?”

  “At least twenty-four hours, probably more like thirty-six. Is everything set for tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes. They’ll start digging at noon,” Brown replied.

  “Perfect. I’ll let you go, Tommy. I need to clear out of here, just in case the FBI decides to suspend the Constitution and grab me out of my hotel room. I’ll be in touch shortly. Don’t hesitate to call if you run into a snag. We’re almost there. Just another week or so, and the country will have a fighting chance to realize a new era of American exceptionalism.”

  “Well worth the sacrifices, Jackson. I’ll see you up north in a few days.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Tommy. Make sure to get the hell clear of the compound as soon as possible. You don’t want to get caught up in that mess.

  “I’ll be out of there by midmorning at the latest.”

  “Good luck, and take a deep breath when you get off this call. I don’t need you driving your car into a ditch,” Greely said.

  He heard Brown laugh, which was a good sign.

  “I hear you. Long, deep breaths. Talk to you soon.”

  Greely started to collect his items and pack his bags for an immediate departure.
He’d steer clear of any known associates or regular stops from this point forward. Once he got on the road, he’d call Lee Harding and give him an update. Harding would have to go into hiding with him. Owen Mills had anonymously rented a comfortable house on Lake Wallenpaupack for their absence. From the house, they were perfectly situated for quick trips to the laboratory facility and the distribution hub in Honesdale, each less than twenty miles away.

  A perfect hideaway for the two of them until it was safe to emerge and make a statement in support of the New Recovery. Mills owned a significant lakeside estate a few miles south along the waterfront. Lake Wallenpaupack had turned into the epicenter of True America’s secret leadership cabal. Decades from now, people might travel from all corners of the country to catch a glimpse of the house used by New Recovery founders Jackson Greely and Lee Harding. Maybe it would become a national landmark.

  His most important call would be to Jason Carnes at the laboratory. Carnes had insisted that his people needed a minimum of eight days to get the bottles out of the lab. He needed them to cut that timeline in half. He needed those trucks rolling out of Honesdale as soon as possible. Everything hinged on the trucks delivering their cargo. Once delivered, it was in God’s hands.

  Chapter 25

  12:45 AM

  New Brunswick, New Jersey

  Aleem Fayed opened the basement door and stepped into the kitchen, closing it softly behind him. He tossed a small digital dictation machine on the kitchen counter and started to wash his blood-soaked hands in the sink.