by Marcus Wynne
She aced firearms.
Tucked behind her waist in a custom holster built specially for her by Tony Kanaly of Milt Sparks Leather was another custom piece: a combat custom .45 Combat Commander, the old steel framed Commander, a pre-series 70 that Karl Sokol, master gunsmith to the real world gunfighters of the CIA, military special operations units like CAG and DEVGRU, and the FBI HRT, had tuned up and trimmed down to fit her. She could draw and fire in .97 seconds, hitting a target in the head at 7 yards.
She’d done it to a human, too, a bank robber she’d confronted during a stake out when she was on the Bank Robbery Squad out of New York City, a clean fast kill with two .45 slugs onto the bridge of the unlucky felon’s nose. Lisa got her legendary status that day, while waiting for the shooting incident investigators, by going over to a hot dog stand nearby and wolfing down two Polish dogs and a Coke after killing the man.
A tough cookie, every one agreed who worked with her.
She paused for a moment, outside the door at the end of the hallway, and took a deep breath, held it for a count, let it out slowly. Basalisa Coronas would never let anyone see her do that; only an expert on facial deception might notice a flicker, a micro-expression of uncertainty cross her face, only to vanish in the flat hard mask she wore on the job.
She went into the room.
Seated around the table were the key players in the Critical Incident Response Group. Most of the senior agents from the Chicago Field Office, augmented by the heavy hitters she brought with her out of DC, the designated specialists from the investigation teams tasked to the Critical Incident Response Group, who only worked the hottest and most sensitive cases. The top guns…any of them who would stab her in the back in an instant to be in her position. Special Agent in Charge on the latest terrorist outrage, and one that had whipped the public into massive frenzy; a case with heavy handed Presidential involvement, a case monitored personally by the Director himself.
Basalisa took her time, slowly scanned the room, met the eyes of every agent in there, silent, letting the silence build.
Finally, she said, “Good evening, everyone.”
There was a murmur of replies, and she took stock of who was there in addition to her brothers and sisters from the Bureau. The usual suspects she’d been briefed to expect: representatives from TSA, and the lone rep from the Federal Air Marshals – the famous Hunter James. She let her gaze linger on him for a long moment, long enough for him to notice and respond…but he didn’t did he? He just gazed back, a faint smile on his face, not mocking, neutral and pleasant. His face was thinner from what she remembered in the pictures a year ago, after #923.
“Agent James,” she said, nodding to him.
“Agent Coronas. Pleasure to get the opportunity to work with you,” he said courteously.
She studied him again, a long moment, then took her time walking slowly around the table to the head of it, picked up the big black marker and stood in front of a clean, perfectly clear whiteboard set up so everyone could see it.
“You have the case file and notes I had prepared and sent ahead,” Basalisa said. Her tone was clear, matter of fact, and all the agents took the hint to take up the thin sheaf of papers and flip through them. Except Hunter James. He stayed focused on her.
“We have two primary focuses at this stage of the investigation,” Basalisa said without further preamble. “The first focus is the shooter at the airport. Forensics is working on several avenues: the DNA is being run through our national databases, including the military, the weapons are being tracked by ATF, if we can recover any pieces of his fingers – they’re still scraping him up out there, we might get some partial prints. We’ve flown the handgun and the portfolio to Quantico; there are some faint latent prints there. There was no identification, no wallet on his person, only the portfolio, the gun, and the hand grenade. However, we did catch what seems to be one break: there was a slip of paper in his right hand coin pocket of his slacks. It’s an address of a single family dwelling in Cicero. We have surveillance in place. Satellite coverage, helicopter over flights, and the best street people we have, brought in from DC and New York, working the neighborhood. There is no movement or indications that the house is occupied. We’ve done thermal imaging, but there’s a lot of clutter – it seems the heat is turned up in the house. We don’t know if that’s deliberate or not. We have deployed an element of HRT to a staging area, and some of you will join them before we make the assault and entry. Agent James, you have some experience working with HRT, yes?”
Hunter nodded. He’d worked with them in training both on shooting and tactics as well as aircraft recovery.
“I’d like you to be my eyes there. The techs will equip you with the necessary comms, so you can talk to them and me at the same time,” Basalisa said coolly.
“Of course,” Hunter said. “Now?”
“When I’m finished,” Basalisa said.
“Yes.”
She nodded, satisfied. “I want some agents to check out the home address of the two passengers killed. It’s unlikely, since it seems they were just unfortunate to be in the way, but we need to rule out if there was any previous connection. Gordon, can you task some agents for that?”
A thin, wiry agent whose expensive suit hung on him like a scarecrow’s clothing, nodded his close cropped blond head rapidly. “Got you, Lisa.”
That got him a cool look.
Gordon looked down, flustered.
“The second focus is to start tracking the release of the tape, both physical copies and the electronic versions. We’ve got agents working the ground everywhere a tape was actually delivered, but no joy so far. It seems the approach was pretty uniform – couriers approached on the street as though they’d been identified before, asked to deliver a package off the books for cash. Some descriptions, but the agents are working those. I’d like our people to look into that locally. Also, the cyber-crew…” she looked around the room and spotted the two young contractors, one man, another woman, dressed in hacker black and sporting piercings and tattoos, distinctly out of place in the room.
Basalisa seemed amused by them, and her tone was gentle. “You two geniuses, we really need you. To take a look at the routing of the e-mail delivery system. First look indicates a dedicated private server somewhere. We find that server, we have a link to Ahmed Samir Said. It’s on your shoulders, right?”
The two hackers looked at each other, their body language visibly rising with the recognition and public vote of confidence.
“We’re on it,” the woman said confidently.
“I’m counting on you,” Basalisa said.
She turned and faced the room, and let the silence grow for a long moment, a technique she’d learned a long time ago led to dominance in a room when you were running the show.
“I think it’s important to restate, for all of you, for the record, the absolute importance of your jobs here. We have the eyes of the world on us…and the President of the United States, not even mentioning the Director, has taken a personal interest in this case. We’ve got a chance to nip this in the bud, we move fast and hit hard. We can roll up Ahmed Samir Said and his lackeys and stop them before they take any more lives. We got lucky…we had one of the best on the ground when this went down.”
She nodded to Hunter, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, when all heads craned to look at him.
“But we can’t count on being lucky all the time. They can be lucky. We have to be good. The best there is. And that’s what we are.”
She took her time, looking each and every single one of her soldiers in the eye.
“Let’s get this done.”
At that, the team got as one to their feet, and began to hurry out of the room.
“Agent James?” Basalisa said. “I’d like to speak to you for a moment, please.”
Hunter turned to her, and she noted the slight hitch in movement as he did.
“What can I do for you, Agent Coronas?”
; There was a hint of pain in his face, Basalisa thought. Not just physical, either.
“Are you on medication?” she said.
“Just Tylenol. And the occasional glass of red wine. Why?”
“You seemed a little slow…”
“Here?”
“At the airport.”
She watched the color rise in his neck, then stop. That surprised her. She didn’t often see that level of self-control in shooters when challenged in that way.
“I’ve heard you’re fast,” he said.
Hmm.
“I’m concerned if something goes down, whether you’re fully up to speed or not.”
“You just gave me a tasking.”
“This is the two of us talking now. Bluntly, I don’t think you should be operating here. With us. You’re still in recovery, you’re slow, and you don’t have the investigative background.”
“Since it’s just us girls talking, then, Agent Coronas, I didn’t ask to be here. As you well know. And you know why, since it’s just us talking. So you’ll have to live with me, and me with you, whether we like it or not. And I wouldn’t worry about me being slow, Agent Coronas. When it’s time to move, I still remember how.”
“Yes. So I’ve heard. Keep that in mind.” She turned her attention to the stack of papers in front of her. “Thank you, Agent James. One of the duty drivers will take you out to the staging area.”
“You’re not coming?” A faint challenge there, she thought.
“No,” she said. “I’ll monitor from here. You have a reputation as a tactician and a reader, Agent James. Perhaps you’re familiar with the Four Oaths of the Samurai? Never be late with respect to the Warrior’s Way. Be useful to your lord. Be respectful to your parents. And…”
“…get beyond love and grief: exist for the good of man. Yamamoto Tsuenori, the Hagakure. Which of the oaths are you referring to, Agent Coronas?” Hunter said.
She smiled broadly. “Be useful to your lord, Agent James.” She turned her back and dismissed him.
1
“Who does the house belong to?” Hunter asked the shaven headed, hulking man in black tactical overalls who stood beside him in the front room of a shabby tract home across the street from the target house.
“It’s a rental,” the big man said in a mild, high pitched voice strangely incongruous with his appearance. “The landlord has been letting the tenant pay cash. Keep it off the books. House was sitting empty for almost a year, no buyers, then the landlord gets approached two months ago for a short term rental.”
The big man’s name was Ole Bjornstadt, a former All-American wrestling champion from Wisconsin. Now he was an assault team leader on the FBI Hostage Rescue Team, and he and his team stood by, ready to raid the house across the street. The house he and Hunter stood in had been taken over by the HRT, who’d come over the back fence and escorted the two old women who lived there away.
“So how you going to play it?” Hunter asked.
Ole looked at him. “Well, we got the floor plan from the home owner, got the lay out down and walked through. I already got sniper coverage, we got the eye in the air, support units ready to block the street when we give them the go ahead and blockers around the back and ready to charge the side yards. Me, I’m a simple guy. We just go in and bust down the front door and take over the damn place. How’s that sound?”
Hunter grinned. “Works for me, big man. Works for me.”
Ole turned and stared out across the street. “Surveillance got no activity. Thermal imagers aren’t working so great, the heat is turned up in there…can’t figure that out unless they’re hip to thermal imagery, which is not a good sign. There could be a small army laid up in there waiting for us to come through the door.”
“Watch and wait?”
“Boss lady said to be forward leaning. Me, I lean when she says forward.”
“Stealth entry?”
“Hard to play in the neighborhood…we can cross over, take out the streetlight with an air gun, make entry with night vision. My guys are tuned up for that. I’m still thinking dynamic is the way to go, get in, get it over with. But I am going to do the pizza trick here in a minute.”
“Pizza trick?”
“Oh, yeah. We went and borrowed a Domino’s sign and put it on a POV, dressed up one of our guys. He’s armored up, got a pistol on. He brings a pizza, real one, up to the door, knocks, see who answers. If nobody answers, that tells us something. If somebody does, he does the shuck and jive about is this the right address or what. We’ll get good take either way.”
“Sounds good.”
Ole studied the older man. “How you doing?”
Hunter was surprised. “What do you mean?”
“I heard you got hurt pretty bad.”
“I was.”
“And now?”
“Well, I won’t be kicking any doors, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Ole laughed. “That’s what us young guys are for, Agent James. We’ll do the heavy lifting. Everybody here knows your history. No shame in standing back and letting us do our thing.”
Hunter studied the younger man. Ole was probably in his early to middle thirties, in his prime as a shooter. Hunter thought for a moment about what he was doing when he was Ole’s age.
Pay attention, even to trifles.
That’s what the Raven would have said to him. The time to pay the closest attention is the time when you think you need it least. That’s the art of deception, Hunter…getting the other guy to think that he doesn’t need to pay attention. Or to convince him that he’s paying attention, when what he’s actually paying attention to is what YOU want him to…
“Damn right,” Hunter said, lightly. He felt a little swell of anger, or maybe resentment, let it rise, and then let it go.
By letting go, it all gets done.
That was his philosophy now.
“So what’s your contingency for resistance?” Hunter asked.
“We’re going in heavy,” Ole said. “My contingency is to run right over their rag head asses.”
“If they’re even in there.”
“That’s right.”
“Better do your thing, young agent.”
Ole laughed and clapped Hunter on the shoulder, then stepped back into the house and gave quiet orders to the other members of the twelve man assault team. Hunter watched them form up, saw the tension on their faces, smelt the faint whiff of adrenaline and fear and stress, the cocktail that these young operators thrived on, lived for…as he once had. Or maybe he still did. Otherwise why come to work?
What else would you do, Hunter?
He didn’t want to think like that.
He was more than what he did. He was more than just a great close quarters fighter. He wasn’t just a killer. There was more to his life.
Like what?
…you’ll never have children…
This is what you are, the Raven said. He held up his fighting knife, blood fresh on it. This is what WE are. Once you’ve tasted blood, there’s no going back…
Jesus Christ. What a feast of snakes he had in his head. Time to get his game face back on.
“Pizza man is rolling!” one of the radio operators said.
The stack of heavily armed and armored shooters lined up just behind the front door of the house, big Ole in the front. Hunter stood off to one side, just back of the big front window, and peeked out through the thin curtains, after making sure to look behind him and see that there were no lights to back-light him against the curtains. A battered Ford Tempo, dull red, pulled up across the street. The driver was switched on, Hunter could tell; he made sure and stop short of the concrete walk up to the front door, instead of pulling directly in like a regular driver would. Stopping short left room for the assault team to make a straight run across the street and up to the door if they needed to without having to buttonhook around the car, and still left them with some cover if they had to retreat.
The driver got out and
started whistling. The sound was loud and clear from his wireless body mike to the receiver set up at a table behind Hunter. That steady and mildly annoying whistle was meant to let his cover officers know that the equipment was working and that he was okay. The driver went to the door, paused, then rang the bell.
A long silence.
He rang the bell again, tilted his head close as though listening.
“Hello?” the driver called, his voice clear on the transmitter. “I hear you in there! Hello? I have your pizza! Hey, mister, you ordered it, you gotta pay for it!”
The driver knocked again. “Hey! I hear you in there, man! You don’t take this pizza, you’re gonna get black balled! No more pizzas from us, man!”
He waited a moment, then turned and walked slowly away, shaking his head sorrowfully, and got back into his car.
The driver’s voice was tense as he bent his head and fiddled with the ignition key. “There’s definite movement behind the door. Sounded like footsteps came up to the door, paused, and then went back deep into the house. No answer, no reply, didn’t see any of the windows move. But I definitely heard footsteps.”
He started the car and drove slowly away.