“Without a doubt. And don’t you forget that either.”
I won’t, thought Flagg, fighting against the gale-force wind and random debris strikes on the return trip to his SUV. The wind eased when he reached the back of the dust-caked vehicle, a quick glance over his shoulder confirming that the dark shape of Petrov’s convoy was gone. He opened the front passenger door and dumped his body into the seat, feeling wasted.
“Jesus!” said Leeds. “I didn’t even see you coming. What happened?”
“Don’t ask.”
Leeds put the vehicle in drive, easing them forward into a wide U-turn. Flagg emptied the half-consumed bottle of spring water in the door cup holder over his sand-blasted face, saving the last swig to rinse the sand out of his mouth. He spit the grainy water into the foot well between his legs and took a deep breath.
“We have a deal with that crazy motherfucker, but mark my words, Nick. I will kill that son of a bitch as soon as he no longer serves a purpose.”
CHAPTER 3
The aroma of deep-roasted coffee greeted Jon Fisher as he opened the coffee shop door for his wife. As she passed through the door, he nodded appreciatively at Scott Gleason, who saluted Jon and drove around to the drive-through line in his tan Jeep Wrangler. He’d make sure to tell the barista to charge whatever Scott ordered to his own tab. It was the very least he could do for a friend who had opened his home to them under risky circumstances, asking for nothing in return.
Leah turned to him. “Why don’t you get our boy on the line? I’ll get your usual.”
“Give them an extra ten and tell them Scott’s drink is on me,” said Jon.
“Great idea,” she said, kissing him. “Be right back.”
He watched her walk to the counter, every bit as deeply in love with her as ever. She had been a trouper during his long Marine Corps career, enduring his extended absences and extended work hours as a senior enlisted Marine without complaining. Well—she could complain with the best of them, but she never made him feel guilty for the time he missed with her or Nathan. She’d struggled to eke out a career as a special education teacher, making inroads at one school just in time to be ripped away by one of his mandatory career transfers.
She’d been able to settle into a longer-term position at an Oceanside, California, elementary school during the final eight years of his career, when he bounced around between sergeant major positions at Camp Pendleton. He’d been gone a lot, but she was the happiest he’d ever seen her. With his retirement looming, he’d left it up to her to decide whether they’d stay in California or head north. If she’d wanted to stay and build on her teaching career, he would have supported the decision wholeheartedly. Decision time yielded a surprising turn of events—unknown to Jon, Leah had given the school district notice of her departure a few months before his retirement.
As much as Leah wanted to stay and continue teaching, the realities of transitioning from a comfortable, military-subsidized lifestyle to being a full-fledged member of California’s oppressed citizenry didn’t appeal to her. Sure, they would have been able to skirt a number of regulations and social controls by shopping and gassing up their cars on base, but they would still be subject to the same travel restrictions, home water-use limits, and utility caps. Not to mention the fact that they’d only had two viable options for housing due to the insane cost of California real estate.
They could rent an apartment in the federally sponsored military retirement community adjacent to Camp Pendleton, a sprawling mess of high-rises built by the VA to address the retiree income issue. Two tiny bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, a kitchen that flowed into the family room and a glorious view of Interstate 15—all for the price of his monthly pension, plus part of Leah’s paycheck. Not exactly what either of them had in mind after giving thirty years to the Marine Corps.
Their other choice involved sinking everything they’d saved outside of his guaranteed pension in a modest home twenty to thirty miles east. The state would cut them a break on travel back and forth from the military base of their choice and any VA medical facilities, but that would be it, beyond Leah’s authorized drive to work and back. They’d be lucky to get a thousand square feet of home, on a desert scrub lot, in the middle of nowhere.
In the end, there hadn’t really been a choice at all. Jon still felt terrible about it, even though Leah had called the shots from day one of their retirement. She’d chosen the land in central Idaho, the building site and the house plans. Everything. He was along for the ride, and a smooth ride it had been—until a few days ago. It had killed him to see the despondent but accepting look on her face when she understood that they might drive away from this house forever. That once again, Leah’s life wasn’t her own.
She’d said very little on the drive up to Montana, and he couldn’t blame her.
Jon settled at a small table next to the front plate-glass window, opening his laptop case and placing the thin, silver laptop on the table. They had a few hours to kill in Starbucks while Scott ran a few errands. More than enough time to get in touch with Nathan and check on their house in Idaho. He was dying to know if Cerberus had paid it a visit. Part of him wished he had taken the time to rig up some kind of trap. He had a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun that would have made one hell of a greeting for anyone entering his workshop through the ground-level door.
He smiled at Leah, who stood facing him by the counter, waiting for their drinks. She put a hand to her ear, gesturing for him to call. He wasn’t sure who was more anxious to hear from their son. The strict but completely understandable rules enforced by Scott on behalf of the survival community had prevented them from making contact with Nathan while they were holed up with them. Neither of them had spoken with him since the night they’d left Idaho.
Jon took the phone out of his jacket, eyeing it apprehensively. The screen showed no new voice or text messages. Part of him didn’t want to make the call. There was no guarantee that good news awaited him on the other end of the line. He stared at it for a few more seconds before selecting the right number and pressing “Send.” Encryption protocols negotiated the satellite transfer as Leah gathered their drinks. She’d made it halfway to the table when the call forwarded to a voice mail box assigned to the number.
The phone was powered down—or worse.
He waited for the digital voice to finish before leaving a message in the agreed format. “June tenth. Seventeen fourteen hours. No change in status,” he said, pressing “End.”
He shook his head at Leah when she arrived. “No answer. Sorry.”
Her face deflated for a moment before she forced a thin smile and nodded.
“Hold on,” he said, getting up to pull her chair out.
“Thank you.”
They sipped their drinks in silence, staring at nothing in particular beyond the window.
“I’m sure they’re fine,” she said, putting her warm hand over his on the table.
He took a deep breath and let it out. “I know. I just want to hear it from Nathan.”
“Me, too,” she said, squeezing his hand. “He’s in good hands.”
“I know. I just thought he would have called by now. At least left a message,” he said.
“They’re probably being extra cautious. The longer Cerberus thinks they’re still on Pendleton, the better,” she said.
“You’re right,” he said, placing the phone on the table.
With Cerberus focused on Camp Pendleton, Nathan could slip away from the Marine Corps base in Yuma, eventually joining Jon and Leah to the north. He took a long sip of his coffee, savoring the dark roast flavor.
“Do you want to read the stories with me?” he said, scooting his chair a few inches toward the window.
“No. You go ahead for now,” she said. “It’s all lies anyway.”
“All right,” he said, opening the laptop.
Jon was kind of glad she didn’t want to look. He wanted to check on their house first but didn’t want to do that in front of her.
After connecting with the Starbucks wireless signal, he navigated to a password-protected site, granting him access to his home security system’s page. A flagged message indicated activity deep within his home. He clicked on the message, reading the time and date of the activity. The infrared sensors had picked up movement in both his workshop and the first-floor hallway between 11:35 and 11:42 on June 7. Barely two hours after they left. Sons of bitches! His left hand gripped the table next to his coffee cup.
The system ceased transmitting at 11:42, suggesting that the team had finally discovered the security system. He released the table and drank his coffee, signing out of the remote security server. They could have burned the house to the ground for all he knew. Even more infuriating, he might never know. They couldn’t safely return to that house until this business with Cerberus was settled once and for all. The thought of what it might take to get to that point was beyond his grasp at the moment.
“Anything interesting?” said Leah.
“Not really,” he said. “Do you want me to grab you a paper? They have the New York Times and a few local ones.”
“I’m fine,” she said, casting a distant, depressed look out the window.
“We may be here awhile.”
“I may grab one in a minute,” she said, nodding.
Jon typed a few keywords guaranteed to bring up the latest news, surprised to see that the manhunt for their son had been extended nationally. He found no mention of David Quinn, which was a relief. Stuart’s son had risked everything to help Nathan and his family. He would have hated to see his name dragged through the mud, too. Reading the articles about his son stoked a rage he hadn’t felt since Afghanistan. Cerberus had framed Nathan for two murders, one of which occurred while he was hiding at Camp Pendleton. Now the police were investigating unusual bank deposits. What a crock of shit. He wished he hadn’t bothered to check.
“You’re turning red, Jon,” said Leah.
“I think you had the right idea,” he said, closing the laptop. “Bunch of bullshit lies. He’s a federal fugitive now.”
“Of course he is. He’ll be on Interpol’s watch list next,” said Leah. “Have you heard from Stuart?”
“No. I told him I’d call with an update once we got into town,” said Jon. “At least David’s name is still out of the news.”
“He might appreciate hearing that, and maybe he’s talked to them already through some other means. He seems to have a few tricks up his sleeve.”
“True. I’ll grab a refill and check in with him. Need anything?” he said, scooting his chair back.
“I’ll take a blueberry scone,” she said. “And a chocolate chip cookie. Why not?”
“I can’t think of a reason,” he said, kissing her on the forehead before he left.
CHAPTER 4
Chris Riggs took another sip of lukewarm coffee from the Best Western mug and stared out of the suite’s wide sliding door at the pine tree–covered slopes of Mount Baldy. A few white lines of snow zigzagged between the seas of green, showcasing the remnants of Sun Valley Ski Resort. At least the room had a view. He’d been stuck in Ketchum since Thursday night. Close to three days babysitting the Cerberus tech-support team flown out by Flagg. The evidence team had done their work in less than twenty-four hours, finding nothing to indicate where Jon Fisher might be headed. That left him with the goth gang.
Nissie Keane, the lead computer tech, wasn’t too hard on the eyes—if you didn’t mind an unhealthy number of facial piercings, tattoos up her neck, and a partially shaved head. He wouldn’t turn down a go at her in one of the bathrooms if she were up for it. So far, she hadn’t shown any interest outside of the computer screens in the dining room and the playlist of god-awful music seeping past her earphones.
The rest of the group fit the same mold, which led him to suspect they were a contract team of hackers brought in from the outside. A group that had probably worked together for a long time on highly questionable projects—like his own crew. Disappearing the parents of a sanctioned Cerberus target must fall outside approved company boundaries—a first, in his experience.
“Got him!” yelled Nissie, spinning in her seat to face him. “He logged into the Protekt server at Aegis Solutions from an IP address corresponding to a Starbucks in Missoula, Montana—5750 Grant Creek Road. Total activity time, thirty-nine seconds.”
“He knows we paid his house a visit,” said Riggs, who had already arrived at the dining room table. “Is he still online?”
“His computer is still connected to the Starbucks Wi-Fi signal.”
“Then we better get our asses up there right away. It’s a thirty-minute flight from the Ketchum airport,” said Riggs, pointing at his operatives. “Tex, call the crew and make sure they can take off as soon as we climb on board. Ross, load up whatever gear we need that isn’t already stowed on the plane. We walk out of here in three minutes.”
“You don’t need to move that fast,” said Nissie. “Missoula has citywide Wi-Fi coverage. I’m already pinging his laptop. We can follow him anywhere.”
Both of the operatives stopped, looking at him to see if her statement changed anything.
“What the fuck!” he yelled at them. “Is she in charge now?”
The two men started mumbling apologies.
“Get moving!” he screamed before speaking calmly to Nissie. “What do you need to track this guy?”
“My laptop rig, power source, and a broadband satellite connection.”
“Do you need another tech?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Good. I’m taking you on the aircraft. You have two minutes to get the gear you need,” he said. “I want the rest of your team driving up to Missoula within fifteen minutes. Can anyone here even drive?”
Only one hand out of the five remaining techs shot up.
“That’s what I figured,” he said. “We’ll leave you the keys to one of the Suburbans.”
“I’ve never driven anything bigger than a minielectric,” said the tech.
“Then it’s time to grow up and drive a real car. You’ll thank me for it later,” said Riggs.
He walked to the master bedroom, where he kept the duffel bag with his personal weapons kit. One the way, he dialed Flagg.
“We’ve located Jon Fisher in Missoula. I have the jet spooling up for takeoff. We’re out the door in less than three minutes. Travel time—”
“Twenty-seven minutes. I know all of this. I’m patched into the tech team’s feed. He’s using a Starbucks on the northern outskirts of Missoula, stuck in between several chain hotels. It’s less than two miles from the airport.”
“Perfect,” said Riggs. “With a little luck, we’ll nab him before he finishes his coffee.”
“Don’t count on it. He’s likely staying at one of the hotels, in a room paid for by someone we haven’t connected to him.”
“The computer bitch is pinging his laptop. We’ll find him wherever he hides.”
“That computer bitch is one of the best in the business,” said Flagg. “I’d like the option of employing Miss Keane again, so don’t piss her off.”
“Copy that,” he said, lifting the duffel bag onto the bed.
“Remember, Riggs. I want Mr. and Mrs. Fisher alive. Don’t jump the gun on this. You bring me the Fishers, and I’ll let you burn their house down.”
Riggs grinned. Flagg knew how to make him happy. “Kidnapping is one of our specialties,” he assured him. “We won’t fuck this up.”
“That’s why I hired you. Notify me the moment you land in Missoula,” said Flagg. “And Chris?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful up there. Stuart Quinn remains off the grid. Jon Fisher’s his best buddy. Quinn could be anywhere in the country by now.”
“Understood,” he said, seeing that the call had already disconnected. “Hot damn,” whispered Riggs, shouldering the bag and returning to the two-story great room.
Nissie zipped her b
lack leather jacket when he arrived and grabbed her laptop case.
“Miss Keane. See you in the parking lot shortly.”
He paused for a moment before walking toward the front door—wanting nothing more than to burn that smug look off her face.
CHAPTER 5
Stuart Quinn squinted at the upcoming highway sign, still unable to read the words. He waited a few seconds. ST. JOSEPH 28 MILES. Three days ago, he could have read that sign from twice this distance. Exhaustion was taking a cumulative toll on his senses, which came as no surprise. He’d been running nonstop since the night he’d unearthed the sordid details linking the international conglomerate the Sentinel Group to Cerberus International, the secret paramilitary group hunting down his son and Nathan Fisher.
Disappearing from the grid and mustering the initial resources necessary to help his son in the short term had taken more time and effort than he’d expected. Acquiring a vehicle with no link to him hadn’t been easy, or cheap, and stepping into a clean identity had been no less complicated or costly thanks to the recent proliferation of state and city government–installed facial recognition systems (FRS). It was no longer good enough to hit the streets with a shiny new set of source-quality, undetectable counterfeit IDs. You had to emerge looking different enough to fool FRS, and the deception had to be consistently maintained in public if you wanted to remain hidden.
Federal law enforcement agencies devoted significant funding to co-opting municipal and state FRS feeds, posing a significant detection risk. The Department of Homeland Security maintained a massive persons-of-interest FRS database, reportedly tracking the real-time movements of nearly a million people. He’d be surprised if his profile hadn’t been added to the database—flagged top priority thanks to patrons of Sentinel.
Thanks to a longtime friend and former CIA identification counterfeiter, he could roam the streets freely as Devlin Rhoades, as long as he followed a few rules. He had to wear opaque, color-changing infrared contact lenses to foil a quick eye scan, one of the most common detection methods. A pair of microbattery-powered sunglasses that modified the bridge of his nose and matched any alteration of his body temperature attacked the second most common identification marker. A mouthpiece raising his cheeks and widening his jaw distorted the skeletal framework markers. On top of this, they’d waxed and reshaped his eyebrows, covered his bald head with a surprisingly stylish hairpiece, and taught him a few subtle makeup tricks. It now took him longer to get ready than his late wife had.
Rogue State (Fractured State Series Book 2) Page 3