by David Perry
The large container of lighter fluid under the sink had been almost full. Jason had doused everything, emptying the can. The front and back doors, curtains, furniture. He’d ignited the fuel with the matchsticks lying beside the lighter fluid. The fire had caught and spread faster than he’d anticipated. The smoke and fumes had hugged the ceiling in less than a minute, nearly overwhelming him.
As the blaze intensified, he’d chunked a hole in the plaster of the wall shared with the adjoining apartment with a kitchen knife, pulling away pieces with his bare hands. He’d realized he should have gouged out the hole first, before starting the fire. That mistake had nearly cost him his life.
Beneath the plaster, only fire-rated plywood covered the studs. Jason found the seam between two sheets of plywood. Luckily, he’d been right about the apartment complex’s construction. There was no concrete firewall between the units. He worked the board away from the stud, ripping an opening. Several kicks forced out the plywood on the other side of the wall. Finally, he’d created an opening large enough to crawl through. At that point, Barbara’s apartment had been fully engulfed. He’d slid through the fourteen-inch opening between studs, pulling electrical wiring with him. The heat had suffocated him, smoke and flames licking at his Nikes.
The music was loud. That and the roar of the flames masked his break-in. The naked woman emerged from the bathroom as Jason darted for the front door. Soaking wet, singing, and gyrating to “Satisfaction,” the well-endowed female had frozen when she spotted him before letting out a scream.
She’d covered her breasts with one arm and her womanhood with the other as Jason walked calmly past. “The place is on fire,” he’d said. “You better get out.” He opened the door and stepped into the breeze-way, moments before the Secret Service agent he’d encountered at the shipyard appeared from around the corner.
Ducking behind the corner and belly-crawling along the cement patio, he rose up to all fours and made his way to the opposite corner. The killer was behind him, waiting in the reeds, apparently unaware of Jason’s escape. Jason crouched low, moving through the grass behind the man. He circled into the parking lot of the Patrick Henry Mall and completed his escape.
In the clearing, Jason stood to his full height. The heavy cloud cover hinted at coming rain. Every part of his body ached. The wound in his side felt like a torch had been taken to it. Despite his injuries, Jason pondered a question: how had they tracked him to Barbara’s apartment?
The killers had been one step behind him at every stage, at the hospital, his house, and now, the apartment. They’d tracked Christine and Peter as well.
He pulled Barbara’s phone out of his pocket. Barbara wouldn’t have given Jason up; even if she had, the police or the FBI would have shown up, not Zanns’s assassins. Had they followed him to Keller’s, then to the apartment? He doubted that, too. They had doubled back numerous times. They’d done nothing but drive to the apartment and collect their weapons. And Peter had made a call to the Secret Service agent.
Jason pounded a fist into his thigh. Phone calls! Of course!
His mind flashed to the attack at his house. Peter had called him on his home landline from Lisa’s cell, minutes before the killers burst in. He’d also used his wife’s phone to call Broadhurst. If they were tracking Peter, they’d be able to track his wife’s cell, too. Most cell phones contained GPS chips. Peter had mentioned moles in the Secret Service. Hell, a camera had been put in his house. It wasn’t a stretch to think they had access to their cell numbers.
Jason considered ditching the phone. He stopped, and instead he opened the back and removed the battery. He’d read somewhere that if the battery were removed, it couldn’t be tracked. They probably didn’t know Jason had Barbara Jensen’s phone. But he wasn’t taking any chances.
A second question again nagged him: how many were out there after him and the others? He did a quick tally. Peter had killed two men. He and Christine had left two more dead at his house. Two more men had followed him to the hospital, where one had died. His buddy was outside Barbara Jensen’s apartment. That made for at least six killers.
That invited a third, final question: how big was this conspiracy?
He already could imagine the answer.
That fact nudged him to make a decision. It was time to come in. He’d try it again. Staying on the run would only lead to his death. The flash drive in his pocket was his ticket. Jason was counting on the fact that Peter had reached Broadhurst and filled him in on the plot. He prayed, too, that his brother had negotiated terms for his surrender that would keep him out of jail until he could prove his innocence. The rendezvous point had been agreed upon in case of trouble. Jason began the slow trudge in that direction.
* * *
Broadhurst flipped open the laptop and inserted the CD. John Palmer had delivered it a minute ago and was standing to the side. The computers had finally come back online forty minutes ago. Broadhurst, together with two other agents, listened without comment. Palmer and the detective remained silent, letting the voices on the recording speak for themselves.
Broadhurst felt a frown crease his face. Everything about the recording sounded legit, but he needed to ask Peter Rodgers the question anyway. “How do I know this recording isn’t just a setup?”
Peter scoffed. “Two gunmen killed a detective from Newport News in my hospital room. Just ask Palmer here,” Peter said, pointing to the detective. “They were there to kill me, too. Hours before that two other guys also tried to put my lights out. The same thing happened to my brother. Walter Waterhouse is dead. How much more friggin’ proof do you need?”
Palmer added, “He’s right. I can confirm the murder of the private investigator. The Poquoson PD has set up a crime scene.”
“There’s something very sophisticated about this whole thing.”
“Ya think?” said Peter.
“According to your friend, this Simoon organization, if it exists, is of Middle Eastern origin. There are no countries or organizations in the Middle East other than the Israelis with the ability to do what they’ve done. Hell, if Austin’s right, the whole Secret Service communications network is compromised. They may have the financial resources, but not the intelligence network or electronic hardware to cripple the Secret Service. The sophistication is just not there.”
“You’re a spy now?” Peter challenged.
“No, just a law enforcement official. My job is to protect the president and keep him out of danger, and that includes assessing threats. This operation is too complex to be the work of a single organization like the Simoon.”
“You got all that from what I just told you.”
“I’ve been in law enforcement for fifteen years. If it walks like a duck…”
“So cancel the event.”
“I’d love to. That’s not my call. Austin was supposed to talk to the president. Now’s he’s dead. I don’t know if he even discussed it with him.”
“When do the presidents arrive?” Peter asked.
“That’s none of your business,” Broadhurst barked.
CHAPTER 89
The stench of stale urine and rotting food hung in the littered alleyway. Jason crouched beside a blue dumpster. Cars entered and left the parking lot of the 7-Eleven at the corner of Oyster Point Road and Jefferson Avenue every few minutes. Jason had no idea how long the walk from the sand company to City Center would take. Stealth, not speed, was the priority. That meant using wooded cover along Jefferson Avenue, cutting through parking lots and side streets. From behind the convenience store, he walked quickly to the edge of the sidewalk on Jefferson, staying in the shadows. Instead of using the crosswalk, he walked a hundred yards south and crossed in front of a Plaza Azteca, timing his jaunt across both directions of the divided avenue so he wouldn’t have to stop in the median.
* * *
“Are you sure?” Vince Mahoney, the director of the Secret Service, asked.
Mahoney had been Broadhurst’s second call. The
first had been to the former president, Jacob R. Hope, at the Williamsburg Inn. Broadhurst had explained the threat in roundabout terms to the chief of Hope’s protection detail and then to the old man himself, hoping to convince him to cancel the christening of his own ship. After some pointed questions, Hope told him he had confidence in the service and that he wasn’t getting any younger. The event would proceed as planned.
“Yes, sir,” Broadhurst replied to Mahoney’s question. “As sure as we can be…There’s one other thing, sir. It seems we have moles inside the service. These folks are privy to information only known by a select few agents. I’m pursuing a witness who has knowledge of that fact. Apparently, they’ve been planning this for some time.” Broadhurst explained about the discovery of documents in Jason Rodgers’s home.
“You’re just full of good news tonight.” Mahoney hung up.
Peter, who had been escorted out of the room so Broadhurst could speak with Mahoney, was led back in, along with John Palmer.
“For the third and last time, where is your brother?”
“I don’t know, I told you!”
Peter had tried to call Jason on his cell phone then on Barbara Jensen’s phone. Both calls rolled to voice mail.
“That fire was deliberately set. You said there was no one else in the apartment when you left. So he must have started it. Why would he do that?”
“They—whoever they are—are out there trying to kill us. They must have caught up with him. Starting the fire was probably his only way out.”
“How did they catch up with him? What did you do while you were there?”
“We unloaded the guns from the car and I called you from my wife’s cell—” Peter stopped and snapped his fingers. He looked at the phone lying on the table. “Son of a bitch! They must have triangulated our position. I hope I didn’t give him away.”
“We don’t know how close these guys are to finding him. Hopefully, your brother’s smart enough to ditch the phone.”
“The calls rolled immediately to voicemail. He’s probably turned it off or taken the battery out.”
“Any bright ideas on how we can find him?”
Peter thought for a moment and said, “I have a pretty good idea where he’ll be at eleven o’clock tonight.”
“Let’s hope we find him before these terrorists do!”
CHAPTER 90
“He’s probably hiding, waiting for us to show,” said Peter.
Broadhurst steered past the Marriott Hotel, circling the fountains at City Center.
There was no sign of Jason. The Friday night revelers crowding the sidewalks weren’t making spotting him any easier.
“We’ve circled three times already! You sure he’ll remember where to meet you?” Broadhurst paused. “Or he’s dead—”
Peter shot him a hard glance. “He knows where to meet me!”
Broadhurst pulled to the curb. “Now we wait,” he said.
Fifteen minutes passed. The back door of the car opened. Jason slid into the rear seat and said, “You’re late.”
Both men jerked their heads around. Peter smiled at his brother. “Let’s get out of here,” Jason said.
“Jason,” Peter said, “This is Special Agent Broadhurst of the Secret Service.”
Broadhurst nodded at the pharmacist. Jason smiled stiffly, remembering their encounter at the shipyard, and said, “We’ve met. Now, can we get the hell out of here?”
* * *
The physician stood between Jason and Peter’s beds, looking at his two patients. The service had used him before. He was well paid, didn’t ask a lot of questions, and, most importantly, kept his mouth shut. Broadhurst was by the window, looking at the brothers, but not seeing them. His mind was focused on other matters. Three untainted agents from the Richmond field office were standing guard in the hall.
“You’ve torn the surface sutures in your knee,” the doctor said to Peter. “Try not to move. I’ve sutured the wound back in place. The internal sutures are intact. There’s minimal bleeding. Your lung function appears to be okay. You didn’t inhale too much smoke. The burns are minor. The antibiotic cream will keep them from getting infected. You’re one lucky SOB.”
The physician turned toward Jason, frowning. “You, young man, however, are in much worse shape,” he said.
Broadhurst winced when he looked at Jason. The civilian had endured a hell of a lot in the last forty-eight hours. Jason’s cheek was swollen and red from the attack in his home. The left eye was almost closed, and looked like he’d gone through seven defenseless rounds with Mike Tyson. His nostrils were black and congealed with blood.
The doctor ran a light over both pupils and palpated the entire length of Jason’s body one more time, checking for unseen injuries and assessing neurological function. Jason lay still, unable or unwilling to respond. The physician unwrapped the elastic bandage from around his waist and removed the blood-soaked gauze from the hole in his side. Jason jumped as the gauze tore away.
“This man needs surgery. I see signs of infection,” the doctor announced after inspecting and probing the wound. “His kidney’s probably been lacerated. Quite frankly, I’m amazed he’s still conscious. Except for the wound in his side, nothing else is life threatening. But this wound needs to be treated.”
“Not until I resolve some issues, Doc,” Broadhurst countered.
“He needs to be in a hospital!” said Peter.
“My job is to protect POTUS. Your brother stays in my custody until I understand and secure the situation.” Broadhurst turned to the physician and said, “Do what you can, Doc.”
“I can give him IV antibiotics,” the doctor said. “I’ll make a call. Give me an hour and I can have them here.”
“Do it,” Broadhurst commanded.
The doctor left to order his drugs.
“You bastard! You heard the doctor. He needs surgery!” Peter persisted. “We’re not helping you until you get him to a hospital!”
“Peter, that’s enough,” Jason mumbled through the side of his mouth. “I’ve come this far. I’m seeing it through. What do I need to do?”
“Start from the beginning.”
Jason explained the series of events Peter had shared with Broadhurst earlier, but in much greater detail.
“The recording mentions shooting locations,” said Broadhurst.
“Fairing lives in the Windsor Towers just north of the shipyard,” Jason said. “His condo overlooks the dry dock. I think they’re gonna take a shot from his apartment in the towers.”
“We’ve been to his apartment. He’s not there. I’ve got agents standing guard outside the door. The same with Zanns’s estate. It seems they’ve all disappeared.”
“Maybe they left town?” asked Peter.
“Until I question them or have them in custody, we go on the assumption that they’re still a threat.”
“Why not postpone the christening?” Jason asked, propping himself on his elbows.
“I’ve tried that. It’s a no-go.” The director of the Secret Service, Vince Mahoney, had already returned Broadhurst’s call. Both presidential father and son had denied his request for a postponement.
“So what happens now?”
“I’m going back to the shipyard to finalize a few things. You two need to get some sleep. The agents outside the door will make sure you’re not disturbed,” said Broadhurst.
“Or that we leave?” Peter said. “Are we being detained?”
“Let’s just say that you’re guests of the Secret Service.” Broadhurst smiled. “I’m certainly not convinced that recording isn’t a fake. So you two will remain that way until I release you after the christening tomorrow. If you want to leave, you can. But I will make sure you have two agents attached to each of you at the hip to keep you safe, if you know what I mean.” Broadhurst took a step toward the door, then stopped. “And there are two more agents in a car sitting beneath your window,” he added with a slight smile.
Peter motioned toward
the men outside the door. “How do you know they’re not—”
“Moles?”
“Yeah.”
“Because they’re from our Richmond field office. They helicoptered in a few hours ago. They’re untainted. If they’re not, you’ll be dead soon.”
CHAPTER 91
Saturday, October 7
Capped by vaulted ceilings and adorned with Persian carpets and expensive tile, the Omni’s lobby boasted a gourmet coffee bar and ornate sofas. The gray morning light filtered through the rain-dotted windows. The phalanx of agents engulfed Jason and Peter in a tight, fast-moving perimeter as they exited the elevator. Heads turned when they emerged. This was not the slow, casual movement normally seen in the lobby of a luxury hotel.
Two smaller agents led the way as Jason and Peter were marched toward the entryway. Each was taller than Jason, with wide shoulders and short, gelled crew cuts. The brothers were flanked by the larger third and fourth agents. Each man clutched a fistful of deltoid, ensuring they did not slow the human convoy.
A young boy pointed at Jason’s grotesquely mutilated face as he and his brother limped along. “Look at that man, Mommy,” he said. The embarrassed mother quickly shushed her son.
The damp morning air was thickened by the rain and clouds. Two large black SUVs pulled under the overhang. Doors flew open, and the agents shoved their charges inside.
Jason only had a moment to breathe in the sweet air before he was shoved inside the second SUV. The two doses of intravenous antibiotics had quelled his fever during the night, but Jason was far from out of the woods. Without further treatment, the infection would return, threatening sepsis and more bouts of agony.
Jason had promised Broadhurst early this morning he was not about to let the small matter of his health get in the way of stopping these killers. Jason was not the Secret Service’s prisoner. He could leave anytime, with a gaggle of well-armed men following close enough to know when he farted. Though technically not a prisoner, Jason was held captive to a more sinister force: the knowledge that his failure to act could cost important lives.