by A. J Tata
“Beverly, you still flying this thing?”
“Roger, but losing control. My collective is shot,” Setz said. She struggled with the helicopter and fortunately had some room to fall on the eastern side. The Blackhawk leveled out, and Setz flew to Hendersonville Airfield, which ran parallel with I-26 about thirty miles south of Asheville.
“No gas at Buncombe and no room for a crash landing,” Setz said.
“We need to get Mahegan to a hospital,” McQueary said.
“I’ve called ahead,” Setz said. “There is a hospital four miles from the airfield. There will be an ambulance waiting.”
“No,” Oxendine said. “The doctor works on him at the airport while I question him.”
“You can’t be serious,” McQueary said. “This man is wounded. Head trauma.”
“I’m serious as a heart attack. He’s involved in something happening here. Those three guys were his men. Everywhere he is, there’s bad guys coming at us. We can torture our enemies overseas? We can do the same here,” Oxendine said.
“You know we can all actually hear what you’re saying,” McQueary remarked.
“I know you can. Write it down. Record it. Mahegan is on the gray list. Possible detain. His weapon was found near a murder scene. That weapon committed the murder. I’ve got a Skype meeting with my evidence team and operations center when we land,” Oxendine said.
The aircraft hovered slowly and began to descend into the dark single-strip runway in Hendersonville. Blue lights flashed in the distance, serving as a beacon.
Setz did an adequate job of getting the hindered aircraft to the ground safely. As soon as they landed, the SWAT team disembarked and dragged Mahegan into one of the empty hangars, where they laid him on a sturdy worktable covered in grease and airplane parts.
“Get the ambulance over here now,” McQueary said.
The medics came running, and the ambulance driver followed. The weak light in the hangar was insufficient, so the medics used the headlights from the ambulance to assess Mahegan’s condition.
Oxendine watched as a car raced up next to the ambulance and a man and woman in blue scrubs leapt out of the car.
“We got the call there was a serious patient,” the female doctor said. “Why isn’t he in the ambulance?”
“Because I said so,” Oxendine said. “This man is a terrorist on U.S. soil. We need him treated, but just enough so that we can question him.”
“Once a patient goes into my care . . . whoever you are . . . they remain in my care. Is that clear?”
“I’m Special Agent Tommy Oxendine, and I’m in charge here. Do what you have to do to keep him alive, nothing more.”
The doctor shook her head and said, “I’m not wasting any more time with you.”
She walked up to Mahegan, and Oxendine followed. Frankly, Mahegan looked okay. He wasn’t sure what McQueary and the others were talking about.
Then he saw the blood coming from Mahegan’s ears.
“Q, guard this place like it’s your home and child molesters want your daughter,” Oxendine said. McQueary nodded and deployed his men to the four corners of the hangar.
Oxendine walked to the small building that some might have considered a terminal. It looked like an abandoned brick ranch house with a glass door instead of a wooden one. Inside was a man dressed with a UNC–Chapel Hill Tar Heels jersey over a set of blue overalls. He had gray hair and a sleepy face with jowls hanging like a bulldog’s.
“Can I do you for?” the man asked.
“I’m Special Agent Oxendine with the State Bureau of Investigation. You got Wi-Fi?” His adrenaline was flowing.
“I’m Tucker Thompson. I’m in charge of this airfield. You’re on my turf, so back it down just a bit.”
Oxendine had his man, but something was nagging him at the back of his mind. He had four text messages from Lucy Cartwright, the officer in charge of the SBI operations center. While he could get testy with Director Black, a one-and-done patronage appointee too scared to leave his office, he preferred not to piss off Cartwright, and he’d already pushed those boundaries. She was known for incisive decision making, slightly outranked Oxendine, and was well connected with both political parties. The texts referenced his forensic technician at the Sledge crime scene who needed him to call her, or preferably, to Skype with her. She had something to show him.
“Wi-Fi?” Oxendine reiterated. He wasn’t backing down.
“Yeah, we got Wi-Fi out here, Special Agent. Here’s the password,” Thompson said, handing him a piece of paper.
Oxendine nodded, retrieved his iPad from his pack, and powered it on. Shortly, he was connected to Skype and called Cartwright. As the Skype call was buzzing, he looked up at Thompson, who pointed out a small room. Oxendine closed the door as Cartwright came on the screen.
“We’ve got him, Lucy. Wrapping this thing up,” Oxendine said. He sat in a chair at a small gray, metal desk with several papers loosely scattered across the top. He smelled old sweat and cardboard. This was someone’s office, rarely used.
“Tommy, look. This thing isn’t what we think it is,” she said. “We’ve got a team at General Savage’s house in Vass, and someone stole this pistol from a shadow box.”
“So? Mahegan stole it.”
“No, it was a gift from Mahegan. Right there in the shadow box it has an inscription on a brass plate that says, ‘Congrats, Boss.’ And there’s a bunch of initials, including. P.O., C.M., S.O’M. That’s Patch Owens, Chayton Mahegan, and Sean O’Malley. Owens and O’Malley went missing when General Savage did, apparently. No one can find them.”
“You’re saying this is a group effort? Savage murdered his ex-wife? Mahegan and them are in on it or running that operation in the mountains?”
“I don’t know anything about the mountains and, no, that’s not what I’m saying. Remember the sliding boot prints? When kids try on their parents’ shoes and try to walk, they always slip and slide. My daughter did that just the other day with a pair of my heels. Made me think of these casts Emily took from the crime scene. Someone wore bigger boots than their feet required. Someone was trying to make it look like Mahegan.”
Oxendine paused, the adrenaline keeping his mind in high gear. “I don’t know, Lucy. What about the fingerprints on the military police car?”
“Well that, too. Those military policemen were Syrian terrorists. The one still alive is talking. Not saying much, but the FBI is there in Moore County setting up shop now.”
“The FBI! Why didn’t you tell me?” Oxendine roared. He wanted to have this thing wrapped in a tight little package with a bow before the feds got involved.
“I just did. Now calm down. You can still win this thing,” Cartwright said, knowing Oxendine perhaps better than he knew himself.
“Not looking to win anything,” he said, knowing his voice sounded hollow.
“Okayyy,” Cartwright said. “Here’s what I’m seeing based upon the evidence. We have two dead terrorists in a golf lodge in Pinehurst. One was shot by a Sig Sauer Tribal and the other by an AR-15. Very distinctive hammer imprint on the shell casings. See what kind of pistol your guys got off Mahegan. Second, when we were checking Savage’s house in nearby Vass, we found Mahegan’s Jeep Cherokee. Government issued, but it’s his. Fingerprints all over it. Was in Savage’s garage. We also matched slugs found in the wall of the Pinehurst golf lodge to the two weapons—an AR-15 and a Glock 19—found in Mahegan’s Jeep. The military police vehicle the terrorists used left tire tracks in the back of Savage’s property, and there’s a set of storm doors there. No one has been able to get past the combination lock yet, but they’re trying. Somebody framed Mahegan or maybe even thought they were framing Savage, because they stole the pistol from Savage’s house. There’s just no way Mahegan did what you think he did. The pistol, the MPs, the boots, and last, the shooter’s stance.”
“The shooter’s stance?”
“Yes, the bedroom has thick pile carpet. Top-of-the-line padding under
neath. Mahegan weighs maybe two hundred thirty pounds, right? Big guy. The casts Emily took and demonstrations she did using some of the techs on scene show that the shooter used a square stance, feet level with one another, and weighed between one hundred twenty and one hundred seventy, max.”
Oxendine thought for a moment. Clearly Cartwright was trying to convince him that Mahegan was not his man. He had to work his way through the maze of untangling his beliefs and the evidence Cartwright had just presented. His eagerness to capture Mahegan had driven him like jet fuel, but first and foremost, Oxendine considered himself a patriot and a North Carolinian. Sure, he’d never served in the military, but he’d been law enforcement all of his life. Same thing, mostly, Oxendine believed. It’s about service, not personal goals and vendettas.
He sighed audibly. Cartwright noticed.
“Okay. Flushed all that you believed before?”
“You’re getting me there, Lucy. Damnit. Who made you so smart?”
“My daughter. Now listen,” she continued, “Vicki Sledge kept a journal. There was another woman involved with General Savage. Her father is some big shot.”
Cartwright continued.
And then it all made sense to Oxendine.
CHAPTER 33
ALEX RUSSELL/AMERI ASSAD RAISED HER ARMS TO THE DEPARTING helicopter and shouted, “Kill me, you bastard!”
Calm down, calm down now, Alex, Ameri said to Alex.
“What the fuck! I’m talking to myself,” Alex said.
No. You’re talking to me, Ameri. I’m who you are. I’m here to help you through this. We’re here to kill the Americans who killed Fatima and Malavdi. You’ve planned all of this. They work for you and you’re calling the shots. Now we need to get back to the one place we are safe and we can finish the job.
She stumbled forward and put one foot in front of the other. With one hand holding the pistol and the other grasping pine limbs filled with sap, she wound her way to her Land Rover. After opening the door, she fell inside and closed the door. Would the helicopter shoot a missile and incinerate her? Or would she be able to get to her supply of PKCzeta shots and help her fight Ameri Assad, her split personality? The only way to survive was to erase the memory, to overdose, and perhaps even kill herself.
But had she done too much already? Had she killed? If so, how many people? Would she kill again?
The real problem was that the moment Alex Russell had a thought, an idea, an impulse, or an emotion, Ameri Assad was right there to analyze it, interpret it, and pass judgment on whether it was useful to Ameri’s purposes. Like an inspector. The thought police. And of course Ameri wanted Vicki Sledge dead because it would implicate both Jake Mahegan and General Savage, the two men most responsible for Fatima and Malavdi’s deaths.
But Ameri wanted total destruction. The convoy had been totally destroyed, which had totally destroyed Ameri’s world, so why not destroy their world?
“Drive, bitch,” Alex whispered to herself.
Drive, bitch.
Alex drove all the way down the snaking two-track trail into the valley where the Bible camp had been. She parked and walked into the cottage she knew was the prison cell. Inside, she found the chairman of the Joints Chiefs shot through the head and his wife shot twice. Murder–suicide? Doubtful. It smelled more of Zakir, who had burned Yazidis in cages. What was the difference? To kill someone in a cage by any method is cowardly, Ameri whispered in her ear.
Don’t be cowardly.
Ameri wanted her to see this. It was fuel for Alex to keep moving.
This is who started it. Now do what you have to do, Alex.
Alex had one more task inside the base camp. She drove the Land Rover and parked it, then backed it up, got out, did what she needed to do, got back in, pulled out of the dark area, and then pulled her way up the valley the same way the Mack truck had left earlier. Alex looked over her shoulder through the rear window and saw everything that was to come.
Atta girl, Alex. Now you’re talking.
Alex Russell turned her Land Rover onto the Blue Ridge Parkway and then onto I-40. She had a long drive ahead of her and desperately needed her shots.
But Ameri was in charge and Ameri said, No. Way.
Just be calm, Alex. You’re almost there. What? Four hours? You’ve waited four years. What is four hours?
She struggled a bit with her Land Rover. The farther away from her condo—and the empty vials of her medication—she drove, the heavier her burden became.
Eat something, Alex.
Her hand reached out and grabbed a box of Luna Bars. They weren’t anything but candy, but Alex was hungry. She’d been awake for two days now. She needed nourishment if she was to finish her drive.
Atta girl, Alex. Keep driving.
CHAPTER 34
THE DOCTOR STITCHED UP MAHEGAN’S CALF AND ABDOMEN AND tried to put his left arm in a sling, but Mahegan said, “No way.”
He sat up on the makeshift operating table and looked out of the hangar. There was a SWAT team member at each corner. The sun was rising and the air smelled of a fresh mountain morning. Dew shone on the grass like a million tiny diamonds, and the impossibility of what had transpired in the last two days seemed just that, impossible.
When he stood to walk, his calf bit at him slightly, as did his left shoulder, forever the bearer of pain and anguish.
“You need a sling, Captain,” the doctor said. She was probably in her forties and tall. She was a sturdy woman, in command of her presence and those around her. The nametape on her smock read, “Peters.”
“Dr. Peters, thank you for patching me up, but I need to stretch my legs. They’re cramping up.”
“Yeah, okay,” Doctor Peters said. “Go stretch your damn legs. All of you can go take a flying leap for all I care.”
“Thank you. Truly,” Mahegan said. He shook her hand and felt her deflate. He imagined she’d had a rough night, especially if she had been dealing with the aggressive agent. He couldn’t fault the agent for his aggression, but he could fault him for his closed-mindedness. The man had to have been blind to so many clues that even Mahegan had discerned.
He walked to the edge of the corrugated metal hangar and watched the sun nose over the ridge to the east. He heard the hiss of tires on what he suspected was I-26 running north and south. Maybe it was I-40, but the way the sun was coming up and the fact that he heard someone mention Hendersonville, he was pretty sure the road was I-26.
To his right was a brick building. Next to that was a shorter man wearing SWAT team gear and a larger man that had to be the special agent in charge. They both looked in his direction, then turned away and finished their conversation. Then the bigger man broke in his direction with a long, powerful stride.
“Who said you could step outside of this hangar?” the man shouted.
Mahegan looked over his shoulder, miming that surely the man was not talking to him.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you!”
“I really don’t think you are,” Mahegan said.
The man stopped directly in front of Mahegan. His nostrils were flaring like a bull’s, sucking and pulling at the oxygen, filling his lungs, exhaling in Mahegan’s face. The man was an inch shorter than him, maybe twenty pounds lighter. He had felt his weight on the ridge and now could see that, although it would be no easy task, the man was beatable. The camouflage nametape on his tactical uniform read: Oxendine. He had flat, black eyes and a hook nose. His face bore the pockmarks of an acned youth. Sparse black hairs poked through oily pores. The man had not shaved in a couple of days.
“The doctor put four stitches where you cut me, Agent Oxendine. She asked me how it happened. I told her some asshole didn’t know how to use a knife.”
Oxendine closed the gap even further between them. His nose was maybe two inches from Mahegan’s. Oxendine’s stale, foul breath washed over his face.
“Then I told her that I easily subdued the asshole, but instead of killing him, which might have been the best option
now that I’ve got some time to think about it, I let the asshole live. She then asked me, ‘Why did you do that?’ And I said, ‘You know, good point, Doc.’ So, if you really want to have it, let’s go, Tonto, right now. I have some fresh stitches you could bravely rip out. I’ve got a dislocated shoulder you could come after. Calf is all shot up. But you know what? I’d still kick your ass and put your head through that sheet metal right there. And I’d leave you there as some kind of exhibit for the good people of Hendersonville. They could come here and pay five dollars to see what a genuine asshole looks like. There’d be a line a mile long just to see that. And if you tried to move your head, it would rip your neck off and you’d just be some kind of display. You so much as twitch, asshole, that’s the result. I’m telling you this now to be fair. I’m not putting my knee in your spine and literally trying to stab you in the back. I’m face-to-face telling you that your head will be through that wall. Now, do you understand me, Tonto?”
Oxendine stood his ground, continued breathing on Mahegan.
“You can move in one direction, and that is backward, out of my face. And if you don’t do that in the next five seconds—”
Oxendine moved, but it wasn’t backward.
The agent’s right shoulder twitched, which indicated the man was making a close quarters hand-to-hand combat move on him. Mahegan’s left hand snatched Oxendine’s right wrist as he locked his left elbow to immobilize Oxendine’s dominant hand. Mahegan swiftly pivoted under Oxendine’s right hand by releasing his pressure a bit, allowing the natural force of Oxendine’s arm to elevate, creating the gap for him to slide beneath. He then used his right arm to encircle Oxendine’s waist as he released the man’s right wrist.
Mahegan then planted his left leg in front of Oxendine’s left leg as he slid his forearm in between Oxendine’s right arm and his back. He immobilized Oxendine momentarily and said, “I’m giving you one last chance.”