“Greetings, Delta Squad,” the amplified voice of Randal Sanford radiated into the room. “I greet you in the name of a new and better America. Please stand as we recite our pledge.”
Chairs scraped against the concrete floor and each squad member stood and recited with Carlene and Randal, “We are the Directorate. We humbly accept our role as the overseers of the free world’s institutions, and where necessary we will carry out our duty to prune out those branches that hinder the healthy advancement of the American culture. Duty. Honor. Oversight. Always loyal to the Directorate.”
“Take seats,” said Randal.
“Mission statement,” said Sandy. She looked down at her notes, amazed at how her mind had uploaded the equivalent of four years of military tactical training in a matter of a few hours. You will know that which you cannot know.
“The mission of Task Force Saber is to defend Cielavista against an attacking force of natural and paranormal elements. If necessary, Task Force Saber will execute an orderly evacuation of Cielavista.”
She looked at the outline in the Ranger Handbook. The next paragraph titled “Execution” detailed every step of the operation. Sandy could barely sense anyone breathing. The people facing her and the animals listened, calm and courageous waiting for the next instruction from their field commander. Sandy realized that everyone in this band of guerrilla fighters rested under the anointing of the Spirit for war.
“I have organized us into two companies of about thirty in each. Each company has three squads of ten fighters. I will command a headquarters element with five personnel consisting of me, Gabriella, Carlos, Frederick’s son Peter, and my intrepid wolfhound, Lucille. We will have five angels attached. So Carlos, Lucille, and Peter, would you please join Nonina and me here in the front?
“Frederick, you will command Company Striker. Here is the list of warriors in your company.”
Frederick rose from his place and walked to the front and received the list from Sandy, looked it over, and ordered his warriors to stand on the left side of the briefing room.
“Roberto, you will command Company Anvil.” Roberto Sr. came to the front and assembled his unit on the other side of the room.
“Gentlemen,” said Sandy, “please stand at attention and I will commission you as captains of your companies.
“Frederick Sanchez, by the power vested in me by Our Lord the Christ, I commission you Captain of Company Striker in Task Force Saber.” Then she turned to Roberto Senior and said, “Roberto Ramos, by the power vested in me by Our Lord the Christ, I commission you Captain of Company Anvil in Task Force Saber.”
Carlos came forward, “Commander Sandy, if I may.”
“Yes, Carlos?”
“I have a strong impression that I have received a Word in my spirit. Let me try to explain,” Carlos said.
“Captains, please have your companies be seated.”
“Sandy, this prophetic word supports the operations order, but it doesn’t fit into any of the subparagraphs of the order in the Ranger Handbook.”
“Go ahead, Carlos,” said Sandy.
“In the Bible, the Book of Judges, the Lord instructed Gideon, with a band of 300 irregulars against 135,000 trained soldiers, to give a shout of victory at the beginning of their battle against the Midianites and their allies. Their battle cry was ‘A sword for the Lord and for Gideon.’”
At this, Carlos unsheathed a wide gleaming sword and brandished it over his head. “Here’s what the Lord is saying, ‘The power of victory came from God Almighty through the man, Gideon. Today the power of victory in battle over this barbaric enemy comes from the same God Almighty through the woman, Gabriella. So I declare that when I raise this sword over my head we will shout, ‘A sword for the Lord and for Gabriella.’”
His words stirred the assembled battalion in the briefing room. They all stood up and roared a growling scream and a terrifying yell that shook the barn’s walls and ceiling.
Romano Goldstein sat with Frances O’Donnelly and the four caterers in the basement of the mansion among canned goods and kitchen supplies. A familiar calm came over him.
Operator Stephen Walters explained the change of personnel in the security force. “These things happen. Ralph and Jeff got the call to report to another assignment. They’re both Farsi linguists now deployed in the Mideast. Our company sent these replacements, Thomas Danforth and Joe Hankley. Both good operators. So no change to your plans, just different faces.”
Frances looked at the text on her phone.
“Okay, thanks,” Romano said. “I’ll make it brief and simple. At some point near the beginning of our two o’clock board meeting, our chairman, Akebe Cheron, will make a move to murder a young man in our organization named Andrew Johansen. These guys are easily identifiable. Akebe is black. He’ll be doing the talking. Andrew is twenty-seven, wears a grubby tee shirt, longish brown hair, and black jeans and running shoes. Got it so far?”
Four men: “Yes, sir.”
“We suspect the method of attack will be some kind of blade: sword, knife, machete, something like that. Akebe wants to leave a horrific impression, lots of blood, that sort of thing.”
Romano noticed the odd grin on Frances’ face when she looked up from her text. She gave Thomas and Joe a curious gaze as Romano continued his talk.
“We want Andrew protected from harm and we want Akebe killed. It has to be done with these conditions: the rest of the board must witness Akebe’s attempt on Andrew’s life. You will have to grab him in the act. It is necessary for our future plans that the board sees all this action take place. No one can know that Frances and I have any foreknowledge of the incident. Clear?”
“Very clear, sir,” said Stephen and he looked at his associates. They nodded. “Just another day at the office.”
“Good. We will leave the details to you. You’re the professionals,” said Romano. “You will receive payment as soon as you complete the cleanup. I suppose you prefer cash?”
“Correct, sir,” said Stephen.
“All right then, we’ll see you at the two o’clock board meeting,” Romano said.
The four operators posing as caterers left the storage room.
“What was the text about, Frances?” asked Romano.
“Oh, just a confirmation about the change in personnel. No change in plans. Looks like we are all set,” said Frances. “Romano, I am grateful to have a trusted ally in this matter, and I appreciate your vote of support to stand behind me as I take the chair of the Directorate.”
Akebe heard the knock on his suite door and he opened it for Stephen.
“I trust no one saw you come up to my room,” said Akebe.
Stephen shrugged off the suggestion. “Sir, please, don’t insult my professionalism.”
“So, what do you have?”
“Frances and Romano have found out that you plan to kill Andrew at the meeting. We are all set with your plan. We will ensure that you have a clear shot at Andrew.”
“Splendid, my good man. Here is your bonus. Your associates will receive their ten thousand when the job is complete.”
Stephen took a minute to count the cash in the envelope. “Twenty grand; got it, sir.”
“After the meeting, you will terminate Frances O’Donnelly neatly and quietly. Then you will secure Goldstein and prepare him for torture and interrogation. I need to find out how they got wind of my plans.”
“Sounds good, sir,” said Stephen.
Romano will be a pushover. Akebe smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I want you all to know, Delta Squad, that your fine leader, Carlene Wood, objected to this meeting. However, I knew she would create security measures that will keep you all compartmentalized. Am I correct?”
Carlene responded, “Yes, Director. They cannot see or communicate with each other, and if by chance they do come into visual contact, they are all in disguise.”
“Well done, Carlene.”
Was she imagining it, or
was she hearing a more sinister ring to Sanford’s voice than usual? She sensed that a new violent kind of evil had inhabited Randal Sanford.
“I will get right to it, you warriors for a better America. We have an enemy. And in the words of Sun Tzu, ‘He who exercises no forethought but makes light of his opponents is sure to be captured by them.’ So we will not underestimate our enemy. He has been successful in foiling a significant number of our pruning efforts. He has protected or rescued these vermin. So we are marshaling maximum resources to destroy his headquarters.
“His location, while we have not ascertained exact coordinates, exists in your area of operations. So you, my New England warriors, form the tip of the spear in our attack against our enemy.”
Carlene had arranged her position on a high platform from which she could see the faces of all her people in their cubicles. Their eyes were vacant, as if they were staring into a campfire—just the way she wanted them.
“With the exception of one remaining operation, you will suspend all actions on your current target list. Soon I will order you to form a commando attack team along with allies to destroy our enemy whose code name is FITO, a fly in the ointment. It’s a fitting code name as it comes from the bible, ‘Dead flies make a perfumer’s oil ferment and stink; so a little folly outweighs wisdom and honor.’”
“There remains one target on your list,” Randal said. “That’s the reason I took this unprecedented measure of gathering you in one place. The target is number 0925. Who will take out that target, Carlene?”
Carlene could taste the acrid tension in her sinuses. Her gut tightened up. “Green Arrow has primary, with Operator Blue Wolf in direct support.”
“Thank you,” Randal said. “Seer number three, would you give me a brief progress report of your activity?”
“Yes, sir,” the middle-aged, librarian-looking woman said. “I have been watchful in my sector for six weeks now since identifying my last target in late July.”
Carlene had stepped down from her perch and took her place behind Green Arrow’s chair. She dropped the garrote on Green Arrow’s lap. He picked up the wooden handles on each end of the eighteen-inch telephone wire. Carlene chose the materials for this mission. Knowing the strength of Green Arrow’s arms, she wanted a cord strong enough to accept his three hundred pounds of pull. She also wanted a wire with enough thick insulation so it would not cut Seer Three’s skin and make a bloody mess here in the rented basement.
She placed her right hand on his shoulder, his signal to stand up. She led him to the cubicle next to his where he stood behind Seer Three, a divorcee named Marla Benda, who had been homeless when Carlene recruited her two years ago. Until recently she was quite effective utilizing her gift of telekinesis to identify thinkers for the target list. But six weeks without a target in this stressful environment spelled termination for her.
Randal spoke again through the speakers. Carlene could smell the revolting odor of a dark spirit.
“Seer Three, the Directorate has tightened our corporate personnel policies recently in light of the threat that faces us. We have to thin out our ranks. We don’t hand out pink slips like a lot of overindulgent American companies. When we determine that one of our employees can’t operate up to standards, we terminate them. Okay, Carlene, you know what to do.”
Carlene said, “Now,” into Green Arrow’s ear.
In an instant the assassin wrapped the telephone wire around Marla Benda’s fleshy neck and tightened. Marla stiffened, kicked, evacuated her bowl and bladder, gurgled and became still. Carlene tapped Blue Wolf’s shoulder. He used bottled water, a spray bottle of bleach, towels, and two plastic trash bags to clean up the mess.
The men returned to their seats and Carlene stood on her platform watching for a reaction of her squad members—dead-eyed stares. Good.
“Sir, we’re all set here,” she reported.
Randal continued his briefing. “Fine, Carlene, you are a professional. There will be a bonus in your next pay envelope. And for the rest of you, I am sure you will operate at even higher levels of competence and loyalty as we embark on the largest scale mission in our history. I will soon join you on the ground in your location to lead you from the front. Victory is ours, men and women. Victory for a greater America.”
Carlene barked out an order from her platform, “At my command: when you hear your code name, return to your rooms. Seer One.” She continued down the roster until the basement was vacant.
She returned to her bedroom on the first floor of the cottage and took a long pull of vodka from the bottle. She looked up at the ceiling and said, “Andrew, if you can see this from where you are, so be it. Here’s to a greater America.” And she took another long drink.
Firdos forgot. After Delta Squad left the cottage, he got in his car and returned to his trailer, still in disguise. He had been involved, directly or indirectly, in seven executions since his enlistment in Delta Squad, but Marla’s murder rattled him at the core.
All the turmoil in his head over Carlene’s touch and the sound of Randal’s lizardlike voice and their heartless execution of a fellow squad member made him forget to remove his disguise when he returned to his trailer.
Firdos sat on his lawn chair at View Point Trailer Park dressed in his fat-man costume with stage makeup on his face, and he lit up a cigarette. Firdos noticed Carlene pass behind him and he savored that intoxicating fragrance in her wake. He knew she was standing behind the operator in the cubicle next to him.
The voice of the man who had given him attention and respect when they met at the bakery in Salem and the aroma of the woman who gave Firdos a new life captured the young Iranian’s soul. Caught up in this strange bubble of warm feelings, Firdos heard Carlene’s order, “Green Arrow has primary, with Operator Blue Wolf in direct support.”
Something about target 0925 Firdos recalled as his cigarette burned down to his fingers. The black SUV pulled into the gravel driveway across the street, but his mind remained back in the meeting.
Carlene said, “Now.” Then a violent thumping, rustling, shoes kicking against the floor, a faint grunting, then the unmistakable presence of a body vacant of its spirit. Death.
Firdos twisted the sole of his shoe on his cigarette butt and lit another. Two men had exited the black car. One went into the trailer, the other was slapping the floor mat on the driver side and dusting it off with his hand, then he went to the passenger side and did the same with that floor mat. Firdos watched him take a tire gage out of his hip pocket and test the pressure in each tire. As he walked around the car, he wiped little splashes of mud from the rocker panel with a rag. Firdos locked eyes with him. The man gave Firdos a half wave with the rag. Firdos looked down at the narrow gravel road between them.
Henry stepped inside the trailer and elbowed Beto out of his way at the kitchen counter.
“What you doin’, man?” Beto said, moving away from the counter with the wine bottle in his hand.
Henry reached across the sink and stuck his iPhone under the little curtain against the kitchen window. “I need to get a picture of this guy and show it to you. Hang on a sec.” Henry snapped a few digital images of their trailer park neighbor and brought the phone back into the kitchen.
“Wine?” asked Beto.
“Sure, love some.” Henry pinched his fingers apart against the glass of his phone to enlarge the picture.
“Look at this guy,” said Henry as he traded Beto the phone for a plastic cup of burgundy.
“Huh!” grunted Beto. “What the heck?”
“Don’t look out the window,” Henry said, “He’ll see you. That’s why I took the picture.”
“What if I went out and said ‘hello’ to the guy?” said Beto.
“Good idea,” said Henry.
Beto left the trailer and approached Firdos. “Hey, guy, how you doin’?”
Beto watched the man raise his gaze from the pavement to Beto’s chest. Beto looked down at his tee shirt to see what his neighbor wa
s looking at—just a black tee shirt, fairly clean with no noticeable spills or stains.
“Hey, mind if I bum a smoke?” Beto said.
Firdos handed his pack of Marlboros and his lighter to Beto, eyes still on Beto’s shirt.
Beto realized he was addressing a man slightly impaired some way, so he took the pack, tapped out a cigarette, lit it, and gave the pack and lighter back to him.
“Thanks, bud. Hey, you want to stop over for a drink or a sandwich or something mi casa su casa, you know? Thanks, bro.”
He heard a grunt come from Firdos’ throat, but his lips didn’t move.
Beto gave him a wave and went back to his trailer and took a drink of the wine. “What are we eatin’ tonight, Henry?”
“What did he say?” said Henry.
“Nothing. I think he may have grunted,” said Beto. “He must be an actor or something. He’s wearing stage makeup on his face.”
“Really,” said Henry. “Let’s take a ride and find a restaurant.”
Henry and Beto polished off their wine, washed up, changed out of their fishing clothes, and headed out. Firdos was no longer in the chair.
“You mind driving, Beto? I gotta make a couple calls,” said Henry.
“Sure.”
As Beto eased the big vehicle out of the trailer park, Henry dialed his assistant at the FBI. “Hey, Tony, it’s Henry here. Can you run a quick check on something for me?”
After a couple miles, Beto pointed to an Italian place, Cabrizzi’s Family Restaurant. Henry nodded.
“I’ll go in and get us a table,” said Beto to Henry.
“Yeah, the file is titled ‘York, Maine and Vicinity,’ said Henry. “Then go to ‘Theater Groups.’ Got it?”
Henry waited. “Okay? Any drama productions rehearsing or showing now? No? How about theatrical supplies, makeup, and that sort of thing, vicinity York Maine?”
Henry could follow every step his assistant was taking through the massive database he had built over the past twenty years.
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