Termination Limits: Tom Kintrell Book 1 (Tom Kintrell Thriller Series)

by R. J. O'Rourke

  “Kidding me? I probably can’t afford to buy a drink there, let alone get a room,” said Kintrell.

  “Yeah right, you probably still got your recess money. Shit, if I had your money, I’D throw mine away.”

  “The rumors about my wealth have been greatly exaggerated,” said Kintrell.

  “Yeah, I know, you’re down to your last twenty million,” said Rick.

  “I’ll call you with an ETA as soon as I know the train schedule,” said Kintrell

  “I’m going to be in meetings till 6:00 PM. Just text me the time and I’ll acknowledge, and by the way, there’s some fine looking, eh, accoutrements that adorn the bar area here.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Kintrell. “See you tonight.”

  “Accoutrements?” said Alvarez.

  “As you’ve surmised Agent Alvarez, Rick Aloysius O’Keefe is not very well schooled in the fine art of political correctness. He was a team member my last deployment to Afghanistan. Great guy and great friend to have, especially in a fire fight. If you decide to come with me to New York, be prepared to laugh and be hit on.”

  “Wonderful, is he married?” asked Alvarez.

  “Not at the moment, he’s in the process of searching for his fourth ex-wife.”

  ***

  They boarded a train at 30th Street Station, slated to arrive at 7:10 PM at Penn Station. Shortly before 7:00 PM Kintrell texted Rick, “be there 7:30” to which Rick replied “K.”

  They hailed a cab and made it to the Ritz at 7:25, were directed to the Contour Lounge and found Rick at the bar, sitting between a buxom blonde and an attractive brunette, all three laughing at something.

  Rick O’Keefe was a bear of a man, reddish hair and beard with startling blue eyes. He wore a navy-blue chalk stripe suit with a white shirt, open at the collar, and a maroon silk handkerchief exploding out of the breast pocket of his suit. When he saw Kintrell, he leapt off the stool he was perched on and enveloped Kintrell with a crushing hug.

  “How ya doin’, brother?” said Rick.

  “I’m good, brother,” said Kintrell, returning the hug.

  “This is my partner, Lanny Alvarez.”

  “Well, hello there, slim, didn’t know the FBI hired movie stars,” said O’Keefe taking her extended hand.

  Alvarez expected to find a boorish lout after the phone call, but the man before her radiated such warmth and mischievous charm she had to smile.

  “Nice to meet you, Rick,” she said.

  “Let’s find some space more private,” said Kintrell.

  Rick picked up his drink, threw it down, nodded at the bartender for another, and ordered a Macallan thirty on ice for Kintrell, then asked Alvarez what she wanted, to which she replied, “I’ll have a Knob Creek on ice.”

  The bartender signaled that their drinks would be brought to them. Rick then kissed both the blonde and the brunette on the cheek, told them he’d see them later if they were around, then followed Kintrell and Alvarez to a less populated spot in the lounge.

  They seated themselves at a small table and Rick said, “What can I do for you, Tom?”

  “Lanny and I are investigating the recent murders of the politicians. We’ve hit an impasse. I need someone in authority to talk to the NSA and authorize something that will be costly and may not even work.”

  “So, you want the junior senator to intervene?” asked Rick.

  “Well, him being on the Intelligence committee, I thought he might have the juice to get this done,” said Kintrell.

  “Can you tell me exactly what you need?”

  “Rick, you know I’d trust you with my life, but this is something I shouldn’t be talking about with anybody outside the Bureau. These people we’re up against are deadly, and the less people involved with this, the better.”

  A waitress brought their drinks over. They remained silent till she left. Rick picked his drink up, said to Kintrell, “Bamiyan Valley.” To which Kintrell raised his glass and replied, “Bamiyan Valley.” Alvarez, not knowing what that meant, just took a sip of her drink.

  “If I can’t get a hold of Charlie tonight, I’ll call him first thing, and tell him to expect your call. Here’s his direct line.” Kintrell entered the number into his contact list.

  Alvarez found herself laughing and uncharacteristically relaxed in the company of these two alpha males as they told stories about their time in the Seals. She could sense the bond the two men shared as they teased each other and laughed at the other one’s stories. Rick would always start his little stories by saying “True Story.” They both knew the stories were bullshit, or highly embellished, but they laughed anyway.

  Rick started, “True story. This fella I know down Boise way, was gonna get married, so we had a bachelor party for him at a nice hotel. Now this fella only drank beer. We kept trying to get him to do shots with us, but he wouldn’t budge, so what we did was, someone would get his attention while someone else would pour a shot of vodka in his beer. Needless to say, after six or seven shots on top of the beers, he was rip-roaring drunk. So, we got him a room and we all had cigars. Someone got a hold of a blow-up doll and placed it next to him on the bed, and we left him like that. The next morning, we banged on his door and found the poor wretch badly hung over. We asked him what happened to the girl that was with him and he said, ‘Well, I think I inadvertently burnt her with my cigar, and she farted and flew out the window.”

  They all laughed, Rick laughing the hardest of all of them.

  It came time to leave.

  After hugging both Kintrell and Alvarez, Rick said, “I miss you, brother.”

  “I miss you too, pal, stay out of trouble and I owe you for this.”

  ***

  On the train on the way back to Philadelphia, Alvarez noted Kintrell’s somber mood.

  “He’s a good friend, huh, Tom?”

  “He’s a great friend, Lanny, and a great man, tough as nails with a heart as big as he is.”

  “Married three times?” said Alvarez.

  Kintrell laughed, “Yeah, for some reason, women love him. Even his ex-wives love him. As a matter of fact, he appeared as a character witness for his last wife in her divorce proceedings against him.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Scout’s honor, he’s the poster boy for hopeless romantics. I talked to him about it once. I asked him why he bothered getting married when he knew he wouldn’t be faithful, and he said to me, dead serious, ‘Women love to get married, and I don’t have the heart to disappoint them.’”

  Alvarez laughed and Kintrell joined in. After they calmed down Alvarez said, “What’s Bamiyan Valley?”

  After hesitating for few moments, Kintrell said, “Bamiyan Valley sits about one hundred fifty miles north of Kabul. The valley runs through the Hindu Kush Mountains. Eighteen hundred years ago, some huge statues were carved out of the cliffs that bordered the valley. The statues were of Buddha. One statue was estimated to be one hundred seventy-five feet high. In 2001 the Taliban decided to destroy the statues. It took them two months to do it, but by March of that year it was done, and the world lost an archeological treasure.”

  “Why do you toast that?” asked Alvarez.

  “Long story,” said Kintrell.

  “We seem to have time.”

  Kintrell looked out the window

  “Back in ‘09 we were on a mission in the hills north of the valley and were ambushed by a superior force of Taliban. We lost two men from our team. Another six were wounded. The battle raged all through the night. Finally with the help of a couple Apache attack choppers we prevailed. We were very lucky.”

  “You were close to the two guys who died?” asked Alvarez.

  “Yeah, they were …”

  Kintrell had to look away as he said it, his voice very low.

  “They were good men. Thing is, nobody except family and close friends gives a rat’s ass about them. Sorry, I’m starting to sound like the judge.”

  The rest of the trip home passed in sil
ence. After reaching Philadelphia Kintrell said, “See you in the AM.”

  Alvarez smiled and nodded. Then they both drove home to empty residences.

  ***

  Late morning the next day, Kintrell placed a call to the junior senator from Idaho. The senator picked up on the second ring.

  “I assume this is that ne’er-do-well FBI agent,” said the senator.

  “Good morning, Senator.”

  “Call me Charlie, Tom.”

  “Er … okay, Charlie.” Kintrell then spent the next six or seven minutes explaining to the senator why he wanted to use the NSA to try to track the laptop.

  “So, you think the guy still has it, this laptop?”

  “We don’t know, but we’re hoping,” said Kintrell.

  “So, in a nutshell, you want me to help you track down the guys who are killing congressmen and senators? Of course I’ll help you. I’ve met the Director of the NSA a few times at briefings, I’d be happy to give him a call.”

  “Thank you, Sen … er, Charlie.”

  “Don’t mention it, Tom. The family will never forget what you did for Rick.”

  ***

  Early afternoon the next day, Kintrell received a call from Chuck Wilkins at the NSA.

  “Tom, we got lucky, the device is active now. We’ve got a location in Baltimore. It’s currently at an address on Carroll Street in the Washington Village section. I’ll e-mail the address to you.”

  “Great, Chuck, thanks for your help.” After disconnecting the call, Kintrell thought, Can’t be this easy.

  Kintrell contacted Alvarez and Dixon and requested a meeting in the large conference room where the task force operated. He also contacted Dede and asked if she would like to sit in.

  Dixon entered the room with his assistant, Agent Sheady. Shortly thereafter, Dede and Alvarez wandered in. After they were seated Kintrell laid out what he had learned from the NSA. Agent Dixon, after thinking it through said, “That’s good work Agents Kintrell and Alvarez, but in the future, kindly keep me in the loop on the developments.”

  Dede then spoke. “What do you suggest we do, Agent Kintrell?”

  “I think we throw a net around the place, find out who lives there, what the neighborhood is like, et cetera, if this is one of the perps, maybe he’ll lead us to his co-conspirators.”

  “Do you have reason to believe this is another red herring, Agent Kintrell?” said Dixon.

  “It’s too easy. These guys don’t make mistakes like this. Can’t help feeling these guys are playing with us. But we have to follow through. Even if it’s a false flag, maybe the laptop itself can tell us something,” said Kintrell.

  “Agent Alvarez, tell Agent Dixon of your talk with Judge Adams,” said Dede.

  “You’ll remember the last line of the first e-mail we received, which proved to be something Thomas Jefferson said. I’d heard it before but couldn’t remember where I heard it. Then someone said something which struck a chord, and I remembered. The main speaker at my graduation from law school was Judge Adams, a now retired federal appellate judge who lives in Villanova, PA. He uttered those exact same words at the end of his speech. Agent Kintrell and I paid him a visit.”

  Kintrell took over from there. “The judge knew my background as well as Agent Alvarez’s. He’s involved somehow. He may be pulling the strings …”

  “This is outrageous, I know of Judge Adams,” said Agent Sheady, “He’s a highly respected jurist, for Christ’s sake. He was nominated to the Supreme Court …”

  “Yes, he was, and he was trashed with false accusations by political hatchet men and was never confirmed, his lifelong dream shattered by political chicanery,” said Kintrell.

  “You say he knew your background, Agent Kintrell?” said Dixon.

  “Yeah, he intimated something in our talk about me knowing what the Teams faced,” said Kintrell.

  “That’s quite a stretch, Agent Kintrell,” replied Sheady.

  “He also knew the derivation of my name,” added Alvarez.

  “He’s also started a foundation to help the families of special ops guys who were killed or wounded—or were separated from service for unspecified reasons. So, he has access to former operators. When you add everything up, there’s just too many coincidences,” said Kintrell.

  “Knowing it and proving it are two different things,” said Dixon, further adding, “Agent Sheady, bring up a map of Baltimore on the main monitor, focus on that Washington Village neighborhood.”

  A street map of the neighborhood popped up on the screen. Agent Sheady then brought up another screen that showed the particulars of the neighborhood—ethnically diverse, a mix of blacks, young urban professionals, bars, coffee shops, a couple parks.

  “Okay, let’s get some of our younger agents down there with their eyes open. We’ll put Worthington and his group on standby and get a drone up to watch the house. We follow anyone that comes out of the house. We’ll have the NSA keep tabs as well. I don’t want this to slip through our fingers so if we learn nothing in forty-eight hours, Worthington’s group will take it down,” said Dixon.

  “What about the judge?” said Kintrell.

  “You’ve brought up some interesting points, Agent Kintrell, but I don’t think we have enough for a warrant or electronic surveillance,” said Dixon.

  “I’d like to keep working that angle,” said Kintrell.

  “Feel free,” said Dixon.

  Later, in Dede’s office, Alvarez said, “Agent Dixon was downright civil today.”

  “Maybe he’s a little embarrassed about being wrong on the ALBH matter,” said Kintrell.

  “You mean about his main suspect being barely able to walk,” laughed Alvarez.

  “Well, at least we were able to shut down a meth lab and clear up the mystery of shit-for-brains’ wife,” said Kintrell.

  After rounding up all the members of the ALBH, the FBI— together with the DEA— searched the meth lab that was located four point three miles away from the compound. They found the remains of one Sharon Weimar buried in a shallow grave not fifty feet from the lab. They also discovered a laptop in the lab that conveniently identified the various dealers who distributed the meth, as well as the financial paper trail that led to the seizure of $360,432, in three different accounts. The bust was considered a success even though the militia had nothing to do with the assassinations.

  ***

  After two days of surveillance on the house on Carroll Street the only movements were an attractive, fortyish looking black woman and a teenage boy. The woman proved to be one Viola DesChamps, formerly from New Orleans, now a registered nurse at Johns Hopkins. The boy, Rene DesChamps, was a sixteen-year-old high school student.

  T.J. Worthington, after hearing from the NSA that the laptop was active again, gave the go ahead. Twelve CIRG members descended on the house, four of them behind the house. The front door was breached and as men entered, one of them shouted, “This is the FBI, you are under arrest, if we see a weapon, we will bury you.”

  They then cleared the living room, dining room and the small kitchen. Two men carefully ascended the stairs and cleared the bedrooms. There was a door off the kitchen that they believed led to the basement. An agent opened the door and heard a faint, “Hello?”

  “This is the FBI, get your ass over to the bottom of the steps and put your hands on your head. If I see a weapon in your hands, I’ll put you in the ground,” yelled the agent.

  Agent Worthington then took over.

  “Is this Rene DesChamps?”

  There was a pause. “Yeah, man, what do you want?”

  “Who’s down there with you, Rene?”

  “It’s just me.”

  “You better not be lying, Rene,” said Worthington.

  “I ain’t lyin’, man,” said Rene.

  “Okay Rene, move over to the bottom of the stairs with your hands on your head, where I can see you.”

  “Don’t fuckin’ shoot me, man.”

  The boy came i
nto view, hands on head.

  “Good, Rene, now slowly turn around and keep your back to the stairs. I’m going to come down and put handcuffs on you, and look— nobody has to get hurt here—so don’t make any sudden moves, okay?”

  “Man, this is bullshit, I ain’t done nothing,” said Rene, as he turned around, complying with Worthington’s directions.

  Worthington, followed by two agents, slowly descended the stairs. He stopped every two steps, straining to hear anything which would signal the presence of someone else in the basement. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he turned Rene, so he faced out to the basement. Worthington, his back to the wall, could now scan the area while using Rene’s body for protection. The other two agents quickly descended, their Heckler and Koch MP5s pointed in front of them. After ascertaining that no one else was lurking, one of them said, “Clear.”

  Worthington holstered his Glock 19, then handcuffed Rene, moved him up against the wall and told him not to move. As the other two agents watched Rene, Worthington spotted the desk where a laptop sat. He approached the laptop and saw that there was some sort of video game running on the screen. He motioned to the two agents to take Rene upstairs, then placed a call to agent Dixon.

  Dixon advised Worthington not to move the laptop till someone dusted it for prints and to bring the boy to FBI Headquarters in Baltimore. Agents Sheady, Kintrell, and Alvarez watched the raid in real time, courtesy of the drone overhead and the camera attached to Agent Worthington’s helmet.

  No shit, Sherlock, Worthington wanted to say. Instead, he said, “Roger that.”

  ***

  Still handcuffed, the boy sat in a conference room facing the four FBI agents. The mother, escorted by another agent, arrived a short time later.

  The mother was scared. “What’s this about?”

  “You want to tell us what you were doing with that laptop, Rene?” said Agent Dixon.

  The boy looked at his mother, his head visibly shrinking into his shoulders.