***
A light throbbing pain had methodically pushed its way up the back of acting Special AgentIn-Charge Tom Ram’s head. Apparently the tension he’d felt at the base of his neck that morning had accomplished its goal of becoming a full-fledged headache by late afternoon. He pulled open his top right desk drawer and grabbed the aspirin bottle. He looked across the room at the coffeemaker. Popping two pills in his mouth, he stood and walked over to it, and then washed the pills down with the last of the morning coffee.
He was a tall man with a moose-thick neck that sat upon wide muscular shoulders. His facial features were friendly and familiar. People always assumed that they knew him from somewhere, though never quite able to pinpoint where exactly. He always reminded them of an uncle or cousin, or some other erstwhile male relative or friend. Or was he an ex-pro football player? Or was he perhaps a TV weatherman?
No one had ever successfully guessed that he was a twenty-four year veteran of the Bureau, having served capably in a variety of capacities from recruitment, to counterterrorism operations, to heading task forces investigating such varied crimes as child prostitution and gangland violence. He’d never played professional football, but he did in fact play one year of college football at Virginia Tech before sustaining the proverbial knee injury that had effectively ended his playing days.
He had no doubt that but for the knee injury, he could have made a successful run at the pros. However, he also strongly believed things happened for a reason. He’d long envisioned attending law school after his playing days were over. After the injury, he’d been able to keep his athletic scholarship. Once freed from the endless commitments that were the life of a college athlete, he doubled his study efforts and worked almost full-time hours at a local convenience store, enabling him to save a good portion of his impending law school tuition.
It was that stint at the Shop-N-Save that had gotten him interested in crime fighting in the first place. He’d been held up twice in a nine-month period by an organized crime syndicate that operated across several states and had targeted gas stations and convenience stores. The syndicate had specialized in holding up lone workers during third shift hours. A smooth-talking, thorough special agent had interviewed him after the second incident, and Ram became hooked on all things Bureau.
Although he’d kept his desire to pursue his law degree, he never lost his fascination with the FBI. After graduating law school, he immediately applied for employment with the Bureau.
He loved being a part of the Bureau. To think that he most likely would not have considered it as an employment option if he hadn’t blown out his knee. It was a rewarding career and it had eventually led him here to Charlotte as an Assistant Special Agent-In-Charge. After three months in his new role, SAC Charles Summers had abruptly resigned his position, and the Director quickly named Ram as acting head honcho.
After flushing down the pills with the ancient, over-warmed, and now bitter tasting coffee, he placed his cup next to the finally empty pot, and returned to his desk. Unsure if the two pills would respond to his headache quickly enough, he considered popping two more. He was a chronic migraine sufferer and sometimes the headaches were exacerbated by troublesome problems, of which the drug cartel—Fathers Disciples, was one.
Though he didn’t know what to make of his latest headache-enhancing problem, he decided against taking any additional pills right now. He would wait out the pain.
Now seated back at his desk, he recalled the morning’s briefing from the agents investigating the cartel. Either Fathers Disciples were the luckiest sons-of-bitches on the planet, or the Bureau, more specifically his part of the Bureau, had been cleverly, thoroughly, and effectively compromised. Four potential witnesses dead, two of which were inside prison walls. An undercover agent was missing. There were no apparent connections between any of the events to each other or to Fathers Disciples, but these had been very fortuitous occurrences for one very ruthless drug syndicate.
The consensus amongst the agents was that the investigation had been dealt a serious blow. It had already been slow-sledding getting even a soupcon of evidence against the crime syndicate, and just when they’d been able to move forward a half-step: bam! They were roughly
shoved back to square one.
He rubbed his temples again. The syndicate was definitely troublesome.
From what the Bureau had been able to piece together from very reluctant witnesses, Fathers Disciples had operated clandestinely in Duraleigh, North Carolina for at least the past twenty years, enjoying a ghostlike existence. Outwardly, the city had none of the earmarks of an illicit drug organization operating within its borders. Its violent-crime rate was exceptionally low ,and instances of gang-fueled violence were practically nonexistent. Occasionally, the local authorities held drug busts, arresting a few peon hustlers and dealers, but nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly nothing unusual. For a city its size—just under four hundred thousand residents, Duraleigh had topped the Bureau’s annual list of America’s safest cities for the second year in a row. Its crime rate was an astounding 85.6 per cent lower than the national average, a complete reversal from its high-crime heyday of the mid-eighties when it had consistently ranked amongst the nation’s most dangerous cities.
He tapped a key, bringing his computer out of sleep mode. He reentered his password and then tapped the icon for the FBI’s Automated Support System, ACS, and when prompted, he entered another password. Once inside the secured website, he went directly to the Fathers Disciples’ case file.
The investigation was still in its infancy. Information about the cartel was piecemealed from Bureau drug busts, some of which were conducted hundreds of miles away from Duraleigh. The connections were as varied as the ocean was wide. The initial connections were veritable slips of tongues. Several drug suspects in unrelated investigations had mentioned a “Duraleigh Father” when drilled during interrogations, but when pressed, the suspects refused to go into any further detail. In other instances, the connections were just receipts found in the cars, homes, or on the persons of people suspected and/or indicted for trafficking in illegal narcotics. The receipts were from Duraleigh gas stations, stores, and hotels. At first, the receipts had simply piqued a curiosity. Why were so many drug dealers frequenting the sleepy city of Duraleigh, North Carolina? It was a mid-sized city, that according to FBI statistics, didn’t cotton too much to any crime, much less major drug dealing. It seemed the perfect place to raise a family. So why was it garnering so much interest from drug mavens? Initially, none of the suspects was willing to answer the question. By themselves, the receipts amounted to nothing more than very curious occurrences. But when information from various drug cases was placed into the FBI database and then cross referenced, a very different picture of the city of Duraleigh emerged.
Ram frowned as he brought up a chart the Bureau sketched of the syndicate’s organizational structure. The information had been gleaned from two of the now dead witnesses, although none of it had been confirmed. Listed at the top of the chart was the suspected head of the syndicate, Mayo Fathers. Fathers was a respected Duraleigh business man who owned a very profitable funeral home business and had, in what the Bureau had originally thought a head-scratcher, turned his home dubbed Fathers House into an orphanage. But Fathers was not the charitable philanthropist he appeared to be. There were indications that Fathers House was simply a breeding ground for young hoodlums-turned-foot soldiers for Fathers Disciples.
The next two names on the chart—Lucas McCain and Jermaine Bledsoe were also high-ranking members in the syndicate. Although the Bureau hadn’t been able to gather much additional information on either two, it was assumed that the three of them, Fathers, McCain, and Bledsoe operated as a triumvirate in the syndicate’s hierarchy.
At the bottom of the chart was the list of names of potential witnesses against Fathers Disciples. Part of the list had been compiled by the two deep cover special agents who were in close pro
ximity to the syndicate. The word deceased had been hyphenated next to four of the names on the list, including the two most recent deaths: Cindy Storrs and Calvin Leeson.
At best, their deaths had been unfortunate coincidences. Calvin Leeson had been approached by an agent, while Cindy Storrs had personally contacted the Bureau. Storrs had agreed to provide incriminatory evidence against Fathers Disciples. Leeson hadn’t been so forthcoming. But there’d been promise. Other than the special agents directly involved in the investigation, no one knew about Operation Heaven Sent. Not even the local authorities. There had been, so far, unsubstantiated rumors that Fathers Disciples had a few Duraleigh officials, including several in law enforcement on its payroll. A couple of convicted drug felons claimed that Fathers Disciples operated above the law. In light of the rumors, the Bureau didn’t want to potentially tip off the syndicate about the investigation, and had therefore blacked out the local authorities. Local law enforcement would be brought in only when the Bureau could be certain that they were clean.
If the Leeson and Storrs deaths were not accidents, but rather planned executions, then the worst case scenario had already been realized which meant not only that the next name on the list was in grave danger, but also that the Bureau had a serious leak.
The syndicate seemed to know every step of the investigation. And it seemed willing to kill relative minor players in the game in order to encumber those steps. Though Storrs could have potentially provided very incriminating evidence, Leeson was a bit player at best. His death, if syndicate-ordered, was simply a fingers-up at the Bureau.
He looked away from the computer screen for a moment and lowered his still aching head. He was a deeply religious man. In this line of work where he saw firsthand the destructive capabilities of his fellowmen, a belief in a higher power was comforting. As always, he prayed for the health and wellbeing of his family and the men under his charge. He prayed for wisdom and understanding. And lastly, he prayed for the safety of the investigation’s one remaining listed witness. Though Cain Simmons was possibly no more than a foot soldier that could only provide information about Fathers House’s link to Fathers Disciples, the syndicate had demonstrated that it considered no individual too unimportant to be taken out.
Finished with his prayer, he lifted his head, picked up the phone, and dialed Washington. If there was a leak in the Bureau, it needed to be plugged immediately.
Fathers House: A Preview Page 12