by David Spell
After several days at the extended stay, it was time for him to change locations, Aaron had thought that morning. The phone call had come at the right time. He hadn’t spoken to anyone where he was staying other than the clerk and the prostitute. Most of the people who lived here kept to themselves, but the longer he stayed in any one place increased his chances of showing up on the local police, FBI, or CIA’s radar. With the call and the offer of a job, Aaron was ready to leave.
At some point, he would have to go back to Virginia. Richards understood that he couldn’t return to his Vienna apartment since the CIA probably staking it out right now. Other than some clothes and second-hand furniture, there wasn’t much there that he would miss. All of his real documents were hidden inside his residence and he would never use them again. What he really needed was in his unit at the Safe Space Storage in Falls Church.
The man on the phone spoke of multiple training courses. If I’m going to get my stuff in Virginia, I probably should leave now, he thought. Of course, I’ll have to find some transportation first. Fifteen minutes later, Aaron was dressed and knocking on a door one floor above his. He was wearing his backpack containing all his possessions, the .45 tucked under his shirt for easy access.
After a moment, the prostitute from earlier opened the door a few inches and peered out. Seeing Richards, she tried to slam it but he easily pushed it inward, stepping into her room, shutting the door behind him. Just as the woman started to scream, Aaron held up a wad of cash, silencing her instantly.
“I need a favor and I’ll pay you for your help.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What kind of favor?”
“I know you’ve got a car. I’ve got a business opportunity and I need a ride to Virginia. It’s about eight hours. I’ll pay for your gas and food and give you a thousand bucks for your trouble.”
The girl hesitated and then shook her head, “no.”
“He won’t let me,” she finally said, softly. “And it’s his car. He only lets me keep it here so I can drive to some of my clients.”
It took a minute for Aaron to comprehend what she was saying.
“Are you talking about your pimp?” he asked.
When the girl didn’t respond but lowered her head in shame, Richards had his answer. He could steal a car but didn’t want to break the law any more than he had to. The last thing the fugitive needed was an encounter with the police. The only person that Aaron Richards cared about was himself, but even he was angered by the idea of a pimp owning this girl.
“Does he stay here? I could have a talk with him.”
The prostitute’s eyes grew wide with fear. “No! He’d kill me and probably you, too. Look, just get out and forget we ever had this conversation.”
“What’s your name?” Aaron asked, making no move to leave.
“Ashley,” she answered, quietly.
“Ashley, I’m John. I really do need your help. If you drive me to Virginia, nothing says you have to come back here. I’m gonna need another ride after I pick up some stuff. I’ll pay you a thousand bucks more to take me to New Jersey. After that, you can go wherever you want.”
The young woman stared at the large man in front of her. There was clearly something dangerous about him and he was probably running from the law. At the same time, the very possibility of escaping what her life had become was almost too much to hope for. Ashley made a decision, knowing it might very well cost the young woman her life if Big T ever found her.
“When do you want to leave?”
“Right now,” Aaron smiled with relief.
“Give me five minutes to pack. I want the first thousand up front.”
Richards handed her the money and watched her count it before stuffing it into a pink duffel bag. She then turned to look up into his eyes.
“One more thing,” she said, the confidence of a street-wise woman back in her voice. “No sex. You keep your hands to yourself.”
Aaron nodded reluctantly. He had hoped the prostitute would put out for him again at some point. The reality was that he needed an ally and would abide by her request if she could get him to Virginia and then New Jersey.
FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C., FRIDAY, 1040 HOURS
The briefing on the progress for locating Aaron Richards had just wrapped up. Jennifer Hughes had to admit that she was impressed. The Bureau already had a timeline of the traitor’s entry back into the U.S., piecing together his crime spree from Amherstburg, Canada, where he had stolen a boat and crossed the Detroit River. Aaron had attempted to wipe the boat down but didn’t get every surface, leaving a couple of fingerprints behind.
The stolen car containing the body of the young assistant manager from Mario’s Pizza had been recovered on Tuesday night after an alert police officer noticed the plateless car parked in the truck stop parking lot. A check of the VIN showed the vehicle as stolen with a missing person alert. The tow truck driver was able to pop the trunk to reveal the dead twenty-two-year-old. Richards had obviously attempted to remove his DNA from this crime scene as well, but two identifiable prints were recovered. Warrants were issued for murder and motor vehicle theft.
On Wednesday, the Detroit FBI office passed out fliers of Aaron and accompanied the local police in checking some of the likely locations the former soldier might have gone. By late afternoon, the manager of the Woodhaven Extended Stay had recognized Richards’ photo, although the register showed him booked under the name of “John Simpson.” The manager had no love for the police, but he also understood that his cooperation meant the cops would do what they needed to do and leave. Many of his clients were involved in illegal activities and they regularly paid him cash to look the other way.
Aaron had not checked out of the extended stay so the Detroit SWAT team responded to attempt the arrest. The FBI had alerted the local police to Aaron’s special operations experience and they were taking no chances. After the tactical team cleared the room, an FBI crime scene team had processed it. They discovered more fingerprints and DNA from the fugitive, but nothing to show where he might have fled to.
Valerie Morris, Director of Counterterrorism for the Bureau had sat in on the briefing, content to let her team leaders run the meeting. As the agents stood, preparing to get back to work, Morris motioned to a burly, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting dark suit.
“Agent O’Reilly, you and Agent Hughes hang on a minute,” she said, letting everyone else file out.
When it was just the three of them left in the conference room, the director of CT spoke again.
“Joe, I’ve been thinking about your team’s surveillance on Richards’ apartment. We could get a search warrant now that arrest warrants have been issued, but I’m not sure that’s the best course of action.”
“Ma’am?” Joe O’Reilly asked, surprised. “Why wouldn’t we want to go toss this scumbag’s place? We might find some clues as to where he’s hiding.”
Valerie held up her hand. “I know that’s the most correct thing to do, but I’m wondering if it’s the best thing to do. The problem with search warrants is that anything we find outside the scope of the warrant will be suppressed when this goes to trial. Let’s not forget, Richards is a trained intelligence officer. I doubt he’s going to make it easy for us to find anything, even in his residence.
“This is a unique case because we’re working in cooperation with the CIA,” Morris said, looking at Jennifer. “Director Purvis told me a little of your background, Agent Hughes, and I believe that in this case, it might be better to allow you to make entry into the apartment and see what you can come up with. We can always get a warrant later and I’m sure that when you’re done, no one will ever know you’ve been there.”
Hughes suppressed a smile, having just become a fan of Director Morris. “Yes, ma’am. I’d be happy to do that and see what I can find.”
O’Reilly seemed to have a perpetual frown on his face during the best of times. Now, his scowl deepened at the idea of bypassing the law and havi
ng to work with the young, female CIA agent. He was only a year and a half away from retiring and didn’t want this to come back and bite him in the ass.
“Joe, are you on board?” Valerie asked him, staring intently at the senior agent.
The career G-man looked over at Jennifer and shook his head before returning his attention to the CT Director.
“I don’t think this is a very good idea,” he grumbled, turning his back on the two women and walking over to the window, staring down at the street.
Morris knew her subordinate well enough to know that he was processing the situation and needed a minute to think. Hughes, however, wasn’t sure if the big, grumpy man was angry at her or the orders he was receiving from his boss. After a couple of minutes, O’Reilly turned around, locking eyes with Jennifer.
“Agent Hughes, may I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” she replied, shrugging, unsure what was coming.
“I know the CIA is a big organization but back at the very end of the zombie virus attacks, a couple of years ago, the Bureau and the Agency worked together on a mission in California. There was a big guy named McCain, an even bigger guy with a beard named Smith, a black guy named Jones, and a few others. Do you know any of those people?”
Hughes knew that one of the primary rules of operational security was that you did not talk about missions with people who had no need to know. Here, however, she sensed that this was some type of test. The CIA agent nodded.
“Yes, sir. I know them all. We worked together in operations. You know the story on our former director and what a horrible person he was. One of the things that never made the news was how he gutted the ops directorate to cover his own crimes. Mr. McCain and Colonel Clark were both fired. Of course, the colonel is back and now runs operations. Mr. McCain started a training and consulting business and several of my former teammates are working with him.”
A rare hint of a smile crossed Agent O’Reilly’s face as he looked back at Director Morris. “I’ll release my people from watching the suspect’s apartment and Agent Hughes and I will head over there. She can do her thing and I’ll stick around as her backup.”
Valerie was surprised at the quick turnaround from Joe. He was typically that guy who pointed out the negative in any situation. He was also a hell of an FBI agent. O’Reilly was street-smart, tough and had cracked many big cases over the years.
“Thanks, Joe. I look forward to your report.”
Fifteen minutes later, O’Reilly was maneuvering his black Dodge Durango through the heavy D.C. traffic that continued into Northern Virginia. Joe had not spoken since they had left HQ.
“You got my curiosity up, Agent O’Reilly. Why’d you ask about Mr. McCain and the others?”
The FBI agent kept his eyes fixed on the traffic and did not answer right away. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he glanced at his passenger.
“I wasn’t happy about having to work with the CIA on that thing in California. It was one of my agents who had gone rogue, kind of like this clown we’re looking for from the Agency. I think McCain was on loan to the DHS at the time and this definitely was a homeland security issue, but I felt like we could handle it in-house. Orders are orders, though, and we were told that McCain was running the show. My boss at the time, Thomas Burns, had told me stories about McCain.”
“I know Agent Burns,” Jen said, smiling. “He’s a nice man. I think he does some contract work for Mr. McCain now that he’s retired.”
Joe nodded. “Yeah, Burns is a good guy. Evidently McCain saved his life when they got overrun by a big group of zombies in Atlanta. I think that was right before the city was overrun. Anyway, watching McCain in action was something to behold. He wasn’t the typical spook, that’s for sure. No offense intended.”
Hughes laughed. “None taken. I think I know what you mean. I’ve heard some of the stories about Mr. McCain but I’ve never been on an op with him.”
“I’ll show you the drone video sometime. They got into a car chase with my bad-apple agent and another terrorist on one of the freeways in Los Angeles. After McCain’s guys pitted their vehicle and wrecked them, they ended up in a shootout that killed my former agent. McCain then went all UFC on one of the biggest and baddest thugs I’ve ever seen, who happened to be holding a shotgun at the time. McCain beat that guy like he was nothing, put him to sleep, and handcuffed him.
“Word got around in the command center in LA that McCain had been an MMA fighter while he was a cop in Atlanta. I could hardly get any work out of my team after that. They were too busy watching his fights on Youtube.”
The young woman smiled. “Yeah, I was going to ask him to train me but just never got around to it. I’ve been in the martial arts my whole life, but getting into an MMA cage is totally different.”
The FBI agent pulled into the Vienna Square Apartments and parked a building down from Richards’.
“What a dump!” Joe noted, as they looked around at the drab sand-colored buildings that were at least thirty years old.
Aaron’s apartment was on the bottom floor. Thankfully, none of his neighbors appeared to be home. Jennifer pulled out what looked like a small, black walkie-talkie with a four-inch antenna. She turned it on and counted to ten in her head before pushing the red button on the front of the device. After another five seconds, the device beeped once letting her know that it was working. As she dropped it back into her purse, she noted the curious expression on her partner’s face.
“Burglar alarm jamming device.”
Jennifer then withdrew a small leather lock pick kit from her purse and removed a tension wrench, a thin piece of metal shaped like an L. The CIA agent quickly inserted the short end of the L into Aaron’s deadbolt. She also inserted a metal pick, pulling slightly on the tension wrench until she felt the bolt withdraw. The spy repeated the process on the door knob lock and in seconds they were inside the apartment, securing the door behind them. Joe and Jen paused, pistols in hand, listening carefully for any sign that the suspect might have slipped back in.
O’Reilly motioned for Hughes to follow him as they quickly cleared the residence before getting to work. They both wore flesh-colored latex gloves to make sure no one would ever know they had been there. After looking around at the cheap furniture, dirty clothes scattered throughout the living room, and unwashed dishes on the counter in the small kitchen, they both shook their heads.
“What a dump!” the FBI agent repeated.
“Dumps are usually where the rats live,” the CIA agent commented.
Joe started in the bedroom while Jennifer commenced her search in the kitchen. After a few minutes she had moved to the living room, stepping over an empty pizza box. Both agents knew how to search a residence and in fifteen minutes they had thoroughly gone through the entire one-bedroom apartment.
“Anything?” Jen asked.
“No, just a pistol in the drawer beside the bed and a shotgun in the closet. I’ll call in the serial numbers to see if they’re stolen. What about you?”
The young woman shook her head, frustrated.
“There really isn’t much of anything in here,” O’Reilly noted. “Let me check these guns and we can head back to HQ.”
“Do that, but let’s go back over the apartment again,” Hughes said, standing in the middle of the living room. “When I went through my training with the Agency, one of the things that they drilled into us is that you don’t want to accumulate too much stuff because you never know where you might be working next. At the same time, they encourage creativity in storing important papers, weapons, and equipment.”
After a minute, O’Reilly saw her eyes lock on something on the front wall of the apartment, under the windows. A second later, the young woman had crossed the room and was peering behind the small entertainment center. On the other side of this wall was Richards’ bedroom.
Jen walked back to the front wall again, clearly excited about something, kneeling in front of a vent under the windows, bef
ore turning back to the entertainment center.
“Help me pull this back from the wall?” she asked.
Joe had no idea what she was doing but helped her pull the entertainment center away from the wall far enough for the petite woman to get behind it and crouch next to another air vent. Hughes pulled a screwdriver from her purse and removed the vent from the wall.
“Found it!” she said, crawling back out. “This is a fake vent and he’s got a safe hidden inside.”
“Can you get into it?” Joe asked, surprised at the find.
“That’s the bad news. It’s a manual safe. The electronic ones are much easier to crack. I should be able to get it open but it may take a while. Let’s pull the entertainment center out further to give me some room to work.”
Jennifer was soon sitting cross-legged next to the gray safe, a stethoscope pressed against the metal with her left hand as her right slowly manipulated the dial. After five minutes, she paused to write something in her pocket notebook.
O’Reilly was suitably impressed with the young CIA agent. He guessed that she was in her mid-twenties but carried herself with a quiet confidence that many older FBI agents never developed. Ten minutes ago, Joe had been ready to leave the apartment empty-handed. Now, if Hughes could crack this safe, they might find some crucial evidence about what Aaron Richards was up to and where he might be hiding.
The spy paused again to write something down before continuing to listen and turn the dial. Twenty minutes later, she looked up with a smile on her face as she scribbled the final number of the combination into her notebook.
“Let’s see if this works,” she said, spinning the dial and entering the combination.
When she pulled on the handle, the door opened outward, the exact length and width of the vent. They soon had the contents of the safe piled on Richards’ kitchen table: a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol with an attached suppressor, a checkbook, Aaron’s driver’s license, passport, credit cards and a stack of bills.