The rest of the Special Training Unit was finishing breakfast in the mess trailer or was outside doing physical training in small groups when the Gold Team rolled into the annex. Hours before, not long after Victor Sorrento had been smoothly snatched, Michael Shanks had phoned back a coded message indicating that his mission had failed. The black SUVs and the Virginia Power commo support van rolled into the vehicle hangar, and twelve tired and sullen operators and three tech support guys got out; scratching, stretching, spitting and muttering. They had put the bench seats back into their Suburbans for the long highway pursuit.
Blue team members in PT gear and running shoes immediately began to razz them, looking in the open vehicle doors. “So where’s your prisoner?” They peered under the seats and among the gear bags in back, saying, “He must be in here somewhere” and, “Damn, that Gittis must be a little shit.”
In return they got only scowls, curses, and brown gobs of Copenhagen snuff spit at their feet.
Shanks said “Yeah, assholes, next time we’ll take the corner bar, and you can drive 300 freakin’ miles in the pouring rain to Hickory Goddamn North Carolina!”
“Hey, if the Gold Team can’t hack it…”
Bob Bullard walked up, hands in his pockets, expressionless, and the banter and insults stopped. He didn’t PT with the young operators, and was already in his personal “field uniform” of a khaki-colored Dickies work shirt and matching trousers. A cocked and locked .45 government model pistol was holstered on his right hip.
“Okay Michael, let’s take it to the office. We’ll debrief last night, and talk about what’s coming up next.”
****
There was already a pot of strong coffee brewed up in the kitchen corner of the office, along with an open box of convenience store donuts. Bullard, Silvari, Jaeger and Shanks sat around the beat-up conference table, Joe Silvari was enjoying his morning Pepsi with a cigarette. (No one ever mentioned second-hand smoke in the STU: any such whiny expression would earn an immediate smoke cloud blown in the offended party’s face, and a casual but quite earnest invitation for him to try to put it out.)
Bullard led off. “Malvone’s up in DC. He’ll be down later today, maybe. Hammet’s at the Norfolk Field Office; he’s going to swing by the Joint Task Force ops center and then come down later. Robbie’s family has his body, we’ll see if we can cut some guys loose for the funeral when we find out when it is. The troops are all up and fed, so let ‘em PT until 0900, then get them on gear maintenance while we work on the mission planning.”
Silvari was blowing smoke rings, Jaeger was rocking back on his chair, and Shanks appeared much more interested in his coffee. In fact, any of them could repeat Bullard’s words back almost verbatim; it was just that visibly paying close attention to leaders was considered uncool, almost as bad as brown nosing.
The STU was a unique group of characters, with a serious anti-authority streak running through them. After all, Wally Malvone had hand picked them, and they were all trouble makers of one sort or another. Their only loyalty, if it could be described as such, was to each other. Among the STU Team members, the greatest possible sin was showing weakness under pressure, or fear in the face of danger. This welded them into an effective force, but one which considered itself apart, and not beholden to any authority outside of themselves.
Bullard continued. “Tim, send some guys up to Home Depot and get a new hot water heater, a big one. The shower situation is totally unsat. And make sure they know we’re in isolation here, and that OpSec still comes first. No bar hopping, zero, nada, I won’t tolerate it. Home Depot and back; we can’t afford to get sloppy.
“I know it’s a little basic down here, tell the boys we’re looking at some local motels. No promises, it’s still up in the air. It’s not the money that’s the problem, it’s maintaining operational security, and that depends on them.
“Anybody got any bitches I haven’t covered?” Nobody did. “Tim, you don’t need to go over last night’s mission; I already heard it and there’s not much to learn from telling it again. Blue Team did a real slick ‘old buddy’ op on the plumber, just like a training exercise. Tim, you’ll get to work on him after PT, okay?”
Tim Jaeger remained expressionless, not wanting to be seen gloating after what had admittedly been an easy operation. “Sure. He should be ready to talk by now. We left him in the hurt locker over night.”
Bullard turned to the Gold Team Leader next. “All right Michael, go ahead and tell us about Gittis.”
Michael Shanks, unshaven and bleary eyed, still wearing yesterday’s green plaid shirt and jeans, sipped some more coffee, sighed, and began his story. “Well, you know that commo got a fix on his cell phone down I-85 around Durham, and we took off after him around 19:30. Once we had his cell phone codes cranked in, the techs were able to keep it transmitting, sending out its ID every three minutes, you know the deal. So we figured it would be a straight forward chase; just a lot of driving to catch up, and then we’d get him when he stopped for the night. We’re making ninety to his seventy on the GPS map plotter, so it’s just a matter of time.
“North Carolina state police tried to pull us over once, but we used the grill lights, flashed our FBI creds, said howdy on the radio and kept on trucking. After that, they stayed out of our way. We figured Gittis was going to stop for the night sooner or later, but he just kept on driving.
“This side of Hickory we finally caught up to him. He made a gas stop, but it was at a terrible location for a snatch. He just got his gas, pulled through, and kept going. The place was too small and well-lit, and there were too many witnesses around. The Suburbans would have stuck out too much if we took him there. Maybe we should have gone for it, I don’t know… Anyway, around 12:30 he pulled off at a rest stop. And by the way, it wasn’t a Winnebago: it was a fifth-wheel trailer behind a big black Dodge Ram crew-cab truck.
“So we hung back; there’s almost nobody there. Gittis pulled in on the tractor trailer side of the rest stop, so we parked on the car side, and I got out with Baltero to do a little recon. Pistols only, under our raincoats, with suppressors and white lights. We found his trailer and watched him from the bushes between the car side and the truck side of the rest stop. Gittis got out and made a check on his rig, then he went inside it; it’s got a side door at the back. We didn’t know if he was going to go to sleep for the night, or just use the john and then keep driving.
“So we were playing it by ear. I was making up two plans: a dynamic entry by the full team later on if he went to sleep, and an immediate action drill if he got out to start driving again. So Baltero and I stayed in the shadows, and worked our way around him until we were about ten yards behind his rig, still mostly crouched down in the bushes. The trailer’s side door was on the driver’s side, the same side as us.
“We were only there a minute or two, scoping it out, and the side door popped open. Gittis stepped out and turned toward the truck: he was leaving. So I decided to go for it and do an immediate action with Baltero. We looped behind him; it was dark, he’d parked in a spot with no lights. It was drizzling, so our approach was nice and quiet.
“He opened up the truck’s door, I’m ready to yell “freeze, police!” and blind him with my gun light if he turned, and that bastard spins around and starts shooting! Just like that! He must have had ESP, or maybe he saw us in the side mirror, or heard us, I don’t know, but he made us somehow. Anyway, Baltero caught two in his vest, and I nailed him with my Glock. Double tapped him, killed him. It couldn’t…I couldn’t, there wasn’t anything else to do when he turned and fired first. We just didn’t expect it, I never saw it coming, never saw the gun; it was just out. BAM BAM! A Browning Hi-Power, nine mill.
“So I called the rest of the team on the tac channel to hold them off when they heard the shots. It was already over, and I didn’t want too many footprints on those muddy paths. We took his wallet and his cell phone and pager to make it a robbery, like a mugging gone bad. And we took his gun, of course. Baltero went into the trailer real quick and grabbed his laptop and some notebooks, and we went back through the bushes to the car side of the rest stop, and then we all took off. We purely screwed the pooch Bob, and I accept full responsibility. I didn’t take into account he might make us and shoot first. I shouldn’t have gone for the immediate action; I should have waited him out, and kept following him.”
“You positive he’s dead?” asked Bullard.
“Yeah, very positive. Two .45 caliber silvertips through the heart.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No. Well, I guess it’s possible, but we didn’t see any. There were a couple of eighteen-wheelers parked on the main lot about two- or three-hundred feet away. Gittis was pulled over near the return lane to the highway where it was darker, all by himself.”
“Did you see any local LEOs?”
“No, none. No cops.”
“Okay then, lessons learned. Shit happens. Going for the immediate action drill on him half-cocked wasn’t a great idea, but I can see you didn’t want him driving another three-hundred miles. So what’s done is done… And we can’t get lax, we have to assume these dirt bags are armed at all times, and act accordingly. When we get time we should schedule some more snatch and takedown training. No doubt about it, Blue Team had the easier op last night. Shake it off, do better next time. How’s Baltero with getting tagged in the vest?”
“He’s sore as hell; we weren’t wearing our plates so he got some nasty bruises. But he’s a professional; he’s okay with it… It won’t turn him flaky, if that’s what you mean. He’s half Mex and half Apache, and he doesn’t rattle. That’s why he’s my point man.”
“Good, that’s what I want to hear. Go get breakfast, and give your guys a couple hours of rack time if they need it. Hammet’s at the Joint Task Force getting up to speed. When he gets back we’ll decide who we’re going after next, unless Wally calls us with a new mission first.”
****
Brad used the pay phone outside the restaurant to call East Sails, and ask about the status of his genoa jib. They were treating themselves to a sit down breakfast at the pancake house on Magruder Boulevard in Poquoson, and planning their day. It was still overcast after last night’s rain, but the streets were dry, and it was warm enough for him to dress in his preferred polo shirt, khaki boater’s shorts and docksiders. When he came back inside he tried to appear nonchalant as he slid into the booth across from Ranya. Their breakfasts were finished and cleared away except for their coffees; she was reading today’s newspaper. An aerial view of the line of cars and emergency vehicles at the Hoffler Boulevard exit ramp was on page one, but he noticed she was reading an article on the Sanderson assassination investigation on an inside page.
“The sail’s ready; we can pick it up any time.” This meant Guajira would be ready to sail away as soon as the new jib was installed. The East Sails loft was only ten minutes away in Newport News. He couldn’t read her reaction; Ranya was wearing wrap-around fake Oakley-style sunglasses and a black Ruger firearms ball cap. Her brown ponytail was pulled through the opening at the back of the cap. She was being very cautious, using the hat and shades as a form of disguise, he thought. As soon as she had pulled off her motorcycle helmet, she had put on the hat; she seemed seriously worried, almost paranoid, about being recognized. The logo on the front of the hat was of the stylized Ruger gothic eagle embroidered in red; only a shooter would recognize its significance, to the rest of the world it would be meaningless.
Ranya had explained to him that she had gotten all sorts of firearms-related gear through Freedom Arms; the manufacturers frequently sent out promotional items pushing their lines. She had always enjoyed wearing t-shirts and hats from Colt, Glock, Winchester and Remington at school for the shocked and stammering reactions they had caused; she enjoyed upsetting the PC sensibilities of the typical anti-gun university liberals. Now these hats and t-shirts were a last connection to her past, the past that had gone up in flames. She had brought the Ruger hat to the boat after she had taken the truck to her apartment to pick up the clothes and things she needed. All that she owned she had either recently purchased, or she had brought down from UVA; everything else had, of course, burned with her house. She was wearing her jeans and jean jacket and boots; her Yamaha was parked outside next to his pickup.
She said, “Well, that’s great. Do you want to pick it up right away, or after you sell your truck?” Selling Brad’s truck was the major item on the schedule today, before getting the welcome news that the sail was ready. His pickup was excess, since she owned both the motorcycles and the van. His much newer F-250 was worth several times more than her old Econoline, and they planned to sell it for a large chunk of cruising cash. Brad figured that every thousand dollars of cash could buy them another month or two of freedom in the tropics.
“I’d like to go get it now, then take it out to Guajira. We can sell the truck later this afternoon. I’ll just feel a lot better when that sail is on the boat; I need to run it up and make sure everything fits. I really want the boat ready to go, just in case.”
“Do you need help with the sail? How big is it?”
“Oh, I can handle it all right. Folded up and bagged, it’s going to be about as big as this table top, and about a foot thick. Maybe a hundred pounds; I can handle it.”
“Well I’ve got some chores to run over in Norfolk and Portsmouth…some insurance papers to sign, and some banking. And I want to buy some prepaid cell phones; we can’t keep depending on pay phones if we need to get in touch.”
“Get a couple of the throwaways, the el-cheapo kinds in the foil packs. Sixty minute ones should be fine, and pay cash…”
“You don’t need to tell me that. I’ll get the kind that you don’t have to register to use.”
“Sixty minute ones should last us until we’re gone,” he said. “But only for us to call each other; nobody else that the feds might possibly be monitoring. I’d rather not use any cell phones at all than take a chance on that.”
“As long as we’re careful, we’ll be all right.”
“Yeah. That’ll work. Hey, after I take care of the sail, I’ve got some other things to do too; some banking and shopping back on the Norfolk side. How about hooking up later, down there?”
“Where?”
“I’ll be shopping at Boat America, over in Virginia Beach on Shore Drive. It’s a good place to hang out; I can wait there until you’re finished. What’s a good time?”
“How about noon?” she replied.
“Noon sounds fine.”
“I’ll go get my van in Norfolk. We can have lunch somewhere, and then work on getting rid of your truck. Where are you thinking about selling it?”
“Virginia Beach Boulevard. That’s the best place; there’s one used car dealer after another. They’re going to rip me off, but it’ll be worth it. We’ll need all the cash we can get.”
“Well I’m not going to sell my bikes, I’m going to put them in a mini-storage. My Enduro is still in the shed back behind my…where my house was. I’m going to get my van and pick it up today, before it gets ripped off. And Brad, I still can’t believe you don’t ride! As soon as we get time, I’m going to fix that! My Night Hawk is the perfect bike to learn on, it’ll be a breeze for you. You turned me on to sailing, and I’m going to turn you on to motorcycles! You can drive a stick shift, I hope?”
“Hey, I’m not a complete loser. Of course I can drive a stick.”
The idea of teaching Brad to ride put the smile back on her face, and she unconsciously squeezed and stroked his hands across the table. She had loved riding her Yamaha FZR alongside his truck on the way up to Poquoson, and was now eagerly looking forward to them riding side by side. “Seriously, it’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on…”
He was also smiling; they were forgetting their fears for a moment. “I always wanted to learn to ride, but I never got around to it. But now that I have my own personal instructor, I’ll do it.”
“You’re damn right you will! I’ll teach you how to ride, I’m a good instructor, I’ve taught a few people. You’re going to totally love it! It’ll just take you a few days, and you’ll wonder why you wasted all those years hiding inside of cars.”
“Maybe there won’t be time, maybe in a few days we’ll be out of here, out on the ocean.”
“Maybe. How long do you think it’ll take us to find George?” she asked.
“I don’t know… I wouldn’t get too close to the federal building and try to follow him from there, I’m sure they’ve got cameras all around it. Probably those face recognizing cameras. We definitely don’t want to be lurking anywhere around there.”
“So dressing in a sexy delivery uniform and strolling into the BATF offices saying ‘flowers for George, where’s George?’ won’t cut it?” Ranya slipped down her sunglasses, and winked at him. “I could hide my .45 in a flower box, and walk him right out of there.”
She was so damn pretty when she was happy and smiling, Brad thought. Her eyes looked more greenish than hazel today, he wanted to lean across the table and kiss her all over her face. “Uh, no. I don’t think that would be such a great idea. Just getting his last name is going to be a problem. We could do some internet searching, check the federal employee registries for local FBI and ATF personnel assignments, things like that, but those databases are probably classified these days. Anybody that checks those sites is probably going to get their computer flagged, so we’ll have to be careful how we do it. And their personal phone numbers are all unlisted, I know that.”
Ranya didn’t bring up how she had found the Attorney General’s address in the ODU library. But then, she had his full name to work with, and he was a public official, not a federal agent. She had another idea. “He gave you a cell phone, right? To contact him?”
“Sure, but I let the batteries run down. I didn’t want him using it to track me.”
“Well why don’t you just charge it up and give him a call? Tell him you heard something. Offer him some hot information, but tell him you need to have a meeting.”
“What if he asks me to come to the federal building? I’m not going near that place, no way! And once I call him, he’ll be able to track my location off the cell phone. I’m not too cool with that.”
“Maybe after you call him, we can use the phone as bait, to draw him to us?”
“But what if he comes with a whole team? He could have the whole meeting area crawling with undercover feds. That might work for taking a shot at him, from long range, but that won’t work for grabbing him. How about we just shoot him and be done with it?”
They were talking very quietly, their heads close together, sweetly holding hands across the table while calmly discussing kidnapping a federal agent. They were in a back corner booth; no one was near them. When the waitresses came near, they paused in their talk.
Ranya said, “We have to set it up as a meeting, and try to arrange it so that he comes alone. Offer him enough of a tip to make it interesting, but not enough for him to bring a backup team.”
“I don’t see how we can control all that. He’s like an agent handler here; he’ll set up the meeting, and he’ll want to control it. It’s the only way they do it; they never let an informant set the time and the place. It’s a control thing.”
“I think it’s still our best chance. Anyway, let’s think about it; let’s think of a good story to tell him to bait the trap. Some way to get him to come alone. If we think about it for a while, we’ll come up with something… We’ll figure it out. Hey, we’re done here aren’t we?”
“Yeah, we’re done. Let’s roll.”
She grabbed her black helmet and daypack from the seat next to her, and they got up and walked out. Brad left cash for the bill and the tip on the table.