Cross down, p.15
Cross Down, page 15
Chapter
70
Deacon and I crowd around Bastinelli at his kitchen counter as he looks at eight small screens showing feeds from security cameras. Two of them point at dirt roads where armed men climb out of three black Chevrolet Suburbans.
About a dozen of them in black jumpsuits, boots, and ballistic helmets head into the woods surrounding Bastinelli’s compound. Three remain back at the parked Suburbans, radio handsets in their gloved hands.
Bastinelli whistles. “Man, when you guys take a stick to a hornet’s nest, you don’t just hit it—you knock it on the ground and use it as a fucking soccer ball.”
I say, “They started it.”
Bastinelli says, “Yeah, well, I’m gonna finish it. Excuse me.”
He exits the kitchen and I look at Deacon, who’s staring at the screens showing armed men coming our way. We’re isolated, outnumbered, and probably outgunned, but Deacon has a blank expression on her face.
Like she was expecting this raid.
I follow Bastinelli down a short hall to a living room filled with furniture and books but no TV. He opens up a closet with a large safe that locks with a keypad instead of the usual dial. His explanation as he punches in the numbers: “When bad guys are coming up at you, you don’t want to worry about your fingers shaking.”
There’s a soft click. He tugs at the handle, and I blink at the sight of the small armory: handguns, shotguns, long rifles, and, tucked in one corner, a huge rifle I recognize as a .50-caliber Barrett M82, a semiautomatic rifle that fires the world’s largest cartridge. One round can penetrate a car’s engine block with ease.
Bastinelli throws on a bullet-resistant vest. He says, “I see you spotted my little friend.”
“Impressive,” I say.
“It tends to stop people in their tracks and make them rethink their career choices.”
Deacon joins us. “What are you planning to do?”
He tightens the Velcro straps. “Well, like a good homeowner, I’m going to protect the old homestead. My entire property is posted with no trespassing signs.”
I say, “We didn’t spot any signs on our way in.”
He takes two steps down the hallway, stops beneath a square ceiling panel, and reaches for a dangling cord. “What, you want me to advertise that there’s a house deep in the woods? Nope, there’s lots of them and they’re visible, but not from the road.” Bastinelli pulls on the rope, and a folded ladder descends from the ceiling. I peer up, and lights have flicked on, revealing a ladder rising about fifty feet to a metal grid floor.
“You like my tower of terror? I go up there and I can last a long time. I’ve got fields of fire cleared, I’ve got pyrotechnic surprises scattered through the woods, and the only weapon I can’t withstand is an anti-tank missile.”
Deacon says, “You mean you’re going to shoot them first?”
He goes back to the safe, puts the slinged Barrett over one shoulder, picks up two metal boxes of ammunition. “Yep.”
“You’ll go to prison.”
He shakes his head. “The property is posted. The men are armed. I fear for my life. This is the Live Free or Die state; no jury here will convict me. But we’re wasting time.”
I say, “Come with us, Gary.”
He heads to the ladder. “Nope.”
Deacon says, “We need you.”
He stops at the bottom of the ladder. “Feeling’s not mutual, sorry. I enlisted right after 9/11, when the entire nation was united, filled with determination to strike back against the attackers and settle accounts. Well, thanks to the politicians, the uniformed bureaucrats in the Pentagon, and the talking heads on cable, that unity was pissed away. I don’t even recognize this country anymore. I once pledged to defend the Constitution and the nation. Now, it’s just my close friends and family I’ll defend.”
Deacon says, “But—”
“Go,” he says. “Drive around the rear of the property. There’s a kids’ swing set there. Use it as your marker, line up straight in front of it. Go right through the trees and keep going due south until you hit a dirt road. I’ll be up in my tower, providing cover.”
No time to argue. “Elizabeth, we’ve got to go.”
“But—”
Bastinelli starts climbing the ladder. “Whatever happens, I got your backs here. But you’re on your own once you leave the area. And good luck figuring out what in hell is going on out there, either in the States or in the ’Stan.”
Up he goes and I give credit to Deacon—she doesn’t argue. She turns and we move quickly to the front door to leave before the bad guys get here.
Chapter
71
In the motel room, Maynard tells Willard, the NSA contractor, “Run it again.”
“Got it.”
Once more the voice comes through the speakers, strong and firm and definitely a woman’s.
“That voice sounds familiar,” Maynard says.
“Yeah, to me too.”
“Can you send a copy of the cleaned-up sound file to my thumb drive?”
Willard says, “Certainly.”
There’s a quick motion of his fingers, then the click-click of a mouse, and Willard pulls out the thumb drive and hands it over to Maynard. This time, Maynard makes sure that his fingers don’t touch Willard’s. He slips the thumb drive into his shirt pocket.
Damn, the voice does sound familiar, and he’s still surprised that the Boss is a woman. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s good to know. Over the years, whenever he came across fellow travelers who claimed that women weren’t tough enough to make the hard decisions, he’d shut them up by saying three names: Meir, Gandhi, Thatcher.
Willard swivels in his seat. “We need to talk.”
Maynard is surprised. “We do? About what?”
His chubby face flushes. “This…situation we have. It’s over. I don’t want you bothering me anymore.”
Maynard says, “What, you found God all of a sudden? You’ve stopped visiting the dark web and sharing all those nasty files?”
The man’s face reddens even more. “What I do or don’t do is none of your business. But it’s over. Today’s the last time you contact me to do your dirty work.”
Maynard thinks that this pervert complaining about Maynard’s dirty work is the height of irony, but he doesn’t have time to discuss it; he needs to get going and leave this foul room. “There’s always an or else tacked on the end of such a statement,” Maynard says. “Let’s hear it.”
Willard gently caresses his keyboard. “Over the years, I’ve kept track of all your illegal information requests, with dates and details. We come to an agreement right here and now that you’ll never, ever bother me again, or those files get released. The New York Times, CNN, ranking members of the House and Senate Intelligence Committees, maybe even your mother, living comfortably at the Villages in Florida—in one week, I’ll make the info dump.”
Maynard knows he’s never discussed personal information with this creature, but he’s managed to find out where Mom lives. “In one week, you say?”
Willard nods. “Seven days.”
Maynard says, “That sounds like a fair arrangement. I mean, I know I’ve pressed you over the years, sometimes under difficult circumstances, to go dumpster-diving on the internet for me. Tell you what—I agree.”
Willard says, “For real?”
“Sure,” Maynard says. “Let’s shake on it.”
Willard gets up from his chair and Maynard slips his hand into his right jacket pocket, removes a Filipino butterfly knife, gives it a quick rotation, and, when the blade is secured, stabs Willard twice in the chest. Willard gasps and falls back in his chair.
Maynard wipes the blade clean on Willard’s shirt, and as Willard gasps, he says, “You might’ve tried to do the info dump tomorrow, and I couldn’t let that happen. But in a week?” He flips the knife back to its carrying position, puts it in his jacket pocket.
“In a week, no one will care,” he says. He leaves as Willard bleeds out in the chair.
Chapter
72
I climb into the driver’s seat of the Tahoe and push the ignition switch, and about two seconds later Deacon gets into the passenger’s seat.
She says, “I don’t remember saying you could drive.”
“Blame the patriarchy,” I say, buckling up. I put the Tahoe in reverse. “You drove us here, and it seems fair I drive us out. Fasten your seat belt, Elizabeth, we’re going to hit some bumps.”
I shift the Tahoe into drive, circle the building, and spot the swing set. I keep driving until the visual display on the Tahoe’s dashboard reads SOUTH/180 DEGREES. Then I drive right into the woods.
When we’re in the saplings and brush, I again admire Bastinelli’s foresight to pack gravel and dirt into an invisible road. Invisible, but not smooth. There are bumps and sways, and Deacon says, “You know what you’re doing?”
“Relax,” I say, keeping my grip tight on the steering wheel, which is shaking hard. “We’re going downhill, and gravity’s doing most of the work.”
While Deacon is telling me what I can do with the theory of gravity, I spot two armed men to our left, moving up toward Bastinelli’s compound. “Duck!” I yell.
Deacon quickly lowers herself as a round snaps through the rear liftgate window. I push the accelerator down harder. Standard operating procedure to evade a shooter is to weave, but if I get off this hard-packed gravel road, I might get us bogged down in the soft forest floor.
The Tahoe bucks and rises as we burst through the woods and onto a dirt road. I turn left and the car skids, and dust is tossed up, but I get the Tahoe straightened out and hit the accelerator again.
“Any idea where we’re going?” Deacon asks.
“Right now, out of the kill zone,” I say, speeding up as much as I dare on this narrow road.
I turn a corner, and there’s a Chevrolet Suburban nearly blocking our way, but its front hood is emitting steam, two of its tires are flat, the windows are shattered, and the Suburban’s body is pockmarked with what I’m sure are .50-caliber rounds. Lying on the dirt next to it is an armed man; what’s left of his head is dangling over a drainage ditch.
I slip by the shot-up Suburban and keep driving. Deacon has her nine-millimeter pistol in her lap. I think that’s a good idea, and I tug my coat aside to have easy access to my Glock.
In the rearview mirror, I see a blur, and there’s a heavy thump as another black Chevrolet Suburban rams our tail. Deacon and I bounce forward against the seat belts, and the Suburban rears back and starts accelerating again.
Up ahead, the dirt road widens into an area big enough for a snowplow to turn around, and I glance up at the rearview mirror and see the Suburban racing up on our tail again. I swerve over to the wide part of the road, hit the emergency brake, and downshift into low.
With a cloud of dust, the Suburban races past us, and I release the emergency brake, shift into drive, and go hard and fast to catch up to the SUV. When the Tahoe’s front wheels are aligned with the Suburban’s rear wheels, a guy with a pistol leans out of the passenger side. I swerve to the left, into the right rear bumper of the Suburban, and accelerate as the Suburban’s rear wheels lose traction. This is what’s called a PIT maneuver, and nine times out of ten, it will cause the other vehicle to spin out and lose control.
Which it does, spectacularly. We speed past, and in the rearview mirror I see the Suburban flip over at least twice before coming to a stop, ejecting the man who was trying to shoot us in the process.
He ends up roughly hugging a pine tree.
We turn a sharp corner. Two men step out into the middle of the road, aiming assault rifles right at us, and again I say, “Duck,” and Deacon says, “What the hell?”
I’m planning to slide down in my seat, punch the accelerator, and hope for the best, but it turns out that’s not necessary. Even with the windows closed, I hear two booming cracks coming from up the hill behind us, and both men crumple to the ground. They’re wearing full body armor, but a .50-caliber round from a Barrett rifle can punch through that like an icepick through tissue paper.
Thankfully, there’s enough room to drive between, not over, the two bodies, and I say, “Damn, you’ve got to admit that’s some fine shooting Gary gave us.”
“Agreed,” she says.
I keep driving. The dirt road is straight and empty. “Nice to have friends, don’t you think?”
Deacon’s hand is tight on her pistol. “I wouldn’t know,” she says.
Chapter
73
General Wayne Grissom is concluding another unsatisfactory meeting with the task force, and most of the time was spent on a discussion of all the shootings and bombings that took place during the president’s address to the nation last night.
“Look,” he finally snaps, “we all know what happened during the president’s talk. The terrorists were sending a message that they can strike anywhere and at any time. Besides spreading terror, it was a taunt. Agent Mahoney, what’s the latest from the FBI?”
Like everyone else at this meeting—which this time is held in a conference room deep in the Department of Labor building—he looks tired and jumpy.
He says, “We’ve arrested one person involved in the shooting of a Black Lives Matter meeting in Chicago and two people who were part of the attack on a white separatist group in Idaho. Our initial interviews were…puzzling.”
“Puzzling how?” Grissom asks.
“Before they shut up and demanded counsel, they gave us similar information on their funding source and who supplied them with weapons and explosives,” Mahoney says.
Doris Landsdale from Homeland Security says, “You have a name? An organization?”
Mahoney says, “No, but they used the same phrasing. A number of months ago, they were approached via encrypted e-mail and text messages by someone claiming to be a supporter of their cause. Each group took advantage of the offer.”
The people in the crowded and warm conference room are silent.
“Don’t you get it?” Mahoney asks. “You have two radically different armed groups, one going after a Black organization in Chicago, the other going against white supremacists in Idaho. Yet both groups have the same story of how they went from street protests to armed attacks—support and weapons from someone claiming to be a fellow traveler.”
Grissom says, “The purpose of terror is terror. That’s what concerns me. There’s no single thread, no political position, that pulls these attacks together. What does the NSA say?”
There are several minutes of technical discussion concerning data analyses of captured cell phones from the attackers in Chicago and Iowa and the NSA’s attempts to see if any increase in cell tower use can be traced back to suspicious data packs.
Grissom says, “You’ve got nothing solid, then. Nothing we can use to track the terrorists down or prevent another attack.”
“No, sir,” replies the air force colonel representing the NSA.
Sitting next to Grissom is Helen Taft, the president’s chief of staff. “Helen,” he says, “I’d like to meet with the president later. Can you arrange that?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says dismissively.
Grissom nearly explodes. The most serious domestic threat this nation has faced in decades, and all you’ve got to say is “I’ll see what I can do”? Even his assistant, Colonel Carla Kendricks, looks stunned at Taft’s response.
He keeps his cool and takes one last glance around the conference table, eager to get out of here and back to the Pentagon. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know we’re all frustrated with these attacks, with the lack of progress in our investigations, and with the knowledge that a larger and more destructive attack is imminent.” He takes a breath. “But please, keep focused, keep fresh. While I don’t know all of you personally, I do know that you’ve arrived in your current positions because of hard work, determination, the desire to serve this nation, and a lot of sacrifice. Some of you have sacrificed time with your family and the opportunity to have larger salaries in the private sector, and others have pressed on in the face of even harder sacrifices.”
All eyes are now on him, and he feels his throat tighten. “Including myself.” He pauses. “As I’m sure most of you know, I lost my son, Nathan, five years ago in an IED attack in Afghanistan. Yet I’ve pressed on, and I’m asking you to continue on with me in this effort. This nation is worth saving. And we will do that, no matter what it takes—”
Secretary Landsdale interrupts. “With all due respect, General, what have our efforts accomplished? We supposedly have the largest and most capable foreign and domestic intelligence services in the world, and all we’ve come up with are ghosts, hints, and the ever-popular chatter. Do we have any real idea of what’s going on?”
Grissom snaps, “What the hell do you want, Doris? An organization tree with every terrorist’s phone number and e-mail? That’s TV and Hollywood bullshit, and unfortunately, this is reality—gritty, confusing, and, in the end, exceptionally dangerous. Anybody else?”
Silence.
Grissom stands up. “Fine. We’ll put out a communication later today with the next meeting’s time and location.”
Everyone else gets up too, and to the chief of staff’s well-groomed back, Grissom calls out, “Helen! Can I get a moment, please?”
Taft either doesn’t hear him or ignores him; she quickly exits the conference room.
Accompanied by Secretary Doris Landsdale, the two of them deep in conversation.
Colonel Kendricks is next to him. “I don’t like what I’m seeing,” she says.
Grissom says, “Neither do I.”
Chapter
74
About ten minutes after our friend on the hill gunned down the two armed men approaching us on the dirt road, Deacon and I are on a narrow paved lane that laughably calls itself State Highway 19.
70
Deacon and I crowd around Bastinelli at his kitchen counter as he looks at eight small screens showing feeds from security cameras. Two of them point at dirt roads where armed men climb out of three black Chevrolet Suburbans.
About a dozen of them in black jumpsuits, boots, and ballistic helmets head into the woods surrounding Bastinelli’s compound. Three remain back at the parked Suburbans, radio handsets in their gloved hands.
Bastinelli whistles. “Man, when you guys take a stick to a hornet’s nest, you don’t just hit it—you knock it on the ground and use it as a fucking soccer ball.”
I say, “They started it.”
Bastinelli says, “Yeah, well, I’m gonna finish it. Excuse me.”
He exits the kitchen and I look at Deacon, who’s staring at the screens showing armed men coming our way. We’re isolated, outnumbered, and probably outgunned, but Deacon has a blank expression on her face.
Like she was expecting this raid.
I follow Bastinelli down a short hall to a living room filled with furniture and books but no TV. He opens up a closet with a large safe that locks with a keypad instead of the usual dial. His explanation as he punches in the numbers: “When bad guys are coming up at you, you don’t want to worry about your fingers shaking.”
There’s a soft click. He tugs at the handle, and I blink at the sight of the small armory: handguns, shotguns, long rifles, and, tucked in one corner, a huge rifle I recognize as a .50-caliber Barrett M82, a semiautomatic rifle that fires the world’s largest cartridge. One round can penetrate a car’s engine block with ease.
Bastinelli throws on a bullet-resistant vest. He says, “I see you spotted my little friend.”
“Impressive,” I say.
“It tends to stop people in their tracks and make them rethink their career choices.”
Deacon joins us. “What are you planning to do?”
He tightens the Velcro straps. “Well, like a good homeowner, I’m going to protect the old homestead. My entire property is posted with no trespassing signs.”
I say, “We didn’t spot any signs on our way in.”
He takes two steps down the hallway, stops beneath a square ceiling panel, and reaches for a dangling cord. “What, you want me to advertise that there’s a house deep in the woods? Nope, there’s lots of them and they’re visible, but not from the road.” Bastinelli pulls on the rope, and a folded ladder descends from the ceiling. I peer up, and lights have flicked on, revealing a ladder rising about fifty feet to a metal grid floor.
“You like my tower of terror? I go up there and I can last a long time. I’ve got fields of fire cleared, I’ve got pyrotechnic surprises scattered through the woods, and the only weapon I can’t withstand is an anti-tank missile.”
Deacon says, “You mean you’re going to shoot them first?”
He goes back to the safe, puts the slinged Barrett over one shoulder, picks up two metal boxes of ammunition. “Yep.”
“You’ll go to prison.”
He shakes his head. “The property is posted. The men are armed. I fear for my life. This is the Live Free or Die state; no jury here will convict me. But we’re wasting time.”
I say, “Come with us, Gary.”
He heads to the ladder. “Nope.”
Deacon says, “We need you.”
He stops at the bottom of the ladder. “Feeling’s not mutual, sorry. I enlisted right after 9/11, when the entire nation was united, filled with determination to strike back against the attackers and settle accounts. Well, thanks to the politicians, the uniformed bureaucrats in the Pentagon, and the talking heads on cable, that unity was pissed away. I don’t even recognize this country anymore. I once pledged to defend the Constitution and the nation. Now, it’s just my close friends and family I’ll defend.”
Deacon says, “But—”
“Go,” he says. “Drive around the rear of the property. There’s a kids’ swing set there. Use it as your marker, line up straight in front of it. Go right through the trees and keep going due south until you hit a dirt road. I’ll be up in my tower, providing cover.”
No time to argue. “Elizabeth, we’ve got to go.”
“But—”
Bastinelli starts climbing the ladder. “Whatever happens, I got your backs here. But you’re on your own once you leave the area. And good luck figuring out what in hell is going on out there, either in the States or in the ’Stan.”
Up he goes and I give credit to Deacon—she doesn’t argue. She turns and we move quickly to the front door to leave before the bad guys get here.
Chapter
71
In the motel room, Maynard tells Willard, the NSA contractor, “Run it again.”
“Got it.”
Once more the voice comes through the speakers, strong and firm and definitely a woman’s.
“That voice sounds familiar,” Maynard says.
“Yeah, to me too.”
“Can you send a copy of the cleaned-up sound file to my thumb drive?”
Willard says, “Certainly.”
There’s a quick motion of his fingers, then the click-click of a mouse, and Willard pulls out the thumb drive and hands it over to Maynard. This time, Maynard makes sure that his fingers don’t touch Willard’s. He slips the thumb drive into his shirt pocket.
Damn, the voice does sound familiar, and he’s still surprised that the Boss is a woman. Nothing wrong with that, but it’s good to know. Over the years, whenever he came across fellow travelers who claimed that women weren’t tough enough to make the hard decisions, he’d shut them up by saying three names: Meir, Gandhi, Thatcher.
Willard swivels in his seat. “We need to talk.”
Maynard is surprised. “We do? About what?”
His chubby face flushes. “This…situation we have. It’s over. I don’t want you bothering me anymore.”
Maynard says, “What, you found God all of a sudden? You’ve stopped visiting the dark web and sharing all those nasty files?”
The man’s face reddens even more. “What I do or don’t do is none of your business. But it’s over. Today’s the last time you contact me to do your dirty work.”
Maynard thinks that this pervert complaining about Maynard’s dirty work is the height of irony, but he doesn’t have time to discuss it; he needs to get going and leave this foul room. “There’s always an or else tacked on the end of such a statement,” Maynard says. “Let’s hear it.”
Willard gently caresses his keyboard. “Over the years, I’ve kept track of all your illegal information requests, with dates and details. We come to an agreement right here and now that you’ll never, ever bother me again, or those files get released. The New York Times, CNN, ranking members of the House and Senate Intelligence Committees, maybe even your mother, living comfortably at the Villages in Florida—in one week, I’ll make the info dump.”
Maynard knows he’s never discussed personal information with this creature, but he’s managed to find out where Mom lives. “In one week, you say?”
Willard nods. “Seven days.”
Maynard says, “That sounds like a fair arrangement. I mean, I know I’ve pressed you over the years, sometimes under difficult circumstances, to go dumpster-diving on the internet for me. Tell you what—I agree.”
Willard says, “For real?”
“Sure,” Maynard says. “Let’s shake on it.”
Willard gets up from his chair and Maynard slips his hand into his right jacket pocket, removes a Filipino butterfly knife, gives it a quick rotation, and, when the blade is secured, stabs Willard twice in the chest. Willard gasps and falls back in his chair.
Maynard wipes the blade clean on Willard’s shirt, and as Willard gasps, he says, “You might’ve tried to do the info dump tomorrow, and I couldn’t let that happen. But in a week?” He flips the knife back to its carrying position, puts it in his jacket pocket.
“In a week, no one will care,” he says. He leaves as Willard bleeds out in the chair.
Chapter
72
I climb into the driver’s seat of the Tahoe and push the ignition switch, and about two seconds later Deacon gets into the passenger’s seat.
She says, “I don’t remember saying you could drive.”
“Blame the patriarchy,” I say, buckling up. I put the Tahoe in reverse. “You drove us here, and it seems fair I drive us out. Fasten your seat belt, Elizabeth, we’re going to hit some bumps.”
I shift the Tahoe into drive, circle the building, and spot the swing set. I keep driving until the visual display on the Tahoe’s dashboard reads SOUTH/180 DEGREES. Then I drive right into the woods.
When we’re in the saplings and brush, I again admire Bastinelli’s foresight to pack gravel and dirt into an invisible road. Invisible, but not smooth. There are bumps and sways, and Deacon says, “You know what you’re doing?”
“Relax,” I say, keeping my grip tight on the steering wheel, which is shaking hard. “We’re going downhill, and gravity’s doing most of the work.”
While Deacon is telling me what I can do with the theory of gravity, I spot two armed men to our left, moving up toward Bastinelli’s compound. “Duck!” I yell.
Deacon quickly lowers herself as a round snaps through the rear liftgate window. I push the accelerator down harder. Standard operating procedure to evade a shooter is to weave, but if I get off this hard-packed gravel road, I might get us bogged down in the soft forest floor.
The Tahoe bucks and rises as we burst through the woods and onto a dirt road. I turn left and the car skids, and dust is tossed up, but I get the Tahoe straightened out and hit the accelerator again.
“Any idea where we’re going?” Deacon asks.
“Right now, out of the kill zone,” I say, speeding up as much as I dare on this narrow road.
I turn a corner, and there’s a Chevrolet Suburban nearly blocking our way, but its front hood is emitting steam, two of its tires are flat, the windows are shattered, and the Suburban’s body is pockmarked with what I’m sure are .50-caliber rounds. Lying on the dirt next to it is an armed man; what’s left of his head is dangling over a drainage ditch.
I slip by the shot-up Suburban and keep driving. Deacon has her nine-millimeter pistol in her lap. I think that’s a good idea, and I tug my coat aside to have easy access to my Glock.
In the rearview mirror, I see a blur, and there’s a heavy thump as another black Chevrolet Suburban rams our tail. Deacon and I bounce forward against the seat belts, and the Suburban rears back and starts accelerating again.
Up ahead, the dirt road widens into an area big enough for a snowplow to turn around, and I glance up at the rearview mirror and see the Suburban racing up on our tail again. I swerve over to the wide part of the road, hit the emergency brake, and downshift into low.
With a cloud of dust, the Suburban races past us, and I release the emergency brake, shift into drive, and go hard and fast to catch up to the SUV. When the Tahoe’s front wheels are aligned with the Suburban’s rear wheels, a guy with a pistol leans out of the passenger side. I swerve to the left, into the right rear bumper of the Suburban, and accelerate as the Suburban’s rear wheels lose traction. This is what’s called a PIT maneuver, and nine times out of ten, it will cause the other vehicle to spin out and lose control.
Which it does, spectacularly. We speed past, and in the rearview mirror I see the Suburban flip over at least twice before coming to a stop, ejecting the man who was trying to shoot us in the process.
He ends up roughly hugging a pine tree.
We turn a sharp corner. Two men step out into the middle of the road, aiming assault rifles right at us, and again I say, “Duck,” and Deacon says, “What the hell?”
I’m planning to slide down in my seat, punch the accelerator, and hope for the best, but it turns out that’s not necessary. Even with the windows closed, I hear two booming cracks coming from up the hill behind us, and both men crumple to the ground. They’re wearing full body armor, but a .50-caliber round from a Barrett rifle can punch through that like an icepick through tissue paper.
Thankfully, there’s enough room to drive between, not over, the two bodies, and I say, “Damn, you’ve got to admit that’s some fine shooting Gary gave us.”
“Agreed,” she says.
I keep driving. The dirt road is straight and empty. “Nice to have friends, don’t you think?”
Deacon’s hand is tight on her pistol. “I wouldn’t know,” she says.
Chapter
73
General Wayne Grissom is concluding another unsatisfactory meeting with the task force, and most of the time was spent on a discussion of all the shootings and bombings that took place during the president’s address to the nation last night.
“Look,” he finally snaps, “we all know what happened during the president’s talk. The terrorists were sending a message that they can strike anywhere and at any time. Besides spreading terror, it was a taunt. Agent Mahoney, what’s the latest from the FBI?”
Like everyone else at this meeting—which this time is held in a conference room deep in the Department of Labor building—he looks tired and jumpy.
He says, “We’ve arrested one person involved in the shooting of a Black Lives Matter meeting in Chicago and two people who were part of the attack on a white separatist group in Idaho. Our initial interviews were…puzzling.”
“Puzzling how?” Grissom asks.
“Before they shut up and demanded counsel, they gave us similar information on their funding source and who supplied them with weapons and explosives,” Mahoney says.
Doris Landsdale from Homeland Security says, “You have a name? An organization?”
Mahoney says, “No, but they used the same phrasing. A number of months ago, they were approached via encrypted e-mail and text messages by someone claiming to be a supporter of their cause. Each group took advantage of the offer.”
The people in the crowded and warm conference room are silent.
“Don’t you get it?” Mahoney asks. “You have two radically different armed groups, one going after a Black organization in Chicago, the other going against white supremacists in Idaho. Yet both groups have the same story of how they went from street protests to armed attacks—support and weapons from someone claiming to be a fellow traveler.”
Grissom says, “The purpose of terror is terror. That’s what concerns me. There’s no single thread, no political position, that pulls these attacks together. What does the NSA say?”
There are several minutes of technical discussion concerning data analyses of captured cell phones from the attackers in Chicago and Iowa and the NSA’s attempts to see if any increase in cell tower use can be traced back to suspicious data packs.
Grissom says, “You’ve got nothing solid, then. Nothing we can use to track the terrorists down or prevent another attack.”
“No, sir,” replies the air force colonel representing the NSA.
Sitting next to Grissom is Helen Taft, the president’s chief of staff. “Helen,” he says, “I’d like to meet with the president later. Can you arrange that?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says dismissively.
Grissom nearly explodes. The most serious domestic threat this nation has faced in decades, and all you’ve got to say is “I’ll see what I can do”? Even his assistant, Colonel Carla Kendricks, looks stunned at Taft’s response.
He keeps his cool and takes one last glance around the conference table, eager to get out of here and back to the Pentagon. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know we’re all frustrated with these attacks, with the lack of progress in our investigations, and with the knowledge that a larger and more destructive attack is imminent.” He takes a breath. “But please, keep focused, keep fresh. While I don’t know all of you personally, I do know that you’ve arrived in your current positions because of hard work, determination, the desire to serve this nation, and a lot of sacrifice. Some of you have sacrificed time with your family and the opportunity to have larger salaries in the private sector, and others have pressed on in the face of even harder sacrifices.”
All eyes are now on him, and he feels his throat tighten. “Including myself.” He pauses. “As I’m sure most of you know, I lost my son, Nathan, five years ago in an IED attack in Afghanistan. Yet I’ve pressed on, and I’m asking you to continue on with me in this effort. This nation is worth saving. And we will do that, no matter what it takes—”
Secretary Landsdale interrupts. “With all due respect, General, what have our efforts accomplished? We supposedly have the largest and most capable foreign and domestic intelligence services in the world, and all we’ve come up with are ghosts, hints, and the ever-popular chatter. Do we have any real idea of what’s going on?”
Grissom snaps, “What the hell do you want, Doris? An organization tree with every terrorist’s phone number and e-mail? That’s TV and Hollywood bullshit, and unfortunately, this is reality—gritty, confusing, and, in the end, exceptionally dangerous. Anybody else?”
Silence.
Grissom stands up. “Fine. We’ll put out a communication later today with the next meeting’s time and location.”
Everyone else gets up too, and to the chief of staff’s well-groomed back, Grissom calls out, “Helen! Can I get a moment, please?”
Taft either doesn’t hear him or ignores him; she quickly exits the conference room.
Accompanied by Secretary Doris Landsdale, the two of them deep in conversation.
Colonel Kendricks is next to him. “I don’t like what I’m seeing,” she says.
Grissom says, “Neither do I.”
Chapter
74
About ten minutes after our friend on the hill gunned down the two armed men approaching us on the dirt road, Deacon and I are on a narrow paved lane that laughably calls itself State Highway 19.
