Black Flagged Apex (43 page)

Daniel flipped his right hand back and slapped Young directly in the face, connecting with his broken nose. The man howled and cursed, stopping in his tracks before Jessica moved slightly behind him to provide a razor-sharp reason to keep moving.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Young mumbled.

"To remind you that we're not friends," Daniel said.

"Now shut the fuck up and keep walking. I don't want to hear another word out of you unless I ask a question. Got it?"

"Yes or no works for us," Jessica said.

Young simply nodded, clearly struggling to walk after his focused strike. Daniel saw several taxis pass in the minute it took them to arrive at Lenox. His cell phone vibrated, and he hoped it was good news from Munoz and Melendez. They had poured out of the smoke-filled stairwell a few people back from Daniel's group, prepared to run interference if the police had already locked down the lobby. He'd watched them slither past the sergeant and his two heavily armed police escorts, just as Officer Anthony made a decision in everyone's best interest. One wrong move by Anthony might have led to a bloodbath that no presidential amnesty could forgive and an even bigger rip in his soul that could never be mended.

"Where are you guys?" he said in greeting.

"Headed northeast on Lenox. Looking to pick up a cab. What's the rendezvous point?" Munoz said.

"I think we should circle the city on the two-eighty-five and meet up at Hartsfield-Jackson. We can grab a rental at the terminal and head east into South Carolina. Find somewhere outside of Columbia to stop and have a chat with our friend here."

"All right. I'll call Sanderson with an update. I don't know what Jessica said to that cop, but it avoided a messy situation."

"Tell me about it. I'll pass that on to her. We'll meet you at the baggage claim inside the north terminal," Daniel said.

"See you there," Munoz replied, ending the call.

Daniel held out his hand to hail a cab, hoping the growing number of blue police lights wouldn't scare off their easiest and most secure form of transportation to the airport. They could always walk down Peachtree Road for about ten minutes to Buckhead Station and take the MARTA to the airport, but one glance at Young's bloodied face and scarlet-stained collar shelved that idea. They would need to clean him up before arriving at the airport. Their best course of action might be to head into the side entrance of another hotel along Peachtree Road and take him to a bathroom.

"Let's take a walk," he said, staring down the street at an illuminated "Westin" marquee sign.

Several police cars converged on the intersection of Peachtree and Lenox, screeching around the corner toward the main drive-up entrance to the Ritz Carlton. Two of the cars remained in the intersection, blocking traffic from reaching the main entrance to the hotel. It wouldn't be long before they started expanding their cordon. He turned southeast on Peachtree Road and started walking.

Chapter 36

10:20 PM

Interstate 81 North

Hazelton, Pennsylvania

Jackson Greely's Chevy Suburban hummed past the faint glow of Hazelton. The Chevy's cruise control was set at 70 MPH, which experience had taught him was a safe speed to avoid unwanted attention from the Pennsylvania State Police. Anything over 70 MPH was a complete crapshoot, especially on a Friday night. He hit the deceleration switch once and tucked the speed just under 70. He couldn't afford to have his whereabouts recorded in state police databanks. He'd left Harrisburg after a quiet dinner engagement with local political supporters and headed north for Lake Wallenpaupack. It was time for Greely and Harding to disappear, while events transpired that would change the course of American history.

He and Harding would be arriving at the lake house ahead of schedule, thanks to an unknown entity. Greely agreed with the rest of the council—the FBI hadn't taken custody of Miguel Estrada. They had enough contacts at the bureau and local law enforcement offices to know that Estrada hadn't surfaced in any of the New York City precincts, hospitals or federal offices. He'd simply vanished into thin air, carried away by two Arab-looking thieves in the night. None of it made any sense, but his coconspirators agreed that they needed to bump up the timeline.

Jason Carnes, head of laboratory operations at their secret facility, had protested, but reluctantly admitted that they could speed up the cultivation process. They would start injecting the virus into the bottle caps late tomorrow, with the intention of transporting the first crates of infected bottled water to the distribution hub the day after that. From there, the convoys would be loaded, assigned drivers, and sent to their destinations. Once the convoys hit the roads, the entire organization would go to ground and wait, leaving nothing for the feds to investigate.

His cell phone illuminated and started to buzz. He pressed a button on the steering wheel, which activated the Bluetooth system. "How are we doing?"

"Not good," Brown replied.

"Now what?"

"The team in Atlanta failed," Brown said.

Greely could sense the apprehension in his voice. "What do you mean they failed? What the fuck is wrong with our people? I'm starting to wonder if you've been jerking me off with your reports of how well trained we are."

"Our people are extremely well trained, and I don't appreciate the implication."

"Then how did Young manage to slip away from…how many of your people?"

"Six. He had help. Skilled help. Two of my men were executed in Young's hotel suite. The others were gunned down in the hallway and stairwell."

"Let me guess. More Arabs?"

"No. A hotel security camera showed a man and a woman escorting Young through the lobby. The image is obscured by smoke, which wasn't caused by a fire. Police found a spent smoke grenade in the stairwell. Flashbangs were used on the eighteenth floor. The crew that extracted Young was well equipped, well informed and highly skilled. I'm worried that we've attracted the wrong kind of attention from someone unexpected."

"Fuck!" Greely yelled, pounding the steering wheel. "We need to figure this out immediately. Benjamin Young can connect some dots that we can't afford to have connected right now…or ever. We should have killed him weeks ago. Damn it! Fucking Mills didn't want to cut off a big funding deal Young was working on. The son of a bitch has more money than Bill Gates, and now we're looking at a serious security breach."

"I know. I have my eyes and ears on the ground in Atlanta. If he surfaces, I'll put a bounty on his head," Brown said.

"He won't surface. He's a ghost now, just like Estrada. How is our insurance policy shaping up?"

"We have two suitable options. The package will be in place within thirty-six hours."

"Make sure nothing goes wrong with this. If the government is somehow involved in Young's disappearance, the success of our plan will depend upon it," Greely said.

"Understood. I'll personally oversee the operation."

"Very well. Any word from the compound?"

"Nothing yet. I just got off the phone with Bishop."

"All right. Keep me posted. I'm headed north for my forced vacation," Greely said.

"Don't hurt yourself up there. I'll be in touch with any developments."

Greely hit the steering wheel again. He considered calling Jason Carnes and pressing the case for further expediting laboratory operations, but he knew that the laboratory staff had their back up against the wall on this one. Carnes had made it perfectly clear that current timeline cutbacks might ultimately impact the virus's efficacy. He needed to be patient and trust in Brown's tactics. The compound, the attack earlier today and their insurance policy would combine to create a perfect storm in their favor. Even if Young spilled everything to his government captors, there would be no way they could recover quickly enough to stop their plot. He had to focus on the big picture. At this point, small setbacks were like roadkill on the highway—squishy little bumps that had no chance of slowing down his Chevy.

Chapter 37

11:58 PM

True America Training Compound

Hacker Valley, West Virginia

Tyrell Bishop stood a few steps outside of the headquarters building and surveyed the compound. The full moon directly overhead cast a grayish-blue light on the silent facility, creating a monochromatic collage of shadows among the structures. He took in the crisp night air with a deep breath. Like always, the valley air was pristine, which added to the bittersweet taste in his mouth. He didn't relish leaving the compound. The place had been his permanent home for the past two years, filling him with nothing but cherished memories. He looked up into the hills and pondered the impending attack, which Brown had assured him would come within the next forty-eight hours. A grin spread across his face. Bishop had no idea what they were up against, but Brown felt confident that they could repel any attack thrown at them by the FBI. The amount of firepower at his disposal could hold off a concentrated Taliban attack.

He had removed their four M2 heavy-barrel .50-caliber machine guns from the armory and pre-positioned them in buildings near the fence line. Within minutes, he could put them into action against enemies coming from any direction. Brown had told him to expect a coordinated vehicle and helicopter assault, which was a favorite tactic of the feds. Idiots. By the time the vehicles traversed the road leading to the compound, True America would be ready for a fight. He was willing to bet that the FBI helicopter pilots had never come under heavy machine gun fire on a raid before. He couldn't wait to see them turn tail and fly away when .50-caliber tracer rounds reached out to touch them. Without air support, he wondered if the ground forces would press the attack. He hoped so, since the compound held a few more surprises for them.

His favorite was their armored vehicle. Last year, several mechanics and body shop guys went to work on a Ford Bronco, turning it into a light armored vehicle. Fitted with steel plates on all sides and airless Michelin Tweel tires, the "Road Warrior" was impervious to small-arms fire. The Bronco's rear compartment roof had been removed to provide a gunner's stand for the fully restored German MG42 belt-fed machine gun attached to a swivel mount welded to the truck. Twin protective plates would give the gun operator added protection while mowing down feds with the same gun that had defended the beaches of Normandy. Road Warrior would emerge through the front gate to meet any vehicles that tried to deliver federal storm troopers to his doorstep.

Even a long-distance standoff wasn't a feasible option for Uncle Sam. Bishop's arsenal consisted of nearly a dozen .50-caliber sniper rifles that could reach out and touch anyone hunkered down along the tree line. The furthest point from the fence was roughly 350 yards, easy pickings for one of his sharpshooters, not to mention the heavy machine guns. If the feds showed some tenacity and decided to stick around, he could always dust them off with "thumper." Even the most highly disciplined storm troopers would scurry when he started to walk 60mm high-explosive rounds onto their position. The baseplate and tube could be set up in less than a minute, providing him with unmatched firepower. The mortar crew's training consisted mostly of "dry fire" drills since ammunition was severely limited, but he felt confident that they could rain hell down on their enemies.

If they failed to stop the feds, Brown had ordered him to retreat through the back fence using one of the compound's ATVs. Brown made it clear that Bishop was too valuable to be captured and that he was needed to play a critical role in upcoming events. He could take the surviving camp regulars with him. They had enough four wheelers for about a dozen of them to escape if they doubled up.

The new recruits would have to stay and fight it out, no matter what happened. He hoped it didn't come to that, but Brown had made the options clear. If the feds turned the tide too quickly, Hacker Valley would vanish into obscurity, and there would be no point for him to remain behind. If they could repel the attack and force the government to come back with a bigger force, True America could turn this into another Waco, Texas. Greely's spin-doctors in the media would make this a symbol of government oppression. Brown and the higher-ups had something massive planned for the upcoming days. Ongoing media coverage of the Hacker Valley siege would play right into that plan, so he was told. The key to that plan was holding the fort.

Through the fence line, he could see that a faint mist had started to penetrate the valley, lightly touching the ground in a few patches to the south. He raised his night vision scope and scanned beyond the fence. The light cast by the moon turned the landscape into day, providing a crisp image across the clearing in every direction. They had some night vision equipped rifles, which would come in handy if the attack took place at night. He highly doubted they would attack under a full moon, on a clear night. Then again, he wasn't facing military tacticians. Lawyers and accountants filled the ranks at the FBI. If he were in charge of the federal attack, he would hit the compound an hour before full sunrise. The mist often transitioned into fog by then, stringing thick ribbons of smoky white clouds across the valley. Perfect cover to approach undetected.

He was about to step down from the doorway and take a walk around the compound when an excited voice nearly scared him out of his clothes.

"They're coming! Ty! They're coming."

He ran into the building and took the first door on his left, entering the control room. The small space housed a table with three monitors and a variety of communications equipment. Two of the monitors showed feeds from various cameras located throughout the compound and along the approach road. The third monitor displayed a virtual security window that relayed information from several dozen sensors placed in the forest surrounding the compound. Immediately upon entering, he could see that motion sensors along the approach road had been tripped.