Black Flagged Apex (59 page)

"I have a reputation for doing things by the book, Ryan, but if you closely examine my career, you'll see a subtle pattern emerge. My greatest successes have always been surrounded by unproven accusations of irregular procedure. Sometimes you have to bend the rules to get things done around here. I keep an eye out for agents that have the salt to walk that line. Let's hope Sanderson comes through for you. If this blows up in my face, I can't bring you along for that ride."

"I understand. Thank you for the kind words regarding Frank."

Shelby nodded and took in a deep breath. "Have you heard from Sanderson since last night?"

"No. I tried the number he provided, but it didn't go through," Sharpe said.

"Let me know if you hear from him. I don't want the task force to interfere with his efforts," Shelby said.

"I'll let you know if I get through."

Shelby turned and walked out of the room. He was infuriated with Sharpe, but had long ago learned to channel his anger in a constructive direction. Offering him a promotion seemed like the only logical decision. The nation's security depended on his ability to find and promote agents like this Sharpe. Most agents were afraid of their own shadows and spent more time analyzing the political ramifications of their decisions than actually making them. He hated being kept in the dark, but couldn't blame Sharpe for withholding this secret. He had every reason to believe Shelby would relieve him on the spot and have him arrested for treason.

Instead of heading home for a few hours, he decided to head back to the situation room. He needed to be in place when Sanderson's people started putting their skills to work in Pennsylvania. He also couldn't wait to break the bad news to the president. From what Sharpe and his team had determined, the terrorist plot had been sponsored and planned by a splinter cell within True America, without any connection to the mainstream political action group. He wouldn't play any part in the president's plan to dismantle True America, unless they could establish an evidence-based connection. From what he could tell, a connection didn't exist. He loved stirring up controversy.

Chapter 55

1:32 PM

Crystal Source Distribution Plant-White Mills

Honesdale, Pennsylvania

Daniel Petrovich leaned across the Jeep Grand Cherokee's center console and presented his FBI credentials to the gray-haired, uniformed guard at the passenger vehicle gate. The weathered man's light blue eyes widened at the sight of his badge. He leaned closer to the driver's window and peered into the back seat. Melendez and Jessica held up their own credentials, which seemed to satisfy the guard. Daniel smiled from the front passenger seat. Before either of them could speak, five massive Crystal Source semi-trailers trucks passed through the commercial gate on the other side of the glass-enclosed guardhouse, headed for Route Six. He wondered if the trucks carried any of the virus-laced water. He waited for the last truck to pass before speaking.

"I'm Special Agent Harris with the Philadelphia field office. I need to speak with the distribution center manager, Bob Wilkins, immediately. Al Qaeda extremists have made a specific threat against this facility. Is his office nearby?"

"Holy cow! He's right in that building there. See that door on the far left? His secretary sits in there. She's not in today, but pretty much everyone else is. Do I need to close the gate once you're through?"

"No. You're fine for now. We have agents watching the roads, but I really need to talk to Mr. Wilkins about specific personnel employed at the facility. Keep this to yourself for now. Mr. Wilkins will notify the security manager about the new procedures to be implemented. Personally, I'd like to see a few more guards at this gate."

"I've been saying that for years! Jesus. This is some scary shit. We have several Arab guys working here!"

"Damn right it's scary. Our mission is to make sure that important sites like this remain in operation. Keep up the good work. We'll get you those reinforcements," Daniel said.

"Let me get the gate! Park anywhere in that lot," he said and pointed at a building across the road, surrounded by a full parking lot. The guard ducked back into the security shack and activated the gate. Munoz started to drive the Cherokee away.

"One of them works in the same building!" the guard yelled.

"One of who?" Daniel said.

"One of those Arabs!"

Daniel gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up through the passenger window, visible over the top of the SUV. Munoz guided them into the parking lot, looking for an empty space. The security guard wasn't kidding about everyone being in today, which didn't surprise him. This might be the busiest day in Crystal Source's history. Daniel and the rest of the team hadn't seen a bottle of water in stock since they arrived in Scranton. As reported by news agencies, the price of most brands had nearly doubled in the past day, leading to accusations of price gouging. Daniel wondered what the American public would think about the fact that the owner of a major regional bottled water company had a direct hand in creating this frenzy.

"Good thing we left our two resident Al Qaeda lookalikes in the van," Daniel said.

The van was parked a few hundred meters down the road, tucked behind a shuttered business. Graves and Gupta would monitor local and state police channels, having already decrypted all of the P25 digital radio protocols in use within the greater Honesdale area. Disturbingly, they had picked up radio traffic indicating a significant FBI presence in Scranton. Daniel had considered sending the van west to collect data directly from the FBI, but they all agreed that the van would serve them better in a direct support role. If the situation inside the distribution center deteriorated, Fayed and Paracha might have to take control of the gate while Graves and Gupta tried to confuse responding police units.

Daniel glanced beyond the parking lot at the massive industrial buildings lining the street. The amount of activity inside the sprawling complex on a Sunday didn't surprise him given the national panic for bottled water. He had to give True America some credit for this insidiously clever plan. They had managed to prevent millions of Americans from drinking publicly sourced water and drive them right into their open arms. Another convoy of trucks passed the parking lot, headed for the open road. Two convoys in less than three minutes. Crystal Source had three distribution centers located within Honesdale city limits. The sheer volume of bottled water heading out into the population was impressive. He was willing to bet that Owen Mills had been well prepared to take advantage of this sudden windfall. Why not make a little money before you jumpstart the New Recovery?

They had considered the option of tracking down Mills first. He lived in a sprawling lakeside estate south of Honesdale. It was a tempting diversion that they couldn't afford. They had wasted enough time with Michael Brooks at the laboratory. He admitted that True America had manipulated events to drive up bottled water sales, but claimed to know nothing beyond that. It didn't matter as long as he provided them with the right distribution center. He had been willing to spend some time with Brooks to acquire this information.

Their fake FBI agent trick was unlikely to work on more than one site. If their first choice had been the wrong one, it would have taken them forever to figure it out. By then, the word would have spread to the other facilities, turning the next visit into a risky venture on several levels. Even worse, a simple phone call to the Philadelphia field office could unravel their deception with devastating results. From what Graves and Gupta gathered over state police frequencies, over fifty FBI agents had taken up residence in Scranton, including a large tactical team contingency. Brooks' information would prove to be invaluable, if the man hadn't lied. They'd soon find out.

"Jessica and I will deal with Bob Wilkins. If I get the sense that he's involved in the plot, I'm dragging him out of the office. Be ready to secure him in the back seat. I don't have a plan for this one. From what Brooks and Kemp told us, unmarked delivery vehicles have been moving in and out of this facility all night. If Wilkins isn't in on this, I can't imagine this hasn't raised some serious eyebrows in his office. He'll be able to lead us straight to the source. Keep an eye out for any interested parties. If True America is running their endgame out of this facility, they'll have eyes everywhere."

Melendez reached over the back of his seat into the rear cargo compartment and pulled out a compact polymer-constructed P90 submachine gun and handed it forward to Munoz. Designed by Fabrique Nationale, the P90 represented a revolutionary shift in the design of compact, powerful assault weapons. Weighing less than seven pounds fully loaded, the weapon's length measured just less than twenty inches. Modular in design, utilizing a unique, proprietary top-mounted magazine feed system, the P90 could be handled unhindered in the tight confines of a vehicle or building. An integrated Ring Sight system provided quick acquisition, day or night, for Fabrique National's high-velocity, armor-piercing 5.7X28mm ammunition. Melendez pulled three more P90s from the rear, along with a smaller nylon bag containing two dozen 50-round magazines for the submachine guns and suppressors.

Jessica and Daniel exited the vehicle and stood on the driver side for a minute.

"You know what to look for. If he tries to sound any kind of alarm, I need you to put that knife into action. Scare some sense into him, but keep him alive," Daniel said.

"What's your plan?" Jessica asked.

"I'm going to lay it all on him. We'll know by his reaction."

"I'll be ready."

He stared at her, taking his mind out of its mission-focused, system-processing mode for a second. He had no idea what they would face inside Bob Wilkins' office and beyond, but he could guarantee that the closer they came to the source, the more dangerous this would become. He didn't want her here. Bullets didn't show favoritism. They flew fast and straight until they hit something. Even the most unskilled, panicky shooter got lucky on occasion. Combat was all about the odds to Daniel. If you showed up, there was always a chance it could be your last appearance. There were always precautions you could take to improve your chances, but you could never fully eliminate the odds against you. The only guaranteed way to beat the odds was to avoid showing up altogether. They didn't have that option.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Jessica said, smiling.

"Be careful in there," he replied.

She flashed the black Tungsten carbide-coated blade hidden along her left wrist and raised an eyebrow. He nodded at his colleagues in the SUV and walked toward the building, glancing around casually. He didn't see anything obviously out of place, but then again, he didn't expect to see someone leaning against the side of the building smoking cigarettes and pretending to read a newspaper.

They stepped inside the building and saw the empty desk that presumably belonged to the absent receptionist. Jessica minimized the amount of noise the door made by easing it closed. The greeting room contained a green vinyl couch centered on a low coffee table, which was flanked by two similarly appointed chairs. A few particleboard bookcases lined the walls, filled with technical manuals and a few random paperback books and topped with haphazardly spaced, framed award certificates. Beyond the receptionist's simple faux mahogany desk, he could see two low, cream-colored file cabinets. A thick CRT monitor sat on the corner of the desk, next to a stainless-steel swing-arm desk lamp. Altogether, it looked like the lamp and computer monitor had been the only additions made to the reception area within the last two decades.

They waited a few seconds to see if anyone would respond before walking toward the open doorway leading deeper into the building. He could hear voices from the hallway and telephones ringing. As they approached the door, a thin, balding man with wisps of white hair clinging stubbornly to the sides of his mottled skin appeared in the opening. He wore a pressed pair of basic khaki pants and a white, short-sleeved button-down shirt with a light blue tie. A faded brown stain stood out prominently on the left breast pocket of his shirt.

"Thanks for coming by, but all sales appointments are going through corporate headquarters over at the Park Street facility. I can give you the number, but I don't know if you'll have much luck with a walk-in order today. I'm pretty sure they're all booked up, as you can imagine. You drive up from Philly?" the man said.

"We have an appointment with Bob Wilkins," Daniel said.

The man's friendly demeanor faded as he folded his arms. "I'm Bob Wilkins, and I don't appreciate sales reps who try to play games. Who are you two with?" he said, raising his eyebrows and crinkling his expansive forehead.

"Bob, can we talk privately?" Daniel asked.

Daniel held out his FBI credentials, while Jessica put herself in a position to reach through the door and grab him if necessary. Wilkins noticed her quick repositioning, his attention now torn between Jessica's close proximity and the badge.

"It has to do with the unusual vehicle traffic here at the White Mills facility, which started last night around five and has run pretty much nonstop since then," Daniel explained.

Bob Wilkins moved further into the room and closed the door behind him. "It's better if we have a seat and pretend you're from the Villanova University concessions. I'm not sure what's going on around here right now."

They all took seats around the coffee table.

"Is this serious?" Wilkins asked.

"Extremely. What have you noticed beyond the vehicle traffic?" Daniel said.

"Look, I've been a loyal employee here for thirty-three years. Maybe I should talk with a lawyer first, or at least have one present."

"Why? Are you directly involved in something that might require legal representation?" Jessica asked.

"No, not at all. But I run this facility, and I'm responsible for everything that goes on here," Wilkins protested.