Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (20 page)

First, he removed the Cubs hat, business shirt and jacket, jamming them under the seat with his feet. He opened the black nylon bag and removed the dark green backpack, placing it on the seat next to him. He dug through the pack until he found a large Ziploc bag containing a black hairpiece. He set this aside and removed a small plastic container of baby wipes next, which he used to thoroughly wipe his neck and head of any traces of blood. From there, he continued to transform himself, emerging within three minutes looking starkly different than before. He was now Michael Hinshaw from Annapolis, Maryland.

He wore dark blue designer jeans, expensive black leather shoes, and an untucked, crisply-pressed, white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway between the wrist and elbow. His hair was jet black, hanging a half-inch over his ears, and his matching eyebrows were neatly trimmed. He'd planned the look carefully, mimicking the recent "metrosexual" trend that gave most straight men an uncomfortable feeling. The vast majority of the cops were men, and none of them wanted to get caught staring too long at a possible homosexual. Locker room humor could be brutal, especially in the macho world of law enforcement.

With the car's remote, he popped open the trunk and placed the duffle bag inside, followed by the tactical vest and assault rifle. With one smashed window, it wouldn't be long before someone studied the car more closely. Finding a military-grade rifle or a tactical body armor vest in plain view would certainly result in a call to the police, and at this point, Daniel wanted to put as much distance between this car and himself as possible. He knew they'd find it eventually, but there was no need to make it too simple for them.

He studied his reflection in the rear passenger window of the car and slung the heavily burdened backpack over his left shoulder. Inside the backpack, he carried $30,000 in cash, six prepaid cell phones, several maps, his two remaining ID packets, two additional disguise kits, a bloodstained knife, hair dye, a GPS receiver, police scanner, and the MP-9 submachine gun. He had to remove the gun's bulky suppressor to fit the weapon by itself into the middle compartment, where it could be removed within seconds. The assortment of laptop computers and digital cameras stuffed into the main compartment added to the bulkiness and weight of the backpack.

He approached the north side Metro entrance, pulled his prepaid Metro card from his front jeans pocket and swiped it on the turnstile access, then rode the escalator up to the Metro platform. He felt the warm steel of his smaller, more concealable Gerber knife as he grabbed the card. He would take the next southbound train into D.C. and figure out where to meet Parker, or even better, General Sanderson. The outdoor platform was large and still busy with commuters, which was a good sign. According to the digital sign hanging above the tracks, the next train was scheduled to arrive in two minutes, which would be an eternity. He pulled a cell phone out of a small compartment in his backpack and dialed General Sanderson, who answered on the first ring.

"You're all right?"

"For now. I'm waiting to get the fuck out of Silver Spring on the Metro. Headed into the city. Did Parker get out?" he said, in a low enough voice not to attract unnecessary attention around him.

"Yes. Apparently the team waiting for him barreled out of there right after you called him," General Sanderson said.

"I'm surprised Parker could pick them out," Daniel said.

"Don't underestimate Parker. He's better trained than you think. He just doesn't have the same real-world experience."

"He doesn't have the edge needed for this work. I just ran into some Brown River contractors with a similar problem."

"Brown River? Are you sure?"

"I had a little chat with one of them. Are you ready for this? He was under the distinct impression that I was an immediate terrorist risk to national security. Black flagged by whoever hired them," Daniel said.

"He used those terms?"

"Yes. I specifically asked about that."

"Daniel, this changes things drastically. I need to accelerate our timetable. Keep this phone on at all times. Parker will call you shortly with a rendezvous location. What the hell happened out there?"

Daniel didn't care to hear the word "timetable."

"They tried to kill me, and I responded," Daniel said, looking around the crowded platform for any sign of law enforcement.

"Jesus, Daniel, it sounds like you did more than just respond. I'm picking up cross-county chatter on all police bands," Sanderson said.

"My train's coming. I'll be waiting for that call," he said and wondered if Sanderson would abandon him if the heat intensified.

Nobody gave him a second glance as he boarded the train headed for the city, wondering exactly what Sanderson meant by "our timetable."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

8:45 p.m.

FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

Special Agent Frank Mendoza shut the door to his supervisor's office, locked it, and walked up to Sharpe's cluttered desk.

"Grab a seat, Frank, and tell me about Black Flag. Based on your fax, I can only imagine the worst," Sharpe said.

He glanced out of the window onto 9th Street and could see the windows of the Market Square North building sparkle. Low in the western sky, the sun peered around the corner of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, casting deep orange rays onto the seven-story building. A few of the rays poked through the blinds, stabbing deep into Sharpe's office. He could imagine some of the nation's preeminent powerbrokers sipping a few too many drinks over dinner below, in the exclusive Caucus Room restaurant, oblivious to the implications of the day's events, telling jokes about dead Arabs. He looked back at Frank, who appeared equally troubled.

"It's not good. I think we may have found our next investigation."

"Black Flag isn't our mess to unscrew. I just want to unravel enough of it to figure out what happened today," Sharpe said.

"We'll need to nab a few more of them. Munoz is useless to us at this point. He's covered by a nice immunity agreement," Mendoza said.

"We'll see about that. I'm not ready to release my only link to Black Flag. I've given Boston orders to transport Munoz here. Olson will lead the prisoner transport convoy. We should have Munoz at HQ early in the morning."

Mendoza failed to hide a disapproving glance.

"We can't let him walk free until we've determined exactly what happened today. For all we know, Munoz and his friends might be part of an Islamic conspiracy, or worse. We don't know anything right now, and people are getting nervous. Very nervous. We should have some new leads within the hour. I've mobilized SWAT and FBI field teams to take every operative on the list. I'm just waiting for word that all of the teams are in place, ready to go, and we'll hit them all at once. I want a coordinated move against Black Flag. I don't know if they're all talking to each other, but I'm not taking any chances," Sharpe said.

"Well, sir. I wouldn't get your hopes up too high. Munoz took his sweet time spilling information. Probably long enough to miss a few pre-assigned check-ins. I'd be surprised if any of these guys were still around," Mendoza said.

"Yeah, the thought wasn't lost on me, but we might get lucky one more time today. So, what are we really dealing with here?" Sharpe said.

"From what I've been allowed to see by this mysterious Mr. McKie gentleman, Black Flag was a highly-specialized program designed to create undercover operatives for our military. McKie said the program training lasted approximately four years, which is a long time for any training program. Hell, the CIA doesn't even train field agents for this long."

"CIA agents are usually assigned to legitimate jobs as cover. This sounds dramatically different," Sharpe interrupted.

"Right. Black Flag operatives are trained as small teams, according to their assigned area of operation. They are selected for the area of operation first, then brought into the program. Daniel Petrovich was assigned to Serbia, which makes sense given his background. Father Serbian, mother Polish. Not sure if he spoke Serbian before the program, but it's fair to make that assumption. McKie said the selection process was the key to Black Flag's success."

"Success?" Sharpe said.

"I asked. McKie wasn't willing to share any operational details. Like my fax implied, this group is extremely dangerous. They have the skills to survive and escape nearly any situation, backed by extensive experience putting these skills through the wringer. I assume the takedown teams know what they're facing?"

"They've been thoroughly briefed. I could read between the lines of your fax. It must really burn Munoz to have been caught like this. He turned his back on Sanderson pretty quick," Sharpe said.

"Maybe they were all dragged back into this against their will. The Black Flag program was run exclusively by Sanderson. I didn't get the impression there was any oversight. These rogue programs always have problems. Who knows? But Munoz wasn't exactly living like some disgruntled, mentally-scarred burnout. He left one of his coffee shops in the middle of the afternoon yesterday, for an appointment that wasn't on the books, and wound up unconscious in Newport. Hell, maybe we'll find a few more of these guys sitting around, waiting to chat about General Sanderson," Mendoza said, and they both sat quietly for a few moments, contemplating Mendoza's comment.

"I wonder if Petrovich falls into this category," Sharpe muttered, just above his breath.

"Why the focus on Petrovich?"

"Something about him didn't fit from the start. He only lives a few miles from the murder scene, which seemed a little close to home…"

"Convenient. Knows the landscape, traffic patterns, can dress like a local. I think it's perfect. Shit, if Munoz hadn't slipped, we would never have found Petrovich," Mendoza said.

"I know," Sharpe whispered, "but none of the other suspects live closer than sixty miles. Most live even further away. And then there's the operative in Concord, New Hampshire. Steven Gedman. Our team just discovered some interesting news about him."

Mendoza shrugged.

"A National Crime Information Center (NCIC) database search," Sharpe continued, "turned up a quick hit. Mr. Gedman was recently picked up by police for a domestic incident. We called the Concord police and learned that he's an involuntary guest at Concord Hospital's inpatient psychiatric ward. His wife said he had a breakdown and started running around the house packing suitcases, yelling…are you ready for this?"

Mendoza nodded.

"He kept screaming, 'They're trying to drag me back in!' and all kinds of stuff that made no sense to her."

"No kidding. Are you thinking—"

"Yes. That Gedman was supposed to be the one to kill Mohammed Ghani, but he crumbled under the pressure. I can't imagine any of these guys can remain stable for the long run. Especially if their main mission was undercover work."

"Still, Sanderson had other choices. A guy in upstate New York could have made the trip," Mendoza countered.

"I don't know. Gedman was hospitalized one night before the murders. Petrovich was right there. I think he's their weak link. We find him, we find Sanderson. At the end of the day, I just want confirmation that this isn't the beginning of a bigger attack. I'll need Sanderson for that. The FBI and White House can figure out what to do with his pet project later."

Sharpe's desk phone punctuated the conversation with a shrill ring tone, causing the agent to quickly sweep it out of its cradle.

"Special Agent Sharpe," he said and listened.

"Give all locations a ten-minute warning. I want a coordinated strike at 2100 hours, Eastern Time. We'll be right there," Sharpe said and hung up the phone. "All of the teams are ready."

"Let's go fishing, sir," Mendoza said, rising from his chair.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

8:47 p.m.

Portland, Maine

Special Agent Justin Edwards felt like a second-class citizen. He sat in the front passenger seat of a rented Chevy Impala, parked deep inside the Longfellow Elementary School parking lot and hidden from the light traffic on Stevens Avenue. Underneath his navy blue, nylon FBI parka, he wore a stripped-down tactical vest loaned to him by the Portland Police Department. His service pistol, a boxy Glock 23, was jammed uncomfortably between his waist and seat, causing him to continuously squirm and fidget, like a child on a long car trip. This Impala, supposedly the best car available on the FBI's budget, smelled like stale cigarette smoke and cherry air freshener. The car's windows had been open since they drove it off the rental lot at the Portland Jetport, but the nasty odor continued to permeate the car, and his lungs itched.

Nearly a dozen police vehicles crowded the southern corner of the lot, casting long shadows across the parking lot from the orange security light glowing over the gymnasium entrance doors. Five black and white Suburbans formed a row, extending from an industrial dumpster near the kitchen delivery dock to the edge of the ancient, three-story school, positioned for a quick exit onto Stevens Avenue toward their target. Several fully equipped SWAT officers stood in a loose circle around the second SUV in line, and he could see at least a dozen more heavily armed officers scattered throughout the rest of the vehicles.

The other cars were unmarked sedans, like Edward's car, filled with at least twenty additional plain-clothed and uniformed law enforcement officers. They had arrived at the parking lot two hours earlier through a back entrance to the lot and waited while the sun disappeared below the trees. He was accustomed to long, boring stakeouts, but the situation was different in this parking lot, and he detested the dynamic that had developed.

Every time he approached the SWAT huddle up near the half dozen Portland Police Department SUVs, he got cold looks from the heavily armed, black-clad men. So he sat back with the rest of the FBI team, crammed into a crappy, American-made sedan that he wouldn't be caught dead in on the weekend. At least he wasn't in the minivan with the forensics equipment and the real geeks. One of the younger agents, whose name he didn't care enough to remember, suggested that the minivan should be his command post. He just shook his head at the kid.