Blind Justice (27 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

Joey Helgeson sat within his black 1969 GTO Judge convertible at a small gas station off I-395, waiting for the others to arrive. Recent events had convinced Joey that life was too short not to take chances. He thought of that with a smile as he sipped his Starbucks coffee and admired the phone number written across its side with a black permanent marker. His eyes went wide as the bullet-riddled Yukon pulled up beside him.

Collecting his papers, Joey walked to the passenger window. The tinted glass slid down to reveal Munroe
’
s face. Joey had never seen his boss look so pale and worn-down, and the Yukon
’
s interior stank of sweat and gasoline.

“Did you find him?”
Munroe asked.

“Yeah,” Joey said. “His secretary said that he
’
s a big Jefferson fan and sometimes goes to the memorial in the afternoon to clear his head. I hacked the GPS in his cell to verify it. That
’
s where he is now.”

“Good, let
’
s give him something else to think about. Did you find the info I requested?”

Joey passed two manilla folders through the window to Black. “The bank statements and the list of sites are in there.”

Munroe nodded. “Mr. Black, we
’
ll keep the bank statements but please pass the other folder back to Annabelle.”

Black handed the folder to the backseat, and Annabelle asked, “What
’
s this?”

“Marine clay,” Munroe said. “Almeida told us that they had buried bodies in this location many times before, but none had been found. That suggests a certain kind of access and use. Not just some random farm or new location. Someone would see them and wonder what they were doing there. Unless it
’
s their place. It could be a central base of operations or some business or site that they own. Something of that nature. And at the Easton and Randall crime scenes they found traces of Marine clay, brick dust, plaster, insulation, and glass particles.”

“Construction sites? Places undergoing renovations?”

“I
’
ve had Joey doing some research for me since right after the Randall scene. Marine clay typically occurs in the coastal plain most prominently in Fairfax County Virginia east of Interstates 95 and 395. That narrows down the geographic region. He
’
s also been researching companies and locations in that area to find the most likely sites where they could have buried the kids.”

“Sounds pretty thin,” Black said.

“Thin is all we have right now. Joey
’
s checked with a few of my contacts at the DEA, but they weren
’
t any help. Which could mean nothing, since those guys like to play their cards close to the chest. We
’
re going to attack this thing from both fronts. If we find Almeida, we can find the kids. But if we fail, maybe Annabelle will fair better with the traditional approach. Annabelle, take Corrigan with you and use Joey
’
s car.”

Joey
’
s voice cracked as he said, “What?”

Munroe ignored him. “Don
’
t get too deep into anything or put yourself in danger. If you think you
’
re on to something, call in the troops. I
’
m counting on you to find my babies.”

Annabelle reached forward and squeezed his shoulder. Munroe pressed his cheek against her hand. They held the embrace a moment, and then she and Corrigan exited the vehicle and moved toward the GTO.

“Keys in it?” she asked Joey.

“Uhhh…”

She didn
’
t wait for his response as she climbed inside the vintage car, started it up, and sped from the lot. Munroe said, “Take a cab back to your office, Joey. We may need you to run some more data for us.”

Then Munroe rolled up the window, and the Yukon headed back toward the interstate. Joey stood there a moment in shock before pulling out his cell phone and surfing the Internet for the number of a cab company.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

With Black guiding him to the right spot, Munroe dropped onto a stone bench inside the rotunda of the Jefferson Memorial. Thomas Jefferson fascinated Munroe, and the memorial had been a favorite spot of his for years, although he had seldom visited after losing his sight. Still, he could picture it in his mind—the grand dome, the massive rotunda, circular marble steps, the colonnade of Ionic order columns, the nineteen-foot tall bronze statue of the former president. Munroe had always found the neoclassical building reminiscent of the Roman Pantheon.

Without looking toward the man he had come to confront—Undersecretary of Defense Damian Lightoller—Munroe said, “Jefferson drafted the Declaration of Independence and wrote the Virginia Statute for Religious Freedom. He was the man who penned, ‘all men are created equal,
’
and yet, he owned over six hundred slaves during the course of his life. Not much has changed in DC. What
’
s that old joke? A mother asks her son where liars go. The boy instantly replies,
Washington, DC
. You fit right in, don
’
t you, Mr. Lightoller?”

“
I don’
t like being insulted or threatened, Munroe.”

“Don
’
t worry. Where you
’
re headed, you
’
ll get used to it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Prison, Mr. Lightoller.”

“We
’
re through here.” Lightoller stood, but Munroe grabbed his arm and jerked him back down to the bench. Lightoller pulled away and said, “Don
’t touch me!
”

Munroe maintained his calm and soothing Southern tone. “I knew you had lied to me that day at the Pentagon, but I wasn
’
t ready to confront you about it at the time. Now I am. I had a friend with the Pentagon Police pull your phone records and found that, immediately after I left your office, you placed a call to Brendan Lennix. And what a coincidence, I was almost killed shortly thereafter.”

“That doesn
’
t prove anything.”

“No, but I also had an associate hack into your bank account, and that does tell an interesting story.” Munroe held out the manilla folder Joey had provided.

Lightoller snatched it from his grasp, flipped through the sheets, and said, “This is illegal!”

“Is it? Well, don
’
t worry we
’
ll get a warrant before we come after those records for real. That way it
’
s all on the up and up. You
’
ve been taking bribes and kickbacks for some time. You were most definitely involved in covering up the murders of John Corrigan
’
s family, and who knows what else will crawl out when we start kicking over all your rocks.”

Lightoller shifted nervously on the bench. “
You can
’
t do this.”

“Oh, I believe I am. Brendan Lennix is dead, and when all this comes out, they
’
ll need to hang it around someone
’
s neck. Guess who that
’
s going to be. I suspect the charges will involve fraud, bribery, and conspiracy to commit murder, among others. Not to mention the violation of the Chemical Weapons Convention, which if you recall is a pesky little international arms control agreement outlawing the production, stockpiling, and use of chemical weapons.”

“I had nothing to do with any of that. I helped cover up the scandal with John Corrigan, and I may have received some funds through improper channels, but I didn
’
t have anything to do with murder or chemical weapons.”

Munroe shrugged. “That
’
ll be for the courts to decide.”

“What do you want, Munroe?”

“Finally, to the heart of the matter. From what I hear, you
’
re a rising star and have become an expert at playing the game. You
’
ve made some influential friends who have invested substantially in your future. I need you to call in every favor you have.”

“For what?”

“John Corrigan is going to turn himself in, and you
’
re going to get the execution postponed. Then you
’
re going to pin the breakout on Lennix and his gang of hired mercenaries. I
’
ll give you their location.”

“They dead?”

“That
’
s right. Finally, you
’
re going to pull strings with the FBI to get me full control of a strike force from the FBI
’
s Hostage Rescue Team and a chopper to transport me to Lennix
’
s secret facility up in the Patuxent Research Refuge. I need all that in less than an hour.”

Lightoller laughed with condescension. “You
’
re out of your mind. What you
’
re asking for is impossible.”

Munroe stood and adjusted his dark sunglasses. “You never know how fast you can run until you
’
re being chased, Mr. Lightoller. Make no mistake about it…you are most certainly being chased right now.”

PART SIX

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

Flown by the HRT
’
s Tactical Aviation Unit, the Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk tactical transport helicopter swooped low and fast over the Maryland countryside. Munroe could barely think over the whirring of the rotors and howl of the wind coupled with the strong smells of sweat and burning fuel. His two companions, Jonas Black and Katherine O
’Connell, hadn’
t spoken a word since climbing into the chopper. He imagined that they each had a lot on their minds.

Over his headset, the assault team leader said, “ETA five minutes!”

A full HRT unit couldn
’
t be assembled in the time they had, but Lightoller was able to round up a six man fireteam and a pilot. Plus, Black would be going in with them. The seven highly trained operators should have no problem taking the facility, or so he hoped.

With nothing to do but reflect, Munroe couldn
’
t help but think of his girls. They had both been under five years old the last time he had seen their faces, and he imagined how different they must look now. He had a picture in his head of them as little girls, playing in the backyard with their mother. He tried to imagine them as aged versions with some of their mother thrown in, but he couldn
’
t help but still think of them as those little girls.

And now, they were out there in a hole somewhere, alone and scared to death and waiting for him to save them, wondering if he would make it in time. He tried not to consider the possibility that he may never hear their voices again, their laughter, their bickering.

He was on the verge of tears when the team leader called out that they had arrived at Site B.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

Almeida loaded an aluminum carrying case with the weapon canisters and a few of the small prototype dispersal devices as Pike transferred the information from the lab
’
s database onto a portable hard drive. The data would be used to reproduce the weapon, and the samples in the case would be used for the following day
’
s attack.

Above their heads, he heard an all-too-familiar sound. The roar of an attack chopper approaching low over the trees.

His mind instantly flashed back to his childhood and the raid on the compound by American commandos. He had heard the sound many times since then, and he had ridden within several of the flying metal beasts himself, but none of those memories were as vivid as the ones from the night when his friends had burned alive. Sometimes he wondered if his mother suffered a kinder fate. She no longer had painful memories. Several years from his early life would be better forgotten. Those spent on the streets of Bogota. Scrambling to survive. Starving. Selling his young body in exchange for food. But those years had hardened him and molded him into the young man of whom Ramon Castillo took notice and raised up out of the gutter to a position of power, influence, and privilege.

Years later, he tracked down his mother and his siblings and gave them the safe and comfortable life that his mother could never provide for him. He didn
’
t hate her for that. She had done the best she could with what she had been given. Although he had never known his real father, Castillo treated him like a son. And now, Vaquero had chosen him to lead them to their greatest victory, and to avenge the death of Ramon
’
s family at the hands of American tyrants. Unlike the jihadists, he had no interest in killing innocent civilians, instead he would strike at those truly responsible for the country
’
s actions.

“What now?” Miguel said, hefting a large metal container from a back storage room.

Almeida gave him a strange look and examined the large container. Chrome edging. Black aluminum surface. Recessed flip handle. Butterfly locks. It reminded him of an expensive weapons case, the type that would hold a shoulder mounted missile launcher.

“What is that?”

“Vaquero told me to retrieve this. I thought you knew.”

“Of course,” he said, although he had no idea what could possibly be in the container or why Vaquero would have told Miguel about it, but not him.

“
Escape plan alpha?
” Pike asked as he unplugged the hard drive and attached another circular device to the side of the server. He pressed a red button on top of the device, and it came alive with a mechanical whir.

“Yes, check the corridor and the back stairs. I
’
ll prepare the distraction for our guests.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

The pilot sat the transport helicopter down in a large clearing behind the facility, the intense rotor wash beating down the weeds and tall grass. The night was especially dark, and the lights of the brick building in the distance provided the only illumination.

Jonas Black dropped from the helicopter with the strike team, and they fell upon the compound with smooth, efficient movements. HRT impressed him with their professionalism. They fanned out through the tall grass in perfect formation and covered all the angles. Because he was a former Recon Marine turned make-shift DCIS agent and could identify Almeida and his men, it hadn
’
t been too difficult for Munroe to convince the team lead to allow Black to accompany them inside the compound. Each member of the team wore a black Nomex flight suit with FBI stenciled on their chest and back and brandished a Knight
’
s Armament PDW. The weapon fired a new intermediate caliber 6x35mm TSWG ammunition that boasted increased lethality over a 9mm round, improved controllability, reduction in size and weight, and a maximum effective range of three hundred meters. He had to admit that it felt good to be geared up and back in an actual combat situation with the best equipment and the best men. Like he was a real soldier again.

Over the headset, one of the team said, “The perimeter guards are down. Looks like .308s. Headshots.”

The team leader said, “You here that, people. Possible sniper. Eyes open. Red 4, 5, and 6 take EP-1. Red 2 and 3 with me on EP-2. Could be hostages. Check your fire.”

The team leader, Red 1, had told Black to stay on his six during the mission, and so that
’
s what he did. The team split into two with one group heading toward entry point one (the main door), and the other moving to entry point two (a door on the side of the building).

The nondescript brick structure looked generic in every way. The kind of place a casual observer wouldn
’
t give a second glance. The two groups breached the doors simultaneously and methodically checked the first floor. The interior seemed as generic as the building
’
s shell. Speckled laminate flooring. White walls. Reception desk. Cluttered cubicles.

“Clear,” different members of the team announced as they secured each room.

With the first floor checked, they accessed the stairwell that Corrigan had described to them and proceeded into the bowels of the facility. The next level down contained expensive-looking lab equipment, strange machinery, large vats, and administrative offices. Again, all clear.

Since they had yet to see any signs of life beyond the dead guards, Black guessed that Lennix had temporarily shut down the program after Randall stole the research files. He hoped that Lennix had also moved the weapon. Then again, Lennix likely planned to continue production once the situation was handled and the threat neutralized.

When they reached the second level down, a security desk and an airlock greeted them. A dead guard sat beyond the raised white security desk, his head slumped over in a pool of his own blood. As Black examined the airlock, a strange sense of dread crept over him. He supposed that it just reminded him too much of one of those disaster movies where a runaway virus kickstarts the apocalypse. He dismissed the idea. This facility dealt with chemical, not viral, weaponry. At least, he hoped so.

Moving through the airlock in groups of two, the entry team discovered the main lab. Bright white walls and floors. Futuristic-looking equipment. It was colder inside and carried a distinct chemical smell that he couldn
’
t identify. Several workstations lined the room, topped with computers and microscopes and a multitude of other devices that Black would never try to identify. Sealed offices sat along a raised platform along one wall, and other corridors led off to additional rooms. He looked down one of the corridors and saw what appeared to be a storage area filled with black metal cases.

The team fanned out and searched the lab and storage rooms. Black
’
s heart pounded, and his body pulsed with adrenaline. Not because of the fear that they would be attacked, but out of the worry that they wouldn
’
t be, that they were too late.

Each announcement of “Clear” felt like a physical blow. Almeida had escaped with the weapon. A lot of people were going to die, including his nephew and Munroe
’
s daughters.

“We
’
ve missed them,” one of the team said.

“Stay frosty,” the leader replied. “There are still a lot of places to hide.”

What would Munroe do?
Black asked himself.

Look for clues.
Find something they left behind. Find out what they took. Find something out of…

As he scanned the room, something on one of the desks in the room
’
s center caught his eye. He walked over and examined the small box. Red and white letters adorned its surface, and a surgeon general
’
s warning ran along its spine. A pack of cigarettes. Why would someone have a pack of cigarettes in a laboratory? Had it belonged to one of the scientists? He looked around the room again and noticed more cigarette packs scattered amongst the equipment and tools on the workstations.

“
Agent Black,
” the team leader said. “Don
’
t wander off. We
’
re going to do another sweep and check the server.”

“Okay,” Black said, distracted by his strange discovery. Something about this made him very uneasy, but he couldn
’
t identify exactly what it was. Thinking back, he remembered seeing another pack on the security desk.

“Black!” the team leader shouted. “Don
’
t touch anything! I swear if you screw something up…” The man
’
s voice trailed off in a huff, and he stormed down one of the other corridors.

Black couldn
’
t understand what that guy
’
s problem was, but if he didn
’
t ease up, then Jonas would cave his skull in. As he thought of killing the FBI agent, he tugged at the collar of his Nomex flight suit. It was incredibly hot in the lab. But hadn
’
t he felt cold when he entered the room? That didn
’
t make sense.

Another table held a can of air freshener.

On another sat a dismantled cell phone.

He picked up the cell phone and examined it. Someone had rewired the electronic guts to a small silver tube that resembled a CO
2
cartridge. He twisted it in his hands and saw two extra holes had been drilled in the side.

What were these things?

He couldn
’
t concentrate. He couldn
’
t find the answers. It made him so angry.

He wiped a sleeve across his forehead where sweat had began to pour down.

Then it came to him. The innocuous devices were actually dispersal units for the weapon that could be hidden in plain sight. He grabbed one of the cigarette packs and pulled it apart. Tiny electronic components scattered across the desk.

Radio controlled? No, he realized suddenly…motion detectors.

The dispersal units could be placed on a table or in a bathroom or hallway where people would walk by. The motion detector would sense the movement and release the chemical weapon as a clear gas. The person affected wouldn
’
t even realize that they had been dosed.

His heart wanted to pound out of his chest. He felt dizzy. He braced himself against the table and tried to shake the disorientation from his brain.

What was happening?

In a sudden burst of clarity, he realized that things were about to go very wrong.

“Everyone get out of the lab! We
’
ve been exposed!”