Terror Rising: Book 0 – The Insurgence (8 page)

“Me?” Angela said, surprised.

Thaxton looked around the room and stopped
at Chief Drake. “I’d like a moment to speak with her, if you don’t
mind.”

Drake wasted no time. “Of course,” he said,
grabbing some files. “The office is yours. Take all the time you
need.” The other agents followed as he left the room. Thaxton then
closed the door slowly and walked over to Drake’s desk, sitting in
his chair.

“Please,” she said. “Have a seat.”

Angela felt a tinge of nervousness unlike
anything she had yet experienced that morning.

Sensing her apprehension, Thaxton leaned
forward. “Relax, Agent Gannon. I’m not here to grill you, although
I am aware that there is an internal investigation underway of
yesterday’s incident.”

Angela looked up with a smile, hands resting
on the green fabric of her trouser legs, not sure what to say.

“Angela, I want to cut to the chase because
time is critical,” Thaxton said. “You don’t mind if I call you
Angela, do you?”

“No…” Angela said, her voice rising, as if
asking a question of her own.

“Splendid. And you can call me Jennifer.
Fair enough?”

Angela nodded.

“I’m concerned about your partner. He has a
lot of crazy ideas, and I don’t blame him. You see, Jorge and I go
way back.”

“Captain Martinez?” Angela asked.

Thaxton waved her off with
a laugh. “Yes, of course.
Captain
Martinez.
I’m afraid he may be in a lot of
trouble.”

Angela swallowed nervously, wishing she had
just stayed in bed for the day. “What do you mean, ma’am?”

Thaxton smiled. “Jorge is my friend.” She
spread her arms across Drake’s desk and talked as if she were a
confidant. “Of course, we lost contact over the years. I’m sure he
called you last night with a lot of theories.”

Angela nodded while glancing at the
television, which was displaying the image of an empty press room
and a banner reading, “Border Patrol Chief Expected to Release
Statement.”

“I just want to find him,” Thaxton said.
“And I need your help.”

“There’s nothing I want more to do,” Angela
replied.

“Excellent,” Thaxton said, folding her hands
together. “Then I need to know exactly what he told you last
night.”

Angela hesitated. In the
silence, Thaxton’s eyes seemed to burn holes right through
her.
This is it,
she thought.
This is the
interrogation.

Searching for Martinez

“
We believe there are approximately
fifty terror cells operating throughout the state of Texas,”
Assistant Director Thaxton began.

Angela sat quietly, trying to understand her
role in the FBI’s plan.

“Most of them are ISIS affiliated,” Thaxton
continued. “Al-Qaeda is still every bit a threat, but ISIS is
growing at a much more rapid and dangerous pace.”

Angela cleared her throat, determined to ask
some questions of her own. “Why doesn’t the government detain
them?”

Thaxton pursed her lips, looking as though
she was prepared for the question. “We’re monitoring as many as we
can, hoping that they can lead us to their benefactor.”

Angela clasped her hands together, wishing
she could wrap the conversation up, and took a trusting step.
“Captain Martinez told me that the government hasn’t released a
report on the number of suspected terrorists in two years.”

“Of course he did,” Thaxton told her. “And
I’m as bothered by that as he.” She leaned back in the chair,
rocking with both arms on the armrests. “Then again, I’m just the
assistant director.”

Angela glanced at the television where an
image of the first shooter, the one with the large forehead was
being displayed. He was identified as Amadi Rahman, the brother of
the London bombing terrorist, Sayed Rahman. The photo itself was
several months old—taken from Amadi’s passport—and showing a
clean-shaven man with trim hair and a smile.

“This is what I need from you, Angela,”
Thaxton said, dusting the shoulders of her blue blazer. “We have
some information on a safe house. A house that Jorge last reported
on. He told me that he was going to investigate. Like you, I urged
him not to do it on his own. Unfortunately, we haven’t heard from
him since.”

Angela didn’t know how much to believe.
Martinez had warned her about the FBI. Maybe some of his paranoia
was rubbing off on her.

“I want you to accompany us to this safe
house. Jorge’s current state of mind is not where I’d prefer it to
be. But he trusts you. So we will need you with us once we get
there.”

Angela stared ahead, studying Thaxton while
trying to detect any bit of deception in her blue eyes. She was a
startlingly attractive woman, and Angela found her mere presence
intimidating. She exuded an air of confidence that Angela only
wished she could achieve in her own career.

“I need to know what you’ve found out about
this station wagon,” Angela said. “That’s what this all comes down
to.”

Thaxton leaned closer to her as the chair
squeaked forward. “We’re working on it. Police have issued an APB
statewide on the vehicle. Though, I might say, a license plate
would have been helpful.”

“The truck we were tracking didn’t have a
license plate. For all we know, the station wagon was the same,”
Angela said.

“Not likely,” Thaxton said, cupping her
chin. “Now, are you game? Will you accompany us to the safe house
to find Martinez?”

Angela thought to herself for a moment and
then nodded. “Sure. If it means brining him home. Is he in any
danger?”

Thaxton glanced downward then back at
Angela. “We don’t know yet. But I can tell you that the house in
question is on our list of hot spots.”

It was all Angela needed to hear. She’d
agree to whatever was necessary. Thaxton seemed pleased and told
her that, “woman to woman,” she wouldn’t let her down.

“But I expect the same from you,” she
continued. “Don’t let us down either.”

Angela sat in the backseat of a black SUV as
it roared along a rural stretch of desert road with four other
matching vehicles closely behind. She was a part of something now.
Something larger than before.

An FBI helicopter flew overhead, tracking
them. Angela stared out the window, watching the vastness of the
rolling hills and sand dunes pass by—cypress trees, rocks, and
decaying weeds, plentiful and unending. Assistant Director Thaxton
sat in the passenger seat, next to Agent Sutherland, who drove.

For Angela, it was hard to believe that
anything worth finding was within their grasp, but she understood
that the people they were looking for often operated in desolate
areas where they could see who was coming and when. It was ten past
noon, and she was already feeling overwhelmed. Gone were her
superiors with the Border Patrol. Out here, she was completely on
her own.

“About two miles more,” Thaxton said,
staring ahead through a pair of thick sunglasses.

Angela scooted up and looked past the
windshield to the road ahead. They were in the lead vehicle, and
Angela had questions about how, exactly, the FBI knew precisely
where to go. It all seemed too perfect. Were they after terrorists
or Martinez?

“What do you want me to do when we get
there?” Angela asked.

From the spotless confines of the sleek SUV,
Thaxton turned to Angela with a smile. “Just standby until we need
you.”

Angela was worried. She had texted Martinez
multiple times but received no response.

An aluminum shack, no larger than a mobile
home, came into view on the far right side of the road. It looked
abandoned, a relic from another age. There were no vehicles parked
outside and no people either. Angela figured they would keep going
in pursuit of the real safe house, and was surprised when the SUV
began to slow.

“There’s our target,” Thaxton said.

The SUV pulled to the shoulder, advancing
over a mound, and gunning it toward the shack. Angela gripped her
armrest as they rumbled forward, off-road, increasing speed.
Trailing vehicles split off in different directions, surrounding
the shack in what seemed an expertly rehearsed formation.

“
That
is the safe house?” Angela said
with incredulity.

“You’d be surprised,” Thaxton said. “Not
everything is as it seems.”

The cryptic comment made Angela curious.
What exactly was the assistant director talking about?

Their SUV circled the target and then, with
one hard stomp on the brake, lurched to a stop in the back of the
building. Angela could see what Thaxton meant: a rusty red pickup
sat parked behind the shack in a makeshift port with desert-tan
camouflage netting overhead.

The wave radio under the SUV’s dashboard
crackled with an incoming transmission.

“All vehicles in position.
It’s your call, ma’am,”
a man’s voice
said.

Thaxton stared ahead, studying the shack. At
the wheel, Agent Sutherland held a pair of binoculars up, looking
through the only window in range, covered by a thin, tattered
curtain.

“I see movement,” he said.

The FBI helicopter hovered above, its blades
thumping in the air while its turbine engine rumbled noisily.
Whoever was in the shack must know by now that they had
company.

“We need to move,” Thaxton said. “They could
see us coming a mile away. If there are any tunnels inside, they’re
no doubt scrambling.”

Sutherland grabbed the hand mic. “It’s a
go.”

Angela watched in astonishment as the doors
of the surrounding SUVs were flung open and agents charged out,
guns drawn, advancing toward the shack from all sides. Sutherland
and Thaxton, however, stayed seated, patiently waiting and astutely
observing the raid.

Angela put her hands on the back of
Sutherland’s seat and leaned forward. “Shouldn’t you be using a
SWAT team? This seems very dangerous.”

“Time is critical,” Thaxton said, looking
forward. “We have to work with what we have.”

“And trust me,” Sutherland said, turning his
head slightly. “Our team is every bit trained as SWAT.”

From afar, Angela watched as Agent Lynch led
the charge, his gray bouffant bouncing in the air. He wound his leg
back and kicked the door open as two agents took positions and
knelt at each side of the entrance with their pistols up. Shouts
and running footsteps could be heard coming from inside.

Three other agents ran past them and circled
around to the front as Lynch stormed inside through the back with
MacLachlan and another agent behind him.

“Down on the ground!” he shouted.

“Get down! Right now!” MacLachlan added.

Thaxton turned and looked at Sutherland.
“Let’s get ready to move.”

Sutherland nodded, took his Glock pistol
from his side, and pulled the slide back, chambering a round.

The shouting continued from inside like some
major bust.

“We’re all clear,”
Lynch’s voice said from the radio.

“How many?” Sutherland asked, holding the
mic.

“Six. All
unarmed.”

“Ask him about Captain Martinez,”
Thaxton told him.

“What’s the status on Martinez?” Sutherland
said into the radio.

“We don’t see him. They
could have him somewhere else. MacLachlan and Hopper are doing a
search.”

Thaxton sighed and then tilted her
head back to Angela. “You ready back there?”

Angela nodded, though she was still unsure
of her role. “Six men?” she said, amazed. “In that little
shack?”

“Probably caught them at a meeting,”
Sutherland said, opening his door and stepping out.

Thaxton opened her door as well and took off
her jacket, tossing it inside. A pistol rested in a side holster.
She pulled at the sleeves of her white button-down shirt and fixed
her hair in the window’s reflection.

From the backseat, Angela
studied her.
Who am I dealing with
here?

Thaxton opened the passenger door and poked
her head in. “You coming or what?”

Angela snapped out of it and opened the
door.

“Stay on the ground and keep your mouth
shut!” a voice shouted from inside the shack, startling her.

She closed the door as Thaxton came around
from the other side. Sutherland was already well on his way there,
leaving footprints of his leather dress shoes in the sand.

“You heard anything from Martinez yet?”
Thaxton asked, tucking the back of her shirt in.

“Nothing,” Angela said.

“Nothing on my end either.”

“I hope he’s okay,” Angela said. “I can’t
take much more of this. Especially after Dawson…” Her voice faded
at the mention of his name. She took a deep breath and tried to
toughen up as Thaxton’s hand touched her shoulder.

“It’s okay. The FBI is going to get to the
bottom of this thing one way or another.”

They strolled together toward the shack, and
Angela was eager to see inside. She wished they’d found a station
wagon parked near the shack, a sign that they weren’t on a wild
goose chase.

Thaxton walked in first. Sunlight shone onto
the creaking hardwood floor, lighting the otherwise dim room.

Angela followed Thaxton carefully as the
other agents flipped chairs and tables, searching for hatches or
hidden compartments. Angela looked down at the six men who lay on
their stomachs, their hands behind their backs, and agents Lynch
and MacLachlan standing over them.

Their hands had already been zip-tied at
their wrists. Their clothing was strangely identical: Gap-purchased
polo shirts and beige slacks, like some kind of mall uniform. Their
jet-black hair was short and their facial hair trim, making them
look painfully out of place in such rural surroundings. Their feet
were bare, and a row of leather dress shoes and sandals lined the
wall next to the front entrance. A few men groaned in discomfort.
Others seemed to be cursing.