The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) (2 page)

BOOK: The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3)
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Victoria Crown started as Derek's assistant three days after the interview at Denny's.

"I don't want you calling me Victoria. My father had a sick sense of humor naming me after a Ford car model. It's Crown or Vic.
 
Not Crown Vic. Call me Victoria, and I'll slip something nasty into your morning coffee. And, just so we’re clear about my job, if you do ever ask me to make you coffee in the morning, I'll piss in your coffee mug. Deal?"

CHAPTER THREE

5:46 pm

August 12 2014

Derek was cautiously optimistic. In the three plus years he had been a freelance detective, each of his clients was a private citizen. Many were a corporation or political figure that needed help that public authorities could not or would not offer. But as he walked out of the coffee shop, his impromptu meeting having just concluded, he needed to temper his excitement and concerns.

He received the call less than 20 hours ago and was told that if he wanted to be part of the case he’d need to be in Yonkers, at a specific coffee shop, by 5 pm the next day. Derek was visiting his friend, Ralph Fox, in Albany when the call came in. Ralph Fox was Chief of Police in a small, upstate New York town that was the center of one of Derek’s more challenging cases.

“Ralph,” he said, “I’m afraid I have to cut our get-together short.”

“Whadya got?” Ralph said, his Texas drawl sounding out of place in the upstate New York diner where the two were enjoying an early lunch.

“Believe it or not,” Derek continued, “that was the FBI.”

“Unless my recollection is faulty, the FBI is a tad bigger than a small town police department. I’d say that that call you received is a sign you’ve made your mark. What’s the case?”

“He didn’t say. Just that the FBI heard about me and my history and that my skills are needed to protect the public interest.”

“Ain’t nothing too vague about that,” Ralph said.

“Nothing at all,” Derek said.

As he walked down the crowded street, towards the parking lot to his car, Derek went over what few details the FBI agent shared with him during the meeting in the diner.

“As you probably know,” Special Agent Mark Henderson said, “a lot of our information comes from what we call ‘chatter.’ We picked up a lot of chatter over the last several months about an event in Manhattan. About three weeks ago, the chatter went dark.”

“Called off?” Derek asked.

“Not likely. When communications go dark, it often means things are in place and are ready for execution.”

“Where was the chatter coming from?”

“Anywhere and everywhere. That’s the biggest problem. Usually, we know who’s talking, what they’re talking about and what they are targeting. This chatter didn’t give us any solid targets to go after.”

“Why did you contact me?” Derek asked. “Matters of homeland security aren’t shared with people like me.”

“True, and this isn’t being shared with you, either. Understand me?” Special Agent Mark Henderson looked nothing like what one would expect an FBI agent to look. He stood only five foot six, weighed under 155 pounds soaking wet, and had a face so smooth and free of hair that people would estimate his age to be under 20. There was a kindness in his eyes: A look suggesting that his eyes had seen too many horrors and were terminally impressed with sadness. His high-pitched voice, soft brown hair and fair complexion added to his “harmless” appearance.

“Understood, but still confused,” Derek said.

Mark glanced at his partner, Special Agent Juan Cortez who was sitting next to him in the booth. Cortez said nothing after introducing himself and kept his eyes fixed on his mug of black coffee.

“There are some cases,” Mark said, returning his gaze to Derek, “which need outside assistance. This being one of them.”

“Since the chatter you picked up is about an event in New York City, can I assume the NYPD is involved?”

“To an extent, yes.”

“Any others like me working the case?”

“No. Though this concern has been on our radar for a while, we were recently alerted the issue’s status was raised to ‘imminent’ two days ago. The FBI has been vetting people for years. Finding out who can do what, who could be of service and who has skills that may come in handy. Your name was the only one I was given to contact.”

“Not sure if I feel good about that,” Derek said, trying to smile.

“Means you’re considered skilled and valuable. I’d say it is a compliment.”

“Um, not to disregard the compliments, but. . .”

“You will be paid your normal fees if that’s what you’re about to ask.”

“While that’s good to know, it isn’t what I was going to say. I was going to ask what the skills are you believe I possess that you feel will be most useful? I mean, I have a reputation of being a rogue.”

“And as being someone who follows through, no matter what. We know you took a bullet in the gut to save a client. And we know you didn’t have to put yourself in the situation that resulted in your getting shot. But you did it anyway, out of commitment, I assume. That, coupled with your military and police experience, tells us you can follow orders when needed and are smart enough to follow your instincts when the orders don’t apply.”

“So you need someone to freelance?”

“Maybe. But I need to tell you the parameters of what we are asking you to do.”

“As of now, I do not understand what you need me to do. So I'll appreciate anything you can tell me,” Derek said.

Mark leaned in closer to the table and slid a small, manila envelope towards Derek. “Everything we have is in this folder. What’s not in there, unfortunately, are any solid leads. You also won’t find anything you can use to verify that you are working with us if you get into any hot water with the NYPD.”

“That’s a tad concerning,” Derek said as he pulled the folder towards him.

“Trust me,” Mark said, “if you get into trouble, I’ll get you out.”

Derek never liked when people told him to trust them. He felt people who told others to “trust them” were the people least deserving of trust. Despite Derek’s reservations, something about Mark’s appearance, the way he spoke or the urgency that Derek could see in his eyes made him feel he could trust Mark Henderson.

“So what’s my first step?” Derek asked.

"It’s up to you,” Special Agent Cortez said. “The whole idea about hiring you, which I think was a bad idea, was that you’re gonna run the way you run. We give you the info, and you take it from there.
 
Either you sit back and observe this whole thing happen, or you figure out a way to stop it. Observe or engage. That’s up to you.”

Cortez spoke with a slight Hispanic accent that seemed designed to hide a much stronger accent. Unlike his partner, Juan Cortez looked like a hardened investigator, who had not only seen and knew about things that would scare the crap out of most Americans, but had also taken some hard knocks during his time. His nose slanted a bit to the right of his face, his eyes held a 100-yard stare that suggested both vacancy of fear and hidden terrors. Sitting next to Mark, Derek estimated Juan had at least 80 pounds and eight inches on his partner.

“I’m picking up you’re not a fan of my work,” Derek said to Juan.

“Brilliant deduction,” Juan shot back. “I’m not at all happy about your being hired to do whatever the hell it is they think you can do. And I’ll tell you one thing,” Juan said, his finger trained on Derek, “I better not find out you’re running around like some bad-ass tough guy, throwing the FBI’s name all over the place.”

“I’ll do my best,” Derek said, unconcerned that Juan was not one of his fans. “But if I do?”

“Don’t,” Juan barked. “Here’s a little hint for you, keep the phrase ‘Unwanted Nuisance’ in your mind.”

“Well that is certainly helpful. Looking forward to working with you Special Agent Cortez,” Derek said as he began to open the manila envelope.

“Not yet,” Mark said, slapping his hand down on the envelope. “We need to go over a few things first. Give you an overview of the do’s and don'ts.”

“I’m all ears.”

Mark paused, glancing out of the window as the waitress strolled by their table. He waited until she was far enough away before continuing the conversation.

“Unless you’ve been living under a rock,” Mark started, “you’ve heard of ISIS, al Qaeda and a few hundred other terrorist organizations. Every one of them has made threats to our homeland. Some we take seriously and some are made only to gain notoriety. What concerns us most are the threats we never hear about from terror groups that seem more concerned about their mission and not getting their names plastered all over the headlines. The chatter we had been hearing was cross-chatter, meaning we were picking up what a bunch of these terror groups have been talking about, but which none are directing. Almost like these groups are in the dark about something that is about to happen.”

“Every one of them?” Derek asked.

“On any given day, intelligence is tracking no less than 75 groups around the world; some are two or three person cells that have split off from a larger group and some, like al Qaeda or ISIS, are full blown organizations. The chatter we heard was what we call ‘reference chatter.’ Many of these groups, especially the larger ones, were talking about some event but none of them know too much about it.”

“Another offshoot trying to make a name for itself?”

“Doubtful” Mark said. “These groups have their own intel and way of vetting each other. For there to be as much chatter as there was, the group or groups behind whatever is being planned would have to be very sizable, powerful or have designed a damn good plan.”

“Think some groups have joined forces for an attack?” The prospect of what Derek suggested chilled him. Though he had no interactions with any terror groups during his eight years as an MP in the Army, he had sat through enough briefings to know terror groups often split apart. The idea that some would come together for a single mission could be devastating.

“That’s what we thought at first,” Juan interjected. “How about you ask less and listen more?”

Mark reached his hand over and grasped Juan’s shoulder. “We’re here as a team, Juan,” Mark said. Juan’s reaction was immediate. He shook his head then shrank his body low into his seat. It was clear that while Mark and Juan shared the same title, Mark was clearly in charge of this case. “Like Juan said, that’s what we thought at first, but none of these groups seem to know who is behind whatever is being planned, and none of them seem to want the spotlight. Whatever it is, and whoever is behind it, must be very powerful and very secretive.”

“Did the other terror groups seem excited about whatever they were talking about?”

“That’s a good question,” Mark said as he shot a glance at Juan. “The groups who were chattering revealed a mixture of excitement and concern.”

“Concern about what?” Derek questioned.

“Bad things, Cole. Very bad things.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Derek walked from the diner and towards his parked rental car. He felt compelled to rip open the manila envelope and begin reading about the case he had just accepted. The conversation with Special Agents Cortez and Henderson produced significantly more questions than answers. There were a few things, however, that the agents were crystal clear about.

“You need to keep your involvement in this matter absolutely confidential. That means no calls to your friends, family or associates. Any information shared with you is to be considered top secret. Any information you learn from your investigation is immediately the property of the US Government. Should you be found to have shared any information with anyone, you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

Derek was on his own.

Though Mark Henderson told him that if Derek got into a challenging situation, he’d be there to help, Derek knew that once he shook hands and walked away from the diner, as far as the FBI was concerned, Derek Cole was nothing more than a US citizen. He knew that his cell phone was or soon would be tapped and
 
all of his communications would be monitored. He knew that his movements would be tracked and, even if he hadn’t agreed to work on the case, his privacy was a thing of the past.

As soon as he got into his car, Derek started the engine, pulled out onto the street and headed towards the nearest shopping center he could find. He wanted a place where he could both search his car for tracking devices and read the contents of the folder. Within 10 minutes of leaving the diner, he found a strip mall, parked his car in front of a UPS Store and exited his vehicle. After he checked the area to make sure that his intended actions would not draw attention, Derek began a thorough search of his car. After 15 minutes, he sat back down in the driver’s seat.

“Nothing?” he asked himself. “Can’t believe that I’m not being tracked by someone or by something.”

He grabbed the manila envelope, broke the seal and removed the folder’s contents. He was concerned over how few items the folder contained: three pictures of men who looked to be of Arabic descent, a list of mosques in the Greater NYC area, and a single page of typed “instructions.” A quick glance at the instructions gave him no substantial information to start working the case. While Henderson’s contact information was included, the rest of the instructional letter only offered a repeat of what he had been told at the diner.

“You are considered a consultant to the FBI. This designation does not infer any access to information, resources or protection from local laws.”

“Your engagement can be terminated at any time, without warning or explanation.”

“Above all, your primary objective is to cause no harm to this investigation. Should you be found to have caused disruption or interference, your role will be immediately terminated and you may be subject to criminal charges.”

Lastly, there was a small sheet of paper, folded in half with Derek’s name written sloppily on the forward facing side of the paper.
 
He put everything beside him on the passenger’s seat, unfolded the note and read.

“Cole, throw this note away as soon as you read it. Trust no one, including me, on this case. We are up against something much bigger than what you could possibly imagine, and some very powerful people are willing to do almost anything to keep the truth a secret. Trust no one! Don’t try to contact me to discuss. I probably will be dead by the time you read this.”

BOOK: The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3)
11.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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