Alexander Wells’s security team arrived at the nondescript Crystal City office building in a small armada of black SUVs with darkly tinted windows. Wells had dispatched the team with simple instructions: apprehend James Hayward and Sam Jameson. If necessary, lethal force was authorized.
The fleet of Suburbans wound its way through the subterranean parking garage beneath the National Intelligence Directorate until they spotted the target vehicle: a white delivery van. The security team parked their SUVs around the van, boxing it in.
The men exited the vehicles without a word. They wore standard-issue blue suits with oversized jackets designed to fit loosely over the ballistic vests they wore beneath. Just like the cliché, they wore earpieces with a curly wire protruding beyond their close-cropped hair. They wore extremely serious expressions on their faces. Their weapons were drawn.
They spent a bit of time verifying the emptiness of the van. Their task was aided by the fact that the doors were left unlocked. This was unusual, particularly given the bloodstains they’d found in the back of the van, but that fell under the category of someone else’s problem. The security team’s problem was James Hayward and Sam Jameson.
Will Fleming was the commander of the security detail. He was six-two, two hundred pounds, wore a graying buzz cut, and had acne scars and permanent frown lines on his face. He had years of military, paramilitary, and VIP protection experience, and his men respected him but did not much like him.
Fleming posted a two-man guard at the empty van. He ordered the remainder of his ten-man team to clear the stairwells leading up from the subterranean parking garage to the office building.
Fleming followed the team responsible for the eastern stairwell as they cleared each of the three parking floors. As they ascended past the lobby, the commander exited. He approached the security desk with a confident gait.
“Who has been here tonight?” Fleming asked without preamble. His condescension for the rent-a-cop wasn’t disguised.
The man behind the desk adjusted his wheel cap and shoved thick glasses back up to the bridge of his aquiline nose. “Excuse me?”
“Who has entered the building this evening?” Fleming said, more impatience in his voice.
“Do you have some ID, sir?”
Will Fleming flashed a badge. It had the anticipated effect. The man behind the desk rose to his feet and straightened his back, like a soldier standing at attention in front of a superior. “No one, really. I mean, just a couple of people,” he said.
“Which is it?” Fleming asked.
“Which is what?”
Impatience on Fleming’s face. “Did no one enter the building tonight, or did a couple of people enter the building tonight?”
The man at attention behind the desk looked visibly shaken. He didn’t seem accustomed to receiving a wire-brushing. “A couple,” he said.
“A couple, as in two? Or a couple, as in more than one but you’re not sure how many?”
The glasses had snuck down the security guard’s nose, and he used a thumb to shove them up again. The movement had an awkward, unpracticed quality to it. Nerves, perhaps. “Definitely two,” the man said. “One man and one woman.”
“What did they look like?”
“Well, the man had a cast on his arm, and the woman had red hair.”
“Did you recognize them?”
The security guard shook his head. “They had badges though.”
“Where did they go?”
A shrug. “Into the elevator. Haven’t seen them since.”
“Motion detectors?”
A nod from the man behind the desk. “Top floor, easternmost room. The motion sensors go off and on, just like you’d expect. They’re working at their desks or something. Is there a problem?”
Fleming ignored the question. He spoke into his cuff. He listened to a response in his earpiece. “Let no one through,” he said to the guard behind the desk. He turned on his heel and walked away.
The man behind the desk adjusted his glasses and sat back down.
Fleming rallied his team on the eleventh floor. They were all combat veterans. Three were former Delta commandos and two were SEALs. They knew how to breach a floor, knew how to neutralize enemies, knew how to handle themselves in exigent circumstances. They formed a plan.
Like most successful plans, it was simple. It relied on the skill and experience of the team.
They took the stairs up from the eleventh to the twelfth floor, made their way slowly and silently through the door, fanned out, covered perimeters and rear quarters, achieved the desired vantage points, and prepared for contact.
Guns drawn, two men charged into the easternmost room.
No shots were fired.
“Jesus, Will,” one man said. “You’ve got to get in here.”
Will Fleming entered the room. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Jesus,” he said.
Fleming pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed. “Mr. Wells,” he said. “You need to get here right away, sir.”