Vermillion Parking Garage
Washington, DC
Ted McMahon sat behind the wheel of the maroon Chevrolet Impala that was backed into its parking spot next to the big pillar near the main aisle. He had a bird’s-eye view of the ascending ramp to the fourth level where Oliver Burke waited. He’d taken the stairs up and had disabled the video surveillance cameras. Now it was all about waiting. McMahon had never enjoyed that part of any op. He preferred to say that he was built for action.
A white van turned off the second-level ramp. McMahon perked up. It had to be her, but a man was driving. He slumped down slightly and remained perfectly still, confident that the combination of the shadows of this corner spot and the windshield would conceal or at least obscure him. His experience had taught him that it was movement, however slight, that betrayed a person’s position. Keeping absolutely still, even if the other guys popped a starlight flare in the middle of a dark poppy field, would go further to keep you safe than recklessly diving for cover.
As the van passed in front of him and turned onto the ramp to the fourth level, McMahon saw the blond hair and comely features of Leza Dean in the passenger seat. She was busy moving a makeup brush over her cheeks.
Nice to see you again, pretty lady, he thought.
He straightened up and pressed his radio key.
“They’re on the way up to you,” he said into his mic. “White van, no markings.”
“She’s not alone?” Burke asked.
“Negative.”
“I’ll signal when ready.”
McMahon acknowledged with a click of the mic. In all the time he and Burke had worked together, in countless missions in the shit holes of the various continents, they never had a problem regardless of which of them was calling the shots. Since McMahon had been in charge overseas for this one, Burke had run the ops show back here. So this was his turf, and McMahon was content to play backup. And it was important to be certain that the reporter hadn’t brought any backup of her own.
McMahon kept watching the ramps. No more cars. Apparently, she hadn’t.
“Looking good so far,” McMahon said.
It was Burke’s turn to acknowledge with a click.
McMahon imagined that the van was slowly making its way down the aisles, looking for Dean’s “Deep Throat,” the leaker whom she’d communicated with through emails and phone calls, but had never seen in person. Burke, pretending to be someone inside the government, had sent her numerous tips and clues about the pending drone attacks and the ongoing congressional inquiry, including the videos of the Somali explosions. She’d went for them all, like a hungry rabbit. Now it was time for the foxes to grab the hare.
“Anybody?” Burke’s voice asked over the radio.
“Negative,” McMahon said.
“Roger that. I’m going to wave them down. Come on up.”
McMahon started the Impala and shifted it into gear.
Time to start the party, he thought.
Fairfax County
Virginia
Bolan signaled for Grimaldi to pull the black Escalade onto the shoulder of the highway. Marco Cerillo lived in a big house on a sloping hill across the way, the curving drive up to the residence flanked by a parade of sturdy-looking trees on either side.
“According to our GPS,” Grimaldi said, “that’s it.”
Bolan nodded and took out his cell phone. Something was niggling at his internal radar. Although he wasn’t sure what it was, things just didn’t seem right. He’d learned a long time ago to trust his battle senses. He turned slightly in the seat and used the binoculars to scan what he could see of the extended drive and expansive front yard. No cars were visible, but the residence had an attached three-car garage.
“Looks like Cerillo has a pretty nice abode,” the Executioner said.
“You think he’s home?”
“Hard to say.” Bolan took out his cell phone. “Let’s see if Aaron can give the place a call. Maybe that’ll shake things up.”
He pressed the button and Kurtzman answered on the second ring. Bolan repeated his request.
“Roger that,” Kurtzman said. “I’ve also been trying to pinpoint Leza Dean for you, assuming you might want to talk to her next.”
“You assumed right,” Bolan said.
“Okay,” Kurtzman said. “Let’s see if anyone answers.”
As Bolan waited he caught a flicker on the far side of the house. Movement... A man running toward the edge of the building...dressed in dark clothes and a balaclava.
“Male subject in front,” Bolan said. “He’s wearing a mask.”
“And something tells me it isn’t the Lone Ranger,” Grimaldi said.
A few seconds later a white van came from the far side of the house, the opposite side from the garages, and pulled up in front, blocking Bolan’s view of the door.
He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he didn’t like it.
“No answer,” Kurtzman said. “Went straight to voice mail. The number I have appears to be a landline. Want me to try to get his cell?”
“Go ahead and try it,” Bolan said. “But something’s going on here.”
He kept studying the ongoing scene at the front of the house. The driver of the van got out, went around the vehicle and opened the sliding side door. Seconds later three more men, also wearing masks, exited the house. They were dragging two struggling women, apparently a mother and daughter, toward the open side door of the vehicle.
Bolan terminated the call and dropped the binoculars, glancing over his shoulder at the traffic coming up behind them on the roadway. It looked fairly clear.
“Jack,” he said. “Trouble. Get over there quick.”
The Rook
Rural Virginia
Novak waited at the entrance to the main building as the maroon Impala and a white van pulled up to the doors. He could see McMahon’s grinning face behind the wheel of the Chevy, and Burke driving the van. Novak wondered if she’d come to the clandestine meeting alone. McMahon got out of the car, stretched and sauntered over to Novak. Burke followed carrying a plastic bag.
Novak found himself growing impatient, but suppressed the mild anxiety he felt. Inwardly, he could feel the pressure, but outwardly he had to give the appearance of absolute calmness.
Never let your opponent think you’re losing control, he thought. That applied to one’s chessmen, too, especially these anthropomorphic pieces.
“Where is she?” Novak kept his voice even and disinterested.
McMahon cocked a thumb toward the Impala.
“In the trunk.”
“The trunk?” Novak couldn’t help but feel a bit of trepidation surface now. “I hope she wasn’t able to signal anybody.”
“We disabled the automatic release switch before we put her in,” Burke said as he walked up. “And secured her with duct tape so she couldn’t move around. Disposed of her phone, too.”
“Did she have anyone with her?” Novak asked.
Burke’s mouth twitched with a slight smile. “She did. A cameraman.”
“And?” Novak said.
“And Ted here gave him a heave-ho over the side from four stories up.” Burke’s smile widened. “It was a beautiful thing to watch.”
Novak felt a bit more relaxed now. Everything was unfolding according to the master plan. But he was mildly irritated by McMahon’s continued antics.
“Cut the crap,” Novak said. “Get her out of the trunk.”
McMahon turned and walked to the rear of the Impala and hit the remote. The trunk lid swung upward.
“And you got her laptop?” Novak asked.
Burke held up the plastic bag. “In here.”
“Anything from the others?”
“Yeah,” Burke said. “As we were pulling up, Snyder texted me. Cerillo’s wife and daughter finally got home and they’ll be bringing them to us now in the van.”
“Good,” Novak said.
McMahon straightened up, the bound figure of Leza Dean slung over his left shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He used his right hand to slam the trunk and strode over to Novak and Burke.
“Where do you want me to dump her?”
Novak could see the woman struggling. They’d also placed a swatch of duct tape over her mouth. He stepped around McMahon and looked directly into Leza Dean’s face. Her nostrils flared desperately with each breath, and she appeared to be having trouble breathing.
Idiots, Novak thought. He didn’t want her dead yet, at least not by asphyxiation.
Novak reached up and ripped the tape away.
She gasped in pain, then screamed, “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? There are people who know where I am. You won’t be able to get away with this. I’ll—”
Novak slapped her face.
She recoiled in shock and alarm.
“Shut up,” he said. “You’d be wise to keep your mouth closed, or we’ll be forced to really hurt you. Understand?”
The reporter said nothing, her eyes brimming now with subdued anger and overwhelming fear.
“Ah, much better,” Novak said. He stepped back around in front of McMahon.
“Go drop her in one of the holding cells next to my office,” Novak said. “And take the laptop with you.” He gestured to Burke, who held the plastic bag toward McMahon. “We’ll deal with her in a bit.”
“Hear that, babycakes?” McMahon said to Dean. “Almost time to start cookin’.”
The woman said nothing, but her jerky breathing suggested she was silently crying.
“When the rest of your crew gets back with Cerillo’s family, start wiping things down in there,” Novak said. “I want to leave this place as pristine as when we found it.”
McMahon cocked his arm in an exaggerated salute that Novak interpreted as sarcasm and then slapped Dean’s buttocks.
McMahon accepted the bag from Burke’s still-outstretched arm and shuffled toward the double doors leading up to the old prison offices. Novak couldn’t help but notice that the man carried the weight of the woman as easily as he would a bag of groceries. He was powerful, but Novak could hardly wait to be free of the big idiot. Once he’d served his purpose, it was going to be a pleasure to jettison him, but just as in a game of chess, the timing for each move was of critical importance. Each one had to be well thought out in advance, and a misstep could lead to disaster.
“I’m getting real tired of that asshole,” Burke said. “A little McMahon goes a long way.”
Novak took that as a good sign. Perhaps it would be easier than he’d figured to have Burke take care of McMahon when the time came. He turned to him. “Go see how Cerillo’s doing on the anti-jamming feature. If he’s dragging his feet, mention his family’s on the way.”
“So we might not even need the wife and daughter as leverage?”
“They’re our insurance,” Novak said. “I want to do a test run to make sure it’s functioning properly so we’ll keep Cerillo here and ready in case any last-minute problems crop up. Plus, it has to fit with my castle.”
“Your what?”
Novak smiled. “Sorry. I was thinking in terms of chess. A castle is where the king and the rook exchange places on the board.”
“I know that. What does it have to do with us?”
Novak smiled as benignly as he could. “In my fantasy, you and McMahon are my knights, due to your competence and maneuverability. Congressman Meeks, due to his entrenched position in the government, is a rook.”
Burke frowned. “Your comparison is kind of lost on me. I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Sometimes, neither do I.” He slapped Burke on the shoulder, knowing he was going to need the man down the road. “I was just talking about the final setup. Making it look like Eddie had abducted Dean, saw the end coming and decided to go out in a blaze of glory.”
The frown didn’t leave Burke’s face, but he nodded.
“This one last strike will set us up for life,” Novak said, sensing the other man’s reticence. “The Arabs were so impressed by the Mexican demonstration that they’re bringing ten suitcases full of cash as a down payment. Twenty million, and another twenty by wire transfer when the deed is done this afternoon. They’re on their way here now. When they get here, I’ll need my best man, my best knight, to oversee handling those bags. So make sure they’re loaded onto the jet.”
“Yeah, no problem.” Burke turned and walked off. Novak watched him go. He had one more matter to take care of to set the stage: get Dean to open her laptop and then place the story that connected all the dots linking her and Meeks’s secret involvement with the Aries Defense contract. It wouldn’t be such a secret shortly, but was bound for a sad and abrupt end.
Dean and Meeks in a murder-suicide.
Novak smiled. Tragic. Absolutely tragic. And the added benefit of taking out that idiot Oglethorpe tonight as he stepped over to meet the Saudi prince was icing on the cake. The settling of an old score that would put further blame on Meeks and allow them to escape unnoticed while the authorities followed the false trail.
It was a brilliant plan.