Tam did not know with any certainty where the helicopter had gone, but Glasgow was the closest destination of any consequence and represented their best chance of picking up the trail. Her instincts told her that Martiel would not stay in Scotland, and if he intended to fly out, Glasgow was the likeliest jumping off point for international travel, but there were dozens of cities across the United Kingdom within easy reach of the helicopter. Figuring out where it went, and where its occupants had subsequently gone, would take old fashioned leg work and Tam, unfortunately, had left her shoes in the creek at Newton Farms.
The car’s heater had saved her from hypothermia following her dip in the creek, but she was still soaked through and filthy, so upon reaching Glasgow, they booked a room at a hotel near the airport. Tam headed straight for the shower, while Sievers went out to find her some dry clothes and shoes.
Her hands were bruised and raw where she had gripped the shoestring garrote, and the abraded skin stung at first, but she scrubbed them thoroughly, and after a few seconds, the pain subsided. The muscles in her arms and shoulders were aching, too—another consequence of that brief but violent exertion—but the steady stream of hot water brought a measure of relief. As tempting as it would have been to luxuriate in the shower until the water ran cold, the thought of Stone and Avery in danger made relaxation impossible, so after what seemed like only a few minutes, she grudgingly shut it off and got out. As she toweled off, she began composing a list of phone calls she would have to make.
Her first call would be to the CIA’s chief of station in London to let him know that she was in his area of operations and that things had gone sideways. He would probably give her an earful for leaving a corpse in a cow pasture in Scotland, but she doubted it would even come up. LeMans’ men were professionals. They would have removed his body and sanitized the site before leaving, so as far as the locals were concerned, nothing had happened at Newton Farms.
The COS would also be able to supply her with the necessary law enforcement credentials to get regional air traffic control to cooperate so she could begin tracing Martiel’s movements, but even with full cooperation, it would be a tedious process. Helicopters didn’t have to file flight plans, and only had to check in with ATC when entering restricted airspace. Furthermore, since she didn’t have a tail number, or even the make and model of the bird that had carried her friends away, she would have to review all the radio traffic logged by the controllers to get tail numbers for each helicopter that had come and gone from the airspace, identify the operator and pilot of each, and then start conducting in-person interviews.
Having both Stone and Avery on the team had spoiled her. Between them, they usually had the answer to any question, sometimes before Tam even finished asking. She didn’t have Stone’s computer savvy or his ability to make intuitive leaps, and she didn’t have Avery’s ability to know exactly where to look for answers.
No shortcuts this time, she thought ruefully as she wrapped the towel around her torso, and reached for the door knob.
When she opened the door, she found a large plastic bag waiting for her.
Maybe I was in there longer than I realized, she thought.
“That was fast,” she sang out. Inside the bag was a T-shirt emblazoned with the Scottish flag, a pair of gray sweatpants, and a pair of flip-flops. Not exactly her first choice of attire for pounding the pavement and running down leads, but probably the best she could hope for given the hour. First thing in the morning, she would have to hit a department store.
“Hurry up,” Sievers called back from the main room. “You need to see this.”
Hearing the urgency in his tone, Tam decided to forgo getting dressed and simply ventured out as is. The towel covered up the essentials, though only just, but Sievers didn’t even look her way; his attention was riveted to the television.
The set was tuned to a satellite news channel. The screen was displaying a live feed; a male reporter stood on what appeared to be a rural farm road. Behind him several pickup trucks were parked diagonally across the lane, blocking all access. Milling around the vehicles were at least a dozen men attired in Carhartt duck coats and Army surplus field jackets, wearing ball caps sporting a variety of instantly recognizable logos—ranging from a popular brand of chewing tobacco to the Gadsden flag. Some had taken the added measure of concealing their faces with scarves and sunglasses. All were armed—Tam saw quite a few AR15s, as well as hunting rifles, shotguns, and holstered pistols—but it was obvious, even without the accompanying commentary from the reporter, that they were not there for a hunting trip.
Although she was joining the unfolding story in midstream, she was quickly able to piece together what was happening. Just a glance at the text graphic in the bottom left corner of the screen was enough to explain Sievers’ urgent request for her attention. It read: STANDOFF IN SPOKANE.
She did some mental math. Spokane was eight hours behind Glasgow time. It would be mid-afternoon there. “This is live?”
Sievers nodded.
The live feed ended with the field reporter handing off to the anchor in the studio. “If you’re just joining us, breaking news from eastern Washington State, just north of Spokane. In a scene that’s eerily reminiscent of last year’s standoff at the Malheur wildlife refuge in Oregon, a group of armed protestors—estimates put the number anywhere from fifty to a hundred and fifty—have shut down this road leading to a data facility operated by Iron River Asset Management, a New York-based investment firm. The protestors are calling themselves ‘privacy advocates,’ and say they’re only trying to draw attention to what they call the illegal collection of personal information by Iron River and other companies, which can be used by the government in violation of the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution, information they say is being stored at the data center.”
Sievers thumbed the volume down. “That’s the Mystic server farm,” he said. He turned to her, did a double-take when he realized what she wasn’t wearing, then shook his head and looked her in the eye. “This can’t be a coincidence.”
Tam pretended not to notice him noticing. “Agreed. Stone said it was about Mystic from the get go. These guys are all anti-government conspiracy nuts. Martiel created the Immortal Mysteries forum to recruit them to be his foot soldiers. This was always the plan.” She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest in consternation. “But what is the actual plan? Send these yokels in to burn the place down?”
Sievers’ eyebrows drew together in a frown. “They’d never even get close. Fifteen percent of the national economy is managed in that facility. FBI and Treasury are probably already playing Rochambeau to decide who’s got jurisdiction. This will be over before you know it. Makes me wonder if it’s not just another distraction.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Tam countered. “Remember what happened with that group in Oregon last year? Or I should say, what didn’t happen?”
In January of 2016, a group of about thirty anti-government militants took over the headquarters of the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge in a remote corner of Oregon. The men claimed to be protesting the arrest and conviction of two men accused of setting fires on public lands, but the real goal of their illegal occupation was to rally more support for their opposition to the federal government, and in particular, federal ownership and management of public lands through the Department of the Interior and National Forest Service. The leaders of the uprising were cattle ranchers with a long history of grazing their herds on public rangelands without paying the required fees or federal income tax—essentially getting a free ride at the taxpayer’s expense. With the government building a case against them, their solution had been to cast themselves as David, fighting the oppressive Goliath of big government, and they had rallied fellow “sovereign citizens” to the cause, not once but twice. In 2014, they had staged a very public blockade to prevent federal agents from confiscating the cattle. That standoff lasted a few weeks before rising public sympathy for the ranchers and fear of a violent escalation prompted the government to back down. Similarly, during the wildlife refuge incident, government officials had been reluctant to use force against the occupiers, choosing instead to wait them out. The siege had dragged on for forty days before dwindling supplies and freezing temperatures prompted most of the militants to leave whereupon all were arrested, except for one who was killed while resisting arrest.
That, however, wasn’t the end of the story.
“Half the guys who pulled that stunt were acquitted,” Tam said. “Every one of the guys out there knows it. Martiel knows it, too.”
“This isn’t some backwater ranger station,” Sievers countered. “Valero doesn’t just have Paul Blart minimum-wage mall cop guarding the place. Believe me, I know the guys who end up working gigs like that. And I guarantee the feds will send in tactical teams to back them up.”
“How will they get inside?” Tam said. “Run the roadblock? Helicopter? That turns it into a shooting war. They won’t do that as long as they think there’s a non-violent alternative. Especially not with the media and the world watching, thinking this is all a political protest. Nobody wants to see this turn into the next Waco or Ruby Ridge. The FBI playbook for this kind of thing is wait-and-see, just like last time. And don’t forget the new guy in the White House. He’s not going to authorize any kind of action against them. They’re his voting base, and he knows it. He’s probably rooting for them.”
Sievers checked his phone and grunted. “Nothing on Twitter yet.” He looked up, saw Tam shaking her head, and gave a guilty shrugged. “What? I follow him.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about that when all this is over.”
He grinned and put his phone away. “So the protestors hold the perimeter and keep law enforcement out, while Martiel takes a strike team inside to deal with internal security. That’s going to get ugly. And if he takes Avery and Stone in with him...” He shook his head, leaving the rest unsaid. “We have to tell someone what’s really going on.”
“Who? I’m not sure who would believe us, and even if they do, they’re not going to act fast enough. Besides,” she added, “I’m running out of people who owe me favors.”
“How ‘bout Valero? He’s probably already shi... ah, dropping bricks. I’m sure he’d appreciate the head’s up.”
“He’s going to need a lot more than that, but it’s a start. I’ll give him a call. Nice save, by the way.”
“I took a pay cut when I came to work for you and your swear jar’s cutting into my beer fund.” He regarded her for a moment. “You know we need to get inside that place.”
“Same problem. How?”
“I’ve got an idea, but you’re not going to...” He broke off suddenly and smacked his forehead with an open palm. “What am I saying? You’re going to love it.”