Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (16 page)

He painfully scooted through the loose gravel to continue firing at the Taliban positions, but the scene in front of him had been altered by forty pounds of high explosive charge. The shattered Land Rover hulks now sat thirty feet closer to Jackson, completely engulfed in flames. To his left, the Taliban flanking movement had been obliterated by another strike, which left a charred dead zone among the low rocks.

Nothing moved. Jackson scanned the sky above, but couldn't find their savior. He swore an oath to find the man responsible for diverting the Predator drone, knowing that the defense of paramilitary contractors was a low priority on the military's list of uses for expensive Hellfire missiles. He finally met Berg two years later at Brown River's headquarters in Fredericksburg, Virginia, and they had since become inseparable.

Darryl Jackson spun his chair around and opened a file cabinet drawer. He thumbed through the red files, pulling the one with the appropriate rosters. He needed to assemble a uniquely loyal team of highly capable special operators and have them standing by inside of D.C. within an hour, which would be a miracle during rush hour.

Their target was a rogue freelance operative that posed a significant threat to U.S. security, and Berg felt certain that this operative would arrive in the D.C. area tonight. He wanted the Brown River team to capture or kill the operative as soon as he surfaced. It was clear that Berg didn't want the team to attract any attention, and Jackson didn't even bother to ask if the mission was authorized. Berg said the rogue agent was "black flagged," and that was all Jackson needed to hear. He turned back to his desk and picked up the phone to start making calls.

Chapter Twenty-Four

6
:
40 p.m.

Marriott Inn and Conference Center, College Park, Maryland

Daniel threw his duffel bag on the floor of the hotel room and emptied the contents of two retail bags onto the foot of the bed. A dark green backpack, several pre-paid cell phones, a GPS receiver, hair dye, power bars, two knives, and three local maps—all purchased with cash—formed a pile on the thick down-feather comforter. He worked for several minutes to activate the untraceable phones and the GPS receiver, placing all of the product packaging back in the large bag for disposal in another location.

He grabbed one of the spring-loaded Gerber knives and effortlessly flicked open the black stainless steel serrated blade. The four-inch blade had a dual edge, perfect for close quarters combat. He moved the knife back and forth, trying several grips before returning the blade back into the aluminum handle. Satisfied, he slipped the blade into the back left pocket of his brown khaki pants.

The second knife had a smaller, one-sided blade and had been designed for concealment. A much thinner knife, he hid this in his front pocket after he repeated the same grip and slice test. Both knives were well balanced and would serve him well, if the need arose. He genuinely hoped it didn't because he hated the dynamics of edged combat.

A knife fight meant one thing: everyone involved would get cut. The trick? At the end of the fight, you wanted to be the one with the smallest cuts. Daniel would feel infinitely more comfortable with a pistol and hoped that Parker intended to equip him with one, whenever he decided to reconnect with General Sanderson.

His escape from Parker had been easy enough and gave him the breathing room he needed to fully assess his situation. Parker had stared at him with disbelief as he opened the back door and retrieved his duffel bag. At that point, Daniel expected a fight, but Parker was clearly stunned at the unexpected audacity. Parker looked dumbstruck as Daniel sprinted through traffic on the Baltimore Washington Parkway. Parker tried to force his way over, but must have thought better of it. He really had no options to pursue. The next exit sat at least thirty minutes away in the heavy traffic, and Parker couldn't afford to attract the wrong kind of attention. He imagined that Parker's next phone call had been a tough one.

It took Petrovich about fifteen minutes to navigate his way to a rental car agency in Laurel, Maryland, and another ten minutes to drive away under one of his three remaining false identities. He disposed of two sets of driver's licenses, passports and canceled credit cards at a Starbucks just off Route One in College Park. Christopher Stevens, owner of a nondescript Toyota Camry previously stored in New Hampshire, and David Harrell, Massachusetts resident, simply ceased to exist soon after Daniel took a test sip of a steaming hot, grande cappuccino with an extra espresso shot.

He rented the car and took the hotel room under the name Scott Barber, an untraceable New Jersey resident, leaving him with two more clean ID packages. Once he left the hotel room tonight, he was unlikely to return and would be forced to dispose of Barber's ID pack. He was running out of identities, but suspected that General Sanderson could help him with this problem. General Sanderson assured him that his role wouldn't extend past tomorrow evening, so he shouldn't need another hotel room.

Daniel turned his attention to the maps and started to unfold them. He needed to quickly familiarize himself with the details of D.C.'s mass transit system and stick close to locations that offered him rapid escape options beyond the rental car. His starting point was the Metro rail map and familiarizing himself with the different lines and timetables. With trains running frequently in both directions at every station, this would be his most likely primary emergency escape system. This system would attract the least attention and provided the most anonymous method of travel. He made a mental note to drive over to the Metro station near the University to buy a pass that would allow him unhindered access to the railway.

He opened a large road map of the greater D.C. Metro Area and placed it on the surface of the oversized desk. The smaller Metro map followed, smoothed over the road map. He would study both maps simultaneously, doing his best to orient the locations of major roads, Beltway exits and Metro stops. He didn't have as much time as he would like for the task, but it would be enough.

Before he began, he needed to make a long overdue phone call to Jess. He had left a brief message on her office voicemail, which outlined his need to take a last minute business trip to meet with a representative from one of Zenith Semiconductors' largest overseas clients. He left few details beyond that. The less she knew the better. Still, he needed to contact her soon.

Chapter Twenty-Five

7:45 p.m.

CIA Headquarters, McLean, Virginia

Berg sat impatiently inside his office at Langley, waiting for word from his contact at Fort Meade. Cell phone intercepts and electronic cross references had provided enough information to direct the Brown River team to Silver Spring, Maryland, but this was the narrowest geographic corridor the NSA intercept protocols could provide, given the limited amount of cell phone traffic generated by Sanderson's crew.

Sanderson's people were on the move, and it would take some luck to find them. For Berg, luck came in the form of a highly-placed friend at the National Security Agency, with just enough salt and authority to illegally co-opt one of the nation's most sensitive electronic eavesdropping systems. So sensitive, that the mere mention of the name "Munoz" and "safe house" in the same conversation, on the same phone, triggered a "high probable" alert and gave Berg the confidence to move the Brown River team to Silver Spring.

His cell phone rang, and he answered it immediately, recognizing the Fort Meade number.

"Berg."

"I have a confirmed location of interest. Marriott Inn and Conference Center, College Park."

"College Park? What happened to Silver Spring?" Berg said.

"Different cell phones. This is the one you're looking for. Call to a hardline in Portland, Maine. Listen to the tag words. Zenith, Jessica, Danny, Sanderson. We got lucky with the location. He used the words hotel and conference center. Fucked up big time. Cell node for the call is right next to the Marriott Inn and Conference Center in College Park. Do you need the address?"

"No. I have it up on the computer already."

"Karl, I need to pull the plug on this thing. I'm working well past my usual hour, and I'm going to start drawing attention from the nighttime duty section. It's a lot easier to pull this kind of shit during the day. They've got nothing better to do than keep an eye on the system right now."

"I know, Pete. Just a little longer. I promise."

"I can't be in here past eight."

"Thanks, Pete. I owe you big time."

"You said it. Not me."

Berg immediately placed a call to the leader of the Brown River team, who detached one of the two vehicles to the hotel in College Park. The team had everything they could need to identify Petrovich, but it would still prove difficult. He hoped to narrow things down for them before they arrived at the hotel, which was no more than a ten-minute drive from Silver Spring.

Fifteen minutes later, Berg was ready to drive out to the Marriott himself to strangle the night manager, who had been extremely uncooperative. Of course, Berg had absolutely no legal authority to compel any information from the woman, but the fact that she had thoroughly dismissed him and threatened to call the police didn't sit well with the senior CIA officer. He felt helpless sitting at his desk. Fortunately, the hotel parking lot had only one point of access from the hotel, and the Brown River team was deployed to cover the approach with optics that would make identification easier. They were already busy scouring hotel guests leaving the hotel.

Two minutes after his NSA friend's 8 p.m. deadline, Berg's phone rang, and he snatched it off the desk.

"Tell me you have something, Pete?" he said.

"This must be your lucky day. I just got a nice intercept. Your target at the hotel just received directions to a Silver Spring address. One minute ago. 8800 Lanier Drive, Apartment 4B. Good luck, Karl."

"I can't tell you how much this helps. Thanks for hanging in a little longer. Drinks are on me," Berg said.

"For the whole month," Pete said, and the line went dead.

Berg immediately relayed the information to the team leader at the hotel. His next call went to Keller, hoping to catch him outside of the Sanctum. He needed to know how much progress the FBI had made since accessing the Black Flag file.

Chapter Twenty-Six

8:20 p.m.

Marriott Inn and Conference Center, College Park, Maryland

Daniel Petrovich walked out of the elevator into the Marriott lobby and studied his surroundings. The hotel's decor was modernistic. Shiny off-white marble floors contrasted with dark, mahogany walls, which were sporadically adorned with bright impressionist art. The lobby of the 226-room hotel was deserted except for the hotel staff at the desk to his left and a small party of adults laughing inside the bar located down the hallway in the opposite direction of the reception area. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary as he turned toward the main door that led into the courtyard adjoining the hotel with the conference center.

He was dressed in a simple, business casual outfit that wouldn't have garnered a second glance in the Capitol, or any street in America: dark leather shoes, wheat brown pleated pants, and a blue oxford shirt covered by a lightweight, dark blue golfing jacket. The black duffel bag in his right hand was the only part of his outfit that might warrant a second pass from a security guard or police officer, but he didn't have to worry about that here.

He scanned the remaining lobby space as he passed the desk, paying close attention to the faces of the hotel employees manning the reception area. He didn't register any response other than a smile and a nod from the young black kid talking on one of the hotel phones. The other hotel employee, a middle-aged, white woman with heavy makeup and bleached hair never looked up from whatever she was reading under the counter.

He didn't expect anyone to have found him at this point, but there was no reason to let his guard down. He wasn't completely sure of Sanderson's intentions, or the extent of his resources, so he would have to assume the worst. Even if he was completely safe for the moment, treating the situation as extremely hazardous would help him transition back into the mindset that had been drilled into him for close to four years in the Black Flag training program.

Although it still felt like second nature to him, he accepted the reality that his skills and capabilities had degraded over the six years since he escaped Serbia. He still kept in top physical condition, practiced martial arts, and maintained his marksmanship skills, but nothing could replace continuously sharpening all of these skills in an environment where the slightest advantage gained over an adversary or situation could spell the difference between life and death. Two years in Serbia had sharpened these skills to perfection, and although his current skill level remained at a fraction of his previous level, it would still stack up heavily against any adversary Sanderson might throw at him.

The lobby door slid open, and he was greeted by muggy, slightly polluted mid-Atlantic air. He noticed a few couples seated in the courtyard, at tables scattered around the patio area, enjoying a temperate, but humid evening. The clear sky still held some light on the western horizon, casting a deep blue ribbon that faded into stars above the hotel, competing with the orange artificial illumination cast by the decorative sodium vapor street lamps surrounding the courtyard.

A stocky man dressed in dark pants and a short-sleeved green polo shirt sat alone on one of the granite stone benches at the far edge of the courtyard, near the walkway leading to a large parking garage that probably served the University of Maryland College Park campus. Daniel shifted his duffel bag over to his left hand, freeing his most capable side for action. From what he could tell, the man had a briefcase open next to him on the bench and was concentrating on some paperwork inside. He thought it was a little late for glancing at papers.