Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (38 page)

Reaching into the bag again, she found several large Ziploc bags, each filled with a different style wig. She pushed through the bags, selecting a medium-length red one. Using the rearview mirror to adjust the hairpiece, she tied her own hair down in several tight knots and made a sudden transformation from black to dark red hair. A kit containing various contact lenses completed the one-minute change. Now she had red hair and green eyes. Once she located a suitable bathroom, she'd change clothing and get rid of Agent D'Angelo's hideous running shoes.

She had a lot of things to ditch along the way, including all of her current identification and credit cards. She felt around for the other object that would have to go, according to standard procedure. She wasn't sure if Daniel had already taken care of it for her and started to give up searching through the bag, until her hand bumped up against the familiar nylon scabbard. She pulled the Gerber commando knife out of the bag and stared at it for a moment. Less than thirty-six hours ago, this knife had sealed their involvement in Sanderson's plan. She promised herself that if the general had double-crossed them, she would plunge the same knife deep into his neck.

Satisfied that everything was ready, she started the car, bracing herself for a long drive. She wanted to get out of Massachusetts by sunrise. More importantly, she needed to put as much distance behind her as possible. She was used to running and didn't have any expectation that this aspect of her life would ever change. At least she had someone to run with.

Chapter Forty-Seven

5:42 a.m.

Portland, Maine

Justin Edwards' head pounded, and his mouth stuck together, completely lacking any recent, significant saliva production. He could barely separate his caked-together lips. His face felt a little numb, like he was drunk, but beyond this slight anesthesia, his entire body ached. What the fuck had happened?

He lifted his eyelids, but the effort required to keep them open was a near Herculean task for him, so he squinted for a few seconds, then closed them. He lay on his back, not wanting to turn his head, but he didn't recognize the room during the brief eyeball reconnaissance. He could tell it was a hotel, but his mind couldn't process any facts or data related to his presence in this room.

He opened his eyes a little further and could see the green glass of a wine bottle on the desk out of the corner of his eye. He managed to move his head far enough to examine the bottle through his hazy vision, evoking a splitting migraine. He could see two empty wine glasses on the desk next to the bottle, one stained around the rim with lipstick. He undertook the effort to move his hand across his body, which was no small task, and his hand dragged across his privates. He now realized that he was naked.

No memories of this room passed through his head, though he started to process other important aspects of his visit to Portland. Did he screw Jessica Petrovich, and let her go home? Shit, he was in trouble. How long had he been here? His thoughts were coming faster, but his body could not keep up. He glanced at his watch, which told him it was early, and at first this made him happy.

This sense of satisfaction faded within seconds, as the full scope of his situation started to sink in. He realized that his entire team had probably been at the house all night, while he had disappeared. What had he done? He thought he remembered having dinner with Jessica Petrovich, but the memory was a fleeting blur. It was jarred out of his mind, along with every other rational thought, as a bright light flashed and the room exploded.

Several heavily armed black-clad men poured into the room, filling every corner. He could barely see them through the retinal image burn of the flash-bang grenade. The ringing cleared enough for him to hear what they were yelling.

"Clear! Clear! Room is clear! Agent Edwards appears unharmed! No sign of the suspect! Agent Edwards, are you all right?"

Edwards opened his mouth to answer, but decided against worsening his situation. Instead, he squinted his eyes, wishing he was dead as Sergeant Jimmy Haldron, Portland's SWAT commander, walked up and rested the butt of his rifle on the foot of the rumpled king-sized bed, a few inches from his bare leg. The impossibly tall Lieutenant Ken Moody followed, accompanied by Special Agent D'Angelo, who had a disgusted look on her face as she surveyed the room. Sergeant Haldron broke into a wide smile.

"Looks like party central in here. Let's get Agent Edwards a paramedic and some fluids. Lover boy had a rough night," he stated in a strong Maine accent.

Edwards sank back in despair. He had no idea what had happened to him the night before, but he was pretty sure it wouldn't help his career.

Chapter Forty-Eight

8:20 a.m.

CIA Headquarters, McLean, Virginia

Audra Bauer, director of the Counterterrorism Center, contemplated Berg's proposal in her office. It represented a very interesting opportunity for the CIA, and he could have kept this to himself and possibly even run a sideline operation to support the whole idea.

"This was his idea? Nothing in return?"

"I wouldn't say nothing. We turn a blind eye to their operations throughout the world and provide resources where practical," Berg said, shifting in his seat.

"I don't know. Sanderson's crew killed two CIA employees this morning and burned down one of our safe houses. Not exactly a friendly act. What makes you think we can trust him?"

"Sanderson could have finished the job at the safe house, but he's extremely practical. He ran the Black Flag program right under our noses, in several countries, and his program closely resembled our Covert Operations Resident Program. In many ways it might be superior to our program. Regardless, if we play our cards right with Sanderson's new program, we stand to benefit. Deep intelligence and the ability to conduct sensitive operations at arm's length. Put a little more distance between the CIA and the dirty work."

Audra wasn't in love with the idea, but it truly wouldn't cost the CIA anything to try the relationship. They'd made deals with people far worse than General Sanderson, people with no sense of loyalty or honor. At least with Sanderson, they had a decorated soldier who had dedicated his life to defending America. Something was definitely wrong with him, and they'd have to keep that in mind, but there was very little downside, though they'd have to keep their distance until the FBI lost interest in Sanderson, which could take a while. Based on yesterday's events, the Department of Justice's "number one son" took a beating on all fronts. Same with the Department of Defense, which worried her more than the FBI. The FBI was limited in its ability to reach overseas, but the Department of Defense didn't have this issue. They'd have to walk a fine line until the dust settled, but she agreed with Berg. Sanderson's new program represented a solid opportunity for the Counterterrorism Center.

"Tell me more about their Middle East program," she said.

"It supposedly extends beyond the Middle East. He calls it their Muslim Extremist branch. Operatives are trained specifically for placement in Afghanistan, Iraq, Germany, France, the Netherlands, the Russian Republics. Over thirty Arab-descended operatives ready for deep immersion within one year."

"All right, I'm sold for now. I'd like to talk with General Sanderson," she said.

"He said he'd be in touch within a few weeks. I believe he has a national and international dragnet to evade," Berg said, and she nodded.

"This stays between us. I can't bring this up to the deputy, or anyone else," she said.

"Of course. We're good at keeping secrets," Berg replied.

"I'm really sorry about Keller," she said.

"I wish I could have dragged them both out of there, but Keller was dead, and I thought there might be a chance to save Claire," he lied and buried a few more secrets.

Chapter Forty-Nine

10:48 a.m.

FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

Sharpe finished his presentation well aware that he had broken into a sweat. He hadn't slept in nearly thirty-six hours and had poured nearly all of his remaining energy into sounding coherent. Truthfully, he didn't care how he looked at this point. Immediately prior to the start of his performance, he had stared into the bathroom mirror at his puffy, bloodshot eyes and sallow face. He looked like shit, so a little sweat was just the icing on the cake for his unusual audience.

He had expected to brief his direct boss, Sandra Delgado, associate director for the National Security Branch, but the sensitive nature of Black Flag excluded her from this briefing. The director of the FBI, Frederick Shelby, sat in front of him, along with the deputy director, and they didn't want a watered-down briefing. Sandra's boss, Fred Carroll, executive director for National Security, sat toward the back of the room. Several individuals that remained unidentified filled in the gaps. He assumed they were from the White House, Justice Department and the Department of Defense. As the most junior person in the room, Special Agent Frank Mendoza stood near the door. Sharpe envied his position near the only escape route from this nightmare.

Frederick Shelby leaned back in his seat and pressed his hands together like he was about to start praying. He moved the joined hands to his nose and took in a deep breath. He exhaled deeply.

"Agent Sharpe, do you see any way to salvage HYDRA's investigation at this point?"

"Negative, sir. Each head of the HYDRA led my task force to a primary contact, and in some cases, a secondary contact within the Muslim community. We've been monitoring these contacts for several months, trying to penetrate one of the terrorist cells. As of yesterday, everything went cold. There was a flurry of electronic chatter yesterday morning, and now all of our sources are silent. The suspected cell in Cleveland disappeared yesterday afternoon. We had a full surveillance package in place, watching a group of three suspected Al Qaeda operatives. They vanished."

The director turned to Fred Carroll. "I want that group found and removed from U.S. soil immediately."

"Yes, sir," Carroll replied, who looked just as terrified as Sharpe felt.

"Well, this has been the worst couple of days for the FBI in my recent recollection, though it could have been worse, I suppose. I agree with Sharpe's assessment that we have been manipulated on an unprecedented scale. I can only imagine that General Sanderson hatched this plot years ago. Colonel Farrington's placement in the Pentagon twenty-six months ago was no coincidence," the director said, pausing for a few moments before continuing.

"Effective immediately, Special Agent Frank Mendoza will lead a much smaller Task Force HYDRA, in an attempt to salvage something from the task force's three years of hard work."

The words hit Sharpe like a sledgehammer. That was it for him. Summarily replaced by the director. Three years of backbreaking work, late nights, and an estranged family. Now he had nothing to show for it but a sidelined position somewhere unimportant and forgotten.

"Don't look so depressed, Agent Sharpe. You came into this room looking like a warmed-over pile of dog feces. Now you look worse," he said, and only the deputy director stifled a brief laugh, which drew a strained look from the normally deadpan serious director.

Sharpe didn't know what to say, or do at this moment. His career hung by a thread, or maybe it was already done. He had no idea. Director Shelby was feared by everyone within the FBI and was infamous for dismissing agents on the spot for failure or incompetence.

"I've heard good things about you from Agents Delgado and Carroll. Pretty much from everyone. Task Force HYDRA had great potential, and frankly, yesterday's events went beyond our control. General Sanderson is a grave national security threat. A dangerous rogue, who feels he is above our laws, and shows no hesitation to strike at the heart of the Pentagon, FBI…even the CIA. I don't believe for one second that the strike on that Georgetown safe house was conducted by Serbian Ultra-nationalists. That's a pile of crap higher than the Capitol Building. Sanderson is up to something big, and I want him stopped."

He paused and glared at Sharpe.

"Agent Sharpe, you are now in charge of a new task force dedicated to putting an end to General Sanderson's activities domestic and abroad. I want this man behind bars. Nobody tramples on the FBI without severe consequences. Not while I'm in charge. Work with Mendoza to keep the right people on HYDRA, and start working with your directors to form the new task force. ASAP. One of your first tasks will be to figure out who paid the Brown River contractor. The Serbians? I don't think so. We need to start making a few connections," the director said and stood up.

"Thank you, sir. We'll put Sanderson out of business," Sharpe said.

"That's my expectation. Sooner rather than later. All of your people are okay?" the director asked.

"Some of my best agents got banged up pretty bad, but they'll be fine, sir."

"Good. Nothing better than a bunch of talented, pissed off agents on a task force. Make sure you keep those people close," the director said and walked toward the door, which Mendoza had opened.

"Mendoza."

"Yes, sir," Agent Mendoza replied.

"Don't you have something more important to do than hold the door?" Director Shelby asked.

"Yes, sir. Thank you for the assignment," Mendoza said.

"Don't thank me, thank Sharpe. He went to bat for everyone on the task force, except himself. For the life of me, I don't understand why my agents can't recognize their own success. Get out of here," he said, and Agent Mendoza met Sharpe's eyes briefly before he scrambled out of the conference room ahead of the director.