The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) (13 page)

His message then disappeared into the ether, replaced by her reply, floating around in the same odd manner. “Jake briefed me. How can I help?”

As Beach struck the first key, her message disappeared and the screen remained blank until he hit the return key. “Can you get into DARPA’s system?”

“Getting in isn’t as hard as you might think, but it’s a trap. Their detection system is highly advanced. It’ll kick me out in less than sixty seconds, plug the hole, and automatically begin a nearly undetectable trace. I can evade the trace, but that’s not the real problem. Their database is massive, even by government standards. So even though a skilled hacker can enter, they don’t have time to get what they want before they have to start again from scratch and focus on evading the trace. It’s really very clever. A friend of mine was involved in the design, and even he can’t get around it. The only way I can help is if you know exactly where I need to send my searchbots so I can access the information in under a minute.”

Foxx returned his partner’s glance. “Don’t look at me. This is way out of my league.”

Beach typed his reply. “I’ll have to get back to you.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

The screen closed, leaving a flashing message behind: “Rebooting now.”

Foxx shook his head in disbelief. “That was freaky.”

“Like I said – she’s the best there is.”

“So how do we find out where to look?”

Beach scratched his cheek. “There’s only one person I know with a legitimate connection at the DoD – Deputy Director Whyley. Let’s see if the big boss is willing to call in a favor.”

Chapter 16

“Location confirmed, moving in now, sir.” The battle-hardened team leader ceased communications with his commander, then turned to his men in the back of the van. “Ready weapons. Reverse v-formation, on my mark.”

Six ghost soldiers; all former special forces operators permanently seconded to a special division of DARPA, performed their final weapons checks. One shooter in each of three two-man teams carried a pneumatic tranquilizer gun loaded with a specially designed paralytic agent. Alternate team members were armed with high-powered tasers, military batons, and shotguns loaded with beanbag rounds. Two teams would lead the approach, taking up positions either side of the dwelling, while the third team would follow with a direct frontal assault. The team leader would observe from the van, ordering tactical adjustments as required, via high-tech comms.

The deadly assailants were fully aware of the danger their quarry presented. This was no ordinary man. His already formidable speed, strength, and unnaturally high tolerance for pain had been chemically enhanced through many months of cutting-edge synthetic hormone therapy and bone-strengthening fourth-generation bisphosphonate derivative treatment. Aside from his heightened physical prowess, the target possessed keen senses and exceptional intelligence. Despite their six-to-one odds, this would be no easy mission.

Their assault techniques had been drilled countless times for exactly this scenario. Shooter speed and accuracy were paramount to slow their prey in advance of direct contact to subdue with tasers. Beanbag rounds and batons would serve as defensive measures should their target attempt escape through direct assault on one of the three teams. Each man knew the consequences of failure and was willing to sacrifice his own life in the commission of his duties. Their team leader spoke once more. “The subject must be recaptured at any cost.”

*****

              “Foxx, it’s Mark Guthrie, the tracker’s showing a ping,” the excited FBI technician blurted out. “It started less than a minute ago. The coordinates show a location in the suburbs of Hartford, Connecticut.”

              “Have you got a street address?”

              “It’s coming up now. What do you want me to do?”

              “Call DAC Talbot. Tell him Beach and I have just landed at LaGuardia. I’ll call local law enforcement.”

              Foxx terminated the call. “Guthrie’s got a ping on the tracking device. It’s coming from the outskirts of Hartford.”

              “Damned good thing we decided to come straight back to New York. But Hartford’s over two hours away by car.”

“Let’s see what Talbot comes up with.” Foxx was already dialing the FBI operations center to be switched through to Hartford Police. Then Beach’s phone rang, showing DAC Talbot’s number on the screen as he answered the call.

“Beach, I’m getting a chopper for you at the airport. Get to the driveway outside arrivals. A car will pick you up for transfer to the helicopter. Guthrie told me Foxx is calling the locals. I want you two there to direct the operation.”

“He’s talking to them now, but we don’t know what we’re preparing for.”

“If Poughkeepsie’s anything to go by, they need to set up a perimeter and get their SWAT team there on the double.”

“Okay, we’re almost out of the arrivals hall.”

Tense moments passed until the car arrived to take Beach and Foxx to the nearby helipad. Talbot had arranged for clear passage through airport security gates. Within ten minutes, they were on the tarmac jogging toward one of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team’s Bell 407 helicopters. The copilot guided them into the passenger seats, handing them communication headsets before climbing into his own seat beside the pilot. Beach and Foxx sat in silence as the pilot exchanged frenetic clearance messages with the control tower. Within seconds, the machine lifted off, tilting north toward Hartford.

Cutting across the southeastern end of Long Island Sound, they cleared major flight paths, allowing the pilot to gradually increase altitude. He leveled the craft out before speaking into the internal comms.

“Flight time is under twenty-five minutes, Agent Beach. Do we have a destination?”

Foxx turned on his phone, facing the screen toward his partner. Beach called out the street address, and the copilot consulted his onboard computer for the nearest location to set down.

“There’s a high school less than half a mile away. I’ll radio ahead for clearance to land and a police unit to meet you.”

Beach and Foxx sat in silent anticipation of the unknown scene awaiting them. Just over halfway into the flight, the copilot spoke again. “Agents, you’d better hear this.”

He opened the comms to the active channel for Hartford’s elite SWAT unit. “Looks like two dead bodies inside the property line,” the SWAT commander reported. “Mobile units have set a perimeter at four hundred yards. Preparing to breach the dwelling now.”

Beach and Foxx looked at each other anxiously as the live report continued.

“We’ve got one male down inside the house – badly beaten but still breathing. One female and one child in shock, but secure. Looks like one more dead body outside the east window of the living room, and one wounded.” There was a brief silence until the commander spoke again. “Lower level secured – proceeding upstairs.” Another moment passed before his next report. “The dwelling’s clear. Exterior team, report.”

“Exterior team reporting – clear to the property line.”

Beach broke in. “Any ID’s on the bodies outside?”

“This is an active SWAT operation,” the SWAT commander demanded. ”Who’s broadcasting on this channel?”

“FBI Senior Special Agent Beach en route by helicopter,” the copilot said.

“I know the Feds have been given command, but you’ll have to take that up with the crime scene units. I can tell you the deceased are all dressed in military gear – could be some kind of militia. That’s all I’ve got for you.” The commander returned to his men. “All teams, let’s see if we can flush these guys out.”

“Commander, we believe you’re looking for a single, very dangerous suspect,” Beach said. “Please tell your men to proceed with extreme caution.”

“Roger that, but I can’t see how all this damage could be caused by one man.”

*****

              In the back of their van, a hundred yards beyond the perimeter set by Hartford Police, First Sergeant Robert Chow hunched over his two surviving special forces operatives. The decimated team had made it past the limits of the police cordon just before they’d begun to set their roadblocks. The driver kept a nervous eye on the rear-view mirror, while Sergeant Chow tended to his men’s injuries. One soldier was bleeding out from a grotesque compound fracture of the femur, while the other was semiconscious from a devastating blow to the head. Chow had managed to drag them both back to the van just before police sirens wailed too close for them to escape the scene undetected.

With the mission a dismal failure, and secrecy their primary directive, Chow had been left with no choice but to abandon his other men where they fell. Police and FBI would find no way to trace the identities of his fallen soldiers, so the nature of their mission would remain secure. But the loss of his loyal men weighed heavily on the former Marine Special Operations Regiment First Sergeant. His commander, Colonel Watson, had allowed Chow to hand-choose all members of his elite unit. His men had dedicated their lives to the service of their country. They’d undergone surgical fingerprint grafts, preventing standard police and military searches. DNA matching would also prove futile, since every team member’s elite service record was hidden from all but Colonel Watson and his direct superior at DARPA.

Watson now demanded a report. “Damn it, sergeant, you know how important this mission was! What the hell went wrong?”

“I’ve lost four good men, colonel. This project of yours is costing lives. My team could only hit the target with one shot of paralytic agent, but with his speed and reflexes, he was able to pull out the dart before the full dose could be injected. We hit him with at least three beanbag rounds, but they had zero effect. I won’t sacrifice any more soldiers. When the next ping comes, I’m taking him out with a sniper round from at least two hundred yards out. I don’t care how important he is to the project, termination is the only option.”

“Now you listen to me, Sergeant Chow, you’ll do no such thing! If you can’t recapture the target, I’ll find someone who can. But if you attempt termination, I’ll have you thrown into the deepest, darkest hole you can imagine for the rest of your days. You copy that?”

“If you think you can find a better team, you go right ahead, colonel. But this is personal now – Adler’s going down.” Chow terminated the call before Watson could reply.

“He was too fast! How can he be so fast? The guy’s not human.” The man with the compound fracture was fading quickly from pain and massive blood loss. He looked at his leg, then up to Chow. “I’m not going to make it. You have to take him out, Sarge.”

Chow had applied a tourniquet and held tight pressure on a thick bandage over the wound, but the man’s femoral artery had been torn lengthways by shards of his protruding leg bone. Top Sergeant Chow knew it would soon be over. He held the man’s hand tightly until life flickered from his eyes before moving to care for his last soldier. This one, at least, would survive.

*****

A small, dedicated unit of highly trained men, the Hartford Police SWAT team was capable of executing the most difficult of breaches, but the unit wasn’t adequately manned to run a grid search of this size. The scene commander had ordered uniformed officers to fall back and act as support behind the SWAT team. The carnage at the scene, the warning from FBI Agent Beach in the sky above, and the cover of night, had convinced him extreme caution was required. He wasn’t willing to risk direct exposure of his uniformed officers to such an obviously dangerous foe. SWAT would have to take the lead until heavily armed federal units arrived. Progress was painfully slow.

Despite their best efforts, local police couldn’t fully seal off the area. Just beyond the crime scene perimeter, the target huddled among some bushes near what appeared to be a high school. He wiped away a dribble of blood running down his chest from where the tranquillizer dart had entered. Dark bruises were developing at the spots where he’d been struck by high-velocity beanbag rounds. He traced a finger over one of the dull aches; more in contemplation than concern. How had they found him; and so quickly? He’d removed the surgically implanted tracking device from his left upper arm – could there be another one?

He made a cursory search of his other limbs, but there was no sign. Then he remembered – the surgery. They’d told him he had an adrenal tumor that was causing his elevated heart rate. They would have to remove it to prevent cardiac arrest. “Lying bastards!”

A thudding sound resonated from above and to the south. He looked up to see a helicopter descending to land in the football field behind the high school. He darted through the bushes toward the field. Three sets of bleachers were decorated with banners for the home team, providing cover for him to get closer. He vaulted over a chain-link fence and sprinted under the bleachers.

The craft’s landing lights struck the ground beneath, turning it a glaring bluish-white. Behind the bleachers, his sharp vision adjusted quickly to the light. As he peered through flying grass clippings thrown up by the machine’s rotor-wash, two men in FBI windbreakers stepped out of the chopper.  Their observer’s face creased into an evil grin. “Detective Beach,” he hissed. “You’ve joined the FBI. Now things get interesting.”