Three Weeks in Washington, page 1
part #3 of Titus Ray Series
Three Weeks in Washington
A Titus Ray Thriller
By Luana Ehrlich
Text copyright © 2016 Luana Ehrlich
All Rights Reserved
Visit my website: www.luanaehrlich.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Titus Ray Thrillers are available on Amazon here
View the Book Trailer for Three Weeks in Washington here.
To receive a FREE download of Titus Ray Thriller Recipes with Short Stories, sign up for the Titus Ray Newsletter here.
Complete List of Books
by Luana Ehrlich
Titus Ray Thrillers:
Each Titus Ray Thriller can be read as a standalone novel, but for readers who prefer the series experience, I would suggest reading the novels in the following order:
One Step Back, the prequel to One Night in Tehran
One Night in Tehran, Book I
Two Days in Caracas, Book II
Three Weeks in Washington, Book III
Four Months in Cuba, Book IV
Five Years in Yemen, Book V
Two Steps Forward, Book VI
Three Steps Away, Book VII (Coming Fall 2020)
All Titus Ray Thrillers are available on Amazon here.
* * * *
Other books by Luana Ehrlich:
Titus Ray Thriller Recipes with Short Stories, Kindle edition only
Titus shares some of his best recipes and the stories behind them in this special edition recipe book. Receive this book FREE as a gift for subscribing to Luana’s newsletter here.
To Ray Allan Pollock,
for giving an eleven-year-old girl
permission to read adult spy novels.
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
PART TWO
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
PART THREE
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
PART FOUR
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
PART FIVE
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
PART SIX
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A NOTE TO MY READERS
BONUS EXCERPT from Four Months in Cuba
Book IV in the Titus Ray Thriller Series
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Monday, June 22
The shooter was just around the corner from me. To get to him, I would need to cross N Street. If I crossed N Street, he would have a clear shot at me.
I decided to wait him out.
He had already eluded several SWAT teams in the Washington Navy Yard, the home of U.S. Naval Operations, and now he was hunkered down inside the entryway of Building 175. I suspected he was trying to find an exit out of the former shipyard.
If I remained at my present location, at the corner of Building 172, he would walk right into my waiting arms when he crossed N Street.
I stayed put.
I wasn’t exactly sure how the shooter had end up at the Navy Yard in Washington, D.C., on a summer morning in June, but I’d arrived at the location after driving non-stop from Norman, Oklahoma.
* * * *
Douglas Carlton, my operations officer, and the head of the Middle East desk at the CIA, had called me the day before and given me the surprising news I’d been restored to active duty status by the stroke of a pen from Robert Ira, the Deputy Director of Operations at the CIA.
Three months earlier, the DDO had placed me on medical leave after the two of us had engaged in a very public spat regarding his competency. I’d questioned him about his ability to run Operations, because I’d discovered his political games at the Agency had brought down my network in Tehran.
Needless to say, things had not gone smoothly for me after that, and, except for a brief run into Caracas to capture a Hezbollah assassin, I’d spent the last two months in Norman, Oklahoma, on medical leave.
Ostensibly, I’d been there trying to recuperate from shattering my leg while trying to escape the clutches of VEVAK, the Iranian secret police. But, in reality, everyone at the Agency knew my medical leave was simply Ira’s way of punishing me for berating him in front of two division heads during a debriefing.
Immediately after Carlton had called to tell me I’d been reinstated, I’d gotten in touch with my property manager in Norman. After that, I’d reluctantly said goodbye to Nikki Saxon, a detective in the Norman Police Department, and I’d made my way across the southern states to the East Coast.
An hour before arriving at Building 172, I’d been cruising along the interstate outside of Fairfax, Virginia. That’s when I’d called Carlton to let him know I’d be in his office at Langley within the hour.
My boss didn’t sound happy.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “There’s been a shooting at the Washington Navy Yard and all federal agencies within a fifty-mile radius of Washington, D.C., are on lockdown.”
“Are you telling me you’re not allowed to leave the grounds?”
“Not just the grounds. We’re being told to stay inside the buildings.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as a little strange? You’re supposed to be providing intel for any threats to the homeland. How can you assess threats when you’re not allowed to leave your own backyard?”
“We’re being told it’s for our own safety. The feds believe the shooters could be part of a coordinated attack against all government agencies in the area. The CIA is an obvious target.”
He was quiet for several seconds, and I imagined him aligning the corners of the pile of papers in front of him—a compulsive habit and one of his many idiosyncrasies.
“One of the shooters at the Navy Yard has already been taken out, but the feds believe the other one is still somewhere in the compound.”
“What nationality is the dead guy?”
“He wasn’t from the Middle East, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s been identified as Reyes Valario, and he’s been here on a student visa from Venezuela for at least a year. The FBI is sifting through the intel on him as we speak, and our own analysts are scanning the data banks as well.”
“Did they call Salazar for his input?”
Carlton made some kind of strange noise at the back of his throat.
I didn’t think the timing of his guttural utterance was coincidental with the mention of Salazar’s name.
C.J. Salazar was the head of the Latin American desk at the Agency. He wasn’t known for his astute grasp of the region. Instead, his focus was on the drug cartels operating in his territory, and, for that reason, everyone around the Agency called him Cartel Carlos.
Not to his face, though.
I’d experienced his ineptitude firsthand on my recent run into Caracas during Operation Clear Signal. Both Salazar and Carlton had been part of the Clear Signal team directing Ben Mitchell and me as we tried to stop a Hezbollah assassin from murdering a high-profile government official in Caracas, Venezuela.
Carlton said, “The Department of Homeland Security called C.J., but he didn’t give them anything.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Well, he did have our analysts run down Valario’s prints and the origins of his visa. He also called Ben Mitchell, who was in D.C. at the time, and sent him over to the DHS Command Center in the Navy Yard. He said since Ben had recently been in Venezuela, it made sense for him to serve as the Agency’s liaison with DHS.”
“Ben’s over at the Command Center? I might head over there myself. I’m not that far away.”
“You haven’t been reinstated yet, Titus. Officially, you’re still on medical leave.”
“I’ll keep my head down. It won’t be a big deal.”
It wasn’t.
But then, it was.
* * * *
Thirty minutes after talking to Carlton, I arrived at the Navy Yard, but, due to the area being blocked off, I parked my car several blocks away and walked over to the Patterson Avenue gate off 6th Street.
However, one look at the chaos in front of the gate, and I immediately realized getting inside the compound wasn’t going to be easy. The place was swarming with policemen, not to mention SWAT teams, FBI, and a whole host of other law enforcement personnel. Most of them were decked out in bulletproof gear.
All of them looked jumpy.
From news reports I’d heard on the way over to the site, I knew eight people had been killed. Two of the victims had been policemen. However, one of them had managed to take out the Valario guy before dying of his own wounds.
With another gunman on the loose, I realized all members of law enforcement had good reason to be a little nervous, but that meant every male not in uniform was going to be under intense scrutiny. Since I had no official ID on me, talking my way inside the Navy Yard didn’t appear to be an option.
As I considered other possibilities, I saw a uniformed officer taking an interest in me.
I quickly walked over to a news van and grabbed a piece of equipment out of the cargo compartment. After fiddling around with it for a few seconds, I glanced up to see if my actions had made any impression on the curious cop. I was relieved to see his eyes were once again on the crowd of onlookers.
As I looked past him to a group of feds off to his right, I spotted Frank Benson.
Benson was FBI; not exactly a friend, but if he could get me inside the compound, our past relationship wouldn’t really matter.
At least not to me.
I walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Frank, long time no see.”
It took him a second or two to recognize me, and when he did, he didn’t exactly give me a bear hug. “Titus Ray. What are you doing down here?”
Benson had light brown hair and a prominent square jaw. Clarice Duncan, a Level 2 female operative, had once told me women found Benson very appealing. She said it was the square jaw that did it.
I had to take her word for that.
I said, “I’m supposed to meet a guy down here. I was told he’s over at the Command Center.”
“The Command Center is at 7th and Elm, but access to it has been blocked off from here. You’ll have to go over to the 9th Street gate and come in that way. The buildings in that sector have been evacuated already, so you just need to show them some ID at the gate.”
“Any sign of the other shooter?”
Benson shook his head and pointed at the entrance to the Navy Yard. “He’s still in there somewhere. We have SWAT teams clearing the buildings now, but finding him may take some time.”
“Give me a description of the guy in case I run into him.”
“He was last spotted near Building 197. That’s in the opposite direction of the Command Center.”
“Humor me.”
Benson frowned. “You haven’t changed, have you? You’re like a dog in heat when it comes to wanting information.”
“Where’s all that cooperation between the agencies I keep hearing about, Frank? We’re supposed to be sharing intel these days.”
He shrugged. “He’s of average height, brown hair, moustache, probably Hispanic. He’s dressed in jeans and a green shirt, and he has a dark-colored backpack with him.”
“Weapons?”
“We know he has an AR-15 assault rifle on him. But I doubt his backpack is full of books, so I think it’s safe to assume he has access to even more firepower.”
“Any chance I could hitch a ride over to the 9th Street gate with one of your people? I’m parked at least a mile away from here, and a long walk doesn’t sound too good in this heat.”
He motioned toward a woman standing beside a Crown Vic. She was wearing a dark blue shirt with F.B.I. printed in big yellow letters across the back of it.
“Renee was just leaving; she could give you a lift.”
“Sounds good.”
When he called Renee over and told her I needed a ride over to the Command Center, he didn’t identify my employer.
That didn’t surprise me.
Benson was ex-CIA, and he’d sworn to keep the identity of Level 1 intelligence officers a secret. Because Benson had never been a person who ever broke the rules—even when he should have done so—I knew my secret life was safe with him.
I thanked Benson and followed Renee over to her vehicle.
As I walked away, Benson called out, “Hey, big guy, you may need to return the favor someday. And remember, I have a very long memory.”
“Sure, Frank. You’ve got my number. Call me anytime.”
He didn’t have my number, but he managed to contact me anyway.
* * * *
Renee didn’t have very much to say on the drive over to the 9th Street gate, and that was fine with me.
I hated small talk.
By the time I’d made up my mind she must be a loner like me, we were pulling up to the 9th Street gate. Moments later, she flashed her creds at the cops guarding the gate, and, just like that, I was inside the compound.
“We’ll have to park somewhere around here and walk over to the Command Center,” she said. “The SWAT teams aren’t allowing vehicles past O Street.”
Although I’d told Benson otherwise, I assured Renee a long walk wouldn’t bother me.
The moment I got out of the vehicle, a flash of something in my peripheral vision caught my attention.
It had been off to my right, near Building 175.
I gestured over to a nearby building. “I need to take a little detour, Renee. All that coffee has finally caught up with me. I’ll see you over at the Command Center.”
“Sure. See you there.”
I watched as Renee walked down the block toward 7th Street. A few minutes later, I saw her take a right turn onto Elm and disappear from sight.
Although I spotted a cadre of uniformed police officers entering a three-story structure at the opposite end of the block, the street in front of me appeared to be deserted. I was guessing the buildings off to my right had already been cleared.
That was the direction I was headed—off to my right, where something had flashed in my peripheral vision.
Something like the barrel of an AR-15 assault rifle.
Chapter 2
About five minutes after taking up my position alongside Building 172 in the Navy Yard, I saw the missing shooter slip underneath the overhang of Building 175 and disappear from sight.
He appeared to be a slightly built Hispanic male, wearing a green shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Besides the rifle, I’d also caught a brief glimpse of a dark blue backpack.
If the guy had plans to get out of the Navy Yard through the 11th Street exit, then I knew he’d have to cross N Street. Instead of making myself a target and going after him, I’d made the decision to hold my position and wait for him to make a move.
Now, that time had finally come.
The shooter made a dash across N Street. After creeping along the exterior wall of Building 172, he rounded the corner and ducked inside the building’s recessed doorway.
That’s when the two of us came face to face.
He looked surprised to see me.
Maybe it wasn’t me, though.
Maybe it was the gun I was holding.
At any rate, he was slow to react when I placed the Glock against his temple.
“Put it on the ground,” I said.
He hesitated for a moment, and then he slowly bent his knees and placed the rifle on the ground.
“And the backpack.”
As if he hadn’t understood my order, he stared at me for a few seconds.
I touched one of the straps on the backpack and said, “Drop the backpack.”
I said it in Spanish this time, and he immediately shrugged it off.
As I watched the careless way he allowed it to slip from his shoulders and fall to the ground, I decided his movements probably meant the bag wasn’t full of explosives.
However, just in case my instincts were rusty from two weeks of inactivity, I grabbed the rifle off the ground, pushed the shooter out towards the street, and put some distance between the two of us and the backpack.
When nothing exploded, I immediately regretted having to leave the shooter’s backpack behind.
After we’d gone about fifty yards, I motioned for him to enter Building 220. The sign on the outside of the structure indicated it was the Navy Fitness Center.
