ROGUESTATE, page 29
“You believe your instincts?” asked Cecil.
“Yeah. I know it is Irv Fredricks!” Dwayne pulled the note out of his shirt pocket and unfolded on Cecil’s desk.
Cecil read the short note and frowned.
“These are his issues. I can’t think of anyone else who would want to kill over the 17thamendment.”
“So, go get him,” said Cecil. He examined the computer screen and said, “Perhaps, we can help each other.”
“How’s that?”
“I have a few things I’m pursuing and it happens to cross into the eastern part of the country. Your region to be specific.”
“Uh-huh,” murmured Dwayne.
“I could work on this thing in your area and keep out of your hair,” offered Cecil.
“What about Feldman?” asked Dwayne.
It always seemed to come back to the Assistant Director. “Feldman wants you to fail, and he’s hanging me around you like another anchor hoping we’ll both go down. We don’t conform to Feldman’s idea of the perfect agents.”
“And if we fail?” demanded Dwayne.
Cecil wondered if Dwayne were as naïve as he sounded. “We lose a couple of Congressmen, I retire, and you open up an office in Minot. The republic will survive.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Palm Beach, Florida,FOX News,November 11, 2000 –Tuesday night was not the first time the Voter News Service has reported misleading information. During the 1996 Iowa caucuses, VNS quit reporting results at 11:15 when it appeared Pat Buchanan would finish ahead of Bob Dole in Sioux City and Dubuque.
Critics claim the 1996 caucus result was clearly media manipulation, and those same critics are leveling similar charges over the handling of the presidential election results in Florida.
Long Island, New York
Saturday, November 11, 2000
9:00 P.M. EST
Adrian Bridger’s Long Island home lay on a twenty-acre parcel. The ocean pounded across a sandy beach, slipping and sliding towards a summer veranda. The home spread across four thousand square feet, facing several prominent tree groves. A winding gravel drive snaked through the trees from the road to a four-car garage. The caretaker’s cottage sat further up the road, but it was screened from the road as well. The immediate three acres around the main house were carefully manicured and the bushes held infrared and motion sensors.
After Conner Fadden’s visit, Bridger retreated to his estate where he could rest behind his bodyguard team. He felt stronger behind the reinforced steel doors and fieldstone walls. The home was built like a small fortress, and Bridger suffered under the delusion he remained inviolate behind the walls.
Bridger had attracted the attention of Conner Fadden, and he remained the sole link between Conner and Damon Layne. For all his abilities in cajoling irascible characters, and his reputation asThe Fixer, Bridger discounted Conner Fadden’s abilities. He ignored the reasons Conner was picked in the first place forSpanish Poppy. Bridger was attempting to wrest the presidential election away from the Texas Governor, and any thought he might have had regarding a muscle-bound, knuckle-dragging, Special Forces soldier was squeezed out by the moment’s historical quandary.
Conner Fadden lay beneath a dark green, double-size, thermal sleeping bag. The bag was arranged to cover his entire frame and a flap hung over his head. He had used a thousand dollars of the money he had liberated from Harmony to purchase a Remington Model 700 BDL DM rifle chambered in 7mm Remington Magnum. Using one of the liberated driver licenses, Conner purchased the weapon in Vermont and found a deserted stretch to zero in the Tasco Range Finding scope.
Conner used three pumpkins for targets set at twenty-five, one hundred and three hundred yards. He had four boxes of 160 grain, Nosler Partition cartridges. He used one box making sure he had the scope running true. Gingerly he packed the scope and rifle in a black, hard plastic case and returned to New York. It did not take him long to track Bridger to his Long Island estate. Not that it mattered; Conner was willing to take Bridger wherever he found him.
A crude silencer extended beyond the rifle’s blue muzzle. Conner fashioned the silencer from a paper towel cardboard tube stuffed with newspaper. He used duct tape to affix the silencer to the barrel and test fired two rounds to open a path through the newsprint. Conner figured he would get four or five shots out of the silencer before the expanding gases ripped the tube apart. It served a second purpose as a flash suppressor, and Conner figured that was more important.
The cardboard silencer added another seven inches to the rifle’s length. The spring-loaded Harris bi-pod provided a stable shooting platform as Conner slowly scanned the windows and doors for a glimpse of Bridger.
Conner had a few more gadgets. He had purchased a disposable cell phone with two thousand minutes service. Conner did not expect to use more than ten. Along with the phone, he had purchased a hands-free device for the phone. The earpiece and lip microphone hung off his left ear and a wire coiled to the phone clipped on his belt.
His last stop before Bridger’s estate was at a hobby store to purchase a model rocket starter kit and three extra engines. The electrical transformer was on a phone pole about thirty feet above the ground. Conner had modified its configuration. He added a quart jar full of gasoline and three “D”-size rocket motors to the bottom of the gray transformer. Thirty feet below was a small model rocket and the electric igniter consisting of four AA batteries and a cheap countdown timer. The black nosecone had been discarded in favor of a shotgun slug pointing back into the rocket body. A thumbtack was duct-taped against the primer at the base of the shell. It was a simple bomb designed to fire the shotgun shell into the suspended rocket motors and gasoline an instant after the quart was shattered by the rocket’s impact.
Lift off was scheduled for ten.
* * * *
The surf rolled onto the beach in a rhythmic, lulling beat. Patchy clouds cast wild shadows from the full moon across the beachfront. The waves were running three feet high and crashed at irregular intervals.
No one looking from the house would see Jim Harper suspended in the water. Only the top half of his head was visible, and he was fully clad in a black neoprene wetsuit. A black tote bag held his Glock and three spare magazines. He had spent the morning applying nail polish to the primers and an extra coating of oil to his weapon. The harsh seawater attacked his weapon mercilessly. It did not matter to Harper; he did not intend to shoot Kurt Martin. He expected to tear the man apart piece by piece.
He had a black-bladed combat knife strapped to his right calf. It was six and half inches of forged steel sharpened to a razor edge. The tip was a hooked affair designed to pierce rather than shred, and a Kevlar vest did not necessarily guarantee safety.
Harper examined the waterproof, shockproof digital phone detector. It was an amazing gadget dredged from the depths of the National Security Agency. Jonas had lent it to Harper. It was tuned to Kurt Martin’s cell phone, and Martin was a creature of the wireless world. The triangulation of three towers placed Martin somewhere in the three hundred square yards ahead.
A wave washed over Harper. He let his body float through the ocean’s powerful hand as he examined his approach. A combination of painkillers and stimulants coursed through his system, providing a much needed energy boost. The moon made it more difficult to gain the beach directly, but Harper had all night. It was the least he owed his Sergeant. Vengeance filled his mind and his blood lust ran red hot. He walled off all vestiges of civilization, and concentrated on the mission at hand.
He had killed for his country in places marked only by longitude and latitude. He had traveled desert wastes where hope evaporated faster than water, and he had stood on ice and snow watching his breath come out in ragged puffs. His body bore the scars and wounds of a man who had spent more than twenty years on the sharp end of the spear. He had dropped from planes, crossed jungles, and swam up rivers to protect an ideal calledAmerica. He believed in freedom, self-reliance, and personal responsibility. He desperately clung to the values of God and country.
Yet tonight, he tucked everything away in the sane part of his mind. He locked his soul away, and ignored the moral prodding about right and wrong. He intended to deal with Kurt Martin and not rely on the rule of law. Vigilante justice was a generous description of what he intended. It was closer to the law of jungle. He bobbed silently on the ocean surface, confident in his skills. Indeed, Harper was one of the most refined and combat-proven veterans in the Special Forces community.
Murder was in the air.
* * * *
Harvey Randall sat next to Jonas Benjamin in a cramped van. They studied the reconnaissance video broadcast by twoPredator birds over flying Adrian Bridger’s twenty acres.
“Are you sure he’s out there?” asked Harvey in a worried tone.
Jonas flipped on the cell phone detector. It was a copy of the one strapped to Harper’s chest. Jonas tapped the screen. “Kurt Martin is inside the house, and Harper has his frequency. If there’s a chance of stopping him, then this is where he’ll come.”
Harvey laughed nervously. “Stopping Harper—you might as well try to bottle up a volcano.”
Jonas shrugged. “He’s coming after Martin. I really don’t care about Martin—”
Harvey scowled, cutting off the younger man. “Why’d you give him the unit? He wasn’t authorized to have it.”
Jonas smirked. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” growled the overweight, ex-FBI agent.
“Darby and Jim came to Panama. Jim carried me out on his shoulder. I don’t remember a thing. What am I supposed to do, Harvey? Darby is dead and Harper demanded to know how to find his killer.” Jonas paused before adding, “He knew I had the answer. It wasn’t a guess—he knew.”
Harvey stared sightlessly into the monitors behind Jonas and remembered his own dealings with his former partner—Larry Wheeler. He had taken the blame for the problems in 1997. It led to his banishment inside the Bureau, and ultimately to his dismissal after theSAMSON affair concluded. “Yeah,” he mumbled. If only it had been someone besides Harper—someone they could stop.
One of thePredator birds had been outfitted with a complete night sensor package. It had crisscrossed the estate several times and found nothing besides a couple of fat rabbits and a pair of deer.
“ThePredator isn’t finding anything,” observed Harvey.
Jonas nodded. “There’s every reason to believe Conner will come after Bridger again. That’s why Martin is hanging around.”
“Yeah, yeah,” snarled Harvey angrily. “X marks the spot.” He stabbed a pudgy finger at the screen centered on the house. “We’ve run two complete infrared scans and found nothing.”
“Everything says they should come. Either Conner or Harper should be here,” explained the analyst.
Harvey leaned closer and asked, “What’s your gut say, boy? Not your head and all this fancy, wiz-bang stuff we have here! What’s your gut say?”
Jonas swallowed, measuring the Stetson and cowboy boots. He smelled beer on Harvey’s breath as well as the box lunch they had shared. “Harper’s here,” he said at last. “I don’t know about Conner, but Harper is here. I don’t know where he might be, but he’s here.”
Harvey chewed the inside of his cheek and ignored the ominous growling from his stomach. “Okay, then how is he spoofing thePredator?”
Jonas puzzled Harvey’s question before explaining. “He has darkness. He expects passive defenses and he has developed a strategy to defeat them.”
Harvey nodded. They were getting somewhere. “From the ground,” whispered Harvey. “He doesn’t expect thePredator birds. He can’t see or hear them. He has no way to avoid them.”
Jonas turned suddenly to the screen and followed the white-foamed surf receding back down the beach. He tapped the screen and manipulated the joystick. “He’s in the ocean!” exclaimed Jonas. “He’s in the ocean. It hides him, bleeds heat off his body, and avoids the motion sensors. We just have to find him.”
It made sense. ThePredators were not designed to find a single swimmer—black neoprene on a dark ocean in moderate surf.
It was already too late.
* * * *
At ten to eleven, Conner Fadden hit the preset number on the phone and waited for answer.
Someone was going to die in the next few minutes.
“Hello.”
“Let me speak to Bridger,” demanded Conner.
“Mister Bridger is not available to take a call right now; may I take a message?”
Conner found Bridger on the other end of the Tasco scope talking on one of the other phone lines.
“He’ll take this call. We met the other day in his office.”
“Sir, I—”
“Do it!” snapped Conner.
Conner adjusted the scopes’ magnification and took in the entire room. He decided he would aim for the upper chest. The bullet had to go through glass and the possibility increased for bullet deflection the farther the bullet had to travel after shattering the window. He took a calming breath as he watched a formal butler bring a 900 MHz cordless phone to Bridger.
Bridger reluctantly took the phone and snapped, “Who is this?”
Conner anticipated animosity. The man would be much angrier in a few seconds. “You have one chance—where is Damon Layne?”
“Who is this?” demanded Bridger.
Conner focused on his target and squeezed the trigger. The seven-pound rifle bucked against his shoulder. The glass broke apart and the butler’s chest exploded as the 160-grain bullet caromed under rib, through his spleen and out his back. The bullet was still traveling at slightly under 2300 feet per second and it delivered 1700 foot-pounds of energy. The second round caught the man under the chin and blew out the top of his skull.
“Don’t move,” whispered Conner. He adjusted his aim to take in Bridger’s chest and examined his bloodless features.
Bridger nodded wordlessly.
The twoPredators circling above never saw the muzzle flash from the rifle and the sensor package was visual. No one else in the house heard the rifle shot beyond a dull pop. Harper bobbed on the ocean and used the current patch of clouds as cover for his run to the beach. He was almost six hundred yards away from the rifle, immersed in the surf’s cocoon.
“That’s very good,” cooed Conner. “I don’t want you to lie to me again. There is only one question: where is Damon Layne?”
Bridger stared at the two holes punched through the windowpane and attempted to work his mouth. His butler was folded over the ottoman, bleeding across the beige carpet. Bridger’s face filled the scope’s target sight.
“I don’t know,” he managed to say.
Conner snarled, “That’s not good enough!”
“I sent someone to kill him,” rambled Bridger. “I haven’t heard from my man in a long time.”
Conner considered the words. Bridger was a man who covered his options. If he sent someone to kill Layne, then logically, he sent someone after Conner as well.
“Who knew aboutSpanish Poppy? ” demanded Conner.
“The national security advisor,” answered Bridger as he closed his eyes. The phone next to his ear was hot and sweaty.
“Spanish Poppywas sanctioned by the White House,” hissed Conner. His vision blurred and the horrific white sheet of flame engulfed the blond haired child. His stomach rolled over and his limbs trembled. Bridger’s face left the target scope momentarily.
“Sanctioned might be too strong a term,” corrected Bridger.
“You bastards!” snapped Conner. He jerked the trigger and pulled the shot wide. Bridger never knew as the round slammed into the field stone thirty feet away from where he sat.
The killing had only started.
* * * *
Jonas saw Harper first as he scrambled to one side of the dock and tied off his equipment to one of the posts supporting the dock. He emerged from the water like a black wraith and quickly applied camouflage paint to the only exposed portion of his face. ThePredator ’s variable-zoom day camera focused and locked on the shadow sliding away from the boathouse towards the main house.
Harvey cursed. “Which one is he?”
“Harper—Conner would bring a rifle,” declared Jonas confidently.
The otherPredator ’s alarm sounded. Both men jerked their heads up to witness Conner’s fireworks show on the transformer. It was a spectacular explosion that topped the utility pole and snapped all power lines leading into the house. Everything went dark around the estate.
“Harper?” whispered Harvey.
“I don’t think so,” replied Jonas.
It was their worst-case scenario.
* * * *
Harper never lost stride as every light winked out. He took notice of the explosion, finding it curious as he climbed over the veranda railing and slipped inside the house. Harper flipped the snap securing his combat knife open and wrapped the lanyard around his wrist.
The house filled with sounds of running feet and startled oaths, only to be punctuated by excited shouts. He found a shadow where he could stand motionless. The only light came from the moon as it flitted in and out of the clouds.
Harper grabbed one of Bridger’s bodyguards by the arm and swung him around. He stepped forward, shoving the knife all the way to the hilt. The man’s only comment was a surprised grunt as Harper pulled close and wiggled the razor-tipped blade about. “His name was Darby Hayes,” explained Harper.
Hot blood squirted over his fist as the curved hook ripped open a major blood vessel. Harper stared into the startled and fading eyes. He pulled his victim closer and hissed, “Martin, where is he?” The bodyguard gurgled and Harper jerked the knife harder before pushing him away. He pulled the blade free and wiped it across the sagging man’s chest. No remorse, no fear, and no plan beyond killing as many as he could before someone stopped him.
