Authors: Mark Young
Gerrit took a seat. “Given what just happened back in Seattle, I don’t think Alena and I should be poking our noses around the capital right now. Never know who we might run into.”
“Good point.” Beck nodded. “This is something I can start on my end.”
“I agree,” Joe added, just as Alena walked in. His uncle looked at her and then over at Gerrit. “We need to discuss what happened at the hospital in Seattle. Willy came up with something.”
All eyes shifted toward Willy, who seemed to be intently studying something on his computer screen. He tapped a couple keys, and then looked up. “I downloaded the security tape of the garage and the hospital building. I was able to isolate a couple of faces, including this one coming out of the garage.”
He hit another screen and pointed to one of the monitors overhead. “This guy seems to be the head honcho.”
It was the same man who fired at them in the hospital parking lot. Gerrit shifted in his chair. “What can you tell us about him?” The man was about Gerrit’s size, only thicker set; dark hair closely cropped enough to be a military buzz. Another photo appeared on the screen as part of a driver’s license out of Reno, Nevada. “That’s just over the hill, Willy. Run a check on that name.”
“Beat you to it, Mr. G. I double-checked this DL and found the name’s bogus, as is the address.”
Gerrit leaned back. “Another dead end.”
Joe shook his head. “No. We have a face. Just need to put a name with it.”
“And the car this guy used?” Gerrit ran a hand through his hair.
Willy looked at Gerrit. “Already on this, Mr. G. I ran the license, a rental out of Sea-Tac. Police found it abandoned and torched between the hospital and the airport. Checked with the rental agency and got another bogus name. However, I ran a face-recognition check at Sea-Tac—just before they rented out the car—for all inbound passengers and compared it to the photo from the hospital. The guy came in on a United flight out of Miami. The ticket was paid for in cash, and I have a name to go with the purchase.”
Gerrit made a face. “Let me guess. Another dead end?”
“Don’t go gaming, Mr. G. You’d lose. Came up with the name of Devon McAllister. Ran that name through Florida DMV and…bingo. Matched the face.”
Smiling, Gerrit moved forward. “And how did you pull that off from a cash purchase?”
“The man got lazy. He paid someone cash to order his tickets online from a computer in the same hotel he stayed in. I was able to track his registration and room number off the hotel’s server. It seems the fool used his real name. There is plenty of history behind this guy. Bad history.”
Gerrit looked back up at the photo on the screen. “We got you, Devon.” He stood and turned toward Joe. “So, Beck can take the lead in D.C., and Alena and I will track this guy down in Miami. See where that takes us.”
Jack waved his hand. “What do you want me to do?”
Gerrit said, “Sir, you’re our contact with the government—military and intelligence—places that I can’t show my face. Just keep your ears open and stay in touch with us.”
February 23
Miami, Florida
H
umidity smothered him like an unwelcome blanket. Gerrit’s shirt stuck to his chest as he waited for their car rental to be brought to the curb.
Alena waved a copy of a map in front of her face. “Can you believe that spring is still three weeks away?”
He smiled. “You want snow? I thought you’d be used to this weather after your time in Israel.”
“Hey, before that I lived in Russia. I’d just like something in between.”
A gray Honda Accord edged toward the curb. The rental driver tossed him the keys and held open the door for Alena. After placing their luggage in the trunk—including a specially locked, metal-hardened case clearly marked as carrying firearms for the TSA—Gerrit removed a smaller black carryall stored in his suitcase and slid into the driver’s seat.
He pulled out an iPhone Willy had provided before they left Tahoe, which was equipped with a TomTom GPS-navigation system. He set it up on the car’s console, punched in the address to the hotel where they tracked Devon McAllister, and allowed the phone’s system to give them directions.
“Willy gave me very clear instructions how to erase our navigation system off the GPS program,” he said. “Help me to remember to do that before we turn it in. Don’t want Devon or his friends to get their hands on our movements.”
She nodded while turning on the air conditioning. “I thought you remembered everything.”
“I do. But I have to remember to recall it. Therein lies the problem.” A few minutes after leaving the airport, he pulled off the road and parked in a restaurant parking lot with only a couple cars. He reached into the backseat and grabbed his black carryall, opened it, and withdrew several handguns, ammunition, and one ankle holster.
Alena reached over and grabbed a chrome-plated .9mm semiauto Beretta, checked the magazine, then slid the weapon into her purse. Gerrit picked up a .30 caliber Glock, inserted a fully loaded magazine and slipped it into the ankle holster. He slid his right pants leg up, wrapped the holster around his ankle with Velcro fasteners, and then lowered the pants leg once again.
“Ever imagine us living in a house with a white picket fence? You know, our 2.3 kids living a normal life somewhere in suburbia with our Soccer Mom van?”
She looked up sharply and then stared out her passenger-side window. “I thought you hated marriage.” She turned toward him. “When you joked about marriage the other day…well, it just set me off.” She paused, searching his face. “Truthfully, I can’t imagine normal, Gerrit. For people like us, I doubt it will ever happen.” Her eyes turned misty. “We should never go there—even in our dreams.”
He pulled the car out onto the street and drove toward the hotel. Lately, the only dreams that came his way seemed to turn into nightmares—except those of Alena. Those he intended to hold on to tightly even if they never reached daylight. “Don’t give up on your dreams.”
At thirty thousand feet, Colonel Jack Thompson struggled to get comfortable aboard a Boeing C-17 Globemaster III, geared to transport military cargo and paratroopers on one-way missions. Once again, he was heading toward Washington, D.C. after a layover at Laughlin Air Force Base in Texas. Leery of prying eyes, Jack felt he might be able to conceal his flight movements aboard military aircraft. Less scrutiny on these flights.
Shortly after Gerrit and Alena took off, Jack had received a call from a military attaché to the CIA. A flag he placed on Stuart Martin’s name came back with a hit. High priority! Someone with a lot of juice initiated the call through the secretary of defense, demanding Jack respond in person. He hid his travel route until he knew just what he’d stumbled onto.
His contacts with the CIA in the past had never gone well. He didn’t expect this situation to be any better. Once aboard the aircraft, the pilot allowed him to use a secure communications link to find out what he might be facing.
After several attempts, Jack finally got through to an encrypted phone line at the Pentagon. A gruff voice answered.
“Hey, Bret, this is Jack Thompson. How you doing, you old cuss?” Lieutenant Colonel Bret Hathaway had been in officer-candidate school with Jack. Many years and many beers had passed since that time. “Still riding a desk?”
“Not all of us get to go outside and play. Some of us have to stay home and hold down the fort. What kind of trouble are you in?”
“Trouble? I’m not in any trouble. Just looking for a little information, my friend. Don’t want to get ambushed when I get to D.C.”
“You never call unless there’s trouble, Jack. What do you need?”
He quickly explained about the hit on Martin’s name, and the order to return immediately to discuss the matter. “I don’t have a clue as to who has enough pull to force my boss to order me back. My boss won’t give me squat, which really makes me nervous. All I know is someone from the CIA is pulling the strings. Can you find out who and why before I touch down?”
Hathaway took down Jack’s contact numbers. “I’ll give you a holler if I get something. Can’t promise anything, Jack. You know how secretive those spooks can be.” The lieutenant colonel hung up, and Jack eased back in his seat.
This was the danger of red flagging a name—you never knew who might respond. Good guys or bad guys. He would put political predators in that latter category, those motivated by agendas rather than doing what’s right.
A half hour later, one of the crew members tapped him on the shoulder. He must have dozed off. “Call for you, sir. Said it was important. A Lieutenant Colonel Hathaway.”
Jack moved forward to the comm center and picked up the receiver. “Yeah, Bret, what’s up?”
“You’re right. It was a request from Langley to SECNAV. Came right from the top. Your contact at Langley will be someone by the name of Shakeela Vaziri. My contact said you might remember the woman. That’s all they’d tell me. Highly classified.”
“Thanks, Bret. I owe you one.”
“You owe me more than one, Jack. I’ve lost count.” Their connection went dead, and Jack lowered the receiver.
Shakeela Vaziri.
A blast from the past. Another woman connected to Gerrit O’Rourke. Easing back in the chair, Jack wrapped his fingers behind his neck and straightened his legs, trying to stimulate circulation. More than ten years ago, Shakeela had come strolling into his tent in Afghanistan, just when his Force Recon command stood poised to launch another operation. She had a way of turning men’s eyes, even decked out in desert fatigues and a bulky army jacket. Orders came down to give this woman any support she might need. No questions asked. She asked for Gerrit—specifically.
Two months later, Gerrit returned to duty. Jack never found out what the mission entailed, but he knew something had happened between Gerrit and Shakeela. He could read it in the way Gerrit looked and refused to say anything about the operation—or the woman. She simply disappeared for years until today. Now her name popped up again. And he’d bet dollars to donuts it would have something to do with Gerrit before this was over.
Just like a decade ago, he had a bad deep-in-his gut feeling about this woman. And like before, he was powerless to do anything.
February 23
Miami, Florida
A
hot, shirt-sticking-to-the-skin breeze waged a war outside. Cool air-conditioning welcomed Gerrit and Alena as they entered the hotel lobby, offering a brief reprieve from the battle outside. The hotel, a four-story building on Ocean Drive, overlooked the expansive Atlantic Ocean.
A woman in her midtwenties, with a Coppertone tan and beguiling blue eyes, watched as he and Alena approached. Gerrit gave her a smile while producing a police badge, claiming to be a detective with the Miami PD.
She took one look at the badge, eyed Alena for a brief moment, and gave him an award-winning smile. “How may I assist you, Detective…?” She gave him her full attention.
“Armstrong. David Armstrong…” he peered at her name tag, “…Gloria. We’re trying to locate an individual who stayed here a few times. Registered under the name of Devon McAllister.” He caught a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
He provided Gloria the date and room number McAllister used during his last visit, and a Florida driver’s license photo Willy obtained when he hacked into the licensing agency.
“Oh yes. Mr. McAllister is a regular at our hotel. I hope he’s not a criminal.”
“No. No. Nothing like that,” Gerrit said. “He might have witnessed a crime, and we need to locate his current address. The DMV address is no longer current.”
The young woman searched her computer. “Here we go. Is this the address you have?” She gave him an address in Orlando.
Gerrit knew that address was bogus. “I’m afraid he no longer lives there.”
“My, my…our Mr. McAllister must move around a lot.” She sounded like a Georgian transplant, her accent so thick that bees might think it was honey.
“Any credit card charges that he made during his stay? We can check with those companies and get a current address.”
She glanced at her monitor and then looked hesitatingly at Gerrit. “Shouldn’t I ask for a warrant or something? I don’t know whether I am authorized to give this out, sir.” Gloria gave him an uncertain smile. “Don’t want my boss to get all huffy with me, ya hear?”
Gerrit leaned over the counter, speaking in a confidential tone as if speaking to a close friend. “We just need the numbers off the credit card and date of transaction to verify the card-bearer’s name. We’ll get the rest of the information from the companies. You can’t get in trouble for giving us that, now can you?” He flashed another smile.
“My goodness, Detective. You could talk the fleas off a hound if you put your mind to it.” She looked around the lobby, a look of conspiracy painted on her face. “I guess just this once won’t hurt anything. You make sure to keep my name out of it, ya hear.” She handed him a printout.
Alena rolled her eyes.
Ignoring her, he glanced at the names and saw Devon used a company card bearing the name of Worldwide Alliance Communications, LLC. “Thank you for your help. We’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t you want to leave your name and phone number, Detective.” She gave him a mischievous grin. “Just in case I remember anything else.”
He pretended to search for a business card. “I must have run out of cards. Here.” He grabbed a pen and paper from the desk. “I’ll just jot that information down for you.”
As they left the reception desk, Gerrit turned toward Alena. “What do you think?”
She grimaced. “I think I am going to puke.”
Gloria watched David and the woman leave the lobby. She picked up the phone and dialed a phone number she had memorized a long time ago. “Hi, Mr. McAllister? This is Gloria…from the hotel here in Miami. You asked me to call if anyone came around asking about you.” She gave him a description of the detective and the woman, stating the detective identified himself as David Armstrong.
He breathed heavy for a moment. “Did you give them any information?”
Gloria hesitated. “Just a printout of your credit-card charges.” She bit her lip before continuing. “He said they’d bring back a warrant if I didn’t do what he asked. I didn’t want to get in trouble with my boss.”