Dead Water

32

Asobe Sydar stood on the bridge of his yacht, hands on his hips. Looking over the bow, the west shore of the Chesapeake Bay was visible. The water was shimmering in the bright afternoon sunlight. The trees beyond created a dense green backdrop. A few homes and magnificent estates were visible perched among the sea of green leaves.

Nazir al-Hadid, standing a few feet away, looked very uncomfortable.

Sydar turned to his captain and ordered, "Find us an appropriate anchorage for two days."

Al-Hadid, in near panic, asked, "Are you sure about that? I mean, is this wise? The Americans will be watching every boat."

"Exactly, Nazir. The Americans will not believe that any vessel involved would come back. It will demonstrate that we have nothing to hide."

Al-Hadid was not convinced. "What if they board your vessel again?"

"Then they will find everything in perfect order. There is nothing that can possibly tie us to anything questionable. We have the same number of people on board, and your photo is now affixed to all the legal paperwork. We are just people on holiday."

"I pray you are correct, Asobe."

Christman was hopping his way back to Portland to retrieve the jet. He had no direct knowledge but knew that somewhere he was driving someone nuts with his constant changing of the rental helicopter's transponder numbers. Go ahead, boys, try to track me. He was hoping to be back in Las Vegas by ten at night. He would check in with the group when he was on the trip back to check for instructions.

It was approaching five in the evening when J. C. finally made it back to the waiting jet. He arrived transmitting the original transponder numbers. Something tells me I'd better be damned careful. As soon as he landed, he dashed into the nearest hangar. There were two workmen at the far end servicing a prop plane, an older Bonanza V-Tail, an airplane considered far ahead of its time. They paid him no attention. He spotted a maintenance uniform indicating Graham's Flight Service and slipped it over his own clothes. He also grabbed a shabby-looking baseball cap with a large Seattle Seahawks embroidered patch in front. He pulled it down in front, but not so much as to be conspicuous. He made a roundabout approach to the hangar housing his group's jet aircraft. As he'd feared, he could make out a black Ford Crown Victoria parked off to the side. There they are. He held up out of sight to think. He was certain that if whoever in the car associated him with the jet, he'd undoubtedly be detained. He had to plan an escape. After several minutes, a grin came over his face. "When in Rome," he said aloud.

He retrieved his cell phone and with directory assistance called airport security.

"There is a dark Ford Crown Vic parked next to the tan-colored hangar just down from Graham's. I've seen someone get out twice, take some kind of package from the trunk, and walk away with it. He comes back in ten or fifteen minutes without the package. Just seems very strange, so I thought I'd better call it in."

"Yes, sir, absolutely. We'll check it out immediately, and thank you. What's your name?"

"Langley," he replied, chuckling to himself. "Rob Langley."

Within sixty seconds, five vehicles came screaming up and surrounded the Crown Vic. The airport security personnel poured out with guns drawn and ordered the occupants out of the car. In the confusion, Christman made his way unnoticed inside the hangar and boarded the jet. In five minutes, he'd filed a flight plan to Houston, Texas, while the ground crew was wheeling his plane out onto the tarmac. Looking over, he saw two men screaming at the airport security officers. He saw three take down the men and cuff them and then throw them into the backseat of separate vehicles. As he watched the security teams drive away with haste, he fired up the powerful jet engines. In his best Arnold imitation, he said aloud, "I won't be back." The last thing he did was ditch his cell phone after taking it apart and wiping everything for prints.

CIA Team Leader Marty Larrow was sitting in his motel room on the phone with Bernard Backersley.

"Honest, Director, if I hadn't seen him with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it. Randall is really beat up."

"How bad? How long will he be out of action?"

"I have no idea on time. His injuries that I know of are a badly broken knee, shattered nose and orbital bone, and a broken jaw that apparently was caused by some kind of uppercut or something because he bit his own tongue in half. Surgeons were able to reattach it, but it's going to take rehab before he can speak decently. He also has a badly bruised sternum, partially collapsed lung, and two cracked ribs. He's a fucking mess. It looks like he got run over by a train."

"Have you been able to talk to him at all?"

"Sir, the man can't talk. He bit off his own tongue. They are keeping him heavily sedated, which is probably as much for their own safety as his. Apparently, he was a rather difficult patient when he woke up. He cracked his ribs when he fell trying to leave. That's when they knocked him out."

"So you have nothing."

"Not quite. The agent that was shot gave a description of Randall's attacker, but it wasn't much. He was dressed in full camo, including face paint. Stevenson thought the guy was about six feet tall, guessed his weight around two hundred pounds. He saw the tail end of the fight when he came out of the woods and said he'd never seen anyone move like this guy; he just owned Randall. He was getting ready to take the guy out when someone put a round through his kneecap from behind. That put him out of action. By the time the rest of the team got out of the house, the guy had disappeared into the woods. One agent said they thought they got a glimpse of him but was unable to provide any specifics. We got everybody out of there immediately. The FBI is on the scene now, including a forensics team. They're taking the place apart. We got a couple of shots off, but it's doubtful if we hit anything. We used AK-47s, so that should help displace blame."

Backersley was silent. "Larrow, this is a complete clusterfuck, but I can't fault you. Get your team, and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible, and try not to be noticed."

"On it, sir. I apologize for not having more defined information for you."

"So am I."

Starr, Styles, and Phillips were closing the distance on Rijah Ellhad.

Phillips had opened up a Google Earth program, zoomed in on the route they were traveling, and was able to spot two state troopers hidden in medians, using their radar to try to pick up speeders. Both times, Starr had slowed just a bit.

Styles could feel the tension starting to build. He knew what he had to do but just wasn't sure how he was going to do it. In his mind, securing the package and eliminating Ellhad had equal priority.

"You have a plan in mind?" Starr asked Styles.

"Sort of. Figure we'd follow him into whatever RV park he's headed for. You'll go in and reserve us a spot. Without being obvious, try to determine where he'll be located. If you can get close to him, that'd be good. From there, we're going to have to wing it. I wish we'd had time to lease an RV ourselves, but there just wasn't time."

"Maybe I can help with that," Phillips spoke up.

"How?"

"I'll see if I can lease us one and have it delivered. By the time it gets to the park, hopefully we'll just be able to point and have them set it up."

"Won't that look strange?" inquired Starr.

"How do I know? I'm just trying to come up with a plan," replied Phillips.

"I've got one better. Lease a tow vehicle along with the camper. That way, it'll stay and it might not look so weird — that is, if it would, anyway. Better be safe, though," Styles offered.

"Makes sense to me," agreed Phillips. "I'll get on it. By the way, Backersley knows what you did to Randall. Only description of you, which was given by the guy I shot in the knee, is that you were dressed out in camo, but he was pretty much spot on with your height and weight."

"I'm not worried."

"Knew you wouldn't be, and one other thing. I guess the CIA just barely got their asses outta there before the FBI joined the party. They don't know what the hell is up. I almost feel sorry for them. Matt Sanderson is going to have to do a lot of explaining to the new guy. They have a full forensics team on-site now."

"What about Ali's computer?"

"No need to worry. It's fried. I'm getting started on that intel now. Wish we had time to grab something to eat. I'm hungry."

Starr tossed a sack into the backseat. "There's a breakfast sandwich in there I picked up this morning. That should help until we get some time. I don't want to take the time to stop right now."

"That'll do, thanks." She ripped the bag open and devoured the sandwich. "Not bad, even cold."

Styles noticed that Starr was getting a grim look on his face. "You all right?"

"Yeah, just want this to come out okay."

"It will."

Ten miles behind Starr and company, two Middle Eastern men were traveling in a dark blue BMW, with windows tinted as dark as state law would allow, making it next to impossible to see the vehicle's occupants except through the windshield.

Imad al-Bin looked at his companion, another refugee from the Iraqi Republican Guard. "Assad, how far in front of us is Ellhad?"

"I'm not sure. I don't understand these damn things," Assad Bassir snarled, referring to a GPS tracker. "I think ten, maybe twelve miles."

The two men had been sent by Ryyaki Ali as hidden backup for Rijah Ellhad. They were under strict orders not to reveal themselves to Ellhad unless he ran into trouble. Ali respected Ellhad and did not want to insult him.

"Use the scale on the bottom of the screen if you are having problems," al-Bin suggested.

"That's what I'm doing," the big Iraqi snapped.

"Calm down, Assad. We are only babysitters."

"I do not like babysitting. I like action."

"We have our job. We will do that job."

"As you say."

"Rijah, come play with me."

"Sahleea, we will be at the campground in two hours. Can you not wait?"

"I want to play now. If you want to drive, fine; I will play alone right here in this truck." She started to slip her shorts down.

"Sahleea, someone may see you. We cannot draw attention to ourselves."

"Then you'd better find somewhere to pull over so we can go back in the camper. I want to play."

Relenting, he said, "There is a rest stop ahead. I will pull over." He wouldn't admit it, but just the sight of her slipping her shorts down had gotten his hormones raging, plus the prospect of having to kill her was tormenting him. He was not on any exact timetable, so he saw no reason not to indulge her one last time — for himself as well. Ten minutes later, he turned his turn signal on and pulled into the exit ramp for the rest area. A combination of cars, trucks, and large tractor-trailer rigs were in the parking area, which was surprisingly large. He spotted an area away from the other vehicles and found a spot. He hadn't shut the truck off before Sahleea was out the door. With a large grin on his own face, he followed her and unlocked the door of the camper, and both were instantly inside, tearing at each other's clothing.

"Hey, guys, looks like our friends have stopped. They're about twelve miles up the road. According to my map overlay, it appears they are in a rest stop," Phillips stated. "Gotta love Google Earth."

Styles asked, "Why did they do that? Shit, what if they're arming some type of device? Starr, get us there as fast as possible!"

Nine minutes later, the silver sedan was pulling into the rest area, and they spotted the camper they'd been following off to one side.

"Pull over between those two cars," he directed. He handed out three pairs of binoculars. "Starr, watch out for any cops. Phillips, check the rig with me." Ninety seconds went by with no one speaking. A chuckle came from Styles.

"What's so damned funny?" grumbled Starr.

"We clear?" asked Styles.

"Far as I can tell," answered Starr.

"Check the camper; look carefully."

"I don't see anything!" exclaimed Phillips.

"Look close, guys."

Finally, Phillips laughed. "I see what you mean. He's arming something, but it's not a weapon."

"What in the hell are you two talking about?" fumed Starr.

"They're doing the horizontal bop. The camper is rocking a bit. Looks like someone couldn't wait until the campground."

"You mean this guy is trying to poison Lake Mead, and he pulls off to snag some?" Starr asked incredulously.

"Looks that way. Starr, drive around and come up behind them. Shut the engine off and coast; I don't want to take a chance on them hearing us," instructed Styles as he reached behind his back, removing his suppressed Beretta. "We're taking these bastards right here."

"Nothing like catching them with their pants down, no pun intended," deadpanned Starr, who was already beginning to pull back out into the parking area. "Starr, after I jump out, give me about sixty seconds and then pull up alongside the camper, door side, as though we're supposed to be meeting them. Join me inside."

Forty-five seconds later, Starr cut the engine on the car and coasted up to within twenty feet of the back of the camper. Styles immediately dove out the passenger-door window, rolled, and then was immediately at the door of the camper. Up close, the large camper's rocking was even more evident, and muffled sounds of pleasure could be heard. He turned the doorknob and was surprised it was unlocked. A trap? He was certain it wasn't. Just two people who couldn't wait to get their hands on each other.

Cautiously, he opened the door slightly. The sounds were coming from the bedroom in the rear of the camper. The sounds were uninterrupted, and Styles slipped inside, the residue of the camo paint still on him. The door to the sleeping quarters was open, and Styles could clearly see the bottom half of a man's and woman's legs, entwined. Silently, he moved through the small living area and kitchen, down the hall, and past the surprisingly large bathroom on the right. It was opposite the bathroom wall where the head of the bed was located. The woman was positioning herself atop the man, sideways on the bed. Standing in the open doorway, each was oblivious of Styles's presence. Styles fired two suppressed rounds inches away from the man's ears. Both of them froze. "Don't move."