34

FBI Director Matt Sanderson was on the phone with Special Agent Paul Hedges, who was leading the investigation on both the deaths of the CIA agent at the motel and the massacre at Ryyaki Ali's property. "So what is your take on this, Paul?"

"Director, I'm not quite sure. My gut is telling me if the CIA was involved at the motel, I'm betting they were at Ali's property, as well. As I've said before, there's no such thing as coincidence with the CIA."

"Are you saying you think the CIA killed Ali and the rest?"

"I can't answer that with certainty, sir. It's definitely a strong possibility. I have a contact I'm going to get in touch with who might be able to shed some light on the matter."

"For argument's sake, if it wasn't the CIA who was responsible for Ali, then who was?"

"That is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, sir. At first glance, certainly the CIA jumps to the head of the list, but I've got a feeling there might have been someone else involved."

"And that would be?"

"Again, don't know, sir. We're working 24-7 on this. I've had the forensics team out there nonstop. We've recovered brass in 5.56 from an AR-15, 7.62×39 from an AK-47, by far the most, and some .40-caliber Smith & Wesson found inside the house. The bodies inside the house were killed with the handgun; the guards outside and in the campground were all shot with 5.56. Someone carved the word terrorist in Ali's forehead."

"What?"

"It appears whoever killed Ali carved the word terrorist into his forehead. Does that mean something I don't know about?"

"Yes, but I can't get into it now. How much longer will you be on-site?"

"I'm planning on returning tomorrow. I'll leave the team in place. I want that place gone over with a microscope."

"When you get back, I'll explain the terrorist in the forehead."

"Yes, sir. I'll be in touch."

Sanderson ended the phone call and sat at his desk thinking. He'd heard rumors about similar occurrences that had taken place over in the Middle East. He decided to call Elliott Ragar of the NSA. After Sanderson had waited on hold for two minutes, Ragar's voice came on.

"Matt, what can I do for you?"

"Elliott, I have a question. Have you ever heard of the word terrorist being carved into the foreheads of terrorists killed over in the Middle East?"

Silence.

"Actually, I have. At least, I've heard the rumors, though I've never actually seen it myself or talked to someone who has."

"What else can you tell me about that? My guy in charge of the Ryyaki Ali assassination just told me that's what he found. I've heard rumors too, but I wanted to double-check."

"Matt, that makes me believe we've got a new player in the mix."

"That's what I think too. Any idea of who it might be?"

"No. The closest thing I know is it might have been a sniper who was referred to as the Ghost. I've never heard a name put to it. Again, this is only what I've heard, and it's all unconfirmed."

"I think it's time we start doing some digging. I have someone over at the Department of Defense who might be able to help."

"So do I. I'll get hold of my guy and get back with you. We can compare notes."

"Do we let the others in on this?"

"Hell no. Especially that damned Backersley. Until we have some solid evidence, let's keep this between us."

"My thought exactly. I'll be in touch."

* * *

"Hey, guys, we're about an hour out of Atlanta," Christman announced.

"Thanks, J. C. I'll give Olivia Watson a call and set up a meeting!" Phillips hollered back.

Styles walked up to Phillips and asked, "Can you give me a report on everything you've been able to find out about the assassination of President Williams? Sometimes I think better reading information off paper than listening to it."

Phillips opened up a desk drawer and handed him a blue folder. "This about covers it. I had a feeling you might want it," she replied, trying to hide the fact that she was close to choking up.

Styles reached down and gently held her shoulder.

"You're not the only one in pain over this, Darlene. I'm hurting too. He was a good man in a world full of lying assholes."

Phillips reached up and cautiously squeezed his hand. "Thanks."

"Anytime, Darlene, anytime." He took the folder and stretched out on a sofa with a coffee table in front of it. He'd been working out on the plane for almost three hours and was ready to tackle the information that he would use to formulate his next move.

Starr, who had witnessed the exchange but had stayed silent, sat down across from Styles. "Want any help?"

"Sure," Styles tossed half the paperwork on the coffee table. "When we're through, we'll compare notes."

"Can I get a friggin' water?" Christman yelled.

Six seconds later, a bottled water came flying into the cockpit. "Hey, careful. You might hurt something up here."

"Next time, catch it," Starr replied, laughing.

"Starr, there's something bothering me a bit," admitted Styles.

"What's that?"

"Carving into Ali's and Ellhad's foreheads. The more I think about it, the more I think it was a major fuckup."

"Why? President Williams wanted us to send a message."

"Yeah, he did, but that is going to be a link to what happened in Europe, over in the sand, and eventually traced back to the marines if someone wants to dig deep enough."

"I didn't think about that," agreed Starr.

"Obviously, I didn't either."

Both looked up as Phillips joined them. "The digging has already begun. Sanderson of the FBI is asking questions over at the DOD. He has a contact there — don't have a name yet — but I intercepted an e-mail. The name Ghost has surfaced, tracing back over twelve years. I take it that is what the enemy called you?"

Styles looked up at the ceiling and muttered, "How could I have been so damned stupid?"

Starr, trying to reassure him, said, "Marv, no one can foresee everything."

"I know, but that was one major dumb-ass mistake."

Phillips interjected, "I don't mean to keep bringing this up, but the obvious is that we have to go dark like we've talked about. I mean completely. If we agree, then I'm going to start eliminating all digital footprints of us anywhere I can. I'm pretty sure I can make it appear as though we disappeared."

"What about people who know us?" Starr asked.

"I can't do anything about that, but as I've already been doing, I can change all photographs of us anywhere I find one. That will disrupt any facial recognition programs. If someone possesses a photograph of us, that could be a problem, but it's one we'll have to deal with as it comes up."

"All right," stated Styles. "Let's take care of getting rid of this damned toxin, and then we go after the president's killer and talk. Glad we don't have much to do!" he exclaimed sarcastically.

"I'll go fill J. C. in," Starr said, walking toward the cockpit.

"How many photographs are there of you?" Phillips asked Styles. "Any idea?"

"Actually, not very many. My father has a few, probably a couple from high school, military ID, that's about it."

"Same for me. I've never liked having my picture taken. As far as this disappearing issue, I have to visit my mother first. After that, I'm all for it."

"Yeah, I have to see my dad. As far as I know, I don't believe Starr has any close family left. No clue as far as J. C. goes except for his sister."

"I already have a program in place to find all photographs of us anywhere. I won't delete until we officially decide."

"Go ahead and start with me."

Phillips smiled at him. "Already have. Started that a while ago, but now I'm really getting on it. I knew you would want me to. Even the Marine Corps no longer has a photograph of you."

Styles looked at her. "You are getting to know me pretty well."

"Yes, I am, and I have to admit I am enjoying that."

Styles just nodded at her.

Phillips got up and started to return to her workstation but stopped and said, "That was smart taking out Ellhad back there. It saved time and any possible manner of him contaminating anything. In my opinion, that far outweighs the carving issue."

Styles just nodded at her again. "Hold up a second. When you contact Watson, give us an hour to survey the area and maybe set up surveillance. We don't need any surprises."

"Good idea."

Styles then went forward to apprise Starr and J. C. of the plan change.

* * *

J. C. Christman had parked the team's aircraft beside the Jones-Spalding Aircraft Services hangar. Luckily, he had solid knowledge of the layout of the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. He had drawn a quick layout to devise the best place for Phillips to hand off the crate to Olivia Watson of the CDC, which was scheduled to take place in approximately forty-five minutes.

"Are you sure that you can trust this woman to keep her word and come alone?" Starr asked.

"She'll have an escort close by, but she'll meet me alone. I know her; she'll keep her word," Phillips answered.

"J. C., be sure to have the plane ready to leave immediately. I mean I want the engines running," Styles directed. "I'll cover Phillips just in case, but make sure everything that needs to be done to get us the hell out of here is done. If for any reason this goes south, we could have a shitload of federal agents on our asses."

"I'll be ready. I've already got our flight plan filed for North Carolina. Fuel truck is on the way. We'll be set to go."

"I'm going to scout the perimeter and set up a place for cover. Starr, I want you to be just outside the plane near the access door to the storage area. Have an AR ready. Don't use it unless you have to."

"Hey, guys," Christman interrupted. "Hold on a second. I've got an idea. Why don't we just leave that crate where she can find it? Why put ourselves at risk? Think about this. The last thing we need is to risk a damned firefight here. Where are we gonna go? I can get us around pretty good, but not against the whole military. We could leave it in a spot where we can keep an eye on it. Doesn't that make more sense?"

Styles and Starr looked at each other.

"You're right; I'm way overthinking this," Styles replied.

"There's a bunch of boxes and crap right next to the hangar. Put it there. We can watch it from the plane. Keep the engines off, and we're just another one parked."

Phillips grabbed a Sharpie and strode over to the wooden crate. She wrote "this one" on its side. "That ought to do it."

Without a word, Christman grabbed the wooden crate, hoisted it to his shoulder, and departed the plane without speaking. The other three watched as he casually walked over to the building and stacked the crate on top of the pile. Turning around, he returned to the plane.

"Glad one of us is still keeping his head," Styles muttered as the fuel truck pulled up, with J. C. instructing the driver to top off the aircraft.

Phillips called Olivia Watson. "Olivia, there's a hangar on the west side of the airport, Jones-Spalding. You'll see a stack of boxes. On top, there's a wooden crated marked with a Sharpie. You're on your own." She hung up. "Now we just wait and watch."

"Thanks, guys. I'm going to pull over there and park. I'm expecting company," Christman offered the fuel truck drivers.

"Sure, no problem. If you stay the night, you'd better check in with Jones."

"We should be gone before dark, but appreciate the heads-up," he answered, offering him one of the many credit cards he carried.

"Thanks for the business. Fly safely." He left after giving Christman the receipt.

Forty minutes later, a black SUV drove straight up to the debris pile next to Jones-Spalding Aviation Services. A blonde woman dressed in a black business suit got out and looked around carefully. Styles and company watched as she spoke over a small handheld radio.

"Look to the right, two hundred yards," Styles said.

All three, looking through binoculars, turned their attention to where Styles had directed. All of them saw two more black SUVs parked side by side.

"You think they have orders to intercept?" Starr asked.

"No. It looks more like a security detail. Phillips was right," Styles answered.

The woman walked over to the pile and immediately picked up the crate. Holding it in front of her, she motioned with her head, and the two other black SUVs immediately headed toward her, squealing their tires. Both pulled up directly in front of her, with four men getting out with guns drawn keeping a hard watch as a fifth man got out and took the crate from the woman and then carefully placed it in the rear of one of the two SUVs parked next to her. She walked back to her own vehicle, and all three drove away.

"That went smooth. Guess we got lucky for once," J. C. commented.

"Luck had nothing to do with it. You had your head in the game and made the right call," Styles insisted.

Phillips had returned to her computers. "Hey, guys, I've got something. I've been monitoring the boat traffic in the harbor around Baltimore. I've tracked twelve large yachts that have left the area since President Williams was killed." It was the first time she had been able to speak about the event out loud. "Eleven left, one came back. That one had been anchored but then went out about twenty miles and anchored again. They were there for about twelve hours before returning close to their original spot. While they were out, something very interesting happened."

"What was that?" Styles asked.

"Come see for yourselves."

All three men gathered around Phillips as she showcased a video. They were looking at a large yacht. Two people could be seen fishing. Then a cloud passed across the view, obscuring it somewhat. Phillips hit a couple of keys on her keyboard, and the screen split into two views — the original and infrared.

"See? On the left, before the cloud hits, we clearly see two figures. Now watch. On the infrared, you see the two figures. Now a third comes into view, but he's in the water." All four observed the two men on the boat bringing the third aboard. The cloud passed over in time to see three men now standing at the rear of the yacht closing a large enclosure.

"What was that?" Starr queried.

"Large boats have water garages in the rear. They keep jet skis, small boats to shuttle back and forth to land, while the larger one stays at anchor. Something was just stashed there."

"Maybe an underwater scooter," growled Styles. Good job, Phillips. We have our target. J. C., get us the hell outta here."

"Baltimore?"

"Baltimore!"

"There is one more thing we need to be aware of," stated Phillips emphatically.

"What's that?"

"The guy who originally made up this synthetic agent; we don't know how much more might be out there. I've got bank accounts from Ryyaki Ali, and as soon as I can, I'm going to thoroughly research his financial transactions and see what I might be able to come up with."

"Damn, you're right about that," growled Styles. "Hell, no wonder we've got so many security agencies. There isn't enough time to track all these bastards."

"Welcome to my world," said Phillips.

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