Vengeance

63 WOODMORE, MARYLAND

At the intersection of Enterprise Road and Central Avenue, Harrison’s car was waved through the checkpoint after the police officer examined his ID. Thirty minutes ago, Harrison and Khalila had departed the NCTC, speeding along the Capital Beltway toward Woodmore. Harrison was pleased that law enforcement had responded quickly, blocking both ends of Enterprise Road where Mixell’s residence was suspected. Whether Mixell was currently within the checkpoint area was the salient question that no one could answer.

Most of the residences in the cordoned area were single-family homes, which would take quite a while to inspect, depending on how many personnel were assigned to the task. After conferring with Khalila during the trip around the Beltway, Harrison had decided to inspect the handful of small farms along Enterprise Road, which would have provided Mixell with more privacy than the housing developments.

They came up empty at the first three homes, conversing with the residents who had never seen anyone matching Mixell’s description. At the fourth stop, no one answered the door, and there were no vehicles parked outside. After a quick inspection through several windows, it appeared that no one was home. They were about to head to the next house when Harrison spotted tire tracks in the grass, leading from the end of the driveway into the backyard, which seemed a bit odd. They followed the tracks, which ended at the entrance to a barn.

The doors were secured with a padlock, so Harrison and Khalila circled around the barn, searching for another entrance. There wasn’t one, but there was a small window on one side. Through the window, Harrison spotted a worktable and three open crates, but couldn’t make out the markings on the crates. They warranted further inspection, given that Mixell had procured two crates of C-4 and a third containing detonators.

Returning to the entrance, Harrison examined the padlock.

“Do you know how to pick a lock?” he asked Khalila.

“Most types. But I don’t have the right tools.”

“We’ve got the only tool we need,” he replied as he pulled his pistol from its holster.

After looking around, verifying there was no one in sight, he used his pistol as a hammer, smashing the bottom of the pistol grip into the padlock hasp. The barn was old, and after a few whacks, the hasp screws tore from the aged wood.

He slid the door aside and Khalila illuminated the interior with her cell phone flashlight in one hand, wielding her pistol in the other. The beam of light swept across the barn, stopping on the crates. Stenciled on the side of two crates, in large black letters, was:

Each crate was big enough, Harrison estimated, to hold twenty-five pounds of C-4.

They had found Mixell’s lair.

An inspection of the crates, however, revealed no explosives. Only the empty packaging from the individual blocks. The crate of wireless detonators was likewise empty.

Harrison turned around, inspecting the tire tracks again. They stopped just inside the barn entrance.

“Mixell loaded a vehicle with the C-4,” Harrison concluded.

Khalila nodded her concurrence.