Blown (15 page)

T
his was
the first time Kaplan had ever used the
Alpha One Alert
declaration. It was strictly an internal code for
agent under attack
. Protocol was to make every attempt to evade his pursuers and not lead them to the safe house. Although safe once inside, just like the SSOC, the location was not to be revealed under any circumstances. Under Alpha One Alert, the B & B would intervene at predetermined locations to ensure undetected passage to the safe house.

Located in an older neighborhood on the southwest side of Lexington, the B & B was not far from Washington and Lee University and the Stonewall Jackson House. A thick ten-foot hedge surrounded the brick home situated just northeast of the Lexington Golf and Country Club. Inside the hedge was a brick wall topped with metal spikes. Between the spikes, embedded shards of glass. Inside the wall, a row of razor wire and a ground proximity warning system with automatic tracking video cameras sensitive enough to detect a field mouse.

Every precaution was taken in the event of hostilities. The best weapon, the best layer of protection, was still its secrecy. And that's the reason there had never been a breach event at the safe house. Kaplan knew there had been other
Alpha One Alerts
in the past at the Lexington safe house, but to date, the safe house had kept its anonymity.

From his location at Francesco's restaurant on South Main Street, there was a predetermined maze of turns to be made before approaching the safe house.

South Main Street was a one-way street through downtown—the wrong way—and on a Saturday night, there was plenty of traffic. Too many cars to consider driving head-on against the flow. He'd have to double back on South Jefferson Street, one block over—also a one-way street—the right direction. The car carrying the two gunmen was a quarter-mile behind him when he made the first turn away from Main Street. Now he was running the gauntlet inside the maze. It would take the interference team ninety seconds to get in place since he made the phone call. That time had passed. The team should be ready, he thought, as he raced down the street.

Kaplan took another ninety-degree turn and accelerated. The car behind followed, lost traction in its rear tires and fishtailed as it rounded the corner.

Kaplan had two advantages, the Mercedes and his driving training at the academy. The American car, which appeared to be some model Buick, was no match for the German car. It didn't handle tight fast turns as well, nor did the Buick have the power and performance as the Mercedes. Kaplan needed every advantage possible.

Kaplan followed procedure through the labyrinth of turns, slowly distancing himself from the Buick.

"What's going on?" Tony peeked up from the back floorboard.

"Oh the usual, Tony." He hoped his sarcastic tone would quiet Tony. "I'm trying to keep us from getting killed. Now stay down."

After three more turns, and putting even more distance between his car and the Buick, Kaplan turned onto the longest straight away of the route. It was five blocks from end to end and as soon as he turned onto the road, he saw the interference vehicles at their assigned positions. We made it, he thought, and he began to relax.

As soon as the Buick rounded the corner behind Kaplan, a car backed out of a driveway blocking the road and leaving the Buick with no alternative other than to stop.

But it didn't.

The Buick swerved around the back of the obstructing car, plowed over two mailboxes and narrowly missed a large tree. It bounced back into the road as Kaplan made another turn and accelerated, losing sight of the Buick.

Tony's head popped up again. "Are we almost to the safe house?"

Kaplan said nothing.

"Maybe you should honk the horn to alert people on the street."

Nothing.

"I saw this chase scene on TV once and—"

"Tony, not now. Shut your damn mouth and stay down."

Ten seconds later his phone rang. The voice on the other end informed him that the second vehicle had neutralized his pursuer—a pickup truck pulling a boat on a trailer blocked the entire road, this time forcing the Buick to come to a full stop.

Kaplan made two more turns, pulled through the already open metal gate, and into the driveway. Fifty feet later the driveway split. Kaplan took the fork to the right, which descended below the property to a large underground garage.

There were three people waiting by an elevator, a tall man who was almost bald, a short woman with wavy brown hair, and a linebacker dressed in a full black tactical uniform holding an AK-47.

Kaplan parked the Mercedes, got out and opened the door for Tony, "Get out," he said in a deep commanding voice as he snapped his fingers.

Tony climbed out of the back of the Mercedes and before he could stand up straight, Kaplan punched him in the chin. Tony fell to the concrete floor, holding his chin. Kaplan leaned down, grabbed a handful of Tony's shirt, and lifted him to his feet. He shoved him against the rear fender of the Mercedes and punched him again. This time the old man's lip split open. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

"What aren't you telling me?" Kaplan yelled.

Tony squirmed across the garage floor trying to get away from Kaplan. "You busted my lip," he said. He cupped his lip with his hand. "What are you talking about? Have you gone crazy?"

"How did these guys find us?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit. Who are these guys and how did they find us?"

"I have no idea," Tony pleaded. "They must have followed you or traced your phone or something."

"Not a chance. There is no way anyone could have gotten this close to us this fast without some inside knowledge. And if it wasn't me, it had to be you." Kaplan reared his fist back to take another punch but was stopped by the tall, bald man.

"Let him go, Gregg," the man said. "We'll put him in the
quiet room
and check him for tracers."

Kaplan pulled his arm free from the man's clutch. He looked the tall man in the eye. "This son of a bitch almost got me killed. And not just once or twice either." Kaplan released his grasp on Tony's shirt and glowered at Tony. "Lot of thanks I get for saving your ass."

He gave the linebacker a nod. The big man stepped forward, took Tony by the arm, and escorted him toward the elevator. "If he scans clean, I'm going to beat the truth out of him."

"What if he doesn't know anything? What if
you
were compromised and followed?"

"Not a chance, Dick. If there is one thing I know how to do well, it's disappear. I couldn't have been compromised unless someone was tipped off. I don't know how it happened…or why, but my gut tells me that old man knows more than he's telling."

The woman walked up to Kaplan and gave him a hug followed by a kiss on the cheek. "Gregg Kaplan, it's good to see you again."

"Thanks, Susan," he said. "Good to see you too. I hope I haven't caused too much trouble."

"Of course you have." She hooked her arm through his and said, "Try to relax. Come inside and tell me about this old Italian you delivered to me."

A
ngelo DeLuca couldn't believe
his run of bad luck. First a car backed out of a driveway causing him to swerve off the road taking out two mailboxes and nearly crashing into a tree. One of the mailboxes dented the hood and left a long scratch across it. Then a pickup truck pulling a boat completely blocked the road and the old man in the Mercedes disappeared around the corner.

For the past thirty minutes he and Bruno had searched every driveway on every road in vain. The Mercedes was gone. Vanished, without a trace. The neighborhood was full of large older homes, most with fences, walls, or at a minimum, a tall dense hedge.

He couldn't rule out the possibility that the Mercedes made its way back to the interstate and was on its way to DC. That would mean the driver changed his plan after he and Bruno made their move a few minutes ago. That thought was unsettling.

Not as unsettling as the thought of telling Martin Scalini the old man had gotten away again. Scalini would see it as another failure. A failure with lethal consequences. Lethal for DeLuca. He was knee-deep in a big pile of shit and needed to shovel his way out fast.

"The boss ain't gonna like this," Bruno said.

DeLuca looked at him. It was as if Bruno the Rat knew exactly what DeLuca was thinking. "You think I'm an idiot?” He raised both hands, palm up, and gestured as he spoke. “We're not telling the boss, capisce? Not right away."

"Yeah, yeah. I understand. So, what do we do next?"

"We keep looking," DeLuca said. "The last message said
safe house-Lexington
. We find the safe house, we find Tony Q.
Then
we call Scalini."

K
aplan sat
on a kitchen stool recounting the past twenty-four hours to Susan when Dick brought him the results of the scan on Tony.

"He's clean," Dick said. "You should think about everything that has transpired. Is it possible you screwed up? Is it possible you were somehow traced and they tracked you here to Lexington?"

"I'll be the first to admit the gap closed on us a few times, uncomfortably so once or twice. But I left nothing traceable. Matter of fact, I went out of my way to send a couple of burn phones in different directions just in case. And I've been through five of them since last night." Kaplan raised his finger and pointed toward the back of the house where the
quiet room
was located.

The
quiet room
was a secure room with copper infused windows and lead-lined walls and ceilings. No electronic signals could get in and no signals could get out. Generally used by operatives for interrogation, the
quiet room
was also used for body scans and strip searches.

"That old geezer has done something to jeopardize our stealth. There is no other reason why our cover could be blown. I don't know what he did and I don't know when he did it but I'm convinced he's behind it."

"You know," Susan said. "I have a connection in the Marshals Service. I can give him a call and find out who Tony's handler is and how to get in touch with him."

"Forget it. His handler's name was Mike Cox…and he's dead."

Dick interrupted, "WitSec would have assigned a new case handler by now, someone who is no doubt searching for him as we speak. It might be to your advantage to contact this person and come up with a game plan for getting the old man safely transferred back into the custody of the U. S. Marshals Service."

Kaplan glanced at Dick. It would be nice to get Tony out of his hair so he could get back on his way to El Paso. But he made a promise to the dying Deputy Mike Cox that he would personally return Tony to a WitSec safe site.

Kaplan had given the man his word. It was an unbreakable contract, not a half empty promise to a dying man. It was a moral obligation. A man who broke his promise was a man without respect. More than just a promise, his word to a fellow Delta Force brother was a sacred bond.
Once in, never out—
Another Delta Force mantra.

He would deliver Tony to the SSOC even if he had to gag and hog-tie the old bastard to keep him from sabotaging his efforts.

Kaplan turned to Susan. "Can you trust him? Will your contact keep this off the books and secure?"

"Of course," Susan said. "Shall I make the call?"

"Thanks, Susan. Please, make the call."

Susan turned and left the room. Kaplan directed his attention to Dick. "Where's Tony now?"

"Still locked in the
quiet room.
You two just ate so I figured he didn't need anything for a while."

"You mean he hasn't been complaining?"

"About what?"

"For one thing, he's got an old man's tiny bladder," Kaplan said. "We had to stop a lot so he could pee. I mean like every couple of hou—" Then it hit him. "That sorry son of a—"

"What?"

"Now I know how he did it."

"Did what? Gregg, what are you talking about?"

"Tony has a connection out there. Someone who isn't trying to kill him. Someone who wants to free him. Whenever we'd stop, Tony would figure out a way to contact them. That explains why I could never get us completely dark."

"I don't know," Dick said. "We found nothing on him. He was clean. How could he have made contact with anyone?"

"He's a mobster. He's used to bribing people. I'll prove it." Kaplan walked back to the
quiet room
and barged through the door. Dick followed him. When the linebacker moved to stop Kaplan's aggressive advance toward Tony, Dick waved him off.

Kaplan raced across the room, collared Tony around the neck, and shoved him against the wall. He pulled out his knife and held the sharp blade against Tony's throat. "You aren't running from Scalini, you asshole. You work for him. You've been alerting him this whole trip. I thought you had a tiny bladder, but what you were really doing was making phone calls?"

"No. No. I promise. I have made no phone calls." Tony's voice wavered with every syllable. Kaplan could hear the fear in his voice and see the fear in his eyes, which was exactly what he wanted.

"You're lying, Tony."

"No. I swear. I called no one."

Tony winced as Kaplan pushed down on the blade causing blood to drip from the wound. "

"Before your next breath, you need to decide if you want to die or tell me the truth." He pressed harder with the blade.

Tony yelled out in pain. "Ok. But first remove the knife."

"No. That's not how this works. You tell me what you did first."

"I only did it because I thought you were crazy and were going to get us killed. The Marshals Service could not protect me, so I texted an associate for backup."

Tony did have an insider, but wouldn't reveal his identity. He had been sending periodic text messages from random people's phones. Whoever he could bribe, a kid at the gas station, a man at the rest stop, anyone who would take twenty bucks to let him send one text message.

Twenty dollars. One text.

In so doing, though, Tony had repeatedly compromised their safety. His safety. And for that, had committed an unforgiveable wrong against Kaplan. One he would pay the consequences for later.

The door to the
quiet room
opened and Susan stuck her head in and said, "Gregg, I have the info and guess what? The WitSec deputy assigned to Tony is only a couple of hours from Lexington on his way to DC."

Kaplan nodded then turned back to Tony. He pulled the knife blade from the quivering old man's throat, his grip still tight on his shirt. "This isn't over," he said. "I'll be back and you
will
tell me everything." Kaplan relaxed his grip on Tony's shirt and shoved him to the side. The old man slid down the wall to a sitting position. Kaplan turned and followed the other two men out the door.

M
oss was
a gambling man and this time he was betting his career he was right. He was all-in.

If he was wrong and Kaplan didn't take the witness to the SSOC, then he'd either be fired or stuck away on some
special projects
detail until he was eligible for retirement. Special projects in the federal sector meant the kiss of death for one's career. The stigma was that a
special projects
detail was assigned to anybody who screwed up so badly that the agency had to stick him in a hole to keep them out of sight. He wasn't about to end his career that way.

After dropping Moore at the Nashville airport, Moss filled up with gas, bought a bag full of greasy fast food, and headed eastbound on Interstate 40. In Knoxville, he picked up Interstate 81, which would take him most of the way to DC. His stomach growled and he belched.

Just outside of Roanoke, Virginia, his cell phone vibrated. The caller ID displayed a phone number with a Tennessee area code and an exchange he didn't recognize. Perhaps it was Nashville PD.

"Senior Inspector Pete Moss."

"Senior Inspector?" a man's voice said. "As in U. S. Marshals Service?"

"That is correct. Who am I speaking with?"

"Are you the replacement for Inspector Mike Cox in Little Rock?"

"Who is this?" Moss raised his voice. "Identify yourself."

"Are you or are you not Mike Cox's replacement?"

"For now. I am taking over one of Inspector Cox's cases."

"The breach in Little Rock?"

"Mister, identify yourself or this call is over."

"You know who I am," the voice said. "And I'm traveling with someone you want."

Moss's heart raced. He didn't speak for several seconds. A thousand questions bombarded his thoughts. "Is this Gregg Kaplan?"

"You found my motorcycle, I see."

"Yes, I did. And all the other clues you left along the way. Is my witness safe?"

Kaplan said nothing.

"Mr. Kaplan? I asked you a question."

"The plate was a mistake."

"Huh?" Moss responded.

"In my haste, I forgot to remove the plate from my motorcycle. That's the only reason you know who I am. The rest of the clues were intentional."

"Gregg Kaplan. Tysons Corner, Virginia. That's all I got. Information from the State of Virginia Motor Vehicles database. Everything else about you requires a higher authorization. Neither the Marshals Service nor the FBI could find out anything more about you. Your identity seems to be protected. Who are you, NSA? CIA?"

Silence.

After several seconds Moss said, "Mr. Kaplan, the U.S. Marshals Service had three deputies trying to locate my witness…and you. I was reassigned from Chicago, Deputy Jon Hepler from Little Rock was read in, and Inspector April Moore was brought in briefly from the Atlanta office. None of us could learn anything more about you than your name and a post office box number in Virginia. Who are you? Really?"

"Did you say April Moore?"

"Yeah. Showed up unannounced with no paperwork and totally out of protocol. But I let her stay because she knew all the details of the case. Details only WitSec would know."

"Ever met her before Little Rock?"

"No. Like I said, she just showed up out of the blue. Why do you ask?"

"Tall red-headed woman? Fair skin, looks like she could've been a model?"

"That's right. So you've dealt with Inspector Moore before?"

"In a manner of speaking," Kaplan said. "Let me guess, her creds check out but no one has ever seen her."

"That's right, but how—"

"Shit."

Moss heard something strange in Kaplan's voice.

"What is it?" Moss asked.

"This complicates matters."

"Inspector Moore was teamed with me for most of this investigation but she was called off. I'll admit I had bad vibes about her but mostly I felt like I couldn't trust her. How does that complicate things?"

"She's not U. S. Marshals Service and certainly not WitSec," Kaplan said. "Nor is she with any other government agency for that matter. April Moore is an alias she uses from time to time, usually when inside the United States."

"What? Who does she work for then?"

"Nobody. She's an assassin."