Tactical Deception: Silent Warrior, Book 2 (27 page)

The man grabbed Roger’s foot and twisted, sending Roger falling. As a last effort, Roger directed his weight and every ounce of his being toward Mari, who was struggling against the guards holding her. One of them had a pistol to her head.

Roger managed to knock Mari back from the guards’ grasps. The pistol fired way too late to cause Mari harm. They fell to the ground with him on top.

He didn’t even look at the men converging on them. He kept his gaze on Mari’s terrified one, and tried to tell her what was left burning inside him once everything had been stripped from him. There was only her, what he felt for her, what he wanted from her, what he wanted to give her. But he was jerked back before he could communicate anything at all.

“Kill them,” a man shouted. “Kill them now.”

This was it. The end. What he wanted to say to the woman who’d become more important than everything else was still stuck in his gut. Life sucked even in its last moments.

Chapter Thirty-One

Outskirts of the White Aryan Vipers (WAV) Militia Training Camp

Harnett County, North Carolina

Beck uncovered a semi-broken stem on a baby poplar tree then pointed out several footprints in the soft dirt. “Dugar was here. Trail ends at this cliff. Do you smell what I smell, DT?”

Jack sniffed, identifying the faint odor lingering in the air as he spun a three-sixty. “Gasoline.”

“Yep. Look for another cave.”

Jack set his nose to work. The beaten man had been identified as the missing ATF agent and sent on to the hospital. There’d been no sightings on the dirt bike and Jack convinced the wrangling enforcement head to let him and Beck go back and track Dugar. He was beginning to think they were wasting precious time. Maybe he and Beck should have made a bid to infiltrate the Viper camp.

The fuel smell became stronger by a pile of rocks about ten feet out from the vine-covered cliff. “Gas fumes are coming from here. Maybe he poured gas on these.”

Beck grunted. “You think he’s packing gas?”

“Maybe. It would make sense if he’d stashed a dirt bike to escape on. Then again, maybe not,” Jack added as he moved an outer rock and saw rusted metal. Beck joined him and within a few seconds they uncovered a hole capped by an old, round BBQ grill. It was a tunneled entrance to something that angled too far to the left to see anything other than dirt. A wormhole to hell most likely. Walking into a cave was one thing, but this opening was barely wide enough to fit a man. “I don’t like it.”

Beck slid inside headfirst. His voice echoed back, muffled and eerie. “Me either. If it caves, you know what to do.”

“Yeah. Carve a headstone. What do you want it to say?”

“Beware. Friends are more deadly than enemies.”

“Ha.”

“Don’t laugh. You’re next. I’m feeling airflow. Could mean there’s a larger entrance to this sucker.”

“Big enough for a bear?” Beck didn’t yell back and Jack bent closer to the entrance. “Beck? Answer me, man.”

“No. No bear, but big enough for a monster. You’ll want to see this. Come on down. The tunnel is sound but avoid that wire hanging loose. Seems we entered this sucker through the chimney. Ho ho ho. It’s Christmas.”

Jack reluctantly shimmied headfirst into the tunnel and sweated bullets until he reached a wider space where he could crawl on his hands and knees. The diamond in his pocket that he’d yet to ask Lauren to wear because the perfect moment had never come scorched his conscience. What if he NEVER got the chance?

Shit. Jack mentally slapped himself. Distractions like this killed a man. He had to get a grip. Lauren was there for him and he had to have faith in that and in her no matter what came next. Taking a deep breath, he blamed his lapse on the tunnel. He’d always hated underground crap and tight spaces. In his book, spelunkers were nuts looking for a grave.

It was also true that ever since Lebanon, his phobia had worsened. Maybe he’d come too close to being buried alive to tolerate closed spaces for long.

The tunnel led down to a chamber about ten by twelve. As Jack dropped to the ground, he had to avoid the charred logs and ashes of an old fire. It was Christmas all right, if you were a Kaczynski, Rudolph or McVeigh. A battery-powered work lamp—likely accidentally left on—revealed half dozen professional-grade explosives-storage boxes neatly lined against one wall. All of them had the number 88 painted in red on the sides. Two of the boxes were left open. A few C4 bricks were in one. Homemade blasting caps in the other.

Eighty-eight. Numeric code for HH, Heil Hitler.

On the opposite wall, a folding table held wooden cabinets that opened on the top and both sides like jewelry boxes, providing bomb-making workstations with wiring, electronic supplies, timers and battery-operated tools. Corkboards at the back of the boxes held black-and-whites of Hitler, snapshots of several buildings and a bird’s-eye view of Fort Bragg’s entire layout.

Chilling.

The battle cry of white supremacist David Lane from the infamous group known as The Order capped the board. “
We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.
”

The gas smell came from gallon jars where Dugar had C4 dissolving in gasoline, likely to make RDX powder for his homemade blasting caps.

“This shit just got deeper.” Jack went for his cell. “No bars.”

Beck stepped forward and Jack clamped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, pulling him back. “This is the guy that planted IEDs in Neil’s house. As sure as I am breathing he’s booby-trapped his treasure trove here. That loose wire in the tunnel was likely one before he disarmed it.” Jack swallowed hard. Hopefully Dugar had disarmed it completely. An explosion would bury them. “He’s on the move with explosives and I for one want to be alive to stop his ass.”

Beck grunted. “Then pray hard. We better go back out the way we came in. No guarantee but we made it through once so the odds are better.”

A cold sweat broke across Jack’s brow. His heart pounded every inch of the way to the surface as he and Beck worked against gravity and crumbling soil. All he could think of was how much time did they have to figure out Dugar’s target before he detonated?

Jack spit bullets until they reached cell reception. They were close to the surface when his call finally connected. Before he could say anything an explosion shook the ground and dirt crumbled around them at an alarming amount.

“Move. Move. Move!” Beck yelled, pushing Jack forward. They came scrambling out of the tunnel and crawled their way well past the threat of being sucked under by the cave-in.

The explosion hadn’t come from the cave or their immediate area, but it had been close. They were too late. Had Dugar targeted the gathering authorities? Jack hit Redial.

Mac answered. “You two had better get back here.”

“What blew?”

“Something big inside the militant’s camp.”

“What about the commander or Mari?”

“No sign of them from any of the posted lookouts. By all reports, injured Vipers are screaming and running in every direction inside the camp as if caught by surprise. This wasn’t a planned detonation by them and we’d yet to do anything on our end to trigger an explosion. Ambulances are on the way. If the Lt. Col. is behind the explosion though, then he’s my new hero.”

“We found Dugar’s C-4 cache with possible targets posted, including a full layout of Fort Bragg. He’s on the move with explosives. Do you think he blew the camp?” Jack scrambled through different scenarios. Why would Dugar blow up his fellow Vipers? “Shit. Mac. The Viper camp explosion could be a decoy. Spread the word. Everyone be on the lookout.”

Dugar eased the ambulance as close as he could to the thick of the activity. He’d hoped that by bombing the camp’s kitchen and propane tank, he’d start a gun battle between the Vipers and the authorities. Instead the yellow-bellied Slayer was negotiatin’ with the know-it-all authorities to let the injured be carried out to the hospitals.

Shit. Nobody could do anything right these days. He had to do it himself. But he was prepared for the job. “Ya hear me, Lloyd? I’m doin’ it right. You’d be proud.”

Show me. Show me you’re worthy.

“Just you watch.” Easing out of the ambulance that was set to blow in twenty, Dugar grabbed his “special” medical kit and blended into the crowd. He’d leave a few party favors for his guests before moving to his observation spot where Sugar and the rest of his supplies waited.

He planted just enough C4 to take out the majority, but leave the fringes alive, and him untouched. No point in putting on a show if you can’t enjoy the drama. That’s what he didn’t get with this suicide-bomber shit. To go to all that trouble and miss the real rewards of your labor was just plain stupid in his book.

He didn’t get this whole virgins-waiting thing either. So what if there were a million of them. If ya done blown your dick off, they can’t do ya any good.

Chapter Thirty-Two

GBI Headquarters

Decatur, Georgia

Rico’s mind kept drifting back to Angie’s pale face as he struggled to focus on the semi-fast-forwarding stream of video. He’d shredded his insides to a pulp with self-blame. The only thing fueling his ability to function was his driving rage to get the bastards behind it all. That and the ibuprofen he popped like candy. Everyone needed to stop telling him he should be in the hospital. He’d suffered worse injuries on missions and had kept going until the job was done. Just because he was on American soil and not hostile territory didn’t mean he was going to wimp out. In fact, considering the stakes, he needed to push himself even harder. But it wasn’t enough. They weren’t getting anywhere.

As SA Gibson had said, the bank’s surveillance camera only recorded activity entering and exiting the motel parking lot from the end of the manager’s office. Anyone could come and go from the other end without notice, so getting what they wanted off the security camera was looking dim. He’d identified the cab, even timed its appearance shortly after the shooting at Piedmont Park, but he’d yet to see the black Honda. The BOLO for the car with front-end damage had yet to turn up a lead.

“We’ve got nothing.” Rico hit the Pause button and slammed his fist on the desk. “The pain, the loss was all for nothing.”

“Not quite.” SA Gibson tossed a paper on the desk. “Careful with the fist or you’ll be sitting in the ER again and this time for hours rather than minutes.”

Reading over the paper, Rico’s stomach turned. It was an account of the sniper shootings across the country that had gone down about an hour ago. “This is supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yeah. Notice that of the eight areas targeted on previous shootings, Atlanta is the only one not on there this afternoon. You disrupted the cell here from their purpose.”

“For how long?”

“It’s a start, which is a hell of a lot more than we had yesterday and something none of the other cities have yet.”

“At what cost?” Images of the carnage from the bombs and of Angie’s pale face hounded him. “Christ. You know, I never even saw it coming. Anywhere else in the world I might have considered Uzis and bombs, but following a cab in urban Atlanta during the middle of the day?” He shrugged, at a loss for words.

Gibson nodded. “I don’t think any of us want to accept what the past twenty-four hours are telling us, but we can’t ignore it. We’ve grown lax since 9/11, but the truth is, our homeland is now part of the world’s battleground. Our way of life, our culture, has become the enemy’s most valued target.”

“Bring me back the Cold War. At least then you could call a communist a communist, the core of the American people recognized and rejected its radical ideology, and the threat to our way of life was taken seriously.”

“You have a point.” Gibson’s cell vibrated. “Tell me you’ve got news.”

Rico turned back to the video and hit the Forward button while SA Gibson talked. He’d gone through two days’ worth of tape and was working on the third. Already he’d passed the daylight hours and was working on the night.

SA Gibson hung up the phone and turned toward Rico. “We’ve got prints. Boys found a new stroller in the motel dumpster.”

“Any matches?” Rico kept his gaze on the video and leaned forward as the hood of a dark sedan appeared. His heart pumped harder. He was sure it was a Honda.

“Four prints and four matches,” Gibson said. “The teen’s. The cabbie’s. Salaam Meshood, a close associate of Taliban leader Mohammed Omar and—”

“Got it.” Rico hit the Pause button as a sedan’s rear came into view. “I got the son of a bitch. How many black Hondas can show up at the motel?”

“And your prints as well,” SA Gibson said.

“My what?” Rico looked away from the screen to frown at Gibson.

“I knew the bastard was lying.” SOO de Jerk rushed in, Magnum .44 drawn and pointed at Rico’s head. Two other SA agents were behind him, weapons aimed.

Rico held up his hands. “What the hell is this?”

Gibson stood. “You do like drama, Djorkaeff. Corporal, your prints were found on the stroller used in the Piedmont Park sniper shooting.”

“What?” Rico’s head started to pound with a vengeance. “How?”