Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (29 page)

One hundred three

Doc waited until he saw the three men exit the building before nodding to signal the remaining operator at his side that it was time to go. He interrupted the DOJ attorney in mid-sentence.

“Pardon me for one second please,” he said softly. “Gentlemen, several others will be here shortly to help you comply with these orders, as well as with the National Security Letter. I urge you to listen to them very closely. Violating any aspect of an NSL—even unintentionally—is a very serious crime and gets treated accordingly. We’re all on the same side here. Let’s keep it that way. Thank you for your cooperation and professionalism.”

Doc shook each of their hands and looked both men in the eye for several seconds until each nodded to indicate their understanding. The attorney picked up where he had left off and Doc headed for the helicopter, followed closely by his third operator.

Mark was already buckled in tight and wedged between Billy and Max in the rear when the last two men boarded the aircraft. Doc turned around to get a look at Mark and winked.

“You okay?”

“I’m good, Doc. Thanks for coming to get me.”

“You’re family, Mark,” he answered before nodding to the pilot. He didn’t speak again until the helicopter was racing back to Boston at top speed.

“Listen, Mark, I need to go to JTTF, but we’re going to drop you three off someplace else on the way so you can cool off and get cleaned up. In the meantime, tell me everything you know about what happened today.”

One hundred four

Amir had acquired the first getaway vehicle from an elderly gentleman less than a mile from Founders Field. After snapping the old man’s neck, he quickly dumped the body in a nearby trash can and hoped nobody would notice until he was far away. Running out of gas a short time later, he had praised God when a young woman pulled over almost immediately to help. He strangled her, left the body in a deep ditch on the side of the road, and headed north.

At the New Hampshire welcome center, he parked at the far end of the lot to avoid surveillance cameras, feigned car trouble, and flashed three hundred dollars in front of a young man who looked like he needed the money. The two were immediately on their way in a brown Chevrolet pickup truck with New Hampshire plates.

“Do you smell something? Seriously, I feel nauseous,” Amir said once they had turned onto a dirt road just a few miles from the safe house.

“No. How much farther did you say it was to your aunt’s house?”

“We’re almost there. It’s just up the road, but can you pull over? I seriously think I’m going to throw up and don’t want to mess up your truck.”

The vehicle came to a stop and Amir stepped out. The driver checked the time on his wristwatch and exhaled impatiently. Before he could raise his head, Amir had opened the driver’s side door, pulled him to the ground violently by the neck of his t-shirt, and fired two bullets into his head. He disposed of the body deep in the woods.

Amir prayed silently as he drove and reflected on the successes of the day. The bomb, gunmen, and girl at the hospital had not been as deadly as he had wanted. But according to radio reports, they had still shaken the infidel world, and of that he should be proud.

He turned off the main road and followed the winding dirt driveway uphill to the cabin, where he would rest and alter his appearance before heading south to Washington where his true glory awaited. But first he had to return to the safe house to retrieve the weapons and explosives that he had been forced to leave behind when he amended the original plan. Just as important, he needed to kill the only person who could positively identify him.

When he reached the cabin, he drove far beyond the end of the driveway and parked the truck well past the tree line. The sight of the truck and the subsequent sound of Amir’s boots against the wooden steps of the cabin sent chills through the structure’s only occupant. Amir knocked and waited. A trembling voice answered from within.

“What do you want? Why have you returned?”

“Open the door, Yasir. I will not ask you twice.”

One hundred five

“Billy, let me use your phone,” said Mark.

“No problem. And
mi casa es su casa
. The shower is down the hall and you can have any of the clothes in the closet.”

Mark dialed Luci’s number and walked down the hall toward the bathroom. No answer. Voicemail.

“Hey babe, it’s me. Just calling to see how you’re doing. I hope you got the message that I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ve just got a few things to take care of before I can head back to town. I’ll call you again later. Be safe … and don’t ever forget how much I love you. Talk soon.”

Mark felt somewhat better when he emerged from the bedroom, freshly showered, but his head continued to throb. Max sat in a chair near the window on the other side of the safe house, located in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood.

“These are for you,” Billy said as he handed Mark his handgun and an ice pack. “Listen, all kidding aside—how are you doing? You okay?”

“Besides my head, I’m good,” he answered.

Billy turned Mark around to look at the back of his head.

“Damn, that’s the size of a golf ball. Lucky he didn’t catch you with the edge of his stick or you’d have quite a gash on your noggin,” said Billy.

“I’ve had worse. I just wish I could have gotten that other bastard before he got away. I have a sick feeling he’s long gone by now and they’ll never find him.”

“At least you got one of them. If you hadn’t been there, he could have done a lot more damage. Still, I know how tough it is. I’ll never forget the day McVeigh blew a hole in Oklahoma City. I knew people who got killed that day. Hell, everyone in OKC knew someone who got killed or hurt.” Billy cracked a smile, pointed across the room, and raised his voice. “Hey, look at Max for a second and tell me if he looks familiar.”

Max looked up and rolled his eyes. “I was just doing my job. Are you ever gonna let it go?”

“No, seriously,” Billy insisted. “Stand up, tie a bandana over your face, and see if Mark recognizes you. I swear, this is the last time I’m gonna do this.”

“Screw you, Billy.”

“Calm down. It doesn’t matter anymore anyway. Actually, I think you totally redeemed yourself today when you helped rescue the great Mark Landry from captivity. Unfortunately, nobody will ever hear about or see this one,” Billy said.

Billy threw an arm around Mark, pulled him in close, and whispered the explanation. “I’m just busting his chops. Some Army guy deserted his unit and ended up getting his ass captured by the Taliban. Max drew the short straw at his last job and got stuck having to go pick the guy up in some bullshit prisoner exchange. The ragheads filmed it and the video has like four billion hits on YouTube. It pisses him off to no end.”

“Good to see you haven’t changed,” Mark said as he pulled Billy toward the kitchen. “Tell me you have something to eat in this place and fill me in on what’s happened since I’ve been out of the loop.”

“Chow is limited, bro. But budget cuts are the least of my worries.”

Mark browsed the contents of the refrigerator and decided on a bottle of water and a tightly wrapped takeout sandwich from a nearby deli.

“Go on.”

“Things are changing quickly. Politically and culturally. The heat is on, big time. Doc summed it up the other day—it’s no longer just about terrorists and hostile governments. He and Dunbar are spending just as much time playing defense against our own politicians and media who think we’re the bad guys. I’ve never seen him this pessimistic.”

“Yeah, he mentioned some of that to me the last time we spoke. Something about a major hack too. Lots of information might have been compromised. Anything new on that?” asked Mark.

“Might have been compromised? Oh no, my friend. We’re operating under the assumption that everything has been compromised, Family business included. Which raises a whole bunch of other issues we never thought we’d have to deal with. Personnel records, mission debriefs, you name it. Every morning I wake up wondering how long it’ll be before we’re all competing with Max for top spot on YouTube.”

“Any idea who’s behind it? Are we doing anything to control the potential fallout?”

“Who did it is anybody’s guess these days. A pimply faced high-school kid in his parent’s basement or North Korea’s Bureau 121. And what the hell can you do about it after the fact, man? Once it’s out there, it’s out there. We’d get a pass on most of it, but you and I both know there are some missions the American people would lose their shit over.”

“Like Berlin,” said Mark.

“Among others. But that particular one does come to mind.”

“Yet another time when you saved my ass, right? I still owe you for that one,” Landry added.

“I ain’t keeping score, Mark. Besides, you went on to save a hell of a lot more people than we can even imagine. I know you, brother. And I know you probably still think about what you had to do to get the job done. But you didn’t have any choice. You did the right thing, and a shitload of people are still alive because of you.”

Mark didn’t respond. He finished his water, grabbed another one from the refrigerator, and changed the subject.

“What brings you guys to Boston anyway?” asked Mark.

Billy glanced over his shoulder at Max and took a moment to choose the right words. “We aren’t one hundred percent certain, but the local JTTF may have an issue that needs to be addressed.”

“Yeah, like what?” pressed Mark.

“Like maybe some kind of information leak. Could be digital. Could be human. Delta raided an ISIS site in Syria last week and found some thumb drives full of stuff from the Boston JTTF. So we’re watching a couple of folks. It’s probably a digital hack instead of a mole. Doc doesn’t seem too worried about it, so my guess is it’s more of a precaution. But Doc likes to keep his cards pretty close to his vest, so who the hell knows.”

Mark and Billy rejoined Max, who had been flipping through the news channels.

“What are they saying, Max?” Asked Mark.

“Very few facts but plenty of speculation. Theories vary depending on the channel. Islamic terrorists. Lone wolves. Right-wing extremists. One of the local outlets said something about gang activity in the town—Latin Kings. But then they quoted a Kings spokesperson who denounced the attack and denied they even had any members there. The only thing everyone knows for sure is a bomb went off and three gunmen with shotguns and hunting rifles started shooting.”

“Not exactly,” replied Mark. “They used Sig Sauer M400s. I didn’t see any shotguns or hunting rifles, but I guess that doesn’t really matter.”

Billy’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. “Yeah, he’s right here. It’s Doc,” he said as he handed the phone to Mark.

“How are you doing, Mark?” Doc asked.

“I’m good. Have you heard anything new?”

“The Islamic State is taking credit, but we haven’t corroborated their claim, and it wouldn’t be the first time they tried to piggyback off an attack they had nothing to do with. JTTF says a bomb went off followed by at least three gunmen with AK-47s, but they haven’t ruled out the possibility that more people were involved. Thanks to your lead about the men in the truck, they checked out the public works area and found one of their drivers in a dumpster, strangled.”

“They weren’t AKs, Doc. But I imagine some of the people giving the briefings don’t know the difference anyway. What else?”

“All three gunmen have supposedly been preliminarily identified, but their identities won’t be released until the forensic and biometric evidence has been verified and investigators seize any assets and property. Identification was quick because all three already had prints or DNA in the national database. Two of the three had violent criminal records, and the other had managed to serve in the Air Force for about two weeks before being chaptered out for mental illness. What’s interesting is they’re all from different places: one from Massachusetts, one from New Hampshire, and one from Connecticut. It’s unclear whether they knew each other beforehand and planned this together or if they are just three lone wolves put together by a facilitator. ATF has the weapons and is trying to trace them. FBI has the surveillance tapes from the hospital bombing, but I heard something about the blast coming from a blind spot in the corner of the ER. The rest is still unfolding. Me, Max, and Billy need to get to Washington ASAP. Our analysts say there’s been lots of chatter about targeted assassinations, and Dunbar wants us around just in case we get actionable intelligence.”

“Sounds like business as usual.”

“Not exactly. Our top analyst says the typical chatter recently turned into a full-throated scream. Regardless, I need you to stay put for a while, okay?”

“Got it.”

“Mark, things are changing pretty rapidly in our world and it wasn’t as easy to extract you from this situation as it would have been in the past. There are a lot more moving parts these days. At one point I was doubtful we’d be able to do it at all.”

“I understand that, Doc. And I appreciate the risk you took by coming to get me personally. How can I repay the favor?” he asked.

“All I want you to do right now is sit tight where you are until I’m convinced you’re out of the woods. Once you are, I’ll send Sadie over to give you a lift home. If you want to return the favor, there is something you can do for me once you get home.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

There was a brief pause on the line as Doc cleared his throat before speaking. “Start planning the next phase of your life, Mark. I already told you I think you’re making the right choice by getting out now. The Family’s days are numbered, and I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire if things get as ugly as I think they might. Get out and start the family you said you wanted. Then be there for them.”

Mark had never heard Doc sound so despondent and was briefly taken aback by his remarks.

“I will,” he answered.

“Good. We’ll meet up in D.C. in a week or two to formalize your retirement. Until then, stay safe and keep a low profile.”