Gone Bad (3 page)

Meyerstein asked, “Political ideology?”

“Far right from day one. A lot of Delta are what you’d describe as military right-wing – protecting the homeland and swearing allegiance to the flag are givens. But he was something quite, quite different.”

“Fascist tendencies perhaps?”

“Borderline. He read Nietzsche, books on philosophy, Goethe, and Adolf Hitler. Whole passages he could recite verbatim. Geo-political buff.”

Malone was scribbling notes furiously. “You mind if I jump in here, Jon?”

Reznick shrugged.

“I’ve worked with Jon and the Assistant Director before. So from what Jon says, this is a highly intelligent man. This is an interesting challenge in front of us, for sure. I’ve been reading up on Hunter Cain. Propensity to extreme violence from an early age. Father whipped him if he didn’t finish his meals. So we can have a clear insight into his psychological make-up. Certified sane apparently, but examples of him hearing voices as a child. Perhaps may hint at schizophrenia. But this has never been diagnosed.”

Reznick blew out his cheeks. “Are you saying he could’ve been in Delta, and subjected to everything we had to go through, and be schizophrenic? Is that possible?”

“Far more likely to be psychopathic, perhaps.” He stared long and hard at Reznick. “But to answer your question: yes, I believe it would be possible. Could he be delusional?”

Reznick said nothing.

“There could be multiple personalities at work here, to be frank. The cutting off of fingers, or any body part, is part of the make-up of many serial killers.”

Meyerstein stared at her notes before she fixed her gaze on Reznick. She then looked across at her FBI colleague. “Militia guy, military training, tough, possible personality disorder, hatred of government, fixation with Timothy McVeigh, on the loose. I’ve not had time to look over what the prison says, but where are we with that?”

Female Special Agent Gillian Miller cleared her throat. “It’s clear this was pre-planned, months in advance. Clearly having expert help on the outside, almost certainly on the inside too. Governor has suspended one officer he suspects of being intimidated by associates of Cain to ignore shanks in his cell, made from scrap metal, which we believe were used to cut away at the seal round the toilet before it was ripped out.”

“What about the plans for the building? Who has access to these?”

“Just about anyone. Not difficult to find. I accessed encrypted plans online couple of hours ago. Militia groups exchange intelligence all the time, always highly encrypted.”

Meyerstein shook her head. “Jon, capabilities for a guy like this? I’m not looking for referenced articles, obviously; just your take on what this could mean.”

“I think you got a serious problem. This is not, as your colleague Special Agent Miller said, just a guy that got lucky. We’re talking maximum security. People don’t just walk out of places like that unless there’s a highly technical network in place. I’m talking planning, strategy for execution, and it would take time. And they couldn’t get it wrong, as he’d be on 24/7 solitary, with no chance of escape. There’s clearly a target on the outside they’ve identified. This guy doesn’t like government. But there will no doubt be other stuff he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like business either. Especially big business. Corporate America he has a major problem with. Small government is his thing. But as for targets, take your pick. Too numerous to mention. Nato summits, G8, anything like that coming up?”

Meyerstein shook her head. “Got a Nato summit in Milan in a week.”

Reznick shrugged. “So are we talking about a government target in America? McVeigh’s terrorism was clearly a signal from the far-right militia groups of what they thought of federal government control. They don’t like control. They don’t like government.”

Meyerstein stared down at her papers for a few moments as a red light began to flash on her BlackBerry. “Cain and his inner circle are based in the Florida Panhandle. The Panhandle. That’s where his contacts are. That’s where he has family and friends.”

Special Agent Miller piped up, “We have no evidence he’s there or headed there.”

“But in the circumstances, you have to start with what you know. We know to focus on Florida. And we need to assume he’s either getting help from Florida or headed directly there.”

Reznick cleared his throat. “What concerns me is: who’s behind Cain? His backers. He’s not doing this alone. Any ideas?”

Meyerstein spoke. “The militias are all pretty self-contained, divided into cells. But there’s a degree of cross-fertilization of ideas and people.”

“But we need to find out who’s backing this, or else we’re gonna be chasing shadows.”

Meyerstein sighed. “Do you think this is imminent?”

“Highly likely. The shorter Cain is on the outside, the smaller the chance of him getting caught.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Think seventy-two hours max.”

SIX

The pick-up truck pulled up outside the windowless biker clubhouse bar outside Ormond Beach. Hunter Cain pulled his baseball cap down low as he watched a guy sitting astride a chopper. The biker turned and nodded in their direction.

The driver said, “That’s him. Solid.”

“Where’s he from?”

“Outlaws chapter in Oakland, California. Originally. Runs a small garage not far from here.”

Cain said nothing.

The guy on the bike pulled out a cellphone. He nodded and glanced across in the direction of the pick-up. He ended the call and put the phone in his jacket pocket. Then he signaled.

The driver said, “That’s your cue, Hunter. Best of luck.”

Cain leaned over and hugged the driver tight. “I won’t need luck. They’ll be the ones needing luck.”

The driver said, “They’ll be in touch.”

Cain got out of the truck and headed past the biker and into the bar. The place was empty. He sat down on a stool and looked at the barman. “Gimme a Heineken, son.”

The barman nodded nervously and handed over a chilled Heineken.

Cain gulped down the cold beer. It felt phenomenal. His first for years.

The barman wiped the wooden counter. “You on vacation my friend?”

“No.”

The barman nodded slowly. He stared at the tattoos on Cain’s neck. “You just outta the joint.”

“You ask a lot of questions. Gimme another beer.”

The barman served him up another chilled Heineken. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. Just I got out last year myself. Four fuckin’ years, man.”

Cain said nothing as he chugged back the second beer. He turned and looked around the rest of the room, walls adorned with pictures of bikers and their girls partying in the bar.

The clubhouse door opened and in walked two tattooed white guys. He recognized them immediately. They walked up to Cain and hugged him tight, then sat down either side of him at the bar.

The guy to his left smiled. “You all set?”

Cain nodded.

The barman handed the scar-faced guy a Heineken.

“Hey, Pete,” Cain greeted him.

“I’m in charge of getting you safely to your destination,” Pete replied.

Cain looked at the barman. “And what about this guy? Is he with you guys?”

Without a word, the newcomer took out a handgun and shot the barman at point-blank range through the head. The sound echoed round the wooden bar, blood exploded, and the man’s body slumped to the floor.

Cain’s ears were ringing. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Pete holstered his gun and hugged Cain tight. “Good to see you again, Hunter. How the fuck are you?”

“Same old, same old.”

The guy on the left got off his stool and hugged Cain. “I’m gonna do whatever it takes, Hunter. You know me.”

“Neil, nice to see you, bro.”

Cain grinned. It felt good to see two of his crew again, both released six months earlier. “We got work to do. But first, you need to dispose of that guy’s body.”

Neil hopped over the counter and opened the hatch on the floor. Dragging the body feet-first, he dropped it down into the cellar and slammed the hatch shut. “All done.”

Cain looked at Pete. “Who was the kid behind the bar?”

“Friend of the Outlaws. Worthless piece of shit. Skag-head. Better off dead.”

Cain said, “So we all set?”

Pete nodded. “We got a fresh set of wheels waiting outside.”

They drove for over an hour south down I-95 and stopped off at a gas station. They switched to a waiting SUV. Cain got in the passenger seat as the other two got in the rear.

The driver gave him a firm handshake. “Let’s get going.”

Cain nodded as they drove inland into the heart of Florida. Past little towns, villages and into open space. Farmland. Down some dirt tracks.

At last they pulled up at a rural farmhouse.

The driver said, “He’s waiting.”

Cain turned to face Pete and Neil. His two comrades. “I’ll see you soon. We’re gonna kick some ass, right?”

Both nodded, stone-faced.

Cain pushed open the door and headed inside, alone. Standing at the far end of the hall was a huge man wearing a camouflage jumpsuit, hunting rifle in one hand. He stepped forward and hugged him tight.

“Good to have you here, Hunter.”

“Let’s get started.”

“Follow me.”

Cain followed the man down into a basement cellar. There was a huge plan on the wall.

“This is the layout of the building where they’re meeting,” he said. “Specifications, dimensions, access routes, stairwells, everything. Copy of the original plans. No modifications since it was built.”

Cain stepped forward and stared at the plans. “Who knows about this?”

“A handful of people. Good people. Us.”

“Pete and Neil?”

“Where they’re going, they’ll have access to this plan too. Five copies made.”

Cain had never met the man. He had only heard of him in militia circles. His accent sounded Appalachian. He’d served with a few in Delta. Tough diehards.

“You’re probably wondering why we picked you, right?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“We needed someone who was top-grade military. We needed someone with our mindset. A freeman. But someone who wasn’t averse to doing what it took to reclaim our country.”

Cain looked at the map for a few moments. “What else?”

“We picked your friends because we’d been observing how tight you lot were inside Leavenworth.”

“You got people inside?”

“We have eyes and ears everywhere.”

“But why particularly me?”

“A good few of the Aryan Brotherhood were excellent candidates. We wanted someone who was as tough as those fucks, but stood apart.”

“Well, by now they’ll know I’m out. And I’ll be on their wanted list.”

“Let us deal with that.”

The guy bent over and opened up a floor hatch. Cain peered down and saw a ladder into a well-lit tunnel. “Go on.”

Cain climbed down and the man followed after.

The man was panting heavily as they entered a brightly-lit air-conditioned tunnel. “Follow me.”

Cain did as he was told. “What the fuck is this?”

“You’ll see.”

They walked for nearly a mile till they got to a huge, floodlit firing range.

“State of the art. Hidden from view. Soundproofed. Emergency exits in four places, in case the house is raided.”

Cain smiled. He realized the mission was in good hands.

SEVEN

It was late when the small plane carrying Reznick, Meyerstein and a dozen Feds touched in Pensacola. He wondered how things would unfold. He always liked to think ahead. They were driven to the FBI field office and briefed by local members of the joint terrorism task force, specializing in organized crime and penitentiary gangs.

Reznick pulled up a seat and listened intently. He realized that anything with Cain involved would be serious stuff. Heavy-duty. A huge color photo of Cain was projected on to a wall as they sat around an oval table, drinking coffee and eating pizza slices.

“We believe,” began Special Agent Cortez of Pensacola FBI field office, “that Cain moved south. NSA have been called in and have pinpointed GPS locations with voice analysis from a cellphone microphone. In particular, to the wife of a militia member in Louisiana, Edwin Mackenzie. He was previously a member of a neo-Nazi biker gang, Kavallerie Brigade. He hasn’t been seen for a couple of days, around the same time Cain went missing. We believe Mackenzie was instrumental in getting him from Kansas down south and handed over, almost certainly to another militia.”

Reznick said, “Anything else on this Mackenzie?”

“Periphery of the Aryan Brotherhood around twenty years ago in Leavenworth. Killed two prison guards with a homemade shank. He escaped alongside Cain. But a subsequent search of his cell revealed notes written in invisible ink. Code numbers that we believe were the time and date of the escape.”

Reznick rubbed his eyes. “Great.”

Cortez said, “We believe now that Mackenzie was the bridge between Kansas and Florida, where Cain knows a lot of people. Pensacola in particular.”

“He won’t be heading to Pensacola,” interjected Reznick.

Cortez looked around the table at the rest of the FBI agents as Meyerstein scribbled notes. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve been introduced. You are?”

Meyerstein interrupted. “His name is Jon Reznick. He works on special projects for me. Got a problem with that, Special Agent Cortez?”

“Absolutely not, ma’am – just looking for clarification.”

“Well, you’ve got it.” Meyerstein looked across at Reznick. “So, Jon, would you like to clarify why you think he won’t be heading to Pensacola?”

Reznick sighed. “Here’s the thing. He might know people round here, but he isn’t stupid. He’s very intelligent. I know this guy. If he’s in Florida, he won’t be hanging around Pensacola.”

Cortez said, “Are you saying we just shouldn’t bother about intel we have on him and his militia buddies?”

“Not at all. What I’m saying is, you won’t find Hunter Cain here. He’ll be on the move. Hidden from sight by now. But not here.”

“Mr Reznick …”

“Listen, Cortez, I’m sure you’re very good at your job putting a solid investigative case together. But you need to get down to a different level if you’re dealing with these guys.”