Hard Target (8 page)

“Calling you by a nickname would imply a certain casualness to our relationship that we don’t have.”

Uzi shrugged. “Not really. No one uses my last name, not even people who hate my guts.”

Leila’s phone began to ring. She reached into her shoulder-slung purse, answered the call, then turned her back on him. After waiting a few moments, Uzi walked off to find DeSantos.

“THAT THING I WAS WORKING ON.” DeSantos held up his BlackBerry as Uzi approached. “Got something.”

Uzi waited a beat, but DeSantos did not elaborate. “You gonna keep it a secret?”

DeSantos glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. His gaze still off somewhere, he said, “Word is that ARM had a hand in this.”

Uzi chuckled. “ARM had a hand? Is that a joke?”

“No boychick, no joke. Reliable intel. American Revolution Militia.”

“My focus since—well, since 9/11—has been foreign. Bureau’s all about counterterrorism and counterintelligence. ARM’s domestic. I’m a little thin here. Help me out.”

DeSantos buttoned his wool overcoat while formulating his thoughts. “I pulled together some info this morning, so I’ve got the basics. They came together about thirty years ago. Dude named Jeremiah Flint started a chapter in West Virginia that grew slowly over time. Then Jeremiah was gunned down during a routine traffic stop in Arlington.”

“That must’ve gone over real well.”

“Better than you think. He became a martyr. The new guy who took over focused them, started running them as a business. We may have a copy of their charter on file. I’ll pull it. Basically, they’re like most militias: they don’t like the government. They think everything should be handled at a local level. They dispute just about anything that restricts them or takes their money: the Constitution, the IRS, the Federal Reserve, our court system. You know the deal.”

Indeed he did. Patriot groups like The Freemen, and disasters like Ruby Ridge and Waco were required reading at the Academy. “The JTTF keeps up on domestic threats, but we’ve had our eye on homegrown Islamic radicals. They travel in different universes than domestic militias.”

What Uzi kept to himself was that the man in charge of his task force’s domestic terrorism unit happened to be the agent he just put on report: Jake Osborn.

“What makes the American Revolution Militia different from all the other crazy groups out there?”

DeSantos smiled, then slipped both hands into his jacket pockets. “Top of the list, my man, is that none of the others is suspected of trying to assassinate the vice president of the United States.”

LEAVING DESANTOS’S RED CORVETTE at the crash site and taking Uzi’s Tahoe, they drove to the ARM compound, a heavily wooded parcel set on gently undulating hills just east of Vienna, Virginia. While en route, DeSantos read Uzi a hastily prepared intelligence brief to give him a deeper sense of what—and who—they would be facing on their arrival. After finishing the three page summary, DeSantos suggested they arrive unannounced, even though he expected the guards to be on full alert because of the helicopters’ downing—particularly if they’d had a hand in their demise.

Uzi stopped the car in front of the eight-foot-tall masonry wall topped with sharp razor wire. “They mean business,” he said, eyeing the barricade.

DeSantos ripped open a Juicy Fruit pack and folded a stick into his mouth. “If they’re anything like my source described, we ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Uzi continued on to the main entrance, a fortified wrought-iron, motor-driven gate on wheels. A guard shack stood on a concrete slab off to the side. As the Tahoe’s tires crunched the gravel road near the gate, a man dressed in combat fatigues and thick Remington camo boots emerged from the shed with a submachine gun clutched between his hands. He took a position behind the gate, legs spread wide.

Uzi pulled his SUV up to the gate, then rolled down his window. He held open his credentials wallet, the ID and shield facing the paramilitary man. “We need to talk with Nelson Flint.”

“Got yourself a warrant?” The man’s voice was cigarette raspy, thick with a Southern accent.

Uzi frowned. “Do we need one?”

A click followed by a muted voice blurted from the man’s radio transceiver. He pulled the device from a leather harness on his belt and brought it to his face. He listened a few seconds before lowering it and slipping it back onto his belt. “Someone’ll be by to get you.”

Uzi and DeSantos got out of the Tahoe and leaned against the fender, the guard fingering his weapon and staring at them with contempt. DeSantos nudged Uzi’s forearm, then nodded at a small, round, black-and-gray device mounted above the guardhouse. “Surveillance camera,” he said by Uzi’s ear.

Uzi had already taken notice. “I count fourteen. And anticlimb sensors on the fencing, and ground-loop vehicle sensors in the pavement where we’re parked.” The chomp of rubber on gravel snared their attention. Along the curve just beyond a stand of mature pines, an olive green Humvee appeared amid a low-lying dust cloud.

DeSantos played with the Juicy Fruit between his front teeth. “Welcome wagon arrives.”

The SUV pulled to a stop alongside the guard shack, and, on the parasoldier’s signal, the pedestrian gate opened electronically. Uzi followed DeSantos through and they climbed into the Hummer’s backseat beside a man with close-cropped black hair. DeSantos slammed the door, and the driver, also sporting a Marine-regulation hairstyle, accelerated. The escorts remained quiet during the brief drive to the compound’s apparent headquarters, a rectangular two-story Civil War-era brick house with two large Ionic columns that swallowed the entrance.

The vehicle stopped beside the front porch. Uzi and DeSantos were ushered to the side of the structure, where two small wood steps rose to a separate entrance. They entered and moved through the kitchen into the dining room. Clearly used for meetings now, the worn oval table that dominated the space sat covered with neatly stacked file folders, five smartphones, and an equal number of laptops.

Each of the window panes on the far wall had the wavy and bubbled appearance of era-specific glass. Hanging on the eggshell walls were faux Wanted posters sporting the Federal Reserve Chairman’s face, a Nazi flag, and a framed reproduction of the Declaration of Independence.

“The fuck you people want?”

The deep, southern drawl came from the hallway behind them. Uzi spun and saw two men clad in combat fatigues, one fireplug short and squat, the other tall and lanky. As they approached, Uzi extended a hand. “Special Agent Aaron Uziel.” He indicated his partner. “Hector DeSantos.”

The squat man looked Uzi in the eye but did not offer his hand. Instead, he shook his head. “A kike and a spic. The fuck this country’s coming to.”

DeSantos tilted his head, appraising the two men. “You know, Uzi, they kind of remind me of Abbott and Costello.”

The thin one crossed his arms. “Don’t much care for your humor.”

“Sorry if I offended you,” DeSantos said. “We spics aren’t very polite.” He nudged Uzi with an elbow. “Stringbean here is Rodney McCourt. Half-pint’s Nelson Flint, heir to the throne after his father passed on.”

Flint’s chest puffed. “You mean was murdered.”

“Pull a gun on a law enforcement officer, bad shit happens,” DeSantos said.

Flint rooted a cigarette from his pocket, then stuck it between his lips. “Guvament’s been spying on us again, Rodney. Using their fancy satellites to intrude on the average citizen’s right to privacy.”

“That’s right, Mr. Flint,” Uzi said. “We know all about you. And you know a lot about us, too. Like why we’re here.”

“Haven’t the slightest,” Flint said with a straight face.

DeSantos smiled wryly. “I’m sure if you think about it, it’ll come to you. You’re a semi-intelligent person.”

“Six months ago,” Uzi said, “your man, Bryce Upshaw, told a reporter for the
Washington Times
that Vice President Glendon Rusch would be sorry if he didn’t re-examine his views on the right to bear arms.
He’d be sorry
. Those were his words, Mr. Flint, not mine.”

“And now the Veep’s helicopter is blown out of the sky,” DeSantos added. “We don’t think it was a coincidence.”

“Mr. Upshaw was not speaking for our organization.”

“Of course not,” DeSantos said. “That would cause some...trouble for you, wouldn’t it?”

Flint’s face shaded red. “Upshaw was a goddamn fool. He’s no longer part of our organization.”

Uzi and DeSantos shared a look. “Was he a fool because he said stupid things, or because he said things in public that were best left behind closed doors?” DeSantos glanced behind him at the entrance to the room. “These doors, in fact?”

Flint pulled the unlit cigarette from his lips, then pointed it at DeSantos as he spoke. “You two fuckers are here because I allow you to be here. Don’t push your luck. I give the word, my guards’ll haul your asses off our property.”

DeSantos took a step forward into Flint’s space. He looked down on the diminutive man and said, “You’re a coward, Flint. A small man with a small man’s brain. The only way you or your father could ever amount to something was for you to start your own organization where you could be the boss. Anywhere else you’d be sweeping floors or sorting garbage.”

Flint’s face flushed. “You son of a bitch—”

“You have something to do with those choppers going down,” DeSantos said. “And we’re going to prove it.”

Flint grabbed DeSantos by the collar and pushed him back against the wall. “Get the fuck off my land!”

Before Flint could react, DeSantos swiped the man’s hands to the side and spun him around. Rodney moved toward them, but Uzi stepped to the right and blocked his path.

DeSantos pushed Flint’s face against one of the windows as he snapped handcuffs on his wrists. “You’ve got a hard-on for the government? Fine. That’s your right. But don’t assault a federal officer. That’s just stupid, even for you.”

Flint struggled, his nose grotesquely deformed by the glass. Mucus sucked in and out of his right nostril as a tear ran down his cheek. “You’re... on my property... asshole.”

DeSantos pulled up on Flint’s handcuffs and the man cried out in pain.

“Santa,” Uzi whispered into his ear, “turn down the volume. Let him go.”

DeSantos hesitated a second, then fished out a long black key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. “If we find anything connecting you to that chopper blast, we’ll be back with an arrest warrant. Then we’ll be chatting on
my
property, asshole.”

Uzi eyed the tall man behind him. “We’ll be seeing you two again.”

TELLING THE HUMVEE DRIVER to go to hell, they hoofed it back to Uzi’s SUV, taking the opportunity to survey the compound. A well-armed guard trailed at a distance, his purpose to offer assistance should his visitors encounter difficulty finding the way back to their car. Actually, he was almost assuredly tasked with ensuring they didn’t take any unwelcome detours—or photos—while traversing the ARM property.

Uzi thought of the intelligence DeSantos had shared with him: it suggested an as-yet undisclosed figure was involved with ARM, someone with the business sense and management skills that Nelson Flint didn’t possess. After this brief meeting, Uzi agreed with the assessment: Flint was a figurehead. There had to be a string puller lurking behind the scenes.

Uzi flicked a glance over his right shoulder at their tail, and figured the man was out of earshot. “Our Nelson Flint wasn’t very forthcoming.”

“Didn’t expect him to be. Idea was to piss on their land, stake out our territory for our next visit. Maybe we’ll stop by again in a few days.”

“Something tells me he won’t let us in again.”

A grin broadened DeSantos’s face. “He won’t have to.”

“I don’t wanna know what you have in mind.” Uzi breathed in deeply. “Nice chunk of land they’ve got here. Smell the pine?”

DeSantos unwrapped another stick of gum and sniffed it. “I like this smell better.”

“You gotta be kidding. Juicy Fruit?”

“Brian used to chew it all day. Every day. Can’t get it out of my head. It’s all I’ve got left.”

“It’s hard losing a partner. On the job?”

DeSantos nodded. “Took a bullet. A black op we were running for Knox.” DeSantos shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his wool overcoat. His eyes roamed the trees and building façades. “CCTV cameras on the redwoods every thirty feet.”

Uzi had been checking as well. “Standard resolution color, infrared motion sensors. Wired. Pretty basic stuff.”

They walked a few more feet in silence before DeSantos continued. “Brian died the same day his wife gave birth to a baby girl. My goddaughter.”

Uzi thought back to the gum and DeSantos’s comment. “You took it hard.”

It was a moment before DeSantos answered. “Still am.”

12:03 PM

193 hours 57 minutes remaining

Uzi and DeSantos drove in silence to Quantico Marine Base, a trip Uzi was accustomed to making because the FBI Academy was located on the eastern portion of the same campus. The Marine Corps’s history on this site was well rooted, dating back to its establishment in 1917 following America’s entry into World War I. Quantico became one of the largest shipyards in the country.

Uzi pulled in line behind a dozen or so cars and waited to gain admittance to the base. A brick gateway stretched across both lanes of traffic, emblazoned with large block letters:

QUANTICO - CROSSROADS OF THE MARINE CORPS

“Never came through the main gate before,” Uzi said. He eyed the stiff military formality of the checkpoint, then the granite-based commemorative statue of soldiers raising the American flag at Iwo Jima, just off to the right. “Definitely more...Marine-like than the FBI side of the base.” He looked at DeSantos, whose gaze was off somewhere in the distance. “Ever been here?”

“A few years ago. Did some training with the top dog, Major Vasquez. The AMO, Aircraft Maintenance Officer. He’s responsible for all the upkeep done on the executive helicopter fleet.”

Uzi pulled up to the guard post, where they were greeted by a lance corporal dressed in a crisp, fresh uniform. They showed him their credentials, explained why they were there, and waited while the Marine made a call to obtain authorization.