Wildfire (34 page)

"And last but not least," Whittman added, bringing his arm around in what might have been a deliberately theatrical sweep, "Jason Bascomb the fucking Third."

It took Grynard a moment before he realized the significance of the hostage recovery team commander's comment.

"You said 'last but not least'?"

"Man was an asshole." Whittman shrugged indifferently, not understanding Grynard's question. "Didn't necessarily deserve to die this way, but he was still an asshole."

"No, I mean what about Maas?"

"You mean the Kraut in the wheelchair?"

That's right, Whittman, you'd know all about a guy like Gerd Maas, wouldn't you?
Grynard thought to himself.
Man after your own heart. Probably already tried to talk Headquarters into recruiting the bastard if Bascomb ever figured out how to work the whole deal down to a misdemeanor.

"Yeah, right."

"Don't know, haven't found him yet." Whittman shrugged again. "Kinda hoping we would. I don't like to see a guy like that running around loose, even if he is in a wheelchair. Idiot who let him out on bail ought to be disbarred."

"Any sign of the chair?"

"Nope. Some wheel marks in the carpet. That's about it." Whittman shook his head. "You ask me, I figure whoever hit this place probably came here with the direct intention of scooping him up rather than killing him."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because if that wasn't the case," Whittman said, his eyes taking on a cold and distant expression as he turned to stare at Grynard, "I really doubt that the situation here would have ended up anywhere near this one-sided."

"I see." Grynard nodded thoughtfully. And then after a moment: "Any make on a weapon?"

Whittman nodded. "Oh, yeah, you'll love this part. Based on the ejected casings, we're looking at a Model 1076 using restricted law enforcement ammo."

"What? Are you sure?"

The hostage rescue team commander didn't even bother to answer that question. Instead, he simply stared back at Grynard.

"Okay, I believe you." Grynard shrugged. "So who has access to that stuff?"

"You mean besides us law enforcement types?"

"Yeah, I'm assuming we're not dealing with a rogue agent here," Grynard responded sarcastically.

"Don't be too sure," Whittman said. "Whoever took this place down knew a hell of a lot about federal procedures for operating a safe house. Besides, a lot of federal and state law enforcement agencies have switched over to the 10mm round in the last couple of years. Hell, even the bunnies and guppies guys are starting to carry 'tens.' "

"The who?"

"Fish and Wildlife Service Agents," Whittman translated.

A1 Grynard's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Wait a minute," he said, starting to feel that familiar numbness in his stomach again. "I thought those wildlife guys carried short-barreled stainless steel .357's, because they were out in the water all the time."

"Yep, Smith & Wesson Model 66's." Whittman nodded. "Or at least they did until a few years ago when about two-thirds of their force switched over to 9mm's. The Model 66 and the 'ten-seventy' were put out as authorized options. What I hear now is that most of their agents have gone to the Model 1076 as their basic duty weapon, and use the 66's as a backup option when they're out in the boats."

"Shit," Grynard muttered.

"Why, does that make some kind of difference with this deal here?"

"I don't know, maybe."

"Oh, that's right," Whittman said, "this whole deal started out as some kind of federal wildlife investigation, didn't it?"

"A covert investigation of the illegal guiding activities of the Chareaux brothers just outside of Yellowstone." Grynard nodded. "And it ended up with the deaths of three federal wildlife agents, ten of the twelve counter-terrorists, two of the three Chareaux brothers, and a pair of dead-on-arrival coconspirator types from the Department of the Interior; the destruction of an underground counterterrorist training center—built right under the noses of the federal government in Yellowstone National Park—that would make you drool—and a whole bunch of pieces still missing from the puzzle."

The hostage recovery team commander stared at Grynard for a long moment.

"So what's the deal here, Grynard? You thinking that maybe the buddies of those dead wildlife agents went after Maas on their own, and took out four security experts, and a handful of sleazy defense attorneys on the side, just to even things out? Or maybe hired somebody to do it for them?"

Grynard shook his head. "No, I don't believe that."

"You could say that with a whole lot more conviction," Whittman commented.

"Christ, I don't know what I think anymore," the exhausted FBI agent muttered. "Nothing about this whole deal makes much sense."

There was a long pause while the two supervisory FBI agents watched members of the FBI crime-scene team begin to work around the body of their fallen ex-comrade.

"So tell me, Grynard," Whittman asked in a conversational tone of voice, "how is it that an FBI ASAC out of Anchorage ends up getting involved in a wildlife case originating out of Yellowstone?"

"One of those dead wildlife agents, a guy named Paul McNulty, got nailed up in Skilak Lake. Probably by Maas, although we haven't been able to prove that so far. McNulty was the special agent in charge of the covert team that tripped across Maas and his counter-terrorist group in the course of investigating the Chareaux brothers, which was right before they walked into a political hornet's nest and got disbanded as a team. McNulty got reassigned to the SAC position at the Anchorage Regional Office and then got hit a few weeks later. The team's ASAC, Carl Scoby, was shot and killed down in Arizona, and attempts were made on three of the other covert team members shortly thereafter. Beyond that, it gets a little complicated."

"Yeah, I'll bet it does." Whittman nodded. And then, after a moment: "Mind if I make a suggestion?"

"No, go ahead."

"The guy who hit this place—you
are
going after him, right?"

Grynard blinked and then stared at the tall, casually dressed agent. "You said 'the guy.' You mean as in singular? One guy?"

"That's right." Whittman nodded.

"Wait a minute, Whittman, let me get this straight. You're telling me you think that one individual took out a four-man, professionally trained security team, and an ex-Marine with counterterrorist training"—Grynard nodded toward the body of Roy Parker—"and then physically
captured
a guy like Gerd Maas?" he added incredulously, ignoring Whittman's question for the moment.

"About three hours after he took out a four-man U.S. Marshal transport team on the Dulles Access Road with a four-bore rifle, right in the middle of rush-hour traffic, and made off with your buddy Chareaux." The hostage recovery team commander nodded. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you."

"Assuming for the moment that there really was only one shooter involved in each incident, and I'm not conceding that by any means, what makes you so sure it was the same man?" Grynard demanded, feeling his heart start to pound heavily as he realized that Whittman was basically confirming his own growing fears.

"Two professional hits that result in the escape or kidnapping of two highly trained killers like Maas and Chareaux, both of whom are linked to the same federal conspiracy case? Come on, Grynard, give me a fucking break."

"Still, it doesn't have to be one man. Whoever pulled these hits off could have had help," the Anchorage-based FBI agent argued.

"With the planning and setup, sure, I'd buy that. But not with the hit itself. I'm telling you, buddy, you're looking for the Lone Ranger on this one."

"Based on what evidence?"

"Hell, take a look at the scene." Whittman shrugged. "Whoever this bastard is, he might just as well have choreographed his moves out with a piece of chalk. You can walk your way through it, step by step, just as plain as day. And when you do, you get a real sense that the guy had plenty of time to figure out exactly where everybody was at, and exactly what he was going to do next, every step of the way. And let me tell you something, he moved goddamned fast when he did it, too."

"But how did he know where—" Grynard started to ask, but Whittman was way ahead of him.

"We found a transmitter attached with a magnet under the transport van. I had it checked out, and it wasn't chirping on any of the local law enforcement frequencies. So I figure the bastard found some way to get access to the van, slapped on a transmitter, tracked them to this place sometime after the U.S. Marshal hit, and then took his sweet time checking things out while Bascomb and his buddies ate their take-out fried chicken dinner . . . none of which answers my original question, Grynard. You
are
going after him, aren't you?"

Grynard nodded silently.

"How about doing yourself a favor then," the hostage recovery team commander said quietly as he stared down at the body of Roy Parker, the ex-Marine who had refused to give up.

"What's that?"

"Give us a call when you spot him. Let us give you a hand."

"Whittman, I've got twenty-four agents from Special Ops, in addition to my eight," Grynard said. "If you're right, and we really are dealing with only one individual, then thirty-three experienced agents ought to be capable of dealing with him, no matter how good he is or how well he's armed. Especially since we're baiting him in," he added.

"Oh, really?" Whittman's head came up. "With what?"

"A five-man covert team of federal wildlife agents."

"The same guys?"

Grynard nodded. "The surviving members of the original team."

"You're shitting me."

Grynard shrugged but said nothing.

"So that's why you spooked when I mentioned the 10mm stuff."

"Let's just say that it adds another dimension to a case that's already too damned confusing as it is," Grynard replied.

Whittman hesitated for a moment, staring down at the floor as he seemed to be working things out in his head with respect to the scene and what few rumors he'd heard about the raid on the Whitehorse training facility at Yellowstone National Park. Then he looked back at his fellow supervisory agent.

"Where are these agents now?"

"They were up in Boston, setting up some kind of storefront operation. We're not sure exactly what happened, but they apparently blew their cover and got roused by the Boston police. According to our surveillance team, they may have pulled up stakes and transferred their operation to the Miami area."

"Do they know this bastard's coming after them?" Whittman asked in a quiet, raspy voice.

"No, not as far as we know."

"Christ, Grynard," the hostage recovery team commander exclaimed angrily, "why don't you just go ahead and take them out yourself! Make it easier on the poor sons of bitches!"

"Hey, it's not like I'm staking them out like a bunch of goddamned goats!" Grynard bristled.

"Bullshit, that's exactly what you're doing!"

"Look, Whittman, six months ago these wildlife guys took down ten members of an international team of counterterrorist experts that included Parker and Maas. They're a good group of agents. They can take care of themselves."

"Doesn't matter how good they are. You set them out in front of a guy like this," Whittman said, gesturing with his hand at the surrounding scene, "you're gonna lose them. And you're gonna lose good agents trying to protect them, too."

And then, before Grynard could respond, the hostage recovery team commander said: "Look, Grynard, I understand what you're trying to do. And the truth is, in your position, I'd probably try to do the same thing myself. But honest to God," Whittman added in a voice that, to Grynard, sounded almost pleading, "you get a line on this guy, at least call us in on standby. That way, if it all goes to shit, at least you'll be able to sleep at night."

Fifteen minutes later, Grynard was back outside with his rookie agent driver.

"Back to headquarters," he snapped as he got in the front seat of the polished vehicle and slammed the door. "Fast as you can get there."

"But—"

"Don't talk," Grynard ordered in a cold voice. "Drive."

Chapter Twenty-one

It was two-forty-five that Saturday afternoon by the time Al Grynard and his young FBI agent driver returned to the Hoover Building.

After thanking the rookie agent, and then badging his way through security, All Grynard took the elevator to the third floor, then walked down the corridor until he came to an open double door that led into a maze of interconnected work spaces and offices. He paused at the door of the occupied corner office.

"Ready to go to work?"

"You back again?" Reggie Blackburn, the supervisory agent in charge of the electronics support unit, blinked sleepily. "I thought you went home."

"Got work to do." Grynard shook his head. "I need a fax linkup to Bloom."

"The one in the sailboat?"

"Yep."

"Okay." Blackburn nodded agreeably. "Let's go see where the man's got himself to now."

Humming to himself, the supervisory electronics specialist led the way over to an adjacent workshop where every flat surface was covered with computers, keyboards, monitors, and an incredible array of miscellaneous electronics tools, instruments, and parts —all scattered about in a seemingly randomized order. From the back of the computers and electronic devices, dozens of shielded cables and antenna wires rose to and through the ceiling panels, many of which had either been punctured with multiple holes or simply lifted and moved aside.

Selecting a desk-height workbench area that held two separate computer systems, Reggie Blackburn sat himself down in a well-worn secretary's chair and reached behind one of the computers to flip a recessed switch.

In a matter of moments the larger of the two screens — a huge color monitor that Grynard judged was at least twenty-four inches on the diagonal—came to life.

As Grynard watched in fascination, the powerful Pentium-based computer began to rapidly draw a detailed map of the Bahamas Islands, showing Walker Cay at the top of the screen and Great Inagua at the bottom. The islands were outlined in dark green, filled in with a lighter shade of green, and the surrounding ocean was displayed in gradient shades of light to medium blue, indicating the approximate depth of the water.