Hard Road to Redemption Page 9

  Recognizing the newcomers as Braves and AR-15, the men who had provoked him and Stockwell at the diner, Jacob glimpsed the brief exchange between them and Winston. “Well, even good old boys head down wrong paths, Sheriff.”

  Following another look over his shoulder, “Excuse me for one second,” Winston took a last draw, flicked the cigarette, and walked away.

  BF strolled alongside his superior.

  Jacob watched the lawmen approach Braves and AR-15 and start a friendly conversation.

  Staring in the same direction as her partner, Stockwell huffed. “Well, what do you know? The local sheriff is buddy-buddy with our friends from the diner.”

  “Yup.” Jacob dragged a thumb across his lower lip. “Did you notice he wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear about our encounter at the plant? I’m positive the tow truck driver would’ve noticed the bullet hole in the radiator and reported it to the police.”

  “That’s because Sheriff Winston already knew.”

  “Exactly.”

  Stockwell looked at Jacob. “And why investigate something if you already know the people involved are going to be,” she paused, “taken care of?”

  He met her gaze. “I think Mr. Childress, God rest his soul, may have been right...the corruption isn’t limited to just Mountain Lion.” He went back to eyeing an approaching Winston and his deputy. “It’s,” he glimpsed the Chevy Tahoe he had seen earlier from the upstairs window, now parked in the motel’s lot, a man in black standing in shadows beside the SUV, “it’s county-wide.”

  “I’ll,” said the sheriff, “check into those witnesses you say you have...in the morning.”

  Jacob blinked twice and acknowledged the man.

  Winston lit another cigarette. “We should be done with the,” he poked a finger skyward, “crime scene upstairs in an hour or so. You can then get back to your,” he hesitated while shooting a look at the agents, “your matter of national security.”

  Jacob smiled and shook Winston’s hand. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  “You all have a good evening now.” He spun on his heels and wandered across the street.

  Stockwell squared her shoulders with Jacob. “Now what? We know he’s crooked. And we know that whatever’s going on around here,” she barely tipped her head toward Braves and AR-15, “they’re in on it. But how does this tie in with why we’re actually here...Chrissy Toberman’s disappearance?”

  Jacob scratched his chin while watching Braves and AR-15 join up with Winston and the deputy before the foursome made its way to the motel. “Everything’s,” he spied the Tahoe, but the man that had stood next to it was now gone, “it’s...it’s all related, Stockwell. When we break into that compound, we’ll see how it all connects.”

  She cocked her head at him and frowned. “I’m curious. When did we decide to break into the compound?”

  He faced her, “We didn’t decide,” before looking up at the window to their room then spying Childress’ room. Plopping hands onto his hips, he envisioned the attacks on their lives and the reporter’s dead body. “The decision was made for us.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 17

  What’s Your Plan?

  11:04 A.M.

  Once the dead bodies had been removed, and the sheriff’s deputies had left the crime scenes, Jacob and Stockwell had returned to their room, barricaded the door with a chest of drawers, and gotten five hours of sleep.

  Following a quick breakfast, they had spent the next two hours planning how best to sneak into the compound. Using the photos Childress had taken of the fenced-in community, along with what Jacob had seen when he had climbed the trees near the perimeter, the two agents had firmed up a plan they thought had the best chance for success in rescuing Chrissy Toberman from her captors.

  At 11:05, someone knocked on the door to the bed-and-breakfast room.

  Jacob and Stockwell grabbed their sidearms. She took a defensive position on Jacob’s left, behind the chest of drawers they had moved to the left of the door. His Coonan aimed straight ahead, he approached the entry point and peeped through the peephole. I knew that Tahoe was out of place. Eyeing Stockwell, “It would seem you have a visitor,” he pulled on the knob and faced a black man. “You’re a little south of New York City, aren’t you...Assistant Director Brolin?”

  Brolin nodded. “Jake.”

  Stockwell rose to her full height and drew up on her teammate’s left, her eyes wide. “Sir. W-What are you doing here?”

  “Just making sure my agent is doing well after that dust-up during the wee hours of the morning.” He gave Stockwell a once-over. “By my count, nine rounds were expended. Are you okay?”

  Unsure how to answer, she remained silent.

  “We’re both doing fine, sir,” said Jacob. “But I’m sure you already knew that...from your vantage point in the motel parking lot.”

  Brolin came back to Jacob. “No need for the ‘sir’ anymore, Jake. You don’t work for me.”

  Jacob smiled. “Old habits, I guess.”

  “However,” the AD’s attention went to Stockwell, “someone else does work for me. And she...”

  Stockwell braced herself for what was to come.

  “...has some explaining to do.” Brolin gave them each a quick look before gesturing toward the room. “Do you mind if I come in?”

  The agents stepped aside.

  Brolin entered, stuffed hands into pants pockets, and toured the space. He tapped a finger on the nearest Pelican Storm Case. “Interesting choice for luggage.”

  Jacob and Stockwell exchanged glances.

  “I’ll bet you can store a lot of,” he hesitated, “neat toys in there,” before turning to face his hosts. “I’m just going to cut through the crap, Agent Stockwell. I received a call from Director Jameson yesterday morning.”

  Stockwell shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  “He told me that he’d received a call from the White House, a Mr. Peter Whittaker...Chief of Staff to the President of the United States in case you’re wondering who that is...telling him to tell me to—and I quote—‘ease up on her.’” A moment. “The her in this case being you, Ms. Stockwell.” Another moment. “Any ideas on why the White House would be so interested in an FBI agent? And why would such interest come so soon after our meeting in my office the night before last...when we discussed your,” a tick, “luck in apprehending bad guys as of late?”

  The agents gave one another a knowing look, each one envisioning the face of Higs.

  “So, you do know what this is all about.” Brolin spun a chair around, sat, crossed his legs, and interlaced fingers on his topmost thigh. “I suggest you start talking, Agent Stockwell...perhaps you could begin with your power broker. Whoever he is, he seems to have some mighty big connections in Washington.”

  Fifteen minutes of one-way conversation passed.

  “So,” Brolin uncrossed his legs, leaned forward in his chair, rested elbows on knees, and massaged his forehead, “let me get this straight.” He sent a finger toward Jacob. “You don’t really work for Homeland Security. It’s only a cover story...for the fact that you are working for some computer genius who, as we’ve already established, has some pretty important Washington names on his contact list.”

  Jacob had decided to share with his former boss the details of his current job. The AD was tenacious and would not rest until he had discovered the truth. Plus, Jacob had placed an internal bet that the man’s goodness and good judgement would prevail.

  “And,” Brolin continued, “for the last couple of months, both of you have been...what,” he spread his arms apart, palms up, “playing vigilantes on the weekend?”

  Jacob stood taller. “That’s an unfair characterization, sir. We don’t kill indiscriminately. Our goal is to save those who need saving.” He bobbed his head left and right. “Granted...there have been individuals who’ve sought to stand in the way of our efforts. But,” he raised a finger, “saving i
nnocent lives is what we seek.”

  Brolin shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s how the rest of us in law enforcement, or the courts for that matter, would see things.” He faced Stockwell. “And I’m certainly not sure what to do with you, Agent Stockwell. You’re clearly operating outside of your official capacity,” he swiped a hand across the air, “regardless of how many lives you’ve saved. You and I,” he faced Jacob, “all of us are supposed to uphold the law...not break it.”

  His right butt cheek and thigh perched on the edge of the short dresser, Jacob crossed arms over his chest and looked away. Maybe I made a mistake in looping him in on this.

  “So, tell me.” Brolin cast alternating glances at the agents. “Why are you here...now? What’s going on right now?”

  Jacob eyed Stockwell.

  She shrugged. “In for a penny...”

  He spent the next five minutes recanting the details surrounding the kidnapping of Chrissy Toberman, the possible illegal arms deal, the ambush at the factory, and that the compound in the foothills northwest of Mountain Lion, Georgia might be at the center of everything.

  Brolin: “So your plan is to break into this compound and snatch this...this Chrissy Toberman? But you have no search warrant.”

  Jacob shook his head. “We do not.”

  “And you have no solid evidence that a crime has even been committed,” the AD rolled a finger, “to obtain such a search warrant.”

  Jacob shook his head. “Right again, sir.”

  Brolin huffed. “Tell me again how this isn’t vigilante justice?”

  Pushing away from the furniture, Jacob sighed heavily and rose to his six-two height. “Look, sir, I know the law. And I know how this looks in the eyes of the law. I also know what it’s like to have someone I love,” he drove a thumb into his chest, “my daughter...taken from me.”

  Stockwell lowered her head.

  “I’m sorry about that, Jake.” Brolin stood. “I really am, but—”

  “Sometimes,” Jacob cut off his onetime superior with a raised open hand, “the law doesn’t move fast enough in cases like these. Time passes, and the trail goes cold.”

  Brolin pressed his lips together.

  “Now,” Jacob’s voice went louder, “while I may not have a rock-solid case to present to a judge for a search warrant, I do have a damn good gut feeling that Chrissy Toberman is being held at that place against her will. And I plan to knock down some doors and,” he made a fist, “crack some skulls, if I have to, to make sure she sees her loved ones again.”

  Stockwell eyed her man and noted the strained muscles in his neck as he spoke.

  “You do what you need to do, sir. You’re the Assistant Director of the FBI. I get it. You have a job to do. Well, so do I. We can one day debate the ethics of my job, but right now...you’re either helping us,” he paused, “or standing in our way. Which is it, sir?”

  Stockwell’s eyes grew bigger at his last words.

  Brolin puffed out his chest while he slid hands into pockets and stared at the man that he would have reprimanded at one time for speaking to him in such a tone.

  Stockwell flicked her eyes from one man to the other, her stomach fluttering on the inside.

  The AD glimpsed Childress’ camera on the bed. Sheets of paper with drawings and notations lay strewn around the device. He spied his agent then fixed Jacob with a hard look. “While I’m not promising anything,” he bobbed his head toward the bed, “what’s your plan?”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 18

  Secure the Innocent

  TWELVE HOURS LATER...

  11:18 P.M.

  “Remember, Stockwell,” decked out in tactical clothing and gear from head to toe, including black face paint, a kneeling Jacob slid a sound-suppressed twenty-two caliber Sig Sauer 1911-22 into a thigh rig on his right leg, “this is a rescue op only. No engagement unless absolutely necessary. I want to get in, secure the Innocent, and get out without being detected. They have the numbers, so I’d prefer not to slug it out with them.”

  Down on one knee on his nine o’clock, dressed identical to him, her blonde hair covered by a black stocking cap, her face painted black, Stockwell tucked a stray lock under the hat and nodded before double-checking the sound-suppressed nine-millimeter Heckler & Koch MP5 slung across her chest.

  Fifty yards ahead of the tree the agents were using for concealment stood the compound’s east-facing fence line. To the northwest of the fence line’s midway point; the two-story main house. To the southwest; the main gate. Like the last time they had been here, patches of the perimeter’s interior were now lit up in a gentle glow. Unlike last time, however, fewer people now moved about the grounds at this late hour, and the tall spotlights were off.

  From a shoulder holster under his left armpit, Jacob removed his full-size 357 Coonan and verified its status: 7+1, hammer back, safety on. He holstered the weapon, slipped a small bud into his ear, and activated a transmitter/receiver attached to his vest. “Stockwell, you copy?”

  Hearing his voice through her own earbud, she reinserted her Glock 19M into its horizontal holster on her vest and pointed a thumb skyward. “Loud and clear, Jake.”

  “All right. Stay low. Stay quiet. And stay on my six.”

  Crouching, the agents moved through the woods to the northeast corner of the fence perimeter, took a knee, and waited.

  Two minutes later, “We’re good,” Jacob looked up and examined the tall pine he had scaled last night. “Watch my handholds and footholds and follow me.” He grabbed a branch, pushed off, and climbed the tree.

  Stockwell slung her MP5 rifle behind her, clutched the same limb he had, and began her ascent.

  *******

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER...

  After climbing one tree and jumping to two other trees, the second one inside the compound, Jacob and Stockwell had waited another five minutes to make sure their incursion had gone undetected.

  “Once I’m on the ground,” he whispered, “and have secured the area, I’ll cover your descent.”

  “Copy,” she whispered back.

  He got a grip on a branch above him, stretched out a boot, and lowered himself to a branch below.

  Stockwell noted where he placed his hands and feet while she kept watch for guards.

  The lowest limb left Jacob hanging in midair, his boots five feet from terra firma. He let go, landed with a thump, took cover behind the tree, drew his sound-suppressed Sig Sauer, and waited.

  One minute passed.

  “All clear, Stockwell. Your turn. Slow and easy.”

  Having memorized the path he had taken, Stockwell looked like a monkey that had called this tree his home for the last ten years. She made it to the lowest branch in less time than her teammate had taken.

  From his haunches, Jacob holstered his pistol and stood.

  She curled hands around the horizontal bough and stretched out her body.

  He palmed the sole of her swaying right boot then cupped the crease where her left thigh and butt came together. “I got you, Dee.”

  “I thought you’re supposed to woo me before getting a piece of that.”

  He cracked a brief smile. “Keep your back straight and let go.”

  She let go, expecting to feel her body falling to the ground.

  Jacob squeezed her butt and thigh, pressed her right leg to his chest, and guided her boots to the grass in one fluid motion before drawing his Sig Sauer.

  She brought her rifle back around and assumed a two-hand hold on the H&K.

  They each took a knee near the tree and shot looks in all directions.

  “Clear.”

  “Clear.”

  “Very smooth, Jake. If you ask me, I think we might have a shot at winning this year’s dance competition.”

  “If I get to touch your butt, I’ll do whatever you want me—” he tensed.

  Having heard the same noise, Stockwell pivoted to meet the source then raised her
rifle.

  He pushed her gun down, “Too loud,” then holstered his twenty-two while sidestepping right. “Keep the tree between him and you.”

  She complied.

  Squinting, he zeroed in on the black shape, ten yards away.

  Two side-by-side glowing dots drew nearer.

  Low growling.

  With his right hand, Jacob reached behind him and gripped the all-black Short KA-BAR knife resting in a horizontal sheath on his belt. “Stay still.”

  The dog lowered its stance and bolted forward.

  Jacob slid out the KA-BAR.

  At the four-foot mark, its teeth bared, its mouth open, the ninety-pound brute launched itself toward its victim’s face.

  Using the beast’s momentum against it, Jacob leaned away and twisted counterclockwise at the point of attack. Grabbing a mass of fur in his left hand, while thrusting the KA-BAR’s five-and-a-quarter-inch clip point blade upward, into the animal’s throat, he took the dog to the ground, clamped shut its jaws, and sliced hard across the vocal cords, cutting off a yelp.

  The black and brown Rottweiler expired a couple ticks later.

  Jacob dragged his bloodied knife back and forth along the grass to clean it before returning the weapon to its sheath. Getting to his feet, he stared at his work while shaking his head, his guts twisting inside. Sorry, boy. You left me no choice.

  He met Stockwell near the tree.

  She eyed the dead dog, a pained expression on her face.

  He noticed. “It had to be done.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “When it comes to humans and animals, humans take precedence every time. And our Innocent needs us alive.”

  She swallowed, readied her rifle, blew out a quick breath, and forced herself to look away and eyeball the buildings to the south. “Which one is it?”

  Jacob pointed at the small cabin he had seen the two girls coming from when he had been in the tree last night. “Third one from the left.”

  “And you’re sure that’s where Chrissy is?”