“We have some planning to do,” Patrick said.
“Indeed we do,” Ann said, silently thanking her partner for trusting Chris Collins.
Why do I trust that guy anyway?
Chapter 14
Escape Plans
J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
Ann and Patrick spent all weekend planning for the coming rescue. Saturday around lunchtime, they cornered Agent George Baker in the office.
“Hey, Baker, there’s a hot lead we need you to follow in Alabama,” Ann said.
“Really?” Baker asked, puppy dog eager.
“Go to the address and protect the lady,” Patrick instructed, handing Baker a slip of paper.
“Keep your distance, but we have reason to suspect that someone may have put out a hit on her,” Ann explained.
In a matter of seconds, Baker’s expression morphed from interested to elated to euphoric to disappointed and finally settled on confused. “Regency Retirement Village? That’s it? I’m supposed to chase down a possible hit on a little old lady?” Baker asked dubiously. “That’s a long way to go for some quality car time.”
“That’s all you need to know,” Ann said.
It took a few minutes of browbeating, but finally Agent Baker took off for Alabama, grumbling about hating stakeouts.
Ann mentally checked ‘protect woman’ off her list of things to accomplish before Monday night. “That went well,” she commented, as they walked back to her office.
“You want the military?” Patrick asked, referring to the phone call that had to be made.
“No way. I don’t want them biting my head off. Besides, you could use the practice with long, tedious conversations.”
“Your concern is overwhelming.” Patrick left her doorway to make the Fort Drum phone call from his office.
He’ll do it! Ann silently cheered.
In her opinion, the difficult job had been left for her anyway. Gathering her courage, she made her own dreaded phone call. “Good morning, Mr. Morgan. This is Agent Davidson. Yes, sir … yes, I understand, but I need you to talk to the computer guys for me.” She gave several uh-huhs at the appropriate intervals, letting her boss vent his displeasure at being called on a weekend. She played her best card. “Sir, I believe this could break the bank case wide open, but I need clearance to check satellite feeds over South Dakota.” She spent the next several minutes begging and cajoling until finally the man gave up and promised to make a few phone calls. Grinning in satisfaction, Ann set her office phone down.
Patrick strolled into her office a few minutes later. “Collins is Jonathan Parker.”
“What else did you find out?”
He tossed her a file. “The grumpy young man sent that over.”
“Before or after you threatened to call his CO?”
“After,” Patrick admitted. “Morton, Paul A. Earned fair marks and a reputation as a troublemaker at West Point. Assigned to Fort Drum; went AWOL within two months. Dishonorably discharged,” said Patrick, quoting the file.
Wow, he never strings that many sentences together.
Now that they knew who they were dealing with, Ann felt a whole lot better about the case.
An hour later, she and Patrick sat in the computer lab watching Brad’s hands fly over the keyboard.
“You’re in, enjoy the view,” said Brad Matthews, resident computer guru.
“Thank you,” Ann said, speaking for herself and her partner.
“No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Ann and Patrick spent the next half-hour scrutinizing satellite screenshots. Finally, they printed the ten clearest pictures of the compound. Most of the images simply showed trucks coming and going, but several also featured men hauling crates around and holding guns.
“Those are some heavy-duty guns,” Ann commented.
Patrick agreed. “Yes, but it’s still going to be a hard sell.”
“Even after we tell them about the hostages?”
“Especially if we tell them that.”
“I suppose they don’t want another Waco,” Ann commented. “But we’re running out of options. Who do we have the best chance with? ATF—I mean ATFE? That name change thing still bothers me by the way. Where was I?”
“Starting government alphabet soup,” Patrick prompted. His lips twitched upward in a tiny smile.
“Right. Do we have the best chance with the ATFE people, our own guys, or the local cops? We could just send out Stanley County’s finest with their popguns against that.” Ann gestured to a picture of a man cradling a wicked-looking automatic rifle.
“ATFE might be our best bet, but we’ve got next to no proof,” Patrick mused.
Tightening the view on the current picture, Ann frowned in concentration. She centered on the gun and studied it. “Does that look like an AK-101 to you?”
Her partner leaned over her shoulder to take a closer look. “Mmm … AK something or other anyway.”
“I’m going to do some research,” said Ann.
“Checking on the LEO’s out there?” Patrick asked, referring to the local law enforcement officers.
“Precisely.”
“Good luck with that,” said Patrick, leaving to make some phone calls.
Ann set to work looking up what law enforcement resources Stanley County already had in place. The results were rather depressing, but at least she found the number for the sheriff’s office. The number of highway patrol troopers looked insanely low to cover such a wide area.
Patrick appeared at his customary spot in Ann’s doorway, his deep blue eyes alive with amusement. “I take it you aren’t happy with the information you’re getting.”
“You might say that,” Ann muttered. She dialed a number she’d gotten from her search. When a man answered she asked, “May I speak with Sheriff Heckle please? Oh, hello sheriff. Special Agent Davidson, FBI. Listen, I was just wondering how many deputies you have and what your areas of jurisdictions are. I see … thank you … you’ve been most helpful. Yes, have a nice day.” She slammed the phone down and glared at it. “I’m going to call the—”
“Don’t bother,” said Patrick calmly.
“What?”
“FBI South Dakota field office, right?” Patrick grinned sympathetically, as Ann’s curt nod confirmed it. “Don’t bother; it doesn’t exist.”
Ann groaned and sank back into her chair. “Now, I know the bad guys are out there. There’s hardly anyone else in that entire blasted state! It’s perfect for a smuggling operation.”
“There’s a Resident Agency in Rapid City and another in Pierre, but they both say they’re a bit understaffed.”
“Dare I ask how many people work there?” Ann asked tentatively. She squared her shoulders, as if bracing against Patrick’s unspoken answer. “Okay, so our options are convince the Rapid City or Pierre guys to go on a field trip or call in the ATFE.” She picked up her office phone and held it out until he accepted it. “Good luck,” she said, rising from her chair to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I’ll go get us lunch while you do the grunt work.”
Patrick had already called the Rapid City people, but there were still plenty of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives guys left to badger. Settling behind Ann’s desk, he started dialing.
***
Corra Compound
Stanley County, South Dakota
Rachel Collins spent Friday comforting Jenny Hapler who was still reeling from losing her mother. On Saturday, Rachel didn’t have to work so she spent a few of the early morning hours with her children. After that, she acquired a few extra sweet rolls from the kitchen and went to the clinic.
“Good morning, Mrs. Jenson. I came by to see the patient. How is she?”
“About as well as can be expected, I suppose,” Megan said.
“Why don’t you go visit your children?” Rachel suggested, holding out a smuggled sweet roll.
 
; Megan’s eyes lit with mirth. “You’re just trying to get rid of me.”
“You work too hard. Take some time off; doctor’s orders.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Pleased, Megan bolted for the door.
Rachel felt guilty for not spending every possible minute with her children, but she had a feeling Jenny needed her more at the moment.
“Doc?” asked Jenny sleepily.
“I’m here, Jenny,” Rachel said. “I brought breakfast too. Or maybe we should just call it lunch.” She handed the girl the other baked good and helped her sit up. “I’ll go get some orange juice to go with that.” She dashed from the room and returned with the drink. Then, she settled herself in the hard chair next to the bed and watched Jenny eat.
“Thank you for being so kind,” Jenny said.
“You’re welcome,” replied Rachel. She said no more, having learned Jenny talked more if there was silence.
The day before, they had had some nice conversations about the girl’s father, mother, and older step-brother. Jenny had eagerly spoken of the controversy surrounding her parent’s interracial marriage.
“I think this was about my father’s job,” Jenny said out of the blue.
“Why do you say that?” asked Rachel, even as she thought, I whole-heartedly agree with you on that.
“He’s important,” Jenny said with a wan grin.
Rachel opened her mouth to comment, but the words died on her lips when a man stumbled into the room. “Logan? What happened?” she asked standing up. “I’m sorry, Jenny, but I have to help him.”
The girl looked disappointed but gave an understanding nod.
Logan Dales had seen better days. His forehead bled profusely, and he clutched his left ribs. His white cowboy hat look like it had been trampled. His tousled hair was covered in dirt, and his clothes were filthy. “I had to talk to ya,” Logan muttered, letting Rachel help him to a cot.
Rachel chuckled at that and went to get a damp towel to wipe his hands and face before her examination. Upon returning, she said, “There are easier ways to get my attention.”
“They’d get suspicious.”
“Let me guess. You picked a fight with Jense so he’d beat you up and someone would send you here.”
The look he gave her confirmed it.
Rachel shook her head, sighed, and whispered, “Let me clean you up a bit and then we can talk.” She retrieved iodine, alcohol, a needle, and some thread from a storage cabinet. “This is going to sting,” she warned.
A low moan escaped Logan when Rachel cleaned the cut above his eye.
“Sorry.” Rachel placed a gauze pad on the cut and held it there for several seconds. When the blood stopped gushing, she swiftly stitched it a few times and put a fresh bandage over it for protection. “Now, take off your shirt.”
“But there’s a girl present,” he protested, eyeing Jenny who was pretending to sleep.
“Oh, come now. Don’t be shy. Here, sit up and turn your back to the girl. That’s right, see no problem. I might have to tape those ribs for a few days.” Rachel spoke soothingly as he carefully unbuttoned his shirt and took it off with a flourish.
“T-shirt too?”
“No, the thing’s skin-tight. Besides, the fact that you can move your arms like that tells me you’re faking anyway.”
Smiling with much chagrin, Logan pulled his shirt back on and buttoned it. “You’re right smart, ma’am.”
“Thanks. I like to think so. Now, what did you want to say to me?”
Logan lowered his voice so Jenny wouldn’t overhear his words, and said, “Your husband’s gonna send some friends out here to pick y’all up, but first, I gotta get ya away from here on Monday night. We’ll hop in a truck and head east. They’ll meet us before we reach Pierre.”
Rachel’s eyes brightened. “You really—”
“Shhhh!” Logan hissed. He inclined his head in Jenny’s direction.
Dropping her voice to an excited whisper, Rachel asked, “You really talked to him?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did,” Logan confirmed softly. “Monday night’s gonna come up mighty quick. Rest up. I’ll spring the kids, but then, we’ll need to walk a ways afore we reach the truck I hid. Meet me here in the clinic at nine thirty.”
Rachel gripped the young man’s hand tightly and gave it a heartfelt squeeze. “Thank you, Logan.” Her eyes flickered over to Jenny. “Can the Jenny and Jensons come too?” she asked with quiet urgency.
Logan shook his head vigorously and winced. “Sorry. Too many people’ll just get us all caught. But don’t worry. Your husband’s sending FBI people out here to take care of the compound.”
***
Parker’s Base of Operations
New York City, New York
The bug Christopher Collins had planted in Agent Davidson’s gun worked well. He smiled upon hearing them dispatch Agent Baker to Alabama. He felt better knowing his promise to the boy would be fulfilled.
“Thank you, Agent Davidson,” Chris murmured. He had been worried he might have to take on the entire compound by himself. It wasn’t high on his list of fun things to do, but he would have done it to save his family. He didn’t want to increase their danger, hence his arrangements for them to leave before the government crashed in.
With his mind somewhat at ease, Chris finished cleaning his brand new sniper rifle and made some travel arrangements. Before leaving the D.C. area, he sent an encrypted e-mail to Agent Davidson with some final details.
God, let me be in time!
Chapter 15
Rescue
Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport
Arlington County, Virginia
Around midday on Monday, Ann and Patrick once again found themselves in an airport. Ann couldn’t believe their luck. As soon as they had passed through the metal detectors, a commotion broke out behind them. Her hand clutched at the empty space where her gun should have been, but naturally, it wasn’t there since they were in an airport. Seeing Patrick reach for his non-existent gun too, she didn’t feel so silly.
A man holding a bag shouted at the security guards, screamed like a certified loon, and launched the black bag at the nearest guard. The make-shift battering ram slammed into the unfortunate guard, who promptly collapsed, momentarily blocking three other guards.
“Have you had your run today?” inquired Ann.
“Not yet,” Patrick answered.
By then, the maniac had reached them. He swung the bag about every which way to clear a path. Patrick ducked and leaned left. The bag came in low at Ann so she jumped. Both were momentarily off balance, but fortunately, they respectively avoided being brained or losing a kneecap to the infamous black backpack. They steadied each other and sprinted after the crazy man.
Why can’t we have a normal day at the airport? Ann wondered as she ran.
Patrick caught the man first, but the slippery floor caused him and Crazy Man to land in a heap. The ensuing struggle spun them in a half-circle on the floor. The man managed to get on top and raised his backpack to drop on Patrick’s head.
That’s when Ann arrived and barreled into the crazy man’s side with a strangled cry that sounded like “Aaaahlllllggggoafff.” Her right foot caught Patrick’s prone form, tripping her. She rolled once to avoid serious injury and landed on her back.
The guards ran up, and there was a brief struggle on her left. Ignoring them, she tucked her hands behind her head and crossed her feet.
Patrick walked over to her holding Crazy Man’s false beard. Without looking, he chucked the beard at the guards who were currently hauling the guy away in handcuffs.
A guard carefully opened the backpack, peeked in, and muttered, “Rocks.”
The guy’s got a head full of those too, Ann fumed.
“Did I mention I hate airports?”
Patrick didn’t answer, but he did help her to her feet. “Ann, I know you’re a knockout but the literal part’s a bit rough.”
Ann just blinke
d at her partner. The comment was so far from the Patrick Duncan she knew, she might have put stock in alien abduction theories.
Tipping an invisible cap, Patrick affected a Southern accent, and said, “It’s a mite dangerous, traveling with such a fine lady.”
Laughing, Ann said, “I think I hit you too hard.”
Patrick shrugged philosophically. “There are worse things in life.”
Twenty minutes and a hundred questions later, Ann paced the waiting area. Security at the airport had tightened up wonderfully. At the rate security was going now Ann doubted the plane would leave for several hours. She watched a little girl being checked over with a security wand and shook her head in frustration.
“Relax,” said Patrick, idly sipping a fresh coffee.
“I know, I know. Pacing will do me no good, but what else can I do?”
“We could wait for the next crazy guy with a bag of rocks,” Patrick pointed out. “That could be fun.”
“True … Nice tackle.”
“Charming scream.”
“Thanks … I think,” they said simultaneously.
Well, that was slightly creepy.
The subsequent laughter eased the strange tension that had built up.
“We could also engage in idle chatter, if you like,” Patrick offered, drinking more coffee.
“Oh and what would you suggest we talk about?”
“Anything.”
“Well that narrows it down.” Nevertheless, Ann thought of various topics they could discuss.
“Tell me something about yourself,” he prompted.
“Errr, okay …” Ann thought hard for several long seconds. “Did I ever tell you how I got my name?”
Patrick shook his head negative, lifted the cup to his lips, and gave her his undivided attention.
Ann refused to look away from his unnerving eyes. “The doctors told my parents I would be a boy. They’d planned to name me Julian after my grandfather. My mother was quite distraught for a few moments after she heard the news she had a daughter. She fainted—or so I’m told—but my father just shrugged, and said, ‘Julie Ann it is.’ ”
“I guess your mother didn’t protest too hard,” Patrick commented.
“She was unconscious,” Ann reminded with a shrug. “Anyway, the name stuck.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
Eventually, their plane was cleared to fly. They handed over their tickets and boarded with the other passengers.
“You look worried,” Patrick said once they were settled.