50
Denny Carmichael opened this morning’s copy of the Washington Post. DeRenzi had brought it in as soon as it arrived by courier, and Denny had been awake and waiting for it, even though it was only five a.m.
It took him no time to find the article he was looking for, just below the fold and taking up an entire half of the front page, as well as another half of A19.
Carmichael assumed Catherine King must have raced back from the CIA headquarters in McLean to the Washington Post’s office in D.C. to make her deadline last night. She couldn’t have possibly filed the story before midnight, which meant the newspaper had done some impressive work to get the article in the edition that went to press just a few hours later.
It was all there, under the headline “CIA suspects D.C.-area shooter is ‘known personality.’”
The description of Gentry was close to what Carmichael had handed King. She’d also reported the fact that he had spent time in Miami, along with information that he’d been trained, possibly by jihadists, likely in Yemen.
For some reason there was no mention about him coming from Jacksonville, Florida, but Denny wasn’t too troubled by this.
Nor was he bothered by the fact that King’s article clearly faulted CIA for not letting police know after the Brandywine Street incident that they had suspicions about who might be involved in the attack. Carmichael didn’t care. After all, in one form or another, CIA had been blamed for everything bad that had ever happened since the 1950s.
Other than this small trifle, there was very little editorial comment from King in the piece, which greatly pleased Denny. She did add a small caveat at the end when she wrote that the investigation was ongoing and first reports, even from top government officials, often proved to be erroneous.
Carmichael shrugged. King thought she had couched her piece with skepticism, but she had done exactly what Denny wanted her to do.
She had published an article that would bait Gentry into targeting the writer of the article.
At any other time, the impenetrable blackness around him and the rainfall beating against the aluminum roof above him would have lulled Court into peaceful sleep. But his heart rate and the adrenaline pumping through him, even now, a full hour and a half after listening to the sounds of a tactical unit preparing to smash in his door, still prevented him from calming down enough to relax and doze off.
He sat Indian style in his small storage unit, his back to the concrete block back wall, his suppressed Glock in his lap, and his Yamaha motorcycle right in front of him for cover. He faced the closed metal sliding door, stared at the black in front of his eyes, and listened to the calming rain.
And he fully expected at any moment for the door to fly open and a team of shooters to rush in behind it with blinding lights and laser-targeting devices.
Court had made it to his storage unit over a half hour earlier, after running a short SDR by using two early-morning cabs and walking through back alleys and commercial parking lots. Once in his little unit, he checked the area around him before closing the door, then he used the light of his phone to find his second bugout bag here in his cache and to check the bike to make sure it was ready to roll.
Then he just sat down and did his best to relax.
He hadn’t known who was hitting the Mayberry house at first, but after the engagement he determined they were a local police tactical unit. Their body armor said ERT, and while that was nothing conclusive — a gang of Arab goons had worn uniforms that proclaimed them to be D.C. Metro cops, after all — the tactical unit’s movements confirmed to Court they were exactly what they purported to be. The cordon of regular patrol officers in the area around the Mayberry home only sealed Court’s suspicion he’d been discovered in his hide site by local law enforcement.
That was a bit embarrassing for a tier-one operator like Gentry, but he’d known from the beginning he would be up against a lot of different opposition forces, and he’d be taking a risk operating inside the city.
If the cops hit this storage locker now he would lift the Glock and he would point it at them, but he wasn’t about to kill a cop. He might squeeze off a couple of rounds into their body armor just to make himself feel good, but there was nowhere to run, so if the cops hit, he’d die right here, sitting Indian style and enjoying the sound of the morning spring rain.
But he wasn’t just barricading himself here to die. Instead he was waiting a few minutes more for the early part of the morning rush hour, where he wouldn’t be one of the only vehicles out on the street, and then he would climb aboard the Yamaha 650 and get the hell out of town.
But not too far. Despite this morning’s setback, he still had work to do here in the District.
For now he just worked on calming his body, relaxing himself, and waiting for the right time to run.
Matt Hanley was the last to enter the conference room, and as soon as he did so he realized the meeting had begun without him.
Not that he cared. If he had his way he wouldn’t be here at all, but he’d been summoned by Carmichael, and Carmichael was his superior, so he had no choice but to attend.
As he sat down at the table in an open wingback chair, he looked around at the attendees. Suzanne Brewer was in the middle of a presentation. She stood in front of a digital map of the city and addressed the room, perfectly coiffed and dressed.
Mayes and Carmichael were present, of course, as were many of the other Violator Working Group members, along with a team of techs sitting in chairs against the back wall.
And there was one more attendee. Down at the end of the conference table sat a big man with short blond hair, much of it turning gray. He wore a suit and tie, his face was cleanly shaved, and he had a small notebook in front of him.
But Hanley wasn’t fooled — he knew a shooter when he saw one.
Hanley turned away from the man, presuming him to be a JSOC liaison or someone similar, but as soon as Brewer finished her presentation and sat back down, Hanley’s head swiveled back to the man at the end of the table.
Matt hadn’t seen Zack Hightower in five years, and he was almost certain he’d never seen him without a beard, so he forgave himself for not recognizing him. Calling out across the length of the table he said, “Morning, Sierra One. Welcome back to the land of the living.”
Zack Hightower had worked for Matt Hanley for several years, till the day Hanley was told all the men in his Goon Squad unit were dead except for Gentry, and Gentry was the culprit for the deaths of the others.
“Hey, Matt,” Zack said. He seemed embarrassed to be alive. He added, “Sorry about that.” Zack then nodded over to Denny Carmichael, who was looking down at some papers. He shrugged. “Orders. You know.”
Hanley just stared Hightower down and said, “Your funeral sucked, by the way.”
Zack gave a half smile and looked down to his empty notebook, and one of the techs in the room, a man who had no idea what was going on, broke out in a surprised laugh.
The executives at the conference table, in contrast, remained silent, until Suzanne Brewer said, “Matt, you haven’t missed anything, I was just getting started with the morning briefing. The short version is this: Gentry’s in the wind. Again. Local PD had him, but they lost him.”
Hanley asked, “How did that happen?”
“While forty cops cordoned off the neighborhood, two eight-man ERT units hit the house where he was staying. They engaged Gentry, but Gentry managed to get out of the building and past the cordon.”