He and Harding would be arriving at the lake house ahead of schedule, thanks to an unknown entity. Greely agreed with the rest of the council — the FBI hadn't taken custody of Miguel Estrada. They had enough contacts at the bureau and local law enforcement offices to know that Estrada hadn't surfaced in any of the New York City precincts, hospitals or federal offices. He'd simply vanished into thin air, carried away by two Arab-looking thieves in the night. None of it made any sense, but his coconspirators agreed that they needed to bump up the timeline.
Jason Carnes, head of laboratory operations at their secret facility, had protested, but reluctantly admitted that they could speed up the cultivation process. They would start injecting the virus into the bottle caps late tomorrow, with the intention of transporting the first crates of infected bottled water to the distribution hub the day after that. From there, the convoys would be loaded, assigned drivers, and sent to their destinations. Once the convoys hit the roads, the entire organization would go to ground and wait, leaving nothing for the feds to investigate.
His cell phone illuminated and started to buzz. He pressed a button on the steering wheel, which activated the Bluetooth system. "How are we doing?"
"Not good," Brown replied.
"Now what?"
"The team in Atlanta failed," Brown said.
Greely could sense the apprehension in his voice. "What do you mean they failed? What the fuck is wrong with our people? I'm starting to wonder if you've been jerking me off with your reports of how well trained we are."
"Our people are extremely well trained, and I don't appreciate the implication."
"Then how did Young manage to slip away from…how many of your people?"
"Six. He had help. Skilled help. Two of my men were executed in Young's hotel suite. The others were gunned down in the hallway and stairwell."
"Let me guess. More Arabs?"
"No. A hotel security camera showed a man and a woman escorting Young through the lobby. The image is obscured by smoke, which wasn't caused by a fire. Police found a spent smoke grenade in the stairwell. Flashbangs were used on the eighteenth floor. The crew that extracted Young was well equipped, well informed and highly skilled. I'm worried that we've attracted the wrong kind of attention from someone unexpected."
"Fuck!" Greely yelled, pounding the steering wheel. "We need to figure this out immediately. Benjamin Young can connect some dots that we can't afford to have connected right now…or ever. We should have killed him weeks ago. Damn it! Fucking Mills didn't want to cut off a big funding deal Young was working on. The son of a bitch has more money than Bill Gates, and now we're looking at a serious security breach."
"I know. I have my eyes and ears on the ground in Atlanta. If he surfaces, I'll put a bounty on his head," Brown said.
"He won't surface. He's a ghost now, just like Estrada. How is our insurance policy shaping up?"
"We have two suitable options. The package will be in place within thirty-six hours."
"Make sure nothing goes wrong with this. If the government is somehow involved in Young's disappearance, the success of our plan will depend upon it," Greely said.
"Understood. I'll personally oversee the operation."
"Very well. Any word from the compound?"
"Nothing yet. I just got off the phone with Bishop."
"All right. Keep me posted. I'm headed north for my forced vacation," Greely said.
"Don't hurt yourself up there. I'll be in touch with any developments."
Greely hit the steering wheel again. He considered calling Jason Carnes and pressing the case for further expediting laboratory operations, but he knew that the laboratory staff had their back up against the wall on this one. Carnes had made it perfectly clear that current timeline cutbacks might ultimately impact the virus's efficacy. He needed to be patient and trust in Brown's tactics. The compound, the attack earlier today and their insurance policy would combine to create a perfect storm in their favor. Even if Young spilled everything to his government captors, there would be no way they could recover quickly enough to stop their plot. He had to focus on the big picture. At this point, small setbacks were like roadkill on the highway — squishy little bumps that had no chance of slowing down his Chevy.
Chapter 37
Tyrell Bishop stood a few steps outside of the headquarters building and surveyed the compound. The full moon directly overhead cast a grayish-blue light on the silent facility, creating a monochromatic collage of shadows among the structures. He took in the crisp night air with a deep breath. Like always, the valley air was pristine, which added to the bittersweet taste in his mouth. He didn't relish leaving the compound. The place had been his permanent home for the past two years, filling him with nothing but cherished memories. He looked up into the hills and pondered the impending attack, which Brown had assured him would come within the next forty-eight hours. A grin spread across his face. Bishop had no idea what they were up against, but Brown felt confident that they could repel any attack thrown at them by the FBI. The amount of firepower at his disposal could hold off a concentrated Taliban attack.
He had removed their four M2 heavy-barrel .50-caliber machine guns from the armory and pre-positioned them in buildings near the fence line. Within minutes, he could put them into action against enemies coming from any direction. Brown had told him to expect a coordinated vehicle and helicopter assault, which was a favorite tactic of the feds. Idiots. By the time the vehicles traversed the road leading to the compound, True America would be ready for a fight. He was willing to bet that the FBI helicopter pilots had never come under heavy machine gun fire on a raid before. He couldn't wait to see them turn tail and fly away when .50-caliber tracer rounds reached out to touch them. Without air support, he wondered if the ground forces would press the attack. He hoped so, since the compound held a few more surprises for them.
His favorite was their armored vehicle. Last year, several mechanics and body shop guys went to work on a Ford Bronco, turning it into a light armored vehicle. Fitted with steel plates on all sides and airless Michelin Tweel tires, the "Road Warrior" was impervious to small-arms fire. The Bronco's rear compartment roof had been removed to provide a gunner's stand for the fully restored German MG42 belt-fed machine gun attached to a swivel mount welded to the truck. Twin protective plates would give the gun operator added protection while mowing down feds with the same gun that had defended the beaches of Normandy. Road Warrior would emerge through the front gate to meet any vehicles that tried to deliver federal storm troopers to his doorstep.
Even a long-distance standoff wasn't a feasible option for Uncle Sam. Bishop's arsenal consisted of nearly a dozen .50-caliber sniper rifles that could reach out and touch anyone hunkered down along the tree line. The furthest point from the fence was roughly 350 yards, easy pickings for one of his sharpshooters, not to mention the heavy machine guns. If the feds showed some tenacity and decided to stick around, he could always dust them off with "thumper." Even the most highly disciplined storm troopers would scurry when he started to walk 60mm high-explosive rounds onto their position. The baseplate and tube could be set up in less than a minute, providing him with unmatched firepower. The mortar crew's training consisted mostly of "dry fire" drills since ammunition was severely limited, but he felt confident that they could rain hell down on their enemies.