Two years ago, by sheer luck he had stumbled across Resja again. He had been sitting around a large fold-out table on a different floor in the detention center, attending the "release" party of Idriz Dzaferi, one of the Albanian terrorist leaders his paramilitary unit had scoured Kosovo trying to kill. Apparently, the testimony against Dzaferi hadn't been compelling enough for the tribunal to move forward, and once again, Srecko found himself eating cake and "celebrating" someone else's release. As he pushed the tasteless cake around his mouth, his eyes were drawn to the common area's television screen. Two images, side by side, appeared on the CNN feed, and Srecko froze, unable to chew.
The screen showed a man named Daniel Petrovich, wanted in connection with a string of high profile killings throughout the Washington, D.C., area that included the brutal slaying of a police officer and several military contractors. He disappeared after a spectacular neighborhood shootout with FBI and local police that landed several more law enforcement agents in the hospital. Daniel Petrovich? Srecko knew this man by another name. Marko Resja.
Srecko still hadn't made the connection between the stolen money and Daniel Petrovich, until he studied the fleeting image of the woman on the screen. Jessica Petrovich. That's when he almost choked on the mouthful of cake still mulling between his clenched jaws. She looked different now, but he knew he was staring at that deceptive snake, Zorana Zekulic. The woman responsible for the theft of his money, or so he had been told…by the man apparently married to her in the United States! The man who had thrown her supposed head down on the ground before him.
It all made sense to Srecko in those few seconds. Marko Resja's sudden disappearance had been no coincidence. He had engineered the entire thing with the help of that cunt. The theft of over 130 million dollars, leaving him high and dry in Belgrade with a bloodbath on his hands. On May 27, 2005, over cake and fruit punch at the United Nations Detention Unit, he swore to God and the Serbian people that he would see these traitors' heads roll. It gave him a renewed sense of purpose and temporarily lifted him above the fact that he was sitting at a hastily assembled card table amidst two dozen other chubby fifty-year-olds; most of whom had run successful criminal enterprises on the Balkan Peninsula, but now were reduced to eating yellow cake and drinking Kool-Aid like toddlers.
The memory faded, and Srecko Hadzic snapped the picture book shut. He smothered the cigarette against the side of the stone table and got up to leave the courtyard. The fresh air was killing him.
Chapter 6
Special Agent Ryan Sharpe adjusted the files on his desk and checked his watch for the fifth time in the last minute. He was nervous about this meeting. His career hadn't exactly flourished since General Sanderson and his crew popped up and decapitated HYDRA. The Black Flag group vanished into thin air and proved near impossible to track. The quick revenge demanded by the FBI's director, Frederick Shelby, never materialized, and his significantly smaller task force began to shrink with every uneventful month, until he was finally absorbed by the Domestic Terrorism Branch.
The time they had spent scouring the earth for traces of Sanderson's organization hadn't been completely fruitless. His task force stumbled upon some unsavory funding links between foreign organized crime syndicates and a rising domestic ultra-nationalist terrorist organization, True America. Soon after establishing these links, he had been given command of a specialized task force dedicated to investigating foreign funding sources linked to homegrown domestic terrorist groups. Thanks to Director Shelby, Sanderson's crew had been designated a Tier One domestic terrorist organization, which re-landed Sanderson high on Sharpe's list of priority investigative targets.
He had the best of many worlds working for the DTB, a renewed sense of purpose, job security and the ear of Director Shelby, who had vowed to bring the wrath of God down upon Sanderson if Sharpe ever located his new stronghold. After reading the preliminary report forwarded by Special Agent Mendoza, he felt goosebumps. Something about the ATF summary gave him the first real glimmer of hope he had experienced in nearly two years.
Sharpe heard a familiar knock at the door and stood up to walk around the desk. "Get in here, Frank," he boomed.
Special Agent Frank Mendoza entered, followed by Special Agent Dana O'Reilly and a short, angular-faced female wearing a navy blue suit jacket over a sharp-collared white blouse and matching dark blue trousers. She looked extremely serious, and her dark blue eyes pierced the room with a hint of disapproval. She wore an ATF badge clipped to her suit lapel.
"There he is. Special Agent Mendoza. Recently promoted to Ops Section One. You better not give up my favorite chair," he said, vigorously shaking Frank's hand.
"Well, it needs to find a new home. My so-called 'promotion' landed me in a cubicle. It's a whole different world down there. Small fish in a big pond. Ryan, this is Special Agent Marianne Warner. She leads the task force that nabbed Javier Navarre."
"Special Agent Warner, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to meet with me. Please have a seat," he said and nodded at Dana O'Reilly, who closed the door behind them.
Once they were situated in his cramped office, he opened the file sitting at the top of the smallest pile on his desk.
"Special Agent Warner, tell me a little more about Javier Navarre?"
"My task force had been watching him for quite some time. He specialized in what we consider to be exotic, special order weaponry. Not the usual crates of former Eastern Bloc discounted Kalashnikov rifles or RPG-7's. High end stuff. Modern assault rifles, large caliber sniper rifles, armor piercing ammunition. Scary shi…stuff, from our perspective."
"Please speak freely here, Marianne. Special Agent O'Reilly curses like a trucker, and Mendoza here, well…he taught me a few words I didn't learn in college," Sharpe said.
"I might reinstate that HR complaint," O'Reilly said.
"Don't listen to her. She's still pissed I dragged her along into Domestic."
"Shit, we all wanted to get away from you," Mendoza said, and they all laughed.
"Anyway. Please continue, and remember, these people are about as real as it gets in these organizations," Sharpe said, and Warner's face relaxed slightly.
"So, as much as we'd like to keep crates of assault rifles off U.S. soil, the special orders concern us the most. The crates go to groups that are easy to track, and the big orders or shipments are relatively easy to discover. We're all over those, so to say. It's the smaller, specialized orders that slip through the cracks and end up in very dangerous hands. High level drug cartel groups…not the street enforcers, but cartel execution teams or high value target protective details that operate on U.S. soil. They don't attract much public attention, but they're very real and pose a significant danger to law enforcement personnel that stumble on the wrong house, at the wrong time."
"Like last year in Dallas?"
"Exactly. Latest generation G-36C assault rifles equipped with enhanced optics and armor-piercing bullets. The Dallas PD SWAT team lost eleven men on final approach to the target building. All but one from headshots, most of which punctured their Kevlar helmets. These are the kinds of weapons we try desperately to keep off U.S. soil. Mr. Navarre was a key player in this realm, which is a small, exclusive group. With most arms dealers we track, quantity is usually the key to profit. Not with this group. It's highly competitive, cutthroat to be precise, and the clientele is brutal. Russian mob, South American drug cartels, and most recently, U.S. ultra-nationalists. Navarre had been around for nearly two decades, which is an eternity to survive dealing with these groups."