President Lamar was silent, but in his mind, he knew Vickers was right. "Get Backersley, Sanderson, Ragar, Rockford, Clayton, and Merritt here immediately."
Vickers was out of the Oval Office like a shot.
Herbert Lamar was born and raised in the Bible Belt. He was a God-fearing man, considered by most ultraconservative, and had been placed on the ticket for the Far Right's vote. He had not gotten along with his former president because of some fundamental differences in ideology. For the good of the party, they had kept those differences in check, at least from the public eye. Privately, they had downright disliked each other. Lamar now found himself in a position he never imagined. Confident in his ability, he strongly wished he was working with people of his own choosing. Right now, that was simply not possible. He had to play the hand he was dealt. He was coming to grips that he was going to have to make concessions, but that didn't mean he had to like it. This is going to be a very long weekend. God, help me get through this.
Styles quickly climbed into the back of the four-door Jeep Wrangler. The Jeep, with Christman driving, was moving before the door had closed. Quickly, he relayed what had happened.
Starr, sitting next to him, asked, "What made you decide to kill him?"
"No choice. He's trained. He would have given an accurate description of me. I remember what the Man told us: no innocents. He was CIA, illegally operating within our own borders. That is expressly against the law. For what it's worth, I didn't like it." He leaned up to Phillips riding in the front passenger seat. "Here," he said, placing three items in her hand — a recordable DVD and what he thought were two flash drives. "I took these from the security recording unit."
She looked at them closely. "This is a wireless connector. That means that the recording unit was integrated with the computer, which means that all the images from the security cameras will be stored in its hard drive, as well. This might be to our advantage. J. C., find someplace to park, quick."
Christman pulled into a strip mall.
She turned back to Starr and handed him one of her laptops. "Open it. On the desktop, you'll see 'cabin.' Left click that. When it opens, you will see a split screen, each with a transcript. On the left is Ellhad's cabin; on the right is the woman's. Read through it, and see if there is anything mentioning when he might be leaving. I need to concentrate here."
No one spoke.
Styles and Christman watched in amazement at the speed of Phillips's fingers flying back and forth between two open laptops, one sat in her lap, the other precariously perched on the Jeep's center console. Christman cautiously reached over and held it steady.
"Thanks," said Phillips. Six minutes went by, and no one spoke a word. Unconsciously, everyone was even breathing quietly. "There," she said triumphantly.
"What did you do?" asked Styles.
Phillips wiped her brow, as she was actually sweating. "First I hacked their computer and confirmed that no one had seen any of the footage. Then I transplanted Styles's face with one of a known terrorist. Then I had to match the skin tone of Styles's hands to match his new face. Now when they go back through the video, they'll think it was a terrorist who killed that CIA agent."
"What?" exclaimed Starr, looking up from the laptop Phillips had given him.
"Don't make me explain it again. Just read."
"There she goes, getting all bossy again."
"Wouldn't have to if you did as you were told."
"Like I said," he remarked, bringing a chuckle from everyone.
"We need to talk," pronounced Styles. "J. C. and I think that the CIA somehow traced the plane to DPO, and that's why they were sitting on you two," he explained, referencing Starr and Phillips.
"You're half-right," interjected Phillips. "It's me. They caught my photograph leaving it. That was the next thing I was going to bring up. The CIA is here because they are right behind us on Ryyaki Ali's ass. Protocol would be for them to photograph or video anyone arriving on public and private aircraft. I'm sure I came up on facial recognition. I was probably followed from the airport. It was only a matter of time. The CIA does have some talent, and they are relentless, particularly Backersley. He won't play by the rules. He'll tell Lamar whatever he thinks he wants to hear. I'm sure at some point he'll have to play with the FBI and Homeland, but until his ass is against a wall, he'll act on his own."
Starr asked, "Do you think he's put it together about this team?"
Phillips was quiet and then replied, "He probably has suspicions. He's the CIA. It's what they do, so that will probably be his first guess."
"So what do we do?" continued Starr.
"If we want to continue this, we have no choice. We have to go dark. I mean completely dark. I know you guys know what that means."
The three men nodded.
Styles spoke up. "I think this is a conversation for a later time. We need to stick to business at hand."
Styles turned and looked at Starr. "You're gonna love this. We need you to take a little trip."
"What do you mean?"
"Gotta figure the CIA has eyes on the plane. I have to have J. C. with me. Phillips needs to be on standby with her computers. So that leaves you."
"So what is it I need to do?"
"Fly the jet to Albuquerque."
"What? By myself?"
"You can do that. It's an easy flight," urged Christman.
"I don't have the license yet."
"Who gives a shit?" snapped Styles. "We need you to get the CIA's attention diverted, if only a little, and that's the best way."
"So what do I do when I get to Albuquerque?"
"Get out, rent a car, drive around, stop in a restaurant, go to the men's room, go back to the airport, and fly back here. We need you gone at least eight hours."
Starr looked at Christman. "You really think I'm ready for this?"
"If I didn't, I damn sure wouldn't tell you otherwise. You can do this, Starr."
"Okay. I'll give it a shot."
"Fuck you'll give it a shot. You'll do it and get your ass back here. By the time you get back, we're going to be ready to get the hell outta Dodge," barked Styles.
"Okay, okay, calm down. Christ, it just caught me by surprise, big-time."
"One more thing," said Styles.
Starr audibly groaned.
Styles continued, "We're leaving the vehicles that J. C. and Phillips drove at the motel. Cops will find them easy enough. The CIA damn sure took down all the plate numbers. I know they're rented under one of our dummy companies, but—shit!"
"What's wrong?" Phillips and J. C. asked together.
"Fingerprints!"
"Relax. We wore gloves," assured J. C.
"Both of you?"
Phillips nodded in agreement and added, "We purposely didn't wipe them down so they'll have fun running who knows how many sets of prints through their system."
"Good thinking, guys. Seriously, I didn't think of that."
"Well, somebody has to be the brains of the outfit," cracked J. C.
"Heaven help us," muttered Styles with just a hint of a grin in his expression. "We'll need to pick up two more vehicles."
"Get them at the airport, since we're going there, anyway," said Starr. "Phillips—"
"On it."
Looking back at Starr in the rearview mirror of the Jeep, Christman stated, "You're fine on fuel. Just remember that when you are in contact with the control towers, keep it short. We've spent enough time on the automatic pilot, so once you're up, just punch the On button. I'll set it up for you. Look, you're going to be fine. You're actually past due to solo that bird. If you have any questions, I'm a phone call away, but I know that you're good to go. You know how it flies; just remember what you've learned."