“What are you doing to do?”
“What I should have done long ago.”
CHAPTER 22
Interception
Special Agent Denise Davis held Richard Louis Cotton’s elbow firmly as she escorted him out of the parking garage elevator and into the subbasement of the Dirksen Federal Building. Her way was lined by dozens of FBI tactical officers in body armor, with assault weapons slung across their chests. They scanned sight lines for trouble as they waved her and the escort detail onward, toward the open doors of a waiting armored FBI transport van. It was just one in a line of identical unmarked escort vans standing by.
Cotton shuffled along in leg irons, his hands cuffed before him and chained to his waist. He wore bulky orange body armor to protect him against reprisals from his victims’ loved ones. Cotton’s trademark beard without mustache was carefully trimmed. But his disappointment was obvious when he looked out across the parking level and noticed the lack of news cameras. There was only the long motorcade of FBI vehicles and armed agents.
He cast an irritated look toward her. “A transfer in the wee hours. You won’t silence me, Agent Davis. His message shall still reach the world.”
“It’s not my job to give you an audience.”
“The Lord will find a way.”
“What’s the Lord got to do with you?” She eyed him closely. Difficult to believe Cotton was anything but what he appeared—just another megalomaniac cult leader. But what she’d seen couldn’t be denied. “Watch your step.”
Transport agents pulled Cotton up into the van and escorted him into a small caged section at the front of the passenger bay as he began to cheerfully sing a hymn in a booming voice, offering his hands to his captors.
“Lord, the King of kings art Thou. In Thy presence here we bow; God’s anointed we adore. Worship Thee in holy awe…”
They chained Cotton to a railing and locked the cage door on him as Davis took a seat on a bench alongside half a dozen heavily armed agents. The guards even had gas mask pouches on their harnesses. No one was taking any chances.
Cotton stopped singing as the engine revved, and they began to move out. FBI radios blared in confirmation of their departure, units sounding off. Cotton leaned against the thick wire mesh, staring at Davis. “And it was He sent messengers throughout Manasseh, calling them to arms…”
“Even God took a day off from religion, Richard.”
Cotton chuckled. “The ever-watchful eye of our Lord is upon you, Agent Davis.” He examined the agents arrayed before him. “I was told I’d be in Chicago until the trial.”
“Operational security precludes this discussion.”
“Do you really want to anger me, Agent Davis? I don’t have to cooperate with the prosecution’s case. I can drag this out far longer, if that’s what you want.”
Davis stared back. “You can’t help yourself from confessing, Cotton. You want to take credit for these bombings. We couldn’t shut you up if we wanted to.”
Cotton smiled. “I say to you, if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.”
Davis looked to the helmeted agents sitting across from her. “This is going to be a long goddamned drive…”
Two hours later Davis saw Cotton awake with a start. He looked around, apparently uncertain where he was for a moment. Then he shouted through the wire mesh at her. “Why are we still traveling?” He rattled his chains. “What time is it?”
“Go back to sleep, Cotton.”
He seemed genuinely concerned, and Davis enjoyed a little private victory at the sight.
“We would have arrived at Stateville by now. Where are you taking me?”
“Nowhere. And I mean that literally: I am bringing you into the middle of nowhere.”
She could see the muscles of Cotton’s jaw tense. He thrust his face up to the wire and shouted, “You don’t have the right to do this! I’m supposed to be in Stateville!”
“Are you? According to whom?”
“Those were the terms of my cooperation. You’re violating the terms of my plea agreement.”
“It wasn’t my agreement.”
“You take orders from the federal prosecutor.”
Davis shrugged, enjoying his discomfiture. “Well, if you see him, be sure to mention it.”
The dull roar of jet aircraft came to them even over the engine noise of the armored van.
Cotton glanced up at the ceiling. “You’re not following the rules.”
“Suddenly rules are important to the terrorist bomber.”
The armored van slowed and turned, causing them all to lean.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Davis, but you’re risking my cooperation on this trial.”
“Duly noted.”
The tactical agents around her smirked, evidently pleased to hear someone putting Cotton in his place.
“It will vastly increase the length and cost of the proceedings.”
“No doubt.”
He examined her confident demeanor and apparently found it worrisome, but the van had now started to slow.
She smiled. “Looks like we’re here.”
“Where?”
Davis didn’t answer but instead turned away as the van stopped. Almost immediately the armored doors opened, and members of the security detail poured out. She stepped down as well, accepting Thomas Falwell’s hand as he walked up to greet her.
“Hey.” Falwell spoke over the thunder of distant jet aircraft. “They’re ready for you. And you weren’t kidding, these guys are serious.”
She looked around. “It looks like Bagram out here.” Stars filled the night sky around a crescent moon, but in the moonlight Davis could see what must have amounted to a mechanized company or two of heavily armed U.S. Marines in Stryker armored vehicles. Antiaircraft missile batteries were arrayed in defensive positions all around them. The hundred or so FBI agents who had escorted the motorcade this far were also disembarking and milling around with the soldiers.
There could easily be three hundred soldiers out there. The deep roar of jets still thundered above.
“We’ve got air cover, too.”
Davis turned to see the stunned face of Richard Cotton as he was lowered to the ground. He stared around in amazement at the military camp arrayed around them.
“What the hell is going on, Davis?”
He looked truly worried as she grabbed his waist chain and pulled him along. Falwell fell in behind her, as did the rest of the security detail. “Come here, Cotton, there’s somebody I want you to meet.”
“What in holy hell is going on?”
“Tsk, tsk, the Lord wouldn’t like you using that sort of language.”
“I demand to know what’s going on. I demand it!”
A Marine lieutenant directed her to a nearby Stryker armored command vehicle. As they approached, the rear hatch whined down to just a few inches off the pavement, revealing Jon Grady and Homeland Security Deputy Secretary Bill McAllen sitting on cushioned benches in the LED light.
Davis shoved a stunned Cotton inside, his chains rattling against the steel deck. “Cotton, you remember Jon Grady, right? One of your victims from the Chirality Labs bombing?”
Cotton collapsed onto the bench across from Grady and McAllen as Davis and Falwell slid in behind him.
A marine sergeant in a command chair turned back. “Hatch coming up. Watch your fingers.”
The rest of the security detail took posts outside as the armored door whined back up and boomed shut.
Cotton stared at Grady, apparently uncertain what to say.
Grady stared back. “They know about the Bureau of Technology Control, Cotton. And they also know you’re a BTC agent.”