During the observation period, no one turned into the driveway, and only six cars, other than the daily passing of the mailman, even drove past the property. This was what Nicole wanted — total isolation to do her work. Billy Watson’s farm was the perfect setting.
Sandra, like the rest of Nicole’s soldiers, was now dressed as a farmer. She was sitting on a tractor beside the road when a beat-up Chevy Camaro pulled into the dirt driveway. Sandra started the Ford 8N tractor and drove to block the passage of the visitor.
“Can I help ya?” she called out to the driver.
The man was rough-looking: unshaven, homemade tattoos covering the visible parts of his skin, dressed in a dirty T-shirt and grease-smudged jeans. He looked Sandra over, top to bottom, and focused on her breasts as he spoke. “Naw, ya cain’t help me. I’m Earl. Jes goin’ ta see Billy. Sometimes he needs a little help ‘round here, an’ I need a little money for a carb’rator, so’s I’ll jes run on down.” Racing his engine, he drove around Sandra into the weed-overgrown field and sped to the house. He screeched to a stop, bounded out of the car, and strode up to the front door.
Nicole stepped outside and closed the door after her. “Billy’s sick. He ain’t seein’ visitors today.”
“I don’t want to talk ta you. I jes wanna see Billy.”
Pushing her aside, he opened the door and walked into the room — where a guy dressed like a farmer and carrying an M-16 immediately greeted him. The fake farmer aimed the rifle at Earl’s chest. Wide-eyed, Billy’s buddy raised his hands high over his head. Sweat broke out all over him.
“I don’t mean no harm,” he said. “Where’s Billy? Tell him Earl’s here. I jes need ta say sumthin’ ta him.”
Nicole rushed in behind Earl. “Don’t shoot!”
The soldier lowered his gun to his waist but kept it pointed at the man. “Hands behind your back,” Nicole barked.
She duct-taped his wrists and then his thighs and knees together.
Earl began to cry. “What’cha doin’ ta me? I don’t have nuthin’ ‘gainst ya’ll. I jus’ wanna see Billy!”
“You don’t always get what you want,” she said as she rolled out a large sheet of clear, heavy-duty plastic and shoved him onto it. While the male soldier held Earl down, Nicole folded the plastic neatly around him and taped all the open edges, making it airtight.
Earl kicked and screamed inside his sealed pouch. “Please let me go! I’ll jes go an’ say nothin’ ‘bout all this. Please don’t kill me!” His voice was muffled by the plastic wrap. The more he struggled and cried, the faster his oxygen was being used up. His voice grew weaker and weaker until he went silent, suffocated in his plastic cocoon.
Nicole turned to the soldier. “Stick him in a closet till midnight, then put him in his car and drive it into the Roanoke River outside Weldon. Make sure there’s no tape residue on his body or clothing, and don’t leave any fingerprints. Pour booze down his throat and make this look like a car accident.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Colonel Edwards had just received an urgent call. A Kurdish spy near Mosul had spotted a convoy of deuce-and-a-half trucks carrying forty ISIS troops. Shar al Sheikh was in the group. Charlie’s Global Hawk was still airborne and within ten miles of the target.
“Damn, they’re bold!” Edwards said. “They think Charlie’s still setting up his station in America and isn’t operational yet. They feel safe, and traveling in the open saves them a lot of time.”
As the drone closed in on the convoy, one of the forensics team watching the monitors stood and shouted, “There it is! What in the hell are they doing, exposing themselves like that? They know we’re looking for ‘em!”
Charlie was already in his control center when an excited Edwards called.
“Charlie! We have ducks on the pond! Four of ‘em, all in a row.”
“What’s the bounty?”
“On Shar al Sheikh, twenty million. But for a convoy, I’ll authorize another twenty, but only if you kill most of ‘em.”
Charlie flopped into his chair and activated the monitors. Screen one showed the convoy of four trucks on level terrain and out in the open. Screen two showed a close-up of the leader, sitting by the driver in the lead truck. The headcount was ten per vehicle.
“Is the identity of al Sheikh confirmed?”
“Yes, sir. His photos are exact matches for the Shar al Sheikh who helped plan 9-11. He’s all yours. There are four Hellfires in the tubes. Blast those motherfuckers to hell.”
Charlie got down to business. His heart beat fast and sweat dripped from his brow. He quickly placed the square on the front truck and centered the X. He wanted to kill all four, but there was one problem: The trucks were spaced fifty feet apart. The cloud of dust from the first missile explosion would obscure his view of the rest of the targets. The men could leave the trucks and disappear before he fired his second shot. He moved the sight back and forth along the path of the trucks and measured the distance between them.
“I’m going for a hat trick plus one,” Alpha Charlie said aloud to the forensics crew in Iraq.
He pushed the trigger button on the first truck and in rapid-fire succession fired the other three Hellfires as he moved the sights along the path of the road.
His forensics team all stood silent, holding their breath. None of the group, including Edwards, had ever seen this done before, and Charlie had done it only in video games. The first explosion would be in ten seconds. Charlie counted: 10, 9, 8, 7…
When his count reached zero, a cloud of dust smothered the convoy. In the ensuing three seconds, the dust cloud enlarged in a long, linear path. Charlie’s fists clenched as he waited. Twenty-five seconds lapsed before he was able to see through the dust cloud. There were the four trucks, all bombed out.
A cheer arose from his crew in Iraq. Charlie half-smiled and gave a salute.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I sat alone in my jail cell, staring at the wall as if in a trance, thinking about my wife. A bitter chuckle rose in my throat, like bile, at the irony of it all. The thing that had attracted her to me had now turned out to be the same thing that drove her away. I was a plastic surgery resident at Duke when Alicia’s mother was mugged and beaten. Her facial bones were shattered and I stayed at her side for four days and nights until the tracheotomy tube was removed and she could breathe on her own.
Though Alicia was courted by wealthy and successful men, she fell in love with me because I was the one who stayed at her mother’s side the whole time. Of course, that was long ago, at a time when small-town doctors actually cared about helping people. Things had changed. Healthcare costs were through the roof, and they were only going to go higher with the sale of the non-profit Jackson City Hospital. Alicia had initially loved me for being so dedicated to my patients, but then over the years, she grew to hate that very same quality.
From jail, I called our family lawyer. After he told me that he had filed papers to prevent me from seeing my two boys and that he was representing my wife in the divorce, he hung up on me. I thought that was very sweet of him. I then called three other lawyers whom I considered to be close friends. They all refused to represent me when they found out that all my assets were frozen and I had no money for a retainer.