Heston (In the Company of Snipers #25)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“I’ve got eyes on container one,” Lee Hart reported from high in a sturdy Douglas Fir between the Jefferson Memorial and Keane’s containers. “Windows cover the entire west wall, Mark. All clear. You’re good to go.”

“Copy that,” Mark replied.

For now, Heston was concealed with Murphy behind a hedge on East Basin Drive Southwest, across from the site of Keane’s containers.

Another all-clear came from Renner Graves, the sniper watching container two from somewhere just as inconspicuous as Lee’s fir tree. “Murphy and Roy, only bogey in sight is Keane. Keep your heads on swivels. He’s armed. Two pistols, both holstered under his sports jacket.”

“Copy that,” Murphy answered.

From Tripp McClane came a raspy, “Stay put, Heston. Eric. The two Chevy Suburbans parked at the rear of container three are moving. Four big guys in one, a skinny guy driving the other. Two men just exited container three. Crap, they’re carrying a body bag. One’s Obermeyer and—sorry, can’t make out the other guy’s face. His ballcap’s pulled down real low and his collar’s turned up. He’s the only one in a suit jacket, dress slacks, and fancy shoes, if that helps.”

“He’s wearing a suit?” Heston hissed.

“Whoever he is, he knows we’re here,” Murphy added.

“Get a picture, Tripp. Shoot it to Mother,” Mark ordered.

“Done,” Tripp answered. “Sorry, Hes, know you don’t want to hear this, but Obermeyer and his buddy tossed the bag into the lone guy’s SUV. They’re getting in with him.”

Within an hour after meeting with Alex, The TEAM had converged on the green space east of the Jefferson Monument, with permission from Tucker Chase and President Adams. Before they’d arrived, the Metro Police Department had swept in and evacuated the farmer’s market, as well as cordoned off all streets nearest Keane’s containers. To avoid panic and the usual gaggle of looky-loos wanting selfies, Metro PD claimed someone had reported a gas leak. That the area wasn’t safe. They’d further substantiated the lie by bringing a dozen or so utility vans with them, vans that concealed SWAT teams. FBI Director Tucker Chase and his team were somewhere in the area as well. Heston hadn’t spotted them yet.

The TEAM had worked closely with MPD for some time. While DC’s officers were known for their professionalism, as well as for tackling impossible missions, it was TEAM agents who voluntarily policed the poorer hangouts of the District, where homeless vets, vagrants, and other down-and-outers congregated. It was Alex’s men and women who sought out the sick and handicapped, stood overwatch throughout the District for people in trouble. They’d infiltrated the rougher neighborhoods of Anacostia, formed friendships that weakened gang influence and affiliations, protected at-risk teens, assisted single-parent families, and passed out food to the homeless on a daily basis. The TEAM had become the arms and legs of the District’s police department and that synergy worked. Alex had put Tripp McClane in charge of the TEAM/MPD effort. Looked like he had some diplomatic talent after all.

“Both SUVs are pulling out, people,” Tripp reported. “Turning left onto East Basin Drive Southwest.”

“Fuck!” Heston bellowed. “I need a gawddamned car!”

As if it’d been waiting for him to lose his cool, a sleek black Porsche rolled alongside. Damned if the passenger window didn’t roll down as Zack Lennox yelled, “Get your ass in here, Contreras! Move it!”

Eric slapped his back, “Good luck, Hes.”

Heston didn’t answer, just jogged to the Porsche, threw himself into the passenger seat, and ordered, “Go, go, go!”

The moment Obermeyer’s Suburbans passed the Porsche on East Basin Drive Southwest, Zack shot into the far-left lane and followed, leaving four civilian vehicles between them.

“Shit,” Heston fumed. “We’re too late. We should’ve been here sooner.”

Chatter between the teams breaching containers one and two disintegrated into the unmistakable pops of flashbangs and a hurried, “Go, go, go!” order from Mark to his team.

“No one in container three so far,” Cassidy Dancer reported evenly. “But we’ve only cleared one room and it’s not very big. Eric, you find anything?”

“Not yet. Advancing to rear exit—Gun! Shooter!”

Gunfire erupted over the tiny earpieces. Zack cocked his head, a finger to his ear as he listened.

Heston lost his edge completely. “Shit, shit, shit! What am I doing? I’ve let everyone down. I left my post. I should be there, only—!”

“Will you shut it?” Zack growled. He was as hefty as Mark. Not like Heston cared whose was bigger. He’d failed The TEAM and he’d failed London. This time, she’d be gone for good. Because of him! He’d gotten his second chance and he’d blown it. Knew the odds of Karma granting three chances to an idiot like him were damned near nonexistent. What if—?

“You good, Cass? Eric?” Murphy asked.

“Copy that, Murph. We’re good, yeah,” Cassidy replied steadily.

“Wyatt took both assholes down,” Eric added. “Two wannabe gangster-types in camis and sporting AKs. You oughta see the middle room of this container, guys. Someone was definitely hung from three overhead pipes. Blood spatter’s everywhere, even on the ceiling. Water’s an inch deep on the floor. Proceeding to yet another damned door in this zoo.”

“Hope it’s the exit,” Wyatt Browning added. “This kill box keeps going. Crap!”

Another flurry of gunfire erupted from what Heston guessed was still inside container three. It was hard keeping up with the action with only one audio and no visual feed. It should’ve been him taking those shots. It should’ve been—

“Two more assholes down,” Wyatt reported breathlessly. “Both armed with AKs. Both dumber than shit. Cassidy and me are good, Murph. We found a dozen or more kids and battered women in cages. Eric’s got his gear out. He’s triaging now.”

“Same in container two,” Harley replied. “No guys with guns, just little girls locked in dog crates. Wire dog crates. Place reeks of piss and decay, and some of these darlin’s are sick.”

Heston’s fingers went through his hair as children’s cries and moans came through his earpiece. He couldn’t help feeling like a heartless pig when he asked, “Any sign of London?”

“No, Hes,” Cassidy replied, “but…”

“But what?” Heston snarled. More chatter from Mark’s and Murph’s teams kept him from digging a bigger hole full of angry words he would regret later. Turned out greenhouses only filled half of containers one and two, none of three. Which was the container Eric, Cassidy, and Wyatt had stepped up and handled after he’d left them hanging.

A sudden battery of shots rang out, silencing all chatter. At last, Mark came back with a breathless, “Keane down. Thanks, Maverick. Totally self-defense. Proud of you, brother.”

“You think?” Maverick snarled. “Shithead had a .44 magnum on you! Everyone else okay?” It was good knowing Maverick Carson had Mark’s back, but damn, he sounded pissed.

Quiet confirmations came from the snipers on overwatch. Eric, Cassidy, and Wyatt replied with affirmatives, followed quickly by Jake, Beckam, the Mahers, then Rory, Walker, and—of all people—Jameson. How did that guy get around?

“We thought something like this might go down,” Zack told Heston. “When in doubt, overcompensate. Obermeyer wanted a fight, now he’s got one.”

“But no London,” Heston reminded everyone with venom. He bit his tongue before he lost his temper.

“Wherever she is, Hes, she’ll need you when you find her, so shut up and stop bitching!” Cassidy yelled. “Wherever they’re taking her, she’s hurt, and if the blood in here is all hers, she’s hurt bad. Take care of your woman when you catch up with her, and put those bastards down while we take care of these jerks. Christ, don’t you trust us?”

“I do, but—”

“You already knew Obermeyer and Keane were involved in human smuggling,” Zack reminded him.

“Yeah, but—” Heston was ashamed to admit he only cared about London. Where the hell was she? In that bag in the rear of Obermeyer’s Suburban? Already in the Potomac? Eric said someone had been hung, that there’d been blood spatter. Was that someone London? How bad had they hurt her? How—how hurt? Tortured? Raped? Christ, he couldn’t handle the ugly thoughts racing through his mind.

“Same here,” Lee Hart announced grimly, from which container Heston had no idea. “No little girls, but around twenty young women. They’re scared of us, they’re skinny, and they’re dehydrated. Eric? Can you give us a hand when you’re done in three?”

“You bet, but I’m going to need help.”

“Stand by, people. Metro PD just called and an army of EMTs are on their way to you,” Mother announced solemnly.

Selfishly, all Heston wanted was for Zack to slam the accelerator to the floor and catch up with those SUVs. Listening to this complex take-down and not participating in it was killing him. His TEAM had all put their lives on the line to rescue London. But they hadn’t found her!

Out of the blue, Zack cuffed the back of his head.

“What the hell, Lennox!”

“Knock it off, Hes. If Obermeyer’s got her, and you know damned well he does, then she’s still alive. Trust me. She’s in the back of the Suburban the old guy’s driving. Want to bet he’s the Irishman?”

“I don’t give a shit who he is. He beat her. I’ll kill them all.”

“And I’ll let you, brother, but we can’t take them out on the George Washington Parkway, can we? Collateral damage is unacceptable. You still got us covered, Mother?”

“You bet. We’re tracking your GPS, and we’ve got two drones in the sky overhead. Both on the SUVs you’re following, in case one splits from the other. The Parkway will take them all the way to Maryland, but I doubt they’ll cross state lines.”

Heston choked. “Why not? Because Obermeyer’s politically connected? One of the elite? A fuckin’ upstanding citizen?”

“No, smartass, because we’ve identified two of the men with him, the Branson twins, Bernie and Buzz. They’re on parole for the same armed robbery. They set one foot out of state and they’ll be headed back to prison.”

Like that mattered to armed assailants, felons who shouldn’t be carrying the hardware these guys probably had, to begin with. “And again I ask—”

“Shut the hell up, Contreras!” Mother yelled. “I’m not stupid. You follow your gut, don’t you? Well, I follow mine, and when I tell you what’s going on, you’d better listen up and believe me, understood?”

Zack snickered.

Well, damn. Heston wasn’t going to win, and honestly, there was no sense arguing with Mother. He zipped his lips and watched the scenery fly by, as the GW snaked along the southern shore of the Potomac River. The farther northwest they went, the deeper the forests the GW ran through and the darker the shadows over the highway. Virginia’s hardwood trees were ancient giants. Thick, gnarly branches arched over miles of some sections of the road, creating shadowy tunnels broken only by rare bursts of sunshine. Even that dimmed as the predicted easterly weather front moved in. Heston’s mood dimmed along with it. He needed to get to London. The advancing rain and the casual chit-chat between Mother and Zack didn’t help.

“Just passed Snake Island,” Zack advised her. “Next exit will put them near US Park Police District, Station Two, if they take it.” He turned to Heston. “You think Captain Bates had input on Keane’s and Obermeyer’s plans for London?”

Heston couldn’t answer. It made sense that Bates might know someone at Station Two, though. Both the US Forest Service and Station Two ahead, along with the Bureau of Trust Funds Administration, the Office of Surface Mining Reclamation and Enforcement, US Fish and Wildlife, as well as US Geological Survey, fell under National Park Service oversight. NPS, in turn, fell under the Department of Interior. A USFS ranger from Washington State might’ve worked with someone from Virginia’s Station Two in the past. Hell, Bates worked for Malloy, who’d worked for Obermeyer and Keane. There could be a link between any one of them and Station Two. Probable? Not likely, but still possible.

Because he couldn’t do anything to help London, Heston’s brain kept spewing good-to-know but useless information. Such as Sterling Johnson, successful businessman and trusted friend of President Adams. Also nominated to his current position as NPS director by Adams and just as quickly confirmed by the United States Senate. After Senate confirmation, it was the newly promoted NPS director’s responsibility to hire six senior executives to manage NPS national programs, policies, and budget. Each of those senior executives was given the power to hire regional directors who, in turn, managed the various branches of the National Park Service, including, but not limited to: Forest Service Rangers, Law Enforcement Officers (LEOs), Park Management, Fire Management, Resource Management, Marketing, Publicity, Administration, et cetera. The scope of NPS was as far-reaching as DoD’s scope. It was likely that Bates knew at least one person in the police station ahead. In fact—

A veritable lightning strike hit Heston’s frontal lobe and lit up his neural receptors like fireworks on the Fourth of July. A person’s frontal lobe was where logical thinking, planning, organizing, and deductive reasoning, and—

No. More. Shitting minutia!

“I know who the Irishman is,” he hissed, as his agile, intelligent mind continued to identify logical links at the speed of that same lightning strike. “Miles Wirth is the Senior Executive over NPS Administration. His father’s from Ireland, still lives there. Lancaster Wirth from County Armagh—”

“Isn’t that in Northern Ireland?” Zack asked.

“Yes,” Mother replied. “So?”

“Figures,” Zack snorted.

“Okay, so Northern Ireland, yes, but not Belfast. Not involved, that anyone knows of, in any car bombings or assassinations or—”

“That anyone knows of,” Mother interjected.

“Guys. Listen. Lancaster was up on racketeering charges in the States seven years and eight months ago, but the only eye-witness who could have identified him died in an unexplained explosion. Problem was Wirth had diplomatic immunity. The FBI couldn’t make charges stick without their witness, and—” Shit! Heston couldn’t get his brain to stop spewing details from the news articles he’d read years ago.

“Be advised both vehicles are exiting,” Mother interrupted calmly, which allowed Heston to draw in a breath after rambling like the eidetic idiot he was. “The right turn will take them into Station Two’s parking lot. The left puts them back on the GW with ramps that’ll head in either direction.”

“There’s also a dirt trail on the far west loop of that left turn that’ll take them down the banks of Turkey Run,” Zack replied.

“Yes, and that river empties into the Potomac. I hear it’s good fishing,” Mother said.

“Good hunting, too,” Zack added darkly.

“And Lancaster’s the asshole who put that hit on Kelsey!” Heston bellowed to get Mother’s and Zack’s attention. “Listen to me! He’s not the Irishman. He didn’t give Alex that burner phone. His son did. Miles is the Irishman. He was never as strong nor as respected as his old man. I know that because I’ve read the trial transcripts. All of them!”

Because I am just that anal.

“Lancaster’s pulling the strings. Miles is just another one of his puppets. Trust me on this, guys. I’m right. Miles’ oldest daughter is Katherine, aka Kitten. Kitten Wirth Bates. She married Devon Bates. She’s the cocktail waitress who set Bates up with one of Keane’s loan sharks. Now he thinks he owes them or they’ll kill her. But they won’t because the Wirth family runs the Irish Mafia in America now. Only the real boss lives in Ireland. Lancaster is that boss!”

“In Ireland where he’s untouchable,” Zack surmised.

“Your gut telling you this, Hes?” Mother asked with enough snark to choke a horse.

“That and listening to you guys yack. The second Zack mentioned US Park Police District, Station Two, my thoughts splintered off to a news article I read a few years back on the Wirth family. At the time it meant nothing. But with Miles now Senior Executive over the NPS Administration, it makes sense. He’s connected to the Irish Mafia. Hell, he is the Irish Mafia, and I’ll bet each of you a hundred bucks nobody knows that, not even our President.”

“You do realize Miles would’ve gone through extensive screening before he was hired for any government position, don’t you?” Mother asked.

“And you realize how easy it is for the Irish Mafia to grease the right palms, pay somebody to look the other way in our messed-up federal government, right?” Heston had her there and he knew it.

“That’s true, but… damn it. You might be right. Hold, please. I’m getting Mark on the line and… Mark? Heston knows who the Irishman is, and Alex isn’t going to like it.”

At last! Not ‘thinks he knows’ , but ‘knows’ .

“Who?” Mark barked.

“Tell him, Hes,” Mother ordered. So Heston repeated what he knew to be true, then explained his line of reasoning and how he got there.

“Alex’ll go ape-shit crazy,” Mark muttered. “Where are you guys?”

“West on the GW, on Obermeyer’s tail,” Zack answered. “Pretty sure Miles is driving the SUV with Obermeyer and Lancaster, also London, if that’s her in the body bag. Mother, have you run him through your facial rec program yet? Can you verify the driver ahead of us? Is he the Irishman?”

“If he’s Miles, where’s his old man, Lancaster?” Mark asked before Mother could reply.

“Unknown,” Heston answered. “But if Miles and Obermeyer are here—”

“Let me worry about Lancaster. There’s got to be photos of Miles online… Traffic cams…” Mother must’ve muted her headset, because suddenly her voice belted out, “Found him! Miles Wirth is driving the first SUV. The older guy with Obermeyer is—Shit! It’s Lancaster Wirth. You’re following the men responsible for trying to kill Kelsey and kidnapping London.”

“End them,” Mark ordered vehemently. “You heard Alex. Kill the sons of bitches.”

“Copy that,” Heston barked back. “After London’s safe.”

Mark disconnected and Zack glanced at Heston. “How the hell do you know all this?”

Heston didn’t have time to explain how his brain worked. It was nothing to be proud of, not as long as it had taken him to connect the dots between Bates, Keane, Obermeyer, Miles, and Lancaster. “It stands to reason. Lancaster worked closely with Pops Delaney,” Heston postulated, “which is how he knew about Alex.”

“Because Mel Stewart ran with Delaney, yeah. I get that.”

“And because Mel’s a braggart and a do-nothing. Back then, he probably wanted to get in good with the boss. It would’ve made him a big man to hang with someone as powerful as Lancaster. So he sucked up like any spineless, wannabe gangster does with a drug lord.” Which essentially, Lancaster Wirth was.

“Okay, yeah. Mel blabbed about how successful Alex and his business were, about Alex’s wife, kids, and—”

“And when President Adams publicly invited Alex to stand with him as his next VP,” Heston cut in, “Wirth saw a way to get inside the White House. He figured all he had to do was put the fear of losing his family into Alex, and Alex would fold like his own weak-kneed son did.”

“Giving Lancaster undue influence in American politics,” Mother breathed. “Son of a bitch!” And now she sounded like Alex.

“Hold on, London,” Hes whispered. “I’m coming, baby. I’m—”

“We’re coming,” Zack snapped. “You tell her we’re coming. You and me and Mom, and we’re taking every last one of these motherfuckers down!”

The Porsche leaped forward at Zack’s command. The quick response of the horses under its sleek black hood pushed Heston into his seat. He turned to really look at Zack then. The big man was a bald chunk of bronzed, carved granite and just as hard. A Marine like Alex, mean and mad as hell. His knuckles were big and white on the steering wheel. His dark brows were slammed together over the angry scowl of a fire-breathing gargoyle. It helped knowing a man like Zack had his back. Heston took a breath and let himself hope. Obermeyer and Lancaster thought they’d backed Alex into a corner by sending Malloy and his smart gun after Kelsey?

Guess again, assholes. You pissed off the wrong Devil Dogs. You’re already dead. You just don’t know it.