Spy Thriller: The Fourteenth Protocol: A Story of Espionage and Counter-terrorism (The Special Agent Jana Baker Book Series 1) (19 page)

He yelled, “I said, what in the Sam Hill are you doin’ on my computer!”

Then his eyes locked on the papers Jana was holding. “Them’s, them’s personal!” He lunged forward; his left hand grabbed her neck and wedged her against the wall. The papers splayed out onto the floor.

“Mr. Johnston! No!” yelled Cade, jumping up, his hands on Johnston’s crushing, steely forearm.

But as quickly as the rage started, it stopped. Johnston released his grip on Jana’s neck and looked at his left hand as though it were a beast beyond his control. Jana coughed violently.

He reeked of bourbon. “I, I . . . I don’t even know who I is anymore,” said Johnston still gazing at his hand. He stumbled backwards and fell into a heap on the ground, his salt and pepper hair jarring in the process.

Jana’s initial shock faded as she regained her composure and cleared her throat. Without anyone noticing, she slipped her firearm back into its holster. She had nearly pulled the trigger at point-blank range. She shook herself off and stood tall. It was like looking at a cross between a petite young woman and someone who’d just faced down insensate evil. The terrified young girl crumpled into ashes and the agent emerged. Jana had crossed over.

“They got their claws into me. I can’t even r’cognize muh-self anymore,” said Johnston, still staring off into oblivion.

Cade was petrified.

“Rupert?” The softness in her voice was like a fork cutting into Boston Crème Pie. She knelt down and put her hand on his shoulder. “Rupert,” she whispered, “it’s over now. It’s all over. You don’t have to be a part of this anymore.”

As though he didn’t even hear her, he said, “She thought I was dead, ya see.”

Jana and Cade looked at each other, bewildered. Johnston seemed to be in his own world where alcohol wedged itself between past and present.

“Darlene . . . Darlene was, Darlene was a waitin’ on me.”

Jana placed a finger against her pursed lips, signaling Cade to stay quiet. She circled around Johnston’s side, knelt down, and glided her hands across his broad shoulders.

Rupert’s glazed eyes registered her presence but looked more like he was watching a movie.

“She’s a waitin’. You’ll see. She’s just ’roun’ the bend up here. When this here bus stops, you’ll see. She’ll be a standin’ right there at the station.”

Leaning behind him, Cade half-mouthed, “What the hell is he talking about?” but Jana held up her hand.

“Tell me about Darlene, Rupert,” said Jana.

“See, there was a mistake, see,” his speech slurred. “I had done lost a set of dog tags durin’ a firefight, and see, sumhow somebuddy foun’ them dog tags and thought I was dead, an’, an’, an’, they sent a chaplain to tell Darlene, an’, an’, an’ she thought I was dead. Truth be tolt, I thot I was dead a time er two muhself. And whut, with Jimmy Joe dyin’ right in front a me and that, that dollar bill a his.” He was still in his own world but focused on Jana now. “Jimmy Joe had this dollar bill in his pockit,” his inflection flared, “and when that grenade went off, well, Jimmy Joe was . . . was . . . all a mess.” Rupert burst into tears and leaned into Jana’s shoulder.

Words choked out of him. “He was all blowed up. He was all over me. And that dollar bill a his . . . it . . . it was stuck to my leg. Just stuck there like sumbuddy done painted it on me. It’s stuck on me, an’ I kent git it off.”

Rupert began clawing at his left thigh at a dollar bill that existed only in his mind.

“It won’t come offn’ me! I kin never git it offn’ me! Help me git it off!”

Jana reached out to steady his hand, but it was futile against his drunken strength.

Jana said, “Rupert! Rupert. Now you stop that. You just stop that.” Her voice was strong and firm.

He looked up at her again as a slight glaze of terror melted from his eyes. Jana nodded to Cade and pointed to the laptop; she had Johnston distracted, and the twenty-five-minute timer was running.

“You remine me of my Darlene,” said Johnston, the stony façade flaking away. “She was purty. I got a pitcher of us when I was jus’ shippin’ out. We was standin’ there at the bus stop when I was leavin’. She looked jes like you.” Rupert’s eyes wandered far away, and he said, “That pitcher I got. It’s like, like you kin jest see it. In our eyes, ya see. Like we was the only two people in the whole worl’. Two people who got the resta their lives in front of ’em.” Heavy tears rolled off his face and landed on his lap.

Cade was making progress on the laptop. He looked at Jana and mouthed “almost there.”

Jana looked back at Rupert and saw the shell of a man who looked like he had lost himself down a dark rabbit hole and found his way back up, but when he got there, the world had changed.

“Rupert, it’s all over now,” she said. “It’s all going to be okay. Everything that’s been going on here. You don’t have to do it anymore. It’s over now.” She was stabbing in the dark, unsure of his reaction.

Tightened ropes that streaked Rupert’s forehead loosened.

Jana continued, “I want you to come out with us now. It’s time to walk away from all of this. It’s time to tell the truth and just walk away.” She stole a secretive glance at her watch.

Johnston leaned in toward Jana’s ear. His whispering voice was almost childlike. “The doll’r bill, is it gone now?”

The dollar bill symbolized terror experienced in Vietnam. But now, it symbolized the terror of a CIA investigation that had gone wrong.

“It’s gone now,” she said. “And if you come out with us now, it will be gone forever.”

The room went deathly quiet. Jana glanced at Cade, who flashed thumbs-up, nodded his head, then said, “It’s done, I’ve got everything we need.”

Jana said, “Rupert, I want you to stand up now. You come with us now.”

A breeze of calm soberness drifted across Johnston as the tension in his shoulders eased.

“It ain’t that simple no more. Nothin’s that simple no more.” He looked into Jana’s eyes as if talking straight to her soul. “There ain’t no way outta here for me. You don’ understan’. If’n they find out, God knows what’ll happen. I can’t git out.”

“Rupert, we can protect you. You’ll be safe. Come out with us.”

“It ain’ my safety I’m talkin’ ’bout. You don’ understan’. If I stop—if they find out I’m tryin’ to git out—they’ll do somepin.” He looked far off. “Somepin terrible. No, no. I can’t go nowheres . . . I’m all used up.”

Jana sat up in fear of the words coming out of Johnston’s mouth and what they might mean. She was afraid to ask, but had to.

“Rupert? What do you mean something terrible?”

Rupert gazed at his own reflection in the darkened window. “I’ve never been so ashamed in all my life. It jes, it, it jes got away from me. I thought we was doin’ somethin’ good. But it jes . . . got away from me. And by then, it wus too late. Too late. I didn’t know they was gonna do all that . . .”

“What is it they’re going to do, Rupert?” But he wasn’t really hearing her.

Johnston looked at Jana. “It’s all in them papers, Darlene. Go on, you go on, Darlene. Y’all git outta here and take them papers with ya.”

Cade was up and looking at his watch, mouthing, “It’s time to go.”

Jana pleaded, “Rupert, please. Please come with us. Do as Darlene says and come with me now.”

Rupert watched tears drop onto his trousers. “Yer wrong, little lady. Dead wrong,” he said. “It ain’t gone. It ain’t never gonna be gone. That doll’r bill, it’s still stuck right there where it’s always been. I kin only think of one way it’s ever gonna be gone.”

Cade entered the early stages of panic mode and moved behind Rupert, grabbing Jana by the arm. He pulled her up and noticed the pursing and quivering of her lips, her eyes tight and fighting back tears of their own. He looked at his watch again. Cade knew it was too late for Rupert; the two of them had to go—and go right now.

Jana yanked against him as he tugged them out of the office. “No, wait. Look at his eyes,” she whispered. “This is really wrong. He’s going to do something crazy.”

Rupert stood up and a mechanical blankness washed his face. It was as if all the emotion in the world had drained away. He bent down and reached underneath the desk. A tearing sound was audible as Rupert yanked open a Velcro strap, releasing a hidden handgun from its holster. Cade pulled against Jana. “Oh shit!”

But Jana yanked back again, ripping her arm free. “No, goddammit. He’s not going to hurt us, he’s going to hurt himself!” She screamed, “Rupert! No!”

But Rupert pushed past them like a robot, never feeling their weight. The large .45 caliber handgun pointed forward as he stormed past and headed for the door to the security desk.

38
             
 

“Goddamn Gooks is what they are,” he said. “Got to go git me some Gooks.”

“Rupert! No!” screamed Jana again. “Cade, we’ve got to get out of here! He’s going to start shooting out there!” Tears were welling in her eyes. “Is there another exit? He’s going to start shooting. We can’t go that way! We’ve got to get down a stairwell!”

“It’s over here! It’s this way.” Cade was still dazed but began running with Jana through the server racks toward the only other exit, a stairwell on the southeast corner of the building.

They ran through the maze of clustered servers and down the far wall to the corner of the building. They were now directly across the server floor from the door Rupert Johnston just kicked his way through. Cade yanked back on Jana just before she hit the door. “Wait! Wait! The alarm will go off! The door’s got an alarm on it!”

Gunfire erupted from the far side of the floor. They could hear Rupert’s muffled yelling, “You motherfuckin’ Goooooooks!” Loud popping, muzzle blasts were answered by screams and more pops; CIA security personnel were returning fire.

Jana yelled, “I don’t think they’re going to notice the stupid door alarm,” and kicked the door handle. The metal door burst open, slamming into the cement wall, and echoed as alarm sirens began wailing.

The pops of gunfire amplified in volume tenfold. The door where Rupert had disappeared now burst open. Rupert staggered and fell back into the server room. He regained his footing and fired again through the open doorway. Jana jammed her shoulder into Cade’s midsection, literally tackling him through the door and into the stairwell. They hit the cement floor and landed with a painful thud. A sizzling sound ripped past Cade’s left ear. The bullet passed in between them and slammed against the far wall of the stairwell, exploding. Tiny cement and lead shards pelted back at them. Jana recoiled from the sting in her flesh. She ignored it and yanked Cade off the floor, “MOVEMOVEMOVE!” she yelled in one repeating sound, forcing them down the stairs and out of the line of fire.

Outside, on the roof of the W Hotel, the HRT agent recoiled as loud noises burst into his headset. “Paula D! Paula D! This is four! I’ve got an alarm sounding. Loud popping noises! I can’t confirm but . . . oh hell no! Gunfire! I say again, I’ve got gunfire somewhere between sixteen and eighteen!”

Agent Murphy responded by yelling into the comm, “All cooks. All cooks. This is Paula D; you are code red! I say again, you are red and free. Breach the oven, I repeat, breach the oven!”

Even before the order to breach was given, Kyle MacKerron was in a full sprint from the train platform, knocking down two civilians in the process. He flung off his outer over shirt, exposing the telltale navy blue windbreaker embroidered with huge yellow letters, FBI. He bolted down the long, translucent corridor leading under the Thoughtstorm building and tore into the fanny pack tight against his waist, yanking out the MP5 submachine gun.

He ran. He ran straight into the face of danger. He’d trained for events like this, but this was the real thing. More senior federal agents use a phrase “meeting the dragon” to describe a time when faced with death; you’ll either tear through your worst fears, or cower to save your own skin. The dragon is mean, he is cold, and he has no remorse. Kyle MacKerron sprinted towards his dragon, and prepared to kick its ass.

39
             
 

FBI Director Stephen Latent was four floors below ground level at FBI headquarters in Washington. The darkened war room looked like a control center; a myriad of massive computer monitors painted the wall where all eyes were locked. The secure satellite uplink to the scene in Atlanta provided instantaneous intel of what was happening at the Thoughtstorm building, the site of the biggest terrorism case since 9/11. Not a word was spoken. The concentration level was thick enough to taste.

As director of the FBI, Latent had full authority to control everything taking place. But he insisted from the first day he stepped into his post, he would never, ever play armchair quarterback with the Hostage Rescue Team. He would let the experts on the ground control what was happening.

A junior agent at the back of the room said the scene reminded him of a photo of Obama and Hillary Clinton watching the Bin Laden raid unfold in front of their eyes. Upon hearing Agent Murphy’s command to breach the building, Latent stood straight up, his hands on his temples.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” he said. The weight crushing his shoulders felt as heavy as the eighty-pound rucksack he’d once carried into war zones. He could hardly breathe, yet his exterior stayed glassy, solid. This was why active field agents loved him. They knew he’d do anything in the world to avoid handing another folded American flag to a new FBI widow.

Latent listened and watched the various camera angles. HRT members poured into the building. It was his worst nightmare. The bureau, under his authorization, was raiding a building controlled by the Central Intelligence Agency. Never in his wildest imagination would he have believed such a scenario could ever play itself out.

From three sides of the building, groups of six to ten agents ran full speed towards an entrance, detonated controlled charges of plastic explosives against the door, and raced inside. Glass and metal debris were everywhere.

Once inside, it was harder to determine what was happening. Each HRT operator had a miniature video transmitter affixed to their Kevlar helmet. But the cameras were bouncing in such a violent manner, interpreting the images on the video monitors was difficult to say the least.

Groups one and two stormed the southeast and northwest stairwells; the third split itself into two separate elevator banks. Agents clad in black fatigues, Kevlar helmets, and flak jackets flew up the stairwells without pausing. The teams in elevators purposely pressed the button for the eighteenth floor, but as the elevators crossed the restricted seventeenth floor, they jammed the elevator control panel, thwarting farther upward movement. They then breached the elevator doors on seventeen and tossed flash-bang grenades into the long, sterile hallway towards the guard desk. The flash-bangs erupted in blinding thunderclaps as agents poured out and ran into the torrent of thick gray smoke and into God knows what else.

Latent said, “Get me the president.” His eyes never left the video monitors.

An agent next to him nodded and picked up a red phone.

“Director Latent for the president. This is a priority flash alert.” The secret service agent that answered in the White House went silent, never having received such a call. He could be heard scrambling in the background. Latent took the phone and grimaced at what he’d have to say next. Worse still, he had as yet been unable to ascertain how much the president knew of the CIA’s terrorist financing operation. He thought back to that moment in the Atlanta field office when he learned the fingerprints were protected under the Fourteenth Protocol.
Jesus Christ,
thought Latent.
The Fourteenth Protocol. The president has to know. None of the protocols established after 9/11 can be invoked without his direct signature.
Latent still just could not believe it.

In the first moments after the initial gunfire, while Latent stared at the monitors and briefed the president, Agent Kyle MacKerron crashed through a stairwell door and into the Thoughtstorm lobby ahead of HRT teams, finding nothing there. The immeasurable fear inside him was not registering. He raced through the open stairwell door on the southwest side of the building and leapt onto the stairs, his legs gorging on them like a bulldozer punching into an old house. On the ninth floor, his adrenaline peaked as he rounded the stairwell corner. A steel door burst open with five uniformed CIA security officers behind it. Kyle screamed out, “FBI! FBI! Show me your hands!” But the security officers recoiled backwards away from the open doorway and began firing wildly. Kyle rocked back and returned fire but continued screaming, “Federal agent! Drop your weapons!” The firefight intensified as the back of Kyle’s neck and flak jacket were peppered with cement fragments as bullets bounced off the walls of the stairwell. The smell of gunpowder was acrid.

He could hear the CIA officers yelling at one another, “Do it! Do it now!” Kyle braced for whatever was coming. Whatever it was, he wasn’t backing down. He leaned forward and squeezed off two rounds. There was no return fire. Instead, what came next was something Kyle never considered. Bouncing down the stairs in slow motion was an unmistakable small metal canister.
Tink, tink, tink
as it bounced off cinder block walls and across sheathed metal stairs. The threat registered immediately. It was a Willie Pete, a white phosphorous hand grenade. He’d only ever seen one once during training. He never thought he’d see another. And this one was bouncing right towards him. Without thinking, Kyle burst forward and snatched the Willie Pete out of the air as it bounced. He flung it back through the open ninth floor door and ran farther up the stairwell. He just cleared the next landing when the device exploded well inside the doorway. The screams from the CIA officers were horrifying.

Kyle keyed his mic, “Paula D, Paula D, this is Savannah. Live fire on nine. I say again, live fire on nine. Multiple casualties. Grenades! I say again, white phosphorous grenades. All teams, watch your ass. We’ve got bomb chuckers throwing Willie Petes.”