Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

“KEX news has just learned that a crowd of Muslim protesters is rallying outside Portland police headquarters, protesting the disappearance of three young Muslim men after being detained by the police. The spokesman for the group, the imam of a local mosque, is claiming that the three young men were detained by the police and haven’t been heard from since. Portland Police Bureau spokesman, Brad Williams, told our reporter they don’t know anything about three Muslims being detained, for any reason. He said they definitely do not have any information about three Muslim men disappearing while in police custody. Williams said, however, they are looking into the allegations.”

You smart SOBs, Drake thought. If you don’t know what’s happened to your men, get the media involved. Claim the police are responsible and let the police do the work for you. Since 9/11, no one wanted to be accused of discriminating against Muslims. Even if there was evidence the men he’d killed were terrorists and posed a threat to the Secretary of DHS, Strobel wouldn’t be able to hold off a police inquiry for long.

He had less time now to find out what the hell was going on. It was almost 11:00 a.m. He hadn’t seen anyone of interest, coming or going into the ISIS building. He’d give it another hour, and then he would have to figure out another way to get inside ISIS.

At 11:15 a.m., a black Suburban pulled out of the underground garage and turned east on SW Meadows Road toward Lake Oswego. Drake decided to let it go. It was just a hunch, but everything involving Martin Research was located to the west. He didn’t think Kaamil would drive one of the Suburbans when he could take his roadster. The black SLS was a driver’s car, and there was no reason to choose a glorified station wagon over a real car, if you had the choice.

At the bottom of the hour, Drake watched the second black Suburban leave the parking garage and turn west. Just before it turned out of the ISIS lot, Drake caught a glimpse of the driver and decided to wait a little longer. The man behind the wheel was at least sixty and looked like an accountant, not someone Kaamil would send on an important errand.

Just before noon, the black Mercedes roadster pulled to the top of the underground ramp, hesitated for a moment, then accelerated out onto the road in front of the ISIS building. It was Kaamil. Drake started the Land Rover and fell in two cars behind the black roadster as it turned west onto Kruse Way and then north onto I-5, headed into the city.

The roadster maintained a steady speed through the Terwilliger curves and continued on toward downtown Portland. Part of him wanted to pull alongside, wave, and see how Kaamil reacted when he saw that Drake was alive. Instead, he followed at a distance to keep from being noticed.

When they neared the Markham bridge crossing over the Willamette River, Drake allowed a couple of cars to cut in front of him. I-5 continued over the bridge, but the freeway also split left into the city center and onto I-405 toward Mount Saint Helens. If Kaamil didn’t want to be followed, all he had to do was wait until the last moment and swerve to the left or to the right up over the bridge.

The roadster waited until the last moment, then crossed over into the right-hand lane, taking I-5 over the river. Drake followed, and watched a minute later when it took another right onto I-84, heading toward the airport.

Traffic on I-84 was more congested than on I-5, and he had to pay more attention to his driving to make sure he wasn’t spotted. He maintained pace with the Mercedes, but changed lanes frequently, and accordioned the space between the two cars. Kaamil, however, continued at a steady sixty-five miles per hour in the middle lane. Before much longer, Drake knew he would either take the exit to the Portland International Airport or continue traveling east.

When they reached the exit to the airport, Kaamil stayed on I-84. The freeway soon opened up and became a two-lane, winding speedway following the Columbia River up the gorge to Hood River. It was just the road for a car like the Mercedes SLS.

Wherever Kaamil was going, Drake was committed to following him. One way or another, he had to know if Kaamil was the man who sent killers to his farm.

Despite the opportunity to drive faster, the black roadster held to a steady seventy miles per hour. Drake hardly noticed the Columbia River as it sliced through towering cliffs on either side. It was the only river that cut through the Cascade mountain range and allowed passage to the Pacific. Its beauty was lost on Drake, however. He had slipped into the role of the hunter.

When he was with Delta Force, he pursued the targets his government provided him, without question and without emotion. It had simply been his job. Now, he was pursuing someone and it wasn’t his job, and there was a lot of emotion.

As he drove past the Cascade Locks and the Bridge of the Gods, two hundred yards behind Kaamil’s roadster, his vibrating cell phone startled him back to the moment.

“Can I assume I won’t be seeing you later today?” Margo asked.

“I’m sorry, I should have called. Something’s come up. Everything okay there?”

“If you mean, do I have any more threatening men sitting around, the answer is no. Unless you count my husband, who’s mad as hell you didn’t let us know someone tried to kill you last night. Where are you?” she demanded.

“Margo, you and Paul have every right to be angry. I’m sorry. I’ll explain everything, as soon as I can, but I need to know how you heard about last night. Is Paul there?” he asked.

“No, he isn’t. A friend of his from the FBI called and asked if we were okay. He asked if there had been any trouble at the office that we needed help with. He assumed we knew what was going on, since we might be in danger, living in the condo above your office and all. Good thing we have friends, don’t you think?” she asked.

Her anger stung him, but he didn’t have the time to make amends.

“I’m on I-84 in Kay’s Land Rover following the ISIS manager up the Columbia. I said I was sorry, and that’s all I can say right now,” he said, in a voice that didn’t invite a response. “If that woman from DHS calls, don’t tell her where I am. I don’t need any interference. Everything is going to be all right, I promise. I’ll call you when I’m headed back to town,” Drake said and ended the call.

Everything will be all right, Drake thought, just as soon as I find the SOB who tried to have me killed.

Kaamil was still holding to a steady seventy miles per hour as they passed Viento State Park, and then began to slow. Seven miles later, he slowed even more and pulled off I-84 into the small town of Hood River, self-proclaimed windsurfing capital of the world. Apples and pears had been the main staples of the local economy before the fierce winds blowing down the Columbia started drawing windsurfers from all over the world. The town was now dominated by board shops, restaurants and microbrew pubs. There weren’t many businesses, however, big enough to need a security firm like ISIS.

Drake stayed a block behind Kaamil’s roadster when it turned left at the first intersection and drove down toward the river. Kaamil continued on, past a vast parking lot that served as a staging area for the windsurfers. Vans and SUVs with roof racks, and old Volkswagen campers were everywhere. Beyond them, a couple hundred colorful sails skimmed back and forth across the water. For a moment, Drake had the sinking feeling that maybe it was Kaamil’s day off, and he was here to meet someone for an afternoon of board sailing.

Kaamil drove past the parking lot and pulled up in front of what looked to be an old, abandoned warehouse. The warehouse was surrounded by a chain link fence topped by barbed wire, with a gate that appeared to be locked, blocking Kaamil’s entrance.