Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

Kaamil walked out of the command center and headed back to the ranch house. He had a growing suspicion that someone had him in his sights, and was about to pull the trigger.

It took twenty minutes to reach the Yukon and another fifteen minutes for Drake to walk point and lead the way back to Hwy. 35. When he climbed in, they turned left to follow the Mount Hood Loop back to Portland.

Drake pulled off the balaclava and sat back in his seat for a moment with his eyes closed.

“You were a little slow with that last dog. Just wanted to mention that, in case there’s a next time. Age and all, though, you did all right.”

“Come on, man, you gotta love the beauty of it all. I waited until that last dog was in the air, so you’d remember how much you need me. How much fun would it have been for you, if I’d shot those dogs when they were a hundred yards back?”

“You’re right, Mike. Foolish of me to think you’d take the shot when it would be a challenge, when you could wait and take the easy shot.”

“Oh, man, that is not fair. I had your six. You used to sneak into a place and not wake everybody up.” Mike laughed when he glanced over and saw the feigned look of hurt on his friend’s face. “So, what’d you see down there?”

“Not what I expected. There was a sleeping bay, like on a military base, then a string of private rooms. Reminded me of our old Delta quarters-a bed, a small desk and a wall locker. In two of the rooms, there were Korans on the desks and prayer rugs on the floors.”

“So what’s ISIS doing, training Saudi security guys?” Mike asked as they drove past the Mount Hood Ranger Station.

“I don’t think they’re training Saudis. The guys I saw are American blacks. The rooms with the prayer rugs had security staff uniforms for the chemical weapons depot in Umatilla hanging on the lockers.”

In the ensuing silence, both men thought about what that could mean.

“You’re going to have to tell someone about this,” Mike said. “We’ve had enough homegrown terrorism in the Northwest to know these nut cases are a menace. They’re just stupid enough to hit an Army chemical depot. I have clients in and around the depot red zone. I know how dangerous that shit is. With thirty-seven hundred tons of old chemical weapons stored there, an explosion or fire in the storage area with a strong wind blowing and a lot of people are going to die.”

They were driving through a primeval forest, with canopies of towering, old fir trees almost blotting out the stars as they drove down the old Barlow Road. It was the last leg of the Oregon Trail that had brought settlers to the fertile Willamette Valley. The thought of thousands dying from one of man’s modern inventions of war seemed inappropriate in a place of such dark and ancient beauty.

“Who can I tell?” Drake asked, staring ahead into darkness beyond the headlights. “I broke into the place. By the time anyone could serve a search warrant, they won’t find Korans, prayer rugs, or depot uniforms. Maybe there’s an explanation I’m not seeing. ISIS does train security personnel, there’s no reason they can’t be training people to work at the chemical depot. Who’s going to do anything, just because I say I saw some Korans and prayer rugs? They’d just say I’m an Islamaphobe.”

Mike turned to look at his friend. “When did you start worrying about what other people think? We used to throw together mission plans on a lot less. ISIS and this ranch operation smell, and you and I know it.”

He was right. Drake’s suspicions and anger at being targeted had propelled him this far, but he felt a deep and foreboding reluctance to getting involved with his government again. He’d been a pawn on a chessboard when he was an operator in Delta Force. He didn’t have any desire to get involved with the FBI or DHS and be a tool for someone else again.

He also couldn’t stand by while Kaamil and Roberto Valencia and their crew might be planning something that would endanger thousands of innocent people.

“Okay, you’re right. Just because my little sneak-and-peek at the ranch won’t convince anyone, it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. If they won’t listen, then we’ll have to see if my father-in-law can help, as a last resort.”

Drake opened his cell phone and scrolled down to the number Liz Strobel had given him. It wasn’t midnight yet, and he hoped she was in her room and not out partying somewhere.

Six rings on her phone and an invitation to leave a message told him she was either out, or choosing not to answer his call. He knew he could call the Senator at any hour, but that would only lead eventually back to Strobel. He would wait until tomorrow.

“She’s not answering. Let’s get back and get some sleep. I have a feeling we might have a busy schedule the next couple of days, once I raise an alarm. Any chance you can stay around for a few more days?” Drake asked.

“Why, you planning on going it alone like we used to, if you can’t get anyone to listen? I need to get back to the office tomorrow, but I might be able to return to keep your ass out of trouble.”

Drake smiled at his friend’s subtle reminder of past close calls. Mike had an uncanny ability to lay down covering fire that had allowed him to escape many a kill zone. Mike was the best partner he’d ever worked with, and in Delta Force there weren’t any bad partners.

“Let me see what Strobel says, and I’ll call you. She might find my charm irresistible and forget she stood by while the Secret Service and the FBI threw me under the bus. If she doesn’t, we’ll proceed with Plan B, just as soon as I figure out what Plan B is.”

Early Monday morning, after four hours of sleep and seeing Mike off, Drake called Liz Strobel. When she answered, her gravelly voice said she’d been sleeping soundly.

“’If this is your idea of a sick joke, guys, I’ll make you pay,” Strobel said.

“Good morning, Sunshine. Adam Drake. I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have to listen. It’s early. Why are you doing this to me, Drake?” she whined.

“Whining doesn’t become you, Sunshine. Meet me downstairs in an hour for coffee. I may even buy you breakfast. I have some news you need to hear,” he said and hung up.

Strobel slammed down the phone and pulled the covers over her head. Her job required her to be as tough as the men she ordered around, but keeping up with them when they started drinking was still a skill she hadn’t mastered.

An hour later, Drake watched Strobel walk into the coffee shop of the Marriott, dressed like she was headed to the White House to brief the President. Navy blue jacket, tan skirt, a soft cream-colored silk blouse, and heels. He was impressed.

Strobel stopped behind her chair, where she locked a brief, this better be good, stare on him before she sat down. Then she waited for Drake to talk.

“I’m sorry I woke you up. I thought you might like to know your boss may be in danger,” Drake said.

“If this is an attempt to get me to interfere in the investigation of the guys you killed, you can save your breath. It’s out of my hands, as you no doubt saw the other day.”

“This isn’t about that, although there may be a connection. What if I were to tell you that at a location close to the chemical weapons depot, there are men living in an underground bunker. They have uniforms that will identify them as security guards at the depot. Your boss speaks there day after tomorrow.”

“My first question would be, why you think these men pose a danger to Secretary Rallings? The second would be, how did you learn about some underground bunker?” she said, sitting back in her chair while the waitress put her coffee on the table.