Marc Cameron - National Security

“Hey, little man,” she whispered, fighting to keep up her tremulous smile. “Go put on your shoes.”

Jericho stood at the edge of the highway watching the growing crowd of stranded commuters as they got out of their cars to look at the grizzly scene. A fist of worry gripped his chest. Fort Worth PD had set up barricades, keeping dozens of well-tanned onlookers in cowboy hats, big hairdos, and ball caps at bay. A Channel 4 news helicopter touched down less than fifty yards from the crash scene.

“You think the Navarro girl is okay?” Mahoney asked.

“Her mother’s house is an hour away from here by car,” Jericho sighed. He’d never felt so beaten. “She’s got protection.”

“I just called and talked to the agent in charge out there,” Thibodaux said. “Sounds like he’s about thirteen, but he swears everything’s hunky-dory. No sign of any bad guys out his way. That leaves us with zip for leads when it comes to finding Zafir.”

Mahoney took out her iPhone. “What did you say Navarro’s mother’s name is?”

“Juanita,” Quinn said. “Juanita Calderon.”

Mahoney worked the iPhone for a moment. Lights flashed in her eyes as she scrolled through a series of screens. Suddenly she groaned and turned the device around so both Quinn and Thibodaux could look at the color display. “When I type in Carrie Navarro I get a link to a photo of her accepting an award from her newspaper. Look who’s standing beside her.”

“Her mother, Juanita Calderon,” Thibodaux read the screen.

“And when I do a people-finder search for Juanita Calderon in Weatherford, Texas…”

She touched the face of her iPhone. Both men moved in beside her now, watching the new page load. They watched a satellite image with a pulsating blue dot over a white farm house. Thick green woods crowded the neighborhood, each home with at least five acres of land.

“I’m guessing that’s Juanita Calderon’s house,” Thibodaux said.

“She’s listed in the phone book,” Mahoney said, biting her lip. “And if we can find her this easily, so can Zafir.”

The Channel 4 news chopper was just spooling down in a vacant pasture when the Hammer Team crawled through the barbed-wire fence beside it. The burly Jacques Thibodaux took the lead as they made their approach. Though Quinn was more than capable when it came to physical confrontation, in the short time he’d been working with Thibodaux, he’d found it was a time-saver to let the giant Cajun’s physique press the issue if an issue needed to be pushed.

The chopper pilot, a sensible-looking man with mussed gray hair wore a green David Clark headset with a tiny mike situated over his mouth. He busied himself on the radio while a lone reporter, who appeared to be the only other occupant of the helicopter, sat in the back seat rummaging through a giant blue duffel of camera gear and microphones.

“Hey there,” Thibodaux said, grinning. “ Comment ca va, beb?”

The reporter, a thirty-something Ken doll look-alike didn’t even look up. “Tell this hick we’ve got a deadline to meet, Steve,” he mumbled to the pilot, as if he couldn’t be bothered to converse with mere mortals. “I don’t have time to talk. Tell them to run along and get away from the chopper.” His sockless penny loafers and pink oxford button-down suggested his name might be something like Biff.

Thibodaux threw a tired glance over his shoulder at the others.

“OSI.” He held up his shiny new black credential case and gold badge. “Pains me to say so, but we’re with the Air Force. I’m gonna need to borrow your helicopter.”

“Beat feet, dude.” Biff smirked, still fiddling with a foot-long camera lens. “I’m gonna have to call bullshit on that one. Our Air Force doesn’t have any jurisdiction over civilians on American soil. Posse comitatus and all.”

“You’re right…” Thibodaux turned and looked at Quinn again. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes. “I tried to be nice,” he sighed. “Really I did.” His back suddenly seemed to flare wider as he loomed over the simpering reporter. The friendly twang fled and his voice grew deadly quiet. “Tell you what then. How ’bout this for logic? I’m bigger’n you and we’re taking your chopper.”

Biff looked up from the camera, his eyes flung wide at Thibodaux’s menacing tone.

Quinn nudged Mahoney out of the way as Thibodaux grabbed the reporter by the scruff of his starched oxford collar and heaved him out the door and into the field stubble.

The Cajun cocked his head toward the smirking pilot. “You got any problems with Air Force OSI workin’ on American soil, my friend?”

“Steve Akers,” the man said, grinning. “USMC retired. Hell, welcome aboard. That kid’s been a pain in my ass since he started. Can’t say I’m sad to see him go.”

Quinn and Mahoney scrambled in the back as Thibodaux climbed in front where he’d have more leg room. “Good to meet you, Marine,” he said, nodding in greeting as he adjusted a second headset.

“Welcome, Air Force,” the pilot said.

Thibodaux shook his big head emphatically, nearly dislodging the headset. “I’m zero-three-six-nine, pal.” He gave the numerical code for a Marine Corps MOS of Infantry Unit Leader.

Akers raised a seasoned eyebrow, then pulled up on the collective to lift the helicopter off the grass. The bird shuddered slightly, flying out of the chopper’s own rudder wash and into clean air, picking up speed.

“Thought your fancy creds said you worked for the Air Force?”

“Long story,” Thibodaux said. “I’ll tell you on the way to save the world.”

A single policeman slouched in the unmarked Ford Crown Victoria out front of Juanita Calderon’s white frame house. This was all Zafir had to see to confirm what he needed to know. Carrie Navarro was in the house.

It was a fluke that he was even aware Juanita Calderon existed. Early after Carrie had become his guest, he’d seen to it she was given paper and a pen to write her family a letter. She’d been smart enough not to trust him, even then, so he’d sent in an underling, a young fighter from Samarra, to give her the materials. Navarro had written the letter, but the stupid boy had fallen in love with her. Zafir had caught them alone together and been forced to kill him.

Carrie’s letter had been addressed to a post office box, but it had provided him with a name and a city. With Gail Taylor’s iPhone and the instructions she had provided before he killed her, it had been easy enough to perform a search on that name. The P.O. box was in a place called Weatherford so when he found a Juanita Calderon in that city, he knew he had the correct place. Night after night he’d sat outside Carrie Navarro’s cell door and listened to her whimper for her mother. It made sense that the stupid cow would go there when she felt threatened.

Zafir’s heart raced. At long last he was on the brink of his long-sought objective. He licked his lips, tasting the memory of her.

He sat behind the wheel of his rental car on the adjacent block, looking through a grove of cedar trees between two houses. Juanita Calderon’s home sat in the middle of a lavish subdivision at the outskirts of town. Each house was at least two stories with a well-manicured lawn and corral. A few even had roping arenas. There was at least one boat or motorcycle parked in almost every driveway. Some had horses in small paddocks; behind their houses. Calderon’s was among the oldest, presumably it had been the ranch house before the land was parceled off for development, but it was still impressive with a sprawling, wraparound cedar deck and two huge oaks in the spacious front yard.