“Why didn’t he tell you this the first time you talked to him?” Bree asked.
“He claims he didn’t put it together until after the second attack. Even then, he couldn’t see the harm in having fewer drug cartels and human traffickers in the world.”
“Until Fender and Hobbes decided to frame and kill him,” Bree said.
“Correct,” Sampson said.
Bree sat there a few moments, absorbing it, before she leaned forward and said, “They’ve killed drug dealers and human traffickers, but no corrupt politicians.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Which is why we need to find Lester Hobbes and Charles Fender sooner rather than later.”
CHAPTER
68
JOHN BROWN SAT with several others at his home, his arm throbbing from the dog bite. He tried to ignore the pain as he watched the footage on the local evening news of the medical examiner’s wagon rolling through the gate of Nicholas Condon’s place in Denton.
A young female reporter came on in standup and gushed, “WBAL-TV Channel Eleven brings you this exclusive report. FBI and local law enforcement officials are telling us that evidence gathered at the scene of the gangland-style murder indicates a connection between the victim, former SEAL Team 6 sniper Nicholas Condon, and the massacres of drug dealers and human traffickers in the past month.
“The FBI also says the evidence has pushed the multistate investigation in a new direction, and all of Condon’s known and former associates will be coming under increased scrutiny in the days ahead,” the reporter said.
“It worked,” Cass said, shutting off the TV with a remote. “I have to admit, I had my doubts.”
“Not me,” Hobbes said. “Well played.”
Fender and the rest of the eleven people gathered in Brown’s living room applauded.
“We do have some breathing room now,” Brown said. “Which will help us with our next target.”
The group focused on Brown as he laid it all out. One by one, their faces turned somber and then skeptical.
“I don’t know,” Fender said when Brown finished. “Looks like a fortress.”
Hobbes said, “There won’t be small-timers guarding the place. We’ll be facing pros with talent.”
“Likely,” Brown said. “But if you want to chop off a snake’s head, you have to get close to the fangs.”
Fender said, “How is our friend so sure this is the snake’s head?”
“He says it’s the snake’s head for the East Coast, anyway. We chop it off, we leave their organization in total destruction. We chop it off, we’ll be clear to move to the next phase of the cleanup.”
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Cass said. “Our friend’s intel on the compound is solid?”
“World-class,” Brown replied. “The place has been under satellite and drone surveillance for the past ten days.”
“So what’s the plan?” Hobbes asked. “You’re the strategist.”
Brown showed satellite photographs and diagrams of the next target. His followers listened intently. They had to. Their lives and cause depended on it.
When he was done, he opened the floor to questions, comments, and suggestions. They talked for hours, until long past midnight, altering and tweaking the plan until all of them agreed it could work despite the fact there would likely be casualties on their side for the first time. It seemed unavoidable, but no one backed out.
“When do we go?” Cass asked.
“The meeting’s in three days,” Brown said.
“That helps us,” Fender said. “It will be the dark of the moon.”
CHAPTER
69
TRACKING POTENTIAL MASS murderers can be a delicate job in this day and age of instant information and programs that alert someone when certain kinds of data are accessed. This is especially true when the suspects are former employees of the Central Intelligence Agency and the U.S. Special Forces.
Everything about this particular part of the investigation, Mahoney told us, had to operate under the radar. The rest of that day and on into the next, Sampson and I focused on public records. Hobbes and Fender both had Virginia driver’s licenses with addresses that turned out to be mail-drop boxes in Fairfax County. Both paid income taxes from those addresses, and each listed his job as security consultant. Beyond that, they didn’t exist.
“These guys are pros,” Sampson said. “They leave no trace.”
“They’re probably using documented aliases and leading secret lives.”
“Paranoid way to live.”
“Unless you have someone hunting you.”
“Point taken, but I’m feeling like we’re dead in the water until Mahoney comes up with something.”
My cell phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize.
“Alex Cross,” I said.
On the other end of the line, a woman blubbered, “Who killed Nick? Were you there?”
For a moment I was confused, and then I remembered. “Dolores?”