"Average Joe, more or less. Lives outside of Hartford, in Windsor."
"How far is that from Newport?" asked Sharpe.
"Just under a hundred miles," said Mendoza.
"Did they find his car yet?"
"Nothing on the streets near the mansion. They're searching a nearby college. The campus has waterfront acreage that connects to the cliff walk, which is a well trafficked path this time of the year. The shooter was found sprawled on the rocks a few hundred yards north of the mansion, just off this path. He might have been trying to duck a few nighttime strollers and slipped in the dark."
"We need to figure out how he got there, and how long he's been casing the residence. Start piecing this all together. He'd have to pay a toll somehow to get into Newport, unless he hitchhiked. We might find a file in the car, especially if these attacks were coordinated by an ex-special forces type. The car is important," said Sharpe.
"We pressed him on the car, and he wouldn't budge. I'm sure he'll tell us about the car, once he has a deal."
"I'm not counting on a deal, Frank. He's not giving us enough up front."
"He's walking a fine line," said Mendoza.
"Well, it's not good enough. I need some corroborating evidence to push this through. I think Munoz is worried about the car. We just might not need him once we find it."
"I'll make sure finding the car is Newport's top priority," Mendoza said, and stood up to leave the office.
Chapter Thirteen
Daniel parked a dark blue, late model Toyota Camry between two other non-descript sedans in Logan Airport's Central Parking lot. His car's Massachusetts plates matched nearly every other car in the row. He put the parking lot ticket on the passenger seat, and wasted no time yanking one of the two black nylon duffel bags out of the trunk, along with a small black carry-on bag. After slamming the trunk shut, he took note of the car's location, and searched for signs that would lead him into Terminal C. He had about twenty-five minutes to catch a Jet Blue flight to Baltimore/Washington International airport, or he would have to execute his backup plan.
He had no idea what General Sanderson had in store for him once he landed in the D.C. area, but at this point, he had little choice other than to the clear out of New England without Jessica. Unfortunately, he needed her in place back in Portland, and General Sanderson agreed. He started jogging, and glanced back one more time to frame the car's location in his mind. He had exchanged the BMW for the Camry in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, at the largest self-storage facility in seacoast New Hampshire. He had registered the car in Massachusetts under a false name, using an impeccably forged Massachusetts license issued to longtime Boston resident, Christopher Stevens.
Before driving out of the storage facility, he made a point of talking to the desk clerk long enough to create a lasting memory. If investigators got this far, he actually wanted them to know that he was now driving a nondescript Toyota Camry, one of the most common automobile models on the road throughout the U.S., and one of thousands registered in Massachusetts. To make matters worse for the FBI, he left the 95 Interstate at Newburyport and found a secluded spot to change the license plates. The storage facility had cameras, which might have captured a picture of the car's tags, and he needed this car to stay hidden at Logan Airport.
Eight minutes later, he rushed up to the Jet Blue counter, and handed his driver's license to a slim, brown haired woman in a Jet Blue uniform. She compared the picture on the license to Daniel, squinting briefly, and wrote something illegible on his boarding pass with a red marker.
"Any bags to check?"
"Not this time. I think these should fit onboard," he said, lifting his two bags a few inches off the ground where she could see.
"That should be fine. You're all set Mr. Harrell. The gate number is printed on your ticket," she said, and smiled.
Daniel nodded and briskly moved toward the security checkpoint.
Chapter Fourteen
Agent Olson stepped into the interrogation room with a brown file folder. She slapped it down on the white Formica table top, and stared at Munoz. Still unbandaged, the right side of his face was scraped and bruised from his fall onto the Newport cliff walk rocks. A small amount of dried, caked blood covered most of his right ear. He sported a nondescript, medium-length haircut, faded tightly on the sides. A horizontal scar grazed the hair above his left ear, and another visible scar showed through the stubble on the right side of his chin. Dark-skinned, with deep brown eyes and an angular face, he was a handsome man despite his rough condition.
Munoz looked up at Olson. His face remained expressionless.
"Do we have a deal?" he uttered.
"We do, but it's contingent…"
"Good luck with your investigation. I'm ready for a vacation. Somewhere warm I hope," Munoz said, leaning back in his chair.
"Contingent on proving this conspiracy. Black Flag better be real. Do you have any idea what happened today?" she asked, taking a seat across the table.
"Don't worry, it's real. Has my attorney seen the deal?"
"We have her standing by for a videoconference. She'll verify the details of your deal, but I'll tell you something…" Agent Olson leaned forward, her face several inches from Munoz, "You're not going anywhere until we figure out what happened today."
"I can go wherever I want. Whenever I want," he stated with a suppressed grin, as he placed his hands on the table in front of him.
Agent Olson reeled backward, as if Munoz had thrown a poisonous snake on the table. He had somehow managed to free his hands from the handcuffs that had been secured behind his back to the chair. Agent Carlisle reacted swiftly charged around the side of the table, but stopped as Munoz placed both hands on the top of his head. Both agents moved backward from the table, weapons drawn and pointed at the suspect.
"None of you have any idea what your dealing with here."
"Keep your hands on your head! Back away from the table and get on your knees. You will not be warned again," yelled Olson.
The interrogation room door opened, and three more agents entered. One of them held a Taser, the other two carried MP-5 submachine guns. Five agents stood well outside of Munoz's lunge radius, aiming weapons in his direction. One false move would erase Munoz from existence, and eliminate any chance the FBI had to make sense of the day.
Munoz had told them that a link existed between General Terrence Sanderson and today's events, and that he would trade information about Sanderson for full immunity. Without more information, they couldn't move on Sanderson. And since the FBI still had no idea who had masterminded the string of murders, they needed every bit of help available. Unfortunately, Munoz represented the only break in their investigation. The Department of Justice, with the full backing of the White House, agreed with this assessment.
"Patch me through to my lawyer. We're wasting time. As soon as you get what you need, I walk out of the door. If you fuck with me on this deal, they'll carry you out the back door with a tag on your big toe," he said, and lowered his body to his knees.
Munoz closed his eyes as at least three agents descended on him with zip ties and handcuffs. Agent Olson kept her weapon unholstered while Munoz was lifted to his feet. As he passed Olson, she grabbed the collar of his dark blue hooded sweatshirt and pulled him close.
"Your information better be worth this deal. I have a feeling you wouldn't last very long on the streets if we publicized the time and location of your release," she whispered.