"For the whole month," Pete said, and the line went dead.
Berg immediately relayed the information to the team leader at the hotel. His next call went to Keller, hoping to catch him outside of the Sanctum. He needed to know how much progress the FBI had made since accessing the Black Flag file.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Daniel Petrovich walked out of the elevator into the Marriott lobby and studied his surroundings. The hotel's decor was modernistic. Shiny off-white marble floors contrasted with dark, mahogany walls, which were sporadically adorned with bright impressionist art. The lobby of the 226 room hotel was deserted except for the hotel staff at the desk to his left, and a small party of adults laughing inside the bar located down the hallway in the opposite direction of the reception area. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary as he turned toward the main door that led into the courtyard adjoining the hotel with the conference center.
He was dressed in a simple, business casual outfit that wouldn't have garnered a second glance in the Capitol, or any street in America: dark leather shoes, wheat brown pleated pants, and a blue oxford shirt covered by a lightweight, dark blue golfing jacket. The black duffel bag in his right hand was the only part of his outfit that might warrant a second pass from a security guard or police officer, but he didn't have to worry about that here.
He scanned the remaining lobby space as he passed the desk, paying close attention to the faces of the hotel employees manning the reception area. He didn't register any response other than a smile and a nod from the young black kid talking on one of the hotel phones. The other hotel employee, a middle aged, white woman with heavy makeup and bleached hair never looked up from whatever she was reading under the counter.
He didn't expect anyone to have found him at this point, but there was no reason to let his guard down. He wasn't completely sure of Sanderson's intentions, or the extent of his resources, so he would have to assume the worst. Even if he was completely safe for the moment, treating the situation as extremely hazardous would help him transition back into the mindset that had been drilled into him for close to four years in the Black Flag training program.
Although it still felt like second nature to him, he accepted the reality that his skills and capabilities had degraded over the six years since he escaped Serbia. He still kept in top physical condition, practiced martial arts, and maintained his marksmanship skills, but nothing could replace continuously sharpening all of these skills in an environment where the slightest advantage gained over an adversary or situation could spell the difference between life and death. Two years in Serbia had sharpened these skills to perfection, and although his current skill level remained at a fraction of his previous level, it would still stack up heavily against any adversary Sanderson might throw at him.
The lobby door slid open, and he was greeted by muggy, slightly polluted mid-Atlantic air. He noticed a few couples seated in the courtyard, at tables scattered around the patio area, enjoying a temperate, but humid evening. The clear sky still held some light on the western horizon, casting a deep blue ribbon that faded into stars above the hotel, competing with the orange artificial illumination cast by the decorative sodium vapor street lamps surrounding the courtyard.
A stocky man dressed in dark pants and a short-sleeved green polo shirt sat alone on one of the granite stone benches at the far edge of the courtyard, near the walkway leading to a large parking garage that probably served the University of Maryland College Park campus. Daniel shifted his duffel bag over to his left hand, freeing his most capable side for action. From what he could tell, the man had a briefcase open next to him on the bench, and was concentrating on some paperwork inside. He thought it was a little late for glancing at papers.
Petrovich wandered to the right, away from the man on the bench, and toward the parking lot where he had parked the rental car. He didn't look back to see if the man was following him. There was plenty of time to do that without attracting attention.
Jeremy Cummings, ex-Navy SEAL, flipped his cell phone closed and focused on the green picture cast by a powerful third generation night vision spotting scope. He grabbed a radio handset sitting on the dashboard in front of him, and gave brief instructions to his man keeping watch in the courtyard.
"Garrity, our man might be on the move. Keep a tight watch around you," he said.
"Stand by," echoed inside the black Suburban, and there was a pause.
"Did he already exit the hotel?" crackled Garrity over the radio.
"How the fuck am I supposed to know. This guy is killing me," Cummings said to the two other men in the SUV, who all chuckled softly as Cummings transmitted his official answer.
"All we know is that he could be on the move. Do you have something?"
"Affirmative. Male fitting general characteristics carrying a black duffel bag. Headed your way, but his hair is blond, not black. You should have him in a few seconds. He's walking down the stairs to the lot."
"Got him. We need a positive ID before we move. Garrity, start walking toward the parking lot. Stay out of his line of vision," Cummings said
"Roger," they all heard through the radio.
Ben Sanchez, former Green Beret, lowered his tinted window far enough to push a thick, tubular camera lens through to start snapping pictures. The camera was connected to a laptop that sat jammed against the steering wheel, in Doug Porter's lap. Cummings heard the camera taking pictures, and focused all of his attention on the night vision scope. His 5X magnification couldn't make a positive ID until the target moved deeper into the parking lot.
The team's black Suburban was parked four rows back from the entrance, buried far enough into the lot to blend with the other cars, but keeping an unobstructed view of the walkway leading down from the hotel's courtyard. Once the ID was made, they would slip out of the car and take Petrovich down as he walked through the quiet parking area.
The car was silent for several seconds, while Cummings watched the man cross a small street and enter the parking lot. He could see Garrity's head emerge over the top of the walkway stair, and hoped it wasn't visible to their target. Garrity hadn’t been his first choice for this operation, but Mr. Jackson wanted two full teams out the door and on the road immediately, and he had run out of experienced faces at their compound.
Garrity had joined Brown River's Special Missions Group (SMG) two months ago after leaving the Rangers, where he had seen heavy combat with the 3rd Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, in both Afghanistan and Iraq. Still, Cummings didn't think Sergeant Nathan Garrity belonged with his guys in the SMG.
Regardless of the 75th Ranger Regiment's classification as a special operations unit, Cummings never saw the Rangers as anything but better trained infantry. They jumped out of planes, fast roped down from helicopters and pulled tough missions, but they weren't "operators." He reserved that term for SEALs, Force Recon, Green Berets and Delta Force. Membership in this club wasn't open to Rangers.
He started to mumble about Garrity, when he was interrupted.
"It's him. Confirmed," the driver said, slamming the laptop shut in an overly excited manner, and tossed it in the back seat.
"Let's go. Move fast and stay low. Ben, you hit him with the non-lethal first. Dougie bags him. I'll cover you both and keep Garrity from accidentally killing any of you," he said.
His last command went to Garrity, telling him to stay up in the courtyard until he received the signal. Cummings quickly attached his radio set to a cord protruding from his black tactical vest. They were now all linked together through voice activated throat microphone headsets, to keep their hands free. Garrity monitored the situation through a small transparent earpiece hidden in his left ear.