First, he removed the Cubs hat, business shirt and jacket, jamming them under the seat with his feet. He opened the black nylon bag and removed the dark green backpack, placing it on the seat next to him. He dug through the pack until he found a large Ziploc bag containing a black hairpiece. He set this aside and removed a small plastic container of baby wipes next, which he used to thoroughly wipe his neck and head of any traces of blood. From there, he continued to transform himself, emerging within three minutes looking starkly different than before. He was now Michael Hinshaw from Annapolis, Maryland.
He wore dark blue designer jeans, expensive black leather shoes, and an untucked, crisply pressed, white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway between the wrist and elbow. His hair was jet black, hanging a half-inch over his ears, and his matching eye brows were neatly trimmed. He’d planned the look carefully, mimicking the recent "metrosexual" trend that gave most straight men an uncomfortable feeling. The vast majority of the cops were men, and none of them wanted to get caught staring too long at a possible homosexual. Locker room humor could be brutal, especially in the macho world of law enforcement.
With the car's remote, he popped open the trunk and placed the duffle bag inside, followed by the tactical vest and assault rifle. With one smashed window, it wouldn't be long before someone studied the car more closely. Finding a military grade rifle or a tactical body armor vest in plain view would certainly result in a call to the police, and at this point, Daniel wanted to put as much distance between this car and himself as possible. He knew they'd find it eventually, but there was no need to make it too simple for them.
He studied his reflection in the rear passenger window of the car, and slung the heavily burdened REI backpack over his left shoulder. Inside the backpack, he carried $30,000 in cash, six prepaid cell phones, several maps, his two remaining ID packets, two additional disguise kits, a blood stained knife, hair dye, a GPS receiver, police scanner, and the MP-9 submachine gun. He had to remove the gun's bulky silencer to fit the weapon by itself into the middle compartment, where it could be removed within seconds. The assortment of laptop computers and digital cameras stuffed into the main compartment added to the bulkiness and weight of the backpack. If anything about him was likely to attract attention, it would be the backpack.
He approached the north side Metro entrance, pulled his prepaid Metro card from his front jeans pocket and swiped it on the turnstile access, then rode the escalator up to the Metro platform. He felt the warm steel of his smaller, more concealable Gerber knife as he grabbed the card. He would take the next southbound train into D.C., and figure out where to meet Parker, or even better, General Sanderson. The outdoor platform was large and still busy with commuters, which was a good sign. According to the digital sign hanging above the tracks, the next train was scheduled to arrive in two minutes, which would be an eternity. He pulled a cell phone out of a small compartment in his backpack, and dialed General Sanderson, who answered on the first ring.
"You're alright?"
"For now. I'm waiting to get the fuck out of Silver Spring on the Metro. Headed into the city. Did Parker get out?" he said, in a low enough voice not to attract unnecessary attention around him.
"Yes. Apparently the team waiting for him barreled out of there right after you called him," said General Sanderson.
"I'm surprised Parker could pick them out," said Daniel.
"Don't underestimate Parker. He's better trained than you think. He just doesn't have the same real world experience."
"He doesn't have the edge needed for this work. I just ran into some Brown River contractors with a similar problem."
"Brown River? Are you sure?"
"I had a little chat with one of them. Are you ready for this? He was under the distinct impression that I was an immediate terrorist risk to national security. Black flagged by whoever hired them," said Daniel.
"He used those terms?"
"Yes. I specifically asked about that."
"Daniel, this changes things drastically. I need to accelerate our timetable. Keep this phone on at all times. Parker will call you shortly with a rendezvous location. What the hell happened out there?"
Daniel didn't care to hear the word ‘timetable.’ "They tried to kill me, and I responded," said Daniel, looking around the crowded platform for any sign of law enforcement.
"Jesus, Daniel, it sounds like you did more than just respond. I'm picking up cross county chatter on all police bands," said Sanderson.
"My train's coming. I'll be waiting for that call," he said, and wondered if Sanderson would abandon him if the heat intensified.
Nobody gave him a second glance as he boarded the train headed for the city, wondering exactly what Sanderson meant by ‘our timetable.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Special Agent Frank Mendoza shut the door to his supervisor's office, locked it, and walked up to Sharpe's cluttered desk.
"Grab a seat, Frank, and tell me about Black Flag. Based on your fax, I can only imagine the worst," said Sharpe.
He glanced out of the window onto 9th Street, and could see the windows of the Market Square North building sparkle. Low in the western sky, the sun peered around the corner of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, casting deep orange rays onto the seven story building. A few of the rays poked through the blinds, stabbing deep into Sharpe's office. He could imagine some of the nation's preeminent powerbrokers sipping a few too many drinks over dinner below, in the exclusive Caucus Room restaurant, oblivious to the implications of the day's events, telling jokes about dead Arabs. He looked back at Frank, who appeared equally troubled.
"It's not good. I think we may have found our next investigation."
"Black Flag isn't our mess to unscrew. I just want to unravel enough of it to figure out what happened today," said Sharpe.
"We'll need to nab a few more of them. Munoz is useless to us at this point. He's covered by a nice immunity agreement," said Mendoza.
"We'll see about that. I'm not ready to release my only link to Black Flag. I've given Boston orders to transport Munoz here. Olson will lead the prisoner transport convoy. We should have Munoz at HQ early in the morning."
Mendoza failed to hide a disapproving glance.
"We can't let him walk free until we've determined exactly what happened today. For all we know, Munoz and his friends might be part of an Islamic conspiracy, or worse. We don't know anything right now, and people are getting nervous. Very nervous. We should have some new leads within the hour. I've mobilized SWAT and FBI field teams to take every operative on the list. I'm just waiting for word that all of the teams are in place, ready to go, and we'll hit them all at once. I want a coordinated move against Black Flag. I don't know if they're all talking to each other, but I'm not taking any chances," said Sharpe.
"Well, sir. I wouldn't get your hopes up too high. Munoz took his sweet time spilling information. Probably long enough to miss a few pre-assigned check-ins. I'd be surprised if any of these guys were still around," said Mendoza.
"Yeah, the thought wasn't lost on me, but we might get lucky one more time today. So, what are we really dealing with here?" said Sharpe.
"From what I've been allowed to see by this mysterious Mr. McKie gentleman, Black Flag was a highly specialized program designed to create undercover operatives for our military. McKie said the program training lasted approximately four years, which is a long time for any training program. Hell, the CIA doesn't even train field agents for this long."