At this point, Special Agent Edwards had been relegated to relaying information from headquarters, and several times over the past few hours, he would reluctantly get out of the car to let them know that the other teams were still assembling. They never said it, but he could read their faces, which said "Why don't you stay in the car until you have something useful to tell us?"
Edwards stretched his body in the car, purposefully hitting the driver, Special Agent Derek Ravenell, jarring the agent out of a light sleep. He had worked with Ravenell on a few bank robbery cases in Boston, and found him to be competent, but more importantly, obedient. He understood the importance of the rank structure, and the subtleties of loyalty, although the look he flashed Edwards didn't exactly comport with this assessment.
"Stay sharp. You don't see those guys napping out here," Edwards said, and examined the agents in the back seat.
Of course, Special Agent Olson had assigned him the ugliest female Special Agent on the East Coast, Special Agent Sara Velasquez, after his efforts to wrangle the chick from Counter Terror fell flat. So, now he had the dream team sitting in his car. A black driver, an ugly Latina and Paul Adams, who was about as exciting as his name. No wonder the SWAT guys wouldn't deal with him. He didn't say a word to the agents in the back of the car, who both nodded apathetically.
Edwards’ cell phone mercifully rang and delivered some good news. He listened intently and acknowledged the call from Task Force HYDRA's operations center. He turned around and nearly yelled into the back seat, startling Velasquez and Adams.
"Ten minute warning. We hit the house at 2100 hours," he squawked excitedly, and jumped out of the car, yelling the same words at the SWAT teams as he rushed across the parking lot.
"Douche bag," Special Agent Sara Velasquez uttered, and everyone in the car mumbled their agreement.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Special Agents Sharpe and Mendoza entered the Task Force's operations center, which was scrambling to pass the word to FBI teams in a dozen cities across the East Coast. The coordinated raid was a major undertaking, and every workstation was occupied with an agent scrambling to issue orders and ensure that the rules of engagement were established with local law enforcement units used in place of FBI teams. Agents ran from one workstation to another, shouting information, and Sharpe could see that one of the plasma screens served as a status board for live information from each site. Sharpe knew the clamorous activity would fall deathly quiet at the prescribed time, as everyone waited for word from the tactical teams.
Mixed SWAT units sat ready to pounce on nearly two dozen residential locations and commercial establishments in the hope of capturing another Black Flag operative. Since his Task Force received the list of Black Flag operatives, law enforcement agents had been quietly investigating the most probable after work locations for the suspects. So far, the team had no confirmed sightings, which didn't leave Sharpe with a hopeful feeling for the operation, but he just needed to get lucky in one of the locations.
Sharpe walked over to Special Agent O'Reilly, who worked at a computer station powered to access several national and international criminal databases. Special Agent O'Reilly scratched her tightly pulled black hair, staring between two widescreen monitors as Sharpe approached. She had put together comprehensive information packages for each of the SWAT teams, and didn't appear to be resting like several other agents. She didn't notice him kneel down next to her chair until his face broke her peripheral vision. She turned her head slowly, still examining the data on the screen, until she noticed who was next to her.
"Oh…sorry sir. You know, I have a hard time believing that none of these guys have any kind of criminal record. Not even a speeding ticket," she said, and leaned in a little to whisper. "I mean, we can all read between the lines here. Right, sir? Eight murders, an organized list of suspects, strict ROE to the SWAT teams. This is a dangerous group of individuals, probably professional assassins, yet I'm getting nothing. I've worked organized crime, and their enforcers always had the worst records. Mafia, Russians, cartel groups. Without exception, they'd all done hard time, or had at least been arrested on murder charges. This group is too clean."
"Dana, you've always been one of the most perceptive agents on the Task Force, and you're right about this group. They're different. I need you to check a different source. Have you run this through INTERPOL yet?"
"Yes. The potential for an international connection was too strong to ignore, but I got the same result," she said, typing at the keyboard and bringing up the INTERPOL search results.
Sharpe stared at the data on the screen, deciding to skirt the boundaries of his information security arrangement with the Pentagon. Agent O'Reilly was not authorized for CIS Category One information, and he didn't plan to directly pass her any information. She had already thought of an INTERPOL search by herself, which was not a violation. Still, by nudging her further, Sharpe was probably crossing a line that could heat things up for him, but he was accustomed to taking chances, and a little heat never bothered him.
"Dana, did you submit a photo identification match request through INTERPOL's database?" he said, and that was all it took for her to run with it.
"No, sir. Not through INTERPOL. National NCIC does it automatically for us. Same with VICAP. Do you think they're foreign operatives? They all have pretty solid histories here in the U.S.," she said.
"No assumptions," he said, and leaned in closer to whispered. "Start with Petrovich…and let's keep this between the two of us, for now."
"Alright, I'll start working on this," she said, and started typing.
As Sharpe stood up to walk over to Special Agent Mendoza near the front of the operations center, he saw pictures from Daniel Petrovich's current Maine driver's license and former Department of Defense military ID flash onto her screen. She looked back at him, and he nodded before turning away.
Chapter Thirty
The Chevy Impala crept down Lawn Avenue, preceded by two Portland Police Department Suburbans. Beyond the vehicles, invisible to Edwards on the dimly lit street, two additional Suburbans approached from opposite direction. From the front seat of the Impala, Edwards secretly admired the heavily armed men standing on the running boards of the trucks, clinging with one hand to the roof bars. Though technically a two way street, Edwards watch uncomfortably as the thick Suburbans squeezed through cars, and the men tucked their bodies tightly against the truck.
He had voiced his desire to ride on one of the trucks with the SWAT team, but his request was shot down immediately. The SWAT commander wanted Edward's entourage to wait in the parking lot, with the other non-tactical units, until the house was secured, but Edwards finally put his foot down. He wasn't about to sit back like some loser, waiting for the "all safe" signal. He'd rushed through plenty of doors into dangerous situations before, and this situation was no different. They agreed on a compromise. Edwards would follow the SWAT team into the house, while the rest of his FBI team secured the front of the house.
Edwards felt a flutter of adrenaline when the Suburban's brake lights bathed his car in red light, illuminating its occupants and momentarily blinding him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, which he tracked in the side view mirror. Two figures darted across the back of his car, causing Edwards to go wide eyed. He quickly assumed this was the surveillance team that had been stationed across the street from Petrovich's house.