Olson radioed the state police as their convoy slowed to an uncomfortable stop next to a busy diner parking lot, and the cars in front of them attempted to move to the side of the road. Olson could tell that they wouldn't have enough room to maneuver down the middle of the one-lane road, unless the oncoming traffic was stopped. She counted several cars, until she received word that the officers at the intersection were halting all Noroton Avenue traffic. Once the last car passed them, they pulled around the line of cars, and sped toward the intersection. Nobody in the van or the lead SUV noticed that the rear SUV failed to follow them.
As they sped past Noroton Avenue onto the highway ramp, Olson could see the highway lights emerge beyond the road ahead. She started to loosen up, and took a deep breath. What she heard next nearly sent her into cardiac arrest. Her intra-vehicle radio crackled to life.
"I've lost the rear van."
"Shit. Stop the van," she ordered, drawing her pistol from a hip holster jammed up against the door.
A second later, she heard someone in the back seat say "oh shit," right before their Tahoe was T-boned from the left by a gigantic pickup truck, grinding both vehicles to a halt in the middle of the on-ramp. Agent Olson's head and pistol slammed against the passenger window, shattering the glass. The prisoner van barely screeched to a stop just behind the tangled heap of American built trucks. Shadowy figures emerged from the tree line several meters away to the right, wearing gas masks and carrying assault weapons. They broke up into two teams of three, each team carrying a large metal canister connected to portable compression gear. They nestled in low on each of the convoy vehicles.
Munoz sat facing two SWAT agents in the middle of the van. The transport van was an aging ten passenger Econoline monster, reconfigured for correctional system use. The first two rows of seating faced each other, so a sheriff, or in this case, two SWAT officers, could accompany prisoners. The third row behind Munoz was occupied by two more heavily breathing SWAT guys, one of whom kept jamming his knee into Munoz's back.
He was secured by his ankles and wrists to the solid metal structure buried underneath the seat's thin plastic cushioning. He couldn't budge, and he was pretty sure that this was some kind of safety violation, in case of an accident. A metal cage wall separated the driver and another black clad commando from the transport compartment. All of the rear windows were tinted and covered with a thick metal screen, and the passengers had to enter from the rear doors, which represented a serious hassle and a tactical disadvantage if the van was attacked. The van's sliding doors had been welded shut for security, and he didn't think the agents could effectively shoot out of the side windows.
Overall, he assessed the vehicle as low security. He'd escaped from much more difficult situations, under much worse conditions, but that wasn't his job today. He'd already accomplished his mission, and would, for the first time in his career, let himself be rescued. The van came to a sudden unexpected stop; he took a deep breath and held it. Panic overtook the van. One of the SWAT agents jammed Munoz's head down, and the officers scrambled to take positions covering three hundred and sixty degrees.
The van filled with a high pitched mechanical drilling sound, and someone screamed, "Back us the fuck out of here now!"
"Does anyone have anything?" yelled the SWAT agent in the front seat, and Munoz wondered why he didn't step out to have a look.
"Contact right side, low! No shot!" one of the agents screamed
With his head jammed down, he saw two holes penetrate the lower right side of the van compartment. One second later, compressed air instantly filled the van with a cloudy vapor, and he felt the hand pressing down on his head ease up a little. He continued to hold his breath, and the hand completely slackened, replaced by 250 pounds of body weight and tactical gear. Munoz lost some of his breath, but managed to roll the agent onto the floor. He sat upright, and glanced around at the slumped figures filling the van.
A small explosive charge detonated toward the rear of the van, and two armed men wearing gas masks pulled the door open and hopped in. One of them had to yank a slumbering FBI agent down out of the van, so they could proceed through the opening between the benches and the side. Munoz's lungs burned as he tried to hold his breath long enough for the empty mask in one of the men's hands. The mask was pushed over his face, and he felt a cool rush of air as the man gave him a thumbs up sign right in front of the eye piece. Munoz took a shallow breath of fresh air, then gulped massive breaths while the team worked on freeing him from the van. He had held his breath for over a minute, something he had practiced for several weeks.
The men ditched all of their gear in place, except for the weapons, and took off toward the highway. Munoz sprinted with the men past the wrecked trucks, as three slightly damaged SUV's rolled across the flat grass and met them halfway to the top of the on-ramp. The vehicles were full when they sped away down Interstate 95 toward Stamford. Five minutes later, they had just exited the Interstate at East Putnam Road, close to seven miles down the highway, when the police scanner exploded with activity. Fifteen minutes after that, they were speeding through Cos Cob Harbor on two powerful cruising boats, just a few buoy markers away from emptying into the Long Island Sound.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Special Agent Sharpe examined the contents of the sealed folder at a workstation borrowed from Special Agent Weber's communications team. The fax contained two sheets of paper, which gave them sparse, additional information regarding Petrovich and Munoz. The second page ended abruptly, stopping in the middle of a sentence:
Munoz not assigned to permanent undercover operation in Central/South America. His specialty skill utilized for focused penetration of drug cartel detainees
Sharpe stared at the last sentence, but without the rest of the words, the implication of Munoz's talent didn't sink in. The third page of the fax lay on the floor of the Sanctum, in the middle of a massive, thickening pool of blood. It was barely readable at this point, but the information contained in the single remaining paragraph contained on the page would have raised an immediate alarm for Sharpe. Munoz had been trained to extract information from prisoners by posing as one, in most cases without indigenous law enforcement collusion or knowledge.
"Weber, this fax is incomplete. Would you request the third page for me?"
"Not a problem, sir. We have a full team on duty in the communications hub," Weber replied, reaching for a phone.
"And Weber?"
The agent stopped, and looked up at Sharpe.
"You've been here for over thirty-six hours at this point, and look like death warmed over. I think you've earned a little break. Things will settle down tonight, but we'll need to be focused again tomorrow. Why don't you head out and report back at zero four thirty," said Sharpe.
"Thanks, sir. How about I grab one of the couches in the comms lounge? I'll make sure everyone here has my cell. I appreciate it…I'm about to fall over," said Weber.
"You look like it. Request the rest of the fax, and go get some rest. We'll see you in the morning, and I know where to find you. Thanks for the hard work today, Weber. I appreciate it," Sharpe said, and signaled for Agent O'Reilly to join him.
The two agents walked back to Sharpe's office, where Mendoza was waiting. Instead of the institutional fluorescent overhead lighting common throughout the building, Sharpe's office was softly lit by two standing floor lamps and a green bankers lamp on his desk. At this juncture in his career, Sharpe was accustomed to late nights, and took efforts to make the time as comfortable as possible. Mendoza sat in Sharpe's usual late night working spot, a custom leather armchair illuminated by one of the standing lamps. Sharpe appreciated Mendoza's ability to make himself feel comfortable in any surrounding. Mendoza always seemed laid back and at ease, even under duress.