Reaching into the bag again, she found several large Ziploc bags, each filled with a different style wig. She pushed through the bags, selecting a medium length red one. Using the rear view mirror to adjust the hairpiece, she tied her own hair down in several tight knots, and made a sudden transformation from black to dark red hair. A kit containing various contact lenses completed the one minute change. Now she had red hair and green eyes. Once she located a suitable bathroom, she'd change clothing, and get rid of Agent D'Angelo's hideous running shoes.
She had a lot of things to ditch along the way, including all of her current identification and credit cards. She felt around for the other object that would have to go, according to standard procedure. She wasn't sure if Daniel had already taken care of it for her, and started to give up searching through the bag, until her hand bumped up against the familiar nylon scabbard. She pulled the Gerber commando knife out of the bag and stared at it for a moment. Less than thirty-six hours ago, this knife had sealed their involvement in Sanderson's plan. She promised herself that if the general had double crossed them, she would plunge the same knife deep into his neck.
Satisfied that everything was ready, she started the car, bracing herself for a long drive. She wanted to get out of Massachusetts by sunrise. More importantly, she needed to put as much distance behind her as possible. She was used to running, and didn't have any expectation that this aspect of her life would ever change. At least she had someone to run with.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Justin Edwards’ head pounded, and his mouth stuck together, completely lacking any recent, significant saliva production. He could barely separate his caked together lips. His face felt a little numb, like he was drunk, but beyond this slight anesthesia, his entire body ached. What the fuck had happened?
He lifted his eyelids, but the effort required to keep them open was a near Herculean task for him, so he squinted for a few seconds, then closed them. He lay on his back, not wanting to turn his head, but he didn't recognize the room during the brief eyeball reconnaissance. He could tell it was a hotel, but his mind couldn't process any facts or data related to his presence in this room.
He opened his eyes a little further and could see the green glass of a wine bottle on the desk out of the corner of his eye. He managed to move his head far enough to examine the bottle through his hazy vision, evoking a splitting migraine. He could see two empty wine glasses on the desk next to the bottle, one stained around the rim with lipstick. He undertook the effort to move his hand across his body, which was no small task, and his hand dragged across his privates. He now realized that he was naked.
No memories of this room passed through his head, though he started to process other important aspects of his visit to Portland. Did he screw Jessica Petrovich, and let her go home? Shit, he was in trouble. How long had he been here? His thoughts were coming faster, but his body could not keep up. He glanced at his watch, which told him it was early, and at first this made him happy.
This sense of satisfaction faded within seconds, as the full scope of his situation started to sink in. He realized that his entire team had probably been at the house all night, while he had disappeared. What had he done? He thought he remembered having dinner with Jessica Petrovich, but the memory was a fleeting blur. It was jarred out of his mind, along with every other rational thought, as a bright light flashed and the room exploded.
Several heavily armed black clad men poured into the room, filling every corner. He could barely see them through the retinal image burn of the flash-bang grenade. The ringing cleared enough for him to hear what they were yelling.
"Clear! Clear! Room is clear! Agent Edwards appears unharmed! No sign of the suspect! Agent Edwards, are you alright?"
Edwards opened his mouth to answer, but decided against worsening his situation. Instead, he squinted his eyes, wishing he was dead as Sergeant Jimmy Haldron, Portland's SWAT commander, walked up and rested the butt of his rifle on the foot of the rumpled king sized bed, a few inches from his bare leg. The impossibly tall Lieutenant Ken Moody followed, accompanied by Special Agent D'Angelo, who had a disgusted look on her face as she surveyed the room. Sergeant Haldron broke into a wide smile.
"Looks like party central in here. Let's get Agent Edwards a paramedic, and some fluids. Lover boy had a rough night," he stated in a strong Maine accent.
Edwards sank back in despair. He had no idea what had happened to him the night before, but he was pretty sure it wouldn't help his career.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Audra Bauer, Director of the Counter-Terrorism Center, contemplated Berg's proposal in her office. It represented a very interesting opportunity for the CIA, and he could have kept this to himself, and possibly even run a sideline operation to support the whole idea.
"This was his idea? Nothing in return?"
"I wouldn't say nothing. We turn a blind eye to their operations throughout the world, and provide resources where practical," said Berg, shifting in his seat.
"I don't know. Sanderson's crew killed two CIA employees this morning, and burned down one of our safe houses. Not exactly a friendly act. What makes you think we can trust him?"
"Sanderson could have finished the job at the safe house, but he's extremely practical. He ran the Black Flag program right under our noses, in several countries, and his program closely resembled our Covert Operations Resident Program. In many ways it might be superior to our program. Regardless, if we play our cards right with Sanderson's new program, we stand to benefit. Deep intelligence, and the ability to conduct sensitive operations at arm's length. Put a little more distance between the CIA and the dirty work."
Audra wasn't in love with the idea, but it truly wouldn't cost the CIA anything to try the relationship. They'd made deals with people way worse than General Sanderson, people with no sense of loyalty or honor. At least with Sanderson, they had a decorated soldier who had dedicated his life to defending America. Something was definitely wrong with him, and they'd have to keep that in mind, but there was little downside, though they'd have to keep their distance until the FBI lost interest in Sanderson, which could take a while. Based on yesterday's events, the Department of Justice's "number one son" took a beating on all fronts. Same with the Department of Defense, which worried her more than the FBI. The FBI was limited in its ability to reach overseas, but the Department of Defense didn't have this issue. They'd have to walk a fine line until the dust settled, but she agreed with Berg. Sanderson's new program represented a solid opportunity for the Counter Terrorism Center.
"Tell me more about their Middle East program," she said.
"It supposedly extends beyond the Middle East. He calls it their Muslim Extremist branch. Operatives are trained specifically for placement in Afghanistan, Iraq, Germany, France, the Netherlands, the Russian Republics. Over thirty Arab descended operatives ready for deep immersion within one year."
"Alright, I'm sold for now. I'd like to talk with General Sanderson," she said.
"He said he'd be in touch within a few weeks. I believe he has a national, and international dragnet to evade," Berg said, and she nodded.
"This stays between us. I can't bring this up to the Deputy, or anyone else," she said.
"Of course. We're good at keeping secrets," replied Berg.