“I don’t know much about his dad these days. That’s something you could check out.”
“I’m starting to wish I’d said no when you asked for this meeting. What do you know about this training facility ISIS has in Hood River?”
“Not enough. It’s located on a big ranch. They train their guys for executive protection work and even do some training for law enforcement. It’s got firing ranges, a track for evasive driving training, and an airstrip for small planes and executive jets. I had a friend check it out,” Drake answered. “It sounds like a big-time operation.”
“Anything else you think I should know before the meeting tomorrow? I don’t want any surprises, after the problems I created when I agreed to take those bodies off your hands. The FBI hates it when we step in, then leave them holding the bag when we leave town.”
“No, that’s all I know. If you learn anything about ISIS or the Valencias before the meeting, I’d appreciate a call.”
He watched her walk out before taking out his wallet to pay for their drinks. She reminded him of Kay in a lot of ways. She was tall, beautiful, and self-confident. Kay was passionate about teaching and Liz seemed passionate about her work with DHS. He hoped her passion was more about protecting the country than her career, though. If it was just about her career, she wouldn’t risk it to save his neck. He would know tomorrow, one way or the other.
Chapter 26
Saturday morning started out to be a warm day. After a decent night’s sleep and a run with Lancer, Drake treated himself to a chorizo scramble breakfast with chorizo sausage, red potatoes, sweet onions, jack cheese and three eggs at the nearby Black Walnut Inn and Vineyard. The scramble was only on the menu during the winter months, but he knew the owner, who was also the Inn’s chef.
The Inn was designed to look like an old Tuscan villa, with ochre walls and a red-tiled roof. Set atop a south-facing ridge with a new vineyard planted below, it was one of the newest attractions in the area. Drake was able to enjoy it all without being a guest at the inn. To be neighborly, he had offered to cut his hourly rate in half if his legal services were ever needed. So far, he had the better end of the deal.
After fortifying himself for his meeting with the JTTF, he took his time driving into the city. Driving usually relaxed him. Today, his mind was wrapped around the puzzle of ISIS.
Thirty minutes after leaving the Black Walnut Inn, Drake pulled into the parking garage across the street from the Crown Plaza building and found a parking spot on the top floor. Shoppers were out early this Saturday morning, eager to work off their pent-up need to spend their week’s earnings.
Walking across the street brought him to the security guard station just inside the building that housed, for the most part, government offices. Drake signed the register for visitors, took off his watch, put his wallet and keys in the tray, and walked through the metal detector. On the other side, he collected his things and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The elevator opened onto a reception area for the Portland FBI office.
“Adam Drake,” he told the young receptionist behind a bulletproof glass enclosure, “I’m here to meet with Liz Strobel and the JTTF.”
“I’ll let her know you’re here,” she said, and punched an extension number into her console before saying, “Mr. Drake is here to see you, Ms. Strobel.”
Before he had time to sit, a metal door with a security pad opened and Liz Strobel motioned for him to follow. She looked every bit the executive assistant of the Director of DHS this morning. She wore a camelhair jacket over a dark brown blouse and striped slacks. Her tightly pressed lips didn’t allow a word of greeting to escape them.
Following her down a long hallway, Drake entertained the thought that her passion for her career had probably triumphed. Strobel walked ahead of him into a conference room where three men sat at a long mahogany conference table. There were only two pictures on the walls, a picture of the president and a picture of the twin towers before they collapsed. The American flag stood in the corner beside the two pictures. It was an appropriate place to meet with the terrorism task force.
Bruce Burton sat on the right side of the table across from where Drake stood. He had met Burton before, but hadn’t dealt with him since he took over the JTTF. Six feet tall, probably two hundred pounds, he looked like someone who had played football in college, which he had. Burton played halfback at Notre Dame.
“Hello, Bruce,” Drake said, reaching across the table to shake his hand.
“Adam,” Burton said, shaking his hand without standing. “You’ve met John Mason from the Secret Service and on my left is Robert Jorgenson. He works with me on the task force. Have a seat. We have a few questions for you.”
Jorgenson was the youngest of the three men on the other side of the table. A gung-ho FBI newbie, from the looks of him. Crew-cut blond hair, and a dark gray suit that didn’t conceal a body hardened by hours in the gym. Baby-blue eyes he was trying his best to make look fierce. Drake gave him a nod that wasn’t returned.
“Perhaps you could start by telling me why you killed the men who came to your farm last night?” Burton began.
“Self-defense, Bruce,” Drake answered coldly.
“You could have called nine-one-one and waited for help. Maybe there’d be someone alive to question besides you,” Burton responded.
Drake felt his pulse starting to race. It was always the Monday-morning quarterbacks who wanted to know why you didn’t retreat.
“If I had waited, Bruce, the person alive right now wouldn’t be me. Besides, the law doesn’t require me to retreat before using deadly force against the imminent use of deadly physical force, and you know it,” Drake said, quoting Oregon’s law regarding deadly force. “You’ve read the reports by now, you know what happened out there.”
“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea what happened all right,” Burton said. “You did what you were trained to do-kill the enemy before he kills you. John got the Secretary to obtain your service record. You might be a little rusty, but I’d say you’re still an efficient operator.”
Drake looked at the man across the table without reacting to his statement. Delta Force soldiers were known as operators. Their records were supposed to be sealed, to protect the identity of men who did things the government needed done. He wasn’t happy that Burton knew enough about him to call him an operator.
“Look, I’m not here to bust your balls, Drake,” Burton said. “But before we stand up for you with the press and the Muslim clerics, I have to be convinced there was no way you could have avoided killing those three men.”
“My dog woke me up, signaling danger outside. I saw three men surrounding my house, armed with AK 47s and one MP5. Those are weapons I recognized. They are not used for peaceful purposes in the dead of night. My only chance against all three of them was to take them out one at a time. I tried to subdue them, but they kept fighting. One whispered ‘Allahu Akbar’ with his last breath. The last one, the guy I thought was their leader, turned his MP5 on me at the last second. I didn’t have a choice,” Drake explained.
Glancing briefly at each of the others seated at the table, Burton said, “Why don’t you tell him what we learned about these three, John.”
John Mason leaned forward, opened the file in front of him, took out three photos clipped to NCIC printouts, and slid them across the table to Drake.
“You don’t need to read their rap sheets,” Mason said, “mostly robberies, assaults, carjackings and drugs. We identified them from their fingerprints, which were about the only things they hadn’t altered since leaving prison. They converted to Islam in prison, took new Muslim names, and disappeared. Their parole officers didn’t know where they were and had no idea why they were in Portland. They haven’t broken any laws that we know of, since they left prison. Until last night, that is. That’s all we know at this point. We don’t know where they were living or how they’ve been supporting themselves.”