CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN
Munroe remembered taking his daughters and wife to the Old Post Office for lunch once when Makayla and Chloe were still small. He had heard that the shops and food court would soon be ousted in favor of converting the entire space into a luxury hotel. He hoped that he would be able to take the girls there one last time before the developers defaced the landmark.
Paramedics had set up shop in front of the pavilion and closed off part of Pennsylvania avenue. Although the medical personnel had patched up both him and Black, they still wanted to rush them off to the hospital. But neither of them had time to lick their wounds. Not with the kids still in danger.
Even though he had no idea how to find them.
Then Munroe heard a voice shouting his name. Black called the man over, and an out-of-breath FBI agent said, “I
’
ve been trying to find you. It
’
s about your kids.”
~~*~~
The landfill office smelled like stale coffee and ramen noodles. A few old desks, their surfaces chipped from age, and two leather couches sat inside the small trailer. Mounds of paperwork topped each of the desks. A dry-erase calendar board and a large map of the landfill that had been scribbled on in red pen covered one wall.
Two employees, the Operations Supervisor and the secretary, occupied one of the couches, restrained in handcuffs. Two men in blue windbreakers stenciled with the letters FBI flanked the frightened workers.
During the chopper ride, Jonas Black had listened as a young FBI agent explained to him and Munroe that they received a call from Annabelle, and based on her intel, FBI and local SWAT units mobilized and converged on two businesses—Hill Crest Landfill and Hill Crest Golf Course and Resort. Annabelle was currently being treated for wounds suffered during a car crash, but he intended to thank her properly later. Unfortunately, his friend, John Corrigan, had sacrificed himself to save Annabelle and the kids, and Black would never have the opportunity to thank John for that. But he didn
’
t have time to mourn his friend now. They had more pressing concerns.
Black studied the map and said, “This place is huge. Can you give us any idea of where to start?”
The Operations Supervisor, a small blond man that looked like an accountant except for a thin handlebar mustache, said, “I told you. I wasn
’
t involved with anything illegal. I just run the dump. If somebody helped them do this, it wasn
’
t me.”
Katherine suggested, “Maybe we could bring in all the workers and find out which one
’
s been working nights?”
Munroe said, “The kids will be dead by that time. We don
’
t care about any of that right now. Sir, we just need any clue that you can give us.”
“We
’
ve been working mostly in the Southeast Tract. That
’
s probably where they would have done it.”
“That
’
s exactly where they wouldn
’
t have buried them. They wouldn
’
t want your men digging them up on accident. Is there a section that your employers wanted you to avoid?”
The blond man thought for a moment and said, “They
’
ve told us not to work in the top right quadrant of the Northeast Tract because that bumps up against the golf course, and they don
’
t want the noise from our equipment disturbing the golfers.”
“Excellent. Would we see fresh digging?”
“It rained here last night, and that place is really just a big mud hole. You could tell if something had been dug up if you looked close, but not really from a distance.”
“How big is that area?”
“Maybe forty or fifty acres.”
Black growled in disgust. “Needle in a damn haystack.”
“We need to think outside the box. If traditional methods fail, find an alternate solution. And there are always alternate solutions. Let
’
s take a drive out to the Northeast Tract.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN
The FBI van bumped and rattled its way across the uneven terrain, heading to the Northeast Tract. Black helped Munroe out of the van, and then the blind man stood and listened as the others piled out and searched the area. “Everyone, shut up and don
’
t move.”
The background noises Munroe detected in Almeida
’
s video—the clanging metal sound and the rythmic tut-tut-tut—hadn
’
t helped him to pinpoint a location from a wide geographic scale. But now that they had narrowed the search to a very specific region, he hoped those area-specific sounds could help narrow the search even further.
He strained to hear something familiar, something to indicate that they were in the right place. But there was nothing. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe…
A clang of sheet metal resounded from somewhere in the distance, but it was much farther away than in the video. He pointed in the direction of the clanging and said, “Mr. Black, take me to that sound.”
Black guided him across the rocky, muddy ground, the clanging growing closer and closer as they went. Finally, he said, “Stop. What
’
s making the noise?”
“Looks like a rusty little maintenance shed. A piece of the corrugated metal siding is torn free and flapping in the wind.”
They were close, but Munroe still didn
’
t hear the tut-tut-tut sound. “Describe the rest of the area to me.”
“It
’
s just kind of a huge open mud pit,” Black said. “A lot of grass and weeds covering the surface, showing that they haven
’
t buried anything in this section for a while. Maybe we could get a bunch of volunteers together and walk the tract to see if we can find a spot where the vegetation is disturbed?”
“
We don’
t have the time! We need to narrow down the search. Keep describing.”
“There
’
s the old shed, but that
’
s about it. The tract butts up against a line of trees to the east.”
“Where
’
s the Operations Supervisor?”
“Right here,” the man said from fifteen feet away.
“What
’
s on the other side of those trees? Is that the golf course?”
“That
’
s right.”
He listened for the tut-tut-tut sound, but it wasn
’
t there. “Take me closer to the trees.”
Once there, he stood still again and fought to hear anything familiar. It seemed right. The shape, pitch, and volume of the clanging noise matched. He heard the chirping of insects and birds in the trees. But still no tut-tut-tut.
What was he missing? What had changed since the previous evening? What had been different in the video? Then he realized that the time of day was different. It was now early afternoon, and the video had been shot at dusk.
“Ask our FBI friends if they have the groundskeeper for the golf course in custody. If so, get him on the phone.”
The sound of Black
’
s heavy footsteps moved away, and Munroe heard him speaking with the agents and explaining the situation. Within a few moments, he returned and placed a cell phone in Munroe
’
s palm.
“Is this the groundskeeper?” Munroe said into the receiver.
“That
’
s right. How can I help?”
“Are you doing any extra watering around dusk?”
“Yeah, there
’
s a section of new grass by the trees that I
’
ve been giving some extra TLC to. Have the sprinklers there scheduled for dusk and in the middle of the night. Why are—”
“Turn those sprinklers on. Right now.”
A few moments later, he heard it. The faint, rhythmic tut-tut-tut of a sprinkler system, but it was too far away. He pointed in the direction of the sound and said, “Black, that way!”
He stopped several times and listened, found the shape of the sounds inconsistent in some manner, and moved on. Finally, after they had raced across a few acres, he stopped and said, “This is it! Everyone spread out and look for anything out of the ordinary. Anything to indicate that—”
One of the FBI agents yelled, “Here! This is freshly dug ground!”
~~*~~
Black watched as the track hoe clawed furiously at the earth, exposing the metal shipping container. Munroe had found the kids. Black still couldn
’
t wrap his mind around
how
Munroe had accomplished it, but in that moment, he couldn
’
t have cared less. The most important question still remained:
Had they made it in time?
When the entrance was clear of dirt and clay and the old construction debris buried with it, Jonas Black jumped down into the hole first—pain stemming out from his knife wound shot through his leg on impact, but he pushed past it—and yanked on the the doors to the container. The edges of the metal door panels dragged against the dirt and didn
’
t want to open, but with the adrenaline pounding through his veins, he forced them to move.
Light from above filled the container, and three teenagers shielded their eyes and breathed deeply from the new source of air. Black rushed forward and embraced all three of them in a bear hug.
He heard someone else dropping clumsily into the hole. Munroe stumbled forward with open arms. His daughters ran to him. Tears streamed down all their faces. Munroe broke out laughing, and the joy infected them all. They alternated between crying and laughing as they rocked back and forth, squeezing each other tightly.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN
With balloons and flowers in his arms, Jonas Black led his nephew through the bustling corridors of Stafford Hospital. Will
’
s mother occupied a private room on the third floor. The doctors said she was recovering nicely and would be able to return home soon.
As Black placed the get well gifts on a table in the corner, Will ran up and squeezed his mother, pressing down on and pulling against the various tubes and cords connected to her body.
“Easy,” Stacey said with a laugh and returned her son
’
s embrace.
Then she looked over at Jonas Black. She didn
’
t say a word, but her eyes told him all that he needed to know. She may never forgive him and she
’
d certainly never forget, but while he couldn
’
t bring back his brother, he had brought Will home. He knew something between them had changed.
He couldn
’
t replace his brother or make the pain of Michael
’
s absence go away, but he vowed that he would always be there to watch over the family that his brother had left behind.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN
Sitting at a picnic table in his backyard, Deacon Munroe listened to the sounds of laughter and conversation. It was a gorgeous day. Warm, but not hot, with a gentle breeze blowing down off the mountains. The smell of grilled hamburgers floated through the air. He soaked it in, enjoying the sounds of his loved ones, new and old.
Joey talking about the newest video games with Black
’
s nephew and some girl who the young genius had apparently met at a coffee shop. Jonas Black tossing a football back and forth with Makayla. Annabelle opening the grill and flipping burgers. Katherine O
’
Connell discussing boys with Chloe.
It was a beautiful scene, and he wished more than anything that he could actually
see
it, instead of just visualizing it in his mind.
He pressed a button on his watch, and a digital voice announced the time. He realized that the sun was likely setting, and so he turned in that direction and tried to remember the colors. He painted the picture in his mind. A scene of rolling green mountains, reds and yellows overlaying a bright blue sky, purple hues outlining the clouds.
It would have been easy to resent the fact that there was so much beauty in the world that he would never see again, but if the events of the past several days had taught him anything, it was to be grateful for all that he did have and to take nothing for granted.
His phone vibrated against his leg, but he ignored it, not wanting to spoil the beautiful tapestry of life and happiness being created all around him.
But then Annabelle
’
s phone rang the moment his stopped. He heard her answer and start walking toward him. “Deac, it
’
s the Secretary of Defense. He says it
’
s important.”
She handed him the phone, and he listened to the laughter and joy for a moment longer before bringing the device to his ear.
“Mr. Secretary, what can I do for you?”
Acknowledgments
First of all, I want to thank my beautiful wife—Gina—and my children—James, Madison, and Calissa—for their love and support (especially Gina who has to endure a lot craziness in the name of research and put up with me in general).
Next, I wish to thank my parents, Leroy and Emily, for taking me to countless movies as a child and instilling in me a deep love of stories. Also, thank you to my mother, Emily, for always being my first beta reader and my mother-in-law, Karen, for being my best saleswoman.
And, as always, none of this would be possible without the help of my UK editor, Tim Vanderpump, my wonderful agents, Danny Baror and Heather Baror-Shapiro, and my mentor and friend, Lou Aronica. In addition, I wouldn’t be here without the guidance and friendship of all my fellow authors at the International Thriller Writers organization.
A huge amount of research went into this book, which would not have been possible without the help of the following people and groups. My friend and fellow author, Anthony Franze, for being my partner-in-crime during my DC trips and helping to arrange some of the behind-the-scenes access needed for the book. Michael Sozan for his wonderfully informative tour of the US Capitol Building and the Senate office buildings. Carl Woog for arranging a private tour of the Pentagon and PFC Yates for being my guide. Major Bruce H. Norton for helping me to understand the mindset and tactics of a Recon Marine. And all of those at the Mary Bryant Home for the Blind especially Allan J. Rupel, Dave Jackson, and Howard and Janice Thomas for providing insight into the world of the visually-impaired.
To all of these and my extraordinary readers, thank you so much. I couldn’t be living my dream without your support.