Authors: Keith Domingue
“Let’s roll.” She said with enthusiasm.
Yaw gave her a smile, and handed her the keys.
• • •
“We got a hit.” A Coalition analyst called out, the intelligence community’s equivalent of shouting out “Bingo”.
The bespectacled young man’s tie hung loose around his neck. Baby-faced, he had the skin complexion and soft features of a teenager. He leaned back in his chair and looked down the long row of fellow analysts in the Coalition Properties West intel center, each glued to their own computer screens, and signaled to Director Stephens, who stood at the end of the isle.
Stephens saw the man wave his hand and approached the analyst, who sat in front of two twenty-seven inch hi-def monitors, which lay side-by-side to one another on his desk.
“What have you got?” Stephens asked, as he stood behind the analyst and watched the monitors over the man’s shoulder.
“Images from Lacrosse.” The analyst replied.
The monitor on the left was live action footage, a satellite view of two vehicles moving on a thin narrow line of highway cutting through the desert, from high overhead. On closer inspection, it looked to be a late model sedan followed closely by a late model van.
The monitor on the right had a high resolution video still of a woman exiting a filling station rest room, a baseball cap in her left hand, pulling her hair into a pony-tail with her right, her eyes were hidden by sunglasses, but her jaw line and cheek bone were clearly visible.
“Exactly what are we looking at?” asked Stephens.
“The woman caught in the video,” The analyst began as he swiveled his chair towards the right monitor and hit a few keyboard keys.
“Is on the watch list.” He finished.
The screen turned to a very clear image of Camila taken from a cell phone camera during the incident at Club Sutra, just two nights previous.
“Are you sure?” Stephens asked.
“Ninety-three point seven percent sure, according to the recognition software. The jaw line and cheek structure was enough to get a match.”
“What about the others?”
“From this we did a look back on the data, got three males wandering around the station less than five minutes previous to this shot. They’re pretty well covered, but stride and gait analysis come out at fifty-four percent positive for the other three fugitives that escaped the downtown Los Angeles club two nights ago. Not enough to be official, but I’d say it’s them. These were taken in Blythe, California. They got on the 10 Freeway about fifteen minutes ago. Looks to me like they’re on their way to Arizona. Possibly just passing through. Most likely they’ll stop in Phoenix, for more fuel and supplies.”
“Who are the vehicles registered to?”
The analyst hit some keys.
“Running the plates right now. An “Alvaro Ruben”. East L.A. address. Don’t know the connection yet.” He answered.
I’ll inform Mr. Brown. Excellent work.” Stephens replied, before pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
• • •
Stern sat on the couch, watching ESPN Sports Center on a Vizio flatscreen TV as Wolfe searched the refrigerator for something to drink.
“Have you ever stayed in one of these places before?” Stern asked his partner.
The men waited for word on Luthecker’s movement in a comfortable if not sterile two bedroom unit, with Ikea-quality furniture; inexpensive, neat, and clean, but noticeably neutral in style.
“Yes.” Wolfe answered. “The whole seventieth floor of the building is apartment units. Any time an agent is on active duty or on his way to a new theatre, they prefer you to stay on Coalition property. I’ve kicked back here, well not this unit exactly, but other ones just like it, as long as a month.
“In other words, it’s the barracks.”
“Whatever. Pretty nice for barracks if you ask me.”
Wolfe settled on a can of Coca Cola, pulled it from the refrigerator, and popped the top.
Stern picked up the television remote from the coffee table in front of him and turned off the TV. He looked at Wolfe.
“You want one?” Wolfe asked, holding up the can.
“Sure. Is there any Sprite?”
Wolfe took one from the refrigerator, and tossed it to Stern.
Stern opened his drink, took a sip. He looked back at his partner, examined him a moment.
“What?” Wolfe reacted.
“I really want to know what this Luthecker cat is all about. He’s kind of stuck in my head. I don’t know why. I mean I saw him, a direct view in that club; and he’s just this scrawny little punk.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, you know that.”
“Yeah I do, but aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“No. I’ve seen enough in my life. I know better.”
“Well I’m curious. Why’s he got a guy a like Brown so spooked? What makes him so damn dangerous?”
“He won’t be so dangerous once we get a hold of him.” Wolfe replied, as he finished his can of soda.
A phone rang, and both men looked at each other a moment before Stern found it on the dark brown faux-wood end table next to the couch.
“Agent Stern here.” He answered.
He listened a moment to the voice on the other end, then looked at Wolfe.
“What is it?” Wolfe asked.
Stern held up a finger for him to keep quiet, and kept listening to the voice.
“We are good to go.” He finally said before hanging up the phone.
“They found him. All of them, actually.” He announced to Wolfe.
“Really? That was fast. Where?”
“On their way to Phoenix. Which is where we’re headed to intercept. Right now.”
• • •
Stern and Wolfe exited the elevator onto the rooftop heliport of the Coalition Properties West Building, where a trademark Coalition gloss-black painted Bell 429 helicopter waited for them. The four-blade turbines of the seven passenger aircraft were spinning at idle, but still managed to kick up a considerable dust and wind, forcing both men to duck low before climbing inside the aircraft.
Once inside Stern slammed the passenger door shut, abruptly cutting the exterior noise and wind. A high pitched whine began to sound as the engines picked up speed, the rotor blades quickly spinning fast enough to lift the aircraft up off of the building rooftop and over the city grid of Los Angeles.
“What’s our ETA?” Stern yelled out to the pilot seated in front of him, as he strapped on his seat belt.
The pilot pulled the radio mike boom of his headset away from his face before turning back to reply.
“We’ll touch down at the Santa Monica Airport in fifteen minutes. From there a plane is waiting to take you to Luke Air Force Base, wheels up to wheels down in sixty-seven minutes. The base commander will be waiting to assist you once you arrive. Don’t worry; you’ll be way ahead of the target. You’ll have plenty of time for prep.”
He turned his attention back to manning the helicopter, pushing the control stick forward, tilting the nose of the bird down and then hitting the accelerator.
• • •
The Bell 429 touched down at Santa Monica Airport in fourteen minutes, and the two agents quickly exited the helicopter and hustled towards a waiting Piaggo-Areo P180 Avanti Turbo Prop. A new and stylish design, the Piaggo was a luxury vehicle usually reserved for the very wealthy, and its unique lines actually made Stern stop and take a look.
Manufactured in partnership with Ferrari Motors, the aircraft had a sleek wind tunnel tested look that was more elegant curves than traditional angles. Also painted Coalition black, the P180 was the fastest turboprop aircraft ever made. With a cruising speed of nearly 450mph, it rivaled many private jets, but required considerably less runway for take off and landing, making it the perfect choice for darting in and out of smaller airports on short notice.
“I hear this is one of Brown’s personal birds. Wolfe stated, as he stood next to his partner.
“One of the smaller ones. The rich sure got it good, don’t they?” He added, as he walked past Stern towards the waiting aircraft.
Stern crested the top of the plane’s air stair and stepped through the clamshell-style doorway before taking a seat in one of the plush leather chairs. He looked around the small but luxurious cabin.
“Yeah, I could get used to this.” He mentioned to Wolfe, as his partner sat down across from him.
“Couldn’t we all.”
The men strapped on their seat belts.
“Gentlemen.”
Both agents looked at the pilot as he stepped from the cockpit, a sliver haired man with a military gait and build.
“We’ve been cleared to land at Luke Air Force Base. The targets have crossed into the state of Arizona, and I have just been informed that the Arizona State Highway Patrol is tracking them. We should have you on the ground before they reach Phoenix.” He finished, before making his way back to the cockpit.
“I don’t see why they don’t just pick them up.” Wolfe thought out loud.
“Limited exposure, remember?” Stern responded. “It has to be us.” He answered, a certain eagerness in his voice to get another chance at Luthecker. He wasn’t going to get away this time, he told himself.
Both men sat back in their seats as the roar of the Piaggo’s twin turbo props increased, and the plane began to move.
• • •
Camila checked the rear view mirror again.
“Yaw.” She barked, loud enough to stir him awake.
“What - what is it?” He asked as he sat up, trying to shake off the sleep.
“We picked up a tail.”
She checked the side-view mirror, and caught sight of an Arizona Highway Patrol car about twenty car-lengths behind them.
“Are you sure?” Yaw asked.
“He’s been hanging there behind us, same distance back, for about ten minutes.”
• • •
“Who called in the Arizona Highway Patrol?” Director Stephens announced, a calm but irritated tone in his voice. He, along with the analyst manning the satellite feed, watched as a patrol car inching up closer behind the van.
“The Homeland Security Office was understaffed, and they asked for local support.” The analyst answered.
“And you didn’t think to tell me this? Tell them to back off. Now please.”
“Yes sir.”
The analyst hit a few quick key strokes, and almost like magic, they watched the patrol car pull off the side of the freeway.
“Thank you.” Stephens responded. “Please note that Mr. Brown’s plane will touch down in less than an hour, which means he will be on sight within the hour. Mistakes of this nature are sure to get his attention.”
“Understood sir. Won’t happen again, sir.” The analyst replied, embarrassed.
“Good. How about the intercept team. Are they in place?”
“They just touched down in Phoenix.”
“Perfect. Tell them to be ready.”
• • •
Stern looked out the window of the Piaggo turbo prop as it smoothly touched down onto the runway, and saw row after row of F-16 Flying Falcon jet fighters. Luke Air Force Base housed over half a dozen fighter squadrons and was home of the 56
th
Fighter Wing, one of the largest and most respected fighter training squadrons in the U.S.
As the turbo prop completed its taxi route, it passed by several of the elite fighter planes before making its way to a large unmarked hanger at the end of the base. Once inside the hanger, the engines of the aircraft quickly powered down, and both men exited the plane to find a black Chevy Suburban vehicle waiting for them.
“Agents Wolfe and Stern?” A man in a camouflage uniform and black beret asked, as he stood at parade rest next to the large SUV.
“Yes sir.” Stern instinctively replied.
“Colonel John Devlin.” The man announced as he stuck out his hand. Stern shook it, followed by Wolfe.
“Colonel.” Wolfe acknowledged.
“Welcome to Luke Air Force Base. How’s the private side, gentlemen?”
“Can’t complain, Colonel. Can’t complain.” Stern responded.
“Maybe one day I’ll join you. Colonel Richard Brown’s an old friend.” Devlin pointed back to Suburban. “The equipment requested is in the back of the vehicle. If you need any further assistance, just give my office a call.”
“Will do sir. Thank you sir.” Wolfe acknowledged, and the three men shook hands. Devlin made for the hangar exit as Stern made his way to the back of the Suburban. He pulled open the back doors, and he paused as he looked over the equipment provided: Two AR-15 semi automatic rifles with long range scopes. A pair of Glock 9mm handguns with laser sights. Several clips of ammo. Night vision goggles. Flashlights. Duct tape. Nighttime camouflage fatigues. A zip tie handcuff pack. Half a dozen black hoods. A med pack with sedatives. Several blankets. Two large empty backpacks.
Two shovels and two picks.
“How are we looking?” Wolfe asked.
Stern picked up a Glock and pulled back the slide to check for tension.
“Good. Real Good.”
• • •
“They’re backing off.” Camila announced, as she kept her eye on the rear view mirror. She watched as the highway patrol car slowed down, and pulled onto a freeway exit ramp.
Yaw checked the side view to confirm.
He sighed in relief.
“False alarm.” He said, before sinking back into his seat.
• • •
“Goodyear Road, right? That’s the next exit.” Chris announced, as Alex clicked on his turn signal, checking his rearview mirror, making sure the van was right behind him.
“Why Snaketown? Man, it’s nothing but desert out there.” Chris commented.
“It’s more than that. A lot more.” Alex replied.
• • •
The young analyst watched the satellite image of the Prelude making its way through the minimal grid work of a small rural town. He tilted his head in confusion as the car moved south, away from Phoenix, and headed towards the open desert outside of Pima County.
“Where are they going…?” He thought out loud.
No sooner had he finished the thought, he realized their destination. He swiveled around in his chair and looked at Stephens.