Chapter 83
Creed turned from the computer and said, “Second photo complete. Colorado is a dry hole as well.”
Knuckles checked it off the paper map he’d printed, seeing they’d gone through Utah, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado.
They’d used the facial recognition program against every state surrounding Utah searching for a commercial driver’s license
for either man from the zoo, but had come up empty. Now he had to decide on the next database to attack; California or Texas?
He rubbed his eyes and said, “Go with Texas.”
Creed turned around to his computer and began typing. Brett said, “I guess my brilliant idea isn’t panning out. At this rate,
we’ll be sitting here as the sun rises, seeing a breaking news story about the attack on CNN.”
Knuckles said, “It was a good shot. More than anybody else seems to have tried and better than sitting around waiting on that
license to show up in a database.”
Creed shouted, “I have a hit!”
Brett and Knuckles scrambled to the screen, seeing the picture of the man from the zoo, the name Shane L. Tuscadero next to
it, along with an address.
Knuckles said, “Plug that into the zoo ticket database.”
Creed went to a different terminal and began to work, Knuckles and Brett waiting expectantly. Deflated, he turned from the
computer, saying, “No match. He didn’t use his real name.”
Knuckles thumped the desk with his fist, saying, “That fucker. So close.”
He turned away, thinking. Brett said, “What other data is on that CDL record?”
“His birthdate, CDL number, and Social Security number.”
“No contact information? No phone number?”
“No. Just an email.”
Knuckles turned back and said, “He has an email?”
“Yeah. A Gmail account.”
“Put that in. He might have thrown on a fake name and address, but he had to get the ticket. The email he used must be real.
Maybe he was lazy and didn’t take the time to create a throwaway.”
Creed put it into the system, and like magic, an account appeared for one Yogi Berra from California.
Knuckles said, “That’s him! Did he use his phone to get the ticket? Can you track it?”
Creed said, “I need to find the actual ticket email and check the header. Hang on.”
He typed what looked like gobbledygook to Knuckles, his fingers flying over the keyboard, the screen flashing one thing, then
another, until finally he said, “It went to a phone. I have the IMEI of the handset.”
Knuckles thought, Yes!
Creed pushed off from the desk, his chair rolling to another terminal, and began work again, flashing through screens, saying,
“If he’s on the DC cell network, he’ll pop up.”
Thirty seconds later, Creed hit the return screen shouting, “Boom!”
Knuckles saw the computer code replaced by a map, an icon in the center. He leaned closer and said, “That’s not a hotel.”
Brett read, “McMillan Sand Filtration site. What’s that?”
Creed went to yet another terminal and typed a search query, then said, “It’s the old water filtration site for Washington,
DC. According to Google, it’s now a mixed-use development that’s been in developmental limbo, with a park and a bunch of stakeholders
squabbling on what’s going to be built there.”
Knuckles glanced at his watch, then said, “Whatever it is, at that location it’s too late to be normal activity. What’s near it? Federal buildings, concert venues or anything worth attacking?”
Creed said, “Nothing but the new water filtration site. The one that replaced the sand filtration site.”
Knuckles looked at Brett, and Brett said what he was thinking. “They’re hitting the water system.”
Knuckles said, “We need some guns.” He turned to Creed and said, “Get a vehicle, plot that route, and meet us in the garage.”
They ran out of the NOC, leaving Creed with his mouth open. They ignored the elevator, hitting the door to the stairs and
bounding down them to the team rooms on the second floor. They entered the first one they came to, rushing to the lockup in
the back.
Brett punched in a universal code and the steel door opened, revealing an arsenal of firearms. Knuckles said, “Suppressed
pistols.”
Brett pulled two Staccatos with threaded barrels off the wall, then grabbed two S98 titanium suppressors, handing one of each
to Knuckles, saying, “Whose team room is this, anyway?”
Knuckles grabbed two loaded magazines and a flash-bang from an ammo can on the floor, saying, “I think it’s Johnny’s and Axe’s.”
Brett grabbed his own ammunition, then closed the door, locking it and saying, “Hope they don’t mind.”
They ran down the stairs and burst through the parking garage door, finding Creed sitting behind the wheel of another monstrous
Suburban.
They piled in the back with Knuckles shouting, “Go, go!”
Creed crossed the Potomac, moving rapidly in the light traffic of the late hour. Screwing on his suppressor, Brett said, “You
going to tell Wolffe what we’re doing?”
Knuckles worked his own pistol, saying, “Hell no. He might tell us to stand down. In my mind, this is an in extremis threat.
We don’t have time to dick around calling the local SWAT team.”
Brett chuckled and said, “At least that’s our story, and we’re sticking to it.”
From the front seat, Creed said, “Uhhh . . . what are we doing?”
“You’re just driving. You drop us off, then stay close. We’ll call for exfil when we’re done.”
Looking at a map on his phone, Brett said, “Do a drive-by on North Capitol, past the stairs at the west end of the site.”
Creed adjusted his route, while Knuckles and Brett spent the rest of the drive studying the terrain. Twenty minutes later,
Creed said, “It’s coming up on the left.”
They passed a park, then saw the silos of the old filtration site, the last one having a large tanker truck parked next to
it. Knuckles said, “That’s them. They’re pumping some shit into the water system. Go forward another hundred meters until
you’re out of the streetlight, then pull over.”
He did, and they spilled out of the back, letting Creed continue on while they crouched in the darkness. Brett said, “If we
cross here, we can hug the fence along the construction site.”
Knuckles looked at the approach and said, “We still have to get up the stairs, and that’s lit.”
Brett said, “You want to enter the construction area? We’ll have to climb the fence twice, the last time right in front of
them. The stairs are the quickest way up.”
Knuckles nodded and said, “Let’s go.”
They sprinted across the street, then jogged down the shadow of the construction zone fence, pausing at the last covered and
concealed position before the stairs.
Knuckles whispered, “Only shoot if you see a weapon. If not, use nonlethal force.”
Brett said, “Civilians?”
“Take ’em down. No time to sort that shit out now. No verbal warnings, just put ’em out and move on.”
Brett nodded, saying, “I’ll go to the far stairwell, you take the near.”
Knuckles said, “Let’s go.”
Brett darted from the darkness, and Knuckles followed with his weapon in front of him in a two-handed grip.
He reached the first stairwell and saw a man appear at the top of the berm, focused on Brett moving down the sidewalk.
Knuckles began gliding up the stairs as quietly as he could, hoping to get the drop on the unknown.
The man raised a pistol and began shooting towards Brett, the sound of the gunshots exploding the silence.
Knuckles skidded to a stop, put the red dot of his weapon on the man’s torso and fired a double tap, his gunshots about a
third as loud as the weapon the man was firing.
The man staggered back and fell from view. Knuckles glanced over at Brett and saw him sprinting up his stairwell. Knuckles
resumed running, no longer worried about making noise. He reached the top at the same time as Brett, seeing him dive to the
right, then hearing more gunshots coming from the other side of a one-story brick shack.
Lying flat on the ground, Brett returned fire from the prone. Knuckles ran to the man he’d hit and kicked his weapon out of
his hand, launching it down the stairs, then turned to the gunfight, not bothering to check on the man’s status.
Brett rolled over and sprinted to cover against the wall of the shack, shouting, “My side, single man, pistol.”
Knuckles ran to the wall, flattening against it about twenty feet away from Brett. He motioned with his hand, indicating he
was going to circle around and flank the shooter. Brett nodded and crouched low, scooting to the edge of the corner.
Knuckles turned his corner and went down the wall to the far end, moving in between the tanker truck and the shack. He saw
a rubber hose coming off the truck and disappearing around the front of the shack. He peeked around the edge, seeing the hose
disappear into a doorway. Beyond the doorway was the shooter, flattened against the wall and focused on Brett. Knuckles braced
against the brick corner, put the dot on his head and squeezed the trigger, the impact of the round throwing the man forward.
Knuckles started moving down the wall of the shack and reached the doorway. He shouted, “Threat down. Open breach.”
Brett shouted, “Coming!”
Knuckles pulled a flash-bang off his belt and waited on Brett to arrive.
He heard Brett’s footsteps and then a man burst out of the open door, running flat out.
Knuckles tracked him with the red dot, saw no weapon in his hand, and removed his finger from the trigger.
He flashed the light inside the shack, seeing pipes and the rubber hose, but no humans.
Brett reached him, and he said, “Go catch that guy.”
Brett saw the man halfway down the path of silos and took off, sprinting much faster than his target. Knuckles pulled the
hose out of the hole causing fluid to spill out over the floor of the shack, flooding it. He went to the tanker truck, studied
it under the glow of his weapon’s light, then turned a valve. He looked back, and the fluid had stopped.
He glanced down the path of silos and saw Brett frog-marching the man who’d tried to run back to the shack.
He walked to the first man they’d fired upon, recognizing him as the second unknown from the zoo. He was holding his chest,
frothy blood flowing around his fingers from a punctured lung, a ribbon of red leaking from his lips.
He moaned, “Help me. Call an ambulance.”
Knuckles raised his pistol and said, “I’ll see if Sheriff Marley can send one.”
The man’s eyes flew open, and Knuckles pulled the trigger.