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CHAPTER 22

Reston, Virginia

Friday

10:30 p.m. Eastern Time


“Overwatch, Alpha, copy?” Lieutenant Colonel Alvarez spoke quietly into his radio throat mic. There was typical big city noise in the background, but the cul-de-sac they were on was fairly quiet. There was a faint yipping from a small-breed dog coming from somewhere a few houses down and there was music coming from that same general direction. But that typical suburban noise was mostly drowned out by the heavy traffic noise coming from the multi-laned and always busy Dulles Access Road less than a kilometer away. The large noise barricades that had been erected along the highway to shield the neighborhoods from the noise pollution were barely effective.

“Copy Alpha. There are three—repeat, three—heat signatures. Two on the first floor and one on the second. Perimeter is secured to three blocks. Fairfax County PD is in place outside of that and the roads are blocked. All teams moving into place now. You are good to go.”

Federal Bureau of Investigations Special Agent Tobias “Toby” Matthew Montgomery III heard the report the same as everyone else on the team. He gave his longtime cohort and former commanding officer, Frank, a nod, checked that his earpiece and mic were secure, pulled the black ski mask over his face, and reflexively felt his belt for extra pistol magazines. He felt inside the waistband holster at his back for the backup Glock 43 to make certain it was there too. The magazines and the backup were there. He felt again—just in case—to appease his obsessive-compulsive disorder habit. Reassured he had backup mags, he pulled his backup gun and chambered a round. He put it back in his holster. He pulled his primary weapon and chambered a round from the magazine currently loaded in the nine-millimeter Glock-17 Generation 5. He felt the familiar custom polymer grip he had built himself, checked to see that the green dot Modular Optical System was functioning properly, and then he raised it to ready. He sighted the green dot on a spot on the ground. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment longer than normal, and then slowly let it out through pursed lips, calming his mind and body. He was ready. He turned to Frank, and tapped his fist on the FBI letters displayed across his body armor.

“You breach, and I’ll go,” he told the big marine quietly. “You heard the drone report. My men are already on the rear perimeter. Check your guys.”

“Hang on.” Frank paused and keyed the radio again. “Mac? Kenny? Case? You good?”

“Mac’s good,” CW4 McKagan replied.

“Thompson is good,” Major Kenny Thompson replied.

“Dugan is good. Have your entrance in the crosshairs,” Major Casey Dugan reported in. Frank looked behind him and could see the Army Ranger in prone position, peering through his scope on top of the house and giving them a thumbs-up.

“Dr. Banks? Your team good to go?”

“Copy that, Colonel. And note that there are no hot readings.”

“Copy, that.” Frank gave Toby a thumbs-up. Then he adjusted his earbud and pulled down his mask. “Mac. You and Kenny keep your eyes peeled. We’re going in in ten seconds starting now, now, now, ten…nine…”

Frank did the rest of the countdown in his head then held up three fingers for Toby to see. Then two. Then one. Toby banged a fist against the blue front door of the modest two-story vinyl siding middle-class home. It was a typical cul-de-sac suburban house of a typical GS-14 federal employee just like the majority of the houses down the street, across the street, and in most of the neighborhoods in the area. This part of Virginia was either unmarked office complexes—which meant CIA, DIA, or some other intelligence-based agency or office—or cul-de-sac neighborhoods of middle-class houses, which also mostly meant employees of said agencies and offices. If they lived around the area and weren’t part of the intelligence community, they were most likely other federal workers of some sort.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Open up. FBI!” Toby shouted. “You have ten seconds to open or we will enter with authority of a federal search warrant. Open up!”

Frank held his M4 barrel down but ready and facing the door. Toby had slid beside the door with his back against the wall and his pistol at waist height pointed down. “…five, four, three, two, one…”

Knock, knock, knock!

“Open up! FBI! Last warning!” Toby looked up at Frank, who was already nodding at him.

“I don’t think they’re letting us in,” Frank said.

“Do it!” Toby told him.

Frank raised his right knee almost all the way to his chest-plate armor and then stomped right where the doorknob’s bolt met the strike plate. The door gave but didn’t go all the way through. The recoil back up through Frank’s leg sent him staggering off-balance slightly.

“Shit.” Frank grabbed at the side of the house to stabilize his balance.

“Losing your touch, big guy?” Toby grinned at Frank and restrained a chuckle. “I can have my guys bringing up the battering ram.”

“Fuck that.” Frank slung the M4 to his chest armor and rolled the twelve-gauge pump from his right hip. He chambered a shell, fired, pumped and fired again. The two rounds of double-ought buckshot tore into the door, spraying splinters from the wooden door and doorjamb. With a final kick the door flung wide, slamming against the doorstop. He dropped back a step with the shotgun at his shoulder, scanning the room to cover Toby’s entrance.

Bang! Bang!

Two rounds hit him in the chest plate just above the stock of his rifle hanging there. The force from the rounds knocked him backward flailing against a shrub in the flower bed behind him. Toby could see Frank reflexively grabbing his chest and checking for holes.

“Shit! Fuckin’ Hell!” Frank cursed pulling himself up from within the unkempt crepe myrtle tree. He checked his chest plate for holes. “Forty-five cal.”

He’d been stupid and—thank God—lucky. The pistol rounds had hit him dead center on his chest and the ceramic armor stopped them cold. Had they been a couple inches higher or armor piercing he’d be dead right now.

“Frank?”

“I’m good, go. Go!” Frank used his voice of command. Either that or he was just pissed.

Toby dropped low, sweeping the green dot of his pistol sight that only he could see back and forth across the room. Frank had chosen to just stick with the shotgun and stacked in behind his friend. There were several other crashing noises in the back and there was a flicker of motion and some light flickering across the room toward a door at the end of the main hallway and out the back. The room lights were off, but light from the streetlamps outside that filtered through the windows was more than enough for the dark-adapted eye to see inside. Toby could make out the two men as they moved quickly and in cover fashion. They were pros.

“Freeze or I’ll shoot!” Toby shouted.

“Fuck that.” Frank let two bursts from the shotgun spray across the darkened living room. There was a faint scream and more ruckus through the kitchen and the screened-in back porch.

Toby did his best to get a dot on a figure diving through the doorway at the end of the room, but the men were moving too fast and the hall was too narrow. He didn’t want to fire random shots at an ambiguous target either, because he knew his guys were out back somewhere in the general direction he’d have to fire his weapon. He could tell Frank wasn’t as worried about that with the shotgun. Toby nodded to Frank to follow and the two pushed faster through the house.

“Frank!” Toby whispered at him and tapped his nose with his forefinger. “You smell that?”

“Yep.” Frank took a whiff and responded, “Diesel.”

“Shit!”

“Overwatch, Alpha. We have an arson situation here. Get firefighting teams here immediately,” Frank said.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

They both dropped as several more shots were fired at what seemed to be their general direction, but likely not at them precisely. A window behind and between them made a crashing sound as one of the bullets hit.

“Cover fire,” Frank whispered. “They’re running scared.”

“Several shots fired! Repeat, several shots fired!” Toby shouted into the comm as if they didn’t hear them. With a quick movement he slid into the doorway, opening firing at one of the men in cover position behind the island bar in the middle of the modestly furnished kitchen. He pulled back down to cover as bullets slapped against the drywall and past him. “Bring it in and surround the house. Nobody gets away! I repeat: Nobody gets away!”

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Suddenly the kitchen lit up bright red and the sound of a flare burning hissed loudly. Then the flickering orange of quickly growing flames washed the room in front of them. Toby could hear sirens in the distance.

“They better hurry!” Frank said.

“Damned right!”

“Overwatch, this is Alpha. We’ve got multiple shots and at least one, maybe two runners,” Frank said into his mic. “Fire in the north rooms spreading quickly! We need that firefighting team!”

“Copy that, Alpha.” There was a brief pause. The radio clicked to static briefly and then back on. “Thermal showing two signatures moving north to the rear of the house, barely detectable from the large thermal signature growing and the third signature is still stationary upstairs.”

“We’re cut off from them, Frank!” Toby shouted. “Any evidence will be destroyed!”

“I know,” Frank said. “We can’t get them.”

“Fight the fire, then!” Toby responded.

“Mac! Kenny! Headed your way!” Frank said on the comm channel.

USN CW4 Wheeler “Mac” McKagan lay in prone position behind the small white latticework that hid an in-ground swimming pool pump, pipes, and filter from view of the main backyard. The yard was small. In fact, it was just barely large enough to hold the swimming pool, its surrounding concrete walkway, and a small metal shed on the end opposite the diving board. Mac adjusted the optical sight on his M4 to a low light setting and carefully scanned the house. He stayed very still and calmly listened in to the radio during the break.

Mac was beginning to get a bit of an itchy trigger finger. Then a slight breeze picked up and he got a strong whiff of kerosene. Then he could see fire throwing light through the windows. The back door to the house flung open and two men exploded out at a full sprint. Mac could see the first one as clear as if it were daytime in the night-vision setting of his sight. He tracked the man running point, finding a soft spot to put the dot on, and he gently squeezed the trigger. There was a brief suppressed muzzle flash and the muted sound of a silenced rifle accompanied by the sound of a bullet hitting the man dead center of his right thigh, dropping him instantly. He began screaming in pain.

Before Mac could target the other man, Thompson had dropped him with a double tap—one to the right shoulder, then one to the left leg. He fell only inches from his cohort, also screaming in pain, just as loud if not louder. Mac and Thompson charged before the men could gather their wits and grasp at their firearms. The one in the lead was just about to grab his as Mac placed a size-eleven boot on his hand.

“I’d stop about there unless you want another one,” Mac said, looking down at him. Thompson gave him a thumbs-up and dropped to zip-tie their hands and feet. Mac keyed the radio. “Rear of the house is secured. Runners apprehended.”


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Framed