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CHAPTER 2
Monday, April 15
5:20 a.m. Pacific Standard Time (PST)
Dismal Nitch, Oregon
Forty minutes before Dismal Nitch Coffee opened, Marshall Owens parked the black Chevy Tahoe hybrid at the curb in front of the shop and turned off the engine and lights to sit for a moment.
The rain rattled against the driver’s side of the vehicle, pushed by powerful gusts that would last for the next twenty-four hours. Around him the magnificent ring of pine trees flexed, and the rain streaked horizontally, glowing under the amber light of the street lamp like a thousand tracer bullets. The rain forest had always been a key part of his life, whether it was in the Oregon evergreens or the jungles of South America.
The last big, violent storm of the season, and he might not live to see another.
But the storm’s unpredictable destruction brought nourishment to the land. It restored balance and culled weakness. In its full fury, the storm was merciless, but ultimately benevolent.
And in less than three months, the Chapter’s own force would strike with its own fury.
Owens was fifty-eight years old with deep wrinkles cutting across his face and watery-brown eyes that seldom blinked. Today, he wore a camouflage hunting parka, thermal shirt, loose jeans, and steel-toed work boots instead of a suit or the AgriteX company uniform. A green John Deere cap covered his shaved head.
Having grown up on the other side of the Columbia River, in Washington, he enjoyed a low profile in Oregon. He strived to avoid being a creature of habit, picking places outside any established pattern for offsite meetings like this.
While he hadn’t been to Dismal Nitch in over a year, it was one of the places he felt comfortable having a sensitive conversation outside the walls of the company headquarters. When the weather was this bad, and the hour this early, it was easy to see if he was being followed.
He looked at his calendar again and reviewed the profile of Jim Currence, who owned the shop and worked mornings. He had confirmed the plate on Jim’s truck with a quick drive through the waterlogged rear parking lot. Jim’s profile said he’d been released from the Lost Lake Forest Camp minimum-security prison three years ago. The activity log also indicated Jim made another call yesterday he shouldn’t have.
Owens stepped out into the narrow side street and jumped over the stream of water flowing into the half-clogged storm drain. In the few seconds it took him to reach the locked front door and rap his fist on the storm-proof glass, he received an invigorating spray to the face. After he knocked for the second time, Jim appeared. The smile on Jim’s broad, ruddy face didn’t hide the irritation.
“Hi there. What can I do for ya?”
“Hello, Jim.”
Owens stepped inside and removed his cap. Jim’s blue eyes widened as he gazed up and recognized him, even though they’d never met in person.
“Good morning, sir,” Jim blurted.
Owens moved within inches of Jim’s face and his frizzy blond hair.
“A friend of mine is meeting me here in a few minutes. Go ahead and relock the door after he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.”
Owens headed to the window booth farthest from the front door and took a seat. He unzipped his parka and pulled out the copy of the Oregonian he’d tucked inside it. Jim hurried to bring over coffee.
The steaming mug warmed his thick hands while he gazed out the blurry window into darkness. There was no stunning view of the river at this hour, but he still enjoyed looking out into the black void sprinkled with dockside lights and listening to the sounds of the storm. With each wind gust, the century-old Sitka-spruce-and-cedar building whistled, swayed, and popped. It was like a favorite song, reminding him of what his Chinook ancestors endured in this region hundreds of years ago.
His grandfather was half Chinook, and while Owens gave no outward appearance of that lineage other than a slight tan color to his skin, he’d always felt the tribe’s ethos in his blood. For his tilikum, his people, he would beg, borrow, or mamook solleks—make war—to achieve his ends.
Jim turned on the wall-mounted TV to CNN. The attractive brunette anchor was interviewing some retired general about the American troops still active in Afghanistan and other armpits of the earth. Residual forces remained vulnerable. Increasing numbers of special operations troops had classified deployments in a mosaic of locations across the Middle East and Africa.
The nightmare never seemed to change. Undeclared wars and abuses of power. Politicians becoming generals and generals becoming politicians. Tiny forces courageously taking on big missions, then finding themselves crippled by weak rules of engagement. Inadequate equipment for soldiers on the ground, yet billions spent on appropriations.
Waste. Greed. The American people were elitah, slaves, unable to change anything. Even the ballot box was ineffective.
As the television reported another soldier killed by an Improvised Explosive Device (IED), or roadside bomb, the face of Owens’s dead son, Todd, flashed in his mind. He singed his throat chugging the rest of his coffee and set the mug down hard on the table. The TV wasn’t in here before.
“Turn the TV off.”
Jim scrambled for the remote. “Yes, sir.”
Owens went back to reading the paper and looking out the window. When he started on his second refill, he saw the front door open. The wiry man he recognized was dressed in a tan, hooded raincoat, black slacks, and rubber-soled dress shoes. The man nodded to Jim, walked to the back, and slid into the seat across from Owens. They shook hands.
“Good to see you, Marshall.”
“Paul, thanks for coming. It must have been a hell of a drive this morning.”
Paul was in his midthirties with a lean, angular face, sunken eyes, and large nostrils. His coarse black hair was parted on the side.
“Yeah, only fools like us are out in this mess,” he said.
“That’s for sure.” He waited for Jim to bring Paul’s coffee and depart before asking, “So what’s the urgent news?”
“The Portland field office just moved AgriteX up near the top of their priority list, and an integrated operation has been authorized by their headquarters.”
“How reliable’s our source?”
“Rock solid,” Paul said.
Owens set his elbows on the table and clenched his hands together.
First, cartel rumblings. Now, FBI activity to worry about.
“Do you know the timing of their next move?” he asked.
“I don’t. We only know they received approval for additional funding and resources out of budget cycle. Our source doesn’t have access to the operational details. The op could’ve already been underway and now it’s just getting more support.”
Owens looked back out the window. He could now see the lights of a large container ship moving up the river.
“This introduces risk to headquarters before our attack,” he said. “We may have to revisit our strategy for the next couple of months, but once we launch, if the feds get in the way, they’ll have a bloodbath on their hands.” After a span of silence he added, “Well, your news was the kind I didn’t want to hear, but thanks.”
“I don’t think anyone likes bringing you bad news, Marshall.”
Owens laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, our plans have some flexibility. The bottom line is the Chapter is now the best-financed and most lethal private militia in U.S. history. Our training is nearly complete. We’ll accomplish our mission.”
“And America will wake up a much better place.”
Owens nodded. “We’ll finally break the cycle of cowardice and indecision. You Guardians continue to do a phenomenal job. I can’t ask you for much more.”
“But you will.”
“Of course I will. Especially in Phase Two.”
Paul nodded. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Owens’s smile faded when he sensed Jim hovering near the table with a fresh pot of coffee.
“Jim, my friend, did you make an unauthorized phone call yesterday you want to talk about?”
“No, sir.”
Owens expected Jim to be a little nervous from a surprise visit, but he was now squinting and looking uncomfortable.
Good, his program is working properly.
“Jim, last Wednesday at 11:37 a.m., you made a call to a friend outside the network and tried talking to them about the Chapter. Am I right?”
Jim’s face began to flush. Owens took the coffeepot away from him and poured another cup for Paul and himself.
“Your program is behind two full versions,” Owens said. He pointed his finger at Jim’s chest. “You’ve been ignoring our upgrade messages during your weekly login for some time. Even so, the audit trail in your Zulu protocol provided markers of your unauthorized communication. You’ve been warned about such violations before, correct?”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“Just a fishing buddy.”
“Name?”
“Ed Patterson.”
“I’ll check it out,” Paul said after Owens looked at him.
“I expected more loyalty from you,” Owens said. “We set you up here, financed the shop. Got you back on your feet. We trusted you as part of our network.”
“I—I sent in all the information you wanted about Congressman Flint,” Jim said. “Did you see that?”
“Yes, I did. But we also have a two-strike policy at your level for any unauthorized communication. We can’t take the chance of you breaking security.”
Jim looked over at Paul for his reaction.
Paul shrugged. “It’s the Code of Trust, buddy. You know the rules: you break the Code, you get the Code.”
“Yes, those are the rules we live by,” Owens said. He tapped on the display of his smartphone and pulled out a pen to write something down on his brown paper napkin. “Here, read this number back to me.”
Jim took the napkin, trying to keep his hand from trembling, and spoke the number.
“Four-nine-two, six-six-seven-three-one.”
Seconds later, Jim shrieked and fell to the floor. He convulsed twice, took a final breath, then lay silent on his side, eyes open and fixed.
Owens looked at his watch and knelt down beside Jim. When he checked his neck for a pulse, there was none.
“The only punishment is here on Earth, my friend,” Owens said. He looked up at Paul, who had already stood and moved to watch the front door. “Can you handle cleanup? His wife will be here in a couple hours.”
“Not a problem.”
“And we’ll want to maintain the relationship with her, so make sure we help with the funeral expenses.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Thanks, Paul. Stay vigilant.”
CHAPTER 3
Monday, May 6
8:56 a.m. (EDT)
Vienna, Virginia
Kade’s hands were jittery and his heart was beating faster, but he wasn’t nervous. At least not in the way normal people are nervous. The muscles in his neck were tight, and a mild headache would soon come if left unchecked, but he otherwise felt confident and comfortable.
This was his unmedicated normal, and it meant he was riding a razor’s edge with his hypomania symptoms.
But his razor’s edge had won earlier this morning. He angled the rearview mirror to look at his neck and was happy to see the shaving cut hadn’t started bleeding again.
The last three nights were short on quality sleep, but that was a good sign. It meant he cared about this meeting and understood the seriousness of the business before him.
He fiddled with the cell phone he’d bought over the weekend and slid it in the front pocket of his chinos. Then he swallowed a pink carbamazepine pill with a sip of bottled water. The drug was part of a regular prescription keeping the hypomania under control and Dr. Ross said it helped reduce abnormal electrical activity in his brain. Or something like that. All he cared about was that it seemed to work when he needed it to. He took a deep breath and checked his watch.
Time to go.
The Residence Inn lobby and adjacent breakfast areas were filled with the noise of business travelers talking too loudly into their phones and earpieces. He saw Special Agent Morris emerge from the lounge area wearing a suit and holding a folded USA Today.
Morris gave Kade a head-to-toe scan and nodded.
“Good to see you, Kade. Let’s head on back.”
Morris led the way to a large bedroom suite and introduced him to a squat man whom he identified as a consultant, retired Special Agent Jerry Lerner. Lerner looked in his midfifties with wavy gray hair and large square teeth. He wore a sage golf shirt over his rotund belly, tucked into dark jeans and wrapped in a wide black belt. He spoke with a strong Texas accent.
Both men refilled their coffee mugs and sat down on the same side of the kitchenette table. A box of assorted bagels and a tub of garlicky cream cheese were in the center. Kade declined coffee and took a seat across from them after pouring himself a glass of water. It was hard for him to remember the last time he drank anything with caffeine.
“Let’s take care of your nondisclosure agreement first,” Morris said. “We aren’t going to discuss anything today that’s classified, and for your own protection, we’re going to make an effort to share only the information you’ll need. But we need to have this NDA processed in case we decide we need it, going forward.”
Kade was familiar with the standard nondisclosure form and filled it out.
“Now, for a quick backgrounder,” Morris said. “Our focus is a corporation named AgriteX that’s on our organized crime watch list. AgriteX is an agricultural biotech company located in rural Oregon with revenues in the hundreds of millions. The CEO and founder, Marshall Owens, sold his first start-up, NetStatz, for eighty-seven million in 1998, during the dot-com boom.
“We suspect AgriteX is conducting a number of illegal activities, but we’ve been unsuccessful in getting someone inside up to this point. The group may also have links to terrorist activity, so we’re highly concerned about that as well. Our current understanding is that the company provides financing and cover for an organization called the Chapter. We believe the Chapter may be evolving into a militia movement, but we need more intelligence to confirm or deny that. Owens is former Army Special Forces and has a well-trained security team.”
Kade’s eyes narrowed, and he drummed his fingers on the underside of the table.
“So this militia isn’t associated with any white supremacist movement?”
“No,” Morris said. “They’ve never communicated any views to that effect, and they have a fairly diverse workforce.”
“Any link to bank robberies?” Kade asked.
“None,” Morris said.
“How about ecoterrorism?”
“No indication of that, but it’s a possibility that could make sense,” Morris said. “AgriteX has made corporate donations to the National Resources Defense Council and Sierra Club, but it’s unclear if they’ve supported more extreme environmentalists. The challenge of this group is that it’s very high-tech. We know from a former employee that the Chapter uses an IR-based lie detector as a screening tool with every new recruit to make sure they’re not from law enforcement. They also use it on existing members from time to time to ensure their continued loyalty. This is where you come in. Are you following me?”
Kade nodded. “Yeah.”
“With our support you will get inside their organization and help us gather evidence and intelligence.”
Kade’s mind clicked into greater focus.
“You want me to get inside?”
“Yes, you’ll be our primary source.”
“Does that mean I’m going in solo?”
“Yes, but you’ll have a support team.”
Both of Kade’s feet were now tapping the floor. His time in Iraq had involved a few dangerous moments when venturing into the Red Zone, where insurgent activity
was always a threat, but most of the time, he’d been part of an enormous force in the well-fortified Camp Victory located at the Baghdad Airport. This FBI mission was a completely different kind of danger.
“You know, I only did desk analysis at NCTC. No human intelligence work of any kind.”
“We know.”
He didn’t want Morris and Lerner to think he was changing his mind or losing confidence, but he had a lot of questions and didn’t know where to start.
“This is a surprise, but that’s okay,” he said. “I’m just trying to understand the strategy better. Why wouldn’t you use your undercover agents?”
“The Chapter’s screening and review using this IR lie detector would immediately expose a standard undercover agent and put them at great risk. But your brain physiology is different, so you’ll be able to mess up their machine and cause useless results like you did before. No one will believe you’re lying one hundred percent of the time, including on all of the control questions. They’ll just think their machine is malfunctioning, and they’ll spend weeks trying to figure out what’s wrong with it when it’s working just fine.”
“Or they’ll kick me out right then.”
“We can’t know for sure, but we don’t think so. You’re an honest-looking guy and a strong fit for their recruit profile. You have computer and software skills they’ll want to utilize immediately, and we’ll need you to brush up on those.”
“Can the person who left AgriteX help you get back in?”
“That person went missing a few weeks after he spoke with us,” Morris said.
Kade chewed on his tongue.
Wonderful.
“And how long is this operation planned for?”
“The goal is to get you in and out,” Morris said. “Just a few weeks to see what you can dig up. We’ll train you so you’ll be confident in yourself and with the plan.”
Kade nodded. Holy shit.
“Do they just hire people at AgriteX into open positions?” he asked. “I mean, could I just apply for a job and get into the Chapter like that?”
“No, I wish it were that simple,” Morris said. “We know they have a very rigorous recruiting process, and they usually go after particular people. Their posted jobs are really just for show. Apparently, there’s a detailed behavioral questionnaire they use with recruits, but we’ve never seen a copy of it.”