Endangered Species: PART 1 Page 2

  He wiped his gore-covered hands on the dead men’s clothing, picked up the Makarov, checked its magazine, and rose to continue the hunt.

  Chapter 2—FBI Field Office, Albuquerque, NM

  Mitch Christie stared out the bulletproof glass window of his office in the bombproof FBI Field Office Building. It was a full-size window, an improvement over the sliver of glass in his old office at HQ in Washington. The sky above Albuquerque, New Mexico was cornflower blue and cloudless. He was oblivious to it and the striking beauty of the rugged spine of the Sandia Mountains rising in the distance. His mind was momentarily blank. It was better that way, he knew. Troubling thoughts kept trying to intrude, interrupting his efforts to concentrate on the task at hand. Barely two months ago the Bureau had relieved him of his duties as Supervisory Special Agent on the most important investigation of his career. The transfer to the Albuquerque Field Office as Assistant Special Agent in Charge was a demotion, not a lateral move. He wasn’t sure he’d ever make the adjustment to the dry Southwestern climate. As if on cue, an area on his right calf began to itch. It was one of many similar areas that covered his body, as his skin struggled to adjust. The lining of his nasal passages was still dry and bleeding.

  He had been struggling all morning to put together notes for the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force meeting that afternoon. OCDETF, a combination of federal, state, and local investigative and prosecutorial agencies, was tasked with expanding and intensifying the U.S. government's anti-drug mission. It conducted collaborative long-term investigations against major drug trafficking organizations.

  He was co-chair of the Task Force along with a captain from the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department. He hated the OCDETF part of his job, and knew that was contributing to his difficulty concentrating on prepping for the meeting. He continued to gaze out the window, almost sightlessly. There was more to the problem than having to work with the Task Force.

  He had come to realize that he hated his whole job, every aspect of it. Christie had been an FBI agent for almost twenty years, since his graduation from law school. For years the job had been the focal point of his life. That’s where the damage had been done. Without realizing what he was doing, he’d allowed the demands of the Bureau to supersede those of his family. Now, they were gone. His wife, Deborah, had left him almost a year ago. Their two kids, Brett and Samantha, sixteen and fourteen, had chosen to live with their mother in Maryland. Thinking of them, of what he had lost, triggered the knot in his chest again.

  Subconsciously, he raised his coffee mug to his lips as if swallowing might wash the discomfort away. The coffee was cold. Stone cold. He quickly spit it out and thumped the mug back on his desktop. A few drops sloshed out and stained his blotter. He continued to hold the mug’s handle in a tight grip. His other hand slowly reached for his abdominal area and began to massage a familiar spot. It was just below and to the left of his solar plexus, over his stomach. He reached involuntarily for the upper right hand drawer of his desk then remembered. There was no Mylanta. Its manufacturer, Johnson & Johnson, had recalled the product some time ago. It still had not returned to the market.

  He sighed and dug in a pants pocket for his package of Rolaids. It’s a hell of a thing that it’s come to this, he thought. Lost my family, developed a disloyal stomach, and hate my job. He remembered when he started with the Bureau. He had been on a fast track to achieving his goal: the rank of at least Assistant Director, then follow his wife’s urgings and retire with a nice pension by the time he was fifty-five. The next step would have been to find a cush, non-stressful job as an executive with a private security firm. Now, those dreams were gone.

  But it wasn’t just the demands of the Bureau that had ruined his world. That damn Brendan Whelan was the real culprit. Jesus, I hate that Irish bastard, he thought. His hand tightened on the flesh of his abdomen as a sharp wave of pain coursed through his stomach. Him and his gang of misanthropic genetic mutants, the so-called Sleeping Dogs. They supposedly were the blackest of black ops groups, and were supposed to have been killed in a plane crash twenty years earlier. The long, hard slide in Christie’s career had started when the late Harold Case outed the Dogs on the orders of his former employer, ex-Senator Howard Morris. In the process, it got Case killed along with Morris’s puppet master, the billionaire Chaim Laski. Now Morris, a once-powerful politician who had enjoyed the inside track to his party’s nomination for president, was a nonentity.

  Christie had heard that Morris was now a pathetic figure, too terrified of everyone and everything even to leave his home. Serves him right, Christie thought bitterly, the meddlesome, self-promoting sonofabitch. His actions ultimately led that old Cold Warrior, Cliff Levell, and his shadowy group of super patriots, the Society of Adam Smith, informally known as the SAS, to reactivate the Dogs. As the Bureau’s Supervisory Special Agent in the Harold Case affair, Christie’s job had been to find Case’s killer. Eventually, evidence led to the discovery that the members of the Sleeping Dogs unit were alive. Worse, the Society had engaged their services to thwart what it saw as the threat of Marxist domination from the party of Howard Morris and the current president of the United States. Another sharp pain sliced through his stomach and Christie reflexively tossed another Rolaids into his mouth.

  He turned away from the window and looked over at his desk, specifically the framed picture of his family. It wasn’t enough that, despite his best efforts and the tremendous pressure Christie had been under to break the case, he was unable to make much progress. No, he remembered, Levell had perceived a threat to Christie’s family. He honored a deathbed pledge he had made to his wife’s father, a fellow Marine who had saved Levell’s life in a firefight in Vietnam. He had the Dogs kidnap Christie’s wife and children and hold them in protective custody. It didn’t matter so much that Levell had been right; that Laski’s Ukrainian thugs really had intended to harm his family. What did matter to him was his wife’s reaction.

  Christie’s anger began to rise. Deborah had steadfastly rejected his explanation that she was suffering from a form of the Stockholm Syndrome. Instead, she insisted that Whelan and his men were kind and wonderful men who had saved her and the children. And she seemed smitten with Whelan. While she had steadfastly denied that anything had happened between them, he sensed that she had begun to compare him to Whelan. Clearly, he hadn’t measured up. After eighteen years of marriage and being completely faithful to his wedding vows, how could she have done this to him? It was Whelan’s fault. He must have seduced her. The thought sent another agonizing bolt through his stomach. He grabbed his abdomen with one hand and squeezed as tight as he could while popping two more Rolaids with the other.

  There was a light knock on his office door. A moment later his boss opened it and walked in. Annette Wojakowski was short and chunky with short dark hair and wire rim glasses. She was wearing one of her usual business suits. Today it was navy blue wool, a size or two too small, with a short skirt better worn by a woman with more attractive legs. She walked over to one of his side chairs and sat heavily on the edge of the seat, knees primly locked together.

  Skipping small talk, she said, “What are you working on?”

  Christie didn’t like the woman and knew the feeling was mutual. The higher ups in the Justice Department and Bureau had become disappointed in his failure to make progress in the Case affair. Also, they couldn’t help but notice the effect his marital problems were having on him. They decided he had risen as high in his career as he was capable. There would be no further upward mobility for him. Wojakowski, the Albuquerque SAC, had been forced to reshuffle her personnel and procedures to accommodate the transfer. She hadn’t liked it.

  “I’m putting together some notes for this afternoon’s drug enforcement task force meeting,” he said.

  “What time is the meeting?”

  “One-thirty. Why?”

  Wojakowski looked at him for a moment. It was a cold, unfriendly look. “You have other assignments that
need attention too. I wouldn’t expect preparing for that meeting would require much effort.”

  Christie shrugged. His stomach felt as if it was filling with molten lava, but he didn’t want to pop a Rolaids in front of Wojakowski. She would interpret it as a sign of weakness. He knew she didn’t want him on her staff, and assumed she was looking for excuses to get rid of him.

  “Don’t you have a cochair, a sheriff’s deputy or something?”

  Christie nodded. “A captain. Tom Burkhardt.”

  “Whatever. Why don’t you let him make these preparations?”

  Now it was Christie’s turn to give Wojakowski a hard look. “The Bureau has a terrible reputation with local law enforcement agencies. Part of that has been caused by us sloughing off the grunt work on them. I’m trying to improve on that image.”

  The SAC pointed an index finger at Christie and began wagging it slowly back and forth. “Our work is much more important than anything these local yokels do. I hope you understand that.”

  Christie gritted his teeth and nodded.

  “I didn’t ask to have you assigned to my office, Agent Christie. Nevertheless, I’ve tried to accommodate Washington’s wishes by finding things for you to do. In addition to representing this office on the drug enforcement task force, I had you join the Safe Streets Task Force and work with Special Agent Carty, the New Mexico InfraGard Coordinator. Furthermore, I’ve tasked you with certain personnel duties and providing assistance and training for some of our younger members. But, frankly, I haven’t seen you doing much of anything.”

  He was silent for a moment, struggling to ignore the insult. “As one of the two Assistant SACs in this office, my job description includes supervising the ERT,” he said in reference to the Albuquerque Evidence Response Team, which conducted crime scene investigations and collected physical evidence using the techniques of forensic science. The team was trained and equipped to collect and record physical evidence in accordance with current scientific standards and procedures so that the evidence could be effectively analyzed in a forensic laboratory and stand up under scrutiny in a court of law. “That’s an area where I have solid experience, but, frankly, some of these jobs you’ve assigned to me seem far less important and tend to interfere with my ERT duties.

  “Look, Ms. Wojakowski, I can appreciate your situation. You didn’t ask for me to be assigned here. But I’m here and I bring many years of valuable experience with the Bureau. With all due respect, the work you’ve assigned to me is practically insulting. I am capable of making a much more significant contribution to this office.”

  The SAC sat forward, hands folded in her lap, knees still tightly locked. “Are you challenging my authority, Agent Christie? You’re not a Supervisory Special Agent in Washington, D.C. anymore.” Anger and disapproval smoldered in her small, dark, widely spaced eyes.

  “No, Ms. Wojakowski, I…”

  “It’s Agent Wojakowski,” she snapped.

  Christie stared at her for a couple of seconds. Things weren’t going well. They rarely did where Wojakowski was concerned. He started again. “Excuse me, Agent Wojakowski, I’m not challenging your authority. I’m just suggesting that I have a great deal of valuable experience that could be helpful to the Albuquerque office.”

  She pushed her wire rim glasses up the bridge of her short, wide nose. It reminded Christie of a pig’s snout.

  “Valuable experience? I suppose you’re referring to how badly you handled the case involving that gang of psychopathic ex-military killers? The ones who tried to assassinate POTUS, but killed the AG instead; then butchered Chaim Laski and 20 or so of his household staff? The ones you couldn’t apprehend even though they appear to have been operating under your nose? Is that the experience you’re referring to, Agent?”

  For one of the very few times in his life, Christie felt a strong desire to knock a fellow agent senseless, and a female at that. He struggled mightily to maintain self-control. The fire in his stomach blazed to new heights.

  “Actually,” he managed to say through clenched jaws, “the group you referenced was the finest Special Ops unit this country, or any other, has ever produced. And they didn’t attempt to assassinate the president. In fact, they were trying to stop it from happening. Laski was behind the plot and, as it turned out, was laundering money for a foreign power whose goal was the destruction of our country from within. And his ‘household staff’, as you call them, were nothing more than Ukrainian thugs in this country illegally to carry out Laski’s dirty work.”

  All but addicted to confrontation, Wojakowski was warming to the fight. She slid her wide bottom forward in the chair until she was barely balanced on the very edge. The action slid her short skirt up, revealing a portion of her heavy thighs. No fan of overweight women, Christie was disgusted by it and kept his eyes locked with hers.

  A smirk spread across Wojakowski’s round face. “As I recall, you mishandled the matter so badly that you actually sat next to the gang’s leader on a cross-country flight without realizing who he was.” Proud of herself, she slid back a bit in the chair and tugged modestly at the hem of her skirt.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “The entire Bureau and most of Washington has gotten a good laugh out of that one.”

  Christie shook his head and sighed. “No, it wasn’t like that at all. The man’s name was Whelan, Brendan Whelan, and we had no idea what he looked like or that he even was alive. He and the others were supposed to have died in a plane crash off Puerto Rico twenty years earlier.”

  “Really?” Her smirk was bigger now. “And, while you were bumbling through the investigation, this Whelan person kidnapped your wife. As I understand it, shortly after that she left you.”

  Christie was speechless. He sat and stared at his boss.

  Wojakowski stood up, rising to a full five feet three inches including two-inch heels. “I’m of the opinion that you mishandled every aspect of that investigation. That, together with your inability to deal emotionally with the end of your marriage, got you transferred out here. Now you’re my problem. But let’s be very clear. This office is not a charity. It’s not a refuge for failed agents.” She paused for effect then said, “Understand this, you will do whatever I tell you to do, exactly when and how I tell you to do it. Otherwise, I will do everything in my power to have your career with the Bureau terminated.”

  She paused again then added, “We won’t be having this conversation again.”

  She glanced at her watch and said, “I have a lunch meeting.” With that, she turned abruptly and walked out of the room leaving the door open. Just then another agent, Emory Wallace, walked by. He stopped and turned to watch Wojakowski’s retreating backside for a moment, then looked at Christie, winked and gave him a thumbs up sign.

  “The Polish Viper strikes again,” he said. “But don’t worry, it’s not poisonous. Usually.”

  Chapter 3—Dingle, Ireland

  If someone or some organization wanted Whelan dead, they would leave no potential witnesses. That meant his family members also were targeted. It also meant that the party responsible knew who he was and what his physical capabilities were. They wouldn’t have sent only two men to accomplish the task. That would be like taking the proverbial knife to a gunfight. He knew there would be more intruders in the house.

  However many would-be assassins remained, Whelan knew they had to be on the first floor. He intended to kill all but one, saving that poor soul for interrogation using methods that would shock even the CIA. He quietly approached the staircase and peered carefully around the corner. There was a man with a bulky build standing at the foot of the stairs looking up. He must have heard the sound of the Makarov hitting the wooden floor and was coming to investigate. With the inhuman quickness his rare genetic gifts provided him, Whelan spun around the corner in a crouch, the suppressed Makarov extended in front of him. The other man didn’t have those genetic gifts. Before he could even raise his own weapon, Whelan double tapped him; the
first shot in the thorax, the second in his head. His body bounced off the wall behind him and toppled forward. This portion of the floor was carpeted. This time there was minimal sound as the dead man’s weapon hit the floor.

  Whelan began slowly, cautiously descending the stairs, still in a half crouch, sweeping the dead man’s pistol from left to right and back like a metronome. An acrid smell burned his nostrils. Someone was smoking in his house. That almost was reason enough to kill the offender. The bottom of the stairs opened into the foyer. He paused and strained to hear sounds that didn’t belong in the house at night. After several moments, he heard something that sounded like a metal object being dragged across wood. It came from the kitchen.

  The stairs emptied into the foyer. The kitchen was located to his left, beyond the dining area that opened off the foyer. He scanned the room. Seeing no one, he edged cautiously to his left into the dining area. It was empty. He moved silently across the room to the doorway that opened into the kitchen and swiftly glanced in. There was a heavyset man sitting at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette. His left hand was resting on another suppressed Makarov. Moving the heavy gun across the top of the wooden table must have made the sound Whelan had heard. There also was a cell phone on the table. Whelan assumed the man was planning to use it to report to someone when the job was finished.