Search and Destroy by JT Sawyer (top non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📗

Cal wore his tan slacks and blue polo shirt along with a brimmed hat and sunglasses. Crossing the street, he headed to the edge of the playground beside the well-manicured lawn of a public library. He pulled out his phone, pretending he was conversing as he strolled along, scanning the other people.

He stopped next to a large elm tree, leaning against the trunk. Cal scanned the nearest park bench, which was situated near where Vogel had indicated. He continued his faux conversation, casually strolling over to the bench and sitting down. Letting his right hand dangle by the side, he felt underneath the steel frame and removed a small tin held in place with a magnet. Cal got up and resumed walking along the pathway then took a circular route back to his stolen vehicle.

Opening the tin, he saw a square of paper with an address in Elkton, Maryland, northeast of Baltimore. He memorized the street name and number, folding the paper continuously until it was a tiny patch, then he stuck it into the cigarette lighter in the dashboard.

32

FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC

“Carter, come look at this,” said Corelli.

She leaned over his shoulder, examining the grainy image of several men entering the white catering van outside of Burke’s estate. “I was able to retrieve a few frames off the surviving camera down the hill from the house. Any of these guys look familiar?”

She narrowed her eyes at the two on the right. “Yeah, the shooters from the bridge who nearly killed Tremblay.”

He pointed to the man by the driver’s side, enhancing the image until the shoes were visible. “See that shiny spot above his left shoe?”

“Yeah, so?”

“That’s got the sheen and the unusual curvature it does because it’s a prosthetic. Plus, the color is off from the rest of his darker complexion, so it’s probably an older model, from before we had the color matching like we do today.”

She stared at the image, her lips widening into a grin. She patted Corelli on the shoulder. “You’re a genius. Now, get me a location for that guy.”

33

Cal sat in the stolen Nissan, two blocks away from the address in Elkton that Vogel had provided. The graffiti-riddled two-story house and surrounding structures resembled something from Mogadishu. The only thing missing was a layer of sand in all the doorways and windowsills.

There had been little activity for the past thirty minutes until a group of men exited the rear door, standing by their cars. Shepard felt his ribs constrict when he zoomed in on the older man near the trash bins.

Montoya. He recalled the brief glimpse of the man in Burke’s driveway. He still wasn’t a hundred percent certain it was him, but he was sure that the gangly figure beside him was the driver as he stared at the man’s prosthetic leg.

A vein throbbed in Shepard’s neck. He wanted to ram his vehicle into the crowd, emptying his pistol into the animals.

He clutched the steering wheel with one hand, taking a deep breath and watching Montoya get into a blue Jetta then head south as the other men went inside the house.

Shepard started his car, pulling out and following the Colombian gangster from a safe distance. The trip through the city took him onto the highway for twelve miles, after which Montoya exited along a two-lane road that led to a regional airport. He slowed down, letting the Jetta gain some distance on the empty street.

Cal pulled off on a service road to the right, opposite the airfield, then got out of his car and walked into the woods near the shoulder. Scanning the small hangar across from him, he saw the Jetta pull up, and Montoya exit.

The Colombian grabbed a suitcase from the back seat then walked to the open bay of the steel hangar to meet another man in a blue shirt and tan pants.

Cal felt a surge of acid in his throat as the sight of Tim Rourke filled his binoculars.

Of course, he must have provided satellite intel on Burke’s place and was the one who knew about the test run for Perseus over Caracas. He clutched the binoculars. That motherfucker!

After Montoya handed off the suitcase to Rourke and watched the man drive off, the Colombian boarded a small jet already lining up for takeoff.

Shepard slipped further back into the trees as a vehicle sped by, watching Rourke head to the highway. He waited a few minutes until the jet took off, then he got back into his stolen vehicle and changed quickly into his suit pullover.

Driving to the small administration building next to the hangar, Cal ran his hands through his hair then adjusted his clothing before heading inside. He strode with purpose, pulling his shoulders back and removing the FBI badge he’d lifted off of Tremblay during the bridge shootout.

“Can I help you, sir?” said the young woman behind the front desk.

“Agent James Tremblay with the FBI. I’ve been following an individual who is a potential suspect in an ongoing investigation, and I believe he just left here in that jet that departed a few minutes ago. I need to see the flight manifest.”

She looked at Shepard then down at the badge on the counter. “Of course.” She swiveled around in her seat, typing on her computer. Cal glanced around the tiny office, seeing only a custodian mopping the lounge area at the back.

“That flight is inbound for a private airstrip in West Texas, arriving this evening at 4:30 p.m.”

“What name did the man that just boarded give?”

She pressed her face closer to the screen. “I’m not showing a name other than that he is a guest.”

“Guest of whom?”

“The jet is owned by Ian Landis of Virginia.”

Shepard rested his arms on the counter, scanning the screen. “I’ll need an address for Mr. Landis, please, and for the ranch in Texas.”

The woman jotted some notes then turned around, handing Cal the paper. “Here’s the address for Ian Landis,