Cross the Line (Alex Cross #24)(58)

“The suit is Lester Hobbes, ex-CIA,” Sampson said. “The soldier turned mercenary is Charles Fender.”

Both men had contracted with international security firms operating in Afghanistan early on in Condon’s time there. They hadn’t worked directly with the sniper, but they all knew one another well enough to have a drink or two occasionally. Both Fender and Hobbes were hard-liners who thought the U.S. was bungling foreign policy in the Middle East and going to hell in a handbasket back home.

“Condon says he didn’t see Hobbes or Fender for years,” I said. “Then, after the death of his fiancée, the investigation in Afghanistan, and his exile on the Eastern Shore, Condon gets a call one day from Lester Hobbes.”

Hobbes told Condon he thought he’d gotten a raw deal and offered his condolences. He asked the sniper if he’d be interested in having lunch sometime. Condon agreed. They met one day at a restaurant in Annapolis.

Charles Fender was there too. They all had a few too many beers as they recalled old times, and the talk turned to what was wrong with the U.S.A. Hobbes and Fender had said that people’s lack of conviction and action had allowed new forms of slavery to take hold in the country.

“Slavery?” Bree said.

“‘People harnessed by other people in a criminal manner’ was how they put it, evidently,” Sampson said. “As in a drug user is enslaved by the drug cartels or a prostitute enslaved by her handlers. Or ordinary U.S. citizens enslaved by corrupt politicians.”

I said, “Hobbes and Fender told Condon they were part of a growing group of people who thought this way. They compared themselves to John Brown and the men he led in an armed uprising against slavery.”

“Violent abolitionists,” Sampson said. “Willing to kill and die to free others.”

“Jesus,” Bree said.

“Right?” I said. “They’re calling themselves the Regulators, and they asked Condon to join them. Condon declined, said he was looking to lead a quieter life, and they left it at that.”

“Why didn’t he tell you this the first time you talked to him?” Bree asked.

“He claims he didn’t put it together until after the second attack. Even then, he couldn’t see the harm in having fewer drug cartels and human traffickers in the world.”

“Until Fender and Hobbes decided to frame and kill him,” Bree said.

“Correct,” Sampson said.

Bree sat there a few moments, absorbing it, before she leaned forward and said, “They’ve killed drug dealers and human traffickers, but no corrupt politicians.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Which is why we need to find Lester Hobbes and Charles Fender sooner rather than later.”





CHAPTER


68


JOHN BROWN SAT with several others at his home, his arm throbbing from the dog bite. He tried to ignore the pain as he watched the footage on the local evening news of the medical examiner’s wagon rolling through the gate of Nicholas Condon’s place in Denton.

A young female reporter came on in standup and gushed, “WBAL-TV Channel Eleven brings you this exclusive report. FBI and local law enforcement officials are telling us that evidence gathered at the scene of the gangland-style murder indicates a connection between the victim, former SEAL Team 6 sniper Nicholas Condon, and the massacres of drug dealers and human traffickers in the past month.

“The FBI also says the evidence has pushed the multistate investigation in a new direction, and all of Condon’s known and former associates will be coming under increased scrutiny in the days ahead,” the reporter said.

“It worked,” Cass said, shutting off the TV with a remote. “I have to admit, I had my doubts.”

“Not me,” Hobbes said. “Well played.”

Fender and the rest of the eleven people gathered in Brown’s living room applauded.

“We do have some breathing room now,” Brown said. “Which will help us with our next target.”

The group focused on Brown as he laid it all out. One by one, their faces turned somber and then skeptical.

“I don’t know,” Fender said when Brown finished. “Looks like a fortress.”

Hobbes said, “There won’t be small-timers guarding the place. We’ll be facing pros with talent.”

“Likely,” Brown said. “But if you want to chop off a snake’s head, you have to get close to the fangs.”

Fender said, “How is our friend so sure this is the snake’s head?”

“He says it’s the snake’s head for the East Coast, anyway. We chop it off, we leave their organization in total destruction. We chop it off, we’ll be clear to move to the next phase of the cleanup.”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Cass said. “Our friend’s intel on the compound is solid?”

“World-class,” Brown replied. “The place has been under satellite and drone surveillance for the past ten days.”

“So what’s the plan?” Hobbes asked. “You’re the strategist.”

Brown showed satellite photographs and diagrams of the next target. His followers listened intently. They had to. Their lives and cause depended on it.

When he was done, he opened the floor to questions, comments, and suggestions. They talked for hours, until long past midnight, altering and tweaking the plan until all of them agreed it could work despite the fact there would likely be casualties on their side for the first time. It seemed unavoidable, but no one backed out.