“Was Damon having trouble at the university?”
“Do you think drugs could have been involved?”
“Are your contacts at the FBI working on the case?”
Enough. Alex is done. He puts the flyer in his pocket and pushes through the scrum to the elevator.
He manages to press the Up button. The door opens. Two reporters try to jam themselves into the elevator with him. Alex plants his feet and shoves them both out but not before one of them shouts directly into his ear:
“Dr. Cross, do you think your son is still alive?”
Alex flinches as the doors slide shut.
CHAPTER 47
Sampson
I’M IN A FORMER army Black Hawk helicopter belonging to the Virginia State Police, watching the rural landscape of Virginia slide under me as we race toward a dot on the map—a small town in western Virginia.
Riding with me is Anna Rizzo and six heavily armed officers from the Virginia State Police tactical team, all wearing black tactical gear, gloves, and ballistic helmets.
Rides like this stir mixed memories in me. Flying into hot LZs in the mountains. Escaping under fire. High fives in the back after a successful mission. Sitting quietly, heads down, after a failure or after losing brothers in a firefight. Too many times, I flew back to base with body bags on the floor and bloody dog tags in my hand.
The chopper I’m in now is one of three flying to the same site. The lead bird in the assault force is carrying Ned Mahoney and members of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team—a misnomer if everthere was one. Most of the hostage rescue team’s missions don’t involve rescuing hostages but rather breaking into buildings and arresting bad guys. Or, if push comes to shove, killing them.
I hear Rizzo’s voice crackle through my headphones. “Five minutes out.”
“Hope it’s not a clusterfuck when we get there.”
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“How?”
“By the force of my charming personality.”
Our Black Hawk swoops down and hovers a few feet above the middle of an empty parking lot next to a gymnasium. I feel the slap on my shoulder that tells me it’s time to jump out. Rizzo is right behind me. We duck low. The tactical team fans out around us. I feel the blast from the rotors as the helicopter climbs back into the air.
We’re at the staging area. Our target is a motel about four miles away.
The motel where intel says Aiden Phillips is presently residing.
Mahoney’s helicopter dropped him off just before we came in. He’s already heading for a door in the side of a large windowless building with aluminum sides. The HRT guys move in a pack, some carrying long guns slung over their backs.
Rizzo and I follow the crowd. The door opens to a hardwood basketball court with a set of bleachers along the far wall. A large whiteboard is set up at center court, with folding tables and chairs clustered around. Rizzo and I take our seats with the tactical teams as Mahoney walks up to the head of the class.
Taped around the edges of the whiteboard are printed photographs of Aiden Phillips. Mug shots. Military ID. Driver’s license photo.
In the center of the board is a detailed diagram of the target building, the Sunset Shores Motel. It’s a small building, only a dozen rooms, with an office at one end and a wooded area at the rear.
All around us, agents are checking equipment and muttering in low voices.
“Okay!” Ned Mahoney calls out. “Let’s settle down.”
He uses his pen to tap one of the photos on the whiteboard. “This is our target. Aiden Phillips. Considered armed and dangerous. He is the prime suspect in two recent DC bombings. Dozens injured and killed. Phillips is ex–Special Forces and a former patient at the VA hospital in Richmond, where he was treated for a variety of mental-health issues.”
Mahoney next taps the schematic. “Recon tells us he’s in the end unit, number fourteen. For the past few months, he’s been working as a security guard at a construction site up the road. Two weeks ago, he was fired.”
“For cause?” one of the troopers calls out.
