“Yep. Got in a fistfight with his shift supervisor,” says Mahoney. He opens a folder and plucks out a slip of paper. He says, “Supervisor reports that Phillips said, quote, ‘I smoked a lot of assholes like you in Afghanistan, and it’d be easy to do you too.’ Unquote.”
The room gets very quiet.
Mahoney continues, “The supervisor says Phillips drives a 2018 Ford F-150 pickup. Latest drive-by shows the truck is parked near his unit.”
He turns back to the whiteboard. “Under normal circumstances, we’d have done some run-throughs with a mock-up of the motel.” He looks out at the group. “But we don’t have the time. And this isn’t normal.”
All around me, I see folks shifting in their chairs. Nervous, but itching for action. I know the feeling.
Mahoney points to the schematic of the motel. “The Virginia State Police tactical team will set up blocking units here in the wooded area behind the motel as well as in the wooded area to the south of the parking lot and in this abandoned gas station and convenience store on the north side.”
He then points to an area in front of room 14. “HRT Alpha will be the breaching force. Once they gain entry, other HRTs will sweep in and provide support.”
Mahoney checks his watch. “We execute at eleven hundred hours. Keep in mind, this guy is former Special Forces. He knows how to fight and how to resist. He’s got the tactical skills to pull off two urban bombings and evade detection. But his head might be scrambled.”
Mahoney puts down his pen and steps forward. “Let me make this clear: I want this guy alive. Wounded, bruised, bleeding, I don’t care. But alive. It’s very possible that he did not act alone, and we need to learn from him who his coconspirators are. Understood?”
Murmurs of assent from the team. Here and there a shouted “Yes, sir!” and “Roger that!”
Mahoney wraps it up. “Let me say again, as tempting as it might be, donotsmoke the son of a bitch.”
I’m glad to hear the point emphasized. Because I want Aiden Phillips to survive long enough to be questioned, and when he is, I intend to be the first in line.
CHAPTER 48
TOM PETTY GOT IT right. The waiting is the hardest part.
Rizzo and I are crammed together with Mahoney and two FBI technicians in the rear of a van kitted out with communications gear, computers, and video screens. Behind the wheel in front is an FBI agent with a beard and long hair. He’s wearing a tattered baseball cap, dirty jeans, and a sweatshirt.
From the outside, the van isn’t much to look at. Faded blue paint, rusted body, bald tires, tinted windows. Stick-on letters saySTEVE’S LANDSCAPINGwith a fake local phone number. We’re parked on the side of Route 40 about half a mile from the Sunset Shores Motel.
Inside, we sit on metal stools staring at two of the video screens. One screen displays the feed from a video camera hidden in the woods on the south end of the parking lot, giving us a good view of the building and room 14. Aiden Phillips’s room.
The second feed is coming from a stealth drone overhead; it shows an external view of the motel and an infrared image of the room’s interior.
“He’s there,” mutters Rizzo, pointing at the screen on the left.
I nod. “Sure looks like it.”
The infra shows a glowing red image right where the motel bed likely is.
The Ford pickup is still sitting in front of the unit. Unlike every other vehicle in the parking lot, it’s backed in, facing the highway.
I tap the screen. “See that? He’s positioned for a quick escape.”
Mahoney picks up a handheld radio. “All teams, this is Alpha. Maintain radio silence. Drone is showing a heat source coming from the room’s interior, left side. No motion. Target could be sleeping.”
A digital clock over the screens counts down.
Three minutes to go.
I’m suddenly feeling very claustrophobic. I don’t like being safe and secure in the rear of a van. I want to be with the entry team.
But that’s not my job today.
My job is to observe and investigate. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Two minutes to go.
