“I still need to pay a visit to our girl’s husband,” Burke said. “That’s if the FBI hasn’t contacted him or let her do it. I’d assumed she’s been interviewed by now.”
“Can you check on the status of the four we turned over, Circles?” Wilson asked.
Hotel
The sun was just cresting the horizon when the Shepherd Security Team walked out of the motel in Shawano that they’d checked into at zero one-thirty. The Black Hawk had taken off shortly after midnight, after a clusterfuck of who gets to keep the M-4s played out for several hours. FBI and ATF, as well as the military, were on site, all three insisting the weapons were theirs.
The men from Shepherd Security sat back while it was fought out in Washington.
In the end, the military took the crate of M-4s with them and the cache of stolen military ammo that had been in cartons marked MREs. ATF confiscated all other firearms and ammo that had no military markings. The FBI took custody of everything else at the scene, including three computers in the warehouse and the records in them. Smith had already combed through the one inthe office and turned the files identified by Stacy Ramsey over to them.
The FBI had already started to round up the militia members who were identified by the computer files, including scooping up Guy Passaglia at his own house. He was packing a duffel bag when they busted in at twenty-two hundred. Burke would have thought he would have been long gone by then.
Stacy Ramsey’s husband, Peter, had been notified of Stacy’s detainment by the FBI earlier in the evening, and he turned himself into the local Sheriff per the FBI’s direction. It was unlikely he, or any of the preppers who were not involved in the militia, would face any charges.
FBI agents and State Police also visited the home of Mark Ellison in Minneapolis and failed to acquire him there. A judge had signed a warrant, and an APB was out for him.
The team piled into their vehicle for the drive south and back to HQ. They got about five hours of sleep. Wilson sent a text to Ops to advise of their departure. His phone rang before he’d even shifted to drive. It was Shepherd.
“Good morning. We’re just getting ready to leave the motel, Shep,” Wilson said upon answering his phone.
“Put me on speaker so the entire team can hear,” Shepherd said.
“On speaker,” Wilson acknowledged.
“Good job yesterday, team. The FBI and ATF both extend their thanks. Many arrests have been made. I’ve agreed to send you on a side trip to help out the FBI, given you’re still in the area. Mark Ellison has not been located. His son gave up several locations where his father might be hiding. One is roughly on your way back, a slight detour. There’s a campground near the Wisconsin Dells that is mostly abandoned this time of year. Ellison says his unit’s done training there. I’ll send the coordinates to your phones, and the Digital Team has put together a file on Mark Ellison. They’ll push that through to you as well as info on the campground. Proceed with caution. Mark Ellison is always armed, and his son doesn’t think he will go down without a fight. Make sure you’re all wearing your vests and call into Ops prior to your arrival onsite.”
“Roger that, Shep,” Jackson acknowledged.
“Good hunting,” Shepherd said. “Any questions?”
The five men exchanged glances.
“No, sir,” Wilson said.
“Shepherd out,” he said, and then terminated the call.
Everyone’s phones chimed with a new message, the coordinates of the campground from Ops. “I’ll plot our course,” Jackson volunteered. He sat in the front passenger seat.
“The Digital Team just sent the file,” Burke said, opening his email. Mark Ellison’s photo was at the top of the file. “So, thisis the piece of shit that paid Valerie Butler’s father in drugs to repeatedly rape his fourteen-year-old daughter and then became a self-proclaimed militia leader who’s nothing more than a domestic terrorist.”
“He looks the part,” Tessman agreed. He too had his phone up to his face. “A military wannabe that didn’t have the stones to serve.”
“Let’s not forget this group has conducted hours of training. We’re going into territory he’s familiar with, and he’s probably heavily armed. Don’t underestimate him,” Wilson said.
“Looks like it will be about a two-hour drive to get there,” Jackson said.
“Memorize every detail in those files,” Wilson said. “And someone read me in as I drive.”
***
The thermometer was stuck at twenty-eight degrees when they reached their destination, Devlin Camp. The faded wooden sign pointed to the gravel driveway that wound its way through the leafless forest at the turnoff from the highway.
Wilson stopped the car after he’d turned into the driveway of the one hundred seventy-acre heavily wooded, rectangular-shaped property. They had stopped up the road, and all donned their bulletproof vests. This time, they adhered the three letter agency designations of the credentials they carried. They’d also grabbedrifles and extra magazines of ammo, and they inserted their comms.
Jackson called into Ops to advise that they were onsite. “We’re going to launch the drone. Though I’m sure there’ll be many false-positive human-sized heat signatures with all the wildlife in the area,” he said. “Taco will fly the drone, and the rest of us will confront the heat signatures.”
“Roger that, Jax,” Yvette replied. “I’ll be watching from here as well. Xena is due in any minute and no other teams are scheduled to be engaged. We’ve got your back.”
