on their own accord with no force or struggle involved.
Chapter 6
FBI Special Agent Norman Rigler parked on the narrow gravel road in the Virginia countryside, lights out. Night hung like a heavy black curtain blowing in the wind, an occasional flash of lightning momentarily framing the old tin-roofed farm house in the valley below. Rigler knew the house was deserted, property foreclosed. The perfect site for a bogus hit-and-run operation by agents of the task force. That's what Rigler's superior had asked for, a lure, a United States senator the supposed target. Only one other agent was called in for the assault.
Rigler lit a cigarette, took a drag and looked at his watch. Almost midnight. A moment later, car lights appeared in his rear view mirror. Agent James Craddock was on time. Rigler liked Craddock, his passion for intelligence work, how he often charted his own aggressive course in an investigation. Both in their early forties and single, they regularly jogged together, played macho studs in D.C.'s watering holes, and for a time dated twin sisters.
But in recent weeks Craddock had turned sour, wasn't the same man. Obviously angry, he expressed misgivings about the unit's mission, distanced himself from other agents. He was now considered a liability by the head of the task force.
The gray Ford pulled up behind. Rigler got out of his car, waved, and eased into the passenger seat beside his friend. "Hell of a night, and the temperature’s dropping.
Craddock asked, "Where are the others?"
"I thought we could handle this ourselves."
"Are you sure Senator Obrey and his wife are in the house?"
Rigler removed his gloves. "My question earlier. I slipped down there and checked. Not a sign of life." He sighed. "The intel was faulty."
Craddock gripped the steering wheel, spoke softly. "As usual." He turned to look at Rigler. "Norman, why'd you pick me for tonight? You know how I feel about this stupid crusade. It's--"
"Jimmy, relax. I called because I wanted you personally involved, to get you back in sync with the mission. The twelve we're after are evil--against everything we believe in--and if our country is to survive, they've got to be terminated."
"Jesus! These are top government officials, elected and appointed, and there's not an ounce of proof they're not who they say they are. I can't believe you bought into this ridiculous fantasy." He shook his head. "I want out."
Rigler put his hand on Craddock's shoulder. "Jimmy, we took an oath, signed on to be a part of Task Force Zero until the entire group was eliminated." He paused. "We knew the consequences if we backed out."
Craddock forced a laugh. "Come on, Norman, this is America. We work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, not a terrorist militia in some downtrodden country. Consequences? I can't see agents popping agents because of the insanity of one man."
Rigler pulled away, lit a cigarette. "Why did you agree to be a part of the team?"
Craddock lowered the window, fanned the smoke away. "I got caught up in the excitement of a possible real conspiracy like the one in Seven Days in May, but this time it wasn't the military supposedly attempting a coup. We were dealing, so I thought, with traitors in the inner circle, and like you, I was gung ho to protect my country. Later I realized this was a crazy out-of-the-loop operation orchestrated by a mother-dominated fanatic. That's when I confided in you, thinking we could get out together and squash this thing." He shifted in his seat. "Have you told anyone about our conversation?"
Rigler lied. "No, no one. How about you? Any talk outside our group?"
Craddock hesitated. "Not yet."
"Okay, it's just between us. And to be honest, the reason I asked you to meet me tonight was to talk some sense into you." He glanced out the window. "But I guess you're not going to change your mind."
Craddock rubbed a hand over his face. "This was all a set-up, wasn't it? Make me see things differently or take me out. Thank God we're friends."
Rigler removed the weapon from his shoulder holster. "You're right on all counts. I'm sorry, but orders are orders."
Craddock watched the squeeze of the trigger. The bullet pierced his head above the right eye, tore through bone and brain and out the open window.
The agent returned to his car, flashed the headlights three times. A black SUV with the clean-up crew moved up the hill from the farm house below.
Chapter 7
At WTCX-TV Channel Eleven in the nation's capital, Keri, given name Kerianne Winslow, stared somberly into the camera as the floor manager said, "Clear, good show."
In a late bulletin at the close of the six p.m. news, she had reported on a four car accident on Highway 1 that left two people dead. With the cut to the commercial, her expression remained serious. Turning to her co-anchor, Chance Patton, she said, "If you've got a few minutes, I'll buy you a drink across the street."
He smiled. "What's the occasion?"
She removed the clip-on mike from her navy single-button suit, her voice low. "I got a tip before we went on the air that might add something to the missing VIP scuttlebutt."
The smile faded. "That's all it is, Keri, pure speculation, nothing verified. I'd rather not play the rumor game."
"I may have something new, only a drink's worth though. I'll meet you outside." They went to their respective offices to pick up coats. Chance was waiting for her at the side door, and held her arm down the sidewalk and across the slushy street.
Keri was tall and slender with shoulder length honey-blond hair and dark blue eyes. Stocky, preppie Chance with contrasting dark hair and eyes, was a pretty boy with a well-modulated radio voice. Keri had heard his real name was Cecil but never asked him about it. She was in her early thirties, Chance ten years older. They had worked well as the early evening anchor team for the past year. Neither were married. The brief conversation from station to bar was on the early snow and Mark Games' "it's only going to get worse" weather report.
Finding two stools by the door in the sparsely crowded bar, they ordered a draft beer. "And fill up the peanut bowl," Keri said as she slipped out of her all-weather coat and folded it on her lap. Chance kept his on. "Now what's this about a hot tip?"
She leaned close. "The first we heard about the disappearances was in the newsroom a few days ago when something came in on the wire about Merriam Livingston-Vance, our UN Ambassador. Right?"
Chance rolled his eyes. "Another example of someone getting carried away, pardon the pun. The report said she was missing and the authorities had been called in. Then later a correction came through, said she and her husband had quietly left town for a well-earned rest in New Hampshire, that the wire service should have checked it out before stirring things up."
The drinks delivered, Keri popped a peanut in her mouth. "Yeah, but it makes you wonder why there was such an initial hullabaloo for something that could be explained away so easily." She held up her beer. "Here's to finding out why."
They clinked their glasses and took a sip, Chance adding, "And to professional reporting."
Keri continued. "And yesterday we hear a couple of the guys talking about Senator Obrey and Justice Ellenberg. Seems someone
