Deadrise (The Ben Blackshaw Series) by Robert Blake Whitehill

Author:Robert Blake Whitehill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gold, terrorist, pirate, chesapeake bay, hurricane, sniper, nuclear weapon, extremist, black ops, seal, radical islamist
Publisher: Robert Blake Whitehill

CHAPTER 33

Chalk felt surrounded by idiots, and beset by Senator Morgan’s spies and plotters. That meant he needed more intel. With no warm bodies at hand to play with, he lobbed in a call to get a situation report from Farron MacDonald. MacDonald was still running the B-Team’s operation. Maybe he still had Blackshaw’s pilot on life-support after the Wilkes-Barre firefight. By now the man must have talked. Chalk dialed.

“Redondo Surf Shop.” MacDonald still sounded bushed after the shoot-out. Not so glad to see his boss’s code name in the caller ID.

Chalk’s satellite phone was fancy, advanced, but not perpetually hack-proof. Nothing was.

“Everything coming up roses in Wilkes-Barre?”

MacDonald said, “More like pushing up daisies. The pilot? He, like totally bailed. No connecting flight.”

Blackshaw’s pilot was dead of his wounds. Chalk was enraged. “Damn! Damn! Damn! When?”

“Not twenty minutes back. Super sorry. Did everything possible.”

“I’m sure you did, Farron. Including shoot the son of a bitch full of holes in the first place. Did you get anything useful? An idea of Blackshaw’s plan? The bastard’s favorite color? Anything?”

MacDonald filled Chalk in. “So we pumped him full of adrenaline and epinephrine to wake him up one last time. I mean, the man got a sweet pharmaceutical-grade buzz at taxpayers’ expense. Some real Up in the Air Junior Birdman shit! Know what I mean?”

Chalk lost all patience. “I didn’t ask what you put into him. What did you get out?”

“That’s the thing. He just babbled. Nothing really useful.”

Chalk was slashing and burning his way through a decent swath of citizenry, and he was getting no useful information. He already had to deal with a conniving Senator who was losing her mind and might start blabbing about him any minute. Then the bloodbath in a Wilkes-Barre motel. It was all a tremendous liability and exposure for Right Way Moving & Storage. Clients breathing down his neck. Precious time wasted. Nothing shiny to show for it.

To be certain, Chalk asked, “You got nothing? What the fuck—Over.”

“Zilch. Nada, compadre.”

Chalk moved on. “How’s by Duncan?”

MacDonald got a smirk in his voice. “Duncan who?”

At least MacDonald had done something right. Handled the problem of their injured squaddie with dispatch.

Despite acute frustration, Chalk rallied and issued marching orders. “Get back to the airport. You’ve got your multi-engine and type ratings. You fly that pilot’s Casa to Frederick, Maryland. Keep outside the Washington Special Flight Rules Area. And keep your transponder off. No flight plan. Got me? Land there and hold. Nobody stands down. You get to Frederick, you and the boys sleep right on that damn plane. You piss in a bucket on that plane. You get hungry, you eat your own feces on that plane. Gobble-gobble. Wait for my orders. You copy that, troop?”

“Okay. But dude, look out the window. The hurricane system’s covering the whole east coast. It’s kinda below IMC minimums. Stormy and all.”

A drenched and chilled Chalk shouted over the wind. “I missed that, Farron! What did you say? You want me to jot down your fucking suicide note?”

MacDonald replied quickly.

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