The Last Patriot

More than likely, Dodd was renting something under a false name they didn’t know of, which made it all but impossible to trace him.

Or so they had thought.

It was Stephanie Whitcomb who had suggested they dredge the credit bureaus and Web-based tenant screening services. If Dodd was renting, unless he was living in an absolute fleabag, his landlord would have run a background check on him.

Their search resulted in three hits in the Baltimore area. Two belonged to a pair of female roommates who were interns at the Foundation on American Islamic Relations and the third was a man named Ibrahim Reynolds who listed the Um al-Qura Mosque in Falls Church, Virginia, as his employer.

A little further digging revealed that the original Ibrahim Reynolds, whose name and social security number were bogusly listed on the rental application, had died at two months old in San Diego, California. It was the break they had been looking for.

And as a reward, Ozbek had decided to let Whitcomb come along when they hit Dodd’s apartment even though Rasmussen had been dead set against involving her.

Had Ozbek been able to see what was coming, he would have agreed.

CHAPTER 51

As far as any of them knew, Matthew Dodd was still in Paris. At least he had been as of the shooting the previous day. Nevertheless, they weren’t taking any chances.

Just before 4 a.m., Ozbek pulled his black GMC Denali over to the sidewalk and dropped off Whitcomb. Once she was out, he pulled away and headed west.

The apartment they believed belonged to Dodd was in the southeast part of Baltimore just north of the Fells Point Area. And though they all thought it, none of them commented on the irony of the neighborhood being known as Butchers Hill.

Since it was assumed an attractive young woman would be less suspicious, Whitcomb was given the job of surveilling as much of the area as possible before Ozbek and Rasmussen went into the apartment.

They picked a spot at the top of the street where she could have an unobstructed view of his apartment, yet would be concealed if anyone looked out the window in her direction. She was using Ozbek’s own thermal imaging system, which despite being an early generation, would still allow her to “see” through several inches of concrete.

Her encrypted Motorola radio was outfitted with a bone mike that she inserted in her right ear. They looked like the earpieces newscasters or Secret Service agents wore and were much less obvious than throat mikes.

The radio was activated by a small transmitter button that Whitcomb wore around her left index finger and which she had covered with a Band-Aid. This would be a totally silent operation. Similar to a SWAT team entry, communication would be facilitated by clicks from the transmitter button.

While Whitcomb got into place, Ozbek and Rasmussen waited in the Denali a block away. Rasmussen thought about raising his objection to bringing Stephanie along again, but decided to let it go. Ozbek was the boss, and he wasn’t going to change his mind. Oz had explained to Whitcomb that what they were doing was off the books and technically against the rules, but she’d agreed to come along anyway. She was not only an action junkie, she was a big girl and could make up her own mind as to what she did and didn’t want to do.

Nevertheless, Rasmussen wasn’t exactly thrilled to be part of an ever-widening band of lawbreakers from the CIA. The Agency had had enough trouble with its image of late. It didn’t matter that what they did, they did for the greater good. The press and a majority of the morons in Congress were constantly busy tearing them new assholes and painting them as monsters.

Rasmussen’s thoughts were interrupted when Whitcomb clicked that she was in place and that the apartment and the street were all clear.

Unable to find a parking spot anywhere, Ozbek positioned his Denali in front of a hydrant and cut the engine. He and Rasmussen hopped out, and casually made their way toward the three-story brick building.

Half a block before they got to the entrance, they turned right and headed into an alley.

At the rear entrance of the building, Ozbek removed a lock pick gun while Rasmussen unholstered his.45 caliber HK USP tactical pistol and affixed its suppressor.

It took Ozbek less than a minute to open the door at which point he removed his Beretta 92 FS, attached its suppressor as well, and stepped inside.

The apartment believed to be Dodd’s was on the top floor facing the street. Ozbek signaled Rasmussen, who headed into the main hallway toward the front stairs.

Ozbek counted to ten and then crept up the moldy back stairwell.

As he neared the third story, he depressed his own transmit button for a final sit rep from Whitcomb.

She toggled back the all clear just as a gloved hand dropped in front of her face and clamped down across her mouth.

CHAPTER 52

Dodd sank the straight razor in deep and drew it in one fluid slash across the woman’s throat, severing both her carotid arteries and her windpipe.

Quickly, he disco

As the woman bled to death, the assassin lowered her body to the ground and stripped off her shirt to get to her bulletproof vest. It wouldn’t be a perfect fit, but it was better than nothing.

She carried a Glock 19, a sound suppressor, and two additional mags, but no identification whatsoever. Though Dodd couldn’t be certain, he felt confident that she was CIA. The only question was how many others had she come with?

After putting on her bloodstained vest, Dodd clipped the woman’s radio to his belt, inserted the earpiece, and wrapped the transmit button around his own left index finger.

As he zipped up his jacket, he studied the thermal imaging device. It was a nice piece of equipment, expensive. Whoever this woman was, Dodd was now even more convinced that she was CIA. The only reason you didn’t carry ID was if you were working undercover and nobody but CIA would be working undercover with gear like this. This kind of device screamed high-end law enforcement or intelligence operation.

Dodd raised it to his eyes and studied his apartment. He counted two heat signatures inside. Slowly, he sca

Three people was an odd number to be traveling with, even for the CIA. If it hadn’t been for the illegally parked vehicle he’d seen when coming back from the airport, he might never have noticed the woman surveilling his apartment.

Dodd knew most of the cars in his neighborhood, which made the ones that didn’t belong there stand out even more. The black Denali had Virginia license plates and had been parked in front of a hydrant. Everyone on Butchers Hill knew how tough it was to find parking, they also knew how merciless the police were in ticketing and towing. Whoever owned that vehicle was obviously a newcomer to the neighborhood or in a big hurry.

What also had caught Dodd’s attention was that a light rain had fallen at some point during the evening. All the cars had dry spots underneath except for the Denali, which meant that it had been recently parked. Holding his hand above the warm hood was the only confirmation he needed.

The assassin retrieved the long straight razor he carried in his shaving kit. It didn’t take him long to find and dispose of the spotter. Now it was time to eliminate whoever was inside his apartment.

Certain that his adversary felt that they had the outside covered, Dodd crossed the street and headed for his front door. Tucking the imaging device under his arm, he screwed the suppressor onto the Glock and slid the spare magazines into his waistband so he could get at them quickly if he needed to.