The REM Precept Page 2

  “Well, the last six months have been kind of a blur, buddy. But things have been slowly coming back to me a little at a time.”

  “Let’s just start with the basics.”

  “The basics. All right. Well, the first thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed wrapped from head to toe in casts and bandages and everything else you could slap on a half-dead fella. Nurses and doctors tried explaining to me that I’d been hit by a car, but I couldn’t remember a thing. Hell, they had me on so many pain meds I didn’t know which way was up, much less my own name.”

  “Sounds like textbook amnesia,” Paul said. “How long did it last?”

  “’Bout two months. And that was after I’d been unconscious for three. Drug-induced coma—that’s what they told me, anyway. Said it was for my own good, and I believe it.”

  “You getting around okay?”

  “Got a helluva limp now,” Alex sighed, “along with a bit of a pill habit I’ll have to kick one of these days. But other than that, I can’t complain too much. What about you? You been doing okay?”

  It hadn’t occurred to Paul until just then that Alex was completely unaware of the Asteria-slash-CIA conspiracy. Up to this point, his only encounter with the pharmaceutical company had been as a participant in a clinical trial. But he had warned Paul about the CIA paying a visit to Dawa Graham’s ...

  “I’m fine, Alex. But I need to know how much you know about what’s going on. And how in the hell did you know to call Graham’s house phone to warn us of any danger?”

  “Graham told me to.”

  Baffled, “Come again?”

  “Graham told me to. Came to me in the hospital just before I was discharged and explained the whole thing. Who hit me with the car, Tanner’s goons, the Skyline operation ... the works. Before he left he wrote down his number with a date and time to call on the back of a business card. Made me promise to memorize everything and follow his instructions, then destroy the card. It was weird as shit, man, but he said it was a matter of life and death, and I didn’t want any kinda bad luck rubbin’ off on me, so I promised him that I’d do what he told me.”

  Paul was speechless. None of this made any sense. Dawa had been with him for the last week prior to his disappearance in the mountains surrounding the Skyline facility in Virginia, and not once had he mentioned anything about Alex’s survival. Why would the man keep something like that from him? Why wouldn’t he tell him his brother was alive? And how could Graham have predicted exactly when the rest of the outliers would arrive back at the monastery?

  The car drifted just enough over the white line to elicit a nudge from Claire, but Paul continued to be distracted by the barrage of questions whirling around in his head as he righted the car. “This just can’t be possible. Dawa has been with us for the last week.” He glanced over his shoulder and asked Donny, “Did you know anything about this?”

  Defensively, Donny put both hands up. “First I’m hearing about it. Swear to God.”

  Paul returned to the phone. “When were you discharged, Alex?”

  “Five days ago, I think. Maybe six. These pills they’ve got me on have a tendency to make my days run together.”

  Paul thought on it. Five days … about the time we were making the drive back to Georgia from the Pacific Northwest. If that were the case, it was all too possible that Graham could have paid Alex a visit in the hospital prior to Paul’s arrival. But that still didn’t explain the clairvoyant instructions.

  Paul asked, “And you’re sure it was Graham?”

  “Like I said, brother. I’ve been pilled up for a minute now. But if you’re talking about a pudgy Atlanta detective with a weird first name plastered all over a tacky white business card, then yeah, it was definitely him. Shit, man, the phone call with the warning should be proof enough. Am I right or am I right?”

  Paul ignored the rhetoric. “Where are you at now?”

  “North Georgia. Spring Hill. You remember it?”

  “How could I forget? Dad used to take us fishing up there all the time. What are you doing there?”

  Alex hesitated, then said, “Look, I can’t really get into it now. The important thing is that you’re safe, your family is safe …

  Paul drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and debated whether he should tell Alex that Michelle had taken off. But time was short, and they needed to get off the phones.

  “We need to meet,” Paul said. “You remember that place Dad used to take us after a weekend of fishing? Don’t say it—just tell me if you remember.”

  “I remember.”

  “We can be there in two hours.”

  “Works for me.”

  The diner Paul was referring to was well north of Atlanta in a little town called Spring Hill, and was the perfect place to lay low for a while. If they could evade the authorities for just a couple more hours, they could ditch the car, reconnect with Alex, and work on a plan to get everyone safely out of this mess.

  It would also be a safe place for Michelle and Aaron to stay once Paul reconnected with them. He said his goodbyes to Alex, then reached in his pocket for the number Michelle had scribbled on her Dear John letter.

  Only, the letter wasn’t there.

  Are you fucking kidding me? Panicked, Paul turned to Claire. “Did you happen to grab Michelle’s number off the floor back at the monastery?”

  Blankly, “You mean you didn’t?”

  “Holy shit,” Paul said. “This is bad. So fucking bad. Alex said the CIA’d be there at the monastery any minute. We have to turn around. We have to go back—”

  “There’s no way we’re going back,” Claire said. A pair of affirmatives from Donny and Fenton joined in from the back seat.

  Paul said, “You don’t seriously expect me to let the CIA find the number to Michelle’s burner phone, do you? They’ll have her picked up by nightfall! No way I’m letting that happen.”

  “I know you’re upset,” Claire said. “But you’re not thinking this through. If what Alex said is right then they’re already at the monastery, and they’ve already got her number. It’s too big a risk, Paul. I’m sorry, but we can’t go back.”

  “She’s right,” Fenton said. “I mean, I don’t have a freakin’ clue what to make of this whole Graham-Alex connection, but I believe your brother. He knows something and it’d be stupid not to listen to him.”

  Donny said, “Not to mention the fact that Graham got picked up by the spooks. From the sound of it, we’re lucky we didn’t get nabbed the moment we pulled up in the driveway.”

  Paul was furious. He slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel, screaming epithets and cursing himself. How could I be so stupid? Taking the time to destroy Dawa’s phone, but leaving my wife’s number on the floor? The scene that unfolded at the monastery had been hectic and panicked, with zero time to tidy up before the feds arrived.

  But that didn’t matter to Paul. If something happened to Michelle and Aaron, he’d never be able to forgive himself. He resolved to stay the course, his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel evidence of how difficult the decision was to make. He tried to refocus his energy on moving forward, and the sooner they got to Spring Hill, the sooner they could start working on a new plan.

  A plan that included getting Michelle and Aaron back safely.

  A plan that would lead them to Dawa Graham.

  A plan that would finally end the Ocula conspiracy once and for all.

  Chapter 2:

  Coercion

  Dawa Graham looked around the brightly lit room he’d been sitting in for the last seventy-two hours and marveled at the irony of the situation. Over the course of a ten-year career in law enforcement he’d been in countless interrogation rooms, first wetting his beak by escorting suspects and persons-of-interest to and from their respective seats on the wrong side of the table. Once he made Detective First Grade, his interrogation room credentials had expanded to a more proactive role, like grilling suspects and sweating out confess
ions.

  But that was before Donny Ford had walked back into his life begging for help; before Graham was swiftly pulled into the Ocula conspiracy; before Central Intelligence had politely escorted him from his sedan parked on the shoulder of a two-lane in Shenandoah National Park to his new digs at a CIA-funded facility two thousand feet below a mountain.

  Now, the prematurely graying and slightly overweight thirty-eight-year-old detective was the one in the hot seat.

  The door swung open and the fluorescent lights flickered as a man carrying a single file folder walked in: Roberto Ramírez. Dawa immediately recognized him from Fenton’s stack of illegally obtained photos and files. Dawa sat with his hands clasped and resting on the table in front of him as Ramírez shut the door behind him.

  “Comfortable?” he asked.

  “As comfortable as I can be in such a situation. But it has been three days without a single charge”—he opened his unrestrained hands, palms up—“so, are you going to handcuff me or not?”

  “Like I said before, Mr. Graham. You’re not under arrest.”

  “I am free to go then?”

  Roberto gave a lopsided grin and spun a chair around, taking a seat in front of Dawa. “Come on, Graham. You of all people should know how this routine goes. The sooner you talk, the sooner you’ll be released.”

  “I’ve already told you everything I know. I do not know what else to say.”

  “And what have you told us, Mr. Graham? That you were in Shenandoah National Park for a solo vacation? That you were parked on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, minding your own business when our operatives snatched you up like the Gestapo? That you have no idea who these so-called outliers are? Is that the narrative you’re sticking with?”

  “Until my lawyer is present that is all I have to say.”

  Roberto shook his head. “You were found a mile away from a CIA black site that just so happened to come under attack moments before you were picked up, jefe. Your current detainment is a matter of national security, and your refusal to cooperate puts your rights at the bottom of the agency’s list. I hate to break it to you, Graham, but you’re not getting a lawyer.”

  “This is illegal.”

  “Perhaps. But this is also how the system was designed to work. You of all people should know that when it comes to national security, all bets are off. Plus, your buddy Tsomo is, how does the saying go? Singing like a canary?”

  “If that were true, you would not be here, talking to me.”

  A staring contest ensued between the two men, Dawa calm and stoic as Roberto’s fierce eyes tried to silently force some type of a confession or at the very least provide some intel or insight he could work with. But one look into Dawa’s eyes and it didn’t take long for Roberto to realize that that wasn’t happening. Finally, he looked away and sighed, frustrated that Dawa had called his bluff.

  “The code of silence isn’t going to work here, Detective. This is the CIA you’re dealing with.” Roberto leaned forward and slid the file to Dawa. “I’m going to leave now, and I really, really want you to consider what we discussed earlier. What’s inside that file is a good deal, Graham.”

  “It’s a nonstarter.”

  “Well,” Roberto said, standing, “It’s the best one you’re going to get. If I were you, I’d take it.” Then he left.

  ***

  Back at Langley on a Tuesday afternoon, CIA Director Margaret Lancaster sat behind her black, high-gloss desk and listened to Stephen Cline explain the situation that had unfolded at the agency’s secret stateside facility nestled in the hills deep inside Shenandoah National Park. The mismanagement of Project THEIA had led to more problems than it was intended to solve, due in part to a surprise attack by a ragtag group of Ocula outliers that had threatened the very existence of the longstanding intelligence agency. And to the director’s dismay, there were new variables she would soon be forced to deal with, starting with the Atlanta PD detective being held under questionable circumstances at a CIA black site. Were the director’s salty and off-the-record language applied to the current situation, it would be deemed a certifiable clusterfuck.

  Lancaster sat across from Cline and twirled her pen. “It’s been three days since Dawa Graham was taken into custody. Is there any progress being made?”

  “Ramírez presented him with a deal this morning, but so far Graham’s playing the loyalist to the others. Hopefully he’ll realize how serious his circumstances are sooner rather than later and take it.”

  “I hope so, for his sake,” Lancaster said. “Aiding and abetting a known felon is not going to go over well with his superiors back in Atlanta.” She leaned forward and asked, “Do we even know what the connection between Graham and Donny Ford is in the first place?”

  “According to Tsomo Coleman, they were friends going back some ten years before the two had some sort of falling out. Fast-forward to last February, and Ford shows up on Graham’s doorstep out of the clear blue, asking for help.”

  “And this was coming from the man who was picked up at the monastery, one of Graham’s old students?”

  Cline nodded in the affirmative.

  “Do we know how long Graham was helping Ford?”

  “At least six months, maybe longer. Coleman’s testimony aside, our field agents at the monastery found traces of Ford all over the place. Fingerprints were everywhere. Phone records didn’t link the two prior to six months ago, but a litany of calls to Alejandro Aguilar’s residence in San José, Costa Rica, took place on a weekly basis beginning last winter. I think it’s safe to say that marks the approximate time frame when Graham’s involvement with Donny Ford and the rest of the outliers began.”

  “Makes sense,” Lancaster said as she rocked her pen in her hand. “What about the other phone call … You’re certain it’s Alex Freeman?”

  “Voice recognition has it at a 97.9 percent match. We’re certain it’s him. The real mystery is where he’s been hiding for the last six months.”

  “I was afraid of that particular loose end coming back to bite us in the ass the moment I read Kovic’s report. Someone obviously picked up Freeman before Tanner’s men had time to double back.” She ground her teeth, her intolerance for uncertainty beginning to show. “What about the others?”

  “Unfortunately, Freeman must’ve ditched his phone, but we were able to pull the conversation from the NSA database. They were smart enough not to mention too many specifics, but the younger Freeman slipped up. Now we have reason to believe they’re in Spring Hill, Georgia. Heard of the place?”

  Lancaster shook her head no.

  “It’s a sleepy little town on the Georgia-Tennessee border. Quiet. Rural. Perfect place to try and lay low for a while.”

  “Do we have boots on the ground?”

  “Kovic’s on it. He got down there early this morning.”

  “And you’re sure this isn’t just some excuse for him to go fly-fishing?”

  Cline pulled a grainy photo from a folder and slid it across the table. Lancaster leaned forward. “Is this what I think it is?”

  It was. The director scrutinized the screenshot taken from a security camera. The gang was all there. Connor. Ford. Reed. The Freeman brothers. All packed into a retro booth in a roadside diner somewhere in the Appalachians, scarfing down breakfast and sipping coffee and chattering away as if they were meeting to discuss some grand business plan. Of course, Lancaster knew better.

  “Kovic nabbed it from Ruth’s Diner the moment he got there,” Cline said. “We have Frank Freeman’s credit card history to thank for that one. Apparently, that’s the childhood pit stop Paul was referring to during his phone conversation with Alex.”

  Lancaster slid the photo back to Cline. “The time stamp’s almost a day old. I’m not sure how confident we can be they’re still in town.”

  “Kovic thinks the group has no reason to believe we’re onto them, and I’d have to agree. Not to mention the fact that their plans at Skyline were shot to shit, s
o they’ll likely want to hole up for a while. Regain their composure, so to speak. They’ll come across our radar sooner or later, unless they fall completely off-the-grid.”

  “With Michelle Freeman in custody that’s highly unlikely. Where are we at on that?”

  “Local authorities in Murphy, Tennessee, picked Mrs. Freeman up this morning. I’ve got agents on the way now to bring her to Langley. The child, too. At this point, I think they’re more valuable together. And we don’t want to risk losing a potential bargaining chip by separating Michelle and her kid.”

  That was something Lancaster could agree with. Before locating the Freeman family, Dawa Graham had been the CIA’s only bargaining chip. And judging by his history with Ford, determining whether or not Ford would come to his aid or leave him high and dry was a coin flip.

  But Michelle Freeman and her son Aaron? Those were two people who had some serious clout with Paul Freeman. And that was something the director could work with once they located the outliers. In the meantime, there was plenty more to worry about on the outskirts of rural Virginia. She switched gears, leaned back in her chair, and asked Cline, “Are tracks being covered at Skyline?”

  “Yes, of course. The controlled-burn contingency at Shenandoah National Park began shortly after Connor escaped. Fires have formed a solid perimeter around Skyline, with the Forest Service working to keep everything contained. Naturally, the park’s currently off-limits.”

  “Should give us plenty of time to do what we need to before shuttering the operation for good.”

  The remark drew the slightest of scowls from Cline; a reaction that didn’t surprise the director in the least. She’d known the station chief’s stance on the Ocula program from the moment she’d taken office. Project THEIA was his baby; something Cline had once said “shouldn’t be tossed away like some rusty old pellet gun.” It was obvious he wasn’t completely on board, but as long as he followed orders without question, she really didn’t care.

  Cline continued, “The controlled burns should keep any of Connor’s nosy newsroom contacts from snooping around, at least for the time being.”