"Maybe," Kessler said, pulling out his phone. "But I don't like loose ends. I'm going to run a deep background on him, beyond the state level. Let's make sure this guy doesn't have an uncle who's a federal judge or some crap."
Kessler logged into the National Crime Information Center (NCIC) database through his secure mobile terminal. He typed in Edmund Hayes's name, date of birth, and social security number, expecting to see the usual array of minor traffic tickets or a completely blank slate.
The screen loaded for five seconds, ten seconds. Then the background of the application turned completely red. A heavy, bold text box appeared in the center of the screen:
RESTRICTED FILE. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE CLEARANCE TIER ONE REQUIRED. THIS INQUIRY HAS BEEN LOGGED. CEASE IMMEDIATELY.
Kessler felt the blood drain from his face. The cigar almost slipped from his fingers. "Garrett," he whispered.
Riggins looked up, annoyed. "What?"
Kessler turned the phone around. "State PD doesn't get DOD blocks. The FBI gets DOD blocks. What the hell did we just rob?"
While Kessler was staring at the red screen of death on his phone, Edmund Hayes was sitting in total darkness in his living room, the glow of a heavily encrypted, ruggedized laptop illuminating his face.
Edmund wasn't just a mechanic. Twenty years ago, he was a Tier 1 operator for the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, commonly known as Delta Force or Combat Applications Group (CAG). But Edmund wasn't just a door kicker; for the last six years of his military career, he was a commander within JSOC (Joint Special Operations Command), specializing in irregular warfare, intelligence gathering, and psychological operations. He had dismantled terror cells from the inside out in places that didn't exist on standard maps. He knew how to destroy a man's life without ever touching him.
Edmund didn't dial the local police internal affairs department. He dialed a satellite relay number that routed through three different countries before ringing in a secure bunker in Fort Liberty, North Carolina.
The line clicked. "Talk to me," a gruff voice answered. It was Cole, Edmund's former intelligence chief, who now worked as a senior civilian contractor for the Department of Defense.
"Cole, it's Art."