We're going to liberate it
Eleven months go by before he can claim what's owed.
That encounter has become another memory, filed away for reference only when needed. He's kept quiet about it and the more time passes, the more it seems like a figment of his imagination after all. Work became the priority again as they found their lead in Spain, closed in on the suspects within a few weeks, packed the case up nice and neatly without too much public commotion.
He's become better at avoiding casualties that aren't already expected.
Since spring has rolled around, he's been back in the office for the longest stretch yet - a whole eight weeks without setting foot in the field.
He supposes it's been long overdue that he should deal with the paperwork from the previous year but honestly, everyone in the bureau knows that he's not at his best behind a desk. Talk about teaching someone patience, he is pretty sure this is not how it works.
When the file lands in front of him and the secretary simply shrugs at his question about the contents, he feels that thrill of anticipation return. A manila folder holds the likelihood of change.
He's been told there's a good chance the next time he receives an assignment, he'll be allowed to lead his own team. Seems like this could be it.
His gaze flies over the pages in quick assessment. Half a dozen photographs of white, middle-aged faces stare back at him. He follows the descriptions down the paper, noting various causes of death – poisoning, narcotics overdose, car accident, boating accident, disappearance on a hunting trip …
He flips through multiple times, trying to see a pattern. The only common denominator that stands out is that all the victims are wealthy, citizens of the United States, internationally mobile. And successful. These are names that show up in the news whenever there is talk of company conglomerates and global expansion. Men and women that are all top of the hierarchy in big firms.
He furrows his brow, trying to commit the names to memory. He'll have to dig deeper into this when he gets through the pile of reports. He thumbs through the last of the papers, pausing on the final page. There's a sticky note attached, the message in handwriting he hasn't seen since receiving full agent status.
It's unmistakably Hall's font that reads: Same symbol keeps getting found at the crime scenes, no known gang sign. Ideas by Friday.
He exhales audibly as the man's voice rings through his head. It's been a while since they had anything to do with each other but he can imagine just the tone he would use.
Almost certain he already knows what he's going to find, he removes the note to stare at the photograph beneath. Not exactly drawn in blood but the crumpled piece of paper doesn't take away from the macabre image of the corpse it's lying beside.
It resembles a symmetrical arrangement of overlapping circles, intersecting like a Venn diagram. The familiarity makes his face fall. He's seen it before, before he quit his sports career. Within the movement, a branch of Ozaki's followers created a symbol for their philosophy years ago.
Only he's never seen it used to mark a murder before. The care with which it's been drawn almost reminds him of calligraphy, like an artist's signature under a painting.
Four circles for the four elements to be honoured, the figure eight concealed but really in plain sight.
He doesn't want his mind to snap right back to Bodhi. There's truly no guarantee that the man is involved. He could have been reading too much into their conversation in Spain. It wouldn't be the man's style to leave a more than obvious hint like this, begging to be found.
Problem is, he knows that the athlete is not a peaceful warrior. From his view, human life becomes expendable in the name of the cause. He saw that at the goldmine, was convinced of it by the time the bank robbery happened. But cold-blooded assassinations?
Maybe that was the darkness he sensed in the Venezuelan, sitting across from one another in a nondescript street café. The man had already let go of everything once, lost all his followers over the course of the ordeals – no ties, no obligations, no fear of death.
No reason to not put himself on the line.
The motive still evades him though. What is being prevented by picking off these specific people? Or is it about sending a message? He flips back to the victims, noting the companies they were associated with.
Screw this, he needs to know if his instincts are leading him in the right direction – now. Shoving the day's worth of paperwork to the other side of the table, he turns on the computer. There's research to be done.
The pieces start coming together faster than he expects. The case ticks all the cliché boxes. Large-scale environmental destruction meets total lack of corporate social responsibility. All that counts is profit prioritization and the victims are the ones who pull the strings on decisions with terrible consequences.
Oil spills, deforestation, overfishing, chemical pollution, biodegradation, you name it.
It's the starting point he's been reaching for.
It takes another few days of seeking out and contacting various deep cover operatives to find leads on radical environmental groups that could be involved. He figures they must be based stateside, since most of the murders have occurred within national borders.
Eventually, there's a response that gives him something substantial.
Hall is less than pleased that this appears to originate from a similar source as the case a few years back. He mutters something about a damn cult following but he accepts Johnny's request to continue on the terms he sees fit.
They're dealing with ghosts who barely leave a trace, just like last time, only with less acrobatic stunts to show for it. There's no pretence here, it's all about the end goal. These killers are good.
He's glad that Bodhi's name doesn't get brought up in the conversation. It doesn't quell the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that he's going to come across the man in this investigation though. It's a huge risk for him to be on United States soil, even if he's still filed as a dead man.
He supposes that status makes underground environmentalists the best choice as allies.
Identifying potential next targets is simple enough but putting resources into increased security for all of these individuals makes it less likely to catch the culprits in action. He also can't go in like last time, he's still too recognizable after the first case.
These are also the kind of circles that take longer than a few days to be welcomed into. His contact has been in her role for almost two years now. He keeps connected, trying to glean as much from her sparse communication as possible.
When he finally gets a coded text message with a date and coordinates sent to him, he knows the window of opportunity has opened. It looks like they are targeting another big fish, co-owner and CEO of an international agrobusiness giant.
It's the address of one of the lake houses in the man's possession. It doesn't take long to confirm that he is spending an extended weekend there with his wife between two business trips. The best opportunity for a strike.
He has four days to assemble a team, get them up to speed and devise a game plan. The man has his own horde of security around himself and family at any time of day. It would make little sense to add more people with FBI badges to the mix. Securing the property perimeter is more relevant. He wants to know who comes in and goes out every moment of the day, starting now.
There's only so many ways a direct attack can be carried out smack in the middle of nowhere.
His bet is on firepower. A background check on the target's employees goes without question, seeing as they've previously been able to use pharmaceuticals and poisoning, but he's almost certain this will be the work of a sniper.
The group just doesn't have the means to blow up the entire place. It would require the placement of explosives somewhere between security thoroughly screening the place and the man's arrival. Far too high a risk of discovery.
If the lead is correct and it is in fact these guys who have been committing the crimes, they've been all about keeping things quiet, relying on infiltration and stealth.
The entire area is densely forested, which makes for ideal cover. The lake bordering the house could be either an advantage or massive inconvenience, depending on where they plan their escape route. It's possible the killer might make a getaway by water.
Johnny decides he needs to have that section covered with at least three people, one on-site, one as a lookout and another on the other shore.
The last option is for the attacker to get flown out but from what intel he's gotten, there isn't sufficient funding in that camp to get any kind of aerial support. Even obtaining weaponry is costly enough for a group that runs on donations and the largely unregistered jobs of its members.
Which leaves some vehicle or escape on foot as the most likely choices. With possible Ozaki followers involved here, he is trying to keep his mind open to anything and everything that would be conducive in that environment.
He has seven agents under his supervision for this, a mix of younger recruits and seasoned operatives. All of them will be in the field under his watch and he wants them in and out unnoticed. Unharmed too, obviously.
From where he's standing, surveying the location, layout and strategy they've drawn up on the wall, all angles are covered.
Their informant had better be on point, even if she can't provide more details on how many people are involved in this mission, for risk of blowing her own cover. For all he knows, she could be on site as well and he'll have to consider the possibility of her being endangered too.
But it's the best shot they have. Not just to prevent another murder. In an ideal world, he wants the perpetrator captured, taken out only if necessary. He could expose the mastermind behind the string of assassinations.
But of course, nothing goes according to plan.
He's taken the closest section along the edge of the forest, patrolling where he is still unseen from the house. It's the second day they're here after scouting the area yesterday before the target arrived. He's been here a full thirty-five hours now and absolutely nothing has happened.
It's twenty minutes past dusk now, the moon is already visible through the treetops.
Listening to his team's hushed commentary through the earpiece, he feels his skin starting to rise in goose bumps. It's close. The cover of darkness is what he's been expecting. He slowly uncurls from where he's kneeling, camouflaged in the undergrowth, to step into the treeline.
No sign of intruders. He murmurs the all-clear into the com after circling his marked area, coming up empty. He's almost at the embankment and takes a moment to stare out over the rippling body of water.
A wind has picked up since the afternoon, sending small waves across the surface. In the fast fading light, their tops are tinged gold from the lights in the house. His feet carry him further along the shore, aiming for a full circle before he comes back to his initial position.
It's sheer dumb luck that he sees the head rise from the shallows another hundred yards up. He instantly presses himself against the nearest tree, gun at the ready.
Another glance and he can tell it's not just one but three figures pulling themselves up onto dry land, shedding their wetsuits in quick, practiced motions. One of them carries a misshapen bag, looks like some kind of waterproof casing.
Under his breath, he whispers instructions to the agents closest to his position. With the size of the area, he estimates it will take them somewhere between five to seven minutes to rendezvous here. He's on his own for now.
It's getting more difficult to make out facial features in the settling dark but simply by stature, he can tell one of them is a woman. She's taking the case from the other figure, unzipping the contents with her back to him and passing around what seems to be bundles of clothes.
In the midst of their changing, he adjusts his bulletproof vest and double-checks the wiring under his jacket. He'll need his team to be aware of the fighting if this is going to turn ugly.
Then he moves in while he still has any element of surprise.
The third person catches sight of him fastest, leaping into action as soon as he registers the gun. He makes a grab for the bag, pulling the woman up by the arm in the same motion. As Johnny raises his weapon, the trio scatters into different directions, limiting his options.
His shot catches one of the men in the leg, bringing him down onto the forest floor just twenty yards onto the property. His aim fixes onto the woman next, who is already backtracking to snatch up the gear her partner dropped. This time, his shot goes haywire because instead of fleeing, the third individual has circled up behind him, slamming him to the ground.
He's arched backwards in a headlock before he can throw an elbow into the attacker's ribs. The gun drops as he struggles against the hold, gasping through his ski mask. He bears the pressure for two more heartbeats before pitching his body weight backwards to flip and break the hold, throwing his arm out for balance in the fall.
Whatever martial arts training the person behind him has, it's good enough for him to keep his footing despite the harsh jolt. Johnny has barely sucked in a breath through the grip, when the other man's knee lands in his side, sending him into a nearby tree.
Between ducking the punch that gets thrown and diving for the discarded gun before the other one can, he rolls down the sloping bank until his knees hit water. He's lost sight of the other two, even though he's sure he's disabled at least one of them.
Good thing they seemed to be heading roughly in the direction that his other agents were coming in from.
He needs to get this guy off his back, fast, and find out what they're carrying.
He throws himself sideways again before the next kick collides with his skull, staggering back to his feet to point the gun in the general direction of the opponent's head. The punch that follows his motion finds its mark though and his right ear rings painfully, spots disrupting his vision and saving the other one from getting a bullet buried in his chest.
With a growl, he swings back, feeling the firmness of jawbone under his knuckles. It's not enough to send the man sprawling though and he is greeted with another barrage of hits that he blocks, counters, blocks again.
He has yet to get a good look at whom he's fighting, since he's wearing a mask much like his own, drawn up to his eyes under a dark beanie. He's got to give them that, these people came well-prepared.
Through the haze of adrenalin, he misses a step when his foot catches under a root and receives a kick to the gut instead. He's down in an instant, gun flying into the water somewhere behind him. It doesn't quite register that this could be his death sentence if he doesn't recover fast enough.
But he's not come all this way to have years of training fail him now. Not here.
He twists aside und up before the next blow can land, fastening both hands around the man's leg and twisting. It's simple enough to bring him to the ground, not quite so easy to put him in a position he can't escape from.
He opts for headbutting the assailant, the satisfying crunch of a broken nose ringing through the air. It gives him the energy to haul himself up over the man's legs, pinning him down for another square punch to the jaw.
Apparently that's just the angle he was waiting for though. As Johnny leans forward, he shifts in his weight distribution. Close enough in proximity for a strong hand to reach around the back of his head and slam it down on the ground with deadly precision.
Fucking stars, alright. He's not sure if he actually passes out for a moment, but when the sense of vertigo dies down, he realizes he's still sprawled there, tasting mud. He struggles to push himself up on his elbows, spitting and getting his bearings on where his opponent has gone.
Only to find the him right there, crouched with his back against the closest tree, mask pulled off to press the material to his profusely bleeding nose. A man with a face he had hoped not to see here.
He should have guessed it two minutes ago. He's taken those punches before.
"Fuck," he breathes, shaking as he gathers his legs under him, "For fuck's sake."
The Venezuelan straightens up reflexively, his expression becoming one of recognition as he looks over at him. Clearly he'd expected him to be out cold. Johnny supposes it's only fair not to play pretend and forces himself to sit up fully, dragging the ski mask up over his head.
He does his best not to wince but that's going to be one hell of a bump later.
They lock eyes for a moment and even in the lack of light, it takes him back to all the other times they stood together like this, bruised, tired and high on endorphins. The only thing that's different is the disrupting stream of voices coming through the earpiece, knocked loose in the battle.
His back-up is drawing close and they both have a decision to make.
Bodhi is the one that acts faster, face smoothing out as he regains control. He takes three steps forward while Johnny is still rising to meet him at eye-level and levels a roundhouse kick at his temple.
The FBI agent is gone before he can register that someone is dragging him into the water.