Chapter One
Adam Drake’s summons to meet with the Joint Terrorism Task Force was expected, but not welcomed. The last time he’d met with JTTF, they had ignored his warning, and a cabinet member had barely survived an assassination attempt.
The official reason for his summons was a personal prerelease review of the FBI’s final internal report on that matter, but Drake suspected there was more to it than that. The FBI’s field office had been embarrassed by its ineptitude in dealing with the terrorist threat. He didn’t think it was about to reward him with a medal for his actions.
Drake decided early on this fall morning that his drive to the FBI offices, which were located near the Portland International Airport, was likely to be the highlight of the day. But whenever he had a reason to get out of the office and drive his old Porsche, that day turned into pure pleasure. The sky was blue, the leaves were changing color, it was Friday, and the college football season was underway. He wasn’t about to let a government summons spoil a day like today.
He passed through security, signed the visitors’ register, and was escorted to an empty conference room on the third floor. It smelled strongly of newly-laid carpet. A twelve-foot-long, cherry wood conference table dominated the space, with four black leather chairs on the far side and a single matching chair on the near side. A picture of the president hung on the wall next to a standing U.S. flag and a photograph of the twin towers before they collapsed. He remembered thinking at his last meeting with the JTTF that this photo was an ironic reminder of a war the current administration refused to acknowledge.
He also saw a pitcher of ice water and glasses on a black serving tray in the middle of the table. Coffee would have been nice, he thought, but he didn’t think they intended for him to feel welcome. He sat in the single chair, crossed his legs, and waited. Ten minutes later, he heard the door open behind him. He stayed seated as three men and one woman entered the room and took their seats on the other side of the table. He knew three of them, especially the woman.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Drake,” Bruce Burton, the head of the Portland JTTF, said as he opened their meeting. “I believe you know Elizabeth Strobel from DHS and Robert Jorgenson with the FBI. I don’t believe you know Richard Richter, though. He’s from the Civil Rights Division of the Department of Justice.”
Ignoring the men Drake immediately turned to Strobel. “Hello, Liz. Nice to see you again.” He enjoyed the annoyed look on the faces of the three men when he addressed her as Liz.
She smiled at him. “Hello, Adam.”
Burton cleared his throat. “Our investigation of your actions in June of this year is now formally closed,” he said. “We have decided that criminal charges are not warranted.” He cleared his throat. “We explained to the local Muslim community that your actions in killing the young men on your farm were justified. They’re not satisfied with our conclusion, of course, but they were told it’s not in their best interests to pursue the matter. They don’t know everything, of course, but we believe they know what their men were involved in.”
“You mean they knew their boys were jihadists?” Drake asked. “But they don’t know they were trained assassins along with the others and sent to kill me? That’s a distinction without much of a difference, isn’t it?”
Robert Jorgenson answered his questions. “The FBI never proved they were trained as assassins. That was what you claimed. The most we could prove is they trespassed on your property and that you claimed you killed them in self-defense. You’re lucky they didn’t persuade your old boss, the district attorney, to indict you.”
“Jorgenson,” Drake said calmly, “your IQ hasn’t gone up much since the last time we met, has it. Do you honestly think it was unreasonable for me to believe that three men who surrounded my house in the dead of night and were armed with AK 47s weren’t about to use unlawful deadly physical force against me? Is that the way Harvard Law taught you to reason?”
The younger FBI agent pushed his chair back and started to stand, but sank back down after a curt order from Burton.
“Okay,” said Burton, “let’s wrap this up. We’re prepared to provide you a full copy of our investigation report. If you’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement. It’s better if the public doesn’t think there’s an open season on Muslims here in Portland.”
Unbelievable! I lawfully defend myself against three terrorists and I’m the bad guy.
Drake looked at Liz Strobel. “Were you aware of this BS?”
“They took it to the attorney general,” she said. “This is his idea. DHS didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Drake turned to Burton. “So there won’t be criminal charges, but if I get sued by the ACLU for ‘profiling’ these guys as terrorists because they were Muslims, I can’t defend myself with the truth? Is that what you’re telling me?”
At this point, Richter, the civil rights attorney, cleared his throat and opened the file on the table before him. With his strawberry blond hair and his round, wire frame glasses, he reminded Drake of a slimmed-down Elton John. “The AG doesn’t want to appear to be supporting vigilante action against citizens who are perceived to be terrorists. That’s the government’s responsibility.”
Drake shook his head. “You’re wrong, Richter. It’s everyone’s responsibility. The underwear bomber and the shoe bomber were stopped by citizens, not by the government.” He pushed his chair back. “Keep your report. I’m not signing a non-disclosure agreement.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Drake,” Richter shot back. “You might want to reconsider that decision. The Civil Rights Division of the Department of Justice has made it a top priority to investigate and prosecute bias crimes and incidents of discrimination against Muslims. Your violent assault with a dangerous weapon that resulted in the death of a total of seven Muslim men constitutes such an incident. I have the authority to initiate an investigation of your disregard of these men’s civil rights.
Drake stood up without a word and strode out, resisting the urge to slam the door behind him. This was the second time his government had threatened to throw him under the bus. As he walked down the hall, he vowed it would be the last time.
