A Secret In Black

By Michael Don Fess

Right out of the pages of current newspapers, "A Secret In Black" tells a story forbidden by the biased news media.
In 2016, six retired federal agents decided to do their part in making the world a better place. They were frustrated as active agents when criminals were released on technicalities or by scamming the justice system.
Caught up in the controversial presidential election process with more and more dirty tricks and criminal acts by the party leaders, they struggle to survive while punishing the guilty.
A newspaper reporter trys to aid them without knowing how the secret men in black are able to function in this murky world of intrigue. Their clever responses to various threats gain them respect and wide favor within the ranks of the police.
Their clandestine operation is frustrated as their age catches up with them. They wonder if they should re-retire before they get killed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Don Fess
• Release date: Nov 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370209804

Michael Don Fess

Michael Don Fess, an author since the early 1990s, has over twenty published books to his credit. His favorite genre is mystery novels, but has published some non-fiction books. He is a informative speaker at civic clubs and is an accomplished artist.His popular Caribbean Mystery series consist of four books and the historical fiction series about the wild Louisiana politics in 1964 is a three book series. The latest series about "The Secret DNA Code" has a sequel, "The DNA Conspiracy."

Book preview

Chapter One

Washington DC

May 30, 2016

Two men, dressed in black tight fitting clothes, climbed out of a black SUV. Two other men, dressed in identical clothes, stayed in the car while adjusting their night vision goggles and waiting for the signal.

It was 2:00 AM as they sat, parked in the driveway at 12658 Fairmost Drive, home of the Muslim religious Mufti. Two days ago, this cleric had issued a Fatwa calling for the assassination of Donald Trump.

Abul-Hassan had been preaching violence in his mosque and had recently organized the blockade of streets during Donald Trump rallies. The extremists threw rocks and bottles at the police, overturned and set fire to cars, sending at least ten bystanders to the hospital.

This radical Islamic Mullah had been the main source of unrest and unreasonable demands in the U.S. during the past two years.

His followers had been urged to recruit new immigrants into their violent effort to sow the seeds of discontent in the United States.

Posts on the internet offered an average pay of $15 per hour for their public disturbances. His latest Fatwa was the worst act of radical behavior to date.

The moonless night provided a perfect opportunity to perform their stealthy task.

As the two men quietly approached the back yard and stepped onto the patio, they knew that the Mullah lived alone. Some reports indicated that he always kept two bodyguards on the premises. Their first task was to locate where those bodyguards were sleeping and to make sure there were only two.

One of the men in black carefully opened the briefcase he was carrying and turned on their special detector, the latest sensor that was currently being used by soldiers in Iraq. Able to penetrate walls, the device could pinpoint sources of heat within twenty-five to thirty feet away. Those heat sources were displayed on the small battery operated screen in the lid of the briefcase.

The two men looked at each other and nodded as the display showed two bodyguards asleep on cots close to the other side of the sliding glass patio doors. Moving the device around, they could detect no other guards.

As pre-agreed, one of the men then walked over to the corner of the house where the telephone wire draped from the pole and snipped it with a pair of cutter-pliers. They knew that this should prevent any silent alarm from being transmitted.

He then cut the small lock on the main disconnect switch with his pliers and pulled the lever, cutting off power to the house. Satisfied with their preliminary chores, they returned to the SUV parked in the driveway.

There are two bodyguards asleep in the den, whispered Bartmouth Bart Wells, the man in charge. You can go pick the lock on the front door now.

One of the men with the night vision goggles quickly walked over to perform that task while Bart and his partner, Alex, each donned their own night goggles.

You can turn the car around now and back it in for a quick departure, Bart said to the other man wearing the goggles. Be careful, and no lights.

Bart and Alex picked up three of their special tasers and went to join the man picking the front door lock.

I’ve got it, the lock picker said, as they approached.

Okay, said Bart, as he handed him one of the tasers, Trey set these special tasers to have enough jolt to knock those guards unconscious. You two take the bodyguards and I’ll go after the Mullah.

From experience, he knew that victims of the taser would be out for at least ten minutes.

The lock picker eased the door open and the three men slowly moved into the house. The two went directly to the den and on a hand signal, quickly tased the bodyguards. The sleeping bodyguards grunted and flinched when struck with the charge, but otherwise, never moved.

Bart moved down the hall to a room that seemed to be the master bedroom. Peeping through the open door, he could see the Mullah sleeping on the bed. He stepped silently across the carpet and tased the sleeping man as his other two men joined him.

Rolling the unconscious man over, one of the intruders quickly secured the Mullah’s hands behind his back with a zip tie while the other used a zip tie on the Mullah’s ankles.

They moved him into a sitting position at the edge of the bed and one of them lifted him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. They quickly returned to the SUV, closing the front door behind them.

After dumping the unconscious cleric on the floor of the SUV through the rear door, one of them linked the hands and ankles with another zip tie. That hog-tie position eliminated any possibility of violent action with his feet when he awakened.

The driver eased the vehicle onto the street with no lights, guiding the vehicle using his night vision goggles. He finally turned on the headlights when they reached the end of the block.

This calls for a celebration, said one of the men, removing his disposable gloves. The snatch went off without a hitch.

Yeah, said Bart, but we still have work to do. This guy has been promising his followers seventy-two virgins when they die. We want him to find out if that’s true.

Heads nodded in agreement.

Here’s the zip-lock bag for your gloves, said Alex. I’ll drop it in a dumpster when we’re finished.

Is the boat ready? asked the driver.

We loaded everything yesterday, Bart said, nodding.

* * *

It was almost 3:00 AM when they parked the SUV by the semi-private dock used by the dozen time-share owners. This new exclusive development had just opened on the Potomac River several blocks south of I-495.

Alex Simpson, Bart’s old FBI sidekick, noticed that the Mullah had regained consciousness. He decided to stuff a rag in his mouth and secure it with duct tape so he couldn’t disturb the residents.

The other two men removed the tarp covering the 23’ ski boat revealing a fifty-five gallon oil drum laying on its side. They stood it upright while Bart and Alex lugged the muffled cleric, still hogtied, over to the boat.

"Mmmffff, mmmffff,’ he grunted when he saw the big barrel.

Would you look at that, said Alex, the man is getting excited about seeing all those virgins.

That remark precipitated a big laugh.

With that mop of hair and smelling the way he does, they won’t be glad to see him, said Alex.

Okay guys, let’s tend to business. All together now, said Bart.

With coordinated effort, the four of them lifted the squealing cleric and dropped him into the large drum. His knees thumped against the steel bottom causing a loud grunt.

Whew, said Alex, that smell is awful. I bet he hadn’t had a bath in a week.

Alex grabbed the end of a water hose and began to fill the drum while the other two dropped several bricks into the mix to add weight.

He’s about to get one now, he continued.

By the time the water level reached the top of the drum and began running down the sides, the squealing and thrashing had ceased. Two of the men sealed the drum lid on tight while Alex untied the mooring ropes from the pier post.

Bart started the engine and slowly motored out into the middle of the river where he stopped. The heavy drum required three men to tip it over against the side of the boat.

Heave ho, men, said Bart.

By grasping the bottom rim and heaving, they were able to flip the heavy barrel over into the river. After a big splash, the barrel quickly sank out of sight, disappearing in the dark water.

The four men did a mutual high-five as they watched the ripples die down.

Another good deed accomplished, said Bart. No one will ever find him.

Maybe this will serve be a lesson to those who come to this country to do us harm, said one of the men.

* * *

Wake up Bareeq, said the frantic Davar, shaking him, the Mullah is gone.

Ooooh, stop shaking me, he said. I have a terrible headache.

I do too, said Davar, but we must find the Mullah.

It’s daylight, he must have gone for a walk.

He’s never done that before. Too many infidels have threatened him.

Go make some coffee and we’ll wait for him. I need to shake this terrible headache.

You make the coffee while I look outside. It is very strange for him to go anywhere without us. Something must have happened.

Bareeq slowly sat up as he rubbed his eyes and looked around the room.

The only thing I notice is two red, sore spots on my arm, he said.

I have sore spots on my neck as well, said Davar. Are they red?

He bent down so Bareek could look.

Yeah, they are red like my arm.

Maybe we got some insect bites last night.

Davar gave him a doubtful look.

Check the Mullah’s closet, said Bareeq. The clothes he put on might give us a clue to where he went.

Davar walked down the hall to the Mullah’s bedroom while Bareeq, moving slowly, went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

None of his clothes seem to be missing, said Davar, returning from the bedroom, and there’s no electricity. None of the lights work.

Did you count his cleric garments?

Davar nodded.

All six are hanging in his closet.

That is very strange. You know he wouldn’t go for a walk in his sleeping garment.

What’s even stranger . . . his slippers are still by his bed and no shoes are missing from his closet.

Go see if he took his cell phone, said Bareeq, as he filled the coffee maker with water. We can probably call him and let him know we are awake.

He proceeded to measure the coffee into the filter cup and pushed the on switch.

Davar returned carrying the Mullah’s cell phone.

Something’s not right, said Bareeq, eying the cell phone, there’s no electricity in here either. The coffeemaker won’t turn on.

What do we do?

I’ll call our contact in Washington. He’ll know what to do.

Praise Allah.

Chapter Two

Bart Wells reached for the disposable cell phone in his desk drawer. He answered it on the second ring because he knew only one person had the number.

Congratulations, said the voice, on a job well done.

Thanks, said Bart, I thought it went well.

It went better than well. My copies of the police reports indicate that there were no traces of a struggle and no clues to what happened.

You were right about him. The man was an awful human being. He needed to go.

Yeah . . . his last order, or Fatwa as they call it, to assassinate the Donald was the last straw.

I get the feeling that you must have another job for us, said Bart.

His friend chuckled.

You’re right . . . I do. There’s a mob boss living in Las Vegas who has managed to corrupt our legal system. I’m sure you’ve heard of Big Harry.

I thought he was in Los Angeles.

Well . . . his drug operation is actually centered in Los Angeles. That’s where he has local several policemen and a couple of judges on his payroll. He actually lives in Vegas because he likes the fight game and the night life.

That’s an interesting twist.

I’ll text his address and other pertinent information to this phone. Let me know if you need anything for the job.

The phone went silent before Bart could say anything else. He replaced it in the drawer and took another sip of coffee.

* * *

Have you guys see the headline in the Post? asked Bart.

Yeah, said Alex, and I like the way it reads.

Let me see it, said Trey Willikens, reaching for the paper. Hmmm . . . Muslim Cleric Vanishes, Police Baffled.

Looks like we covered our tracks pretty good, said Bart, as he shuffled the cards.

Yeah . . . it seemed to have gone well, said Trey.

We owe Trey our thanks for juicing up those tasers for a knock-out punch, said Bart. "His years in the police lab didn’t go to waste.

Well . . . I think we did a good deed, said Clark. That Mullah was a plague on humanity.

Yeah . . . we have enough trouble with home grown crime, said Alex. We sure don’t need to import terrorists like that cleric to stir up more trouble.

How many bad guys does that make so far? asked Jimbo.

Twelve, I believe, said Bart, passing the shuffled deck to Jimbo.

Who would have thought our weekly poker game would evolve into a new career of ridding the world of bad guys, said Alex.

Well . . . those years of experience convinced me that the legal system is flawed, said Trey. Too many bad guys were playing the system and getting away with it. We had to do something.

You need to ante your penny, reminded Bart.

Trey nodded and pushed a penny into the pot.

Yeah . . . Bart’s idea was a winner, said Jimbo, as he dealt the first hand. I was skeptical at first, but then I realized that we had enough experience between us to pull it off.

Well . . . who else but a retired FBI agent could plan these hits, said Alex. My twenty-five years as a police detective didn’t teach me how to do that.

You guys are being too generous, said Bart. Jimbo’s years of experience with ATF has also been invaluable.

I’ll open the bet with two cents, said Clark Johnson, who had been quietly listening. Getting rid of Abul-Hassan was a stroke of genius. I wish I could have been there. I’ll try to be available for the next assignment.

I’ll call your two pennies and raise you two, said Bart.

Hmm . . . I’m out, said Alex, tossing in his cards. Who’s gonna be our next project?

There’s a mob boss named Big Harry in Vegas that’s heavy into importing drugs from Mexico, said Carl Consen. One of my old buddies from the CIA clued me in. He would be a good one to put on our list.

How many would that make on our list of accomplishments? asked Clark.

I believe he would be number thirteen, said Alex, if we picked him.

I’m out, said Trey. Your four cent bet is too rich for me.

Interesting that you mentioned Big Harry, said Bart. I had a call about him and I’ve been wanting to go to Vegas. Let’s do more than just talk about him. I’ll go out and do some research on him.

Yeah, I’d like to go too, said Alex. It’s been a while since I visited sin city.

Your bet, Jimbo, said Bart.

I’m out also, said Jimbo, shaking his head. This hand wouldn’t beat a pair of deuces.

I’d like a trip to California, said Clark. There’s a billionaire in San Diego who’s been secretly hiring illegal Mexicans to protest those GOP rallies.

Yeah, said Jimbo, I’m not much of a conservative, but those paid, violent, fake protests are unacceptable.

Yeah, said Clark, I saw where there were ads on Craig’s list for protesters at Trump rallies that offered to pay them $15 an hour.

Where are the local police when that happens? asked Trey.

The liberal politicians called them off, according to my old DEA pals, said Carl. They want to give the liberal press something ugly to cover.

You think? asked Bart.

Carl nodded.

Let me tell you what I heard from my CIA buddy the other day. In California, if 3.5 million illegal aliens were sent back to Mexico, it would leave an extra $10 billion to spend on their overloaded school systems, their bankrupt hospitals and overrun prisons. It would leave highways cleaner, safer and less congested. Talk about a win-win.

That’s Trump’s plan, said Jimbo, and that’s only in California.

I wish Trump wasn’t quite so insulting to the Hispanics, said Carl. It makes a lot of voters reluctant to support him.

Yeah, said Jimbo, after all, it’s only the illegal ones that he wants to deport. So many of them are criminals.

What can we do to help? asked Alex.

We’re helping, said Trey. by getting rid of some bad guys that elude our justice system.

I think that mob boss in Vegas should be next, said Carl.

Hey guys . . . are we playing poker or planning the next hit? asked Bart.

Looks like you win the pot, said Clark. Everybody else dropped out.

Thanks men . . . this six cent ante and Clark’s two cent bet with no calls makes for an easy eight cent pot, said Bart. I could do that all day long."

If we go to Vegas, we’ll need all six of us, said Alex. Messing with the mob will require a lot of planning.

Well . . . some group made Jimmie Hoffa disappear, said Carl. If anybody can take out that Vegas kingpin, it’s the six of us.

Does everybody want to do that? asked Trey.

Let’s sleep on it, said Bart. We need to do a lot of research before we jump into that one.

Deal the cards, said Jimbo. I want to win a hand before the night is over.

New York

Iranian UN Mission

Do we have any information on Abul-Hassan’s disappearance yet? asked the Mullah.

No sir, said Yawer Hakim, the UN senior aide. He seems to have vanished into thin air.

People don’t just vanish. Tehran will want answers. We have to take some aggressive action or I might be recalled.

What do you suggest?

Put our two best men on it. They can make better progress than those two incompetents that were guarding the Mullah.

Yawer nodded.

We can also contact our man we have planted in the Washington Police Department. He may be able to give us some unreleased news on their investigation.

I’ll call his secure cell phone right away, said Yawer.

Draft a formal complaint and we’ll file it with the American State Department.

Yes sir . . . that should convince Tehran that we are doing a thorough job.

I’ll also contact the Russian Ambassador for any information they might have.

Praise Allah, said Yawer, as he left to perform the tasks.

Chapter Three

I smell one hell-of-a story, said Bill Loveless, sitting in the vast newsroom at the Washington Post. These mysterious disappearances are just too coincidental.

Are you referring to disappearance of that radical Muslim troublemaker? asked Roland Whitcher, the national news editor, who had just walked up.

Yeah . . . it was like he was vaporized, according to the police who questioned his bodyguards. His clothes, shoes, and even his house slippers were undisturbed.

How many does that make this year?

Bill paused to think as he took a sip of his coffee.

Seven that I know of . . . I haven’t checked beyond what I’ve seen on the evening news. We reported them initially, but there was no follow-up.

What do they have in common beyond their mysterious disappearances?

Well . . . the ones I’ve noticed have all been high profile bad guys. One was the shooter out on the Parkway who was set free on a technicality. He disappeared without a trace before he could be re-tried.

Yeah . . . you’re right. I remember that one.

Another was that big black kid who robbed a store and beat up the policeman who tried to arrest him, said Bill. Even though the shooting was videoed on a security camera, Al Sharpton and company claimed that the boy was profiled and deliberately murdered.

Roland nodded.

That kid had a long rap sheet and was guilty as sin, continued Bill. He disappeared before his trial.

Hmmm . . . you may have something. Why don’t you do some more digging and see what turns up?

I may have to tip some snitches. How’s the petty cash fund?

Go for it . . . I’ll get the expenses approved, said Roland, as he walked back to his office.

Bill thought for a minute about where to start, then picked up his copy of the police report and re-read it. The obvious next step, he realized, was to try to interview those two bodyguards.

He picked up the phone and punched in a number.

Detective Brunner, said the voice that answered.

Dave . . . this is Bill Loveless. Why don’t I buy you a beer this afternoon about 5:00?

Ah ha . . . my reporter friend, he said, with a chuckle. You must need some information or a favor.

You guessed it . . . I’m interested in that Muslim Cleric’s disappearance.

Well, you’re in luck, my friend. I’m the one who questioned those two bodyguards.

Wow . . . that’s good news. I may even spring for dinner if your story is good.

Bill, you haven’t changed in ten years. You need to get a new line.

I don’t know why . . . this one always works.

Dave laughed.

Okay my friend . . . where and when?

How about that Chinese place across the river in Arlington?

You mean the one near Virginia Square?

That’s the one.

Okay sport . . . I’ll see you there about five.

Iranian UN Mission

Our new men found some strange scratches on the front door lock, said Yawer Hakim. It appears to have been picked by an experienced person.

That was quick work, said the Mullah.

They said the bed covers were in disarray. The cleric seems to have vanished in a hurry.

Maybe he was kidnapped. If they gained entrance through the front door, they were a brazen group.

"Kidnapping is a good possibility, however, we