Page 44 of PSYCHOlogical

Chapter Fifteen

Briggs

Iplanned to attack my opponent’s weakest link. The organization would then begin to topple, leaving me with the luxury of seeing where the pieces fell.

The program’s weak link pulled into his driveway. Hidden in the wooded area behind his home, I checked my watch. 1745. His arrival, for the following five work nights, was within ten minutes of the same time. He remained home, watching television, until 2200, at which time he went to bed, upstairs.

The two-story home was forty minutes south of Quantico. Many of the homes in the remote neighborhood were seasonal, with people occupying them in the summer months during vacation.

With only half the neighborhood unoccupied late in the fall, and the next closest home being several hundred feet away, causing alarm to his neighbors would require extraordinary measures.

My rental car was parked two miles away, at a restaurant. I was dressed in black cargo pants and a matching jacket. Carrying a sturdy canvas bag and a collapsible fishing pole in an area known for fishing allowed me to amble along the shoreline behind the homes without raisings a single eyebrow.

Just after dusk, I snuck through the back yard. Pressed against the side of his home, I removed my jacket and stuffed it into the overnight-sized bag I carried. My white long-sleeved tee shirt was fitted with a logo I downloaded from the internet—the easily recognized multicolor triangle from the Virginia Natural Gas Company. Beneath the logo, a fictitious name and title, Tracy Jameson, Field Technician, provided whoever I encountered a false sense of peace of mind.

Printing it on iron-on transfer paper was easy. Ironing it onto my shirt transformed the simple article of clothing into a believable Virginia Natural Gas employee’s uniform. My hat, fitted with the same logo, topped off my ensemble.

Contrary to the belief of many, the easiest way to gain access into a target’s home was to have them let you in.

I pulled the electronic leak detector from my bag, tugged my cap low on my brow, and walked toward the front door with the device in one hand and my bag in the other.

I rang the doorbell.

My eyes were fixed on the door’s threshold, so he wouldn’t recognize my face. The door opened. His stockinged feet and lower legs were all that was in my line of sight.

“Good evening,” Wallace said. “Is there a problem?”

“As a matter of fact…” I looked up. “There is.”

I struck him with my gloved right fist in the center of his celiac plexus, a complex network of nerves located in the upper abdomen. The hard strike caused his diaphragm to spasm, making breathing nearly impossible for the thirty seconds that followed the blow.

With surprise-filled eyes and an open mouth, he looked back at me. While he heaved to catch his breath, I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

Doubled over in undeniable pain, he pressed his hands to his knees and fought to breathe.

I lowered my bag to the floor and removed a plastic tie and my weapon, a silenced HK MP7 machine pistol. I flipped off the switch to the entry hall light with the heel of my palm and then tapped the barrel of the weapon against his forehead.

He lifted his head.

“If you do not comply with my requests, you will be shot once in the head,” I warned. “If you scream or attempt to run, you will be shot in each of your legs, and both arms. I will then use every ounce of my training and experience to torture you into compliance. The instructions I’m going to give you are not negotiable.”

I gestured toward the staircase with the barrel of the pistol. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

Without argument, he complied.

I hung the pistol from my shoulder by its strap and secured his wrists together with a zip tie. Then, I removed an eight-inch strip of duct tape from the roll in my bag.

“Face me,” I said.

Still trying to catch his breath, he turned around. His face conveyed the same fear many of my targets had in the past. His eyes expressed the uncertainty of what he felt his future held.

I placed the tape over his mouth. “Walk upstairs, to the master closet. I’ll follow you.”

With my bag’s strap draped over one shoulder and the machine pistol hanging from the other, I followed him upstairs, into the master bedroom.

Once there, I gestured toward the closet door. “Go to the back of the closet, sit down, and make yourself comfortable.”

Closets rarely have windows and are typically filled with clothes, making them the best location in a home to torture someone. The clothes, sheetrock, and wall insulation act as sound deadening, muffling voices to a nearly indiscernible sound. Given the distance to his closest neighbor, no one would hear a thing, regardless of how in depth the interview became.