Free Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) by Steven Konkoly

and turned into the center of the dimly lit subterranean storage area. A few cardboard boxes sat against the closest wall, next to a dozen evenly stacked dusty plastic bins. The labels on the bins indicated that they were filled with seasonal clothing, professional books, and camping supplies.
    He continued to the furthest reaches of the basement until he reached the boiler and oil tank. Several cardboard boxes sat on the floor in front of the boiler. Daniel opened a box near the oil tank and removed the briefcase given to him yesterday. He opened the case to examine its contents again. One file, which he needed to permanently destroy, but not at the house. One Heckler and Koch USP 9mm with suppressor. He might need this weapon in the very near future.
    Daniel replaced the contents and headed toward the large plastic bins. He removed the two top-most bins from a stack in the middle, sliding them to the floor haphazardly. The remaining bin, labeled "Old Clothes," sat exposed between two stacks of green plastic.
    He reached down and ripped the duct tape from the sides of the plastic storage container, which hadn't been opened in over a year. The bin, which emitted the musty smell of old clothes, was stuffed with dated sweaters and oversized sweatshirts. Petrovich buried his arms into the stacks of clothing and pulled out two black nylon gym bags, spilling the contents of the bin onto the concrete floor.
    He tossed the bags behind him, along with the briefcase, and recreated the orderly scene he encountered upon first descending the basement stairs. With the bins back in place, he ascended the stairs to pack a small carry-on bag, which would be all he needed beyond the three items retrieved from the basement.
    Five minutes later, Daniel backed the BMW out of the garage and onto the street. He pulled forward several feet and stopped to stare at his house through the passenger window. He leaned over the center console to get a better view and exhaled softly.
    A low, white picket fence outlined the front yard, extending along the driveway to the attached garage, which extended from the small yellow Cape Cod style home. Dark green shutters accented the white windowpanes, competing with the neatly-trimmed evergreen bushes reaching upward toward the bottom of the window trim. Just beyond the picket fence, two large maple trees flanked a red brick walkway that ended at an oversized granite stoop under the matching green front door.
    "We almost did it," he muttered and took his foot off the brake.
    He doubted he would ever see the house again, or any of the memories contained within it. He knew it didn't really matter, but it was hard to conceptualize abandoning the physical remnants of their life together. Nothing could go with them. There simply hadn't been enough time. This house, their friends, his office…all of it. He had simply walked out of Zenith Semiconductor without a word and would never return. He didn't really have a choice. Neither of them did. It was a simple matter of survival.
     
     

 
    Chapter Ten
     
     
     
    12:45 p.m.
    FBI Field Office, Boston, Massachusetts
     
    Agent Olson stepped out of the interrogation room into the darkened observation deck, closed the door tightly and walked in front of the one-way mirror. She stared at Jeffrey Munoz, who was attached to several electronic monitoring leads. Laptop computers set up on a table along the far wall of the observation room analyzed the biometric feedback. Gregory Carlisle sat across the desk from Munoz with his hands crossed. Three agents and a few technicians sat in front of the interrogation equipment. One of the agents, a young, sharp-faced woman with short hair, closely analyzed a large flat-screen display of various vital signs.
    "What do you think?" Olson uttered, without taking her gaze off Munoz.
    "Bio says he's nervous as hell, but I'm not getting any of the traditional markers associated with deception. If this was a standard observation, I'd say the