Divine Fury (17 page)

The chain-link gates that blocked the roadway were locked with a thick chain and a padlock.
 
He couldn’t leverage the crowbar against anything solid.
 
Finally, he just slid the crowbar underneath and climbed over the gate.
 
His body armor made it a little awkward but he went over next to one of the side posts and held it for stability.
 

Once inside, it was a short walk to a small wood frame structure that held some of the smaller tools and instruments at the site.
 
The exterior door was padlocked but quick work with the crowbar pried out the part of the latch screwed into the door frame.
 
Once inside, he spotted the cabinet with the explosives immediately.
 
It took 30 seconds to pry open the door.
 
Four white blocks of C-4 plastic explosive sat inside a shoebox-sized carton lined with plastic.
 
He took the whole box.

He knew the fuses and detonators were kept in another cabinet in an inner room.
 
That one was just as easy to break open.
 
He stuffed a handful of detonators and a variety of fuses into his pockets.
   

Walberg had learned the basics about explosives during Ranger training.
 
He learned more just by talking with the others in his unit who had specialized in explosives while he was concentrating on sniper training.
 
He’d been surprised at how lackadaisical the explosives’ storage had been at the quarry. The operation probably violated dozens of safety regulations.
 
But he was happy now that they were so lax.
 
It made what he was doing tonight easy.

He crammed the box of C-4 under the gate before he climbed back over.
 
It barely fit.
 
As he balanced at the top of the gate, he heard a motor straining up the grade. He was still standing in front of the gate when he was fully caught in the glare from the headlights.
 
He barely had time to pull out the flashlight and the Beretta, and turn so the gun in his right hand was hidden.
 

After a few seconds, a red flashing light came on over the idling vehicle.
 
Based on the sound of the motor, and what was visible behind the headlights, he guessed it was a small SUV.
 
The lone red light was nothing compared to the light show a normal police car puts on.
 
It was probably private security.
 
The driver likely patrolled a shopping mall and used his gun every three months at a range.
 
Walberg must have triggered a silent alarm that led to the security check.

Walberg heard the door open, then the pulsating sound of heavy metal that was silenced when the door closed with a solid click.
 

“Hey.
 
What are you doing here?” said a voice.
 
He was young, maybe still a teenager.
 
And he was scared.

Walberg switched on the flashlight and pointed it toward the car.
 
He could see the guard wearing a thick jacket over a white shirt.
 
He was even wearing a tie.
 
The kid put his hand in front of his face, trying to block out the glare from Walberg’s flashlight.

Walberg began walking toward him, keeping his gun hand hidden.

“Hey.
 
Who are you?
 
What are you doing?” said the young guard, even more concerned
 
now.
 
“Ummm.
 
Stop walking toward me.
 
You better stay where you are.”

Walberg continued moving toward the SUV.
 
He was 50 feet away.
 
He kept the flashlight steady in the eyes of the guard.
 
He could see him better now.
 
His hands empty and at his sides.
            

 
“Stop walking!
 
Stop walking!” yelled the guard.
 
His voice cracked with the panic.
 
Walberg was only 20 feet away.
 
He could see the guard clearly, his upper body above the hood of the car.
 
He was skinny, wore glasses and had curly hair.
 
“Stay where you are!”

He struggled to pull out his gun as Walberg took his last three steps.
 
It wasn’t close.
 
Walberg was five feet from the SUV when he lifted his gun hand.
 
With arms outstretched, pointing flashlight and Beretta at the guard, Walberg shot him three times in the chest.
  

“Oh God,” the kid said as he went down.
 

Walberg hesitated.
 
He thought about checking.
 
But he knew he’d caught the kid square in the chest with the hollow points.
 
He wasn’t going anywhere soon.

He turned around, walked back to the gate and retrieved the box of C-4 on the ground.
 
Then, he headed down the road back to his Blazer.
 

“Collateral damage, Ron,” said Walberg as he passed the still-flashing red light and re-entered the darkness. “Collateral damage.”
 

Chapter 20

ENZO LEE STRODE through the bar at the Farallon Restaurant, past the chandeliers that hung from the ceiling like illuminated jellyfish complete with dangling tendrils and into a dining room with an arched ceiling that felt like being inside a colorful underwater cavern.
  

Harry Blount sat at a booth by himself tapping energetically on his black Thinkpad with a glass of white wine in front of him.
 
On the table were two plates of orange caviar on top of four-inch blinis and thick, white cream.

“Enzo,” said Blount, pushing his laptop to the side.
 
“How are you?
 
Thanks for taking the time to see me.”

Blount stood and shook hands with Lee before they both sat down.

“I was starving so I took the liberty of ordering some appetizers and wine,” said Blount, pulling a bottle of Alsatian Riesling out of an ice bucket set next to the table.
 
He held it in the air, offering it to Lee.
 
“This really goes great with the caviar.”

“Sure,” said Lee, nodding his assent and watching Blount pour.
 
“It looks delicious.
 
I love this place.
 
Just walking in…the jellyfish lights…the nautical feel…it’s a treat.”
    

Lee had known Blount by reputation before he started attending campaign events.
 
Since the Santa Barbara sea otter debacle, he’d seen Blount at three other campaign functions.
 
Lee liked him.
 
Blount was always funny, open and entertaining.
 
His sardonic play-by-play commentary of ongoing events added some levity to otherwise dry press conferences and repetitive stump speeches.
 
They both understood that Blount was working Lee and the rest of the media, trying to endear himself and his candidate to the press.
 
But Lee still appreciated Blount’s energy, wit and intelligence.

They took a minute to study the menu and order dinner.

Blount went for the white bass with chanterelle mushrooms in a warm vinaigrette.
 
Lee settled on a filet of Australian Barramundi with sweet onions in a light lobster sauce.

“I tried to book some otters for entertainment given the nautical theme here,” said Blount after their menus were taken away.
 
“But they were demanding
caviar
in the dressing room.
 
Beluga no less.
 
Those prima donnas.”

Lee narrowed his eyes and scanned the dining room.

“I don’t know,” said Lee.
 
“Did you check this place for tramp freighters?
 
They seem to follow you around.”
 
Blount chuckled, shaking his head.

 
“By the way,” said Blount.
 
“Your article about the campaign – however painful it might be – was absolutely right on.
 

“Thanks,” said Lee.
 
“I’m used to getting beat up when I write stories like that no matter how accurate they are.”

“Well,” said Blount.
 
“We’re big boys.
 
Yeah, we’ll kick and scream to try to get the spin we want.
 
But we know we’ll take our lumps on occasion.
 
It’s just part of the game.”

Blount paused for a moment and raised his eyebrows inquisitively at Lee.

“However,” he said.
 
“Are you open to the possibility that it isn’t just bad luck or our own incompetence that has us looking like the Keystone Cops?”

“What do you mean?” asked Lee.

“Well, look,” said Blount.
 
“One of the first rules of managing anything – a business or a campaign, it doesn’t matter – is to understand what happened when things go wrong.
 
Pretty basic, right?
 
There is no excuse for repeating a mistake that can be corrected.”

“Right,” said Lee.

“So, we drilled down to see if we can explain why some of those things happened – the
 
events you mentioned in the story,” said Blount.
 
“And the ship that nearly drowned your compatriots?
 
Well, we found out it belongs to a shipping line based in Houston.
 
And four members of the executive team made maximum contributions to Chapman’s campaign.

“And the crop duster that I’m sure you remember fondly?” continued Blount.
 
“Well, it’s a one-man outfit and he’s been grounded for a month after we complained to the FAA.
 
But he works for the big farmers around Salinas.
 
They’re almost all Republicans who are also Chapman contributors.”

The waiter cleared their appetizer plates and refilled their wine glasses.
 

“Hmm.
 
Okay.
 
And, you’re telling me this…why?” said Lee.

“Obviously, I’m trying to sell you on a story,” said Blount.
 
“Look.
 
Cards on the table.
 
I know you were an investigative reporter before you came to San Francisco.
 
If there’s a dirty tricks campaign going on, you can probably dig it out.
 
I’m not saying write a story because of what I’m telling you.
 
I’m clearly biased.
 
Take everything I say with a grain of salt.
 
But, I do truly believe there is something rotten going on here.
 
If I’m right, it’s worth taking a look.
 
If not, there’s some time wasted but no harm done.
 
That’s all.”

Lee took a long sip of the Riesling.
 
It was dry yet tasted of melons and something else.
 
Maybe a hint of peach.
 
A good combination.

“I’ll think about it,” said Lee.
 
“It’s not what I’m doing these days – investigative work. The ship connection is interesting.
 
The Salinas angle…I don’t know.
 
Seems a bit circumstantial.
 
Big business owners are mainly going to be in Chapman’s camp anyway.