The Gatekeeper (25 page)

“Thanks for coming down here.”

Maltz shrugged. “You’re the boss. Jagerson is still recovering, so I’ve got Fribush and Kane with me.”

Syd glanced back at them. She’d worked with Fribush before. She didn’t know anything about Kane but he looked capable enough. Aside from slight variations in height and hair color, Special Ops guys were basically replicants: same body type, same square jaw, same army/navy surplus attire.

“Kane’s local,” Maltz said. “He thinks most of the floats are assembled in the warehouse district south of town. Figured we’d start there.”

“Sounds good,” Syd said, leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes. She’d been trained to go for a week straight with less than an hour of sleep a day. Consequently, she could drop off nearly anywhere, at anytime. She’d passed out at takeoff and woke up as the wheels touched ground, but still felt groggy. Just because she could do it didn’t mean she enjoyed it.

“How are the Grants?” Maltz asked.

My, he was chatty today,
Syd thought, surprised. “I have no idea,” she said. She didn’t. In fact she’d completely forgotten about them when the FBI made it clear her services were no longer required. And now, with Randall dead, that connection had been broken. “Why do you want to know?”

Maltz shrugged. It was hard to tell with his perpetual ruddiness, but she could swear he was blushing. “They seemed like nice girls. Nice family,” he said

“I guess,” Syd said dubiously, thinking of Audrey.
Nice
wasn’t the first word that came to mind, but then she hadn’t spent much time with them. Maybe they were nice
people to flee through the countryside with. Anything was possible, she supposed.

“You got everything?”

“Most of it,” Maltz replied. “Kane’s got a good base of supplies.”

“Good,” Syd said, relaxing back in her seat. As she watched the passing landscape she ran through possible strategies and scenarios in her mind. The desert sun outside the window burned hot, reminiscent of the countless other sand-blown cities she’d driven through over the years. This one was notably less exotic, however: Phoenix, Arizona.

She was surprised Phoenix hadn’t occurred to the others. It hit her the minute Burke’s name was mentioned. Of course he’d target his hometown—it was the natural choice. In the trailer she’d waited for it to dawn on the Feds. Obviously they didn’t have as much experience with warlords and ambitious generals, since they kept droning on about warehouses and driving radiuses. She’d almost told them, but after the brush-off they’d given her, decided against it. She knew how to stop one of the attacks. And perversely, she decided to help. Hard to say whether this was a knee jerk reaction to being told she was useless, or something else. Maybe it was because as an operative, she’d frequently been forced to stand by and do nothing while all sorts of terrible things happened, since there were “bigger issues at stake.” She’d always hated that expression, it usually meant a slew of innocents were about to draw their last breath and no one really gave a shit.

So here she was, then. Syd Clement, former spook, on a mission to save Phoenix from becoming even more of a barren hellscape than it already was.

“I’ll go in first,” she said, turning to Maltz. “Check each one out. If I need you, I’ll give the signal to move in.”

“You sure? We could split up, it would go faster.”

“If you got what I asked for, this shouldn’t take long at all,” she said, glancing at her watch. Nearly 3:30 p.m. Syd closed her eyes and said, “Wake me when we’re close.”

“B
ingo,” Rodriguez said.

“You got something?” Jake crossed the room and leaned over his shoulder. There was an image on his computer screen.

“That’s Burke, you moron,” George said.

“No shit, Sherlock. But check out who’s behind him,” Rodriguez retorted.

It was a society picture from a formal event. Burke had his arm around someone identified as a prominent lobbyist, who apparently was no stranger to Botox. And in the background, on the edge of the frame, was a hulking beast of a man. It was hard to tell from the angle, but…Jake compared it with Dante’s mug shot. It was him all right. Square head like a pit bull, shaven bald, looking wildly uncomfortable in a suit a size too small. “When was this taken?” he asked.

“A year ago, at a GOP fund-raiser.”

“Any idea what Dante was doing there?”

“I say we call this lobbyist and ask.”

“We could fax this over to his office, let his secretary have a gander…”

“For all we know Dante is his secretary. And the higher-ups don’t want Burke to get a whiff of this yet.” Jake looked at them. “Do we run this by Leonard?”

“Fuck Leonard,” Rodriguez said forcefully. “Great thing about lobbyists is that they love getting calls, day and night.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you, Rodriguez.” Jake cracked a smile. “Sorry, George, I have a new favorite agent.”

“I’m all torn up about it.” George rolled his eyes. “Please, promise me you’ll tread carefully. I’m not cut out for the private sector.”

It took all of ten minutes to track down the office number for the lobbyist in the photo, and another five to convince a beleaguered staffer that they needed to speak with him immediately. After outlining what the administration thought of lobbyists who didn’t help the FBI in matters of national security, and how that reflected on pork barrel spending for their clients, a cell phone number was produced.

“Who wants to make the call?” Rodriguez asked, holding up the receiver.

“Dibs.” George put it on speakerphone. The lobbyist answered on the third ring. From the sound of things, there was a full-scale party going on in the background.

“Hello, Mr. Jeffers, this is Special Agent George Fong calling from the FBI. Your name came up in the course of an investigation, and I was wondering if you could help us out.”

“What? My name?” Jeffers voice veered quickly from alarm to a practiced honeyed tone. “I’m sure there must be some mistake. Let me give you the number for my attorney—”

“The investigation actually involves a third party, sir. All we need is for you to identify a man in a photo.”

A long pause. “Well, I suppose that would be—”

“We’d really appreciate the help, Mr. Jeffers. I’m sending it to your phone right now.”

Rodriguez sent the photo, and they waited. Jeffers maintained a running monologue, most of which revolved around damn cell phones and how tricky they were to operate. Rodriguez rolled his eyes, and Jake made a motion for him not to laugh. “Ah, this…this is Jack Burke,” Jeffers finally said. “Just became a senator, you know, after that tragedy with—”

“Right, we know. I’d actually like you to identify the man standing behind Mr. Burke on his left.”

“Oh, all right.” Jeffers sounded inordinately relieved that the investigation didn’t involve a new senator whom he probably had high hopes for. “That guy. I can’t remember his name, he’s just Jack’s bodyguard,” he said dismissively.

“I didn’t realize Mr. Burke needed a bodyguard,” George said carefully.

“Oh, well, I’m sure he doesn’t. My wife and I assumed it was one of Jack’s eccentricities, he’s quite a character. He took him to a few events. You’re right, though. As I always say, you only get mugged at those parties by people like me.” He laughed heartily.

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Jeffers. And if you’d please keep this conversation private for the moment—”

“Oh, absolutely, absolutely.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have to say, I’m not surprised to hear the bodyguard’s in trouble. He seemed…rough around the edges, if you know what I mean. I was surprised Jack hired him, he usually has excellent taste in people.”

“Clearly,” George said, before hanging up.

“Nicely done.” Jake clapped George on the shoulder.

“Bodyguard, huh?” Rodriguez said. “Wonder if that means he was on the official payroll.”

“If he was, it’s under a different name,” George said. “I went through all the records, there’s no Dante listed anywhere, not even under the shell companies.”

“So is it enough to take to Leonard?” Rodriguez asked. “It’s a link, but if they’re not willing to smear Burke, maybe they won’t use this, either.”

“Something tells me they won’t have any reservations about throwing someone like Dante under the bus,” Jake scoffed.

“Even if it tips off Burke?”

“Screw Burke. At this point, he should know we’re breathing down his neck. I say we make sure they plaster Dante Parrish’s face across the networks,” Jake said forcefully. The two agents exchanged a glance. “What?” he demanded.

“It’s just…at this point, we should let the Bureau decide how they want to manage things,” Rodriguez said, looking uncomfortable.

“Rodriguez is right, Jake. They might want to keep the search for Dante on the down low. If Burke gets backed into a corner, he might detonate early.”

“Et tu, George?” Jake said.

George shrugged. “I got a job to keep, man. And nobody wants those bombs going off.”

“All right, fine,” Jake said, defeated. “Let’s head over to the big people’s trailer.”

Kelly opened the door of the trailer and was startled to find Jake poised to knock, with George and Rodriguez behind him.

“Hi,” he said. “How’s it going over here?”

“All right, I guess,” she said cautiously. “Did the truck search turn anything up?”

“Um, we decided to go in a different direction.”

“Jake…”

“Trust me, you’re going to like what we have to say.” He glanced past her shoulder, where Leonard was tucking his computer into a case. “Going somewhere?”

“Phoenix, actually. We figure since it’s Burke’s district—”

“Oh my God,” George interrupted. “You’re right, it’s the perfect target. Can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”

Rodriguez groaned at the mention of Phoenix.

Jake gave Kelly a hard look. “Let me guess—invited guests only. And we’re not on the list.”

Kelly shifted uncomfortably at the hurt in his voice. “You said you had something?”

“Can we come in?”

Leonard muttered something under his breath, then waved them in impatiently. “What is it?”

“Wow. You really weren’t expecting us to come up with anything, were you?” Jake grinned. “Nice to be appreciated.”

“Cut the shit, Riley. I don’t have time for it. Our plane takes off in a half hour. If you’ve got something, spit it out.”

Jake glared at him. Kelly half expected him to storm out of the trailer. But after a long second, he handed over a stack of photos, saying, “Your printer sucks, by the way. That’s the best resolution I could get.”

“Who the hell is this?” Leonard asked, holding up the top picture.

Kelly examined it: a mug shot of a skinhead. He didn’t look like any of the guys she’d arrested in Arizona, but it was hard to be sure.

“Dante Parrish,” Jake said. “Burke’s bodyguard.”

“And I care about this why?” Leonard demanded.

“Because we’re pretty sure he was involved in the kidnapping of the Grant girl. And now it turns out he’s linked
to Burke.” Jake shrugged. “But hey, if we’re bothering you, we’ll head back to the kids’ table.”

“It makes sense,” Kelly said slowly. “To get the Aryan Brotherhood on board, Burke would need someone to bridge the gap. He wouldn’t have been able to make those connections on his own.”

“I’m willing to bet if you look, you’ll find photos of Burke with someone involved with the Minutemen, too,” Jake said, jabbing the photo with one finger, “and probably some biker gang. But right now, we got this guy.”

Leonard flipped through the stack, settling on the one with Burke in the foreground. “Okay,” he said finally. “It’s something. I’ll put it out on the wire.”

“That’s it?” Jake asked.

“Yeah, that’s it. Now, I’ve got a plane to catch.” He turned to Kelly. “You coming, Agent Jones?”

“One minute.”

“Fine. But any longer and we leave without you.”

Leonard glowered at Jake as he pushed past. Kelly saw Jake’s jaw go rigid and put a hand on his arm. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“I know that look.”

“He would’ve deserved it.” Jake grinned, but his eyes remained serious. “And I don’t love that you’re flying into a city with a bull’s-eye painted on it.”

“That’s why I was going to call you from the plane,” Kelly said, but at his expression she backtracked. “That was a joke. A bad one.”

“You should know better. Jokes aren’t your thing.”

“Apparently,” she agreed, running her hand up to his shoulder. George and Rodriguez moved a few feet back to give them some privacy. “Leonard isn’t much of an outside-the-box thinker. And I want to stop at least one
of these attacks if I can. If we catch whoever is in charge in Phoenix, they might know where the other bombs are.”

“They won’t.” Jake shook his head. “Classic cell structure. There probably aren’t many people who know the whole plan. And only a few will be able to connect it back to Burke. He’s had a long time to plan this.”

“Still, I’ve got to try.”

“This is a hell of a last case,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

“Tell me about it.”

Without warning he pulled her in tight to his chest. “I love you, Kelly. Don’t get hurt,” he whispered fiercely into her hair before letting go.

“I love you, too,” she said, managing a weak smile before trotting to the waiting SUV.

“P
ull over,” Syd barked. Maltz obliged, screeching to the side of the road. Fribush and Kane jolted forward but didn’t say anything. Syd ran her eyes over the low buildings. They were south of Phoenix, in an area dominated by abandoned warehouses and factories that had seen better days. The first three stops had been fruitless, just a bunch of people clambering over makeshift floats festooned with cheap-looking red, white and blue bunting. The entries ranged from floats with a “love your local farmer” theme, complete with fake orange trees, to papier-mâché tributes to the Declaration of Independence. It all struck Syd as horribly pedestrian, but she complimented their creativity profusely before moving on. They’d been at it for nearly two hours, and she could feel the team’s spirits flagging. If they didn’t turn up anything here she’d break for a meal. She needed them sharp in case the shit hit the fan.

But first, there was one last place to check. An older man at the last site had mentioned driving by a float being assembled farther south. And bingo, within a hundred yards of the place her dosimeter went bananas.

At her tone, Fribush and Kane straightened. “What do you want to do?” Maltz asked.

“Circle once, not too slowly.”

Maltz obeyed, swinging the SUV past the open entrance to the warehouse and continuing toward the rear. Syd kept her face relaxed while she studied the building. The nose of a red truck poked out the door. The familiar tacky patriotic bunting around the cab, a crisp new American flag mounted across the grill. One man visible by the door, most likely keeping watch. No way to know how many others were inside. The main exit was partially blocked by the truck. There was a narrow alley between that building and the one next door; it didn’t look like any doors opened onto it. Around back, a door was set in the wall next to a battered Dumpster, probably an emergency exit since there was no handle. Not good, that meant it might be alarmed. Syd couldn’t see any windows, either; whoever chose the site knew their job. Which didn’t leave a lot of options for her team. At least there were no visible cameras. She waved for Maltz to drive down the block while she turned it over in her mind.

“What do you think?” he finally asked.

“You and I go in the front,” Syd said, “using the cover we discussed. Fribush and Kane check the back to see if they can get in quietly. If they can, signal me via cell and we’ll use the flash bangs, throw them off enough to pin them down.”

“And if the back is locked?”

“Same plan, but on my signal we blow the door. I don’t want them heading out the back while we take the front. There are other cells out there, we don’t want them to know a target has been compromised.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to do a more thorough recon,” Maltz said uncertainly.

Syd shrugged. “I don’t think we have time. The drive-by might have already spooked them.”

Fribush and Kane got out of the SUV, removed two duffel bags from the hatch, and trotted toward the rear of the building. She waited until they were in position, then nodded at Maltz. He pulled a baseball cap down low over his eyes and circled back to the front. The man inside the door stepped out as they approached. Maltz parked at an angle, discreetly blocking the truck, nose slightly out in case they had to leave quickly. Syd pulled out her ponytail and ran a hand through her hair. As she stepped from the car, she flashed the lookout a hundred-watt smile.

He was young, no more than twenty-five, tough and stringy-looking. Definitely not the first team, Syd thought—strictly benchwarmer material. Whoever assigned him lookout duty figured it was something even he couldn’t screw up. But she was about to prove them wrong.

“Hi there!” she said, letting her accent shine through. She jutted a hand toward him.

He reflexively shook her hand, jaw slightly agape. Maltz stood right behind her. His HK was tucked inside a many-pocketed photographer’s vest, and around his neck hung a digital camera that harbored a 9mm and a huge flash designed to blind and disorient.

“I’m Gail Jones, from the
Arizona Republic?
We’re doing a story on the parade tomorrow? You know, the sorts of things people are doing to prepare, what Independence Day means to them…” She laid a hand on his arm. “Human interest. We’ve taken shots of almost all the other floats, and would love to include yours. Did you go with a red, white and blue theme? Or something else?”

“Umm…” he stammered.

She brushed past him into the warehouse. It was
stifling inside, the heat had been trapped by the cheap metal roof and the air appeared to shimmer. Syd fanned herself with one hand as her eyes darted around the interior. Another man was adjusting something on the truck bed. He straightened at the sight of her and frowned. No one else visible, but it was hard to make out the depths of the warehouse in the dim lighting. She caught movement by the back door—Fribush and Kane.

“Hey, lady, you’re not supposed—”

She swiveled to face the kid, who had a look of growing alarm in his face.

“I really love this, your whole melting pot theme. Haven’t seen anything like it yet. Do you mind if we take a few pictures?”

“No pictures!” The other man jumped off the float and ran toward them, waving his arms forcefully.
Head of the local cell, I presume,
Syd thought. Maltz raised the camera.

She pasted her best startled look on her face. “But really, what you’ve done here is so great. Why don’t you all gather in front of it. One shot and we’ll be out of your hair. This could be the lead—”

“Get the fuck out,” the guy snarled, skidding to a stop directly in front of her. He was average-sized but had a hard look to him—prison, or maybe the army, Syd thought. Shit. And he was clearly the brains of this particular operation.

He glared at her, then his gaze shifted to Maltz. His eyes suddenly narrowed, and Syd knew they’d been made. “Flag!” she yelled, digging in her purse for her gun. She fumbled it and cursed.

All hell broke loose in the warehouse. Maltz’s camera flashed, blinding her, followed immediately by the sputter of rounds being squeezed off. Something sparked to her
right, and Syd instinctively dove in the direction of the flatbed, commando-crawling until she was underneath it. She got behind one of the wheels just in time to see the kid drop, felled by Maltz. The other guy had vanished.

Shouting erupted from the rear of the warehouse. Syd panned the darkness quickly, eyeing through the sight on her HK. The yelling was coming from behind a door to a partitioned-off area. It slammed open and a spray of bullets pocked the floor and walls. There was a sudden bright light and piercing noise. Syd jerked her head away, wishing she had a free hand to plug her ears. The flash bang was hell in an enclosed space.

Everything was muffled, as if sounds were crawling to her ears through glue. Maltz was fifteen feet away, aiming his gun at something she couldn’t see. She was rusty, since diving for cover it had taken her thirty seconds to process the scene and react. Not good. If she was still with the Agency, that alone would have been grounds for dismissal.

A sudden rumbling, then a lurch. For a second Syd experienced the disconcerting sensation that the warehouse was moving away from her, then realized it was the tires as the truck headed out the door. She rolled in time to avoid getting squashed and lay as flat as possible, watching the tow lights blink red. A collision, the grinding of metal muted by her temporary deafness as the truck shoved their SUV aside as if it were an errant toy. She jumped to her feet. Maltz was already behind the wheel when she scrambled in. One side of the SUV was badly scraped and dented, but it looked driveable.

“Fribush and Kane?” she asked, breathless.

“It looked like they had it handled.” Maltz peeled out after the truck. “Bastard just missed me, had a 9mm subcompact in his jeans. By the time I reloaded he was in the truck cab.”

“We’ve got to stop him,” Syd said, watching as the truck fishtailed, the flatbed whipping in a wide arc as he spun onto the main road.

“We can try,” Maltz said, jaw set. “But I gotta be honest, a car versus a big rig, I don’t love our chances.” He glanced at her. “You want to call the cops?”

Syd chewed her lower lip. She hated the thought of it. But if that truck made it downtown…she dug in her purse for her cell phone. “Stay as close as you can without riding up his ass,” she muttered as she dialed.

Jake picked up on the third ring. “Hi, partner,” she said.

“Hey,” he said. “How’s Phoenix?”

“How did you know?”

“Call it a lucky guess. So, did you find the guy?”

“We did, actually.” Syd watched as the truck nearly took out a Honda Civic. It swerved up the on-ramp to Route 10, headed north toward Phoenix proper. “One slight problem, though. He’s got the bomb on the road.”

“Jesus, Syd.”

“I was thinking you have a better shot at getting the police to respond. Coming from me, it might get dismissed as a crank call.”

“Go figure.” Syd heard Jake talking to someone in a low voice, then an exclamation in the background. “All right, George is handling it. I’ll stay on with you while he patches us through to dispatch. What exit are you closest to?”

“He just passed Exit 155.” Syd watched smaller cars struggle to get out of the way, several of them nearly colliding with each other. Maltz swerved around them, managing to stay fifteen feet back from the truck’s tail. It was surreal watching the float whip around, the Statue of Liberty canted sideways by the rapid turns, streamers tearing away and wafting back on the breeze. Syd wondered where the bomb was—inside the main statue?
It would make sense, especially if someone had a funny sense of irony. “You’re pissed, aren’t you?”

“Pissed
isn’t the right word. I’m just wondering what it is about me that sends women running toward a bomb,” Jake said cryptically.

Syd decided that didn’t bear a response. She called out the next few exits as they blew past them. The truck was gaining momentum. She watched nervously as their speedometer crept past ninety, then a hundred. Horns blared in their wake, but the truck cleared a straight swath.

“Uh-oh,” Maltz said suddenly.

Syd saw it at the same time: the highway swept up a bridge in a long arc, and there were brake lights ahead. Rush-hour traffic. “Shit,” she said.

“Yup,” Maltz agreed.

“Jake, he’s driving about a hundred miles an hour, and he’s about to hit traffic,” Syd said.

There was silence on the other end of the phone. “The nearest unit is still a few minutes away,” Jake finally said. “They’re setting up roadblocks at the exits, but it doesn’t sound like he’s going to make it that far.”

“Definitely not. This is going to get ugly.” Syd turned to Maltz. “Flip around and get us the hell out of here.”

Maltz nodded, slowing down. The truck plowed forward as if the driver was oblivious to the danger ahead. “C’mon,” she breathed. “Slow the fuck down. Don’t do this.”

They had almost decelerated enough for Maltz to turn the SUV around when the truck started climbing the bridge. Two cars skidded into each other as the drivers took too long to react. The screech of brakes, crunch of metal. A horn blared, then was cut off as the truck slammed into the wall of slower vehicles at the top of the ramp, scattering them like metal jacks.

“Crap,” Maltz said. They watched in silence as the truck moved inexorably forward, slowing incrementally like a knife carving through butter. It hit the Jersey barrier on the shoulder of the bridge. For a second it appeared as if the concrete might hold, but the weight of the truck plowed through it. The cab suddenly vanished from view as the float pitched high in the air.

“Stay low!” Syd said, diving into the backseat.

Maltz spun the wheel in a tight turn, flipping them around. Their tires got caught in the loose gravel on the side of the road and spun helplessly.

“Maltz, get back here! It’s too late!” Syd grabbed at his arm, trying to drag him into the backseat where they’d have more cushioning.

He didn’t respond, just ground down on the accelerator until the SUV jerked free and fishtailed, spitting pebbles. He gritted his teeth as he floored it. Syd instinctively braced herself against the back of the seat. In her heart she knew it was already too late.

Everything seemed to slow down. Maltz shouted something and her cell phone emitted tinny sounds from the front seat, but Syd couldn’t make them out. Her hands covered her ears, her eyes squeezed shut as she waited for what seemed like forever.

Then a flash so bright it penetrated her closed lids, followed by a roar of sound and a wave of heat, and the world vanished in a roiling cloud of darkness.