Holloway kept his silence for a five count, at most. “Like...more or less than when I told you that thing about American men's contemplations of what a succubus–”
“Dick.” I thumped the wheel lightly. “There's too much in play here. Nobody I'm talking to is unraveling the nuttiness.”
“I'm sure a break is coming,” Holloway said.
“Good,” I said, “because so far we're getting a ton of evidence piled up. Warehouses full, even. But none of it's adding together in a coherent way. Stolen guns. Kidnapping. Sonic weapons used against State Department employees. Reams of fake/real Chinese passports. Workers being held in country by Chinese corporate interests. A meta with demon eyes who keeps fighting me but didn't turn loose his fire powers on me. All these crimes, all these little mysteries intersecting. It's the ultimate Turkish carpet of bullshit, and it's got to form a pattern.” I kept tapping my fingers against the wheel.
“It'll make sense soon,” Holloway said. “You can't trip across this many crimes without discerning the pattern. We're just missing a couple key breakthroughs. Hell, maybe even just one.” He wore a partial smile and I found it weirdly reassuring. “Who knows? Maybe it's even at the Port of Baltimore.”
“We should be so lucky,” I muttered, wondering when the traffic – and this damned case – would break.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Chapman
It took him a while to get through to Wu, but when he finally did, Huang sounded like he'd been shaken out of a deep sleep. “Wu, it's me,” Chapman said, then wanted to kick himself for his lameness of speech. Whatever, though; he looked out the window of the Socialite glass pyramid over the grassy, sparsely wooded campus, breathing like he was in meditation.
“Yes?” Huang's voice was all grog, a little edge seeping in, as though his patience were waning. Chapman hadn't done the calculus on what time it was in China, but it was probably very early morning.
“I've taken some steps toward curbing the Sienna Nealon problem we discussed earlier,” Chapman said. “And I've learned a few things about her investigation I figure I should pass on.”
“Oh?” Huang's voice suddenly got clearer. Good. The offer of a quid pro quo cut through the fog of sleep.
Chapman launched right into it. “She's currently on her way to the Port of Baltimore with a search warrant for a dock facility that's linked to a company called HKKCME.” There was no point in not blurting it out; if it came to whose side Chapman was on in this, it damned sure wasn't Sienna Nealon's. Get her out of the way and a deal that would reshape the world would recommence. Let her win and...what? Shit would fall apart, that's what. His deal, diplomatic relations with China, who knew what else? The last thing they needed was World War III, especially with Gondry going into re-election. He'd looked strong after Revelen. Things falling apart with China would undo all the victory that came from that conflict.
“That's interesting,” Huang said, a catch in his voice. It was more than interesting, Chapman judged. “But what are you doing about keeping her from making her poisonous and fruitless accusations? These are of far greater concern to us than whatever she's doing on a moment by moment basis.”
“I've talked to some people,” Chapman said. “People close to the president. She has little influence with him, and she'll be boxed out of any further meetings with him.” He could hardly promise that, but Bilson and Chalke didn't seem inclined to put her in a position to talk to Gondry. Really...why would the president want to talk to that moron anyway? The perspective of a corn-fed Midwestern dullard could be had from a much prettier face or brighter mind.
“Our officials fear that the damage may already be done,” Huang said.
“I'll work to undo it,” Chapman said. “I have PR firms on the payroll. Lobbyists. Lawyers. Even reporters who eat out of the palm of my hand.” A small bead of sweat dripped down his temple. “I can marshal them all and turn them against her. I know the people the president listens to.” Here he thought of that knucklehead Chris Byrd, newly added to the Network. “I can get them to say anything you want about her to keep her out of the Oval Office.”
Huang was quiet for so long that Chapman was almost afraid he'd lost the man. He was on the verge of asking when Huang chimed back in.
“That...might just work,” Huang finally said, and Chapman let out a long breath he hadn't even known his was holding.
They were back in business, and he was going to save this deal yet. No matter what.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Sienna
Getting out of the car at the Port of Baltimore, I was suddenly struck by the feeling that I'd forgotten something. Seagulls cawed in the distance, and a quick look overhead revealed birds circling – or at least a pigeon or twelve.
I snapped my fingers, realizing what I'd “forgotten.” “Shit,” I said under my breath as Holloway slammed his door.
“What?” he asked.
“I gotta make a call real quick,” I said, pulling out my phone and dialing Bilson. I'd headed to Baltimore without checking in with him like I'd promised. Whether I'd wanted it or not, Chalke had assigned me to him, and if I was going to try and make nice with her – even for my own reasons – I needed to at least pretend to jump through the hoops in front of me.
“Yeah, cool, I'll just sit over here and look at the warehouses,” Holloway said under his breath. “And sweat. A lot, actually.”
He wasn't wrong about that. Even with sundown coming, it was sweltering out here. The sea breeze might have been the only saving grace, and even that wasn't doing much.
Bilson picked up on the fifth ring. “Hello!” So chipper.
“Hey, got a lead,” I said, launching right past the pleasantries. “The company that we checked out earlier? They have a lease on a pier down at the Port of Baltimore. Judge approved a search warrant, so we're about to take a peek.”
There was a subtle change in the timbre of his voice. “Right now?”
“Yeah, sorry for the late notice,” I said. “It's potentially dangerous, though, given the company connections to stolen guns, so you should probably stay back from this one.”
“I'll be there shortly,” Bilson said, and then he hung up, leaving me staring at my phone.
“Not in rush hour, you won't,” I said under my breath, pocketing the phone.
“How'd that go?” Holloway asked.
“Marvelous. We'll see our civilian observer as soon as traffic permits, I reckon.”
“Oh, good, I love oversight,” Holloway groused. “How'd you get saddled with him, anyway?”
“He's not bad,” I said. “Chalke insisted. I think she's afraid I'm too much trouble if left without adult supervision.”
“What the hell am I?” Holloway asked as we crossed the steaming pavement toward the pier in question. “Chopped liver?”
“A problem drinker, at least,” I said, “and also – not in charge of me. Thank God.”
His shoulders sagged slightly, then he shrugged. “You got a point there. Maybe a couple of them, actually.”
I caught a sly hint of a smile from him. “Did you just make a boob reference?”
Holloway blinked innocently, and I knew that bastard had, figuring he could just slide it past me. “What? Me? Noooo.”
“Do you ever live your life out of the gutter?” I asked. “Even for a moment? I mean, I thought my head could go to some dirty places, but then I met you, and Sokath, her eyes were uncovered.”
“It's the Army,” Holloway said. “It's a full perversion mentorship program.”
The pier was ahead, a jutting concrete structure that extended hundreds of feet into the dirty beginnings of the Chesapeake Bay. No ships were parked alongside at the moment, but a multi-story heavy-loading crane waited at the end, and stacks of corrugated metal cargo containers lined the edges. A warehouse lay to our left, and the activity level out here was nonexistent. Because it was after quitting time for the longshoremen, I presumed.
“What did the email s
ay the company rented?” I asked, peering at the cargo containers all stacked in multicolor piles.
“This one,” Holloway said, looking around. “I think it might have listed a warehouse, too, but I don't see any clear, identifying marks on these warehouses.”
“Neither do I.” A little tingle went up the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. “Hey, you getting a feeling like–”
“Yeah,” Holloway said, slipping his jacket back so he could draw his pistol off his hip easier. “I am.”
I had to wonder what kind of Spider-sense we were sharing when both of us were picking up an ambush vibe at a random dock in Baltimore. Not so random, though, I suppose, given I'd already been bushwhacked by Firebeetle at one location under this company's aegis. I, too, slipped my jacket back and put my hand on my service Glock. It wasn't my favorite gun, but it was what the bureau offered, and it definitely shot straight, working under some adverse conditions.
“You know what to do if we get ambushed, right?” Holloway asked. He'd slowed his walk and was scanning everywhere, mostly for the closest cover. It was about ten yards away, a cargo container to his left. My closest cover was fifteen yards off, and to my right, because we were split with a gulf of about ten yards between us.
“Attack into the teeth of it, right?” I asked, trying to decide if keeping the split between us was smarter than bunching up. “That's Army doctrine?”
“Yep,” Holloway said, and I could see the meat of his hand digging up against his own Glock's grip. The urge to draw was getting to him, too, but we couldn't do that just for a feeling. No matter how solid or shared that sense was. “Attack in the direction of the ambush and knock their damned teeth out.”
“The Army philosophy strangely mirrors my own.”
“You know a good battle tactic when you hear one,” Holloway said. We were both creeping closer to our respective covers; splitting up had seemed a better idea, giving our potential ambushers more targets to shoot at.
“I think I saw movement ahead,” I said, trying to figure out exactly what I'd seen. We were heading toward a valley of cargo containers, a box canyon of a very literal sort, stacked two and three high and walling us off from the water surrounding the pier on either side. I couldn't tell if I'd seen a bird or just the interplay of colors between two differently shaded containers. Hell, it could have been a shadow, given that sundown was well underway and half the containers were colored with the orange glow of the setting sun.
“Me too,” Holloway said, now whispering and easing toward his container. “I say we break for cover and call for backup from the locals. Hang here until they show.”
A younger, bolder, maybe stupider me would have made a joke about him being a chicken. Current me's alarm bells were all ringing, though, and I matched his move, heading for my own container. “Agreed,” I said, just loud enough he could hear me. “I'm all about the cavalry on this one, and I'm getting a feeling that–”
The abrupt clang of metal stopped me before I could finish my thought. Two of the shipping containers ahead burst open, their doors springing wide and disgorging men with guns, laden with tactical gear.
Staccato bursts of gunfire echoed in the Baltimore dusk and rang through the stacks of shipping containers as Holloway and I both bailed for our respective sides, finally drawing our pistols as we raced for cover.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Chapman
“...Request immediate backup!” Holloway's voice rang tinny over his speaker as Chapman watched. The FBI agent had his phone to the side of his face, cradling it there while he fired his gun with his other hand. It wasn't a great view, given how both the cell phone's cameras were positioned; one was giving Chapman an up-close visual of the shipping container the agent was squatting behind, the other an extreme close-up of Holloway's face as he made his emergency call. The man stuck his gun out and fired a couple times before ducking back under cover and proceeding with his phone call. “Agents under fire, repeat, agents under fire! Port of Baltimore. Request immediate assistance, all units!”
“What a chicken,” Chapman said, watching him slightly angle his pistol's barrel around the shipping container, firing a couple times, then pulling the gun back. He wasn't even looking where he was aiming, let alone sticking his gun out far enough that he could hit anybody. “This view is for shit, man. Come on. Look out there. Lemme see.”
Nealon's phone was buried in her pocket, and he had it muted since all it was giving off was echoing gunshots. Their opponents in this little fracas were firing like mad. Probably had some of those assault weapons that seemed so ubiquitous in middle America. Crazy.
“I want to see what's going on,” Chapman moaned. He was getting pretty tired of watching Holloway's face during this exchange. Was there a nearby camera bank he could seize control of, maybe? Sure, that'd be slightly illegal, but if he couldn't do a little hacking and cover his tracks, pretty much nobody on the planet could.
Chapman messed with his VPN settings; better if this looked like it came from somewhere external. Revelen seemed a good choice, so he went with it. That done, he went to work. Someone had managed a ransomware attack on the whole city of Baltimore last year; surely it wouldn't be too difficult to get into the camera systems...
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Sienna
“...Repeat, we are under heavy fire!” Holloway was screaming into his phone. I couldn't blame him; I'd seen what we were up against, and a combat vet like him had to know we were absolutely borked the way things currently stood.
Our enemy numbered at least twenty, and were moving and covering, layering their fire and chipping away at our shipping containers. Mine had about two hundred holes already punched into the edge I had sheltered behind. If I moved up to shoot, I'd get a hail of bullets for my trouble. Holloway was experiencing a similar fate; his container looked like seriously aged Swiss cheese at the edge where he'd been firing only a moment earlier. He'd stopped and moved back, wisely.
I scanned the area around me. The situation was dire. Our cover options beyond our current containers were dismal. The next nearest to me was over twenty yards of open ground. Holloway's next alternate was maybe a little closer but not much. And toward the enemy, which was unfavorable. Twenty yards of open ground was a hell of a lot given we had twenty-plus hostiles with fully automatic weapons unloading on us. I hadn't gotten a great look before I'd been forced to jump behind my container, but they looked like they might have been in the AK family of rifles. AK-47 or AK-74, I couldn't tell.
The constant thundering of the guns, and the occasional shouts in some foreign language I wasn't well acquainted with, both suggested a plan to me. I was pretty sure the shouts were these guys calling out that they were reloading, a verbal cue to let someone else know to pick up their own volume of fire. They were pounding us in shifts, not letting up.
And getting closer, I had to guess. Advancing.
We couldn't fire back without getting annihilated, either, which meant when they got close enough to turn the corner on us, if we weren't ready...
Well, it'd be game over.
“Holloway!” I shouted, waving to get his attention. He looked over, in the middle of loading a fresh mag in his pistol, and met my eyes.
I telegraphed my plan with one hand while keeping my pistol pointed at the end of the container with the other.
Holloway's eyes went wide as he took it in, then nodded after the shock wore off.
“One for the money,” I said, taking a breath and steeling myself for what I was about to have to do. It was not going to be pleasant. “Two for the show.”
I turned around, facing toward the far end of the container. They hadn't started spraying it with suppressing fire yet, which told me they hadn't quite made it to the no man's land of their own part of the container maze, at which point they'd have a clear field of fire at it.
These were my last moments to act before they had me penned in.
Breaking into a sprint, I ran for the far end o
f the container, dashing out of cover–
A guy in all black tac gear was coming around the next nearest container just as I rounded the curve. He raised his gun at me–
Too late. I shot, stitching him with 9mm bullets as I ran. Two in the chest, one in the head that made it in just under his tactical helmet. It made a mess but held in the pink mist, and I was already behind cover, then leaping before he fell.
My feet left the ground as I reached the edge of the pier, hard concrete footing gone from beneath me as I took a deep breath and plunged twenty feet down and into the chill waters of the Chesapeake Bay.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Chapman
“What the hell are you people doing?” Chapman wondered. Nealon's camera had registered the splash, and now was dark. It had taken him a couple seconds to work it out, then – duh! They were on a pier, there was a splash, ergo...
He was almost into the Port of Baltimore camera feeds. They were amateur hour, really, and lucky for him, because he only had so much time and bandwidth to dedicate to this little side project.
Muting the cell phone cameras was almost an afterthought, he was so deep into the process. Coding was second nature to him; hacking, slightly less so. He'd done his fair share in college, mostly harmless stuff, for the lulz. This, though, was more than for the lulz, though not that serious.
“Who sells these municipalities their encryption?” he scoffed, bringing up access to a couple of servers. Run his program on them, remotely access and–
Chapman let out a small chuckle of victory. This was the problem with being quantum leaps ahead of everyone else in the country, tech-wise. “Can't stand up to the best,” he muttered under his breath. Now where had Nealon gone...?
Dragon: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 37) Page 21
