The Fourth Law

by Paul Stein

  “I have the unfortunate duty to inform you that I have a warrant for your arrest in conjunction with your whereabouts on August 3,” Westbrook replied, sensing that the situation was getting out of hand. “There’s evidence suggesting that you might have been in California.”

  “California? Now you wait just a goddamned minute, mister,” Ryan replied, angry that the officer’s presence was not merely a routine visit he could quickly dismiss. “I’ll answer your questions…but we’ll do it right here. I’ve got an expensive crew waiting on me.” Jutting out his jaw, he defiantly folded his arms across his chest.

  “It’d be a lot better if you came peacefully, Mr. Marshall,” Westbrook replied. “I’ll need to properly record your answers. I’m sure this is just a routine matter and you’ll be back on the job in no time.”

  “I don’t think you understood Mr. Marshall,” Corky Chalmers added. “We don’t take kindly to interruption from outsiders. It disturbs the guys, and when they’re disturbed…accidents can happen. So why don’t you just ask Mr. Marshall your questions and we’ll get back to work?” he said insolently, signaling a couple of the guys to join the brewing discussion.

  “Okay, look,” Westbrook replied, remembering the gas station attendant’s warning that he not cross these men. “I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. This wasn’t my intention. Maybe if you can tell me your whereabouts the past couple of days, we can quickly resolve the matter.”

  Corky’s signal was like an alarm had gone off. The crew acted as if they had received an emergency signal. Everyone on the ground trotted over and, within moments, they completely encircled the truck, with the unknown intruder in the dark glasses held captive in the center. “What’s up, Corky?” several workmen asked in unison, each jostling for a position in the tightly forming circle.

  “This yahoo thinks he’s taking Mr. Marshall to jail,” Corky responded. “I don’t know who he thinks he is…but on this job, everyone abides by the rules. What’s the first rule?” he asked, holding up a finger.

  “Nothing goes without the foreman’s approval,” the men shouted together.

  Westbrook was feeling very uncomfortable. The situation was beyond his control. Pressing his authority would only further alienate this rowdy bunch. He decided the path of least resistance was to quickly remove himself from the knot of belligerent men, and return later with reinforcements.

  “I hope you guys understand I’m only here to investigate Mr. Marshall’s whereabouts the past couple of days. It wasn’t my intent to upset anyone; I apologize for provoking you,” he said in a calm, reassuring voice. “We can discuss this another time.”

  “Listen, Detective…Westbrook, is it?” Ryan said, before his men made the situation any worse. “I wasn’t in California the past month, let alone the past couple days. But before I say more, can you tell me where you think I might have been?”

  “I’d really prefer to discuss this in private, Mr. Marshall,” Westbrook replied. “My questions could be personally damaging; you might not want anyone to know the nature of this business.”

  “Enough of this hokey bullshit,” shouted a voice from the unruly crowd. They were tightening upon the detective standing next to Marshall at the center of the group.

  “Throw his ass in the gorge,” yelled another antagonistic voice.

  “Hey, mister, how’s ‘bout a firsthand look at what pissed-off iron workers can do to your sorry ass?” someone else shouted. There were loud shouts of agreement and many of the men began waving steel spud poles above their heads.

  “Okay, okay,” shouted Ryan above the din of voices, raising his hands aloft, trying to calm his men. He appreciated their trying to intimidate the officer, but he didn’t figure obstruction of justice was the solution, either. “Let’s hear the man out.”

  Westbrook waited for the tumult to quiet before he continued. “Mr. Marshall, you’re wanted for questioning in conjunction with a theft at the office of your cousin, Dr. Jarrod Conrad, at Stanford University on the night of August 3. There was a security guard fatally wounded in the building that same night. The Palo Alto detectives in charge of this investigation have found evidence at the scene that suggests you were in your cousin’s office. It’s the nature of the evidence that has brought me here today. I had hoped to talk to you about this privately…but obviously this has become impossible.”

  “That son-of-a-bitch!” Ryan yelled, the veins in his neck popping out, and his face flushed by the accusation from the officer. “Let me tell you something, Detective,” he shouted, moving closer, pointing his finger in Westbrook’s face, “there’s no way you’re going to arrest me on this trumped-up charge. This is bullshit! Earlier today we discovered that tower crane had been tampered with,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder at the crane. “It would have caused a terrible accident had we tried to lift that chunk of iron over there. I’ll bet anything my fucking cousin’s at the bottom of this whole mess. Now he’s made it look like I broke into his office. You’ve got to listen to me, Detective. Things aren’t what they appear. My cousin’s as twisted as anyone you’ve ever met. What exactly did you find that led you out here?”

  “Look, let’s everyone just back it down a notch,” Westbrook pleaded, feeling even more threatened by Marshall’s outburst. He wished he hadn’t taken this assignment without proper backup. He also hadn’t followed the usual protocol of notifying the Taos County sheriff that he was in their jurisdiction. He was in big trouble; his only hope was to remain calm and hope to survive in one piece.

  “Palo Alto PD found a crumpled piece of note paper with your company logo at the scene. We’ll need to do a handwriting analysis. I’m sure that once we get to the bottom of all the evidence, the facts will prove your innocence. But let’s not make this any harder by resisting arrest.”

  Westbrook paused, trying to gauge Marshall’s response. From the enraged look on his face, he could only surmise that his best advice wouldn’t be heeded. “You’re a high-profile man, Mr. Marshall. Think about what you’re doing. You don’t want an all-points bulletin issued for your arrest. That can’t help your situation any,” he warned.

  Westbrook was powerless. Even if he drew his weapon, the iron workers wouldn’t let him leave without a fight, and there was no way to handcuff this pissed-off giant, anyway.

  “Get him, boys,” Corky yelled, as several of the larger men moved in to seize Detective Westbrook. They held his arms fast as he struggled, quickly taking his weapon and cell phone. One of the crew grabbed his keys, running to the vehicle to confiscate additional weapons. He also disabled the two-way radio, severing the cord on the hand-held mike. Detective Westbrook was at the mercy of the iron workers.

  “You guys are in such deep shit!” Westbrook yelled as they continued to rough him up. “I’ll have the whole bunch of you jailed on obstruction charges. Let me go…now,” he fumed, feeling certain that these guys were quite capable of killing him.

  Ryan Marshall had heard enough. He walked briskly away from the gang of men that had come to his aid. “Corky, I don’t want the good detective to come to any harm, ya hear? After I grab a few things from the office, I’m heading out to track down my fucking cousin. Wait about an hour before you let the officer go, understand?”

  Corky nodded.

  “And get Big Mo off the truck, then send Apache home. Make sure you talk to the trucker so he doesn’t blab about what just happened. I don’t have a clue when I’ll be back, so you’re in charge now. I want this bridge to stay on schedule. That’s why I hired you. You’re ready, Corky. Can I depend on you?”

  “Yes, sir. You’ve got my word,” he said, following Ryan into the construction trailer. “What do you think’s going on?”

  “I really don’t know what to think, Corky,” Ryan said in a rush while stuffing items from his desk into his briefcase. He went to the small floor safe and withdrew several hundred dollars of petty cash that the office used for miscellaneous expenses. He left a handwritten note with his sig
nature to account for the withdrawal.

  “I’ll tell you one thing…this is no coincidence. The fact our tower crane was vandalized on the same day I’m accused of breaking into my cousin’s lab is no mere twist of fate. Someone’s behind this; I’ll bet anything it’s my fucked-up cousin. Wait ’til I get my hands on the son-of-a-bitch.”

  Corky noticed Ryan’s hands were shaking. He’d never seen him so upset. There was a weird look on his face he’d never seen before, either. It was almost like he was possessed.

  “Hey, I’m going to need another favor. Give me the keys to your truck,” Ryan asked with his hand outstretched.

  Corky sensed from the way he thrust his hand out that he wasn’t so much asking a favor, but making a demand. He handed Ryan his keys.

  “I’m heading north to Pueblo. I’ll exchange your truck for a rental car on my way to Denver. I’ll let you know what rental agency. In any case, the state police will have an APB out for my arrest the minute Westbrook calls in. I need a head start out of New Mexico.”

  “Sure, no problem. My truck’s back at the motel,” Corky said. “Just be careful. This is messed up, Ryan. If it’s as you say, your cousin’ll be expecting you to come after him. If you need backup, you just let me know and a bunch of guys will be right there.”

  Corky followed Ryan out the door. “And don’t worry about the project. You’ve lined up everything far enough ahead to keep us going well through the completion of the span. You just keep your head down. The law’ll be scoping for you like a Cooper’s hawk on a gopher hole.”

  “Don’t worry about me, ya hear?” Ryan replied. “I’ve got this. Keeping me in business is the best way to help me now. One more thing…call Sarah. Let her know what’s happened. Tell her I’m on my way to find Jarrod. Tell her not to call me or talk to the police until I have a chance to figure this out. It’s important she not jump to conclusions. Tell her I can explain everything.”

  With those final instructions, Ryan walked out of the trailer toward his vehicle, started the engine, and sped from the construction site with his wheels spewing gravel and a plume of dust as he departed.

  God help Jarrod Conrad when Ryan finds him, thought Corky, watching him squirrel up the dirt road. Fury’s coming…and hell’s close behind.

  TWELVE

  LIVERMORE, CALIFORNIA 11:00 HOURS

  RICHARD KILMER couldn’t delay any longer. It was time to present the Livermore plan to his men. He knew there would be strident opposition, but he had confidence they were disciplined enough to pull it off. Because each man was literally the best in his chosen field, they also possessed strong beliefs about how to formulate a plan of attack. Admittedly, there were times when the pre-mission presentation had enhanced his tactical design, but in the end, Kilmer also knew his plan would ultimately prevail— compensation of $1 million per man was something none of them would turn away from. The minute they answered his call, accepting the plan was really non-negotiable. It was all or nothing. The success or failure in the upcoming Livermore job would come down to the evacuation, which would hinge on Colt Hamil. They were about to find out just how good a driver Colt really was.

  Kilmer spent the morning recuperating from the late night at the Quantum Building. He went through his equipment cache and segregated what he would need for the Livermore operation. He thoroughly cleaned, inspected, and oiled both his nine-millimeter automatic pistols. The 380 Beretta was his preference for closequarters personal protection, but he always thought the Lugar was more accurate for distance shots. He loaded six clips with 148 grain full-metal jacket rounds, deciding against hollow points, and carefully secured these in his specially made harness. Then he emptied and repacked the gear bag that stowed his commando clothing: night-vision goggles, storm trooper boots, hood, and black nomex jumpsuit. As team leader, he didn’t normally carry much gear except a spare radio and battery.

  Kilmer completed his equipment checklist and then went online to access his offshore Cayman bank account. He was delighted to see that Holloway had recently deposited $4.5 million. This covered the $1 million outstanding from the Quantum job, and fifty percent payment of the $7-million Livermore mission. He was relieved that Holloway had not decided to delay the upcoming mission while Aldin Mills verified the discs retrieved from Conrad’s office.

  Kilmer felt a rush of adrenaline thinking about the next assignment and looked over his roster of professional soldiers he wanted to use. Each of these men possessed a particular expertise that made them unique among this elite band of mercenaries. Through the years, Kilmer had recruited nearly a dozen highly decorated retired soldiers, who had been personally recommended by an existing team member. In this way, Kilmer gleaned only the very best men without concern they might blow the whistle on the team’s clandestine activities.

  All of Kilmer’s men had honorably served their country, but each had also been scapegoated in some fashion to hide a political agenda from a blissfully ignorant public. Most had become embittered by their government’s hypocrisy and no longer held allegiance to anything except the men with whom they served and the mission at hand. This led them to become mercenaries, accepting payment for the services they formerly provided free of charge to an ungrateful bureaucracy. By whatever means they came to be a part of the team, however, Kilmer knew these were most likely the best of the best at their particular skill.

  Kilmer never varied from his practiced method for planning a mission. Once he firmly understood the operation parameters, only then would he peruse his roster to select the best man for each required position. This method had proven highly successful, and made each of his men wealthy beyond any reasonable measure. So, too, his method also provided a maximum of safety; without exception, there had been only minimal casualties in all the years they had been banded together.

  Before embarking on Holloway’s ambitious plan, Kilmer had first plotted the lunar patterns to determine each month’s new moon. He always preferred to initiate missions in close to total darkness around the lunar cycle, believing that night-vision equipment gave his team an immediate operational advantage. Kilmer knew most security details could not afford these expensive devices, which put them at a distinct disadvantage.

  Kilmer reviewed the schematics of the grounds for what seemed like the tenth time. Like every lab that handled enriched nuclear material, this facility was under heightened security following the terrorist attack in New York City. Because of the research conducted at this site, a breach would be exceedingly complex and probably deadly. Kilmer painstakingly studied every conceivable entry point to determine the path of least resistance; so far, the perfect plan eluded him but he was confident the facility could be breached.

  Lawrence Livermore Lab presented a difficult challenge. This facility was the only West Coast institution that contained the amount of enriched uranium Holloway had specified. Other processing facilities could supply the twenty pounds of uranium to operate Conrad’s contraption, but these facilities were under tight military control, and resembled armed fortresses compared to the relatively low-level security at the Livermore Lab. Regardless, this was going to be a complicated operation.

  The Lab also contained a couple of attributes, however, that Kilmer immediately appreciated. The nuclear material in the lab’s Stockpile Stewardship program was contained in one central location: a warehouse designed to protect against radioactive contamination of those working close by. This basketball-court-sized space was thirty meters underground, with only one entrance. Kilmer considered this a strategic benefit—the armed security protecting the containment center could be neutralized without regard for an immediate secondary response. This bought his team a great deal of precious time.

  The Stockpile Stewardship program had caught Holloway’s attention because it was, as the name suggested, a stockpile of obsolete nuclear weapons. It was radioactive material that was used for further testing by the National Ignition Facility. In essence, the Nuclear Regulatory Agency completely disregarded th
is stockpile because these weapons were no longer considered integral to national defense. The uranium was essentially expendable, even though it was weapons-grade pure. A more perfect target elsewhere simply did not exist. Unfortunately for the lab’s security personnel, this site would lend itself to nothing more covert than an old-fashioned smash and grab. This meant there were going to be multiple fatalities.

  Holloway had also specified that Kilmer design a plan that would put Homeland Security on the trail of the most likely local terrorist group. In this way, they could blame the Livermore theft on terrorist activity that bombarded worldwide news sources almost daily. It mattered little which local jihad was blamed, as long as the focus was shifted far from Kilmer’s domestic team. But this was the least of his worries. Rafie could handle the diversion.

  The most prevalent of several stubborn difficulties to overcome was how to manage the nuclear material once the team entered the containment room. He knew they could muster the firepower to breach the facility, but once inside, a reasonable plan for extraction remained elusive.

  Finally Richard Kilmer thought he had arrived at the solution: Seven heavily armed commandos could take out the Livermore Lab Security detail. A sniper with an M24 assault rifle would take a position atop the water tower that stood 100 feet above the complex. When the security detail was neutralized, two other men would blow the door and enter the stockpile area. As soon as the men entered the containment room and grabbed the cargo container, everyone would retreat to the armored assault vehicle to evacuate. It needed more thought to smooth out the rough edges, but essentially this was the plan.

  Kilmer made his first call to Tommy Starkovich, the best sniper he had ever seen. “Stark” would deploy atop the water tower at the east end of the Livermore complex. From this vantage point, he could position Thor, his modified Remington M24 sniper weapons system. With this rifle, Stark was able to fire a .300-millimeter magnum round through a man’s nasal cavity from well over 600 yards. From any distance, the victim never heard the shot, the bullet traveling faster than the speed of sound. Stark was methodical, analytical, and never hesitated to take the shot. He was the only man proficient enough to cover the incursion team on the ground.