by Rick Reed
Walker said he would.
* * *
Jack and Liddell waited in the street across from the guard shack until Wanda, the crime scene tech, had roped off the outside area with yellow tape and motioned for them.
They carefully avoided the trail she had marked where there may be evidence and stepped to the side of the doorway, staying outside.
Wanda said, “I found one small section where I can take a cast of the tire marks.” She pointed to a set of colored markers. Then she led them just inside the shack. “There are no surfaces in here to fingerprint, but look at this.” She squatted and held a flashlight near the floor, playing the beam horizontally across the dusty surface.
“Boot prints?” Jack asked, and Wanda agreed.
“And something else, right here,” she said. Orange crime scene markers were laid out in a large square. “Something was sitting on the floor. A box maybe. See the outline?”
They did. “Can you lift the sole prints?” Jack asked.
She grinned and said, “You bet’cha. I’ll get the ESD from the Jeep if you’ll stay here and keep everyone out.”
Jack agreed and the tech hurried away. He got on his radio and called for a uniform officer to guard the shack and start a second crime scene log.
Jack then called Walker to fill him in on what they had discovered. Wanda came back carrying a small suitcase.
Jack and Liddell walked back to their car, and Jack said, “I need to run by my cabin. I need a few things.”
“Gun?” Liddell asked.
Jack patted his waistband. “Never leave home without one.”
“Better get some breath mints while you’re at it.”
“I swear, I only had two beers, Ossifer,” Jack said, mimicking a drunk.
“Can you drop me off at my car? I want you to go to the ATF office and go through Killian’s desk.”
“You’re lead detective on this. I’m yours to command, O Wise One.”
“I’ll go to the hospital after I get cleaned up. I need to ask Barbara some questions. It might be better if I talked to her alone,” Jack said.
“Anything else I should do, boss?”
“Yeah, try not to wreck the car. And go the back way. I don’t want to run into you know who.”
“Yow’sa, boss,” Liddell said.
Chapter Eight
Khaled Abutaqa was pleased with himself. He’d make another small fortune from the man who was coming to visit in a few minutes. The delivery he’d made this morning went, as Americans are so fond of saying, “without a hitch.” America may be the land of the free, but it was a country where nothing could be had for free.
In his homeland, Abutaqa would be just another mid-level government worker like his father, or a soldier like his three brothers. In his country, he would not be allowed to manipulate the legal system against itself, as was his right—indeed his duty—to do here in America.
In his many years doing business in the U.S., there had been only one small setback. He’d sold explosives to an undercover ATF agent, and Semtex is not exactly something that can be bought at Home Depot. But with the right amount of money, put in the right hands, he’d all but avoided going to federal prison. Even though his attorney was very good—and very well paid—Khaled had served two years. Those years in an Indiana prison were nothing compared to the prisons in Oman. One year there would be a lifetime.
Six months of parole left and then he would be a free man. No more troublesome visits to the parole office. He would get his passport back. Maybe visit his family in Oman. Or maybe bring some family to the U.S. His business was growing, and soon he would need some help.
The ATF had seized his weapons and assets when they had arrested him, but they hadn’t found everything. He knew he should just stay off the radar and appear to be going legit, but there was still a need for his particular talents, and he was not afraid.
When he had come to the U.S., he first sold small arms—mostly handguns, ammunition, and cheap assault rifles—and mostly to local gangs or those who could not, or did not wish to, purchase a weapon legally. His contacts in Oman and Afghanistan had given him almost unlimited access to weaponry. He had even purchased U.S. military weapons stolen by less-than-patriotic soldiers. It was exhilarating. Khaled found he could supply anything that was asked for . . . if the price was right.
Many compatriots from home were now living in the U.S. Most had a business enterprise of some sort that gave them a collective pool of resources. With counterfeit traveler’s checks supplied by one contact, he could buy shrimp in Louisiana and have it delivered to a restaurant in Indiana owned by another contact. With the proceeds, he would make large purchases of the harder-to-find military items from Afghanistan and Iran and have the items smuggled into the U.S. via a family member’s fishing business in Florida.
Mr. Smith had represented himself as someone from a homegrown militia, but Khaled intuited he was nothing of the sort. He had dealt with militants of one sort or another his entire life. Khaled had a nose for the real thing, and Smith was not who or what he said he was. The items Khaled had secured for Smith had piqued his curiosity. Khaled had the feeling from past dealings with Smith that this American was planning something larger than arming a small militia.
Khaled knew a little about Americans and their history. They supposedly fought for freedom for all their peoples, but he knew that only the elite were truly free. He probably knew more about America than most of its citizens. It was always wise to study the enemy, and though he had lived here for many years, he still considered Americans to be infidels, rich pretenders who kept the masses enslaved.
A flicker on one of the monitors built into the wall across from his desk caught his eye. He watched the small white car approaching the house. He checked the other camera views.
Seeing the visitor was alone, Khaled went to greet him.
“Please,” Khaled said at the door and motioned for his guest to enter.
Smith entered and came straight to the point. “Do you have the items I requested?”
“It is more comfortable in my office. Please, we will go there and I will make some tea.”
Smith followed Khaled into his office. He pulled the door shut and sat in front of the desk. “Do you have them?” he asked in a flat tone.
Khaled moved behind the desk and sat. “Of course, of course, you are a busy man. Let’s get down to business. The special items you requested are very hard to come by. My source demanded more money for them and so . . .”
Mr. Smith silenced him with a look.
“Of course there will be no extra cost to you. It will be my gift. If we can do business in the future . . . ?” his words were left hanging in the air.
Smith sat silently, one leg crossed over the other, his eyes never leaving Khaled’s. When he spoke, the question surprised Khaled.
“The photo behind you. Are they family?”
Khaled swiveled his chair. “Those are my brothers,” he said and tried to smile. The black-and-white photo was of a much-younger Khaled with four other men, all with dark skin, dark wavy hair, full beards, all sharing a strong resemblance. The men were kneeling in front of an armored combat vehicle, each holding an assault rifle and smiling as if this were a family picnic.
“The oldest is studying law at Yale,” Khaled said. He tried to point but noticed his hand was shaking and put it back in his lap. “He is on the far left. Next is me, and to my right is the brother who was killed in Afghanistan.” Seeing no sympathy in Smith’s expression, he continued, “The brother on the far right is the youngest.” The youngest one was making a gang sign with his free hand. “He wants to be a rap star. A rapper.” Khaled shrugged. “Anything is possible in America, no?”
Khaled opened a desk drawer and brought out a plastic shopping bag with Macy’s logo on it. He pushed it across the desk.
Mr. Smith opened the bag. Inside was a matching pair of Smith & Wesson .40 caliber handguns with the barrels threaded to accept a sup
pressor. There were four fifteen-round magazines, also.
“There are suppressors?”
“Ah, yes,” Khaled said, and removed two polished metal tubes from the credenza. He handed one to Smith and laid the other on top of the desk. “As you can see, they are works of art. Very expensive.”
Smith said nothing.
“At no extra charge, of course,” Khaled added.
Smith picked up one of the pistols and threaded a suppressor onto the barrel. He worked the slide a few times without dropping the hammer, and each time pointed it at Khaled’s face and said, “It isn’t good to dry-fire a weapon. Did you know that, Khaled?”
Khaled swallowed. “Yes. Yes. Please . . .”
“Relax, Khaled. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
Smith removed the suppressor and examined it. There were no identifying numbers or stamps in the metal, but he was familiar with the model.
“Made by the Israelis for the Mossad,” Smith said.
Khaled scowled at the mention of the hated Israeli scum who were so successful at killing his brethren. He hated the Israelis, but they made the best silencers in all the free world.
“These will do for my associates,” Smith said, “but I prefer my own.”
Khaled shifted in his seat at the sight of the Smith & Wesson pistol that appeared in Mr. Smith’s hand. A compact suppressor was already threaded onto the muzzle.
“As you know, truly silenced weapons are a myth. Subsonic ammunition helps, but . . .” Smith shrugged. “And there is a distinct disadvantage of a suppressor. Once it’s attached, the normal sighting system doesn’t work.”
Khaled’s eyes never left the gun pointed his direction. The top of the suppressor on Smith’s weapon was flattened slightly.
“I modified this one, myself.” He sighted down the front of the pistol at Khaled’s face and said, “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not as big as yours. Am I right, Khaled?”
Khaled didn’t know how to answer. If he said yes, would he be saying his was bigger than the American’s. If he said no, the American might take offense that he was being argumentative.
“It really doesn’t matter what you think, Khaled. Mine is much quieter. Shall I show you?”
Khaled’s eyes widened. “Please. I have done everything you have asked,” he said.
“Have you told anyone? Your brothers perhaps?” Smith asked.
“Wha . . . what?”
“Does anyone know of our deal?” Smith asked, enunciating the words as if to a child.
Khaled felt his face flush. Smith would have to be insane to harm him. After all, he hadn’t completed the shipment yet. Regardless, his mouth went dry. The large bore of the suppressor stared like a sightless eye into Khaled’s own eyes.
“I swear! No one knows of our arrangements,” he said in a pleading voice. “I have the last item ready for you. It’s not here. I give it to you. Please!”
There was the barest whisper as the pistol discharged and Khaled felt something sting his ear. His hand went to the side of his head and came away sticky. His shock barely registered when there were two more whispers, and this time he heard glass falling behind him. He turned and saw that each of his brothers in the photo had a bullet hole through the face . . . all except the likeness of Khaled Abutaqa.
“And now no one knows. Do you understand, Khaled?”
“I understand,” he said, holding a hand to his bleeding ear.
Chapter Nine
Murphy’s Law says: “If finding something is important, you will never find it.” Jack hoped Liddell would find something in Killian’s office, but his ATF agent friend was the most secretive and independent investigator he had ever known. Even the man’s own boss hadn’t known what he was working on. Finding anything useful in Killian’s office, or at his home, or from talking to his wife, was a crapshoot at best.
Back at his cabin, Jack changed clothes, made Cinderella go out to do her business, and fed her a whole can of Alpo. As he drove his Jeep down Lynn Road he saw the place where his old Chevy truck had been destroyed by two psychos. The truck was now in that great salvage yard in the sky. May it rest in peace.
He pulled into the always packed hospital lot, drove around to the side, and parked in a “Doctors Only” space. He put a placard on the dash that said “FBI.” He’d borrowed it from an FBI agent and somehow neglected to return it.
He knew Killian’s wife but he dreaded seeing her under these circumstances. It was one thing talking to a victim’s family, but Barbara was a friend. He’d eaten in her kitchen. Played poker and drank beer with Killian at their kitchen table. No way could he distance himself from her pain.
He stepped inside the ER doors and felt déjà vu. This was the second time he’d been here in just about as many days. It wasn’t him this time, but it was another law enforcement officer. Cops like to think they’re invulnerable. It’s the lie they tell themselves at the start of each shift. They joke that they are a “force to be reckoned with.” Hence, the saying, “If you run from the cops, an ass-whipping is coming along right behind them.”
He shook the feeling off and asked after Killian at the security desk. He was told Killian had been taken to surgery. The off-duty cop working the desk hadn’t heard yet if he was out of surgery but he suggested that was a good thing. When a cop didn’t make it, news spread like wildfire.
Jack stepped off the second-floor elevator and saw a man with dark shaggy hair and dark eyes, maybe thirty, about Jack’s size. The man’s nose was slightly crooked like it had been broken, more than once, and scar tissue puckered the skin under his right eye. Either he was an undercover cop or a boxer. Jack surmised it was Agent Pons.
“Murphy?” the man said, and they shook hands. “Special Agent Greg Pons.”
Jack had heard Pons’s name, but most of the ATF spooks were just that, spooks. “Your boss, Misino, said you’d be here,” Jack said. “How’s Killian doing?”
“He just got out of surgery. Barbara’s talking to the surgeon,” Pons said.
“Barbara?” Jack asked. He wished he had gotten there sooner. She needed someone to stay and support her. He would call Bigfoot and see if Marcie would come. Maybe she’d call Katie, although he didn’t think Katie was up for this. Fear that Jack would be killed was the exact thing that had always gotten between them.
“She’s barely spoken,” Pons said. “I was able to work in a few questions while we waited, but she doesn’t know anything. The kids are with her sister. They don’t know about their dad yet.”
Jack sat down and Pons continued. “The surgeon said Killian has massive swelling around the brain. The bullet passed straight through his right eye and out the back of his skull. The good news is there are no fragments. He lost the right eye and will maybe lose both. MRI shows a fracture on the left side of the skull. Killian may have permanent brain injury.”
Jack grimaced. “It’s a miracle he’s alive at all.”
Pons gave him a look that said, “If you call that being alive.”
“Your guys find anything?” Pons asked.
Jack filled him in.
“Sounds like he was either meeting someone up on the catwalk and they shot him, or he was watching the shack across the street and some bastard snuck up on him,” Pons suggested. “It would be hard to sneak up on him. Whoever it was must have known he would be up there and was waiting for him.”
Jack had come to the same conclusion.
“Any evidence in the shack why Killian was in that warehouse?” Pons asked.
“I was hoping you knew. Any guesses?”
Pons said, “Killian talked about you. You were friends, so you know it’s not unlike him to go all Lone Ranger.”
Jack said seriously, “At least the Lone Ranger had Tonto. He should’ve called me or said something to someone.” He remembered Killian had called this morning. If Liddell hadn’t shown up at the cabin maybe Killian would have told him what was going on. Maybe not. “So Barbara had no clue w
hat he was up to?” Jack asked.
“She’s as in the dark as we are,” Pons said.
Jack sat down beside Pons and thought about how he could ask the question on his mind without sounding suspicious or derogatory of the ATF, but he decided he had to ask. Pons seemed like a solid guy. Jack said in a quiet voice, “Have you had problems with cases? Leaks in the office? That sort of stuff?”
“You think that’s why Killian didn’t tell anyone what he had?”
Jack could tell some horror stories about things getting leaked.
Pons said in a firm voice, “Our office doesn’t have any of that shit. Killian would know that none of us would say anything—to anyone.”
“Is he having any kind of troubles with anyone?”
“You mean in our office? You think one of us shot him?” Pons was becoming angry.
“Not necessarily. I’m asking if he had problems outside of work. Anything any of you noticed. Threats? Debts? Was he acting different? Problems at home?”
“Screw you, Murphy,” Pons said and stood.
“Hey, I’m investigating this. I have to ask these questions. You know that. Right?”
Pons seemed to cool down, but his hands were opening and closing as if they couldn’t decide whether to punch Jack in the face or put themselves away. “I get it.” He sat down again and put his head in his hands. “Sorry. It’s just . . .”
“I had to ask,” Jack said to smooth things over. Jack remembered a new secretary coming onboard the ATF at about the same time Lenny Misino was taking over as chief. She was cute, blond, curvaceous, and, according to Killian, a little too nosy. But Jack didn’t pursue it. He didn’t want to appear to be placing the blame on the ATF any more than he had already.
“Are you going to stay?” Jack asked.
“I am. Someone named Marcie is coming up shortly. She’s going to stay with Barbara while I go back to the office and see if I can dig up anything. I’ll go through Killian’s computer files.”
“My partner’s doing that right now, and Marcie is his wife. But I’m sure he won’t mind a fresh set of eyes. His name’s Liddell Blanchard.” Jack took out a business card, wrote his and Liddell’s personal cell numbers on the back, and handed it to Pons. “Anything. . . anything at all, you call me first.”
