“Sure,” Maru said. “If he can learn to live with himself.”
Ferguson went quiet, then. He let out a deep breath and seemed to withdraw.
“Yeah. Maybe that’s what it is for me now,” he said. “I gotta learn to live with myself.”
“I know that feeling too.”
Ferguson looked at Maru. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
The two stood in silence for a short time, and then, to Maru’s surprise, Ferguson clapped him on the shoulder.
“You know, it’s good to see you again Maru. Been a while.”
“Thanks, Ferg.”
Maru tensed. He knew the conversation was ending, and he knew there was only one of two ways it would go.
“Feds will be here shortly. I guess you better be gettin’ on down the road.”
Maru eyed Ferguson for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Nothing here for me now. You planning to stick around?”
“I kind of have to. Gotta make sure the feds find Heinrich’s body, gotta get the boys in line, gotta go kill those fucking big Grays and get rid of the bodies. I got a lot of shit to do. Guess I better get to it.”
“Fair enough,” Maru said and began walking away. After a few steps, Ferguson called out to him.
“Hey, where you gonna go anyway?”
Maru stopped and turned around. “I was thinking California.”
“Long trip.”
Maru shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t done before.”
“Well…best of luck to you.”
“And you as well.”
Maru walked away from Ferguson. Then he walked away from the Outer Boroughs, found his wagon where he had left it, and followed the highway north toward Wyoming.
Along the way, he smiled.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Kaminsky,
East Gate Market, Outer Boroughs
The convoy rolled to a halt at the plaza in the center of the market. There were buildings on all four sides and a small cluster of vendor’s stalls in the middle. Looking out the window of the armored Humvee, Kaminsky could clearly see the rooftops skylined against the rising sun. He got on the radio.
“All stations, SAC Kaminsky. Prepare to exit your vehicles and set up a perimeter in the market square. Drivers, keep the engines running.”
The acknowledgments came back quickly. Kaminsky gave a short countdown and opened his door. As soon as he was out of the Humvee, he and his squad of agents in tactical gear—not the vaunted Hostage Rescue Team, but former soldiers hired by the FBI to fill in the gaps created by the Outbreak—fanned out and covered their corner of the square. Kaminsky was still in his rumpled suit but had donned body armor and commandeered an MP5 submachine gun.
He checked windows, alleyways, rooftops. He saw no one. Sparing a glance behind him, he saw the other agents and their tactical teams doing the same.
He and his team kept moving, going building to building, peering through windows and testing doors to see if they were locked. Almost all of them were. The ones that were not opened onto storerooms and sheds with nothing threatening in them.
In less than two minutes, the radio calls started coming in. The perimeter was secured. That much was good. But the other reports were not so good.
“There’s no one on the streets,” one of his agents informed him. “It’s like they all left.”
“They didn’t leave,” Kaminsky replied. “They’re here, they’re just staying out of sight. Stay alert. My team will take the Iron Kettle. The rest of you go house to house and start canvassing the area. I want as much intel on SRT as we can get.”
Kaminsky signaled his team and they set out for the restaurant at the far eastern edge of the market square. The smell of wood smoke and boiled vegetables hit Kaminsky’s stomach and made it growl ferociously, reminding him he had not eaten in nearly 24 hours. He swallowed to stop his mouth from watering and admonished himself to stay focused.
His men stacked up on either side of the entrance. There was no door, only a thin curtain nailed to a plank above the entrance. Kaminsky counted down with one hand, and the team moved. He was third through the door. Not by choice, but because that was as far as the tactical team’s squad leader was willing to let him get to being point man. Their job was to protect the agents they were assigned to, not the other way around.
The team moved quickly through the restaurant. Within seconds, every fire team had called out all clear. All except his.
Kaminsky stood looking at the serving line. There was a balding, lean, middle-aged man sitting on a stool next to a cast iron cauldron. Next to him, a sullen teenager leaned against a wall doing his best to look bored and unimpressed. There was only one patron. But what a patron he was.
Kaminsky advanced on him slowly, weapon at the ready. The man sat with his massive back to the agent, hunched over a bowl, wooden spoon slowly making the trip back and forth from food to mouth. Beans, carrots, and potatoes, Kaminsky observed. Looked rather good, actually. His stomach growled again, and Kaminsky cleared his throat to cover the noise.
The man turned his great shaggy head and looked at Kaminsky. “You fellas hungry? The grub here is pretty good.” He looked at the man sitting on the stool. “What do you call those herbs you put in this?”
“Rosemary and marjoram.”
“Grow ‘em yourself, right?”
A nod. “Sure do.”
“Make’s a damn fine stew, Roy.”
“Thanks.”
Kaminsky came around the man’s front, weapon leveled. One of the tactical agents moved to cover the old man and the kid.
“Who are you?” Kaminsky asked.
“Name’s Ferguson. And you are?”
“Special Agent Stan Kaminsky, FBI.”
“Special Agent, huh? Sounds important. What do you think, Roy? This man look important to you?”
The man on the stool said, “Not particularly.”
The teenager chuckled. Stan lowered his weapon and stood up straight.
“We’re looking for someone.”
“Well, that would explain why you come in here with guns drawn like a bunch of damn savages,” Ferguson said. The tone was friendly, but the look in his eyes was not. “Must be somebody real important to warrant scaring all these poor folks around here. Bad enough you federal types can’t lift a finger to help us. Least you can do is leave us the hell alone.”
Kaminsky felt his temper begin to flare and bit down on it.
“I’d be happy to do that. Just as soon as I get who I came for.”
Ferguson stared in hostile silence for a few seconds. “Well? You gonna tell me or what? I ain’t no fuckin’ mind reader.”
Patience, Stan. He removed the photo from a coat pocket and held it in front of Ferguson. While he did, he studied the man’s face. There was something familiar about him.
“Recognize this guy?”
The giant studied the photo. “Seen him around a few times. Comes up from the city to do trade. Keeps to himself, mostly. What kind of trouble is he in?”
Rather than answer, Kaminsky said, “Know where I can find him?”
The spoon dipped into the bowl. Ferguson shook it a few times to let the excess fall and then slowly put it in his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Took a sip of water. The man’s hands were enormous, the spoon and cup ridiculously tiny in his grip.
“Seen him out by the Bar-K livery yesterday. He’s got a house in town, from what I hear, but he spends most of his time in the office building over there. Figure that’s where he does his business when he’s in town.”
“You got an address on the house?”
“Corner of Mercantile and Carter, over by the caravan corral. Not sure which one. Neighbors should be able to tell you.”
Kaminsky got on the radio and called it in. When he was finished, he stood staring at Ferguson. He was familiar, alright. Hard to mistake a man of his stature. The hair was longer, and the beard had been trimmed, but the eyes were the same. He had not looked at the photos in a couple of
years, but he was quite sure he knew who he was looking at. After a few seconds, he turned and motioned to the old man and the teenager.
“Get these two out of here.”
Two of the tactical agents moved toward the pair and grabbed them by the arms. “Let’s go,” one of them said. The bored looks left the pair’s faces as the agents shoved them toward the door. When they were out on the street, Kaminsky returned his attention to Ferguson.
“Mind if I have a seat?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
Kaminsky sat down and placed the MP5 across his lap. He studied Ferguson for a few seconds, fingers tapping against the barrel of his gun. Ferguson stared back, his eyes a pair of barely visible blue pinpoints behind the bushy eyebrows and broad shovel of a beard. Finally, Kaminsky unslung the weapon and hung it over the edge of his chair.
“So,” he said conversationally. “Tell me. How long have you been running with the Storm Road Tribe?”
Ferguson scrunched his eyebrows together and tilted his head. “Who?”
“The Storm Road Tribe. You know, the criminal syndicate you’ve been running with for at least two years now.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking ab-”
Kaminsky cut him off by slamming a hand on the table. Ferguson sat back, caught off guard by the outburst. Kaminsky glared at the much bigger man with all the hatred he could muster.
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? You think this is a fucking game? Maybe you’re not aware, but a lot of new laws have been passed since the Outbreak, and what your syndicate has done constitutes multiple acts of biological terrorism. Not to mention racketeering, mass murder, sedition, and treason, all of which carry a death sentence. The National Allegiance and Recovery Act gives the FBI broad purview to investigate crimes against the Union. Which means if I decide to lock you up, I can hold you for up to ninety days without having to file charges. And in that time, if I uncover even one tiny scrap of information that ties you to the attacks on the city, you will disappear into a black site and you will never be heard from again. Get the picture, asshole?”
Ferguson’s face reddened in anger, but Kaminsky also detected a shift behind the eyes. The smugness and smirking disappeared. His mouth drew down into a hard line, and, despite the cold temperature, a sheen of sweat broke out on the man’s forehead.
“You got no right to threaten me, Agent Kaminsky. I ain’t got nothin’ to do with no attacks.”
Kaminsky let out a long, slow breath and withdrew his hand from the table.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” he said quietly.
Now the confusion looked genuine. “Can’t say as I do.”
“Well, I recognize you.”
Ferguson’s eyes did a little dance behind the shadow of his sloping forehead.
“Two years ago,” Kaminsky went on, “almost to the day, I investigated a shooting in Southtown. Couple of local loan sharks got into it with some unidentified assailants. The loan sharks both wound up dead. Me and my agents went around to canvass the neighborhood, but everywhere we went, we found grim, rough looking men staring daggers at everyone we talked to. Not the first time I ever ran into that sort of thing, and I gotta tell you, it’s really a pain in the ass. So, I got to thinking one day. I asked myself, if people are so afraid of these assholes, there must be a reason. If I can figure out what that reason is, I’ll be that much closer to putting them all behind bars. So, you know what I did?”
Kaminsky reached into a pouch on his belt and removed a small digital camera.
“I started taking pictures.”
Ferguson stared at the camera like it was made of plutonium. “Fancy. What’s that got to do with me?”
“I remember one of those pictures very well. Biggest ginger son of a bitch I ever saw in my life. Took a few snapshots when he wasn’t looking. Still have them on the memory card here. Would you like to see them?”
Ferguson stared and said nothing.
“Saw him a few other times in a few other places linked to SRT activity. Saw him talking to a fellow who looks just like the guy in the picture I showed you.” Kaminsky held out his hands. “What a coincidence.”
“You going somewhere with this?” Ferguson growled.
“Just stay with me. So this big ginger fucker, I found out where he lived. Had a couple of agents follow him around. And then one day, out of the blue, the guy just vanishes. Poof. Gone. I asked around, but no one seems to know what happened to him. Next thing I know, there’s rumors of a gang war going on in the Boroughs. Fast forward two years, and I find you here. In the Boroughs. Sitting in this chair like you own the place. Like you’re some kind of a king. Honestly, I feel pretty stupid for not making the connection earlier. But when you disappeared, I figured you were dead. Never really followed up on it. Not even after the law changed and federal agencies didn’t need a warrant to access the Archive for criminal investigations anymore. If I had gone back through my files like I should have, I would have found your picture and run facial recognition and probably got a hit. But I never did. That said, I’m good at learning from my mistakes. And you can bet your ass I’m going to be pulling your files after I haul you back to the city.”
Kaminsky slid the photo across the table. “You know who this is, don’t you?”
Silence.
“His name is John Byron Heinrich. Former Marine Corps officer. Moved on to a career in the intelligence community after his military service. You should see the dossier on this guy. He’s a real piece of work. Half of his record is redacted. And judging by the circumstances under which he left the employ of the government, I’d say he was dabbling in some things he shouldn’t have been. Arms dealing, money laundering, murder for hire, that sort of thing. You had to be a certified ruthless bastard to move around in those circles back in the day. Which sounds to me like exactly the kind of guy who would use the chaos of the Outbreak to form his own little militia and start building an empire for himself.”
Kaminsky tapped the picture twice. “But I guess you know him better than I do.”
Ferguson pushed the photo across the table. “Like I told you. I seen him around, but I don’t know him.”
“Yes, you do, Ferguson. I have a photo of you two talking outside a known meeting place for SRT associates. I didn’t think anything of him at the time. Figured he was just another one of the hundreds of people you were leaning on for money or trade or drugs or whatever. I only saw you two together the one time, so I didn’t follow up. I should have investigated him further, but I didn’t. I was too excited about chasing you.”
Ferguson shrugged. “Check your pictures again. Wasn’t me.”
Kaminsky laughed. “Is that what you’re going with? It wasn’t me? Jesus, you’re a piece of work. Okay, tell me this then, tough guy. How well do think that’s going to fly with Homeland Security, huh? How do you think they’re gonna react when they run facial recognition and find you cozying up with the leader of a known terrorist organization responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people? What do you think they’re gonna do about that?”
Ferguson said nothing.
“Listen, we’re not talking about defending yourself in court here. You won’t make it that far. You’ll be in a metal box under the hot sun with no food or water for days at a time. You’ll be on your back with a towel in your mouth and a gallon of water running down your throat. You’ll be tied to a post with a couple of men beating you with extension cords. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Is it sinking in yet?”
Ferguson looked away, jaw twitching.
“Listen, pal. I’ve spent the last couple of years tracking you assholes, and I am completely the fuck out of patience. You should also know that the full weight of the FBI, Homeland, the Army, and anyone else the president can think of is going to be thrown into this investigation. No stone will be left unturned. We’re going to question absolutely everybody, and sooner or later, someone is going to flip. And when they do, the dominoe
s will fall, and your whole goddamn syndicate is going to get roasted alive. So now I’m going to ask you again, and I want you to think hard before you answer. How long have you been with the Storm Road Tribe?”
Ferguson did not say anything at first. Kaminsky could see his eyes darting, could practically hear the gears whirring in the man’s head. The cold sweat got worse, forcing him to wipe it from his brow. One of his feet started bouncing rapidly. Kaminsky doubted Ferguson was even aware of what he was doing.
Finally, Ferguson placed his elbows on the table and sat forward. “Let’s say I am who you think I am. What happens if I talk? If I’m just gonna end up dead or in prison anyway, why should I tell you anything?”
Kaminsky smiled and pointed a finger. “There it is. That’s what I was waiting for. You criminals are all the same. You’ll do anything to save your own asses.”
The red face grew even redder. “Well?”
Kaminsky shrugged. “Depends on what you can give me.”
“Let’s say I can give you enough evidence to bring down the whole organization. Names, addresses, dates, dead bodies, the works. What would I get for that?”
Kaminsky regarded the man coolly. “If you can give me that, I can offer full immunity and place you in the witness protection program. But that’s if,” Kaminsky leaned forward and pointed, “and only if you cooperate fully. No lies, no omissions, no bending the truth to save anybody from prosecution. You tell me everything. And if at any point I think you’re not being completely honest with me, I bounce you over to Homeland Security and they can do whatever the fuck they want with you.”
Ferguson wiped his forehead again. “Gotta say. That ain’t much of a deal.”
“It’s the only one you’re going to get. Take it or leave it.”
Ferguson shifted in his seat, hands balled up on the table in front of him. Kaminsky waited. He knew there was really no choice for Ferguson, and in all honesty, he even felt a smidgen of pity for the man. By the look of him, Kaminsky figured the guy was a career criminal. Probably had done time before the Outbreak, which meant he was used to the old way of policing. The kind that required probable cause and evidence and lawyers and technicalities. And for ordinary crimes, it was still like that. But what SRT had done to Colorado Springs was far outside the realm of ordinary crimes. Which gave Kaminsky all the latitude he needed to sweat Ferguson for everything he was worth.
Surviving The Dead | Book 9 | War Without End Page 32
