by Mel Odom
Wells glanced at Vache, who nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“Round up every guy you can find who still deserves to be called a law-enforcement officer and isn’t just a thief with a badge pinned to him, and start hitting these targets.”
Wells accepted the envelope. “What’s in here?”
“Businesses owned by Sebastian DiVarco. You bust these places down, arrest the key personnel, and confiscate both sets of books being kept on the premises. Do whatever it takes to get those records because they’re going to be valuable evidence later on.”
“And when we have them?”
“Either Agent Vache or myself will be in touch.”
“Anything else?”
“You might want to escort me to Congressman Cashion and start spreading the word that I’m hands-off before some would-be hero tries to jump me in the hallway.”
Wells nodded and borrowed a walkie-talkie from one of the cops picking Isaacs up from the floor. The police commissioner was still out. “Put him in a holding cell,” the assistant police commissioner said. “Mirandize him and book him when he comes to.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilson walked out of the conference room and into the hallway. Wells had to jog to keep up with him, ordering the policemen aside and handing out assignments like a drill sergeant. Things started to happen, and Wilson could feel the electricity in the air as the police force galvanized to carry out the orders.
“Where’s Cashion?” Wilson asked.
“Fifth floor. There’s a press-release room there.”
Vache joined them in the elevator while January, Mac, and Rawley scrambled to bring the team’s vehicles into action at street level.
“Any advice?” Wilson asked as they got off on the fifth floor.
“Don’t hit him,” Vache said, “it’ll spoil that look on his face. And try not to smile too big when you give him the news.”
*
The reporters in the big room parted instantly as Wilson made his way through the crowd toward the podium under bright lights. Voices chased him in an undercurrent to Cashion’s impassioned speech about a citizen’s right to protection under the law, even if it meant protection from the law officers sworn to uphold that law. Wilson heard his name several times but he ignored it, ignored the pop of electric flashes and the spray of electric floods as they washed over him. Power cables writhed like twisting snakes underfoot.
Cashion was dressed in a slate blue three-piece, with his tie loosened a little for effect. He stopped talking when he saw Wilson approaching. He pointed a finger at the FBI agent as Wilson stepped behind a camera and came on.
“What is that man doing here? Wells! Where is Isaacs? This man is to be placed under arrest! These people have a right to see justice served!”
Wilson came to a stop within arm’s reach of the congressman.
There was nowhere for Cashion to flee to, and the man knew it. Perspiration leaked down his face from his eyebrows.
At first the crowd of media reporters and photographers was hypnotized into silence, waiting to see how events would unfold.
Cashion tried to duck away from the flash of steel in Wilson’s hand, but the FBI agent’s aim was unerring. The handcuff ring snapped around the congressman’s wrist with an audible grate.
“You’re under arrest,” Wilson said. “You have the right to remain silent… .” He continued listing Cashion’s rights as he escorted the man from the stage, shrugging his way through reporters impatient to figure out what the latest wrinkle meant.
In the hallway, he turned Cashion over to a group of FBI agents from the Boston office. The congressman was still demanding to know what was going on as he was led away. Reporters filed out into the hallway, some of them obviously torn as to which group to pursue.
The T-jack buzzed for attention. Wilson said, “Go,” already en route to the elevator.
“Evidently Silverton was prepared for something like this,” Scuderi said. “Quinn and I have been monitoring the JetStar banking accounts located locally this morning to see if anyone had noticed we’d been mucking around in them. So far there’d been no reason to believe we’d been caught. Less than a minute ago, DiVarco’s accounts were drained dry.”
“DiVarco’s?” Wilson stepped into the elevator cage with Vache and Wells, and helped them keep the media people back. Growled curses and complaints were snapped off when the doors slid shut and the cage dropped.
“Yes.”
“Did DiVarco do it?”
“We don’t think so. Quinn’s tracing the cash now, and I just confirmed that the other JetStar accounts under the control of Silverton were also transferred out.”
“Trying to cover their tracks,” Wilson said.
“It looks that way. Silverton could also be cutting his losses, and cutting DiVarco out of the deal at the same time.”
“Does DiVarco know?”
“He has an accountant who watches over things for him. I’d say the chances were pretty good that he does.”
Vache cursed in disgust. “We we’re going to be treading the wire anyway with this much media already at the scene, but if DiVarco goes off half-cocked, this whole thing could still blow up in our faces.”
Wilson knew it. To prove everything and make it stick, they needed to take the key players into custody.
“I found the money,” Valentine said.
Wilson stepped through the doors on the bottom floor, scattering news people out of his way, aware that others were running down the stairs in an effort to get closer. Uniformed patrolmen tried to stem the tide, but their efforts were only aiding the general build-up of chaos. “Where?”
“The Cayman accounts.”
“Any chance those accounts can be spirited away before we can freeze them?”
Valentine’s smirk was audible in his voice. “Not much. I took the precaution of installing computer virus in the banking accounts that would buy us some time. Money can go into those accounts, but Silverton and Min are going to have to be physically present before any of it comes back out or goes anywhere else.”
“So if we can stop Silverton inside the states-”
“That money goes no place. As a counter-signature account, Min won’t be able to move the money without Silverton.”
“Unless Silverton’s dead,” Vache said.
The thought was a sobering one. Everything seemed just within the team’s grasp, yet it hung by a single heartbeat. Wilson pushed the doubt away and sprinted for the van as Rawley pulled it up over the curb and shoved the passenger-side door open. Vache let himself in through the sliding cargo door.
The reporters tried to mob the van but Rawley flipped a switch and electrified the outside, causing them to drop away. As Rawley pulled back onto the street, Wilson saw the reporters fleeing for their vehicles, fighting with each other in their pursuit of an exclusive.
Rawley grinned as he looked into a side mirror and accelerated between lines of parked cars. “Would have been a big of parade if they’d gotten to come with us.”
The news vehicles surged into motion. Then muffled explosions went off under their hoods and white smoke billowed out, obscuring them from sight. As the cars and vans rolled forward to stops, they effectively blocked the street.
“Only got the first twenty or so vehicles,” Rawley said, “but it seems like enough.”
“Darnell’s idea?” Wilson asked as they made the corner.
Rawley nodded. “Small charges containing a C02 payload. The explosive goes off, releasing the carbon dioxide to flood the engine area, which chokes off the oxygen supply to the carburetor and shuts the engine down. Darnell had it rigged for remote control. We covered the vehicles while you were still inside.”
“What about those?” Vache asked, pointing out and up.
Wilson looked and saw three news copters hovering just over the tops of the buildings around them.
“I’ve got a couple LAWs in the back,” Rawley said.
“No,” Vache replied, then glanced at Wilson as if to confirm whether the man was kidding.
The van skidded around another corner against the light, and the beefed-up suspension struggled to handle the demands. Rawley reached down and flicked on the siren.
“The helos are up there,” Wilson said as he took the whirling cherry from the glove compartment and stuck its magnetic base on top of the van. “They’ll be able to pinpoint us to anyone able to follow, but they can’t get in our way.” He reached back over the seat and grabbed an Ithaca model 37 .12-gauge from the racks, then extra magazines for his pistols. He could already see the top of Silverton’s building.
19
“What do you mean my money’s gone?” Sebastian DiVarco asked. He paced the floor behind the desk in an office he seldom visited, and looked out over the downtown skyline of the city.
The accountant on the other end of the telephone connection sounded rattled as he tried to explain. “Someone dipped into the accounts and took it only a few minutes ago. I don’t know how. You’ll have to get someone who knows computers to figure that out.”
“I pay you to keep up with my money,” DiVarco screamed.
“I did. I called you as soon as I knew it was missing.”
DiVarco took a deep breath and tried to calm down. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been expecting a double cross. He was no babe in the woods here. He’d known from the start that Min and Silverton were only going to use him as long as they needed him. It was just that he’d intended for them to need him long enough to really get full use out of them himself. “Who took my money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you call the bank?”
“Immediately. They said nothing was amiss at their end, and that only withdrawals had cleared through their systems this morning. They’re supposed to call me back as soon as they know something.”
“Terrific. In the meantime, I’m screwed out of nearly one hundred million dollars. Thank God I wasn’t asking you to keep an eye on something important, right?”
The accountant didn’t say anything.
DiVarco stopped pacing and pushed the intercom button. “Nancy, get me Angelo.” Returning his attention to the phone, he said, “Look, Martin, you’d better figure out where my money went, and you’d better hope I don’t find your hand in the till when I go looking. Because if I do, I’m gonna chop that hand off and feed it to you.” He slammed the receiver down.
He gazed across town and saw the building where Silverton conducted business that wasn’t settled at the Crystal Palace. According to the guys he had watching Silverton and Min, Silverton was there now, in a meeting with some investment people he represented.
The intercom buzzed. “Mr. DiVarco?”
“Yeah, Angelo. Get me about thirty of your best boys and make sure they have heavy artillery. Meet me out front.”
“Yes, sir.”
DiVarco opened the desk drawer and withdrew his Detonics Scoremaster, checked the action and the magazine, then dropped it into his shoulder holster. He stoked the anger inside him as he crossed the room to the door. He’d worked his ass off to get where he was today, and if Silverton thought he was just going to roll over and play dead because Min was there with his jumped-out hit men in their endo-skels, the man had another think coming. DiVarco had killed a lot of friends on his way up. He wasn’t going to let Alexander Silverton stand in his way. Or, he reflected, glancing at the news on the silent television in the corner of his room, the FBI.
*
“FBI!” Slade Wilson announced as he swung around the open door of the building’s security office and covered the four men inside with a sweep of the Ithaca shotgun. “Don’t move!”
The security men were still shaken, trying to come to grips with everything that was happening. Smoke from the small explosive Darnell January had used to blow up the locking mechanism eddied about in the small room.
“Up against the wall,” January ordered. He leaned around the doorway to show them the business end of the MAC-10 he was holding.
“How do we know you’re really FBI guys?” one of the security guards asked. He had a brownish coffee stain spreading down his tan shirtfront and an empty cup in his hand.
“If we were the bad guys,” January pointed out, “you’d be dead right now.”
Wilson tossed his shield into the room. It bounced heavily on the carpet and lay there gleaming.
“Okay,” the man said. He raised his hands, briefly exposing the sergeant’s chevrons on his shoulders.
“Drop your weapons,” Wilson insisted, “turn and face the wall with your hands on your heads.”
“What’s this all about?”
“We’ll see that you’re briefed later.” Wilson stepped into the room, recovered his badge, and pocketed it, then glanced across the array of security monitors spread across the main desk. “Quinn.”
“Yo.” Valentine moved into the room, propped his M4 beside the desk, and took a seat at the desk. His hands slid comfortably over the keyboard. Images on the monitors clicked to different scenes as he initiated a search pattern.
Wilson was grimly aware that time was running out for the team. The media-including the radio stations-were filled with conflicting reports of what had happened at Boston Police Headquarters, but the gist of them maintained that Congressman Cashion had been arrested by a special federal task force.
“Where’s Alexander Silverton?”
“Twenty-first floor,” the sergeant replied. “Is he involved? The man pays our salaries.”
Wilson ignored the question and relayed the information to Mac and Rawley. He already knew the main building-security staff was on Silverton’s payroll. “Do you know what his agenda is?”
“No. He gives that to his personal security staff on that floor.”
Valentine stroked the keyboard and image cycled within the five viewing monitors, sweeping through hallways and rooms on the twenty-first floor. Wilson could tell what floor from the digital readout on the lower right-hand corner of the screens.
“Silverton’s got a personal security staff on the twenty-first floor?” Wilson asked.
The sergeant nodded. “Yeah. They go everyplace he does, and make sure that floor is clean. You can’t even stop on twenty-one without a special key card for the elevators. Ever since those guys took potshots at Silverton a few years back, security around that floor has been tighter than a fat girl’s pantyhose.”
“Is this man inside the building?” Wilson flashed a picture of Min toward the security chief.
The sergeant glanced at it, then nodded. “I believe so. This guy’s been around for months. He keeps his own bodyguards, real hardass guys that don’t take crap off nobody.” He looked hard at Wilson. “Is that what this is about? Another hit on Silverton?”
“Thanks for your help, Sergeant,” Wilson said, cutting off all other attempts at conversation.
“Slade,” Valentine called. “I’ve found him.”
Wilson joined the younger agent at the array of monitors.
Valentine pointed, showing the screen where Silverton stood at a long conference table addressing a dozen listeners, male and female, in business clothes.
“What room?” Wilson asked.
“Twenty-one Q.”
“Get me a map if you can.”
Valentine nodded and worked the keyboard. A second later the laser printer in the corner hummed and spat out a single sheet laying out the entire floor.
Twenty-one Q was marked with a crimson asterisk.
Wilson studied Silverton on the screen and saw Min quietly sitting at the other end of the table. “Can you get an audio pickup on that system?”
“No.”
“Maybe you could use some backup,” the sergeant suggested.
“Thanks,” Wilson replied, “but no thanks. You people are to stay in this room and contact no one except the Boston police officers en route. If you don’t, I’ll have you up on obstruction of justice charges. Is that cl
ear?”
To a man, everyone in the room nodded grimly.
Wilson didn’t care. If they were innocent, they needed to stay out of it. Civilian security guards were not prepared for the action he figured could possibly erupt on the twenty-first floor. Min’s security people would be equipped with endo-skels, and Silverton’s wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone.
He led the way out of the security office, across the immense foyer, and to the bank of elevator. The muzzle of the Ithaca sticking out only inches below the hem of his jacket didn’t catch attention. Flashing his badge, he cleared the next cage that opened and ignored the whispered complaints and whining protest of the people who’d been waiting on it.
“I think I can get us onto the twenty first floor,” Valentine said. “Hold that button for me.”
Wilson pressed the keypad and scanned the LED readout indicating: PRIVATE, SECURED FLOOR – PLEASE MAKE ANOTHER SELECTION. It reminded him of a soft-drink machine, but the humor of the comparison didn’t alleviate the tension in his stomach. He slid the shotgun out into the open, holding it by its pistol-grip stock. The SeekNFire programming already had him wired into the weapon so that it was an extension of his body.
Valentine took a small device about the size of a cigarette pack from his backpack. After sliding a card free of the package and making sure the electronic leads were properly attached, Valentine shoved the card into the magnetic strip slot and punched the small keypad on the device’s face.
Wagon wheels rolled across the LED readout, then changed into letters that read: CARD ACCEPTED – NO STOPS ALLOWED. The elevator lurched upward.
Valentine smiled as he put the magnetic lock-pick kit away. “Nothing like homegrown magic.”
