Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  “Four, I think, maybe five,” the resigned voice answered.

  Producing a set of cuffs, the marshal quickly secured his prisoner. Then, pointing toward the side door with his weapon, Griffin said, “After you.”

  The place reeked of rancid air and the mold that accompanied it. With the biker in the lead, they entered what had been a kitchen area, the counters stacked with cardboard boxes, motorcycle parts, and empty liquor bottles.

  The center of the room was dominated by a large table, which initially drew Griffin’s attention for its lack of clutter. There, scattered on the rough wooden surface, laid several pipe fittings, a seriously impressive can of Winchester smokeless powder, and the cut ends of red and yellow wires. “Somebody’s been busy working on their fourth of July fireworks display. Nice to see such patriotic citizens,” the marshal quipped.

  From there, Griffin followed his captive into the living area, the concrete block walls lined with old, shabby couches and second-hand chairs that looked like they had been collected curbside from trash piles.

  They continued past a series of side rooms, one of them filled nearly floor to ceiling with new boxes of electronics. Griffin noted two flat screen televisions, several laptop computers, and at least three expensive kitchen appliances inside. “Ill-gotten gains,” he surmised.

  In the corner, near the front door, sat a computer monitor, the display split in half. Each side showed the view from one of the two security cameras mounted on the front of the building. Griffin spotted Kit’s car out front, the lady prosecutor standing over four men lying prone on the ground, her pistol in hand, their arms and legs spread wide. “Shit,” he grunted, “and I was worried about her.”

  He shoved the biker out the front door, causing Kit’s weapon to flash in their direction. She relaxed when Griffin appeared behind the fifth prisoner.

  After the marshal’s suspect had joined his brothers on the ground, Griffin turned to Kit and asked, “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. These boys got a little too grabby, so I decided to resolve the situation sooner rather than later. How about you? Find what you were looking for?”

  Shaking his head, Griffin said, “The bombers aren’t here, but I did learn an interesting tidbit. By the way, we should call the FBI and ATF. There are bomb-making materials inside, as well as what I suspect is a lot of stolen property.”

  After considering for a moment, she nodded, replacing her handgun with a cell from her purse.

  It took Kit two phone calls before she finally identified someone to come out, a local FBI agent named Fred Sands, a man she found distasteful. “Just my luck,” she mouthed to Griffin. “Sands the hands is on his way.”

  Rolling his eyes, Griffin shrugged, “You’re the one who wanted to call in the feds. I tried to tell you, but nooooo….”

  Kit gave Agent Sands the address and then repeated three times that she would explain the details after he arrived on scene. “Yes, Marshal Storm is here with me,” she responded, followed by, “yes, I was taking him to the hospital.”

  “I’ll explain it all when you arrive, Agent Sands,” she repeated yet again, the marshal grinning at the one side of the conversation he could hear.

  While he listened, Griffin couldn’t help but smirk at Kit’s predicament. Agent Sands had put forth a relentless effort to woo the Assistant US Attorney, sending a shameless display of flowers and candy to her office and taking every opportunity to flirt. The guy just wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Finally disconnected, she turned to point a finger at Griffin. “You better be dreaming up a good story, Mister. Sands is pissed to the extreme, and I happen to know he doesn’t like you very much.”

  “You should do the talking,” Griffin laughed, scanning her up and down with a pervert’s leer. “While Agent Sands doesn’t like me, it is known far and wide that he adores you. With that outfit you’re wearing, the man will be putty in your hands.”

  With a start, Kit blushed a deep crimson, glancing down at her exposed legs and tummy. “Oh, shit! I’m glad you reminded me. I have to change.”

  While Griffin covered the prisoners, the attorney rushed back to her car and pulled out her work clothes. “I’m going inside to change,” she stated, nodding toward the clubhouse. “Besides, I want to see where these boys intended on having their way with me. They were rather creative with some of their suggestions, I might add.”

  “I bet,” Griffin chuckled. “While you’re in there, you might want to check the security system and see if there are any recordings of your little act out here. If Agent Sands finds out about that video, we might have to jackhammer him away from the footage. We’ll never get him to finish the paperwork on this little bust.”

  Rolling her eyes, Kit rushed inside and immediately uttered a loud, “Ewwww. Yuck! Gross!”

  Government sedans arrived minutes later, federal agents from several agencies pouring out of the vehicles. Agent Sands, as predicted, was not in a cheery mood.

  “What the hell were you thinking, Marshal Storm? Leaving the scene of a felony, leading my men on a merry chase searching every hospital and ER from here to Midland, and breaking who knows how many regulations.”

  “I was in pursuit, Agent Sands,” Griffin replied with a sneer.

  For three hours, Griffin and Kit were interviewed, made statements, and repeated their story over and again. The duo left out a few details, such as Kit’s wardrobe change, and breaking the lock on the back gate.

  Finally finished with their reporting duties, they were again back in Kit’s car and motoring toward El Paso. “Turn right up here,” Griffin directed, surprising his friend. “I want to make one last stop before I get some salve for this little sunburn on my arms.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, her tone making it clear that she really didn’t want to know.

  “The El Paso Municipal building,” he replied with a nod.

  They had to ask directions to the civil engineering department, finally arriving at a basement office that obviously wasn’t a common public venue.

  “I want to speak with whoever programs the city’s traffic lights,” Griffin informed a bored-looking receptionist who obviously didn’t see many visitors.

  “Sir, if you have traffic flow complaints, you should visit our website at….”

  Flashing his badge, Griffin demanded, “No, this is a criminal investigation. Now, who do I talk to?”

  The woman behind the desk seemed impressed, almost excited. “Hold on one moment, please. I’ll find Mr. Bridlewood. He’s the chief engineer.”

  Four minutes later, an older man sporting substantially receding hair, thick glasses, and a paunchy midsection shuffled toward the marshal. Kit wondered where the man had left his pocket protector.

  “Is it possible to reprogram traffic lights remotely? Can they be disabled via computer?” Griffin inquired.

  “Yes, yes, it is,” answered the nervous Mr. Bridlewood. “Some of the larger cities even have route control for their fire departments and emergency services. They can turn all the lights green along a specific street. We’re not that sophisticated here in El Paso, but a few of our newer modules can be programmed remotely.”

  Griffin listed the intersection where the bomb throwers had attacked. “Could you check a log file, or history of that intersection and see if it was modified or programmed this morning between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m.?”

  “No one would have done that without my authorization, I assure you,” replied the engineer.

  “Can you check anyway, please, Chief Engineer?” Kit cooed.

  “Why of course,” Bridlewood nodded, charmed by the pretty lady’s attention and respect. “This way, please.”

  They were led back into the bowels of El Paso’s civil engineering department, which didn’t look much different than any other city bureaucracy except for the large-scale, detailed maps that adorned practically every wall.

  Finally, they arrived at Bridle
wood’s office, the modest space a heaped mess of manila folders and boxes of paperwork.

  Not bothering to clear either of the chairs for his visitors, the engineer managed to find his keyboard amongst the desktop clutter and began punching in a series of keystrokes.

  A moment later, Mr. Bridlewood’s fuzzy, grey brow knotted in puzzlement. “I don’t understand…. This can’t be accurate,” Griffin and Kit heard him mumble.

  Now with urgency, the city employee’s fingers worked with more vigor as he attempted to verify the information contained on the computer monitor.

  “Let me guess,” Griffin chimed in. “Somebody disabled that traffic signal remotely this morning, and then at about 8:45, set it back to normal operation.”

  “Yes,” their host acknowledged. “Yes, they did. But how? That system is password protected and should only allow access from my workstation and one other, in case I’m not available.”

  “And whose computer would that second option be?” Kit asked.

  “There is no other machine set up yet. We… well… we never got around to it. I’m always here,” the now-frightened engineer stammered.

  Before Griffin could pose his next question, Bridlewood reached for the phone. “We’ve been hacked,” he announced to his guests, his tone indicating that someone messing with his traffic lights was akin to mass murder.

  Holding up a hand to stop the now-sweating egghead from lifting the receiver, Griffin advised, “Please don’t report this to anyone just yet, sir. We are right in the middle of an investigation, and this evidence might become critical to our case.”

  “I see,” Bridlewood nodded, “of course I want nothing more than to help the authorities.”

  “Do us a favor,” Kit directed, handing over her business card, “if you learn any more about who or how your system was hacked, please call me first.”

  “Yes, of course,” Bridlewood agreed, obviously impressed by both Kit’s title and bosom.

  A few minutes later, Griffin and Kit climbed back inside the attorney’s sedan. “I’m beginning to think Royce and the boys down at El Paso homicide aren’t so paranoid after all,” Kit exhaled.

  “No shit. Who hacks a traffic system to facilitate a hit on a US marshal? It sure as shit wasn’t the Diablos doing any computer hacking. Hell, most of them couldn’t even count to ten. They had help, and that is really beginning to bother me.”

  “What now?”

  Griffin rubbed his chin, the act reminding him of the injuries to his arms. “I want to get our FBI friends working on that photograph Royce gave you. We’re going to need another copy.”

  Kit agreed. “Someone seemed bound and determined to stop us from identifying that man, so it must be important. I’ll call Royce right now,” she said, reaching for her cell phone.

  Griffin’s firm hand on her arm stopped the federal prosecutor cold. “I wouldn’t use my cell,” he whispered, his spooky tone sending chills up her spine. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to take my time getting a replacement for the one that got barbequed this morning… if you know what I mean.”

  Chapter 8

  Sebastian’s eyebrows sought his hairline, his pupils dilating with anger at the computer’s display. “Incompetence. Pure and simple incompetence,” he grumbled.

  It wasn’t that he had high hopes for the Mexican bikers. He hadn’t invested heavily in their success. The phone call he’d personally made to the Diablos had been a small thing, a preventative measure at best. The fact that the US marshal was still alive was nothing more than an annoyance. The lady prosecutor, on the other hand, was becoming a significant issue. He would deal with her later.

  Still, he was disappointed in the West Texas ruffians. Such a tip in the Middle East would have surely resulted in a “reduction,” although there would have probably been a much larger explosive device deployed and dozens of collateral deaths. Human life was cheap there. In Moscow, the target would have no doubt been eliminated, probably via a small caliber pistol shot delivered to the back of the head. Toyoko’s henchmen were the most efficient, the bodies of the deceased rarely found, let alone autopsied.

  What bothered Sebastian, however, was the fact that one of his best operatives had been compromised. The Gravity Well operations were increasing in tempo and intensity. Bo’s experience would have ensured a higher percentage of success. Now he would have to keep the Fuse in a deep, dark, hole.

  Moving on, Sebastian studied a well-known senator’s profile, the southern politician a member of several key committees and a staunch supporter of the new American president.

  The senator also had a weakness for tall, leggy brunettes, and didn’t mind paying well for the pleasure of their company. His amateur efforts to disguise his shopping sprees at several Washington call-girl websites were naïve and ill-advised. Sebastian was about to make the man accountable for his transgressions.

  With a few sweeping strokes of the keyboard, Grome sent a series of documents to a reporter for the Washington Post. Those attachments contained photographs of the politician entering an upscale Alexandria condo, whose internet address just happened to match an account used to purchase one or two female escorts per month.

  The condo’s ownership was a small, real estate investment trust, controlled by an off-shore corporation. Given the big data available to Sebastian’s computer, it had taken only a few minutes to unravel the complex scheme and identify the real owner as a US senator. That information was included in the email as well.

  The Post would station reporters and photographers outside of the seldom-used residence. They would pounce like a pack of jackals on the lawmaker and his guests as they came and went. It was enough to generate the rare smile on Sebastian’s face, and one of the reasons why he embraced his duties with gusto.

  Gravity Well’s plan, if consolidated to its simplest constant, was to sow unrest in the United States. In just a brief time, Sebastian and his cohorts had managed to degrade the public’s faith in their elected officials to historic lows.

  There had been a successful campaign to seed distrust in the media, smear both political parties, and engender serious misgivings toward mega corporate entities. Religious institutions were no longer a bastion of stability or trust, in part due to the efforts of the Komitet. Universities, health care providers, state and local governments, the IRS, and even the Veteran’s Administration had all been targeted.

  A wise man once said, “Beware that when you reach the top, that’s when the knives come out, and they can be extremely sharp.” Gravity Well’s artificial brain must have grasped that concept better than most of its human creators, as the machine intelligence had outlined a series of campaigns targeting what were once considered America’s foundational institutions.

  Sebastian had sent dozens of similar emails to other reporters, rival politicians, and watchdog organizations. Washington was supposedly rife with leakers, and while that was partially true, most of the recent damage had been inflicted by the resources of the Komitet.

  Police departments now felt as though they were under siege. Formerly above reproach, the US military was being forced to become politically correct and sensitive to progressive issues, distracting it from its primary role as defender of a nation.

  The goal was to erode America’s faith in her institutions, and eventually generate enough discourse that the entire system was on the brink of collapse. From those ashes, a phoenix would arise, a better way of governing, a superior society.

  Gravity Well had also demonstrated a remarkable understanding of American nationalism.

  For the younger citizens, those whose minds could still be molded and steered, pride in their country was to be converted into embarrassment and guilt. Global warming, carbon emissions, treatment of minorities, immigration policies, and a keen sense that the United States was a bad international citizen were all used to demoralize the next generation of Americans. For those young minds, the Constitution wasn’t yet a bedrock of t
heir existence and beliefs. It was an aged document that required interpretation for modern times and new age problems.

  Older, established, people presented a more difficult egg to crack. They firmly believed in the Constitution, and would no doubt take up arms to defend what they regarded as their God-given rights. They had seen better times and knew the system could work. They believed that the USA was the greatest country on earth and were often convinced that global issues were the fault of other nations.

  At the core of those principles was the US judicial system. With very few exceptions, Americans believed in the ultimate authority of that branch. After all, trial by a jury of one’s peers had been a mainstay of everyday life since the country’s inception. The US Supreme Court was held in high regard as an institution, even when at least half of the population disagreed with many of their decisions. While some presidents had paid lip service to defying the courts, none had ever been bold enough to follow through with their veiled threats.

  That was the genius of Gravity Well’s agenda, the brilliance of the artificial intellect. A military coup would never work. Armed rebellion was impossible. Domination by one political party or the other was utterly ridiculous. Victory through war was absurd to contemplate. Yet, Sebastian, the Komitet, and Gravity Well were all totally confident in their plan. They would use the judicial branch as their avenue of approach, a trojan horse that was beloved and respected.

  Instead of a sword, they would use the gavel to implement change. Rather than uniforms, their fighters would wear robes. The United States would fall from within, and when that occurred, the rest of the fragile world would follow.

  Sebastian had seen Gravity Well’s predictions. And given his worldly experiences in the trade of war, he didn’t doubt the computer brain’s prophecies for one second. He and those working with him were not traitors, or rebels, or revolutionaries in the truest sense of those words. Humanity was going to fail, and in the absolute worst case, the Komitet would accelerate that process by a few years.