by David Beers
IT TOOK an hour for Charles’s mother to reach him, having to call multiple people and wait on multiple call backs, but she had no choice. No one did, not when they were trying to reach the man formerly known as Randy McStein.
Charles knew his mother would always think of him by that name. His birth name.
“Randy, the police just left. They’re going to your sister’s now.”
“Alicia?”
“Do you have any other sisters that I’m not aware of?” his mother asked.
“Are they the police, Mom, or are they the FBI?”
“FBI.”
“You’re sure?”
“Do you think I’m a fool, Randy? How many years have I been answering doors to cops? I listen when they speak and then, somehow despite my ever increasing age, I remember what they say. These two were FBI.”
The old bat was definitely annoying, but if Charles loved anyone, it was his mother. He didn’t know it, but the feelings he held toward her somewhat resembled Christian’s relationship with his own mother.
“Thanks, Mom. What is Alicia going to tell them?”
“Who can tell? She might give them your address if she knows it.”
She didn’t, but his mother wasn’t too far off, either. Alicia didn’t exactly approve of her brother’s activities, or at least those she knew about. She probably would have turned him in without being asked if she’d known everything.
“Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
“You better. I’m tired of people showing up on my doorstep asking questions.”
Never mind that no one had showed up on her doorstep in over a decade. She wasn’t letting go of anything, ever.
“Okay, Mom. Talk to you later. Love you.”
Charles hung up the phone and looked out across the cabin.
The FBI had his name, clearly both his current and former one. They couldn’t get to him, that much was clear, so they were going after his family. His mother was solid, of course, but his sister? What would she say? Charles didn’t know. She hadn’t been in this position before, but if they started telling her what he was suspected of … Charles didn’t know what she might do.
The next operation was nearly ready to commence; Charles was prepared to call Titan and let him know … but now this had been placed in his lap.
He realized he’d forgotten to ask his mother something important. He picked the phone back up and dialed her number, his side encrypting the conversation before the phone began ringing.
“McStein residence,” his mother answered as if they were still in the fifties.
“Mom, it’s me. Do you remember their names? The FBI guys?”
“One was Windsor, the other was Phillips. Phillips was in a wheelchair. Windsor had a scar on his face.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
He hung up for the second time, recognizing the names at once. Titan’s old partners; one of them could end this whole business by killing a few people. And now, they were on to Charles. Getting closer, too.
He wasn’t too worried about them finding him immediately. Flying out of the country would certainly be tougher now, but not impossible. He had multiple identities he could use, but …
He didn’t like those fuckers putting pressure on his family. He didn’t want them showing up at his mother’s doorstep, as if she had anything to do with this.
And it’s you I’ll come for, he thought, the old saying rolling across his mind again.
So he would. And he wouldn’t tell Titan a word of it, either. In fact, that might be the way to go about this whole thing. Steal Titan’s victory by killing his partners, take his money, and then kill him when he realized it was all too late.
Charles started giggling.
God, this was too good to be true.
“RANDY IS … he’s different than anyone else I know,” Alicia McStein said.
“How so?” Tommy asked.
“The rest of the world. You and I, Special Agent Windsor—we all live by certain moral norms. My brother doesn’t. He never has. I don’t think he’s done all the horrible things that my mother claims he’s done, but I know that he hasn’t lived like a saint.”
“Your mother … she says he’s done horrible things?” Christian asked. “She seemed to be in his corner when we stopped by.”
“Oh, she is. She definitely is. That doesn’t mean she won’t bitch about him, though. If Mom does anything well, it’s bitch.” Alicia laughed without the least bit of self-consciousness.
“Well, Ms. McStein, we need to speak with your brother, and as quickly as possible. He’s not in any trouble yet, but we have reason to believe he’s involved in some pretty serious offenses.”
“Like?”
Tommy’s whisper had the feel of a small breeze moving through a cemetery. “The four FBI building attacks, as well as the one that was blown up last week.”
The smile on Alicia’s face died. She said nothing for a second, and then, “You’re not kidding, are you? You think he had something to do with that?”
“Yes, ma’am, we do,” Christian said.
Alicia sat forward and broke eye contact, looking across her living room. Christian knew from the dossier that she lived alone and had no kids. She kept the house clean and appeared to be someone who had her life in order, regardless what the rest of her family was like.
“Why do you think that? I’ve been watching the news. I know who you both are. The people on the broadcast don’t stop talking about you two, do you know that? You’re almost celebrities.” She laughed again, though without the previous humor.
“No, ma’am. We haven’t been watching a lot of television,” Tommy whispered.
“Why would he be involved in this?”
“Because Luke Titan hired him. We think Luke has been planning something like this for quite some time. To do this, though, he’s had to amass an arsenal, and that’s where your brother comes in. Do you know what his business is?”
“Not exactly.”
Christian took over, knowing Tommy’s voice might be growing weak. “He is a gun trafficker. He moves them across the country, and across the world. He stores them, sells them, but up until now, that was it. We believe Luke Titan enticed your brother to join him, and now we think given your brother’s connections, he’s in charge of executing Luke’s vision.” Christian recognized how he’d called Luke by his first name. He shouldn’t do that in front of other people—it personalized the man too much. Would make whoever they spoke with feel Christian and Tommy might be close to him.
“So, you can see, Ms. McStein, how important it is that we speak to him immediately. We could, of course, be mistaken, in which case your brother could help clarify that. If we’re not wrong, though, a lot more people may die if we can’t find him.”
She looked away again, shaking her head. Christian couldn’t tell if it was in disbelief, or if she was telling them she wouldn’t help.
Long moments of silence passed.
“I would help, if I could,” she said finally. “But I can’t. I haven’t spoken to Randy in years. We were never that close, like I said, he was a … different person. I know that he loves me the best he can, and I love him. Even so, I never liked being around him all that much. It just seemed like he was always trying to find an angle to work.” She looked up. “My mother, though. She still talks to him. I’m sure of it. She can get you in touch with him.”
“That doesn’t seem very likely, given our first meeting.”
Another humorless chuckle. “Probably right, but if anyone in our family can get you to Randy, it’s her. I’m sorry, I wish I could be of more help, but I really can’t. I imagine my mom’s already called him. He already knows you’re here.”
“You think so?” Tommy said.
She nodded. “My mom bitches, but she’s close to him. He’s her only son. If you guys came looking for him, then he knows it by now.”
BY THE TIME Christian and Tommy were leaving Alicia McStein’s house, Charles was a
lready finalizing his plans.
The sarin gas would still happen. That was necessary, in order to keep Titan satisfied for the next week or so. Charles was concerned with after the sarin gas, because that’s when things would get fun for him.
Two men were being dispatched; they would reach his mother’s house within five hours, though they weren’t looking for his mom. They were going to find the two FBI agents who were digging too deeply. Charles didn’t blame them—their organization was under attack, after all. However, consequence didn’t always follow blame. Sometimes consequence simply followed, regardless of whom was at fault.
The two men had instructions. To watch and follow. To ensure that Windsor and Phillips didn’t drop out of sight.
With that taken care of, Charles needed to give Titan a call and let him know the plans he was privy too. Charles had been careful when making his other arrangements. He had underestimated Titan when he reached for the gun inside the cabin, intent on killing him right then. He wouldn’t underestimate the man again.
The phone rang once and then that eerie, calm voice was on the line.
“Hello, Mr. Twaller.”
“Hey. We’re ready.”
“Good. Do you have a target?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. There are quite a few daycares across this great land of ours, but I think there’s a unique opportunity with one.”
“Which one is that?” Titan asked.
“D.C..”
Silence came over the line. It stretched on for so long, that Charles actually pulled the phone away from his face to see if it was still connected.
As he put it back to his ear, he heard the man on the other end begin laughing.
“Yes, Mr. Twaller,” he said through cold chuckles. “That’s perfect. Just perfect.”
CHAPTER 18
C hristian lay in his bed, the lights off all around him. Veronica was asleep in the bed next to his, and had been for a few hours. Christian couldn’t sleep and imagined Tommy was dealing with the same problem. Waverly had dispersed teams of agents to watch Charles/Randy’s mother’s house and was working back channels to find a friendly judge who would issue a warrant. Now it was a waiting game, and so they came back to the hotel, ate dinner, then retreated to their rooms. He and Veronica had talked for a little while, but he thought what she knew was weighing heavily on her mind.
She was scared of him, even if she wouldn’t come out and say it.
She was scared of what he might do.
Are you not? he wondered.
No, strangely enough. What Luke wanted him to do was just so far beyond the realm of possibility that it didn’t matter.
Then why did you tell her? Why did you say she should tell Tommy, if the time ever became right?
He sighed and rolled over, turning his back to Veronica.
Christian wasn’t going to kill her or anyone else. No one besides Luke, and even that would be a stretch.
He felt his phone vibrating next to him on the bed. Who would be calling him this late? Waverly? Christian reached for the phone and immediately saw the number was blocked. Cold blanketed his whole body, a heavy thing—like a lead vest. Only one person would call him with a blocked number.
Christian sat up, still holding the phone.
He looked across the room at Veronica, her face toward him, her mouth slightly open.
Christian put the phone to his ear.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi, Christian,” Luke’s clear voice spoke.
“Where are you?”
“I’m not close by. I’m attending to other things right now, though I think you have Ms. Lopez with you. How is that relationship working?”
Christian swallowed, still looking at Veronica. The cold wouldn’t dissipate and goosebumps rose on his skin. “Why are you calling, Luke?”
“I wanted to see if you’ve thought anymore about what I proposed the last time we spoke. Are you willing to kill her yet?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“I suppose I do, but I wanted to give you another chance. Do you remember what I told you before I stabbed you in the face?”
Christian did. He remembered everything perfectly until the blackness swarmed him, the pain and blood loss growing too heavy for his mind to keep going.
“I said that if you wanted to kill me, this would be your only chance. That if you waited any longer, it would grow much harder to do so. You remember that, right?”
Silence from Christian.
“I’m telling you something similar now. Different as well, though. If you want to keep your sanity, kill her. Later, after tomorrow, it’s going to be much harder to find that sanity … Is she there with you?”
Christian looked away from her, somehow frightened that Luke might be able to see through his own eyes and actually view her.
“She is. Kill her, Christian. For your own sake. End her life, then go to Tommy’s room and do the same. You’ll be doing him a favor, and you know it. When you’re finished, I’ll come get you. We can leave, Christian. You and I. We’ll never be caught.”
Christian’s eyes slid back to Veronica, unable to help it.
I’ll come get you. We can leave, Christian. You and I. We’ll never be caught.
A part of him—a part he would never admit to anyone—wanted that. To go with Luke, to spend the rest of his days with the only person who’d ever understood his intellect.
Christian swallowed and closed his eyes. “No, Luke.”
“You’re sure? After tomorrow … things are going to change.”
“Where are you?” Christian said.
“I wanted to give you the option. I’m always looking out for you, even if you don’t think that’s the case.”
Christian said nothing.
“Good night, my old friend.”
The line went dead.
CHRISTIAN DIDN’T SLEEP the rest of the night. He woke Waverly and Tommy, telling them both about the threat for tomorrow. Of course, he left out some of the conversation; the parts that held no bearing on the impending attack.
Alerts went out across the FBI, but in the end, neither Christian nor the FBI’s warning made any difference.
Director Alan Waverly arrived at work early, just as he had each day for the past 20 years. He took a different route than most other employees, parking in a different deck and taking an elevator that very few people had access to. In the beginning, at least, he was safe.
It was the parking decks that were the problem, the ones that Waverly didn’t visit.
More specifically, it was the cars that went into the decks. Charles Twaller’s sly genius showed itself in that move; he had realized that the most perfect delivery mechanism were the people themselves.
Sarin has a potency much higher than cyanide, and the ability to easily turn from its natural liquid form into a gas. Charles had wracked his brain for a long time, trying to understand how he could take sarin from the outside and deliver it inside.
The eureka moment came at an inopportune time, but who can truly control when genius strikes?
He had been lying in bed, the darkness of the mountains surrounding him. He was dozing when it hit him, sleep just about to wash over with its peaceful necessity.
The cars, he thought. The cars. No one checks them, not if you have a badge. The driver flashes the badge at a reader, perhaps waves at the guard on duty, and then they’re safe. It would take entirely too much time to check each car for weapons, chemical or otherwise.
He woke then, and didn’t sleep at all the rest of the night.
By the time morning arrived, everything had been worked out. He only needed to operationalize the strategy, and that wouldn’t be hard. Resources were poured into understanding who worked at the FBI’s D.C. building, and then more poured into understanding where those people lived.
The timing was what mattered. His men went out the night before to 400 employees’ homes. Even as Luke was speaking to C
hristian over the phone, Twaller’s people were working. No one was arrested.
Out of 400 employees, 150 vehicles were located. Not a high percentage, but then, not a high percentage was needed.
Canisters were attached beneath the cars, a small and simple technology. A timer was built into each one, set to release at 7:50 the next morning.
Cars rolled through the parking decks (there were two, one at the north entrance and one at the south). Some cars arrived early, some late, but that was the beauty of the plan. At 7:50 a.m., the canisters began releasing their poison. Sarin is odorless, tasteless, and invisible to the eye. The gas moved like oxygen, spraying throughout the parking decks. It filled level after level, and the people heading to work walked right through it, both breathing it in and attaching it to their clothes.
Sarin gas can continue releasing from strands of clothing for up to 30 minutes. So, the canisters had been the first method of delivery, but the second, and most important, were the people who entered the building. Every floor had at least one person spreading the poison.
Death occurs in one to ten minutes after inhalation.
The first person to die from it did so alone, on Level C of parking deck 6. She felt a tightening in her chest, and her nose immediately began running. She tried to walk, but lost control of her muscles quickly, falling to the ground. Her limbs began twitching and her lungs lost the ability to pull in air. She died from asphyxia within two minutes of first breathing in the gas.
Two people found her five minutes later; both of them lived another five to six minutes. They had time to call for EMTs, who wouldn’t arrive for another 15.
The first person to make it through the FBI doors hadn’t actually been touched by the gas until he was five feet from the entrance. A small patch of it landed gently on his right shoulder, sinking through the fabric and touching his skin. He was lucky not to breathe it in immediately. That meant he lasted another 16 minutes.
In that time, he passed by 23 people on the way to his desk, including standing next to four in the elevator. Three of those four felt their sinuses fill and release in a matter of seconds, one of them even commenting on it, creating odd laughter from all in the elevator.
