Bradshaw placed the battery and the first SIM card in the TracFone, powered it up, and dialed the first number from memory. Three ringtones passed before the other party picked up.
“Dalton.”
“It’s me,” Bradshaw said. “Don’t use names.”
Dalton’s voice was devoid of its usual humor. “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you didn’t cross that line.”
Bradshaw sighed. “So you know.”
“Received an interagency alert and an emergency recall to the office,” Dalton said. “I’m on my way there as we speak.” He took a deep breath. “So, it’s true.”
“I don’t know what’s being disseminated on your end,” Bradshaw said.
“Then tell me your side of events.”
“I watched four dudes with hush puppies pick the lock to my front door, sneak into my bedroom, and mag dump into my bed. Right after the most recent news? I assumed Ivans and I handled it. Turns out, they’re with our mutual froggy acquaintance.”
Dalton took another deep breath. “That’s not good, man.”
“Whoever they are, they’re way the fuck off the reservation,” Bradshaw said. “Were you able to find a boss?”
Dalton paused a beat. “Yeah. They’re not diss or dodge. They’re higher and direct.”
Bradshaw’s jaw clenched as he processed the information. If he was hearing Dalton correctly, Hawthorne’s task force was not shepherded by the Justice or Homeland Security Departments. Instead, they were directly managed by the White House. His stomach turned as the implications raced across his mind.
“I’m gonna need some running room.”
“You’ve got a bit, but not much,” Dalton said. “Our frog friend kept the news from the public for now, but that’ll change.”
“Sounds like he’s trying to finish the job.”
“More than likely. If you’ve got a rainy day plan, I’d advise using it.” Dalton took another deep breath. “This will probably be the last time we speak.”
“I know,” Bradshaw said. The sadness carried in his voice. “Brother, it’s been an honor. Thank you…for everything.”
“Sua sponte, my friend,” Dalton said. “Good luck.”
Bradshaw terminated the call, then disassembled the phone, flushed the SIM card down the toilet, put in a fresh one, and powered the phone back up. He knew the next phone call would place whomever he contacted at risk. If Hawthorne discovered the connection, there was no telling how far he would go to force their cooperation.
At the same time, the alternative was to make a run for the border himself. That was infinitely riskier. Customs and Border Protection would have received the alert. While he had a false passport that would likely hold up under scrutiny, it was still another breadcrumb for Hawthorne to follow, or Merkulov if he felt so inclined.
Damn it. There was no other option. He punched the numbers in the phone and listened to the ringtone, hoping that he hadn’t signed the recipient’s death warrant with the call.
Gabriela Rivera pulled her Volkswagen Jetta into the parking lot and killed the ignition. The only addition she’d made to her wardrobe since leaving Bradshaw’s apartment had been a gray hoodie. She stepped out of the car, locked it behind her, and wandered towards the nearest park bench. As she surveyed the area, she noticed a few figures in the distance. That time of the morning, they were either transients or addicts looking for a fix. Neither scared Rivera. Growing up in one of the rougher parts of Nogales had insulated her from a fear of the impoverished.
As she reached the bench, she heard a hiss off to her left. She glanced and saw Bradshaw emerge from behind a tree, his head on a swivel as he approached. Her face fell as she noticed his expression.
“Are you okay, Jack?” she asked.
“Yeah, all things considered,” he said. “You make that phone call?”
“You went out on a limb, assuming I had that kind of connection,” Rivera said, folding her arms.
“I figured growing up in Nogales and knowing a lot of UDAs, you had to have a coyote somewhere in the rolodex,” Bradshaw said.
Rivera nodded slowly. “I need you to tell me what this is all about.”
“I will,” Bradshaw said. “But only once we’re on the road. I’m putting you in enough danger as is. Lingering here isn’t safe.”
With a heavy sigh, Rivera motioned her head towards her car. “C’mon. Get in.”
Ten minutes later, the Jetta cruised along I-10 East. A few minutes after that, Rivera veered to the I-19 service ramp. The road sign measurements changed from imperial to metric. Rivera glanced over at Bradshaw.
“All right, we’re on our way to Nogales. Tell me what happened.”
Bradshaw ran Rivera through what happened in the hours following her visit. When he finished, her response was simple and murmured.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” Bradshaw said. “I’ve got no proof, but I’m 100% certain that Hawthorne’s behind this. Confirmed that he’s working for the White House.”
Rivera took her eyes off the road for a moment to stare into Bradshaw’s eyes. “Are you sure about that?”
“That’s what my contact tells me,” Bradshaw said. “He wasn’t able to go into detail over the phone.”
Silence lingered inside the Jetta as Rivera processed the information. She took a deep breath. “Think the President is involved?”
“I have no idea,” Bradshaw said. “I don’t want to speculate. Could be one of his advisors running an off-book operation. Political types are all about insulating the Man. Then again, this President’s not one for tradition.” He shook his head as he rubbed his temples. “I don’t know.”
Rivera nodded as she exhaled audibly. “Turn yourself in. I’ll represent you. We can fight this the right way.”
“Can’t do it,” Bradshaw said as he shook his head.
“We can arrange a protective detail, cite special circumstances.”
Bradshaw looked at her. “These people broke into my house and tried to murder me in my bed. What makes you think they won’t doctor or outright fabricate evidence to make their case, or that I won’t have an accident in protective custody?”
Rivera shook her head as she clenched her jaw. “I knew things had gotten bad, but I would have thought this sort of thing would have been hysteria.”
“Me, too.”
After another pause, Rivera said, “You know, if you run, you’re gonna have to keep running. You’ll have our government and the Russians looking to put you in the ground.”
“I know.”
An impish smile crossed her face. “It would figure I meet a guy that would get me thinking about putting away my little black book, and now I’m helping him become an international fugitive.”
Bradshaw reached over and took her hand in his. “Hey, I started looking forward, too. Just our luck, yeah?”
Rivera lifted Bradshaw’s hand and pressed it to her lips. “Yeah. Just our luck.”
Bradshaw nodded, then extricated his hand from hers. With a sharp exhale, he said, “Make the call.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Nogales, Arizona
15 September 2018
06:40 hours Tango (13:40 hours Zulu)
They drove in silence for about 45 minutes. Rivera finally tired of the Jetta’s engine purr, and placed her cell phone in the dashboard dock. She ignored the cringe from Bradshaw as she connected the phone to her car via Bluetooth, then put on the NPR app. The app took a moment to buffer, then a calm, measured voice spoke through the speakers.
“—early morning press conference, White House Senior Adviser Greg Lambert broke the news of a failed federal raid in Tucson, Arizona, late Friday night. Four federal agents were murdered attempting to apprehend John Bradshaw, a private security officer. A warrant has been issued for his arrest. Mr. Lambert warned that Bradshaw, a highly decorated veteran of the 75th Ranger Regiment, was to be considered armed and extremely dangerous, and that anybody with information regarding h
is whereabouts should contact—”
“Shit,” Rivera muttered. She closed the app, then glanced at Bradshaw. He stared out the window as he watched solar undertones paint the indigo dawn sky with streaks of crimson and gold. For the first time in the past nine hours, Bradshaw’s mind slipped out of the zone. He let out a heavy sigh.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I grew up in the desert,” he said, his voice soft. “Dad’s last duty station was Fort Huachuca. I was born there. Raised in Sierra Vista.” He sighed again and pursed his lips. “I grew up on desert sunrises. Never knew what it’d feel like, watching my last.”
Rivera nodded and put a hand on Bradshaw’s thigh. She knew there was nothing she could say that would comfort him.
The remainder of the drive was silent. Rivera took Exit 12, hooked a left onto Ruby Road, then made a right on the frontage road. As they handrailed the interstate, Bradshaw caught glimpses of houses that peeked above the mesquite trees that concealed them. A couple of minutes later, Rivera guided the Jetta left onto Garden View Court, then made an immediate right onto Garden View Drive, where she entered a residential area. Rivera pulled into the first driveway on her left, and followed it up to a homely, single-story brick house. Rivera parked beside a white mid-90s Chevy and left the keys in the ignition as she stepped out.
As Bradshaw grabbed his go-bag and stepped out of the vehicle, he watched as a short, older gentleman emerged from the home. The man wore a button-down shirt tucked into Levis and well-worn cowboy boots. Male pattern baldness had set in, leaving a halo of white hair around a smooth crown. His mustache was trimmed and impressive, and matched what remained of his hair.
Rivera approached the man, wrapped her arms around him, and then kissed him on both cheeks. “Thank you for doing this, tío.” The man nodded, and Rivera half-turned towards Bradshaw. “Jack, this is my uncle, Ramón. My mother’s brother.”
Ramón Perez extended his hand towards Bradshaw, who accepted the gesture. “Thank you for protecting mi sobrina,” he said.
“I didn’t know you lived on this side of the border,” Bradshaw said.
“I was lucky,” Perez said. “Mi madre, may she rest in peace, gave birth to me while visiting relatives here. My sister was born in México.”
“After their deportation, he would smuggle my parents across to visit me,” Rivera said. “He’s reliable and ethical, something you don’t find a lot of in that industry.”
Bradshaw’s face darkened. “Sir, I’m putting you at great risk doing this. The people who want me dead will come at you with everything they’ve got if they find out you’ve helped me slip the net.”
“Those pinche pendejos?” Perez snorted. “They won’t look twice my way.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I give la migra a heads-up when a major shipment is on its way north. I have no love for the narcos.”
Bradshaw’s dour expression intensified. “That’s a very dangerous game you’re playing, sir.”
“I’ve played it for 40 years, mijo,” Perez said. “Your concern is appreciated, but I’ll be okay.”
Rivera reentered the conversation. “I wish I could say longer, tío.”
“Your whereabouts must be accounted for,” Perez said knowingly. He looked to Bradshaw. “Join me inside when you’ve said your goodbyes.” He shared another embrace and pair of cheek kisses with his niece, then turned and sauntered back into his home.
Once Perez was inside, Bradshaw glanced down and caught a glimpse of the KIA bracelet on his wrist. He slipped it off then held it out towards Rivera.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t accept that.”
“I can’t take it with me,” Bradshaw said. “Everything that makes me Jack Bradshaw has to be left behind, right here. I’d feel better knowing you had it.”
Rivera sighed deeply as she slowly accepted it. “I’m going to hold it for you until you get back,” she said. “You find a way home. You come see me.”
Bradshaw nodded. He couldn’t hold back any longer, and he threw his arms around Rivera. She matched the gesture and squeezed him tightly. Bradshaw ran his fingers through her hair, taking in her scent one last time. A heavy exhale fell from his lips.
“Thank you,” Bradshaw whispered.
Rivera laughed quietly. “Please. At best, we’re halfway to even.” She took a step back and cupped Bradshaw’s face. “You need to let me know when you’re safe.”
“The less contact we have, the safer it will be for you,” Bradshaw said.
“I don’t need details. I don’t need a regular update. Just let me know when you’ve arrived wherever you’re going.”
“I will.”
Rivera pushed a sigh out of her nose, then stepped forward and pressed her lips to his. They stood there for a moment, neither one wanting to be the first to retreat. Bradshaw caved first, pulling back and then planting a kiss on her forehead.
“Go.”
With a nod, Rivera retreated to her vehicle. Bradshaw remained in the driveway as she climbed inside and shifted into reverse. He watched her return to the street, and kept eyes on her until her car disappeared. A sigh fell from his lips as he fought the tightening knot in his chest. Bradshaw did what he could to will the feeling away, then made his way into Perez’s abode.
Moscow, Central Federal District, Russia
15 September 2018
23:45 hours Charlie (20:45 hours Zulu)
Kazimir Merkulov should have been tired. He’d traveled nearly 10,000 kilometers in the span of a half-day. A few hours after his arrest, the federal agents who had retrieved him from local custody had released him from his holding cell, driven him to Sky Harbor, and put him on a private jet. Aboard were a pair of serious-faced men in black suits. Merkulov recognized them as FSB types, no doubt tasked with escorting him to his final destination.
The flight only made one stop in New York, where the Gulfstream refueled. From there, it was a straight shot to Moscow. That his escorts left him to his devices didn’t say much. It could be that he was safe, or perhaps their masters wanted to dole punishment upon Merkulov personally. He prepared arguments in his head to appeal any line of questioning they had in mind, but he knew better than anyone else that if they wanted him to die slowly, there was nothing he could say or do to alter the outcome.
A chill crawled down Merkulov’s spine when he stepped foot off of the Gulfstream at Domodedovo. He wasn’t sure if it was caused by fear or his acclimation to desert weather. One of the escorts produced the hoodie that had been taken off Merkulov when he had been taken into custody, and he shrugged into it. He followed the guards to a Mercedes-Benz, where he was seated between the two.
The drive went straight up A-105. Merkulov’s pulse pounded in his ears. He knew the routes well enough to know it was only a matter of one turn that would decide his final destination. One would take him to Lubyanka Square, where FSB headquarters were located. They would be taking him to the prison beneath it, presumably to “disappear.” The other would take him to Grizodubovoy Street, the location of the Main Directorate of the General Staff of the Armed Forces. That would likely mean a debrief, or at least a chance to plead his case before being made to disappear.
As the A-105 became Kashira Highway, Merkulov’s breathing grew shallow. If the driver continued on Kashira, he would have time to breathe. If they veered onto Andropova, then Merkulov would need to make a decision: accept what lay in store, or escape and attempt to flee. The latter was almost as guaranteed to end in death as the former. If the government brought its full might to bear, there was nowhere Merkulov could hide, especially considering his dearth of resources.
The Andropova Avenue exit came and went, and the Mercedes continued to cruise along Kashira. Merkulov let out a long, quiet sigh of relief and settled back into his seat. He still couldn’t sleep, but he could relax just a notch for the half-hour that remained in the commute.
A new day had started by the time the Mercedes p
ulled into the security checkpoint at 3 Grizodubovoy Street. The driver handed over identification to the sharp looking soldier who manned the gate. Merkulov could see another other soldier position himself perpendicular to his partner, his rifle at the low ready. He noticed the sentry used the recently adopted AK-12, equipped with a PG-210 holographic sight. The last time he’d stepped foot in Headquarters, the AK-74 had still been the issue weapon.
I’ve been away from home that long, Merkulov mused. He was not a man prone to sentimentality, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss his Motherland, even given the conditions surrounding his return.
The gate guards scrutinized the identifications, then snapped to attention and rendered a salute as the gate was opened. The Mercedes was driven to a parking lot, and Merkulov disembarked with his escorts. He took a deep breath of the cold, crisp Muscovite air, and stared at the Main Directorate headquarters building. It was tall, yet nondescript. A bystander could be forgiven for mistaking it for a financial institution. The only giveaway of its importance was its heavily armed uniformed security.
Merkulov was escorted into the spacious, sparse front lobby. They walked past a humorless, middle aged woman posted at the reception desk, then proceeded to the elevators. One of the suits swiped a pass key against a reader, which flashed green. The doors parted a moment later, and Merkulov and his escorts stepped inside. There were no buttons in the elevator.
Executive? He knew that was a double-edged sword. The upside was that they had no designs to murder him, otherwise they’d be going to the basement. The downside was, the kind of person with whom he was almost certain to meet would have the power to decide his fate in seconds.
The elevator stopped after a minute, and the doors opened. One of the escorts gestured to Merkulov, and he walked. He had never been on this floor before, but within moments, he recognized it from others’ retelling of their experiences. It was the eighth floor, where all of the directorate and direction heads had their offices. The ninth housed the deputy directors, and the tenth housed the director himself. Merkulov had entered the halls of power, and it was simultaneously intoxicating and frightening.
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