by Dan O'Shea
“Where and when?” he asked.
“The numbered ones are shots we’ve got in from suburban locations,” Munroe said. “They aren’t on the city grid so we don’t get the time stamps on the photos. We’ve got them cataloged. What’s the number?”
“317.”
Munroe checked the database. “Woodfield Mall, Schaumburg. That’s off an ATM. Two days ago, 8.12pm.”
“An ATM? You get any ID off the withdrawal? Might give us something.”
“Ah shit,” Munroe said. “Hold on.” He made a call to the tech guys, gave them the time and the ATM location.
“Can we sort these by time, day, anything like that?” Bernstein asked.
“Yeah,” said Munroe. He pointed at the laptop on the desk that was plugged into the projector. “They’re all loaded into a database. You can sort that any way you want.”
Bernstein started tapping away at the computer, plotting locations and times.
“So, until you get out to the ’burbs, he hasn’t been west of the river?” Bernstein said. “Just the Loop, then up Michigan over in River North?”
Munroe shrugged. “Make sense, density wise. Sticking with all the good targets.”
Bernstein nodded.
“Time?” Starshak asked.
“We got an hour and seventeen minutes,” said Munroe.
Munroe’s phone rang. It was the tech getting back about the ATM.
“Fuck.” Munroe snapped the phone shut. “Nothing. Just picked him up passing by.”
Bernstein shook his head. “No, no, no, that’s not right. Where’s that fucking picture?”
Munroe found it, passed it across the table.
“He’s maybe two, three feet from the camera, looking right at it. He’s not passing by. He’s making sure he gets seen. He’s out of the city, so he’s not sure where the surveillance is. But he knows damn well that the ATM will pick him up.”
“He’s building his haystack,” Munroe said, “making us find his needles in it.”
Bernstein nodded, tapped a sort into the database, pulling up suburban pictures. “We got dozens of these full-on ATM pics in the burbs. He’s advertising. The suburbs are a red herring. It’s downtown.”
Munroe nodded. “Part of their mindset, too. You look at all the major attacks, New York, London, Madrid – they want that name recognition. Schaumburg isn’t going to have the same cachet as Chicago.”
Bernstein held up a hand, cut him off. “There’s something here, just shut up a second.”
Everyone was quiet. Lynch looked at his watch.
“Yeah, OK. I’ll pass it along,” Starshak talking to dispatch. “People are getting out of work. Getting real crowded out there.”
Bernstein slammed his hand down on the table.
“Nothing west of the river,” Bernstein said. “Son of a fucking bitch. The train stations. Union and Ogilvie – pull everybody you’ve got and get them to the stations. That’s why the motherfucker never crossed the river. Both of the major commuter stations are west of it. That’s why the things are timed for at 5.30. Stations will be crammed. Check the entrances, concourses, the trains – the devices have to be in there somewhere.”
“You sure we want to go all in on that?” Munroe said. “The stations are totally wired, and we haven’t got a single shot of him in either of them, not one.”
Hardin shook his head. “When those guys snatched me out of the garage, the fat guy did something weird when we pulled out. Called somebody on his cell, said they were clear, that he could turn them back on. I bet you guys don’t have them snatching me on film, do you?”
“No,” Lynch said. “And we know al Din bought access to the system. If you can buy access, what do you want to bet you can get somebody to turn off a camera for you, too?”
“We’re running out of time,” Starshak said. “We have to go all in on something.”
Munroe nodded. “OK. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 100
Ad hoc team – a mess of Feds that were on hand, handful of uniforms that were close enough to be useful. Starshak, Bernstein and Munroe took half to Ogilvie. Lynch, Hardin and Wilson took the rest to Union. They had 32 minutes.
Meanwhile, Munroe had other resources closing in. At 5.25, he’d seal the stations – nobody in or out. If the devices were really all at the stations, then he’d keep the secondary infections down to practically nothing. Get the Cipro in quick enough, maybe he’d keep the body count down. Or maybe not. You get dusted good by that shit, maybe the Cipro wasn’t going to help much.
Got lucky early. Only took four minutes to find the first one. Lynch heard Bernstein on the comm channel through his earpiece. “Got one. Tucked in behind a magazine rack at the newsstand, waist high like we figured, facing out into the concourse. So nooks and crannies facing the concourse, figure waist up, places you could stick your hand in quick without drawing much attention.”
Lynch was glad about the waist up business. Couldn’t bend his leg at all, and it was killing him as it was. Munroe had passed out thick black bags, some kind of rubberized fabric with a heavy zipper. If you found a device, it went in the bag. Munroe said it would contain everything if the devices blew.
Twenty-eight minutes to go. Then nine minutes of nothing.
“I’m sealing the buildings at 5.25.” Munroe in Lynch’s earpiece. “Get your asses out before then.”
“Fuck that,” Lynch said.
“Seconded.” Wilson.
“I go where she goes.” Hardin.
“Stop wasting our time.” Starshak.
“OK,” Munroe said. “We run it out. The Cipro will be close. Not sure what good it does if you’re sitting on top of one of these when it goes off.”
Nineteen minutes to go.
“Got number two.” Wilson from the far end of the concourse at Union. “Back of a trashcan in the food court.”
Sixteen minutes.
“Got another one,” one of the uniforms from Ogilvie in Lynch’s earpiece.
Twelve minutes.
That made three. Munroe had scotched evacuating the stations, said they could never get everyone out in time, that the panic would make finding the devices impossible. Lynch tried to focus on the search, kept getting distracted by the people going by. Heard a guy on his cellphone, sounded like he was arguing with his wife, nothing horrible, just a little marital friction, wondered if that would be it, the last the woman ever heard from the guy would be some stupid angry words over something that didn’t matter. A young couple, early twenties, sitting at a high top in the bar along the south side of the concourse holding hands across the table, the girl telling the guy she’d gotten the job, the guy’s face lighting up. A dad hustling a boy, maybe seven, into the men’s room, the kid grimacing, holding the front of his pants.
Ten minutes.
“Number four.” Munroe. “Inside a planter near the escalators.”
“That’s three at Ogilvie,” Bernstein said. “Have to figure the last one is at Union. He’d want to balance the dose as much as possible.”
Quiet over the channel for a minute.
Eight minutes.
Not enough time for anyone to get from Ogilvie to Union and help.
“Good luck over there.” Starshak.
“Yeah, well keep looking,” Lynch said. “Hate to have one of those things go off in your face while you’re patting yourselves on the backs.”
Lynch started running his hand along the undersides of the tables along the edge of the bar, then remembered that they stacked those up every night. No way al Din could know where the table would be any given day, whether it would be near the concourse. And with people handling the tables, it was too likely somebody’d find the thing.
Stuck his arm in behind the display case at the popcorn shop, ran it down, guy walking by giving him a look, shaking his head. Felt like he was just flailing at random. Saw a family go by, mom and dad in their mid-thirties, daughter about ten wearing a sweatshirt from the Shedd Aquarium with the
Beluga whales on it, a boy, younger than two, sleeping in a stroller, the daughter laughing and yakking a mile a minute, tired smiles from the mom and dad.
An older guy, fifties probably. A raincoat with a couple more years on it than it needed, off-the-rack suit. Looked tired, worn out, not a guy whose dreams had come true, just pushing the stone up the hill one more time, trying to get home to a beer, maybe a couple hours of TV before going to bed, getting up, doing it all again.
All those lives pressing down on him.
“The McDonald’s is clear.” Wilson from the north end of the concourse.
“Nothing in the coffee shop.” Hardin.
Five minutes.
Lynch pictured the stations. The three at Ogilvie had been spread out. One at each end of the concourse, one near the middle. The one at Union had been at the south end of the concourse near the food court.
“North end,” Lynch said. “From the popcorn shop to the escalators, everybody work that.”
Had to take a shot. Only four minutes left.
Lynch stepped out into the lobby where the escalators came down, took a quick look, didn’t see anywhere you could hide anything. The escalators were all still running, but no one was on them. At the top of the vestibule a line of uniforms were blocking the door, commuters starting to stack up in the plaza outside. Nobody was getting in now.
Or getting out.
Lynch turned back into the station, saw Wilson head to the ATM that was up against a pillar in the middle of the concourse just north of the popcorn shop. She muscled in front of a line of people waiting to get cash and started running her hands along the top and sides of the machine. A guy she’d pushed in front of pulled on her shoulder. Young guy, khakis, oxford shirt, windbreaker, laptop bag.
“Hey, there’s a line here, bitch.”
Lynch limped toward them, but Wilson spun, slapped the guy’s hand away, held open her jacket. Lynch couldn’t tell whether it was the badge on her belt or the S&W that made a bigger impression, but the guy backed up, hands out.
Lynch got to the machine, Wilson squatting down on the right side. Lower than waist high now, the machine didn’t even come up to Lynch’s shoulder, but it felt right and he was out of ideas anyway.
Two minutes.
“Anything?” Lynch asked.
“Fucking dark,” she said, her arm behind the machine to her shoulder. “I feel something. Can’t reach it.” Lynch grabbed the top of the ATM and wrenched it away from the pillar as hard as he could, felt some of the stitches in his leg tear loose. It moved a few inches, made a beeping noise.
Wilson got her arm in deeper, grunted, came out with the last tube. Lynch held his bag open, Wilson dropped the device in, and he zipped it shut.
“What the fuck?” said the guy that Wilson had backed off.
“Servicing the machine,” Lynch said. The screen now read ATM OUT OF SERVICE.
“Asshole,” khaki guy said, scowling at him.
Lynch just smiled. “Got the last one,” he said into the comm. “Call off your dogs, Munroe. We’re coming out.”
He and Wilson headed up the stairs toward Adams Street. He heard a soft thump, felt the bag bounce on his hip.
“Guess we’ll find out if those bags work,” said Wilson.
CHAPTER 101
A little after 8pm now. Back at the Federal Building. Munroe gave them an update on their lines. They had the device back up from Argonne for show and tell. At least they had the germs out of it. Wave it around, talk about intercepting several of these on US soil. Nothing about the train stations, of course. Nothing about pulling five of these out with seconds to spare. Munroe needed the public pissed, he explained, not scared shitless. Press had asked, seeing as how they’d had dozens of uniforms in both stations in the middle of the afternoon rush. Just precautionary was the response. Given the day’s events, just making sure.
Lynch and Bernstein sat on a bench in the hall behind the briefing room where they were going to hold the press conference, both of them too drained, too tired anymore to fight any of it. The brass wanted the Chicago PD contingent on the dais, dress blues, front and center. Starshak had taken their keys, sent a unit to bring their uniforms down. Bernstein had to wear his jacket open because of the sling. Lynch couldn’t get the pants from the dress blues over the bandages on his thigh. Department press guy had them open the side seam up, the guy positively giddy with the results, saying that the two of them looked like that Spirit of ’76 painting, the bloodied patriots, Lynch telling the guy to get the fuck away from him.
Munroe stopped by, his camel hair coat on.
“Not staying for the show?” Lynch asked.
“TV? I don’t exist, remember. Besides, I’ve got to catch a plane to Nevada.”
“Vegas?” Lynch asked. “Haven’t gambled enough for one day? Or do you want to pick up a couple of hookers?”
“Hooker sounds good about now,” Munroe said. “But no. Other business.”
“Not Vegas,” Bernstein said. “Henderson. The air base.”
Munroe shook a finger at him like he was naughty.
“Henderson?” Lynch asked.
“They fly the drones out of there,” Bernstein said. “Pakistan, Afghanistan, Yemen, wherever. Every time you hear about some yahoo getting a Hellfire up his tail pipe, it’s some joystick jockey at Henderson pushing the button. While I was waiting for our show to kick off, I caught the crawl on bottom of the screen on CNN, something about the Mexican president jetting up to DC for emergency consultations. That has to be about the cartels. Come morning, I’m betting a few people south of the border are going to wake up dead.”
Munroe shook his head, smiled again. “Bernstein, you ever want to move up in the world, get in touch. Of course, I’d probably have to kill you some day. You do get on my nerves.”
“Get in touch?” Bernstein said. “How am I supposed to do that?”
Munroe just smiled again, turned and left.
A minute later, Hardin and Wilson walked down the hall. Hardin in some kind of military uniform, Wilson in a pants suit.
“Halloween?” Lynch asked Hardin.
“Foreign Legion duds. The French want to play up their end.”
“And they just keep a set at the consulate for emergencies?” Bernstein asked.
“Hell if I know,” Hardin said.
“DEA don’t have a monkey suit for you?” Lynch asked Wilson.
“I’ll stand by their damn podium, but they can’t make me say anything, and they can’t dress me up like a goddamn Barbie.”
Lynch just nodded. Wilson had more balls than the lot of them.
Hardin looked at Lynch. “Munroe said you need a favor.”
Lynch nodded, grunted up to his feet. Leg was really barking at him now. He hobbled a few yards down the hall, Hardin following, Lynch talking for a couple of minutes, Hardin nodding.
Hickman stuck his head out the door to the briefing room looking like somebody’d shot his puppy. He’d been bumped to the back row. The Secretary of Homeland Security was taking over MC duties, flew in from Washington to get his face in front of this operation which, evidently, had been his brainchild. That’s why the whole show got pushed back another couple of hours.
“OK,” Hickman said. “Let’s go.”
An hour later it was over. The DC crowd was hanging back, schmoozing the press. Lynch and Bernstein slid across the back of the room toward the side door.
Johnson was there, of course. She saw Lynch, excused herself, walked over.
She looked down at his leg, looked up.
“You OK?” she asked.
Lynch gave her a half smile. “You keep asking me that. I will be.”
She nodded, gave a weak smile back. “Me too, I guess.”
She held his eyes for a moment, then leaned forward, put her hand on his cheek for a moment, then left.
“You two through?” Bernstein asked.
Lynch just nodded.
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTE
R 102
Shamus Fenn was out of the ICU and in a private room at Northwestern, watching the press conference on TV, talking on the phone.
“You square things with Corsco?” Fenn asked. He was talking with Bernie Alger, his lawyer and agent.
“He hasn’t called back yet,” Alger said. “But we gotta talk about how to spin this coke deal. You were making progress with the whole abuse thing, so I’ve chatted up some of the high-profile TV shrink types, got a couple of them ready to give you a pass on the OD, chalk it up to some kind of post-traumatic stress. You’ll have to go on their shows, though. But we need to get our story straight on that, make sure we keep it all consistent.”
“Get that guy in from LA, what’s his ass, the shrink I’ve been seeing. I’ll play it out with him, and then we’ll get him to make a statement,” Fenn said.
“Yeah, OK. You’re clear on the Chicago end. They aren’t moving ahead with any charges. So you’re good there. Only free radical is this Hardin fuck.”
“What I hear, he’s got enough problems,” said Fenn.
They talked for a bit, working out their PR strategy. Suddenly Fenn stiffened in his bed, bumped the volume up on the TV. They were marching everyone out for the press conference. Saw that Lynch fuck and his partner. And next to them, Hardin.
Fenn listened, dropped the phone to the bed after a minute. From what Corsco had told him, Hardin was dead or was going to be. Now he was a hero.
“Shamus?” Alger said. “Shame? You there?”
Fuck, Fenn thought. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Starshak and Lynch stood in the back row. The room the Feds were using for their press conference was hot as hell, seeing as they had an overflow crowd, every damn network and cable outlet trying to cram a crew in, dozens of light rigs baking everybody. They’d rushed the show, getting it out just in time for 10pm news, getting the first draft out in front of everybody before the media had a chance to start developing theories. They were slapping a national security Band-Aid over the whole deal. It was a good way to keep anybody from taking too close a peak at the forensics or details, because God knows some of that was going to smell funny.
