“Do you like hamburgers?” said Caz.
“Is that a trick question?”
Caz laughed. “Wendy’s. That’s what he was steering you to anyway.”
“Wendy’s it is,” said Steele, chuckling to herself.
She went from a relaxed, outdoor-patio dinner with a river view to scarfing down fast food in the back of a strange car—fearful for her life. Steele shook her head, ashamed of the thought.
“No Wendy’s?” said Caz.
“Sorry. I was just scolding myself internally,” said Steele.
For good reason. She’d unintentionally, but very selfishly, unleashed hell on Ryan Decker’s world today, in addition to turning her chief of staff’s home life upside down. And here she was, throwing a pity party for herself because she wouldn’t be dining on crab cakes with rémoulade sauce. Steele had to fix this. She just wasn’t sure how, though she suspected it meant finishing what APEX had started. They’d been too quick to strike at Decker, which meant they wouldn’t hesitate to do it again, for whatever reason Ezra Dalton saw fit. Decker would never know peace.
“Rich. Tell me about these proactive options.”
“There’s a wide range, depending on the desired outcome,” said Rich.
“Let’s start with the nuclear option, and step it back from there,” said Steele.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Decker lay flat in the rock-strewn dirt, uncomfortably wedged between two thick, prickly bushes. His position sat on a small rise adjacent to Stagecoach Road, where he could watch over the approaches to the rendezvous point. The rest of his group was hidden on the other side of the road, about a few hundred yards up a dry creek bed, where they’d made their home for most of the afternoon and early evening.
Instead of a rifle, he was armed with a satellite phone and a handheld radio. When they’d reached the requested drop-off point, the cartel guy in charge of the trip had handed Decker a gym bag filled with bottled water and Joshua’s backpack, which contained his laptop with the battery removed, the cash Sophie had removed from the firm’s vault, a freshly charged Iridium 9555 satellite phone, a prepaid SIM card for the phone, and a set of radios.
Their IDs and watches had been returned just prior to embarking on the two-and-a-half-hour journey in the back of a different cargo van from the chop shop to the Hot Springs Tavern, an oddly tucked-away, old-fashioned saloon pretty much smack-dab in the middle of the Santa Ynez Mountains. They’d studied their escape options to the north and east of Los Angeles, picking the area for two competing features they could use to their advantage—remote and rugged enough for them to detect intruders and hide but easily accessible by their rescue convoy.
After grabbing enough takeout food for lunch and dinner, they’d walked about a mile north along Stagecoach Road, passing under the Cold Spring Canyon Arch Bridge and stopping in a spacious turnoff for a religious camp—the perfect place for their pickup. Since the gate leading into the camp area had been closed and locked, they’d decided to hike up a nearby creek bed until they were well out of sight. They’d settled down in the shade and waited for Jessica to make the necessary arrangements for the rendezvous.
Five hours later Decker had hiked back to the road by himself to ensure that the rendezvous point hadn’t been compromised. The inbound convoy, led by Supervisory Special Agent Reeves, had been well protected, but Decker and the team had spent their time out of sight and earshot of the road to throw off any enterprising cartel punks looking to cash in on twenty million dollars.
Satisfied that their hideout hadn’t drawn a deadly crowd, he’d climbed up the steep bank on the other side of the road and nestled in, where he’d remained for the past hour, watching the mountains turn from bright orange to a hazy purple, until they became shadows.
His satellite phone buzzed, its screen casting a muted, bluish glow into the dirt below it. He lifted the phone up, doing his best to cover the light.
Passed Hot Springs Tavern. No apparent tail.
He replied with K. RP clear.
The convoy had exited State Route 154 a few minutes ago, winding through the hills until it reached the restaurant. So far, so good. He focused his attention north for a few minutes. The next exit off 154 was about a mile and a half down. Nothing. Headlights appeared toward the south shortly after that, vanishing and reappearing along the twisty road. His phone lit up again.
On approach.
C ur lights. RP clear, he typed.
As planned, the SUV carrying members of Reeves’s task force turned off the road first and circled the expansive, packed dirt lot in front of the camp gate once before disgorging its heavily armed team. As the four agents fanned out to form a hasty perimeter around the lot, three Class C mini–motor homes pulled into the lot and parked side by side.
The last vehicle in the convoy cruised to a stop halfway across the opening, just off the side of the road. The two agents got out and immediately took covered positions on the lot side of their SUV, one watching each approach along Stagecoach Road.
One of the agents started yelling his name. That had to be Reeves.
“Up here!” said Decker, waving the illuminated phone. “I’ll be right down!”
He triggered his handheld radio, stating a previously agreed-upon gibberish code to establish that he hadn’t been captured before telling the others to head down to the lot.
“We’re on our way,” said Harlow.
“Take your time. We don’t need a turned ankle,” said Decker.
“Do you ever stop worrying?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “See you in a few minutes.”
Decker slid down the dirt bank, hitting the road harder than he’d expected. He stumbled a few feet before regaining his balance. So much for being careful. Reeves met him in front of the roadside parked SUV, clapping.
“That was graceful,” said Reeves.
“I figured you and your team could use a little entertainment to cap off the day,” said Decker, moving right in for a dusty hug that Reeves reluctantly accepted.
He patted Reeves on the back and disengaged. “Thank you. I really don’t know what to say beyond that. I’ll think of something later.”
“No need. I have a favor to ask of you,” said Reeves. “We’ll call it even after that.”
“Nothing can even this out. Seriously. I owe you forever.”
“We’ll see,” said Reeves, turning to the agent positioned next to the hood of the SUV. “The two of you haven’t formally met. Ryan Decker. This is Special Agent Matt Kincaid. My right hand. You’ll be hosting his wife and daughter, along with my wife and kids, wherever this crazy train is headed, until I’m convinced it’s safe for them to come back.”
Decker shook Kincaid’s hand. “Absolutely. It’s my pleasure. How old is your daughter?”
“Fourteen,” said Kincaid, glancing at Reeves.
“Riley is sixteen. A little older, but she’s a solid role model,” said Decker. “They’ll get along just fine.”
“Ryan. Can I be blunt with you?” asked Reeves.
“Sure,” said Decker.
“Claire doesn’t want to jump into one big kumbaya moment with this,” said Reeves. “Matt’s family and mine are pretty tight. The kids are close in age. It’s nothing personal. She’s just not comfortable with it.”
“My wife feels the same way,” said Kincaid. “I’m really sorry.”
“Guys. I understand,” said Decker. “I’ll let everyone know the deal. They’ll totally respect that. If anything changes, there’s zero hard feelings. Someone will check with them a few times a day to see if they need anything. It’ll be fine.”
“I feel bad hitting you with this under the circumstances,” said Reeves.
“Joe. I already told you. There’s nothing I can do to repay you. I meant that,” said Decker. “The same goes for all of your agents and obviously extends to your families. We’re good.”
“All right. How far away is the rest of your—”
“Dad!”
Riley ran toward him from the RVs.
“Not far. A few minutes,” he said, rushing to meet her.
She cried and hugged him tightly until Harlow and the rest of the crew appeared in the wall of light created by the RV’s headlights.
“We’re going to be fine, Riley. I promise,” said Decker.
Between the sobbing, he heard “I can’t do this anymore” over and over again. His parents made their way over, and he took turns hugging each of them while holding on to Riley. Decker could feel an unspoken tension. Almost like a low-level static electricity among all of them. The drive up to Humboldt County wasn’t going to be what Reeves had very aptly described as a kumbaya moment for any of them.
Sooner than later, Decker would have to convince his parents, Riley, and most importantly himself that he could drive a stake through the heart of this seemingly unkillable monster that kept clawing its way out of the ground to terrorize them. He wasn’t sure how it was even possible, but seeing Riley like this again—after everything she’d been through and lost—made him want to drive a dump truck full of high explosives through the APEX Institute. And if that was what it took to put an end to this cycle of fear, he’d gladly get behind the wheel.
“Hey. We’re gonna get moving,” said Reeves.
“Thank you again,” said Steven. “You saved the day.”
“More than saved the day,” said Audrey.
“All I did was escort your car for five minutes,” said Reeves. “Two grandparents driving into a gun battle to rescue their granddaughter?” He patted Decker on the shoulder. “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. I’ll check in with you later. Might take a little vacation time if this stretches out longer than a week.”
“I’m told there’s plenty of room on the property,” said Decker. “Drive safe, FBI guys.”
While Reeves and Kincaid said goodbye to their families, Decker walked to the RVs with his family to check in with Harlow and Jessica, who were splitting the group up between the two remaining RVs. The process looked pretty straightforward. The women took the center RV, leaving Joshua to join Decker, his family, and Harlow. An even split, numerically.
“I’m not even going to ask how you managed to rent three RVs that fast,” said Decker.
“Oh, I didn’t rent them,” said Jessica. “We’re now the proud owners of three brand-new motor homes and several thousand dollars’ worth of camping gear. Purchased through our cutout, of course. I assume that’s untraceable.”
“Shouldn’t be an issue,” said Decker. “We’re not checking into a campground, though we might consider staggering our arrival in Alderpoint.”
“And approaching from different routes,” said Harlow.
“We’ll need to grab food, toiletries, and other supplies before we arrive, but we can figure that out on the way. Sheriff Long said he’ll arrange a vehicle, so we’ll be able to make supply runs without drawing too much attention,” said Decker.
“Weapons and surveillance gear?” said Harlow.
“I tried,” said Jessica. “But Reeves wasn’t having any of it.”
“That’s fine. We might be able to work something out with Sheriff Long’s contact on the mountain. Plenty of weapons up in those hills,” said Decker. “And the Pierces should arrive tomorrow evening. Anna emptied their home gun safe, and Brad grabbed some surveillance and tactical gear from the vault at his office.”
“Don’t forget your mother’s Sig Sauer,” said Jessica. “I had to sweet-talk Reeves out of confiscating it. She doesn’t have a concealed carry permit.”
Decker shook his head. “She couldn’t pass the training requirements. The marksmanship gene passed through my father’s side.”
“Good luck getting it away from her,” said Jessica.
Harlow looked past him and nodded. “Pam says everyone’s set. We should get this show on the road.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said, and gave her a quick kiss. “I’m just going to check on the FBI families.”
“Not the friendliest folks,” said Jessica.
“Reeves said they were pretty shaken up by all of this,” said Decker.
“They looked more pissed off than anything,” said Jessica.
“Can’t say I blame them,” said Harlow.
Decker ran into Reeves and Kincaid on the way down the line of RVs.
“Just letting them know we won’t bother them,” said Decker. “Figured they should hear it from me. Also, I wanted to make sure they were okay driving one of these things. I hadn’t thought of that earlier.”
“We rent an RV every year and take a trip up the coast,” said Reeves. “Claire has put in her share of hours.”
“All right. I guess I shouldn’t bother them,” said Decker.
“Get everyone ready to head out,” said Reeves, slapping Kincaid’s shoulder. “Let’s make this quick, Decker.”
He boarded the RV with Reeves, who quickly introduced him to both families. Decker read the audience as passively hostile and tense.
“I just wanted to apologize for the mess I got you in,” he said. “If you need anything at any time, or have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask. You can text by sat phone. They have the sat phone, right?”
“We have it,” said Claire.
“Just text anything you think of to one of the other numbers on the contact list. Or call. Whatever you’re comfortable with. We’ll text updates or call if it’s too complicated for a text. Or if it’s an emergency. The plan is to drive straight through.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Decker, not sure how to end the awkward moment.
“And off we go,” said Reeves, motioning for him to disembark.
The FBI agent shut the door after hopping down from the RV. “I’ve never seen you at a loss for words before.”
Decker laughed. “Yeah. I really didn’t know what to say to them.”
“Sorry was a good start,” said Reeves.
“Probably should have just quit there.”
“Baby steps, amigo,” said Reeves. “You’re dealing with two protective parents, with limited to no trust in anyone outside of their inner circle. You know the drill.”
“Oh. I do,” said Decker. Better than most.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ezra Dalton adjusted the webcam until the lighting and angle were just right. She considered applying a little more concealer to hide the most obvious signs of this nightmarish day—the dark circles forming under her eyes. Fourteen hours since this shit started, and she looked like she’d been awake for a week. A quick glance at the time told her she still had two minutes.
“Screw it,” she said, reaching into the handbag lying next to the webcam.
She finished applying the makeup with fifteen seconds to go. Not the best job, but now she only looked like she’d been up for two days straight. May as well get used to the look. Dalton didn’t anticipate any rest until she cleaned up the mess created this morning, which could be a while. Decker and Steele had so far proven to be extremely slippery. The videoconference connected—seven faces appearing in a grid on her widescreen monitor.
Harold Abbott, seated in his bookshelf-packed study, squinted into the camera and adjusted his wire-rim glasses. A light somewhere nearby blazed a reflection off his shiny bald dome. He cleared his throat and began the inquisition.
“I trust everyone has taken the requisite precautions to be here, given the surprising breach in security discovered a few days ago?”
She refrained from shaking her head or rolling her eyes. Her head was on the chopping block, a position she’d carefully avoided since ascending to the board of directors. A vote to remove her could be initiated at any time, by any member—a unanimous vote essentially signing her death warrant.
Dalton wasn’t aware of any long-standing grudges against her, but as one of the founding members of the Institute, she inherently held a disproportionate amount of power. With that power came
a natural envy or inescapable fear. A newer board member looking to level the playing field could make a move against her. Or an older one seeking to consolidate power. She’d have to take this lashing without pushing back too strongly, which meant ignoring Abbott’s obvious insinuation.
Samuel Quinn took the opportunity to drive a nail in her coffin, which was understandable given that, technically, he shared responsibility for this mess. SKYSTORM was his project. Senator Steele was hers. When those two worlds had potentially merged with the discovery of a security breach at her town house earlier in the week, SKYSTORM and the senator became both of their concerns. This morning, when they’d detected an aircraft running a surveillance pattern north of the SKYSTORM site, moving methodically south, she’d made a decision that turned out to be . . . regrettable in hindsight. He’d seek to put some distance between the two of them. She’d do the same in his situation.
“All of my locations have been thoroughly swept,” said Quinn.
No shit. APEX had dispatched a small army of security technicians today to inspect every primary and secondary residence used by the directors and key group leaders. They’d be moving on to the rest of the locations over the course of the next week. That was how long it would take to clear the rest of the properties owned by the directors.
“Regardless of the measures taken, which will be enhanced in response to this breach, we should all refrain from viewing or discussing sensitive information outside of the Institute,” said Abbott.
Which is why everyone, except for her, was about to discuss the most sensitive ongoing APEX project—from the comfort of their own homes. Hypocrisy noted. Time to move on. She kept her face neutral while screaming those words internally.
“Ezra. Would you mind bringing the board up to speed on any current developments?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have much to report,” she said, making sure to emphasize the word we. “Traffic camera analysis hits a dead end with the camera at the intersection of West Slauson and Normandie, in South Los Angeles. The Land Cruiser can be seen turning left off Normandie onto Fifty-Ninth Street, and that’s the last time the city’s camera network detects that same license plate. Analysts scoured camera footage from surrounding cameras. No black Land Cruiser.
Skystorm (Ryan Decker) Page 13
