Stealth Attack

by John Gilstrap

  The coveralls were next. She unzipped the long zipper, shrugged out of them, and marched free of the legs. On the other side of the car, Venice was doing the same. “Be sure to stuff the coveralls into the duffel. We don’t want anything in the open.”

  Within a minute, they looked like civilians again. Like regular people. They scooted into the front seat. Venice’s door was still closing when Gail cranked the ignition. She backed away from the curb, swung a U-turn, and turned her lights on.

  “Oh, my God, that was close,” Venice said, bringing her hands to her head.

  “We’re not out of it yet,” Gail said. At the end of the cul-de-sac, she navigated her way out of the neighborhood, then turned left onto the main road.

  “Wait!” Venice said. “You’re headed toward the school.”

  “Yes, we are, Special Agent DuBois,” Gail replied. “You did bring your badge like I asked, right?”

  “I brought it, but I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Just have it ready in case you need it.”

  Venice moaned. “Please don’t kick a hornets’ nest.”

  “We have to,” Gail replied. “I don’t know if it will pay off for us in the future, but I know that it could be trouble if we don’t.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.” Gail eased off the gas pedal as she approached the school. As she expected, a cop car sat across the road in front of the entry gates, blue lights flashing. Two police officers wearing Victoria County uniforms stood at either end of the vehicle, M4s battle slung across their body armor and their attention focusing at the approaching Nissan. The muzzles were pointed at the ground, but their hands looked tight on the pistol grips.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Venice said.

  “Get your badge ready. Follow my lead.” Gail had her own badge in her left hand. She rolled down her window and held it out in hopes that the cops could see its gleam in her palm. She also turned on the dome light and killed her headlights. It was the universal message to the police that you had nothing to hide. “Hold your badge out your window.”

  Venice did as she was told.

  As added reassurance, Gail stuck her empty hand out the window, too.

  The two cops exchanged words. After a few seconds, the one on the right approached the Nissan. He moved hesitantly, clearly uncomfortable.

  “We’re federal agents!” Gail called out the window. “FBI! Would you like me to get out of the car?”

  “No. Just keep your hands visible.” The officer continued his approach, but kept his distance, getting just close enough to lean forward and take Gail’s creds case out of her hands. As he opened his stance, she saw the name tag that was Velcro’d to his vest. Blake.

  The cop handed the creds case back but continued to keep his distance.

  “Do you need Agent DuBois’s credentials, too?”

  Officer Blake bent lower and scowled through the windshield. “She your partner?”

  “Yes. We were working a thing down the street when we heard an explosion from down this way. Was that you guys?”

  “It’s this incident, but we didn’t shoot the explosives. That was a couple of burglars.”

  Gail made herself look shocked. “Burglars with explosives? That can’t be good.” She hoped she didn’t oversell it.

  “I’ve been down here in the street since it started. Only been about fifteen minutes.”

  “Did you get them?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. That’s why we stopped you.” His scowl deepened. “Why are you here again?”

  “Some federal business down the way. We were just shutting it down.”

  “I didn’t hear anything about that.”

  Gail offered a dramatic shrug. “Got no answer for you. I wasn’t the agent in charge. Usually, we deal the locals in on the game, but not always. I don’t know in this case.”

  Blake moved his hands away from his rifle and rested them on his Sam Browne belt, one on each hip. “I don’t think you’ve got a role here, though.”

  Gail laughed. “Lord, I hope not. It’s been a long day. If it’s the same with you, I’d like to be on my way.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Not far. Just outside Colonial Beach. But first, I need to deliver Agent DuBois back to her car.”

  “Where’s that?”

  This interview was getting too chatty for Gail’s liking. The more details you manufacture, the greater the chance of making a mistake the ruins everything.

  “The Seven-Eleven,” she said. “Can you make a hole for us?”

  Something wasn’t right with Blake’s body language. Clearly, he wasn’t buying some of what they were selling.

  Gail decided to double down. “Is something wrong, officer?”

  He took his time, but finally got around to it. “No, everything’s fine. This isn’t much of a car. You can probably sneak around the cruiser. If not, we can move out of the way.”

  It was tight, but yes, they could squeeze by. The Nissan’s tires scraped the curb a little, but not enough to do any damage.

  When they were on their way, Gail answered the question she knew was coming. “We established a record,” she said. “If we get stopped between here and the Cove by cops looking for fleeing burglars, we’ll identify ourselves again and use the ruse about being on a job up the road. By talking to the cop, we got ahead of any questions about why, as FBI agents, we didn’t stop to lend aid.”

  In the pulsing glare of passing streetlights, she could see Venice staring back at her.

  “I told you it took a different way of thinking,” Gail said.

  Chapter Eleven

  The El Paso Police Department’s Central Regional Command building at the corner of South Campbell and Overland was an architectural nod to the past. Its red-brick arched entryway flanked by old-school sconces with glass globes stenciled POLICE reminded Jonathan of urban station houses of the past. Sitting as it did in the middle of buildings of more modern design, he wondered if the neighbors considered it to be a gem or an eyesore.

  Jonathan, Boxers, and Harry parked across the street in the massive garage, and as they entered, a patrolman named Carpenter was there to meet them and escort them past all the security screening devices. Doug Kramer had promised to request special courtesy, and clearly he had delivered. Jonathan wondered if the rank-and-file officers and administrative staff would have approved of the unscreened entry of armed visitors.

  Officer Carpenter led Jonathan and the others to a conference room, where they were invited to sit. They declined the offer for water or coffee.

  “Do you work with the EPPD a lot?” Jonathan asked Dawkins.

  “Not really. Not the way you probably think of it. I keep them informed of known bad guys and bad deeds, and they do the same for us. The JTF is pretty much pure feds, but it’s always good to show a cooperative spirit.”

  They hadn’t been seated for five minutes when a tall, rail-thin man with a dark tan and a no-bullshit set to his jaw rounded the corner into the conference room and closed the door behind him. His smile looked genuine enough, it just didn’t look comfortable. “Special Agent Dawkins,” he said, extending his hand. “How nice to see you.”

  “Back atcha, Chief,” Dawkins said. “These are the friends I told you about. Jonathan Grave and Brian Van de Muelebroecke.”

  “Call me Digger,” Jonathan said as he shook the chief’s hand.

  “Chester Gill.”

  “Boxers,” Big Guy said.

  “Chester Gill.” The chief’s eyes flashed shock at Boxers’ size, but he didn’t say anything. “Please, have a seat.” EPPD uniforms consisted of a dark-blue shirt with pocket flaps and epaulettes that matched light-blue pants. Three stars lined both points of Gill’s collar. “I’m the assistant chief in charge of the Investigations Bureau. While I don’t mean to be rude, I need to tell you that I have a lot on my desk.”

  “That’s fine, Chief,” Jonathan said. “I’ll get right to
it.”

  “You want me to move heaven and earth to find a missing boy and his girlfriend,” Gill said. “Or maybe the other way around. Missing girl and her boyfriend.”

  Clearly, the guy had been briefed. “Yes, sir, that’s it exactly. I understand that it’s not protocol given the ages of the kids.”

  The chief’s uncomfortable smile returned to his lips. “I’ll do what I can, but you have to make me a promise.”

  Jonathan and Boxers exchanged looks. “Sure,” Jonathan said.

  “I’ve already told the supervisors to distribute pictures of the kids, so every patrol car will be able to pull it up on their computers. In return, I want you to do whatever you need to do to get that Alexander woman to stop terrorizing my officers.”

  “Terrorizing?”

  “The nonstop telephone calls. The threats to report us to the media. The threats to have people come down here and beat people up.”

  Jonathan laughed. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen that side of Venice before, but I’ll talk to her.”

  “She’s the boy’s mother, right? Roman’s mother.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she’s not the one. She’s called, but she’s not the harasser. It’s the other one. Florence?”

  Boxers launched a guffaw. “Good luck with that, Dig.”

  The chief looked confused.

  “You’ve been talking to Mama Alexander,” Jonathan explained, fully aware that he wasn’t explaining anything. “That’s Venice’s mother, Roman’s grandmother.”

  “What am I missing?” Gill asked.

  Jonathan explained, “You, me, the president of the United States, or the pope in Rome have a better chance of stopping the tides from coming in than they do of keeping Mama from doing anything the hell she wants. Sorry, Chief, but you’re on your own.”

  Chief Gill got the joke, and he joined the laughter.

  “Did you get the information about the silver BMW?” Jonathan asked.

  “We did. Courtesy of the other Alexander. Description and license number. But we couldn’t do anything with it.”

  “Why not?”

  “My detectives looked at security footage from the surrounding businesses, and while we saw a car pick up the kids, that car was a Ford. And the license plate was not the same. We can’t even figure out why she is so certain that a BMW is involved.”

  “The Ford was a RoadRunner,” Jonathan explained. He then filled the chief in on the details of the abduction.

  Deep creases appeared in the chief’s forehead. “Did you two by chance stop by the Shady Sun Water Park and beat up a ticket taker?”

  Jonathan remained stone-faced. Neither confirm nor deny.

  “Never mind,” Gill said. “I heard the guy was very beat-upable. My cops heard nothing about an abduction, though.”

  “Trust us,” Jonathan said. “It happened. And the silver BMW is the one you need to be looking for.”

  Chief Gill folded his arms across his tie. “It’s not a matter of trust, Mr. Grave.”

  “Digger.”

  “I’ll stipulate that you’re right, but we cannot target a car for a crime when (a) we’ve seen no evidence of a crime, and (b) the only vehicular evidence we have features an entirely different vehicle. How can you be so sure?”

  The question pushed Jonathan into a corner. “I can’t answer that question,” he said.

  Gill’s cop-sense piqued, and he sat a bit taller. “Can’t?”

  Jonathan’s shoulder twitched a little, a noncommittal shrug. “Won’t,” he said. “Choose not to.”

  The chief smirked. “You didn’t drive all the way to a police station to confess to a crime, did you?”

  Jonathan returned the smirk with a smile. “I never share means and methods, Chief. Intelligence gathering is Security Solutions’ special niche in the private investigation business. I can’t share the hows.”

  “Then I can’t act on the results,” Gill said. “I’m sorry, but you know, Constitution, laws, and stuff.”

  Jonathan’s mind was already racing ahead to how he was going to break the news to Venice that the EPPD’s hands were tied.

  “I’ll tell you something interesting about all of this,” Chief Gill said. “Again, I’ll stipulate that the kids disappeared, and we can argue about the reasons behind the disappearance. But you know what? The only reason we’ve heard anything about this is because of you and your team.”

  “Well, that’s why we’re here.”

  “No, you’re missing my point,” Gill said. “The names and pictures we’ve put out are Roman Pennington and Ciara Kelly. Are those the right names?”

  “Roman prefers Alexander, but Pennington is the actual name.”

  Gill made a sweeping motion with his fingers, wiping the detail aside. “Fine. Whatever. But while your team and, to a lesser degree, the headmaster have been melting our phones, we haven’t heard a peep from the other side. From the Kellys.”

  Jonathan recoiled from the thought. Surely, Ciara’s mom or dad or both had been notified by Dr. Washington.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing. Apparently, the Kellys are not concerned about the possibility of kidnapping. Digger, maybe your friend’s son is out being made a man.”

  Jonathan felt a flash of anger. Not just because of the sentiment and the cliché of it, but because of the casual way in which the chief spoke the words.

  Jonathan turned to his team. “You guys got anything?”

  Neither did.

  Jonathan stood and the others followed. “Okay, then, Chief. I thank you for your time and consideration.”

  They shook hands. “The longer Harry Dawkins is with you, the less time he spends hounding me and my officers.” He sold it with a smile.

  * * *

  When Gail dropped Venice off at the mansion, they were both dead on their feet. They agreed to a three-hour break, after which they would reconvene in the War Room to wade through whatever they could find in the files they stole. Might as well be honest with the terminology. There was no way either of them was going to endure the risk of returning the file.

  Right on time, Gail wandered back into the Cave to find Venice already in the War Room, images projected onto the screen.

  “Did you sleep at all?” Gail asked.

  “I’ll sleep when Roman is back at home. How about you?”

  “A little. What did you find out?”

  “Get some coffee and have a seat. This is going to take a while.”

  Six minutes later, Gail had her caffeine and was settled into her seat. “Ready to go,” she said.

  “First of all, that was very scary last night.”

  “I tried to warn you—”

  “I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Scary also means exciting. I’ve never seen you in action like that. You’re pretty darned fast on your feet.”

  Gail felt her ears turning red.

  “Now, look at the screen,” Venice said. The left side of the screen filled with the ruddy face of the man Gail knew to be Patrick Kelly. Then the image flickered, and the right-hand side of the screen filled with a picture of the same man. This one was more serious than the first, reminding her of a photo you’d use for an ID badge.

  “Two pictures of Patrick Kelly,” Gail said.

  “Yes,” Venice said. “And no. More no than yes. The subdued face on the right is actually Toby Jackson, the sole owner of Toby Jackson Bail Bonding Company.”

  Gail twisted in her chair. “Twin brothers?”

  “No. Same guy, according to their fingerprint records.”

  “How do you get fingerprint records?”

  “Do you want to know the story or don’t you?”

  Gail backed off. It didn’t matter. Venice knew stuff because she knew it. If Mother Hen ever got hit by a truck, Security Solutions would evaporate.

  “Ciara Kelly’s tuition is paid for by Toby Jackson. It seems that the bail bond company is the prime source of revenue for the family. Now before I go f
urther, what do you know about the bail bond business?”

  “Are you quizzing me, or do you really want to know?”

  “You know I hate to admit ignorance,” Venice said with a grin. “Pretend I don’t know.”

  Gail smiled. “So long as we’re only pretending. Here in Virginia, when a person is arrested for a crime, he’s taken to the magistrate, who verifies that the arrest was in pursuit of a valid warrant and then sets bail, based on a number of factors. The most important factor is probably flight risk. If somebody’s in the hoosegow for a first offense DUI charge, he’s not likely to leave his job and his family and default on his mortgage to run away. So, his bail will be small in the grand scheme. Fifteen hundred to maybe five thousand dollars, depending on things like his ability to pay.”

  “Rich people pay higher bail than poor people?”

  Gail considered that. “In general, yes, all things being equal. Not only do rich people have a greater ability to pay, they have more elaborate assets to finance a plan to make a break for it—financial and others. What does this have to do with Roman?”

  “Please keep going,” Venice said. “I want to make sure that my theory is plausible before I put it out there.”

  “What more do you need to know?”

  “What does the bondsman do?”

  “Ah. Okay.” Gail looked up at the ceiling as she arranged her thoughts. It had been a while since she’d been through this. “Let’s say a guy named Charlie has been arrested and his bail is set at ten thousand dollars. Charlie has a couple of choices. One is to pull the ten grand out of his account and hand it over to the court. The money is his promise to appear at his court dates and trial. If he does, then at the end of the line, whether he’s acquitted or convicted, he’ll get his money back, minus court costs.

  “But let’s be honest. The prisons are not filled with people who have an extra ten large in their checking account. If Charlie doesn’t have the cash, he needs to go to a bail bondsman, who will charge him a fee—usually ten percent—to front him the amount of the bail.”

  Venice looked confused. “So, if Charlie runs away . . .”

  “The bondsman will owe the court nine thousand dollars. Only, not really. The bail will be collateralized somehow. Cars, houses, jewelry, whatever.”