Fallen Angel

by Jeff Struecker

  "I'm ready. Shoot."

  Brianne rattled off the criteria she and Zinsser had just discussed. There was no response. "You still with me, Sergeant?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I'm thinking. Hold on." More silence. "You got GPS in your car?"

  "Yes."

  "There are several small industrial buildings in the old part of town. Built in the fifties. Some real estate developer bought them a few weeks ago. Plans to tear them down this summer. If I recall my patrol days correctly, there are four two-story structures on the three thousand block of Regency, cross street Polk."

  "Got it." Zinsser punched in the information. "Polk and Regency."

  "You want me to send patrol cars?"

  Zinsser nodded. "Yes, but keep them well back. If they see marked cars, they might bug out. Worse, they might harm the girl."

  "Understood. I'll be there in an unmarked car."

  "No need," Brianne said. "We can take it from here."

  "You're in my jurisdiction, Agent. I'm not going to lose my job because I have to tell the chief I sat on my butt while this was going on."

  "You plainclothes?"

  "I will be. Blue jeans, blue pullover shirt. Padres cap."

  "Padres?" Zinsser looked at Brianne's phone. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Really?"

  "I started off as a cop in San Diego, before my wife moved us to small-town life. I just don't want you to shoot me."

  "Padres? I may shoot you anyway."

  "Funny guy."

  Brianne hung up and Zinsser pulled from the curb.

  MOYER SUCKED COLD AIR in rapid inhalations. Perspiration ran down his face, soaking his knit mask. He was so focused on getting back to the FedEx truck on time, he almost missed it. Lev did a fine job concealing it behind brush and trees. Moyer backpedaled and ran up the slope where Lev had backed the vehicle. Crispin and J. J. were just steps behind. He could hear their heavy breathing. They had a right to be sucking air, the trip back was eight kilometers of uneven ground, branches, and roots trying to slap a face or grab a foot.

  Moyer paused as he laid his hand on the handle of the back door. J. J. and Crispin walked the last few steps, Crispin bending as if he were about to deposit the contents of his stomach on the bedding of leaves.

  He looked up and raised a hand with a thumb up. He couldn't speak, but he could still let it be known that he wasn't about to die. Moyer wanted to smile but he seemed to have lost the ability.

  With a sharp motion, Moyer flung the door open, then stumbled back. Looking back at him were three muzzles. "Easy, boys, it's just me."

  Rich frowned. "This is why we have radios, Boss."

  "So . . . I . . . see. Sorry, Shaq. I'm a tad winded."

  Rich, Pete, and Jose lowered their weapons and Moyer stepped into the back of the van. The rest of his team followed. Moyer removed his helmet and his black balaclava. J. J. and Crispin did the same.

  "Man, I'm getting old." Moyer closed his eyes and focused on slowing his heartbeat. "Report, Shaq."

  "Just as predicted, the Russians massacred the Chinese and now have access to the very thing we were supposed to keep them from."

  Moyer ignored the jab. "They got all the Chinese?"

  "All but one."

  Moyer opened his eyes and looked into the stony face of his second in command. "The last man?"

  "I had to bag him. He was about to toss a grenade into the satellite." Rich turned to J. J. "Here's your weapon back, Colt. I want my M4."

  "Come to papa, baby."

  They exchanged weapons.

  Jose looked puzzled. "So what? Part of our mission is to blow the thing up."

  "Radioactive fuel, Doc," Crispin said.

  "Does that matter out here? Chernobyl did much worse. There can't be that much radioactive fuel."

  "Leaving a part of a foreign nation's forest glowing in the dark and sprouting six-foot-tall rabbits would be frowned upon." J. J. removed the suppressor from the M110.

  "Then why not just take out the Russians after they picked off the Chinese? From our position, we could have taken them out easily, especially if we waited until they brought in the truck to load up the blasted thing."

  "We need them," Moyer said.

  "We need them?" Jose raised an eyebrow.

  "Yup, Doc. We need them."

  Crispin pulled his nano recon controller from his pack. "Boss, the signal is weaker than I like. I think it's the metal sides of our truck. I need to run an outside antenna. Is there a hole somewhere that I can use to run a wire?"

  Rich stood, removed his Benchmade Infidel tactical knife, and drove it through the metal skin of the truck above Crispin's head with a single, violent thrust. He did it again, forming an X. He used the blade to push the metal back, creating an inch-and-a-half hole. "There ya go, Hawkeye. Need anything else?"

  Crispin, who had been covering his head with his hands looked at the opening. "Okay, it's official now; you are the scariest man I've ever met."

  "I do what I can." Rich sat again.

  "I'll be right back." Crispin grabbed his pack and exited. Seconds later, a wire came through the opening. Crispin entered the truck again and attached the wire to the controller he used to guide Voyager. "That's better. The signal is still weak, but it will get stronger as they approach."

  Moyer turned to Lev who was following the conversation from the driver's seat. "How much has to be done to free the truck from the camo?"

  "Nothing, Boss. I just press on the accelerator and we're gone to go."

  "Good to go, Lev, not gone to go."

  "Whatever. It will scratch the paint some, but who cares?"

  Moyer turned in his seat and started to speak.

  "They're moving, Boss." Crispin smiled. "I have an image. Not bad for improvisation."

  "You wired the Russian convoy?" Jose said.

  "Just one car." Crispin looked sad. "Voyager will never be the same. She was my favorite."

  Rich stared at the new guy. "Admit it, you were one of those guys who made a girl robot so you would have someone to take to the prom."

  Crispin looked wistful. "Her name was Rosie. You know, like from the Jetsons."

  "Stow it, guys. Here's what we're doing next."

  CHAPTER 36

  TESS WAS GIVEN A conference room, a computer, and Master Sergeant Alan Kinkaid. The last addition surprised her. Kinkaid was Colonel Mac's right-hand man, and she never imagined he would cut the man loose to work on anything but the mission in Russia. Although she didn't know the details, she knew several other missions were underway in other countries. Assigning Kinkaid to her was proof Mac was spooked.

  Kinkaid was an organizational genius, quiet, reserved, the kind of man who let his work speak for him. First time she met him, he was in full uniform and she took notice of the Ranger tab on his shoulder, chevron and rockers rank insignia on his sleeve, and a chest full of ribbon-metals including those indicating service in Afghanistan and Iraq.

  "Where to begin?" Tess was thinking out loud.

  "If I may make a recommendation, Dr. Rand." Kinkaid sat at the laptop he set up in the conference room. He sat so straight she wondered if someone had fused his vertebrae. She didn't know a man could sit at attention.

  "I'm open to suggestions, Sergeant."

  "I have a brother who works in air-traffic control for the Army. He once said a man could often tell where an aircraft was headed by the path it already traveled."

  "Is that your way of saying, 'start at the beginning'?"

  "In one way, yes ma'am, but I meant something more. I suggest first asking who knows of the mission in general and Sergeant Major Moyer in specific."

  "Okay. Sounds good." She paused. "Can you get a stack of index cards? I want to go old school on this."

  "I can." He left the room and returned in less than a moment. "I assumed a marker might be in order."

  "So you read minds as well as run this operation."

  "Colonel MacGregor runs the operation, ma'am."

  "Yea
h, sure he does." She paced beside the long side of the table. "Okay, let's brainstorm. I'm going to toss out names. You write one per card no matter how ridiculous the suggestion. I'm not making accusations at this point; I'm just throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks."

  "Yes, ma'am. Spaghetti at the wall. That's just how we say it in the Army." He smiled, something she never saw before.

  "I married an Army man. I know how it's said in the Army."

  "Yes, ma'am, but not from Colt. He's squeaky clean. He's a man of faith."

  "He's talked to you about his faith?"

  Kinkaid shook his head. "No, ma'am. Our time together has been limited. We've never talked outside this building, but I know a Christian when I see one."

  She studied him. "Because you're one yourself."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Would it be inappropriate to ask about Colonel Mac?"

  "It's safe to say the Colonel and Jesus have yet to meet."

  "He knows of your conviction?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I make no secret of it."

  "I'm glad you told me, Sergeant. Maybe God will give us a few ideas. I need them."

  "I'm ready for the names, ma'am."

  "Okay, let's start with the ridiculous. President Huffington, Vice President Bacliff, Chief of Staff Helen Brown—"

  "Why do you consider these ridiculous?"

  "The president conspiring to end a military mission? All he had to do was order the end of the mission."

  "But he would also have to explain himself."

  Where was Kinkaid going? "Your point?"

  "Don't cross off names too soon."

  "Okay. In that case, let's add the COS for the vice president, the assistant COS, the secretary of defense, the members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff." She paused to give Kinkaid a chance to write. He passed the cards to her with a box of pushpins he brought in with the index cards.

  Tess turned to the wall covered with a padded fabric meant to be stuck with pins. She put them in pecking order with the president at the top. At the bottom of the stack she found three unexpected cards: Colonel MacGregor, Master Sergeant Alan Kinkaid, and Dr. Tess Rand-Bartley.

  "You put yourself on the list."

  "Yes. I have detailed information of the mission. I know more than you and put your name down as well."

  "Fair enough. What about intel agencies? Several have been involved, but all I can do is list the head of the division that deals with Special Ops. Who he talks to is kept secret. So that's a blind corner for us. Would they know which team is sent out?"

  "One man would," Kincaid said. "He was responsible for getting a local operative involved."

  "Do you know who that man is?"

  "Yes." He wrote something on a card and sent it across the table.

  "Mr. X. At least his name is easy to spell."

  "You work with intel. You know how they are."

  "We'll just go with Mr. X for now. We can deal with him if things point his way." She studied the list. "The thing that sticks in my throat is the fact Gina's abductors mention Moyer by name. This group would know that, but who else would? Who briefed them?"

  "There is a string of contacts. The team was headed back to Fort Jackson when the mission came up. We intercepted them midflight and redirected them to Offutt in Nebraska. STRATCOM is located there. They were briefed by Major Bruce Scalon." He wrote the name down.

  "Anyone else?"

  "A Captain Tim Bryan assists the major. My understanding is he was responsible for picking up the team."

  "Did the team interact much with other people at STRATCOM?"

  "I don't have firsthand knowledge, but I'm certain there were those who saw them come and go. Most likely there was another driver."

  "Can we get his or her name?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Walk me through the rest of the team's prep and travels."

  Twenty minutes later, Tess was more lost than ever.

  GINA WAS ALLOWED TO use the bathroom several times and each time she looked for a means of escape; each time she realized the impossibility of it. She never saw a face, just several people in black outfits and black masks. She was never able to get a count, but based on the few people she did see in an open room just past the bathroom and the number of different voices she heard, she guessed there were as many as six people. They had more than black outfits in common: Everyone wore a gun on their hip and she caught sight of a shotgun.

  Once strapped back in the chair, Gina began to make peace with death. Her dad's face appeared in her mind, then her mother's. Rob's was there too. Snippets of family trips, time spent with friends, and the unending teasing that was the hallmark of the Moyer family floated on the currents of her mind.

  She was going to miss them. Everyone. Even her rat-faced brother.

  "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry, Mom . . ."

  ZINSSER PULLED ONTO REGENCY Avenue keeping the car just above the speed limit like any local would do. He was antsy and he didn't know why. Over the years of training and forged by missions he wished he could forget, he came to trust his gut. All good soldiers did, especially those in leadership. Sometimes the brain saw things but kept them hidden in the subconscious.

  His skin crawled; his brain shivered. Every sense sharpened so much and so quickly, it gave him a moment of confusion.

  "You okay?"

  "Something's wrong."

  Brianne looked around as the car moved along the street. "What? I don't see anything."

  "I don't see anything either. I feel it."

  "Great, a psychic agent."

  Zinsser didn't respond. He was too preoccupied with what set his senses off. "Bingo."

  "We're playing bingo?" Brianne swiveled her head, still looking for whatever couldn't be seen.

  "Down the street. Three blocks. Right side. Lousy park job."

  "The truck? The truck!"

  Zinsser's keen eyes had spotted the shape of a large pickup—a Toyota Tacoma double cab. "Roger that, Agent Lazzaro. A great big truck."

  "That's the place?" She reached for her phone.

  Zinsser stopped her with a touch. "Not now; not here. They wouldn't park the truck this close to base of operations, but I'll bet my boss's annual pay they're within a few miles of here." They approached the parked vehicle. "Don't stare at the truck but snag the plate number."

  Brianne did. "Same as in the security video."

  Zinsser's eyes narrowed and his head dipped one inch.

  "I ask again: You okay? Because you look really, really—"

  "Focused."

  "Not the word I was going to use, but, okay, focused. The last time I saw that look was during Shark Week."

  Zinsser looked at the GPS display. "I'm going down Dixon Street and over to Emerald. It runs parallel to this road. Our only outside clue is the size and shape of a window, and the fact it's covered."

  Moving slow, Zinsser guided the car a mile down the road, east over a side street and up Dixon. As he neared the aged business section, he saw several blocks of old office buildings, the area looked deserted. A rusted Buick sat at the curb in front of one of the buildings, a structure representing a past generation, a building forgotten by the twenty-first century. He turned down the street, looking at the windows on his side of the road while Brianne did the same on hers.

  Nothing.

  Zinsser rounded the block and started the same process. Several homeless men wandered the street, no doubt using one or more of the buildings as a free flophouse. The street smelled like urine.

  On the third block, Brianne said, "Got it." She said it like she'd found a lost pair of sunglasses. When Zinsser looked at her, she was gazing out the windshield. The woman deserved an Oscar.

  "Where?"

  "Two buildings back. My side. Second floor. One window with the glass covered. The covering is the same color as the one in the video."

  "Understood." Zinsser drove on until he reached the end of the street. Three blocks down, in a residential area, a l
ocal police car waited. Behind it was an unmarked vehicle of the same make and model. Not very creative. Zinsser parked across the street and exited. He heard Brianne do the same.

  "You Agent Lazzaro?" The fiftyish man in blue jeans, a polo shirt, and a Padre hat looked at Brianne as if Zinsser weren't there.

  "Yes." Brianne showed her ID. "I take it you're the sergeant I spoke to on the phone."

  "Lee Presley. This is Officer Andy Arnold. He's the shift lead. Any luck?"

  "We think so," Zinsser said.

  Presley gave Zinsser the once-over. "You must be the CID guy who doesn't know diddly about baseball."

  "If you say so." Zinsser stripped off his CID blazer and suggested Brianne do the same. "Can you get a few more men here?"

  "I have some on the way. They'll be here in five minutes."

  "Good. This is a CID operation, but I'm going to need your help. I can't get a team out here in less than an hour without using helicopters and those things are a little noisy."

  "We need a warrant to enter a building," Officer Arnold said.

  Presley closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them slowly. "Not if we believe a life is in peril." He faced Zinsser. "Is that what you're telling me? This girl's life is in danger?"

  "I believe it is. I believe immediate action is needed."

  Presley's gaze met Brianne's. "Agent?"

  "I believe the same."

  "Well, I can't allow that in my town. Who's calling the shots?"

  Brianne nodded to Zinsser. "CID was first on scene. Besides, if we're going to do what I think he's going to suggest, then I want all the blame to fall on him. I still have a promising career."

  "Not if you keep hanging out with me." Zinsser looked up the street. "Got a clipboard, Sergeant?"

  "No, but I've got some office folders. I was taking a little paperwork home. Man-hour allocations and all that."

  "Don't you have a chief of police?"

  "Yes." Presley shrugged. "It's because of him I'm taking work home."

  "Get the folders, Sergeant, and let's see if we can't turn a bad day into a good one."

  "What are the odds of turning a bad day into a really bad day?"

  "Don't ask."