The NightShade Forensic Files: Fracture Five (Book 2)

by A. J. Scudiere

  He remained calm. He didn’t sweat or overact like an idiot. He held the weight of the backpack over one shoulder, ready to throw it as far as he could should that be necessary.

  The downtown streets of Los Angeles teemed at this hour. Though it was nearing winter, the city was still relatively warm. A guy with a backpack was no big deal. That he clutched the strap of that pack with a death grip also wasn’t unusual. It was a big city; he was just preventing theft.

  Where his skills came into play, what really made him want to lose his shit, was the trigger. He’d sent the pictures. He’d checked the connections. The remote he had was in the pack, which led him to believe he was to plant the bomb in one place and retreat to another to detonate it.

  That should have made him feel better, but it didn’t. The problem was, he didn’t have the only remote detonator.

  Alya had distributed the packs. Told him not to open it until he got home.

  Five backpacks sat on the floor of the apartment where they met. The colors varied, but none was bright. The designs varied a little, just enough so no one would notice five identical packs.

  “You choose. You are first, Cooper.” Alya had said as she stood behind the line.

  At that time, he hadn’t known what was in the packs, and he asked.

  She ignored the question, waving her hand at the bookbags. “You choose the pack you like. Pick a color that suits you, something you feel you can carry around town and look right.”

  So he’d picked the black leather looking one. He’d hefted the weight, tested the straps and felt that something sloshed just a little inside. Cooper set it back down and went for the brown.

  It was a test.

  Were they all the same? Did they all contain the same inner workings? He stuck with the brown suede, not wanting to look like he was doing what he was doing. But he watched as each pack was in turn picked up and hefted. He saw where the weight shifted, listened for the sounds of liquid. He guessed that the liquid containers were relatively full. Everything appeared padded, too, so that the heavier parts didn’t slip to one side, make telltale bulges in the sacks.

  When only two packs remained, Aziza and Alya chose their colors together. Aziza leaving with the dull red and Alya with the blue with black stripes. Both girls slung both straps over their shoulders like college kids might. They could have been carrying books and laptops from the looks of it.

  At his own apartment—he could hardly call it home—Cooper was not surprised when he opened the bag and saw the bomb and detonator. He’d sent the pictures, turned the phone off, and stuffed it into a dug-out section under his cheap mattress. Then Ken Kellen called and told him to get a good night’s sleep, and Cooper tried not to laugh in response.

  He imagined a life where he lived with his wife and little boy. He logged into his bank from his phone and permanently blocked the transfer of money that usually came from the family account. If he lived, he was going home. He’d find a way to be okay again. If he didn’t live, then Alyssa would need it all.

  Then he slept. He knew how to fall asleep even under hail of bullets.

  These were tasks he once considered manly. Now he knew them for what they were: simply crazy.

  He’d been activated this morning. No one had said anything. But Alya had showed up and knocked on his door. She’d waited while he dressed, something he didn’t do too quickly. She knew he was a soldier. She’d watched him fire on his men. She’d fired on them, too. She’d fired on him.

  But there she was, sitting on the cheap chair as though she were his friend.

  He didn’t know.

  They’d walked out of the building together, and he knew she was keeping an eye on him. Then, she casually said an address, subtly handed him a tiny earpiece, and peeled off to go her own way.

  She didn’t tell him first that she was giving him important information. She didn’t repeat it. Despite the play of her sitting and waiting on him, she knew he was a soldier.

  Turning the corner, he found the building and made his way up to the apartment number he’d been given. It wasn’t what he’d expected, and he had no idea if he was meeting someone, supposed to detonate someone, or himself?

  Cooper stayed on high alert.

  The apartment wasn’t one he’d been in before. It was nicer than he’d expected. He was surprised when Ken Kellen answered the door.

  For a moment Cooper took stock. He sniffed the air, listened to the sounds around him, and assessed the possibility. He was about to ask, when Kellen spoke.

  “We’re alone.” His face was grim, determined. “We’re not bugged. Say what you want.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “I have to do this.” He sipped at a mug of coffee he must have set on the table before answering the door. He’d known Cooper was coming even if Cooper hadn’t. He knew what was in the backpack, but he’d made coffee like Sunday morning.

  “Why?” Such a small question for such a massive need.

  Kellen shook his head. Shrugged. Sighed. “You know. You know about the arms in Fallujah. I saw you going through the Captain’s papers. Freeman told me you’d figured it out.”

  Neither nodding nor denying, Cooper waited.

  “It started small. Reasonable. We armed the right people. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” He set the coffee down a little too harshly and Cooper saw it slosh over onto the table, but he didn’t take his attention off of Kellen, off the pack he still clutched. He felt the weight of the gun holstered at his side and hoped he didn’t have to use it. He was afraid he was going to.

  Kellen spoke again, and for the first time he looked worried. “We had to sell the guns. We couldn’t give them out. You were part of it.”

  “Of course, there’s a normal exchange there.” The U.S. armed local groups that were friendly to U.S. efforts all the time. Normal enlisted never got their hands on that, but sometimes the special teams did. They’d delivered some of the crates of weapons, just like they delivered food and medical supplies. As he was considering a possibility, Ken Kellen spoke again.

  “It wasn’t all food. You transported some of it.”

  “I checked the crates. Every one.” His anger rose, but he had so much practice holding it in check.

  “Captain had two of us on it originally. Me and Freeman. We traded your crates, or repacked them.”

  “The weight was the same. The—”

  Cooper stopped when he saw the look on Kellen’s face.

  “We’re all good. You would have done the same thing. Repacked with care, watched the weight and the balance. The thing was, you didn’t suspect us. So why would you check again? We were doing what was necessary to put down the forces we fought.”

  “Why the extra? We were already giving them guns!” The weight of the bomb grew heavy on his back and he wondered why Kellen was telling him this. His only security was that if Kellen held the other remote, he’d blow himself to hell, too.

  “It wasn’t enough. They needed more. They needed better weapons than we could hand them on the books.”

  “No, they—”

  “Yes. They did. You know how strapped we were. You know that we knew where the strongholds were. We knew where the enemy was, but we were bound by convention, by code, by the creed of the Army. These guys weren’t. They took out so many for us. And they paid for the guns. It was good for everyone.”

  “Then it wasn’t.” Cooper guessed.

  “You figured it out.”

  “Freeman tipped you off.” Cooper took two steps back, wanting to be out of arm swing should Kellen decide to stop talking. He quit gripping the backpack and reached slowly for the butt of his gun. “Why did you shoot him?”

  “I had to.” Kellen looked around. “You have to go. You have a point to get to. Take the pack, set it up, and get away.”

  “As though I’m going to live through this?” Cooper didn’t believe a minute of it.

  “Yes. I’m trying.”

  “So I can be tr
ied and hanged as a traitor? I’m screwed twelve ways just carrying this shit down the street, Kellen. What the fuck is really going on?” He held his tone in check, didn’t let his anger make him loud. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t angry and afraid that he wouldn’t live to see the sunset.

  “You won’t be. You’ll come out a hero.”

  “You’re a crap ass liar.” It was all he could say.

  “You have to do this.”

  Cooper didn’t pull his punch. He nailed Kellen square on the jaw, the other man pulling back only enough to make the hit glance off rather than leave him cold.

  He fought back, arms up, and three hits later, Cooper realized that Kellen was defending, not fighting.

  “What the fuck, man?” This time he was louder than he intended to be.

  “Trust me.”

  “No fucking way.” Inside half a breath, he had Kellen on the floor. His head made a dull thud against carpet that wasn’t padded well enough to stop the hit.

  Still, the other man tried to speak.

  Cooper tried to listen.

  “They got us in. They made it reasonable: we distributed guns at the orders of our superiors. But then we were in it up to our necks and had to do what they said.” His eyes finally contacted Cooper’s, and for the first time he saw the bleakness in them.

  But what did it mean?

  “So?” he asked, his hands on Kellen’s shoulders, an inch from his neck, a moment from choking the life out of him. “If you and Freeman were in it together, why did you kill him?”

  “He turned on me!” Kellen offered a plea. “I have it worked out. Go, plant it. I’ve taken care of it all. You have to trust me. They set me up!”

  In that moment, Cooper understood. Kellen was running off righteous need for revenge. But against whom?

  “You killed Mrs. Sullivan! She fed us, she kept us for Christmas.”

  Kellen’s eyes squeezed shut. Cooper had been certain that his friend thought of the Sullivans as the parents his had never lived up to being. The air fled Kellen’s lungs. “I had to. You don’t know.”

  “No. And I don’t understand.”

  “When this is done, come back here.”

  “No.” Cooper refused. He sat astride the other man, holding him down. Kellen was in no position to make those demands.

  Then he was.

  In the heartbeat where Cooper hadn’t paid attention, Kellen had switched their places. It was Cooper’s head that thudded against the carpet, Cooper’s hands that were held down.

  His pale complexion glowing with rage and some inner need, Kellen leaned in close to Cooper and whispered six words.

  Eleri jumped as her pocket buzzed.

  She was still at the Bureau but back in her jeans and hoodie, gun tucked into a holster that was—as usual—only mostly concealed. Donovan looked much the same. Casual guy, out in L.A. Because L.A. didn’t see the shitstorm that was coming.

  Walter looked much the same, her shirt untucked, hoping most people wouldn’t even see the metal she sported. The more they blended in, the better.

  The buzz came again. Wade? She’d texted him that he’d been right. Avery? She’d sent him something sweet, short, and probably a little too cryptic. But her phone was blank.

  Not even news from the agents on the militia raid. They were going to signal if they had to go in, but in the meantime, they were waiting on word from Eleri, who was hoping they’d have something from the variety of boots on the ground. They’d sent out thirty agents, each with a different target.

  Not all the targets had been found. But the ones that had were all on the move.

  Not good. Statistically that shouldn’t happen. Some should be asleep. Many of the people had jobs, but they weren’t at work. To a man, they were off sick today.

  Her stomach turned.

  The women were not at home. They should be.

  Eleri’s breathing was slowly ratcheting up.

  “Look.” Donovan showed her his tablet. They were both getting photos from a variety of agents out on the streets following their respective targets. “We have four backpacks that look like siblings to Rollins’.”

  “The girls carry backpacks all the time.”

  “Not these.” Marina was looking over her shoulder. “Look.” She did a search, pulled up old pics of Alya, who was often seen with an army green backpack. “I’ve never seen her with that one before. Aziza usually carries a gray one.” She was flipping pictures too quickly for Eleri to follow, but the intel was good.

  “Bags.” Donovan pointed to different pictures. “These guys don’t have backpacks, but they all have bags. Bags big enough to hold that same bomb. Look.”

  One woman had her hair down like Sarah. Marina identified her as being from the Jewish group. Another woman had two bags, one of which she set down and walked away.

  The voice of the agent trailing her popped on the speaker. “Follow the girl or the bag?”

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  Eleri’s head raced. “The bag. Stay with the bag.”

  She hoped it was the right thing to do. She wished she knew where to go, but was only grateful that the Bureau office was relatively central. So she stayed put. Agents were all over town.

  Pings came in from everywhere. Four agents were on buses. One out of communication while hitting parts of the subway. Just as they lost him, another reported getting on the subway on the opposite side of the system.

  “Are they converging?” Eleri asked the room at large. She was now commanding a hastily assembled team of analysts and agents.

  “Maybe.” One voice was steady. A slightly older woman; a statistician, Eleri remembered. “I was just getting ready to say that.”

  “Where?”

  The woman shook her head. “Not Calabasas. Not Downtown. Not Santa Monica area. Those are all headed the other way. Maybe Hollywood? Westwood?”

  Eleri looked to a map of the city she’d gotten to know a little better while she was here. It was so sprawled out it was more like fifteen different cities, thirty maybe. Even the focus she’d just been given was far too big to pinpoint.

  “Let’s start moving that way.” She took a breath and began gathering what she could. “Vasquez, Heath obviously. Fisher.” She used Walter’s real name to the room at large, then picked two other agents who looked street ready and left the others behind as they bolted for two SUVs.

  She let the other agents follow with Walter in a second car, wondering if they looked too official in their black Lincoln. At least Eleri and Donovan had a colored, sportier SUV. If she lived, she’d thank Marina for that forethought.

  Donovan reported from the passenger seat. “The Christian group is all carrying packs, too. They have bags or backpacks with a cross and some saying on them. Each group has a theme. Each group has a handful of people on the ground carrying what is very likely explosives.”

  Her phone buzzed, and this time it wasn’t blank. She handed it to Donovan who put it on speaker.

  It was the older woman, the statistician. “They aren’t really converging. I’m sorry. It looked like they were.”

  As they wound their way up the street, not sure where to go now, she thought about the blank screen on her phone the last time it buzzed, and she smacked the pocket on her cargo pants. The burner.

  Pulling it, she handed it to Donovan while deftly handling the car in the crushing traffic. She didn’t know where to go, but now Donovan did.

  “It’s Cooper. Listen to this: On the move. Still have the tracker. Don’t show yourselves. Follow me.”

  41

  Donovan sat in the passenger seat, taking updates from Walter as she followed the tracker Cooper Rollins admitted he still had in him.

  Rollins was headed in the direction the statistician had originally predicted as a possible convergence point. Eleri followed the best path of traffic taking them into North Hollywood even as Cooper Rollins moved northward just to the east of them.

  Donovan had resorted to sticking an earpiece
in. He’d learned their uses at the Academy, and even used one for a raid during their last case, but he still found the things awkward. He hadn’t yet come to terms with his inner James Bond and wasn’t sure he was ever going to.

  He almost startled when the voice came through his ear. First one voice, “Patching you through.” Then a second voice, “The bag has been picked up. A woman in jeans and a patterned shirt. She looks to be . . . Indian in origin.”

  The agent would have said “Native American” if he’d meant that. “Indian” meant from India.

  “Follow her!” Donovan shouted back before turning to Eleri.

  “Someone picked up the bag. Looks like a woman from the Saint Issa cell.”

  Eleri had an earpiece, too, but hers was attached to Walter in the other car. The agents in that car were linked to the home base at the Bureau and everyone was barking at everyone else. It was chaos, but the only way to keep all the info from pouring in to everyone all the time. Eleri processed what he gave her then added her own two cents. “Holy shit. Make sure he knows he’s the only eyes we have on that cell.”

  Donovan relayed the message and listened as more info poured in.

  “No ID yet, but she walked by and picked up the bag in a practiced motion. This is not coincidence, she’s either a criminal stealing a bag she found or this was a handoff.”

  Donovan thought for a moment, trying to figure out what he wanted to know. “Did she make any contact with the other woman? Is there any evidence of communication between them?”

  “No. The first woman is gone. Long gone. She set the bag out as smoothly as this woman picked it up.”

  Damn. He wondered if they knew each other. Or if the first and second women had simply been told the other was a sympathizer. As far as he could tell, they weren’t even in it for the same cause. And they still had no clue who was running the fractures above Ken Kellen.

  Kellen had once been, or seemed to be, a dedicated soldier. Had he gone to the other side willingly? Was it money? A misguided sense of justice? There were so many sides to the wars these days. It was no longer Hitler and crimes against humanity. You couldn’t just storm North Hollywood; it wasn’t Normandy.