OTMs stood for Other Than Mexicans. They came across the border every day. For every ten Mexicans, there was one or more OTM.
“Yeah. I remember. What about it?” Jackson asked.
“We both know how infiltrated this area is with Jihadi bad guys, even if the Feds and local bigs deny it. The media has been covering stuff up for quite some time. You were the first one to put the all pieces together on that case, and I have a very bad feeling that this is a lot bigger than either you or I knew at the time. And it might go a lot higher than we imagined,” Adam said softly looking around, paranoid.
“So what makes you think you have anything on this grease-ball now?” Jackson asked.
“It turns out he actually was working for some Arabs. I tracked down a couple of things, and the story checks out. Sort of. He refuses to talk to anyone but me, and he is terrified someone will find out he’s squealing.”
Brunell sighed and continued.
“The walls have ears in The Unit. I don’t trust anyone. And I mean anyone. From the guards on down. Or up. Including office personnel and superiors. Things have changed since you left. The Feds have become the enemy. You can’t tell them anything. And the cartels have connections everywhere inside. As far as I know, a good portion of our department is on the take in one way or another.”
“Yeah. It sucks. I started seeing it back then. All this politically correct garbage and career concerns will get people killed,” Jackson said.
“You have no idea. Listen, I’ve agreed to keep everything on the down-low with this mule, but I’m on borrowed time. I’m asking you for your advice. Will you walk me through what you think? Maybe listen to some audio or video. Look a couple of things over. I know it isn’t your problem any more, but…”
Jackson interrupted his former colleague. “No. No. Let me just think about this for a minute.”
“See, that’s the problem. We may not have a minute. If what this dude is saying is true, there is something going down soon. And it’s big.” Adam was getting desperate.
“How big?”
“Mega… Like another 9-11. Right here. In the Valley.”
“That makes no sense. Why would they hit here? There’s nothing worth hitting here. No financial centers, no huge populations. It’s a glorified cow town with resorts and golf courses!” Jackson was skeptical.
“That’s what I’m trying to piece together. This guy doesn’t seem to know very much, he’s not up that high. But he says there is a lot of activity south of the border, and word on the street is that things are going down soon.”
“What else do you have?” Jackson asked, knowing that Brunell was holding things back, as he would have done in his position.
“Not much,” Brunell replied, shrugging.
Jackson knew he wouldn’t lay all his cards on the table. Adam didn’t know much about him these days, and some things were simply too classified to disclose. But Jackson knew how the game was played better than anyone.
“Listen, Adam. I appreciate your situation, and no one knows how much stress you’re under more than me. But if you are looking for my help, you’re going to have to give me everything. I’m on the outside now. I have a new life. I’m not looking to get tied back up in this stuff without knowing what is going on, completely. And I mean completely,” Jackson said.
“Yeah. Well, that could be a problem.”
“No problem, pards. I admit, you had my curiosity going there for a minute, but I’m not really into this any more. I wish you luck, buddy. I know you’ll need it. Thanks for the call, and maybe we can catch up, off the books some day, if you’re still interested like you said you were.” Jackson had no intention of wasting time chasing some half-baked conspiracy theory, and possibly ending up in the hospital - or worse.
“Jackson, you know I can’t tell you everything. If I could, I would,” Brunell replied evasively.
“I read you, Adam. You know this Reuben is pretty darn good. They do a nice job here. Did I ever tell you how Sam and I used to bring the kids here on Sundays?” Jackson asked as he mowed down half the sandwich in three giant bites.
Brunell knew that Jackson was his last chance, and it was clear in his voice. “Jim. Will you consider taking a look? I have something with some intel on it, and I would like your analysis. Jackson, you are in a perfect position to give me advice and back me up on this. You are totally off the grid. You live in a shitty trailer by the freeway and work at a roach car lot. No one is going to think twice about you being in on this.”
“Gee, thanks for all the moral support, Brunell. You’re free to leave it with me, but I can’t guarantee anything. Besides, I don’t have a computer in my ‘shitty trailer.’ The only place I can check it out is at the ‘roach car lot’, and I’m pretty busy most of the time. I can’t give you any guarantees.”
Jackson smelled a giant crap sandwich in the making, but the temptation to at least look at the information was starting to eat at him. He impatiently put his hand out, and Brunell slid the small thumb drive across the table. Jackson picked it up and stuck in his pocket.
“I’m sorry to be so blunt, Jim, but I have thought this through nine ways to Sunday, and you are the only one I can go to on this. I can’t force you to do anything, but if you are willing, please understand time is of the essence.” Brunell laid his personal credit card on the table and waved the waiter over. “And whatever you decide, Jim, please protect that thing. It’s got some classified information on it. It could be damaging to a lot of people.”
“Thanks for lunch, Adam. Now, I really do need to get back to work.” Jackson grabbed the other half of his sandwich and stood up, wiping his free hand with the cloth napkin and taking a final swig of his water.
“Sure.” Brunell sighed, “Thanks Jackson. And I really do want to hear about the kids and what’s up with you some time.”
“Sure. No guarantees on that either,” he said flippantly.
Jackson exited the patio and walked back up the path. Just as he polished off the rest of the Reuben, his phone chimed. He pulled it out and saw a text from Sam.
J. has b-ball at 5:00. Please take him.
Short and to the point. That was their relationship now.
He looked at his Oris and saw it was 12:55. He got back in the car and wheeled back toward the lot.
By the time 4:45 rolled around, he was ready to go. He had forgotten about the thumb drive in his pocket, as he had been dealing with calls and customers the rest of the afternoon.
He set up the voicemail again, locked the office, and nosed out on the driveway, closing and locking the gate, before heading up Scottsdale Road. He called Paul to check in and let him know he had to go get Jackie, but that everything was set up.
5
Pulling west onto Indian School, Jackson entered Arcadia, the 1950s-era neighborhood of mid-century homes at the base of Camelback Mountain. The community had been a rundown offshoot between Scottsdale and Phoenix fifteen years earlier, when the young hipster crowd discovered it and began gentrifying the area.
Houses that had previously sold for less than $100,000 were now going for well over a $1 million and beyond. It was thick with citrus trees and bougainvillea that had once grown on farmland there. The colors and smells were a delight to the senses.
Remodels and updates had made it one of the most desirable areas in the Valley, and he used to love living there. Sam had gone crazy for a mid-century ranch with a pool and an expansive yard loaded with orange and lime trees. It’d been a total makeover. The thing had set him back over $700,000 at the time. It was a stunner.
The house had been featured on the cover of Phoenix Home and Garden. The spread was a beautiful puff piece that had featured all four of them at home. It had made him beam with pride at the time.
Even though the mortgage was enough to choke a camel, he was happy the kids still had the place for stability. He would have hated for them to have had to move. It took a lot of commission to keep up the payments on the place,
but it was worth it.
He pulled up to the perfectly manicured lawn with the painted, split rail fence by the driveway. He honked once.
Sam came to the door and gave a flippant wave. A minute later, Jackie came bounding down the driveway with his baseball uniform on. He had on full gear, carrying a glove and bat. He pulled the door open and hopped in.
“Hey, Dad! Are you going to stay and watch me practice?” he asked.
“Absolutely, little buddy. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Maybe we can get some In-N-Out on the way home,” Jackson responded, patting the little guy on his head and rubbing his hat up and down to mess with him.
“That’s awesome, Dad. We’re getting pretty good.”
“So I hear. I read the papers every day.”
“Dad, we’re not in the papers.”
“Really? I thought I saw an article about the young Jackie Jackson hitting the game winning homer at Chase Field a last week. You guys beat the Cardinals three to two,” Jackson said.
The youth teams in Scottsdale used actual team names and had the identical uniforms as the majors. Jackie’s team was the Diamondbacks, just like the local MLB team. The uniforms and gear cost the parents a small fortune.
Back in the day, Jackson used to have box seats on the first base line for all of the Diamondback home games, and Jackie loved to go. So he was totally pumped to be on the same team in youth league.
“Dad. That was the real team. Not us,” Jackie said.
“Really? You could have fooled me. That number five looked just like you!” Jackson chided him.
“Daaaad,” Jackie rolled his eyes and pulled out his Game Boy.
Jackson turned on the radio as they drove to Chaparral Park, where several of the teams practiced and played games.
The afternoon radio host was reporting that the warning level had been raised to Orange and that people to be aware of ‘suspicious activity’ as the World Series neared. The D-backs had made it all the way through the playoffs. They were playing the Angels next week for the championship.
He chuckled to himself. “Suspicious activity. Everything in the entire state is ‘suspicious activity’. If the public knew the real story, they would run as fast as they could to get out of this place.”
He pulled into the perfectly maintained park and came to a stop by the baseball diamond. Jackie got out and ran over to his buddies on the team as Jackson sauntered over to the bleachers.
“Hey, Jackson!” he heard someone call out. He looked around saw Barry Yant, the popular morning radio host that had been one of the good guys, back in the day. “Haven’t seen you around in forever!”
“Different times now, Yant,” Jackson replied.
“Your kid playing on the D-backs? Mine’s over here on the Angels.”
“Yeah, little Jackie is number five over there. He really loves the game. It keeps him off the video games, and he’s actually getting pretty good,” Jackson said.
“That’s great. Sure is good to see you. You know, Jackson, it was a damn shame the way everything went down over at the Spook House. You were one of the best. We miss your expertise these days. You would not believe the things I’m hearing.”
“So I hear, Barry. So I hear. But that’s someone else’s problem now. It’s been a while since I paid much attention,” Jackson shrugged his shoulders shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Still, I bet you haven’t lost your touch. The good ones never do.”
“I suppose.” Jackson was feeling a mixture of appreciation and shame at the memory.
“But hey, it’s really good to see you. I miss having you on the show. You always rattled the cages and melted down the phones. Those were some of our highest-rated shows back then. Good luck to you and little Jackie,” Yant said.
“Thanks, Barry. It was fun.”
“And hey, if you ever have any interest in coming back on or even off the air, give me a holler. I’m still at KFB every morning at six!” Yant offered.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Barry. Thanks. Like I said, it’s someone else’s problem now, but it’s good to see you too,” Jackson said as he started walking away.
“Hey, take care, Jackson,” Yant said, strolling off to his son’s practice.
This was getting too weird. Two people in one day from his former life. And both of them were talking about the same thing. He rubbed down on his pants and felt the thumb drive still in his pocket.
Damn. He had gotten so busy, he’d forgot to do something with it. “I gotta stop drinking,” he thought. “I can’t even remember my name half the time any more.”
He shook his head and made a mental note that he would decide what to do with the drive in the morning.
Whack!
He looked up and saw his son tearing around first base. He was flying, and his teammates and coach were all clapping and hooting. He stopped on second base and threw a thumbs up at Jackson. Damn, it was good to see him so happy.
6
Jackson woke up with another barn burner after spending another evening at the La Hacienda. He had only planned to stop in for a drink or two after dropping Jackie off at home, but there had been a game on TV, and Doug had had a new tequila that his sales rep wanted him to test with customers. Of course, Jackson, being the resident expert, was tasked with giving it the full review. And once he got started, well…
He threw off the covers and walked into the tiny bathroom to repeat his morning ritual. When he came out, he saw his phone blinking with a text. It was from Paul.
Sick. Can’t come in. Pls open 2day.
Crap.
He glanced at the Oris. 8:30. He hustled into the kitchen and replayed the whole coffee routine. This time, he got dressed while the coffee brewed. Picking up his pants from last night, he felt the thumb drive still in the pocket.
“Damn. I gotta tell him to come get this thing. I don’t want this responsibility hanging over my head any more.”
He realized that, as long as he had possession of the drive, there was an implied understanding between the two of them that he was going to look at the information, and that would lead to him being pulled into things, which would lead to nothing good. It was hard enough to focus on getting his sorry ass out the door every day, let alone chase after some perceived haji rabbit trail.
He put the drive in his pocket, making a note to call Brunell to come get it.
He stopped at Circle K to pick up his morning gut-buster and Rhonda, the morning cashier said, “Mornin’ Captain Jack.”
She was one of the few people in his daily life who still remembered his days with the Unit.
“Rough one last night? Or are your ‘allergies’ acting up again?” she asked as she rolled her eyes a little at him.
“A little of both, Rhonda. Thanks. I think.”
“Just lookin’ out for my favorite ex-cop.” She winked and hustled over to help another customer.
He moved out the door, avoiding the crush of caffeine addicts plowing in.
Upon arriving at the lot, he went through his normal routine, checking that everything was still shipshape. He went back inside and sat down. Once again, messages blinked on the desk phone and he walked over to fill up his mug before he faced things. It was a freaking Groundhog Day for him all over again.
He turned the mute button on the TV and hit the message button. There were five messages.
Damn.
First one. Recorded election spam. Don’t they know this is a business?
Delete.
Next one. Mop ‘n’ Glow guy confirming a time to come by and clean the cars.
Forward to Paul.
Next, some dude looking for a now-sold BMW he’d seen on Auto Trader.
Forward to Paul.
Next, a customer complaining that he still hadn’t gotten his Title papers yet.
Forward to Paul.
Last, Brunell. Again. He did not want to play it.
“Agghh!” Jackson sighed and slumped down in his chair. “Leave m
e ALONE!!” he shouted in the empty office.
His hand was headed to the delete button when something stopped him. It was like he physically could not reach the button. His arm was literally being held down by some otherworldly force. He had no explanation for it.
It was the strangest thing he had ever experienced. He could not reach the button, even though he was looking directly at it. He shook his head and blinked a couple of times.
“I have got to stop this drinking. I think I might have had a stroke,” he thought to himself.
He started feeling like he might be getting a message. He had never been through anything like this. He started thinking he was delusional. He knew his motor skills had taken a turn for the worse in the last few years, but this was ridiculous. He cursed himself under his breath for not staying in shape.
Sam used to say things about God and the Holy Spirit when she would come home from her women’s Bible studies, but he had usually only grunted in recognition, pretending to listen. He didn’t take any of that stuff seriously.
Jackson was never much for organized religion, only attending church because it was good for his image and because Sam had wanted the kids to be raised with a proper Christian background.
Sure, he believed in a God somewhere, but he had seen too much human suffering and cruelty to actually think there was an all-loving and forgiving deity. He thought the people who actually believed that were generally clueless as to how the real world operated.
Sure, there were some who were the best people he had ever met, but it still bugged him.
He blew out a breath, and his arm reached toward the play button. “Jackson. We need to talk as soon as you get in. Important.”
The message had arrived at 2:19 a.m.
Jackson rubbed his face and slumped down in his chair.
He felt around in his front pocket and put his fingers around the drive. He pulled it out and flipped it back and forth in his fingers, tapping it on his desk, waging a battle in his head.
Black Flag Rising: A James Jackson Thriller Page 4
