Far Gone

by Laura Griffin

  He sighed and slumped against the door.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thanks.” He looked at her. “I mean it. And for picking me up, too.”

  “It’s fine.”

  It really wasn’t, but what else could she say? For better or for worse, he was family.

  He leaned his head against the window and stared out at the dry, empty scrubland.

  What was going through his mind right now? She wondered if he had any clue about the scope of Hardin’s cruelty. The FBI had had Gavin in custody for five long hours, and she desperately hoped he’d managed to help them and provide something useful. He claimed he’d been cooperative, but she didn’t know if she believed a word he said anymore. They’d released him without charges, at least, which she took as a good sign.

  Andrea’s head throbbed, and she focused on the road. She’d memorized this drive now, and it didn’t get better with practice. Flat, flat, and more flat. Rest stops and highway signs. She had five monotonous hours ahead, and she was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Her muscles ached. Her eyes burned like acid. Her feet were still blistered from yesterday, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten a meal that didn’t come with ketchup and a toy.

  She sighed and rolled her shoulders, trying to perk herself up. At least this time, she had someone to keep her company and share the driving. She glanced over at Gavin.

  He was fast asleep.

  ♦

  By the time the judge signed off on the paperwork, it was nine P.M. In what Maxwell called another “lucky break,” Shay Hardin and Ross Leeland were pulling into the Broken Spoke when the warrants came through. The SAC liked this development, because now the takedown could occur away from the ranch, where the situation was less likely to result in a heavily armed confrontation.

  Jon liked the part about arresting Hardin away from his arsenal, but he didn’t like the “luck” part. Two lucky events in one day was too many. Something was going to go wrong tonight—he could practically feel it as he strapped on his flak jacket.

  The plan was twofold. Part one involved taking advantage of Hardin’s and Leeland’s absence to execute the search warrant at the ranch. An FBI tactical unit out of El Paso, including two explosives experts, had shown up to assist. While Jon and the others had been busy moving into the staging area and gearing up, the demo guys had slipped through the fence and swept the ranch’s perimeter for land mines.

  They’d found nothing, but it was a good precaution. No one knew yet what sort of measures Hardin had in place to protect his homestead.

  As for Hardin himself, he and Leeland would be picked up after they left the bar—most likely, in the parking lot. Maxwell had assigned himself to do the honors, along with Santucci and Whitfield, with a second, smaller SWAT team on hand in case things got dicey.

  Jon and Torres were assigned to the ranch because they knew the place better than anyone else. They had Theilman in tow, though, which was putting a damper on their normally stealthy approach as they neared the west fence.

  Jon stopped and lifted his binoculars. He scanned the area, looking for any surprises, especially cars that didn’t belong. But he saw only the Driscolls’ red pickup parked beside the fire pit near the house.

  “Confirming a red Dodge truck,” Jon said into his radio. “No other vehicles.”

  “Copy that, Bravo,” the SWAT lieutenant’s voice said.

  The other teams chimed in to confirm. The Driscolls were home. No one could see past the window coverings, but odds were they were either in the living room or in the bedroom. According to the detailed layout of the home provided by Gavin Finch, the couple’s bedroom was at the far back of the house.

  Jon surveyed the area and spotted the low oak tree that he and Torres had decided would make a good entry point. He made a beeline for it, and the others fell in behind him.

  Theilman halted suddenly. “What’s that?”

  “Where?” Jon looked over his shoulder.

  “Over there. Under that tree.”

  Jon squinted at the shape. “It’s a cow.”

  “It’s huge.” He gripped his rifle. “Think he’ll charge us?”

  Jon looked at Torres.

  “If he does, aim for his balls.” Torres dropped into a crouch and pulled out wire cutters, and Jon held his weapon for him as he went to work on the game fence. He removed a square of mesh and slipped through. Jon followed. Theilman crawled through last and snagged his flak jacket.

  “Shit!”

  Torres took the agent’s rifle off his hands while Jon yanked the jacket free.

  Theilman rubbed the back of his neck as he stood up.

  “You okay?” Jon asked.

  “Fine.”

  Torres darted Jon a look as he returned the gun, and Jon knew what he was thinking. This guy was loud and nervous, and his pasty skin practically glowed in the dark. Not someone you wanted covering your ass.

  A last radio check-in before the final approach. Then Jon led the way, crouching low and using the scrub brush for cover as they crossed the field between the ranch’s western boundary and the barn. They neared the dilapidated structure, and Jon surveyed the ground, looking for trip wires or pressure plates.

  Despite five windows, the west-facing side of the house was completely dark. All the shades were drawn, as usual, and not so much as a glimmer of light seeped through. According to Andrea’s brother, Hardin insisted on keeping the windows covered—even the kitchen ones—at all times to protect his privacy.

  “What are these guys, vampires?” Theilman was looking at the windows. They were within fifty feet of the house now, but he obviously didn’t know when to shut the fuck up.

  Torres checked his watch and held up two fingers. Two minutes.

  Jon took a deep breath. He relaxed his shoulders. He adjusted the MP5 in his hands and focused his gaze on the back door. He’d been involved in dozens of raids, but this one was different. His heart thudded against his sternum. This was it. Months and months of work, all leading up to this moment.

  Jon stared into the darkness, and his thoughts went to Andrea. He pictured her on the steps of that sheriff’s office, and his chest tightened. He’d made so many sacrifices for his job that it had become second nature. But today was the first time he’d done something he wasn’t proud of. He’d done something cold and calculating, and now he felt a surge of panic because he didn’t know how he was going to make it right with her. Or if he’d ever get the chance.

  Ninety seconds.

  Jon forced himself to get his head in the game. He trained his gaze on the house as black shadows shifted and the assault team stacked at the back door.

  His pulse pounded. Wind rustled through the trees behind him.

  Thirty seconds.

  A slight movement near the door. Jon held his breath.

  “Bang and clear,” came the command.

  Boom.

  The door buster echoed over the prairie, quickly followed by the loud concussion of a flash-bang.

  Black-clad agents poured in. Shouting came over the radio.

  “Bedroom one clear!”

  “Bedroom two clear!”

  Jon kept his gaze fixed on the back door. More shouting over the radio.

  “You got ’em?”

  “Bathroom one clear! Where are they?”

  “What the hell?” Torres muttered beside him.

  A blur of white darted from the house. Olivia Driscoll’s blond hair streamed behind her as she raced for the barn. Jon was after her in a heartbeat. Torres made the tackle, and Jon covered them with his gun as he wrestled her arms behind her and zip-tied her wrists.

  “Where is your husband?” Jon demanded.

  Two SWAT guys rushed over. Olivia cursed and kicked as Torres rolled her onto her side.

  “Where is he?” Torres repeated.

  Her chest heaved as she stared up at them, wide-eyed. “They’re not here! No one’s here!”

  Jon crouched beside h
er and got right in her face. Leaves clung to her hair, and she looked shocked and terrified.

  “Where is your husband, ma’am? You need to tell us where he is.”

  “I don’t know! He went with Shay and Ross!”

  “Whose vehicle?”

  She glanced at the house.

  “Whose vehicle?”

  “Shay’s! They’re in the truck. I’m the only one here!” She looked at the house again and burst into tears. “What is this? What’s going on?”

  Jon looked at Torres. She could easily be lying.

  He glanced at the house and heard cabinets banging open as agents moved room to room, searching. The pickup’s doors stood open now. Agents were in the barn, rooting through equipment.

  “We got her covered,” Torres said.

  Jon jogged to the back door, where he found the SWAT lieutenant looking unhappy as his men turned the house inside out searching for a potentially armed man.

  “That’s Olivia Driscoll?”

  Jon gave a crisp nod. “She says her husband’s with Hardin.”

  “I thought it was just two of them.”

  “So did I.” Jon pulled out his phone and called Whitfield. Torres walked over. Meanwhile, the search continued as men streamed through the structure like army ants.

  Whitfield answered right away.

  “Driscoll’s missing,” Jon told him. “His wife says he’s with Hardin.”

  Silence.

  “Hardin’s still inside the bar,” Whitfield reported.

  “She says he was with Hardin and Leeland when they left the house, all in one vehicle.”

  Curses on the other end. “Lemme call Santucci. See if he’ll go in there and get eyes on them.”

  “He’s not already in?”

  “He wanted to stay in his vehicle, stake out the parking lot. I didn’t go in because I’m in ICE gear, didn’t want to make everyone jumpy.”

  Jon gritted his teeth.

  “I’ll send him in, call you back.”

  Jon hung up and looked at Torres. “Unbelievable. They don’t have eyes inside the bar. I thought Santucci was the smart one.”

  “Is he with them or not?” the lieutenant wanted to know.

  A commotion in the shadows as Olivia Driscoll was brought over, hands behind her back, a commando on each elbow.

  “This is bullcrap!” The tears were gone now, but her cheeks and nose were splotchy as she sank onto the porch steps. “I’ll sue you!” she snapped at Jon. “I’ll sue all of you! You can’t just bust in here!”

  “Ma’am.” Jon crouched beside her, out of kicking range. “Can you confirm your husband’s whereabouts?”

  “He’s with Shay! I told you! What is wrong with you people?”

  Jon’s phone rang. Whitfield.

  “We got a problem.”

  A queasy feeling slithered into Jon’s stomach. “What?”

  “No one’s here,” Whitfield said.

  “What do you mean, no one?”

  “None of ’em. Hardin, Leeland, Driscoll. Santucci went in and looked. Then I went. Then Maxwell.”

  “How is that possible? You’re telling me—”

  “I’m telling you none of them are in there. Everybody’s gone.”

  chapter twenty-six

  WHILE JON AND HIS team hopped a helo ride to San Antonio, the FBI’s assistant director of counterterrorism was landing at Lackland Air Force Base, signaling a major shift in the case. By nine thirty A.M., everyone was crowded around a table in one of the base’s conference rooms.

  A real table this time, no plywood.

  “Hey, we’re movin’ on up.” Torres slapped Jon on the back, crooning the Jeffersons theme song as he sank into a faux-leather chair.

  Jon grabbed a seat and settled his gaze on his SAC, who was deep in conversation with Alan Reese at the end of the table. At some point in the last twenty-four hours—Jon wasn’t sure when—the investigation in Texas had gone from low priority to high. Not only was the counterterrorism chief in town, but he’d brought an entire team with him.

  Jon had expected to be knee-deep in agents by this point, but he only saw a dozen. And he realized what this was: the briefing before the briefing. Reese was rounding up his intel before he addressed his troops—by which time, Jon and Torres and everybody else would be long gone, and there would be no mistaking whose show this was. Jon didn’t give a damn about the politics at this point. His sole objective was to see Hardin dead or in custody by the end of the day.

  “First, some news.”

  Everyone quieted at the CT chief’s voice.

  “I’ve talked to the medical examiner in Philadelphia. The skull fragments recovered from the bomb site—Khalil Abbas’s skull fragments—showed evidence of lead wipe.” He glanced around the table to see if everyone understood the significance of this development.

  “Someone shot him in the head?” Theilman asked.

  “According to the ME, yes. We sent an evidence response team to the mosque to do some more searching, and they recovered a shell casing from a gutter in the alley behind the building. It’s from an SS195 hollow-point bullet.”

  “Same type of bullet used in the killing of that homeless guy a block from the mosque,” Santucci said.

  Reese nodded. “Our lab ran the analysis, and they believe there’s a ‘very high likelihood’ that the two rounds were fired by the same weapon. So now it looks like Khalil Abbas was murdered, which basically eliminates him as our prime suspect.” His gaze zeroed in on Jon. “Shay Hardin has been bumped to the top of the list.”

  Silence settled over the table. Jon tried to get his head around the fact that the theory he’d been pushing for so many months had finally gained traction within the Bureau.

  “Second piece of news—which most of you already know—we have reason to believe Shay Hardin and Ross Leeland are in San Antonio,” Reese said. “They may be driving a white Plymouth four-door.”

  This information was based on conjecture, but Jon believed it was solid. He’d personally interviewed a gas-station clerk in Fort Stockton who’d sold Leeland a map of San Antonio while Hardin was buying gas.

  “I hate to torpedo this supposed ‘lead,’ ” Theilman said, “but all we really know is that Leeland bought a map last night. So what? I mean, who uses actual maps anymore? People want to go somewhere, they look it up on their phone.”

  “Hardin doesn’t use a phone,” Torres said, clearly irritated. He didn’t like the agent from Philly. “Neither does Leeland.”

  “It’s part of our profile of the suspect,” Maxwell told Reese. “He’s extremely paranoid about government surveillance.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Reese said.

  “He goes to great lengths to avoid anything traceable,” Maxwell continued, “like cell phones, e-mails, even landlines. It’s not surprising to me that he’d use a paper map instead of downloading one.”

  “So the question is, what’s in San Antonio?” Reese looked around the table.

  “Not Kirby,” Jon said. “I checked with his scheduler a minute ago. She says the senator was supposed to address a group of business-school students at UT Austin this morning, but his security team convinced him to bag it. He’s canceled all public appearances through the weekend.”

  “Okay, what are some other potential targets in San Antonio? Maxwell? This is your home turf.”

  “We’ve got several colleges, plus the Alamo, the River Walk. In terms of government targets, there’s the FBI building, the IRS office . . . this base, obviously.”

  Jon shook his head, frustrated. None of this was “obvious” at all.

  “You don’t agree?” Reese looked at him. Clearly, someone had told him that Jon was the resident expert on Shay Hardin.

  “No, I don’t. Hardin’s pattern is to target people, not places,” Jon said. “The judge, the senator’s daughter, the senator’s mistress and child. I don’t believe his objective is a place, no matter how high-profile.”

  “Do you t
hink he’s planning a suicide attack?” Reese asked. “Does he want to be a martyr for his cause?”

  Jon was no profiler, but he gave his best answer based on investigating the man for months. “I don’t think he’s a martyr. And I don’t think the ‘cause’ is really the cause of this. Hardin’s a sociopath. He kills without remorse. His antigovernment ideology just gives him a rationale. So do I think he’s suicidal? No. I think he’s got a plan, and it includes getting away after his next attack, with or without his co-conspirators. Everyone in Hardin’s world is expendable.”

  “What, you can read his mind now?” Theilman quipped.

  “Okay, let’s table that for a moment,” Reese said. “What about those co-conspirators? What do we know about Mark Driscoll? And how did we lose track of him in the first place?”

  All eyes swung to Whitfield.

  “It’s my fault,” he said, not dodging the blame. “I was tailing the pickup. I didn’t see Driscoll in it, and I didn’t see him slip out. Which tells me Hardin knew he had a tail.”

  “We know he didn’t get out at the bar,” Santucci said. “I saw two men go in, and two men only: Shay Hardin and Ross Leeland.”

  “In hindsight,” Whitfield said, “looks like Driscoll probably slipped out when they went through the McDonald’s drive-thru before heading over to the Broken Spoke. That’s the bar where they disappeared from view.”

  “It’s as if they knew a raid was imminent,” Maxwell said insightfully.

  Whitfield nodded. “Probably tipped off when Gavin and Vicky left the ranch with some cooked-up story. I’d say they saw us coming.”

  “I’d say they’ve seen us coming for months,” Jon said. “The SNAP system proves it. He’s been paranoid about government surveillance since he first set up operations at Lost Creek.”

  “So he could be anywhere by now, assuming he has transportation,” Reese said. “And I think that’s a safe assumption. Based on the bank robberies, it looks like he has the ability to swap vehicles whenever he wants.”

  Jon glanced out the window as a Humvee zoomed across the tarmac. The base was jumping this morning, everyone going about his business, no idea that just a few feet away, an FBI team was scrambling to track down the most wanted man in America.