Far Gone

by Laura Griffin

  “In the car.” The younger agent hustled back to retrieve them.

  “There’s a better vantage point two blocks south,” Andrea said. “It’s a five-story parking garage with visibility on all four sides. It’s over on Lavaca Street.”

  Jon glared at her, and she could tell he didn’t want her involved in this. She didn’t wait to hear his reasons.

  “Too bad, North, I’m in. We need all the eyes we can get.”

  “Sorry. You are . . . ?” The bald guy was frowning at her.

  “She’s Austin PD,” Jon snapped, and his phone buzzed in his hand. He made eye contact with the agent. “Follow her lead. She knows the neighborhood.”

  ♦

  Dread settled over Jon as he watched Andrea and the agents rush away. He didn’t like her here, but he didn’t have a choice.

  He answered his phone.

  “We have a problem,” Maxwell said. “I just got off the phone with Torres.”

  Jon jogged toward the guardhouse, pulling the ID folio from his jacket pocket.

  “We think we’ve got a truck bomb on our hands,” Maxwell said.

  The words stopped Jon cold. And then he was moving again as his mind raced. “Where’d this come from?”

  “Torres got a message from Elizabeth LeBlanc,” Maxwell said. “She was at a warehouse following up on the bank robberies when she witnessed a white cargo truck being loaded with metal drums and—”

  “Where?” Jon cut in.

  “San Antonio. North side of town.”

  “What time?”

  “Message came in ninety minutes ago, but he just listened to it. We sent a team of agents over. No Elizabeth, no truck, nothing. So now we’ve got a missing agent and a missing vehicle, possibly loaded with explosives. And we have no idea of the target—”

  “The Governor’s Mansion,” Jon said. “At least, that’s what I think. I think that’s the floor plan we found on the flash drive.”

  “How—”

  “Kirby’s on his way over here. I can’t explain it all now, but you need to get hold of his security team and have them keep him away from the area. I’m on my way in right now to talk to the governor’s people.”

  “You’re at the mansion?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where’s the governor?”

  “I’m about to find out. Give Kirby’s people the heads-up. I’ll call back in five.”

  The trooper in the guardhouse was on his feet now, looking suspicious as Jon jogged over to him, holding up his ID.

  “Who’s in charge of the governor’s security detail?” Jon asked.

  “Uh . . .” The trooper glanced at Jon’s identification. “That’d be my lieutenant.”

  “I need him on the phone. Now.”

  ♦

  It was an urban battlefield, and Shay felt good in it. He peered over the concrete wall and planned the shot. Carefully. Methodically. He took a deep breath and let his heart rate slow.

  Gazing through the scope, it came back to him—his first kill. He remembered the instant of panic, then the bone-deep thrill. There had been others, and soon it wasn’t a thrill but a duty. He did it out of necessity, with clinical detachment, same as now.

  His country had trained him well.

  The phone vibrated beside him and he glanced at the text.

  Just turned north.

  Shay settled in to wait. He’d been disciplined and patient. Now it was time for his payoff.

  Time for Message Three.

  The tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of tyrants.

  ♦

  The location was a sniper’s heaven. Andrea gazed up at the concrete canyon surrounding her and saw a dizzying array of potential hides: multilevel parking garages, apartments, office buildings that surely had vacant suites. The parking garages were the worst. Their concrete half-walls offered concealment and even the possibility that someone could get a shot off without leaving a vehicle.

  She picked the highest garage on the block and took the stairs two at a time. She poked her head out at each level, scanning the rows of cars for anything suspicious, but saw nothing. When she reached the roof, she rushed to a corner and gazed out at the sweeping view of downtown.

  From her vantage point, she had a clear view of all the buildings surrounding the estate and most of the mansion itself, except for the far southern corner, which was partially blocked by a church. She recalled the cross symbol on the corner of the computer drawing on Hardin’s thumb drive.

  This is it.

  The thought crystallized in her mind as she scanned the area. She couldn’t explain why, but she had a sudden certainty that everything, all the pain and exhaustion and disappointment, had been building toward this moment. Her shoulders tensed. The air hummed as she looked around. She could practically see Hardin crouched behind a wall somewhere, peering through his rifle scope and waiting for his target to arrive. What thoughts would be going through his mind as he waited to end someone’s life? What had he been thinking as he waited for Carmen Pena? And Julia Kirby?

  A chill swept over her. She glanced around to confirm that she was alone on the roof as she dialed Jon’s number.

  “Okay, I’m on top of the garage just east of the bank,” she told him. “That’s west of the mansion.”

  “New development,” he said sharply. “We have intel about a truck bomb. Can’t confirm the target, but we think the mansion’s a good bet. How’s your vantage point up there?”

  “I can see everything.” A truck bomb? She pictured the carnage in Philadelphia, and her stomach twisted into a knot.

  “You see any white cargo trucks?”

  “How big?”

  “No idea. All I know is it’s white.”

  Panic gripped her as she gazed out over the labyrinth of streets and alleyways. “God, North, I see . . . dozens. Practically every truck on the road is white.”

  “Focus on the parked ones. The ones closest to the mansion.”

  “You guys have to evacuate!”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Work faster! There’re people everywhere! Pedestrians, bikers—”

  “Andrea, stop! Focus. Don’t think about everyone else right now. I need you to take a careful look around and tell me what you see.”

  She swallowed her fear and tried to block out all the cars and innocent bystanders. She took a deep breath. “Okay, I see two white vans parked behind the mansion.”

  “Those are caterers. We’re checking them now.”

  “I see a white cargo truck, fairly big, looks like two blocks north of the mansion. There’s a pushcart next to it, so maybe he’s unloading.” Her gaze skimmed across the sloping green lawn in front of the Capitol Building, where people were strolling and picnicking. “I see a brown delivery truck just east of the Capitol. About half a block south of him is another white truck with a logo on the side, but I can’t read it from here.” She took a deep breath, scanning the streets. “A white cargo van just pulled off Congress, heading west now toward the mansion . . .” Her pulse picked up. “But it isn’t slowing. Now it’s turning north onto Lavaca.”

  “What else?”

  Exhaust drifted up from the streets below, along with the traffic noise. Too many cars, too many people. Why aren’t there sirens yet?

  “Andrea?”

  “I see a white cargo truck . . . No, maybe it’s gray. It’s two blocks east of me, which means four from the mansion—” She halted as a black SUV swung into view, dark-tinted windows, bristling with antennae. It was followed closely by a black Lincoln sedan.

  “I see a black Chevy Tahoe, looks like maybe a motorcade. North, is it Kirby?”

  “Shit!”

  “Didn’t someone call him?”

  “Where is it? Tell me exactly.”

  “It’s moving east on Eleventh Street, heading straight toward the mansion. Is it Kirby or the governor?”

  She glanced around frantically, looking for a police car, a trooper, s
omething.

  Over the phone, she heard Jon shouting orders at someone.

  Andrea tuned out the noise. She tuned out the traffic and the exhaust fumes and the din of road construction as she scoured every building, every rooftop, looking for the telltale jut of a rifle barrel. She tried to penetrate the shadows of the parking garages, looking for the dark silhouette of a gunman.

  “Andrea, are there any cargo trucks parked near the route of the approaching motorcade?”

  She snapped her gaze to the SUV. “No.”

  A flash of light caught her eye. A slight glint just above the wall of a parking garage—

  “Gun! I see a scope!” She dropped into a crouch and peered over the wall. “Ninth and Lavaca! Wait. No, Tenth and Lavaca! Gray parking garage! Fourth floor!”

  She had her pistol clutched in her hand but couldn’t even remember pulling it. She aimed it uselessly over the wall, but the gunman was much too far away.

  The pair of black vehicles glided past her, nearing the mansion.

  “North, he’s out of my range!” She heard commotion on the other end of the phone but still no sirens, no warnings.

  She darted a look at the sniper hide. The shot was wide open. She couldn’t disrupt his aim.

  But she could disrupt his target.

  She leaned over the wall and took aim at the SUV, realizing she was about to bring the wrath of every state trooper and bodyguard within miles down upon her head.

  No hesitation. She lined up her sights.

  Pop.

  She hit the bumper, and the SUV lurched to a stop as a sharp crack reverberated and the driver’s-side window exploded.

  “He took a shot! They’re hit!” Her gaze jerked to the garage, where she saw a blur of movement behind the wall. She sprinted for the stairwell, clutching her phone to her ear.

  Tires squealed and sirens howled up from the streets below as she raced down the stairs.

  “Shooter fleeing! Tenth and Lavaca! I’m in pursuit!”

  chapter thirty

  JON SPRINTED FOR THE parking garage, gun in hand. Tires shrieked. A gray pickup blasted through the wooden arm, sending splinters flying as it careened onto the street. Horns blared. Jon ran into the road, halted, and fired three shots in rapid succession.

  The back window burst. The truck jumped the curb and crashed into a fire hydrant. Jon bolted toward it as the passenger door popped open, and a blur of white leaped out.

  “He’s getting away!” Andrea was beside him now, and they both raced after the gunman. White T-shirt, blue jeans, baseball cap—Hardin. He was moving fast, no rifle or handgun that Jon could see.

  Jon dodged around the pickup and sidestepped the geyser spewing from the fire hydrant. He ran hard, clutching his weapon, but didn’t dare pause for a shot until he closed the gap. He was gaining, gaining, gaining, with Andrea at his side. Footsteps slapped behind him as the other two agents strained to keep up. One of them was on his phone calling for backup. Andrea peeled off suddenly and darted down an alley.

  Jon surged ahead, intent on his prey. He needed transportation. Maybe he’d carjack someone at a stoplight.

  Hardin reached an intersection, paused to look around. Jon lifted his weapon, but then he disappeared around the corner, out of sight. Jon plowed through a pair of joggers and raced around the building. More people on this block, sidewalk cafés, a valet sign.

  He instantly spotted Hardin’s objective: a young woman tipping a valet attendant and sliding into a car. Hardin sprinted toward her as someone lunged from the alley. Andrea.

  She was on him like a panther, and they slammed to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Jon crashed onto Hardin’s back and pushed Andrea aside as he jammed his pistol into the man’s neck.

  “Check for weapons!” Andrea yelled, pawing at his shirt, his pants.

  Jon wrestled Hardin’s hands behind his back as the other two agents appeared, guns drawn. Gasps and yelps went up from the shocked onlookers as Jon jerked Hardin’s wrists back and slapped on the cuffs.

  “No weapons.” Andrea stood up.

  Jon was busy searching for a cell phone, a garage-door opener, anything that might be used to detonate a bomb. He came up empty. The stocky agent helped haul Hardin to his feet, and they pulled him away from the restaurant patrons and into the mouth of an alley.

  Jon heaved Hardin against the wall and planted his forearm against his neck. “Where’s the truck?”

  ♦

  “Where is it?”

  Still no answer.

  Andrea watched them facing off against the side of the building. Jon held his Sig loosely at his side, but he looked ready to kneecap the man if he didn’t answer the question.

  “Jon.”

  Hardin slid down the wall. He plunked one booted foot over another and glowered up at them defiantly. His lip was bleeding, probably from when Andrea had tackled him.

  She pulled Jon away and lowered her voice. “The senator?”

  “Injured but alive. Motorcade’s en route to the hospital. But I don’t think that’s all Hardin had planned.” A bead of sweat slid down Jon’s temple as he glanced around angrily. “I mean, look at this place.”

  She didn’t have to look, because she could hear. Sirens echoed all around them as emergency vehicles converged on the nearby Governor’s Mansion. Every trooper in the city and probably half the Austin PD were responding to the attack. These were Andrea’s coworkers, people she knew. If he’d wanted to target law enforcement, he couldn’t have planned it better.

  She looked at Hardin, sitting tight-lipped on the ground, a man who obviously knew his Fifth Amendment rights and wasn’t talking.

  His eyes were a startling shade of blue, she discovered. She’d only seen them up close through a camera lens. They were the kind of eyes women swooned over in bars. How could eyes like that hide so much evil?

  Andrea stepped over. She dropped into a crouch beside him and tried to look relaxed, despite the adrenaline rushing through her body.

  “Taken down by a girl, Shay. What will people think?” She dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the bullet she’d been carrying. She held it out in her palm. “Think you left something in my room.”

  A predatory gleam came into his eyes. “I watched you in the shower.”

  “Yeah? See anything you like?”

  “I should have put a bullet between your tits when I had the chance.”

  She leaned closer, taunting him, daring him to brag. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. Despite the cool defiance, she could smell the fear coming off his skin.

  There was more going on here. This wasn’t over.

  “Where’s the truck, Shay?”

  He stared at her.

  “Do yourself a favor, and tell us where it is.”

  White-hot hatred simmered in his eyes. She saw the burning need to boast, to prove that although he was on the ground and handcuffed, he was still smarter than everyone.

  Come on, Shay. Give in to the urge.

  Tires skidded behind her, breaking the spell. She glanced over her shoulder to see an FBI sedan and a trio of DPS cars pulling up.

  She looked at Hardin again. He made a wet hawking sound and spit on her shoes.

  ♦

  The governor’s estate was mayhem. Patrol cars, DPS units, and even a few sheriff’s cruisers were parked haphazardly along the perimeter. Several red ladder trucks blocked the side streets, and troopers were hustling around with barricades, evacuating civilians and forming a perimeter around the perceived danger zone.

  “Tell me if you see an armored vehicle,” Jon ordered. “Our bomb unit should be here by now.”

  They reached a manned barricade. He waved his ID at a DPS officer as they jogged to the northeast corner of the governor’s estate.

  Andrea scanned the area for a possible truck bomb. She stopped short as she saw a group of schoolkids being hustled from the Capitol.

  “Holy Christ,” she murmured. They’d probably been on a field trip, and
now they were in the epicenter of a terrorist attack. She spied their buses . . . one, two, three in a line, probably more than a hundred kids. Her heart squeezed as she glanced around, desperately looking for a white cargo truck.

  “See anything?” Jon demanded.

  “Two white vans behind the mansion.”

  “Caterers. We checked them.”

  She darted her gaze around, searching for all the white vans she’d listed off earlier.

  “There!” She grabbed his arm. “The alley! That wasn’t there before.”

  Jon unholstered his weapon, and Andrea did the same as they jogged toward the truck, picking up speed as they cataloged the same suspicious details: parked in the alley, no taillights, no driver visible nearby.

  “Jon, this is it. Has to be.” Her nerves jumped as they reached the truck.

  Staying low, Jon ducked around to the driver’s side and crept up to the window. Andrea did the same on the passenger’s side, staring at the side mirror as she approached the door. She peered into the cab. Empty. She touched the hood. Still warm.

  On the other side of the truck, Jon swore loudly.

  “What?” She rushed around.

  “My phone’s not getting a signal.”

  A sharp whistle, and she glanced up to see a German shepherd charging toward them, towing a man in SWAT gear behind him.

  “FBI Bomb Squad!” the man shouted. “Step away from that vehicle!”

  Jon held up his ID. “We think this is it.”

  The German shepherd gave two sharp barks and planted itself at the back tire, brown eyes intent, ears pointed skyward. The dog stared with laserlike focus, as if nothing else in the universe existed except this dirty white truck.

  The handler said a few words into the radio clipped to his shoulder.

  “This your case?” he asked Jon, dropping down to look at the undercarriage.

  “That’s right.”

  “I understand this perp likes cell-phone detonators.”