“Jesus, Rodriguez,” she said, grabbing the kid’s hands. He’d risen to his knees, prepared to bolt again. With one smooth gesture she knocked him flat and cuffed him. “You both could’ve been killed.”
“Little son of a bitch would’ve deserved it,” Rodriguez said, standing slowly and brushing himself off. The knees of his trousers were torn, and he raised his hands in supplication. “Christ, look what he did to my pants!”
“I didn’t do nothing, fool,” Emilio spat as Kelly yanked him to his feet. He was tiny, just over five feet, wearing baggy jean shorts, an enormous flannel shirt over a white undershirt and a blue-and-white Colts hat cocked to the side.
“Shut up, you little punk,” Rodriguez grunted.
“Agent Rodriguez,” Kelly said warningly. “Save it.”
“I got nothing to say to you,” Emilio sulked.
Kelly looked him over: too young to even be shaving. She repressed a sigh. “Your grandma seems like a nice lady, let’s have her join us. We need an adult present to question you anyway.”
“I ain’t answering no questions, bitch. I don’t disrespect the colors.” He jerked a thumb at his baseball cap.
Rodriguez rattled off something in Spanish, and Emilio responded with a tirade, struggling against the cuffs to get in Rodriguez’s face. Kelly pulled him back.
“Stop it, both of you,” she said sharply. “Not another word until we get him back to the house.” She cast a warning glance at Rodriguez. Anything said by a minor without a legal guardian present would be inadmissible. And she was hoping the grandmother might prove helpful. The woman had been shocked to find them on her doorstep, and judging by the way she called for Emilio, she didn’t tolerate back talk. With any luck her presence would cut down on his posturing.
In silence they proceeded down the street. The guy with the pit bull had righted himself, and as they passed by he muttered something. Emilio paled noticeably and jerked sideways as the pit bull growled. Kelly pursed her lips and wished for the hundredth time that she’d opted for Spanish instead of French in high school.
Dante fidgeted. His crew had been stuck in the warehouse for three days, and they were becoming increasingly restless. All twelve sat around a table playing endless games of five-card stud. They were almost indistinguishable, a solid mass of shaved heads and prison tats, clad in identical uniforms of black T-shirts and jeans.
Composed of three four-man teams, each was only privy to part of the plan. He was the only one holding all the proverbial cards. They knew enough, though, to potentially make it rain down cops and Feds. For that reason Jackson wanted them kept in complete isolation, to prevent a screwup on the magnitude of the KKK one in 1997. Back then a small group of Klansmen almost succeeded in torching a natural gas processing plant in north Texas. It would have been spectacular if they’d succeeded, could’ve taken out thousands and brought a lot of attention to the cause. But one of the morons got cold feet, and in swept the FBI. Jackson was too smart to allow something like that to happen.
One of the crew suddenly launched to his feet, scattering chips as he exploded in a stream of expletives. The guy he was yelling at stroked a knife clipped to his belt but remained seated. Dante frowned, debating whether or not to intervene. The other men tilted back in their chairs, watching with interest. One of them, Jimmy, glanced at Dante and raised an eyebrow.
When the first guy kicked back his chair, sending it skittering across the cement floor, Dante stood. They both caught the motion out of the corner of their eyes and paused. He approached the table slowly. These were hardened guys, between them they’d clocked decades in some of the country’s toughest penitentiaries. But there was a clear pecking order in the Brotherhood, as respected as any military rank, and in this room he was king.
“Cut the shit,” Dante said, voice low.
He eyed them, waiting. The second guy shrugged and muttered an apology that sounded more like a challenge. The troublemaker took longer to back down. Thanks to his enormous blond handlebar moustache he was nicknamed “Hulk,” after the wrestler. A full minute passed before Hulk turned, retrieved the chair, and straddled it.
“It’s been a long week,” Dante said when they’d settled down. Murmurs of assent. One of the other guys had gathered up the cards and was shuffling them. “I’m thinking it’s time to blow off a little steam.”
“Thought you said we couldn’t go anywhere,” said Hulk.
“We can’t.” Dante held up a hand to stem the tide of groans. “But I got a few girls cleared by management. One phone call and they show up to party.”
“No shit?” Hulk stroked his moustache. “How old? ’Cause I like ’em young.”
No surprise there, Dante thought. “Young enough. You know the rules, though.”
“No worries boss. I don’t need her mouth for talking,” someone chimed in, and everyone laughed.
Dante made the call. The girls were fresh meat, caught coming over the border by the local militia. They were supposed to report all illegals to Border Patrol without engaging. But this unit contained some of Jackson ’s most avid supporters, and they were happy to provide whatever was needed, whether that meant gathering up a few women or ignoring a duffel bag tossed over the wall. Dante wasn’t really worried about the men talking-the language barrier would prevent that, and besides, the girls were headed to a pit in the desert afterward. They’d keep the boys occupied for a few days. And by then they should have their marching orders.
The thought reenergized him. It had taken years to set this thing in motion. Hard to believe that by this time next week, they’d be guiding the nation back on its true path.
Dante headed to the opposite end of the warehouse and ran a hand along the side of a truck. Two others just like it lined the back of the room, waiting to be called into commission. He allowed himself a small smile as a whoop from the card table signaled the arrival of the girls.
Eight
“It’s not like that.” Randall sighed. “I send a text when I’ve got something for them, and they respond with instructions on where to drop it off.”
“So you’ve never spoken to an actual human?” Jake pressed. He’d persuaded Randall to leave work a few hours early so they could talk. Randall’s apartment screamed bachelor pad. It was a small, cluttered one-bedroom. The walls were bare, and aside from the futon couch and a tiny TV on a rickety table, there was little in the way of decor. Clearly Randall didn’t subscribe to any Martha Stewart publications.
“Once, when they first contacted me. I thought it was a joke at first.” He paused, examining his hands. “It never occurred to me that my family might actually be in danger.”
Jake thought that for a smart guy, at times Randall was staggeringly clueless. Maybe a bus driver could be nonchalant in the face of such threats, but it should’ve given a guy working at a top secret government lab pause. Still he nodded sympathetically. “Sure. What did he look like?”
“He was a big guy, white, bald. Wore a hat and sunglasses, so it’s kind of hard to say. Lots of tattoos.”
“Interesting.” Eastern European gangsters mapped their entire criminal life on their bodies with tattoos. “Any accent?”
“He wasn’t foreign, if that’s what you’re asking. Southern, I think, but I’m not sure which state.”
“Okay.” Jake paused to think. Maybe a foreign operative trained to mimic American accents. Or a mercenary who lived stateside. “You sent your ex and daughter off to stay with a relative, like we discussed?”
“Yes, they went yesterday.”
“And didn’t tell anyone where they were going, right?”
Randall nodded.
“So back to the million dollar question. Any idea who took Madison?”
“I told you-”
“Because now we think it might be someone from one of the former Soviet bloc countries.” Jake watched him closely, but nothing seemed to register. “ Turkmenistan, maybe.”
“ Turkmenistan? But that doesn’t make any
sense.” Randall’s brows furrowed.
“Look, Randall. I don’t know much about your work, but I’m guessing it has something to do with nuclear materials.” When Randall didn’t respond, Jake had to fight the urge to throttle him. “Without getting too specific, you should at least be able to tell me that much. Otherwise how the hell am I supposed to figure out who took Madison?”
A shadow crossed Randall’s features. Reluctantly, he nodded.
“So maybe an extremist group in Turkmenistan is trying to get hold of some for an attack against the United States,” Jake concluded.
“I don’t know,” Randall said slowly. “There’s more loose material over there, and it’s less tightly monitored. Plus most of those groups want to target Russia proper.”
“So a Muslim sect in one of those countries. Maybe one with links to al Qaeda.”
“Possibly.” Randall turned the thought over in his mind. “The thing is, port control here is one of the things we’re doing right. Every single shipping container in and out of the U.S. undergoes a radiation scan. They’d need help from someone working Customs, not me.”
Jake shrugged. “Maybe they’ve got that, too. Sure you can’t tell me exactly what they’re after?”
Randall considered carefully before speaking. “I think you’re on the right track. Not necessarily with the Eastern European connection, but the other thing…yes.”
“All right then, we’re making progress.” Jake clapped him on the shoulder. Randall smiled weakly in response. Jake pressed a little harder with his fingers and locked eyes with him. “And you have no other theories?”
Randall shrugged off his hand. “Nothing. Like I said, it could be anyone. I think they contacted me because I have access to what they need.”
“How many others have the same access?” Randall’s eyes shifted away again. “C’mon, Randall, I spent some time working for the government, I know what is and isn’t a state secret. How many?”
“It’s just so hard to trust anyone anymore,” Randall mumbled. He examined his fingers. “Four people total. It’s a small project.”
“And what do you know about the other three?”
“Why?”
“Because whoever took Madison obviously knows about your access, and if you’re right, only a handful of people in the facility are privy to that information. Going on that assumption, they selected you as the most likely to cave-nothing personal,” he said, raising a hand to stifle Randall’s protest, “but it’s true. So we need to figure out why they targeted you in particular. Do the other guys not have families, or gambling debts, anything that could be used against them?”
Randall scratched at a spot on the couch. “I don’t know. It’s not a very social environment.”
“Well, consider that your assignment. I want everything you can find out about the other guys in your department. Also, get me a list of everyone who has any idea what your work entails. If you’re right, someone at the facility pointed them in your direction. We find that person, the trail could lead back to Madison.”
“All right.”
A hint of hope in his voice, for the first time in days. Jake hoped it wasn’t misplaced. “When will you have what they’re looking for?”
Randall shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Soon. I already have most of what they’ll need.”
“And what are you supposed to do next?”
“Text them this code and wait for a response. I was about to do it when Syd called and said you’d be stopping by.”
“What’s the code?”
“I’m supposed to say everything is great.” Randall’s jaw tightened as he said, “Using the number eight. I suppose that’s their little joke.”
“Joke in what way?”
“In making me send something a teenager might write.”
“It’s smart, actually.” Jake mulled it over, then said, “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Write, Everything is ok. They’ll be forced to respond, and you demand to talk to someone.”
“I’m not so sure-”
“You have to trust me, Randall. Remember, right now they need you. Unless they’re idiots, they’re not going to hurt your daughter until they get the information. And we’re going to use that to buy ourselves some time.”
“How?”
“There’s this ancient Malaysian board game, men versus tigers. The men win if they can surround the tigers and block their movements. Right now, that’s our game plan.”
“Yeah?” Randall eyed him skeptically. “How do the tigers win?”
Jake pulled off his jacket. “Too many questions, Doc. Just pay attention while I go over everything.”
Kelly winced as Emilio sustained another cuff to the head. He sullenly sank deeper into the chair as the middle-aged woman beside him let loose with another tirade. Kelly had no idea what was being said, but the tone was clear enough. Even Rodriguez looked mildly uncomfortable.
When they arrived at the door with Emilio in tow, still trying to jerk out of their grasp like a fish on a line, his grandmother grabbed him by the ear, dragged him to the couch, and launched into an impressive verbal assault. It was rare for someone under five feet tall to be intimidating, but Celia Torres was the exception to the rule. It took a few minutes to get a word in edgewise. When Kelly asked her to come down to the station, Celia’s brow darkened with fury. She cast a menacing look at Emilio, snatched an enormous purse off the counter, and marched out to their bu-car. In the backseat en route to the station, Emilio had opened his mouth twice to speak. Each time he was silenced with a sharp look from Celia. Kelly was concerned that upon arrival they might discover that Celia had summoned a lawyer for her grandson.
But then they got into the interrogation room. Apparently Celia had more than a rudimentary understanding of how to play bad cop, along with a strong flair for theater, neither of which she was afraid to use. Whenever Emilio had the audacity to say something in his defense, she went so completely ballistic they almost had to call in assistance. And the minute Rodriguez mentioned a gang connection, Celia spent ten minutes threatening to do things to Emilio that apparently didn’t bear translating.
After an hour of this, Emilio was a far cry from the posturing punk they’d chased down. His chin quivered, eyes filled with tears. Celia had switched tactics and was mumbling to him in Spanish. Rodriguez occasionally leaned over to translate. “She’s saying he broke her heart,” he mumbled. “Man, she’s good.”
Kelly had to agree, it was an Oscar-worthy performance. Clearly someone watched a few too many telenovelas. But it was having the desired effect on Emilio.
Celia finally sat back and said thickly, “He ready to answer your questions.”
“Great.” Kelly sighed, feeling like she’d been through the wringer herself. “So, Emilio. Where were you yesterday morning?”
“In school.”
“School says you never showed. We called and checked.”
A small growl from Celia. Emilio avoided her eyes. “Yeah, okay. I didn’t go.”
“Where were you?”
“Sí, Emilio. What was so important you miss school, break a promise to your abuelita?” Celia hissed.
“Nothing.” Emilio shrugged. “I just…I didn’t feel like going, yo.”
Kelly held up a hand to stave off Celia’s response. “Here’s the thing, Emilio. There was a raid on an MS-13 house in your neighborhood yesterday. I’m guessing you heard about it?” He shrugged noncommittally. “One of the guns we found was used in a serious crime. And they’re claiming that gun came from you.”
Emilio paled visibly, and Celia sucked in her breath. “Guns! No no no, not my Emilito.” She cuffed him across the head. “See the trouble? This why I tell you, stay away. But no, you want to wear everything blanco and azul.” She shifted her attention back to Kelly. “These boys, the gang? Filthy Salvadorans. I always tell my Emilio to stay away.”
“Well, Emilio didn’t listen. We found his fingerprints inside the house. And on
the weapon.” Rodriguez threw a closed file on the table. It would be hours before forensic results came in, but they didn’t have to know that.
“Where’d you get the gun, Emilio?” Kelly pressed.
“Stole it, bitch,” he spat, recovering some of his bravado. Celia inhaled sharply, brought back her palm and slapped his face.
“Mrs. Torres! You need to control yourself. If you strike Emilio again I’ll have to call in child services,” Kelly said sharply. She really didn’t want to do that, since with a caseworker sitting in they’d get far less compliance.
Celia nodded tersely.
Rodriguez leaned across the table. “Stole it from where?”
Emilio shrugged. Kelly caught a flash behind his eyes. Shame? Embarrassment? She leaned in. “See, Emilio, here’s my problem. I’ve got a group of gang members who are going down anyway saying you brought them a gun. And that gun was used to kill someone.”
“Jesús Cristo.” Celia whispered under her breath, crossing herself. Emilio’s face went a shade paler.
“But I find it hard to believe you would be stupid enough to kill someone, then give that weapon to Guzman knowing it might shift the blame onto him. You understand what I’m saying, Emilio? Because that’s how it would look. I bet that right now, they’re thinking you set them up.”
Emilio blanched completely. Sitting there, hair sticking out in tufts, he looked small and very young. And absolutely, completely terrified.
“You said you stole the gun, rata. Gotta arrest you on that.” Rodriguez leaned across the table, balancing on his knuckles. “And since it was used in a murder, that sends you to intake, not Juvenile Detention. Guess who else is spending the night in intake?”
The Gatekeeper Page 6
