The Gatekeeper

by Michelle Gagnon

  But as dawn broke, she decided to blame Morris’s murder on the MS-13 stash house crew. The Phoenix P.D. would be happy, her boss would be happy, things in the media would settle down. Despite the decision, she still couldn’t sleep. Kelly lay there watching early morning sneak through the worn drapes in her hotel room, wondering what she was turning into. She didn’t know herself anymore.

  She shifted her attention back to Rodriguez. He looked like hell. His face was swollen almost twice its normal size and crisscrossed with ragged black stitches. His nose pointed left, and a gauze bandage stuck out from the shock of hair on his right side. She felt a surge of sympathy. Jerk though he was, she wouldn’t have wished that much abuse on anyone.

  He clicked the phone shut with a snap and said, “Who do you love?”

  It looked like he was trying to grin through the pulp that was now his face. Kelly arched an eyebrow. “I’ve got to be honest, you still don’t top my list.”

  “Well, that’s about to change.”

  “You’ve been working?” Kelly asked, dubious. “On pain meds?”

  “Told them not to give me any,” Rodriguez said. He shifted slightly, then winced. “See?”

  “That seems a little extreme. You were badly injured.”

  “Let’s just say I’m not someone who can take pain meds.” He avoided her eyes.

  “Oh,” Kelly replied, surprised she hadn’t known Rodriguez was a recovering addict. That information should have been in his file.

  “Anyway-” he cleared his throat “-I heard the assholes from the bar weren’t talking. So I spent the morning tracking down the owner.”

  “That was smart,” Kelly admitted grudgingly. “Who is it?”

  Rodriguez held up a finger. “That’s where things get interesting. That dive bar has a paper trail a mile long. Dead-ends at a shell company.”

  “Really?”

  “I got a friend at the IRS to do some legwork for me. If you sort through all the subsidiaries and parent companies, there’s one corporation at the top. Hard to find since it was registered offshore, but what can I say, my friend owed me a favor. And we got lucky.”

  “So who owns it?”

  He plowed on. “The Acme Lounge was initially bought by a group called Lion’s Share. Shell company, there’s nothing else there.” Clearly Rodriguez had done a lot of work on this, and wanted to present every detail so that fact was not lost on her. Kelly repressed the urge to sigh. “Lion’s Share is owned by Diamond Tooth, which is a division of Fiddle and Flute…”

  “Fiddle and Flute?”

  Rodriguez held up a hand. “Wait, it gets better. Anyway, five or six other dummy corps, then I got to the pièce de résistance.” He held up the notepad.

  Kelly leaned in to read it, then shook her head. “Omega? Never heard of it.”

  “Really?” He looked startled. “Not a fan of the business section, huh?”

  “Why would I read the business section?” Kelly furrowed her brow.

  “Because you can’t retire on what the Bureau pays you, that’s for sure. Gotta invest on your own.” Rodriguez shook his head, then winced again. “Damn, I can’t blink without hurting. Omega is one of the largest corporations in Arizona. They own a big chunk of the Southwest, everything from communications to mining. And guess who the CEO is?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Jackson Burke. One of Duke Morris’s closest friends and a major contributor to every campaign run by an immigration reform candidate. He personally footed the bill for that proposition in Texas that would have mandated immediate deportation for anyone without a green card.”

  Kelly vaguely remembered something about that, but to be honest she didn’t follow the news closely unless it related directly to her cases. “So you’re suggesting that Burke had Morris killed, and pinned the blame on a Salvadoran street gang?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “But why? Especially if they were friends? It sounds crazy.”

  Rodriguez shrugged. “Maybe he is crazy. Or maybe when that proposition failed, he decided to try a different approach. Flame public sentiment against illegals, try to force a bill through that way. I hear the Senate resuscitated that immigration reform measure today.”

  “Still. It’s hard to see the head of a major corporation ordering executions.”

  Rodriguez snorted. “You kidding? Those guys are ruthless. The Iraq War was all about Blackwater and the oil companies. They got the government to do their dirty work for them.”

  Kelly didn’t answer. She was never one for conspiracy theories, and there were a lot of holes in what Rodriguez was postulating. But it might warrant more investigation.

  “I almost forgot to mention.” He tapped his pen down the names on the list. “Featherwoods, The Sackett Corporation…a lot of these terms are associated with white supremacists.”

  “Seriously?” Kelly frowned. “Why be so obvious?”

  “Probably a little inside joke, an offshore bank wouldn’t examine the documents closely. And like I said, these companies don’t actually do anything, they only exist to shift money around.”

  Kelly crossed her arms, thinking. After a minute she said, “So can we get a line on what else those companies are involved with? Buildings they own, that sort of thing.”

  Rodriguez cocked his head to the side. “Good idea. Maybe we find something else that proves they’re dirty.”

  “Exactly. Because this is all good work, Rodriguez.” He appeared to flush at her praise, but it was hard to tell with the bruises. “But for us to accuse a CEO of murdering a senator, we’re going to need a hell of a lot more.”

  “Yeah, I got you.” Rodriguez glanced back at his pad. “So I’ll call my friend back, see if she can find everything filed under these companies.”

  “Perfect. I’m going to take another crack at your buddies from the bar.”

  “Give them my best.” He smiled tightly. “And by that I mean if you get a chance, kick the shit out of them.”

  “That’s not really my thing, Rodriguez.” Kelly smiled wryly and stood, awkwardly patting his leg. “Get some rest. You look terrible.”

  “Gee, thanks.” He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. “Maybe I will take a nap.”

  She was almost at the door when he called out, “Hey, Jones?”

  “Yes?”

  “Finally feels like I have a partner.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he was already snoring.

  Randall lay on his side, hands tied behind his back, ankles knotted together. He had no idea where he was. They’d placed a sack over his head that smelled terrible, like it used to hold dead animals. Initially he’d gagged and almost vomited, but caught himself. These guys probably wouldn’t keep him from drowning in his own puke. They’d knocked him out with an injection, and when he came to, the distinctive white noise of a plane surrounded him. Now he jostled from side to side. Had to be in a car, or maybe a truck, since the floor felt rough beneath him.

  Still, he was alive, that was saying something. Randall wondered what the hell they wanted. He’d already given them everything they’d asked for, and obviously couldn’t provide information from outside the facility.

  And Madison -what had they done with her? Probably already dead, he thought with a sinking in his gut. He’d failed her. He should have gone to the FBI as soon as she was taken, told them the truth and suffered the consequences. Now he’d condemned them both.

  He started crying, sobs muffled by the sack. The sound of a truck panel sliding up stopped him. Light seeped through the coarse material, and he squinted.

  Someone barked a command and Randall was dragged to his feet. They lowered him roughly to the ground and he landed hard on one knee. He yelped as someone yanked him up by the elbow. The sack was ripped away.

  “Hope you had a nice ride.” It was the guy with the shaved head who had initially recruited him, wearing that same smug grin.

  “What the
hell is going on?” Randall demanded, voice quavering. He was in an enormous warehouse the size of an airplane hangar. A few feet away he saw a makeshift laboratory, complete with a glove box and remote control panel. A dozen yards farther, three large flatbeds lined up as if in formation. A group of men encircled him, all huge, bald and menacing.

  “Got another job for you, Grant.”

  “Fuck you.” Randall said. Despite his fury, it came out sounding weak. “I’m done helping you.”

  The man’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “We still have your daughter.”

  “You’ve probably already killed her.”

  “Why would we do that when we still need her?” The man cocked his head to the side. He had an unnerving smile, as if he was wondering how Randall would taste.

  “So show me some proof.” A glimmer of something behind the man’s eyes. Randall stood taller. “I said, you want my help, prove that my daughter is still alive.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. One of the other thugs lurched forward, but stopped when the first raised his hand. “Sure, why not. Meanwhile, you can get acquainted with our little project.”

  “Food first. I haven’t eaten since you grabbed me. And I’ve got to take a piss,” Randall said, emboldened by their concession.

  The man examined him for another moment, as if amused by the show of bravado. After a minute he said, “Hulk, take him to the head.”

  A blond guy with a ridiculous handlebar moustache shoved Randall forward. His eyes locked on something clipped to Hulk’s belt: a dosimeter, used to measure radiation levels. The first circle was tinted, showing a measurement of 5 rads-still in the normal range. As Randall was marched toward a small door, he swept his gaze across the trucks, realization suddenly dawning. Dear God, they wanted him to help build a dirty bomb. And he was the one who had provided the radioactive materials. If handled correctly, there was enough iridium to render a major city uninhabitable for years. Hell, more than years-decades.

  Randall’s jaw tightened. Whatever happened to him and Madison, here he drew the line. And if he was going to die anyway, he planned on taking these assholes with him.

  Seventeen

  Jake strapped on his vest, checking out the rest of the team under lowered eyelids. Four men who all had that Delta Force look, close-cropped hair and cold eyes. Probably former Special Ops soldiers who survived the fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq, finished their tours and decided they were done with the military. That’s what his brother tried to do, after more than twenty years of active service. What they didn’t realize was that life and the experiences that came with it weren’t things you could just walk away from. Most of them ended up returning less than a year later, either reenlisting or working for a private sector company like Blackwater that offered a real paycheck. Or, apparently, with The Longhorn Group.

  “Any of you done hostage rescue before?”

  They all raised their gaze in unison. He practically expected them to bark, “Sir, yes, sir!”

  The one closest to Jake, a kid who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five but looked like he ate nails for breakfast, said, “My unit was in Afghanistan for two tours, sir. We did more than ten snatch and grabs.”

  “Yeah? I thought only one hostage total had been rescued in Afghanistan.”

  They exchanged glances. “One that you heard of,” someone muttered.

  Jake ignored the jab. “So how many of those were considered successful missions?”

  “They were all successful, sir. That doesn’t mean everyone survived.”

  One of the other guys grunted a laugh. They went back to checking their gear.

  Jake made sure his HK USP.45’s clip was full and that he had two backups. He wasn’t crazy about this plan. Without doing any recon they were going in blind. There could be two guys holding Madison, or twenty. They might be dealing with a couple of hack ex-cons or well-trained mercenaries. And they didn’t even have time to get the lay of the land.

  Twenty minutes earlier Syd had left to requisition a boat. Jake heard a dull roar in the distance and saw her at the helm of a Zodiac, skirting the waves. She’d originally wanted to approach as a dive team to maintain silence and the element of surprise, but Jake wasn’t keen on the idea. It was going to be hard enough getting on the boats without having to deal with thirty pounds of dive equipment as well as the rest of the stuff they needed. When she announced the change of plans, he’d gotten a few glances from the Delta guys. He shrugged it off. Didn’t matter what they thought of him. The important thing now was to get Madison out alive. If they hadn’t killed her already.

  They were on the outskirts of Benicia, about forty miles northeast of San Francisco. Jake gazed across the water. Suisun Bay was a ship graveyard, where decommissioned naval vessels were stored until someone decided what the hell to do with them. Dubbed “The Mothball Fleet,” everything from Liberty ships to destroyers were tied side by side in daisy chains. Proud warriors of decades’ worth of wars, they were now rusted and fading, all but forgotten. Apparently someone had remembered them. It was the perfect place to stash a hostage. Barely monitored and protected from prying eyes thanks to their distance from shore. And once aboard, you were in the ultimate defensible position. It wasn’t a location someone like Mack Krex would have come up with on his own, that was for sure. Jake wondered again who the hell they were dealing with.

  Syd waved them over. One of the Delta guys grabbed the bowline, holding it while the rest of the team passed their gear into the boat. Syd kept the engine running. As they climbed in, the boat rocked and sank almost to the gunwales. Syd was dressed the same way they were: gray camo, armor, weapons at both hips and an ankle holster. Her blond hair was tied back, cheeks flushed with excitement. “Let’s go,” she said.

  They were approaching from the far side of the bay, to lessen the chances of being spotted. They’d debated going in street clothes, hiding the weapons until they were on board, but decided against it. Not many people would believe this group was out for a pleasure cruise.

  Jake clutched a rope strung along the port side and watched the ships grow larger. It was hard to ignore his growing apprehension. He chalked some of it up to the usual nerves before an operation, but partly it was also the sense that this had spun out of his control. Syd was clearly holding the reins now. Even though this had been her case to begin with, her personal connection, he wasn’t sure he liked that. She seemed to be enjoying herself a little too much, especially considering what was at stake.

  There were eighty-four vessels total, strung together in clusters ranging from nine to eighteen. And Madison could be on any of them. If the GPS signal was still active they could have pinpointed her location, but even from this proximity Syd wasn’t getting a read. It could take them all day to search, risking discovery by the Maritime Administration guards who periodically patrolled. All in all, Jake figured they had a hundred to one chance of everything turning out okay. Not the kind of odds he’d bet a life on.

  They neared the first string of boats. Everyone stiffened, straightening slightly in their seats. They were about a nautical mile offshore. The water was flat and gray around them, matching the hulls. The sheer size of the boats was awesome. They rose out of the bay like giant monoliths, cold and impersonal.

  “How the hell do we get on board?” Jake asked.

  “I’m going to anchor at the far side, we’ll throw a line up and climb,” Syd responded. The rest of the team nodded as if this was something they did twice every day. Jake groaned internally and wished he’d spent more time in the gym. He wasn’t exactly in rope-scaling shape.

  Syd eased the Zodiac around the port side of the last boat in the chain, the farthest point from shore. She was careful to stay in the shadows. Jake had to hand it to her, she was good. Impetuous but careful, an odd combination. As they rounded the stern, Jake caught a movement. He squinted against the reflection off the water, raising a hand to his eyes.

  “Holy shit,” he said.

  Syd fo
llowed his gaze. In the next line of boats a hundred yards away, they saw a small figure racing across the deck of a destroyer. A larger, lumbering man was in pursuit. Syd raised a set of binoculars to her eyes.

  “That’s her!” she said, throttling the motor. “Looks like it’s game on, boys!”

  Madison felt like her chest was about to explode. When she jumped off the ship, she hit the wooden block separating the boats hard, almost falling into the water below. She edged along it, then stood and gathered herself, vaulting a four-foot gap to reach the deck of the next boat. She landed funny, twisting her ankle. She rolled and clutched it, gasping in pain. Lurch’s head popped into view less than ten feet away. His initial expression of shock quickly transformed to rage, and he clambered over the railing, prepared to make the same jump. Madison scrambled to her feet and ran.

  She’d had to repeat the maneuver twice already, bracing herself before jumping, praying she wouldn’t miss and drop into the chasm between the boats, hitting the icy water stories below. She didn’t look down, focusing instead on where she needed to land. Her ankle throbbed with each step but she ignored the pain. She didn’t let herself think about what she’d do when she reached the final boat. The shoreline still looked impossibly far away, and she’d never been a strong swimmer. But she wasn’t going to give up now.

  Madison heard a loud thud and swiveled, hopping awkwardly on her good foot to take some of the weight. Lurch had nearly missed the last jump. He was hanging from the wooden block by both hands, fingers flexed as he struggled for a purchase. He looked at her, eyes wild. “ Madison! Help!”

  She took a step toward him, then caught herself. What was she, insane? If she helped save him, he’d kill her. Already she could see him straining, trying to haul one leg up and over. She turned away. Another dozen feet to the next jump. She took a deep breath and started running again.