“No one leaves,” Dante said firmly.
“Your dosimeter,” Randall said, pointing at it. The lower circles had filled in, he was one shy of Randall’s reading.
Dante glanced at it and half smiled. “I’m like you, Grant. Never expected to make it out of here alive.” He marched back to the remaining men and said a few words. One of them nodded, the others examined the floor. After a minute, they filed off toward the bathroom. Dante watched them go, then reholstered his weapon. “Nice try, but nothing stalls this mission. Back to work.”
“But-”
“Scrape this powder off the floor and get it back in the case. And I want the other cores finished by tomorrow. Any more accidents, your family pays. Got it?”
“What, no shower for me?” Randall said with forced bravado. In truth he was near tears. His plan had failed, and now he’d be dead within a week. He’d hoped the men would panic and rise up against Dante, enabling him to escape. At least he would’ve been able to save his family and let the FBI know about the plot.
“We both know it’s too late for you. You’re the expert, right?” Dante said snidely. He turned and walked away, calling back, “I mean it, Grant. Anything else goes wrong, we kill your wife and kids.”
Kelly was having serious second thoughts. Rodriguez struggled with the door’s dead bolt, swearing under his breath.
“I used to be able to do this in under a minute,” he said, smiling apologetically.
Kelly raised an eyebrow. “Really? I must’ve missed that training seminar.”
“Misspent youth. Anyway, I’m out of practice.”
“I’m thinking maybe we should try to get a warrant…” Kelly said, glancing around. This area was less deserted than the other warehouse district. Despite the late hour a few trucks were still parked outside other buildings. She hadn’t seen anyone around, but you never knew. An arrest for breaking and entering would definitely hasten her exit from the Bureau, and she wondered if subconsciously she was hoping the decision would be made for her.
The sound of pins clicking, and Rodriguez turned the knob. Kelly unclipped the top of her holster and put her hand over her Glock.
“Stay behind me,” she said in a low voice.
“Not a problem.”
It was pitch-black inside, the only illumination filtered moonlight from windows set far above. Kelly clicked on a flashlight, keeping the beam low to the ground. The layout was similar to the other warehouse, two smaller huts in the rear of the building, a large open area up front. Except this time, the space wasn’t empty.
“What the hell?” Rodriguez whispered. A flatbed trailer held an enormous float decked out in the colors of the American flag, with slogans splashed across an eagle.
Kelly didn’t answer, gesturing for him to stay behind her while they searched the warehouse. She checked the first door-instead of an office it housed a line of portable toilets. The smell rising from them was rank. The doors had been removed, and Kelly held one hand over her nose as she quickly scanned down the line. All empty.
She turned to find Rodriguez looking as puzzled as she felt.
“What do you-”
A sound from the other hut. Kelly motioned for him to be quiet. She crossed the warehouse floor quickly, staying to the left of the door, out of range in case whoever was on the other side was armed. She waited for Rodriguez to join her. He was breathing hard, even in the dim lighting she could see he looked pale. Pushing himself too hard, she thought. He should probably still be in the hospital.
He nodded at her, weapon drawn.
“FBI! Open the door and show me your hands!”
“Jones,” Rodriguez said, motioning at the door with his Glock. Kelly glanced down. A padlock latched the outside. She frowned. Whoever was inside was not there voluntarily.
“Can you get that one open?” she asked.
“Step back,” Rodriguez said. Kelly slipped behind him. He fired a single shot.
“Jesus, Rodriguez!” Kelly hissed. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
He shrugged. “It’s a Master. Tough to break in to. Would’ve taken forever.”
Kelly gritted her teeth and undid the latch. She yanked the door open, stepping back while she scanned down the sight. Eyes stared back at her, the whites bright in the gloom. Kelly took a tentative step forward, then another. Her flashlight beam caused them to squint; some shielded their eyes with their hands. The smell was a hundred times worse than the toilets across the hall, and Kelly fought an involuntary urge to retch.
Rodriguez called out something in Spanish, and a series of voices answered, tripping over each other in their desire to be heard. The mass of people stood. Some pressed toward the door.
“Alto!” Kelly yelled, keeping her weapon up, hoping that was the right word. “Tell them not to move.”
Rodriguez spit out another stream of Spanish, his voice heavy with authority. A few grumbles, but the people stepped back.
“See if you can find the lights,” Kelly said.
Rodriguez vanished. Kelly kept her weapon raised. She didn’t know what she’d do if they rushed her, there were too many to stop and no one appeared to be armed.
Suddenly, the lights clicked on. Kelly blinked with the others: after the dusky half-light, the glare was startling. The room was no more than ten-by-ten feet, but at least twenty people were crammed inside. Most were in their twenties or thirties, but a few appeared to be teenagers. Filthy, as if they had gone months without bathing, a fine layer of grime rendering them nearly indistinguishable.
“Jesus,” Rodriguez said, reappearing at her side.
“Ask them why they’re here,” Kelly said. The room issued a palpable sense of misery, as if long after they left the walls would still be laden with it. She couldn’t even imagine what would be worth subjecting yourself to these conditions.
Rodriguez asked what sounded like a question, and one of the men replied. Rodriguez motioned him closer, and they spoke in low voices for a minute. The man waited, watching with imploring eyes, while Rodriguez came over to explain.
“A coyote brought them here, a white man,” he said. “Guaranteed he’d be able to slip them past La migra and the Minutemen. But once they got here, they were told they’d have to stay. That the coyotes had a plan for them to slip away during a parade. Only then would it be safe. Someone comes by once a day to give them food and take them to the toilets.”
“A parade?” Kelly knit her brow, turning back to the main room. “So they’re waiting to be brought out of here on a float? That doesn’t make any sense.”
Rodriguez shrugged. “Fourth of July is coming up, I’m guessing the float is for that. Maybe their coyote thought it would be easier to have them slip away in a crowd.”
“They could just drop them in a Latino neighborhood in San Antonio,” Kelly said, shaking her head. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Rodriguez frowned. “Plus that doesn’t explain how the good ol’ boys at the other warehouse tie into it. Why would Minutemen be coyotes?”
“It is kind of perfect. They know the border better than anyone else,” Kelly pointed out.
“Yeah, but most of those guys would pay to shoot a Mexican. They’re fanatical about it.”
“You’re right, it’s strange.” Kelly eyed the float. It looked garish in the austere surroundings. Here she was trying to tie up loose ends, and instead she kept adding more threads.
“What do we do with them?” Rodriguez asked. A few of the immigrants had crowded in the doorway and were watching them silently.
Kelly hated what she was about to say, but knew there was no other option. “You have to explain that we’re going to lock them back in until their handlers come. As soon as they hear the doors open, I want them to make as much noise as possible.”
“You want to be able to claim exigent circumstances,” Rodriguez said.
“It’s our only way in, especially if Laredo P.D. is working with them.”
“
What makes you think they’ll come? If they think their operation has been compromised, they might take off.”
“We rattled their cage. I’m guessing someone will come by soon to check on things, maybe even move them to a new location,” Kelly said. “And I’m willing to bet it’ll be our favorite Minutemen brothers.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Rodriguez asked, voice hard.
“Then we call the ICE.” He didn’t respond, eyes focused on the ground. Kelly examined him. “We’re still the law, Rodriguez.”
“Yeah, I know,” he responded after a minute.
Kelly considered reminding him of what he’d said earlier, about the flood of people being a burden the country couldn’t sustain, but she didn’t have the heart. Things that were good in theory changed when you faced a couple dozen hungry, desperate faces. Kelly didn’t like the thought of deporting them any more than he did, but she had no other option. She had to use them to snag the coyotes, so she could finally figure out what the hell was going on.
“I’ll go explain,” Rodriguez said, avoiding eye contact as he turned back toward the room. “But they might take some convincing. I suggest you keep your weapon drawn.”
Dante couldn’t stop scratching his arm. He could swear a rash was forming. He checked his dosimeter for the hundredth time. Still black, all but one circle filled in. He had showered twice, scrubbing so hard his skin was sore. It didn’t help.
Damn that Grant, he thought, lip curling. Bastard had to complicate things by playing the hero. Dante had never been a fan of this phase of the plan, in fact he’d repeatedly said there was too much room for error.
It had been a bad few days. First the loss of the girl, and two of his best men with her. The arrests at the bar, the contamination of the warehouse, then having to waste Thor and the others. Now the rest were too spooked to be reliable. His army had been badly decimated. Dante could get more-the network was large, and one phone call would muster reserves. But he’d handpicked the men who were closest to the operation, and look how that was working out. He decided to stick with who he had, using fear to keep them in line. That was the problem with cons, he thought irritably. They had no sense of honor. Jackson was right, they were only suited to be grunts on the ground.
Dante’s cell phone rang. He squinted at the number, then clicked it open. “Yeah?”
“We got ’em at a house outside Winters, California. What do you want?”
Dante thought for a minute. A vision of Grant’s face crossed his mind, cocky and gloating after the spill. “Take ’em.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. And the girl, the young one? She goes first.” A long pause. “There a problem?” Dante snarled, scratching at his arm again.
“Well, sir…there are four guards. And they look…”
“Yeah?” Dante said impatiently.
“They look like they know their shit, sir. I’m just saying, it’s the two of us.”
Dante rubbed his eyes with his free hand, thought it over. “All right. I know some guys near there.” He glanced at his watch: Jesus, nearly 3:00 a.m. “I’ll let you know when they’re coming. Don’t leave your position. And if they start to move again, call.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t fuck this up,” Dante warned. “And when you kill the girl? Tape it. I got someone here should see that.”
Dante hung up the phone feeling uniquely satisfied. He probably should have run the revised plan past Jackson, but he always hated to be bothered with details. And after the shit Grant pulled today, he needed to face some repercussions. Dante smiled as he imagined showing him that video. He’d see who the smart one was. And if Dante’s boys did him proud, it would be the sort of death no father would ever want to witness.
JULY 2
Twenty-One
Jake blinked a few times, still half-asleep. He frowned. The light fixture above his head dangled precariously from a cord, swinging slightly in the breeze through the window. Outlet covers were scattered across the coffee table. The fan in the kitchen canted at a crazy angle. Syd sat cross-legged on the living room floor, papers spread in an arc around her.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said without looking up.
“Man, I slept hard. What time is it?”
“After nine.”
“Really?” Jake sifted through the mess for his watch. “Dang. Thanks for letting me sleep.” He looked up. “You weren’t at this all night, were you?”
Syd shrugged. “I grabbed a few hours.”
She was intently perusing the papers in her hand, brow furrowed. Jake watched for a minute, repressing a yawn, before asking, “You find anything?”
“Yup.”
“Great.” He swung his legs to the floor and leaned over her, elbows on his knees. “Where’d he hide them?”
She pointed sheepishly to the filing cabinet. “In there.”
“Wow, you spies really are something.”
“Shut up,” she said. Deep circles hooded her eyes. Despite that, whatever darkness had been in her last night appeared to have receded. She was once again cheerful, happy-go-lucky Syd. “I forgot I was dealing with a civilian, gave Randall too much credit.”
Jake thought that was a bit harsh under the circumstances, but decided not to comment. “So what are they?”
“His bank records.” She held them up. “Randall made four large deposits in the past year.”
“How large?”
“Large enough to pay off his lawyer and buy this dump.” She glanced around. “With some left over.”
“Son of a bitch. He was involved.”
“Looks like it.”
“You okay?” He examined her.
“You kidding? I’m mad as hell.” Syd snorted. “Bastard gets his daughter snatched, then calls me for help. I’ve got half a mind to call off my men.”
“Don’t do that,” Jake said, thinking of how small Madison had appeared in the hospital bed.
“I won’t. But don’t think for a minute this is pro bono anymore. I’m transferring these funds to our account ASAP.”
“You can do that?”
“One phone call.” She winked at him. “Don’t worry, Jake. I wouldn’t do it to you.”
“Remind me to switch to an offshore account as soon as I get home.”
“Only slows me down, doesn’t stop me,” Syd teased.
Jake thought about her half of the company’s start-up money, then decided he probably didn’t want to know. “So can you trace back the deposits?”
“I can’t, but I’ll put one of my guys on it. Hopefully he’ll have something by this afternoon.”
“Okay.” Jake yawned and stretched. “I’m going out for coffee.”
“Great. Be quiet when you come in, I’m going to crash in the bedroom.”
Madison pushed the crust of her sandwich around the rim of the plate until she caught her mother’s look and stopped. She sighed and buried her chin in one hand. It was funny, twenty-four hours ago she would have killed for some company. When her mother and sister showed up at the hospital they’d all clung together, crying and talking over each other in an outpouring of emotion. After arriving at the farmhouse last night they all crowded into the same queen bed. In spite of that Madison slept fitfully. The slightest noise sent her bolt upright, her heart in her throat. Her mother stroked her hair and wiped the tears away. And Madison would slowly drift off, only to have it happen again an hour later.
By this morning they’d fallen back into their habitual state of silence. Bree sat by the fireplace reading a book. And her mother had become her shadow. Madison knew it was because she loved her and was afraid of losing her again, but for God’s sake, they were in a two-bedroom farmhouse. It wasn’t like there was anywhere to go. The commando boys, as she’d taken to calling them, wouldn’t even let her look outside. But still her mother hovered as though she might slip through a crack in the floorboards and vanish. It was starting to become seriously annoying. The TV only had three channels,
there was a VCR but the movies were really old and lame. And that was it. What she’d do to have her DS Lite back again.
“How long do we have to stay?” Madison asked again.
Her mother shot her a warning look, but she didn’t care anymore. Nothing about this felt right. They’d had an army of cops at the hospital earlier, why hadn’t they asked to be protected by them? Cops would put them somewhere safe, she’d seen it on TV. For all they knew, these guys could have been in on it from the beginning. This might be part of the whole plan. Madison had pointed that out when they’d first arrived, but her mother had shushed her.
“But what makes you so sure Dad hired them?” she’d asked.
“I just know,” her mother had said, avoiding her eyes.
The commando boys kept glancing at her in a way that made her uncomfortable. If her dad had hired these guys, what was to prevent someone from offering more money to get them to switch sides? Just in case, she’d palmed one of the steak knives from the drawer and tucked it inside her cast. It was uncomfortable, pressed against her bare skin. But it was something. More than she’d had last time, at any rate.
The one who appeared to be in charge, Maltz, returned from the bedroom. He tucked a cell phone in his pocket and avoided their eyes. An hour ago one of them had returned from a trip outside visibly agitated, and since then there had been lots of whispered conversations.
“What’s going on?” Madison asked.
“Nothing, miss,” he said.
But within five minutes they were moving pieces of furniture, blocking the few windows. Maltz marched in with an armful of guns and dropped them in the middle of the living room floor.
“Sweet Jesus,” her mother breathed. They both stared as he went through the pile, performing some kind of check on each.
Madison heard an engine gunning, and watched as they backed the van up to the door. “What the hell is going on?” she asked, hobbling up to Maltz. He’d produced a pair of crutches, but she hated using them.
The Gatekeeper Page 18
