The Gatekeeper

by Michelle Gagnon

  “Neither do I. But if we all end up dead it won’t much matter.” Jake sensed she was wavering, and pressed the advantage. “Let me call a few people I trust. They can provide backup if this thing goes south.”

  “Fine, make the call.” Syd stood and grabbed her backpack. “Let’s get on the road, I told Maltz we’d be there in an hour. And don’t forget the food.”

  Randall heaved again. The convulsions were so violent it felt as if his insides were being ripped apart.

  Afterward he sat back, wiping his mouth and gasping. The rational part of his brain knew this was largely psychosomatic. The gamma radiation dose he’d received would induce nausea three to six hours after exposure, but it wouldn’t make him this ill. But the stress of the situation combined with the knowledge that he had, at most, weeks left to live was affecting him.

  A knock at the bathroom door. “Stop stalling, Grant,” Dante growled.

  Randall climbed shakily to his feet. He hauled himself over to the sink, splashed some water on his face, and rinsed out his mouth. The mirror above it was badly cracked, rending his face into a thousand fragments. Which pretty much matched how he felt.

  Randall wiped his face with a rough paper towel and trudged back outside. Dante had been unable to find another volunteer for sentry duty so he was working alone. He’d been warned that if he tried to escape or dragged his heels, he’d be shot and his family would be raped and killed. Not that he needed the warning after the show of strength earlier.

  As Randall worked, his thoughts focused on what he could expect in the coming days and weeks, the gradual deterioration of his body in the face of acute radiation poisoning. Vomiting was the first sign, followed by radiation burns to exposed skin. After that, a latent phase of five to ten days before he started shedding hair. The massive loss of white blood cells would weaken his immune system, inducing fatigue and leaving him susceptible to infection. If he survived that, the real fun began: uncontrollable bleeding in the mouth, under his skin and in his kidneys; sterility; internal hemorrhaging; complete destruction of bone marrow; gastric and intestinal tissue damage. Near one hundred percent fatality rate within fourteen days. Although chances were he’d take a bullet through the temple before much of that came to pass.

  Randall pulled his suit back on, knowing full well that he was kidding himself. He might as well strip down and wrap himself in cellophane for the good it would do. It was warm inside the warehouse even without the heat coming off the source, and sweat poured down his back, adding to the flu-ish symptoms. Randall pictured Audrey and Bree at her mother’s house, sitting on the couch watching television, completely unaware of the threat outside their door. His darling Madison was probably already dead. He’d fucked everything up, and for what? A little money. He’d traded the lives of himself, his family and countless others for a grand total of $160,000. Pathetic.

  His limbs felt heavy as he worked the robotic arms, trying to see through the tears behind his mask.

  Twenty-Three

  Jake clenched his jaw as Syd wove through traffic. They’d turned off the main highway onto a smaller two-lane road. Apparently Syd regarded the double-line separating them from oncoming cars as more of a friendly guideline than a mandate. Jake instinctively braced himself against the dashboard as she swerved blindly around a truck, skidding into the breakdown lane as a sedan bore down on them. Seemingly unperturbed, she jetted back across both lanes, ignoring the protesting bleats of multiple horns.

  “Be nice to get there in one piece,” Jake said tightly.

  “CIA driver training. Best in the world,” Syd replied, shooting him a look.

  “I’m willing to bet your insurance company doesn’t agree,” Jake said.

  “Relax. We’re almost there.” Syd glanced at the GPS then hit the gas, taking a curve at seventy miles per hour.

  Ten minutes later they were a mile from the farmhouse. Syd slowed. An acrid smell seeped through the car vents.

  “Maybe someone’s burning trash,” Jake said. Syd didn’t respond, steering onto an unpaved access road. The car bounced over sinkholes, tires kicking up gravel behind them. The smell of smoke was unmistakable now. Light glinted off a large object up ahead. When they got closer, Jake recognized it: the team’s white van. The front was crushed, bumper wrapped around a fence post, windshield shattered. A thin trail of smoke wound out the window, curling and rotating as it ascended.

  Syd stopped the car fifty feet away. Jake drew his gun and got out, staying low as he jogged forward. Syd darted ahead of him. They slowed as they approached. The stench here was terrible, sharp and tangy, burnt upholstery mixed with something else.

  Jake checked the interior, popping his head up quickly: empty. He sidled around to the driver’s side and yanked the door handle, letting it swing wide while he stayed out of range. He counted to three, then ducked his head inside. Someone had torched the interior. Broken glass on the passenger side, and the seat was smoldering. Jake winced at the smell.

  “They used a Molotov cocktail to force them out of the van,” Syd said. She walked further down the road, panning her eyes across the ground. “Skid marks and bullet casings. Looks like we missed the party.”

  “So you think they got them?”

  “One of them at least,” Syd replied. She was about fifteen feet away, standing beside a pile of brush. Jake trotted over to join her. One of the team members lay on top of a patch of rotting leaves. Half of his face was scorched, the rest of him unrecognizable. An assault rifle was still clenched in his hands.

  “Burned alive,” Jake said. “Jesus.”

  “He took a couple with him,” Syd said softly. “Good man.”

  Jake followed her gaze. Ten yards down the road two bodies lay facedown, sprawled where they had fallen. He approached carefully, keeping an eye on their hands. When he got closer he saw the sticky pools of muddy blood surrounding them, their leather jackets riddled with bullet wounds. Just past them, two motorcycles lay on their sides at angles to each other.

  “So where’s the rest of the team?” he asked, glancing around. The surrounding countryside was eerily still. The sting of something burning still irritated his nostrils.

  “Let’s get to the house,” Syd said briskly, turning to walk back toward the car. Halfway there she froze. “Hear that?”

  Jake listened hard. “Thunder?”

  Syd had already bolted for the car, barely waiting for Jake to dive into the passenger seat before gunning the engine.

  “We can’t rush in there without a plan,” Jake said as she tore down the road.

  “We don’t have time for one. We’re probably already too late.”

  Jake opened his mouth to argue, then froze as they rounded a bend. At a break in the barbed wire fence lining the access road, a narrow driveway led through a grove of trees. The driveway dead-ended at a building awash in a flame, consumed by a pulsing heat that produced the roaring noise they’d heard.

  “Oh my God,” Jake said. “Please don’t let them be in there.”

  Around noon the tension in the house ticked up. The commando-boys were antsy, they kept rechecking things they’d examined a minute before. One of them paced until his buddy glared at him, raising an eyebrow in their direction. Then he sat down, knees jiggling. Madison wanted to scream. They were sitting here waiting to get attacked.

  “Why don’t we just leave?” Madison asked again. Her mother shot her a look. She ignored it. “This is nuts. If you only saw two of them, we could get in the van and drive away.”

  “They’ll follow us. We’re in a defensible position here,” Maltz said. “On the road we’re vulnerable.”

  “So we drive to the police station, tell them what’s going on. They’re probably looking for us now anyway, right?” Madison looked at each of them in turn. “They’ll keep us safe.”

  “We’re not sure we can trust them,” Maltz explained after a long pause.

  “The police? Are you insane? Mom, tell them.” Madison crossed her arms in f
ront of her chest and turned to her mother.

  “Honey, these men seem to know what they’re doing,” Audrey said, though she sounded uncertain as she eyed the guy cleaning his gun for the umpteenth time. “I think we should trust them.”

  Madison snorted, grabbed her crutches and clomped into the bedroom. Bree was sitting on the bed, balancing a notebook on her knees as she scribbled. She looked at Madison but didn’t say anything.

  “What?” Madison said. “This is not my fault.”

  “I never said it was.” Bree seemed preternaturally calm. “It’s got something to do with Dad.”

  “I know,” Madison huffed. She dropped onto the other bed and let her crutches clatter to the floor. “Why is Mom trusting these guys?”

  Bree turned her attention back to whatever she was writing. She’d kept a diary for years, always hidden as if it held state secrets or something. But once they moved into the apartment and had to share a room, it was easy for Madison to find. The contents were disappointing, though-lots of stuff about boys and what Bree and her friends did every day. “These guys saved you, right? They have some experience with this stuff. We don’t,” Bree said with finality.

  But Madison was tired of everyone acting like they knew better than her. She was the one who had been kidnapped and held for days. She knew what they were capable of. At the memory her hand automatically reached for her chest, and she swallowed hard to keep from crying. She kept her voice low, leaning forward as she said, “Yeah, but if they’re only in it for the money, maybe the people who took me will offer them more. Dad’s not rich. What’s to stop them from handing us over?”

  “It’s not like that.” Bree shook her head impatiently, as if Madison had said something ridiculous. Her short hair bobbed before settling back into place. “The woman in charge, the one from the hospital? She has a personal interest.”

  She said the word personal like it was something dirty. Madison ’s eyes narrowed. “Why would she have a personal interest in us?”

  “Because she’s dating Dad,” Bree said without meeting her eyes.

  Madison felt as though she’d been punched. Sure, her parents were divorced, but the thought of her dad with another woman was still awful to contemplate. She tried to remember her, could only recall a pretty but tough-looking blonde. She wished she’d paid more attention.

  There was a noise in the distance, a rumbling like thunder. Bree sat up straight, eyes wide. Madison froze, pulse pounding in her throat.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  The door to the room flew open. Maltz was wearing a bulletproof vest and had a rifle slung across his back. “It’s time,” he said.

  “Time for what?” Bree sounded scared. Madison started to hyperventilate, picturing herself back in that room, the man coming for her…

  “Put these on.” He tossed a couple vests into the room. Bree bent to pick them up and handed one to Madison. It was heavy, and Madison struggled to pull it over her head. She fastened the Velcro as tightly as it would go, but it was too big for her and stuck out on either side like wings. Bree’s was similarly large and hung past her waist. We look like kids playing dress-up, Madison thought. Maltz examined them critically. “They’ll do. C’mon, we gotta be ready.”

  Ready for what? Madison wanted to ask, but she was too frightened to speak.

  Bree handed Madison the crutches and followed her into the main room, keeping one hand on her elbow. Their mother was sitting there, also looking ridiculous in a vest. Her eyes were wide, and seeing how frightened she was made it so much worse. The roaring had grown louder, it sounded like a swarm had surrounded the house. Motorcycles, Madison thought. They were in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, and it sounded like a hundred motorcycles were circling them.

  One of the men peered through a narrow crack in the boards nailed over the windows. “I’m counting at least eight.”

  Maltz swore under his breath. “Assessment?” he barked.

  “Looks like a gang. I see a few shotguns, some handguns. No carbines or semiautos. Firepower, but nothing too heavy.”

  “Okay. With any luck, we’re dealing with amateurs.” Maltz turned to them. “Here’s the deal. Dangel is going to drive the van away, drawing them off. We’re going to head out the back and go cross-country. There’s a river at the property line, then another few miles to the next house. If they tail us, we’ll engage, but I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”

  “That’s it? That’s your plan?” Madison asked, incredulous. “How the hell am I supposed to run through the woods? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in a cast.”

  “I’ll be carrying you, miss,” Maltz said.

  “Oh my God.” Madison turned to her mother. “Mom, don’t tell me you’re agreeing to this?”

  Her mother continued staring at the floor.

  “Any questions?” Maltz asked.

  Bree stepped forward, voice strong as she said, “We’re ready.”

  A minute later, something thumped against the far wall, glass shattering. Smoke drifted into the room. Her mother screamed. Maltz froze for a second, then nodded at Dangel, who jumped into the back of the van and climbed through to the front seat. A second later he revved the engine. As the van tore away from the house, Maltz slammed the front door.

  “Everyone to the back,” he ordered.

  Madison clomped through the kitchen to the back door. Her mother and sister were already huddled there, eyes wide with fear. The other two men stood on either side of them. Their jaws were tight, and they avoided her eyes. Maltz appeared a second later. They all waited. Another thump, near the bedrooms. A wisp of smoke curled into the room, dancing up toward the ceiling.

  “We’re going to be burned alive,” her mother said, voice strangely calm.

  “Not if I can help it, ma’am.” Maltz seemed to be waiting for something. One more smack against the wall by the kitchen, then the sound of motors retreating into the distance.

  “They’re leaving,” Bree said.

  Maltz motioned for them to step aside. He opened the rear door a crack and thrust his head out quickly, scanning from side to side. Seemingly satisfied, he slipped outside.

  “What do we do?” Bree asked. One of the men frowned and motioned for her to be silent. A second later, the door swung wide and Maltz reappeared.

  “It’s time. Go, go, go!” he said.

  One of the commandos raced out. Bree and her mother followed on his heels, Audrey tripping on the threshold. The other commando caught her and helped her to her feet. Madison was suddenly airborne.

  “Hey!”

  Her crutches fell to the ground with a clatter. Maltz had thrown her over his shoulder. He dashed off into the woods. Madison gritted her teeth, bumping against his back as he ran. She lifted her head. Flames were licking at the farmhouse, a line of them along the base. They climbed steadily as if alive, racing up toward the roof. She heard more glass shattering, then they dipped into a gulch and the house vanished from view.

  Twenty-Four

  “They’re not talking,” Agent Taylor said, handing her a cup of coffee.

  Kelly smiled at him. “I figured.”

  “Getting a lot of that these days,” Rodriguez commented. They were sitting on the warehouse’s loading dock. Behind them, the building throbbed with activity. Agents from the San Antonio field office were interviewing the illegals. Jethro and Jim were waiting for transport to a federal detention facility. Despite repeated attempts at questioning, they continued to issue the same response.

  “Yeah? I’ve never seen anything like it.” Taylor shook his head. “Who else?”

  “Bunch of skinheads in Arizona.”

  “ Arizona? That connected to the Morris killing?” Taylor ’s eyebrows knit together. He was in his early forties, dark hair gelled back and a suit that had seen better days.

  “We think so, but we’re not sure,” Kelly said.

  “What’s with the float?” Taylor jerked his head toward it.

&nbs
p; “The Mexicans said they were supposed to ride in the parade next week, then slip off into the crowd.”

  Taylor shook his head. “This pair has Minutemen written all over them. Can’t figure out why they’d be running illegals.”

  “We can’t, either,” Kelly said. “Have you had any trouble with them before?”

  Taylor shrugged. “ICE will be here soon, they’ll have more information. There have been scattered reports here and there, bodies found in the desert, rumors that some of these guys have gone vigilante. But nothing solid.”

  “Nothing you’ve pursued, you mean,” Rodriguez said.

  Taylor narrowed his eyes. “Like I said, that falls to the folks at ICE. But you know how it is down here. Locals are complaining that the fence isn’t enough to stop them. But it’s harder to make it across now, so more illegals try the desert. The number of them who die out there has skyrocketed. They found ten young girls this week, they’d been dead a few days so there wasn’t much left. And there’s less and less money to do anything about it. I got a pal works the border, he’s supposed to cover three hundred miles a night on his rounds. He stopped driving an ATV after nearly losing his head running into a trip wire the coyotes strung up. Then, if he catches anyone, he’s supposed to stop them himself. Half the time they scatter or throw rocks at him. Maybe he gets one or two.”

  “And I thought we had a shit job,” Rodriguez said.

  Taylor nodded. “No kidding, they should get combat pay. And God help them if they stumble across drug runners, some of those gangs carry UZIs. So folks around here turn a blind eye to people doing something about it. The Minutemen refer to themselves as true patriots, claim they’re keeping America safe for Americans.” He jerked his head in the direction of the office. “My guess is these boys fall in that category.”