The Gatekeeper

by Michelle Gagnon

  “They never really thought it could happen here. Not like this,” Syd said quietly. “They never understand what people are capable of.”

  Jake, George and Rodriguez sat transfixed by the TV monitor: aerial views of Phoenix from choppers; an enormous cloud shrouding the southern part of the city; interviews with people who had stumbled out of the haze. Survivors were dazed, clearly in shock, all dusted with a fine layer of silt, lending them an oddly uniform appearance. Reporters shouted questions at them as they were bundled in survival blankets and trundled into waiting ambulances. Emergency workers in the background wore grim expressions. Cops held out their arms, shepherding the reporters back. An excited babble of contradictory information. Depending on which channel you tuned to it was a terrorist act by al Qaeda, a gas tanker explosion, a chemical plant accident. Shots of the northern part of the city, a sheer wall of cars with personal items strapped to roofs and spilling out windows as people grabbed what they could and fled. Cell phone networks were overwhelmed by calls and servers were failing. The governor urged everyone to stay calm, claiming they had the situation under control. No one believed him.

  “Jesus,” George commented. “If it’s already like this, imagine what’ll happen when someone mentions radiation.”

  “They’re probably waiting for the National Guard to arrive before announcing that,” Rodriguez said.

  Jake didn’t say anything. He flipped from channel to channel, pausing whenever the camera zoomed in on one of the survivors. Rodriguez and George exchanged a glance.

  “Riley, I’m sure Syd’s fine,” George said, not sounding sure at all.

  “She was in the immediate kill radius,” Jake said flatly. Which meant her chances for surviving the blast were slim to none. It was almost inconceivable that Syd, who seemed impervious to danger, could be taken out by anything. Even a dirty bomb.

  “We don’t know that. They were driving away when it happened,” Rodriguez said weakly.

  “We should go there. See if we can help,” Jake said.

  George shook his head. “No way. Airports are closed, they’re not letting anyone in or out. Not even us.”

  “I can’t just sit here,” Jake said, running a hand through his hair. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so impotent. Syd was in Phoenix, dead or dying. He hadn’t heard from Kelly. The airport was only a few miles from ground zero, she might have been on the ground when it detonated. And he was sitting on his ass in a goddamn trailer in Houston.

  “Nothing we can do, bro,” George said sympathetically.

  The door opened, and they all swiveled toward it. An agent from the Houston field office stood there. “Where’s ASAC Leonard?” he asked.

  “Not here,” George said. “Why?”

  “Dallas found something, they’re asking for backup.”

  “Great. Tell them we’re on our way,” George said authoritatively, grabbing his windbreaker off the back of his chair.

  “I thought Leonard had to clear…”

  “It’s fine. Get us transportation there, we’ll take along anyone you can spare.”

  “I guess.” The agent looked dubious. “But maybe I should run this past my ASAC.”

  “Go ahead. I’m willing to bet right now he’d say the more the merrier.” George raised an eyebrow. “All on the same team, right?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “So let’s get to Dallas.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Dante examined the float. Even he could see it was over the top. But then beaners weren’t known for their good taste, so it was probably perfect. A papier-mâché version of the White House covered the barrel that held the bomb. It was surrounded by a desert panorama and photos of famous spics. He shook his head. It was almost too good. Rage welled up in him at the sight of all those brown faces. A few of his guys were going over everything one last time, checking the detonator, making sure the barrel was completely concealed. Tomorrow they’d stock the float with illegals, drive to the parade staging area, and wave bye-bye. Dante glanced at his watch, feeling a tremor of nervous anticipation. In a little more than twelve hours, America would be stepping back onto the right path. There was a cot in the office and he considered trying for a few hours of sleep, but he was too keyed up.

  Dante could picture the Feds reviewing video camera footage from the parade route, the shot of the float going by, the bright flash…they’d make the connection, all right. And when they found out the truck was rented in Mexico and driven across the Texas border a week ago, that would clinch it. It was genius. Jackson would make a big speech connecting Morris’s murder to this new attack on America, and the government would finally do something about all the spics.

  Growing up, Dante’s favorite movie had been Red Dawn, about a Russian invasion of the United States. The truth was, America was already under attack. It was being invaded every day, slowly but surely, by people determined to steal everything. Pregnant women crossed the border when their brats were about to drop, just so they could be born Americans. Then they registered for welfare and food stamps. And now they were getting their own people into positions of power. It was like an ant problem, Jackson said: Give them a few morsels of food and the next thing you know they’re walking away with your refrigerator. We put up fences, they dig tunnels. We ship them back, they show up in even greater numbers.

  Dante had seen it often enough in prison, the spic gangs getting bolder every year. Back home they’d been expanding their turf; never content with a few square blocks, they tried to drive everyone else out of business. Well, he and Jackson were finally going to put a stop to it. Take America back for Americans.

  He watched one of his guys adjust the fence in front of the White House and smiled. Tomorrow was going to be the greatest day of his life.

  Kelly scanned the airplane hangar. Her thermal imaging binoculars showed fuzzy forms clustered in a few different areas. Some in the center of the room, probably working on the float, then a larger group in the rear corner. Based on the Laredo discovery, she was willing to bet those were more illegal immigrants being offered up as sacrificial lambs.

  She lowered the binoculars. One of Leonard’s roving radiation detectors went ballistic in this area, and they’d reconnoitered to make sure it was the right place. Sure enough, a group of skinheads was inside working on a float.

  A dozen feet away Leonard was deep in conversation with the commander of an elite Hostage Rescue Team that had been brought in specifically for this infiltration. There were three FBI units surrounding the hangar. Unfortunately the building was located in San Diego proper, not far from the airport. Quick damage estimates brought the potential loss of life into the thousands if the bomb was detonated here. They had to do everything in their power to make sure that didn’t happen.

  The HRT commander hustled off and Leonard walked back to her.

  “What do they think?” Kelly asked.

  “Tough but not impossible,” Leonard said. “Looks like at least fifteen people inside.”

  “Some of those are probably illegals.”

  “I know that,” he said, sounding irritated. “But we don’t know how many. And we can’t chance that bomb going off. They might even be wired to detonate it.”

  The thought made Kelly sick. “So what’s the plan?”

  “They’re going to storm in, full shock and awe.”

  “What does that mean?” Kelly asked.

  He turned away. “It means there probably won’t be any survivors.”

  “Oh my God.” Kelly’s hand went to her mouth.

  “Fifteen lives versus thousands, Agent Jones. It’s not a risk anyone is willing to take.”

  Kelly started to argue, but stopped herself. He was right. They couldn’t afford to have this turn into another Phoenix. But she had to wonder: If the innocent people inside were American citizens, would it have made a difference? “When?”

  “About an hour.” Leonard glanced at his watch. “It’s 9:00 p.m. now. We’re hoping some of th
em will be asleep.”

  Kelly thought about the Mexicans in Laredo who begged her to help them. She remembered Emilio, skinny legs sticking out from his shorts, his grandmother wailing. “What about Burke?” she asked abruptly.

  Leonard eyed her. “He’s in Virginia. They’re watching him, but without more evidence we can’t bring him in.”

  Leonard might as well have added that because Burke was rich and powerful, he’d get away with it no matter what, Kelly thought. They’d pin this on Dante Parrish and a few other underlings, and that would be the end of it. A hard knot of rage formed in her stomach.

  Leonard tucked his hands in his pockets. “You’ve done good work here, Jones. I’ll make sure your ASAC knows that.”

  Kelly didn’t respond. She turned and walked back to the car.

  Jackson Burke poured himself another finger of whiskey. He usually didn’t indulge in more than one drink a day. The doctors had cautioned against combining his medication with liquor, and he hated to lose his innate sharpness anyway. Lord knew that tonight he needed it more than ever. But he was still reeling from the discovery that the FBI was investigating Dante. He’d spent the drive from D.C. reviewing everything that linked them together. He called his office and ordered security footage from the past few years erased from the hard drives. A few of his staff had met Dante personally, but always under the guise of his bodyguard. All their real meetings had taken place nights and weekends, when the building was empty.

  And the others-what if they were tracked down, too? Only three men in the world knew enough to connect him to the plan. Jackson shook his head. He’d been so careful not to leave a paper trail. He called them on disposable cell phones, met in out-of-the-way places, and firmly insisted they refrain from their natural and unfortunate tendency to boast.

  Had the FBI already tracked Dante down? He should be at the backup location in San Diego, making sure everything was ready. But perhaps he was in a small room somewhere being interrogated. The thought made his hands clammy. Jackson crossed the room and dug an un-activated cell phone out of his desk drawer. He juggled it for a minute, wondering who would answer if he dialed.

  I should have known better, he chastised himself. A bunch of thugs and rednecks could never be marshaled into an effective force. They simply weren’t capable of it.

  Jackson slammed his fist on the table so hard the glass jumped. They were so close, and now his entire life might be snatched away. Jackson pictured himself in a cell, the walls closing in. It was too bleak to even imagine. They would paint him as the worst kind of traitor. Although given the right jury he might be able to make people understand…

  Jackson flipped on the television to distract himself. It took a moment to figure out what was happening, he initially thought it was an action movie. A banner across the bottom of the screen read: PHOENIX BOMBING. His eyes narrowed as Humvees rolled past. Jackson turned up the volume and focused intently on the young blond newscaster whose voice betrayed excitement as she said, “The National Guard has moved us back another mile. They haven’t told us why, but it’s feeding speculation about what caused this explosion. As you can see-” she waved back over her shoulder “-there’s a large, noxious cloud over the blast area, and some of the survivors are complaining of tightness in their chests. They’ve secured and evacuated an area over three miles wide…”

  “Huh,” Jackson said, sitting back with a frown. One of the bombs had gone off early. He wondered why. Phoenix was Jared’s responsibility. He watched as a map of Phoenix appeared on-screen, with the evacuated area tinted pink. Didn’t look like it happened at the warehouse, if CNN had the right spot marked. The truck, then-and if Jared was driving, that would eliminate at least one of the links to him.

  Jackson took a slug of whiskey, feeling better. His home phone rang. He eyed it as though it might leap off the table and bite him. After three rings, he picked up.

  “Senator Burke,” he said, trying to sound authoritative.

  A hesitation, then a voice said, “Senator? It’s Chad.”

  Chad. He thought hard, came up with a lanky, pockmarked kid who escorted him around the Capitol yesterday. Chad Peterson, his new assistant. Of course. “Yes, Chad. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry to call you so late, Senator, but you weren’t answering your cell, or your Georgetown line, and we…have you seen the news, sir?”

  Jackson ’s eyes shifted back to the television. “I just turned it on. I still can’t believe it.” Which was true. All that careful planning, and now the timing was shot to hell.

  “I know this must be a shock to you, sir. I hope everyone you care about is okay.”

  The sentiment took him off guard. Of course everyone was okay. He’d ensconced his mother in a Santa Barbara spa yesterday, and there really wasn’t anyone else worth caring about. But he tried to adopt the appropriate note of gravitas as he said, “Thanks so much, Chad. I’m praying that they are.”

  “I’ll pray, too. My parents…the cell towers are jammed, so I can’t get through.”

  “Well, I’m sure they’re fine,” Jackson said, put off by Chad ’s sniveling tone. If he wasn’t arrested tomorrow, the first order of business would be finding a new assistant. Chad was clearly not built for pressure situations.

  Chad took a deep breath, gathering himself before saying, “The thing is, um…we’re getting a lot of calls from the media. They’re wondering if you have a statement. Since it’s our district.”

  “Oh.” Jackson experienced a rush of excitement, followed quickly by anger. Of course he had a statement prepared, the perfect response to this crisis. He’d spent months honing it: two concise, carefully worded pages that struck the perfect note of sorrow, empathy and strength. But did he risk reading it now, when the FBI might show up and haul him away midsentence? “Let’s wait for morning,” he finally said.

  “Certainly, Senator.” Chad sounded relieved. “I’ll tell them.”

  “And Chad?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t ever call me on this line again.”

  Chad stammered an apology and hung up. Jackson sipped the last of his drink, watching the news jump between correspondents without gaining any additional insight. He reviewed different scenarios in his mind. If they didn’t have Dante yet, they’d no doubt have him soon. The early explosion in Phoenix put a new spin on things. By now even the slowest FBI agent would have discovered the missing radioactive waste and realized there were probably more bombs in the mix. And after the warehouse raid, they would have made the link to parade floats. Jackson had to admit, due to their complete incompetence over border control, he hadn’t given them enough credit. For them to have tracked down Dante was really quite impressive.

  Clearly it was time to switch gears and send them something they weren’t expecting.

  He picked up the cell phone and dialed the code to activate it. Dante answered on the third ring. Jackson gave him the new orders, then called Dallas. After hanging up, he drained the last of the whiskey and settled back against the couch cushions. The trace of a smile illuminated his face as he watched the terror and confusion play out on-screen.

  Thirty-Eight

  Syd swallowed hard. The potassium iodide solution was repellant, but hopefully would alleviate any damage from the radiation. She’d also taken a frigid five-minute shower, then given them her clothes to destroy. She shivered in fresh scrubs. Her wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, then she was shunted aside as other, more critical cases arrived.

  Syd made her way through the maze of tents. It was like every other field hospital she’d been in; this one was installed in a hospital parking lot to contain overflow and reduce the risk of contamination.

  “Brings you back, don’t it?” a voice at her elbow said. She turned to find Fribush.

  “Yeah, it does,” she said, knowing exactly what he meant. Could have been Mosul, could have been Tbilisi. A war zone was a war zone. “How’s Maltz?”

  He nodded toward th
e door. “They took him inside.”

  “Looks bad though, right?”

  He shrugged. “Maltz has survived worse. I’m not counting him out.”

  Refreshingly optimistic, Syd thought. Especially for a Delta guy. “I need to make a call.”

  Without a word he handed her a phone. She dialed the number, feeling a little guilty for not calling sooner.

  Jake answered on the third ring. “Riley here.”

  “Jake, it’s me.”

  Relief flooded his voice as he said, “Jesus, Syd, I thought you were dead. What the hell happened?”

  “I’m fine. Maltz…we’re waiting to hear on Maltz.”

  “Christ.” He laughed. “I honestly can’t believe you’re okay. Man, I thought…” His voice lowered a register as he said, “I was really worried.”

  “Well, I’m fine,” she said, taken aback by the outpouring of emotion.

  “There’s a lead on another bomb, so we’re on our way to Dallas. And Kelly sent a text, she and Leonard are in San Diego trying to stop a third.”

  “Oh.” So they had the other sites covered. “But what about Burke?”

  “No idea, they’re still keeping us in the dark.” His voice lowered as he said, “But George said it’s gotta be solid before they’ll arrest a senator. I get the feeling that he might skate.”

  “Really,” Syd said, her voice hardening. Of course he’d skate. She’d seen it time and again, politicians shirking responsibility for terrible acts. No surprise there.

  “Anyway, rest up for a few days. We’ll meet back in New York when this is over to talk about things.”

  Interesting, Syd thought. Unless she was mistaken, the things he wanted to discuss didn’t sound entirely business-related. Which would be fine by her. Jake was a bit of a Boy Scout by her standards, but it might be a nice change of pace. And she’d be doing him a favor, getting him away from that miserable fiancée. “Sure,” she said. “See you there.”