Shadow Boys

by Harry Hunsicker

  A woman in running shorts and a tank top watched me as she power walked down the street.

  I nodded hello and then jogged to the Lincoln.

  The beeper was rattling in the console when I got in.

  Theo Goldberg’s number.

  I put the phone together, called.

  He answered after the first ring. “Why don’t you carry a cell like everybody else?”

  “Because the people we work for are listening in.”

  “The No Such Agency?” he said. “We haven’t done anything for them in a couple of years.”

  No Such Agency was a euphemism for the NSA, the National Security Agency.

  “That was a rhetorical statement, Theo. I meant that in general someone is listening to most everything we do electronically.”

  “Their in-house counsel, the one in charge of our account, he was such a putz. Every invoice he wanted to audit. Thought we were padding the bill.”

  “An ethical government employee. What’s this world coming to?” I started the Lincoln. “Why are you calling me, Theo?”

  “Why are you not calling me? I’ve beeped you like ten times.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I’m your supervisor, Jonathan.” He sounded huffy. “I should be accorded a certain amount of respect.”

  I pulled away from the curb. “The mess you got me into with the deputy chief. I’ve been busy with that.”

  I checked the rearview. Still no sign of Raul Delgado.

  “Your performance review is coming up.” Theo made a tsk sound. “I’d hate to give you a less-than-stellar evaluation.”

  I stepped on the brakes, and the Lincoln stopped in the middle of the street, neighbors and bystanders be damned.

  “Am I the kinda guy you give a bad performance review to?”

  No response.

  “Think that one through, Theo.” I lowered my voice. “Carefully.”

  He cleared his throat several times, a sure indication he was agitated. And nervous.

  “The Culpepper shipment,” he said. “Our client needs to take possession as soon as possible.”

  “Transport taken care of?”

  “That’s all been arranged. They’re waiting on your call.”

  I accelerated away. “You really stepped in it this time, Theo. The Delgado mess.”

  No response.

  “Did you hear me?” I turned onto Lovers Lane.

  “I, um, don’t think we should be talking about that on an open line.”

  I started to reply, but the phone went dead.

  Mason Burnett tried to control his breathing.

  Anger filled him, swelling up inside like water from a bitter well. The feeling battered against his chest, threatened to overwhelm him.

  He watched Jonathan Cantrell hustle across the street after exiting a one-story house with two large trees in the front yard. Mason was parked at the end of the block, maybe a hundred yards away.

  His ears rang, palms were sweaty. The stench of booze and cigarettes from the breath of his long-dead father filled his nostrils.

  He slid the transmission into drive as Cantrell got into the Lincoln.

  Daddy’s face filled his vision, indistinct like a mirage but close enough to touch, almost like a mirror. Father and son, one and the same, two sides to the same battered coin.

  The Lincoln pulled away from the curb.

  Mason waited a couple of seconds and did the same.

  The Lincoln stopped after only a few feet, right in the middle of the road.

  Mason took his foot off the gas.

  After a long moment, the Lincoln slowly headed toward Lovers Lane.

  Mason gently accelerated. When he was even with the house where Jon Cantrell came from, he saw the most extraordinary thing—Deputy Chief Raul Delgado staggering outside, tie askew, shirt dirty and untucked.

  The Lincoln turned the corner.

  Mason slowed, his attention torn between Cantrell’s vehicle and Delgado.

  He made his decision and sped up to follow the Lincoln.

  The anger lessened just a bit.

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE -

  I removed the battery from my phone as I drove.

  The Dallas North Tollway formed the backbone of the northern part of Dallas, a concrete ribbon running from downtown up to the suburbs, the ever-growing ring of farming towns turned bedroom communities, which were fast encroaching on the Oklahoma border.

  Seemed like a large chunk of my life had been spent on the oil-stained surface of the Dallas Tollway, chasing dopeheads and drug dealers and other lowlifes, or women who should have known better than to ever give somebody like me their digits.

  The Lincoln barreled through the traffic like a bull charging through swamp grass, and twenty minutes after leaving Piper’s place I pulled into the parking lot of the building next to the address where the misdirected shipment of weapons and supplies were to have been delivered.

  The lot was empty. The building appeared undisturbed since my previous visit.

  I parked on the other side of the first building, completely out of sight from the target structure. Then I ran to the rear boundary, where a single Dumpster sat roughly on the dividing line between the two properties.

  Several trees grew around the Dumpster, so I found a spot that was out of sight from both parking areas but afforded me an unobstructed view of the target building.

  The pickup crew was a group of ex–Army Rangers. They worked for a private contracting firm that specialized in the transport and safekeeping of items that your traditional moving companies shied away from.

  Two years ago, at the behest of one of Saddam Hussein’s daughters, they’d moved ninety kilos of gold bullion from Tikrit, Iraq, to a villa in the South of France. That operation had involved a truck convoy, a plane, and a Liberian freighter. This would be a stroll in the park in comparison.

  My disposable cell chirped with a text from the transport team leader.

  ETA about 1 min.

  I texted back that everything was a go.

  As my phone dinged that the message had been sent, a black Suburban pulled into the parking area of the target building.

  The SUV drove slowly across the parking area, making a circuit around the empty office.

  I swore under my breath, tapped out another message.

  Hang tight. Go on my OK only.

  My finger hovered over the Send button. The Suburban could be nothing. Could be a real estate broker looking for some real estate.

  The SUV stopped by the rear entrance to the building. At this angle, the exempt plates were visible.

  The driver’s door opened, and a man in his late forties got out.

  I hit Send.

  Too late. A nanosecond later a large panel van pulled into the parking area.

  The pickup team had arrived.

  The guy from the Suburban couldn’t see them.

  The van stopped immediately, clearly receiving my message.

  The guy from the SUV looked around the parking lot and then tried the back door. It didn’t open.

  He walked back to his Suburban, leaned inside, and came out with a pistol.

  A suppressor was attached to the end of the weapon.

  He shot the dead bolt on the door at the same time as a police helicopter flew overhead.

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR -

  Mason Burnett fired a second round into the lock and kicked the door open.

  Metal fragments from the dead bolt scattered on the concrete sidewalk, pinged the side of his Suburban.

  The Lincoln Navigator he’d been following had pulled into this driveway thirty seconds before but was nowhere to be seen.

  He realized he should be looking for the Lincoln, but there was something about the empty buildin
g that stopped him.

  He was a cop. He’d seen too many supposedly vacant structures in the city, full of too much stuff they shouldn’t contain.

  The week before, he’d been in an unoccupied warehouse near Love Field with a lieutenant from auto theft. The warehouse had contained nearly a thousand third-row seats from various GM vehicles—Tahoes, Yukons, and Suburbans. It was an easy-to-steal item but one that brought top dollar on the street.

  There was nothing unique about this building on the Dallas North Tollway. There were a million like it. But something about the situation didn’t feel right. An ex-contractor pulling in here. The connection to the East Coast law firm.

  And now the crate that was barely visible through the tinted glass.

  A shipping container marked on one side: “Border Patrol—Forward Operating Base. Do Not Open Unless Authorized.”

  Almost surely what Cantrell was after.

  The container was by the rear cargo door, out of view from most of the building, except the back.

  Mason took a quick stroll through the place and determined it was in fact empty except for dust, rat crap, and the strange box. Then he approached the shipping crate at an angle, wary.

  The container was made from a plastic material of some sort, a polymer that appeared to be indestructible.

  Two side-by-side doors on the front, secured by a heavy-duty padlock.

  A stenciled warning above the lock:

  No Unauthorized Entry!

  —

  May Contain Hazardous Material!

  Mason examined each side of the container. He ran a finger down the corners, touched the exterior walls. The material felt cool and slick, except for the rear, which was slightly warm. Mason wondered if the warmth could be his imagination. He rapped the surface with a knuckle, got a solid sound back.

  Then he returned to the front, to the doors. He shrugged once and shot the padlock with the silenced pistol.

  The lock shattered.

  Mason stared at the still-unopened doors. He wondered what a fix-it man for a fancy-pants bunch of lawyers would be doing with a government-issued shipping container in an empty building in North Dallas.

  A helicopter buzzed overhead. DPD air support he’d arranged. Because you never could tell what a deserted building might bring.

  Only one way to find out what was inside.

  He yanked open the doors.

  On the ceiling of the shipping container, a battery-operated light flicked on, illuminating the interior.

  What he saw took a moment to process. The longer he stared at the contents, the more his brain refused to believe what his eyes were seeing.

  It wasn’t the row of M-4 carbines lining one wall. Maybe twenty of them, standard US Army issue.

  Nor was it the crates of ammo underneath the rifles, full-metal-jacket 5.56 millimeter rounds. It wasn’t the other stuff either—the medical supplies, communications equipment, several boxes of what appeared to be Border Patrol jackets.

  None of that mattered to Mason Burnett.

  What made his pulse quicken and palms sweaty was a large metal box that took up the rear third of the shipping container.

  The metal box had a series of dials and gauges on the front, each the size of a pie pan. There were also a half dozen throw switches like the kind you find at a power plant or an electrical substation.

  Mason lowered his silenced weapon as he stared at the contraption.

  “What the hell—” He took a half step back.

  In the middle of the metal box, right at eye level, was a yellow-and-black trefoil, the three-prong emblem that was the international warning for radioactivity.

  - CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE -

  I dashed across the parking lot.

  The guy from the Suburban had maybe a ten-second lead on me.

  At the rear of the building, the door was open.

  I paused at the entrance.

  Footsteps echoed inside. The lack of furnishings and interior walls made them loud and easy to track.

  My cell phone vibrated, a text from the leader of the pickup team.

  Status?

  I could smell their adrenaline. Rangers were notorious for being proactive, juiced for action. This guy and his crew were armed with enough automatic weapons to invade a midtier Central Asian republic, itching to use them.

  I didn’t text back.

  The team had a mission window, a predetermined amount of time to accomplish the pickup. Unless it was a Code One transport, which this certainly didn’t qualify for, they would abort after the window closed, leaving the shipment in place.

  That would not make Theo happy. He’d probably rupture a spleen or get impacted hair follicles or whatever health malady befell neurotic attorneys when a crisis loomed.

  But I didn’t want the team in the building until I figured out who the guy in the Suburban was and what he represented.

  I stepped inside, using the interior walls that surrounded the restrooms as cover.

  Pfft. A silenced weapon fired. Then, the tinkle of metal bits landing on concrete.

  I stepped away from the wall.

  The man from the Suburban stood by the front of the shipping crate, staring inside, a look of astonishment on his face. The crate was positioned so that I couldn’t see its contents.

  He lowered the gun. Took a step back.

  I drew my Glock, aimed at his chest. “Drop the weapon. Put your hands on your head.”

  He looked up, startled. The pistol slid from his fingers but his arms remained by his sides.

  “You’re Cantrell, aren’t you?” His face was white.

  “Hands on your head, now.”

  The man from the SUV didn’t move. He blinked several times like he was trying to think about too many things at one time.

  “Do you know about this?” He pointed to the shipping crate.

  “That’s not your concern.” I eased closer.

  “What?”

  “Last time I’ll tell you.” I found a zip tie in my pocket. “Put your hands on your head and get on your knees.”

  “Not my concern?”

  The helicopter overhead got louder, a new wrinkle that had a 101 percent chance of making the pickup team extra nervous.

  Nervous Rangers: not a good situation. They’d probably fire up a surface-to-air missile, and we’d end up with chopper parts scattered over half of North Dallas.

  “Who the hell are you people?” The man who would not put his hands where I told him to shook his head.

  I kicked away the silenced Glock. It skidded across the floor.

  “You have any idea what they’re gonna charge you with?” he said.

  I holstered my weapon, reached for his hand, zip tie at the ready.

  “I’m a cop, asshole.” The man from the SUV yanked his hand away from me. “Don’t even think about touching me.”

  He was six or eight years older than me. We were about the same size and fitness level. Getting him cuffed would be messy, and I’d had enough of that for one day.

  “We’re taking the crate,” I said. “You do not want to interfere with that.”

  He shook his head again, slowly.

  I moved behind him, at an angle so I could keep distance between us but have a glimpse inside the container.

  The helicopter buzzed closer.

  “Need you to call your dogs off.” I pointed upward. “My guys will be in and out before you can write up the overtime request.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve worn a uniform, Cantrell?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Homeland Security,” he said. “I’ll need to contact them.” He slumped his shoulders. “Then there’s the hazmat teams. The media liaison office.”

  “Consider Homeland notified.” I took another
step and looked inside the container.

  The radioactive sign was stark yellow, like a beacon in the night.

  “Crap,” I said. “They sent a nuke with a regular shipment? Again?”

  Portable fusion reactors, made by a Japanese company with deep ties to the American military-industrial community. Maintenance-free, not much bigger than a refrigerator, strong enough to power a town of ten thousand.

  “You know about this?” He sounded incredulous.

  A portable reactor meant this was a Code One pickup. No aborting the Rangers. No wonder Theo was so nervous.

  “The Nuclear Regulatory Commission is gonna pitch a fit,” I said. “Reactors are supposed to ship separately, but contractors are always looking to save money.”

  The gun in the man’s hand seemed to materialize from the ether, another Glock, this one without a silencer, the muzzle pointed at my face.

  “Put it down.” I still had my weapon aimed at his torso. “You don’t know what you’re getting involved with here. Trust me.”

  With his free hand, he grabbed a walkie-talkie from his belt. He held the radio to his mouth.

  “This is Captain Mason Burnett.” He rattled off the address of the building. “Officer needs assistance. All available units.”

  I shuffled toward the back door, keeping the gun aimed at him.

  “Don’t move.” Burnett tracked me with his weapon.

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “Outside, there’s six guys in a van. They make your best SWAT boys look like Barney Fife.”

  “You’re the vigilante, aren’t you?” His voice was a whisper. “Tell me why you’re killing the lowlifes.”

  I didn’t reply. Nothing I could say would make a difference.

  “I want to be able to give the press a motive.” He smiled. “And you’re not gonna be in much condition to talk in a few minutes.”

  From outside came the sound of rubber soles squeaking on concrete.

  I placed my gun on the floor. “Other than the chopper, do you have anybody with you?”

  He frowned but didn’t speak.

  More noise from the back entrance. Nylon rifle slings rubbing against tactical vests. Gloved fingers patting automatic weapons.