by Joseph Reid
It was designed to receive one.
Dropping the shotgun, I grabbed the router and ripped it away from the wall, unplugging its power cord in the process. I wedged it against the top of the desk with my bad arm and broke the antennas off with my good one.
Heart still fluttering, I took a deep breath before gingerly setting the little box on the floor by itself in a corner.
“What the hell was that?” Civins asked.
“Booby trap,” I said. Then, looking back at the door, I spotted the camera: hanging down from the ceiling like a spider. Almost invisible in the darkness, it pointed directly at the desk.
I stepped back into its field of vision, pointing at my own chest, then at the computer monitor.
Hoping that message was clear enough, I drew the Sig and put a bullet right through the security camera’s lens. Then I picked up the shotgun and handed it to Civins.
“You’re going to need this,” I said. “Whoever’s watching that video is either on their way to join us, or is running for the hills. If it’s the former, I’m guessing we’ve got about five minutes till they get here.”
CHAPTER 22
In the end, it was easier than I’d thought.
Civins and I hid in one of the nearby exam rooms, waiting to see who’d show up. Although my eyes were well adjusted to the dark, my heart drummed steadily in my ears as seemingly endless seconds ticked by.
Ultimately, though, it was just one man. Tall, thin. Older than I’d expected, maybe sixty.
He entered the office slowly, carefully. Leaving the lights off, he took baby steps and did lots of little checks in each direction. In his right hand, he carried a pistol, something small, like a .22. But he toted it up by his ear, where it wouldn’t be much help. That, plus the way he was squeezing the grip for dear life, told me he was no marksman.
By the time he’d advanced halfway into the office, the man seemed satisfied he was alone and made a beeline for the room with the computer.
He was so intent on checking it, hunched over the desk, he didn’t hear us sneaking up behind him until just before I brought the butt of the Sig down against his skull.
The man moaned as he began to stir. The Dixie cup of water I had Civins dump on his face helped wake him but didn’t improve his mood.
“What the fuck—” He rocked side to side in the chair, only then realizing his hands, feet, and chest were bound to it with packing tape we’d found in a supply room.
“How are you tonight, Dr. Roosevelt?” I’d reclined the seat backward, so he had no choice but to stare upward. “Nice of you to join us.”
He struggled some more, but didn’t answer. Beneath once-blond hair that had almost gone completely white, his face was short and squat with narrow eyes. Deep laugh lines and dimples framed a broad mouth. As he gritted his teeth with effort, you could imagine him smiling—he had the kind of face kids would probably trust.
“You can keep struggling, Doc,” I said, “but I don’t think you’re gonna get through that tape.”
His pale face had grown increasingly red, and now sweat dotted his brow. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Two guys who realized the little drug-running operation you’ve got going here. Let me guess, you write prescriptions for fake patients, then sell them on the side.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “Not even close.”
“Explain it to us, then.”
“Why should I tell you anything? You’re just a couple of criminals who broke into my office.”
I leaned down, my face closer to his. “Wrong on that one, Doc. He’s former special forces and probably knows ten ways to kill you with that paper cup. Me, I’m a federal agent, and all this”—I waved my hand back toward the computer—“is going to be a case of intent to distribute for my friends at the FBI.”
“A cop?” He laughed out loud. “Even better. Where’s your warrant, cop? You don’t have one, and everything in here is inadmissible.” His eyes gleamed. “I know my rights.”
I nodded. “So then you know all about the exigent circumstances exception to the warrant requirement, right?”
Roosevelt’s smile didn’t completely disappear, but his brow furrowed.
“That’s right, you don’t need a warrant to perform a search if there are ‘exigent circumstances.’”
Before I’d started my new gig as liaison and investigator, Lavorgna had forced me to attend a weeklong law-for-law-enforcement class taught by the federal prosecutors at LA’s Spring Street courthouse. I hadn’t really wanted to attend, but I’d learned a few things. I glanced over at Civins. “I’d say looking for a kidnapped minor counts as an emergency, wouldn’t you?”
“Damn straight.”
“Kidnapped?” Roosevelt was stammering now. “What’re you—”
“One of your patients. Max Magic. You know, the sixteen-year-old pop star you had hooked on pills? His former client?” I nodded over at Civins, who took another step closer to Roosevelt; the doctor’s eyes darted between us. “The Second Guerrillas took her. I’m guessing they neglected to warn you before they did that.”
Roosevelt didn’t say anything, but his face gave it away.
“That is who you work for, right? The Second Guerrillas? Don’t tell me you set up all this cloak-and-dagger stuff yourself.”
“I’m not telling you shit.” He spat the words. “I want my lawyer.”
“I had a feeling you might say that. Thing is, we don’t have time for lawyers.”
“So, what? You’re gonna beat me up?” Glancing back and forth between Civins and me, he snorted, then looked off toward a corner of the room. “I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be scared of my friend here,” I said, nodding at Civins again. “But you are scared of Petén, right?”
Roosevelt’s eyes jerked back in my direction.
“I get it. Most sane people are. But you know what’s even scarier than Petén? The new thermite jockstrap I gave you while you were unconscious.”
Roosevelt’s eyelids peeled back enough, I could see white all around the irises, even in the dim light. He struggled to look down to his belly, but couldn’t, given the angle of the chair.
I leaned in closer, pressing the box against his crotch, making sure the metal edges dug into his thighs. “Feel that? That’s right, it’s the cute little router box you had on top of the computer. Lucky I figured it out in time.”
The muscles in Roosevelt’s face had started twitching.
“I gotta admit, you had me for a second. When I first saw it, I thought it might be some kind of bomb. But then I realized, even a bomb might leave the disk drives readable. You couldn’t risk that.”
Roosevelt’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“You needed to make sure the drives would be nothing but slag, and I’ve seen the Second Guerrillas use thermite before.” A metallic mix, thermite shoots up to twenty-five hundred degrees once you get it burning: hot enough to slice through the metal walls at Otra and more than enough to melt right through the cover on the desktop. “So you mounted the thermite on top of the computer and figured if you ever saw someone on your little security camera, you’d ignite it with the remote trigger.
“Of course, the only reason to do that is if the computer has all your illegal transactions on it, right? How many pills went to whom. How much money you’ve been kicking back to the Second Guerrillas. You couldn’t risk anyone getting a look at that, right, Doc?”
Although Roosevelt tried to stay defiant, his expression said I was correct.
“You know,” I said, “I’ve seen some Internet videos of thermite. It burns so white-hot, it’s almost too bright for the camera.”
With that, I pressed myself back up straight, using the router box for leverage.
Roosevelt struggled against the tape again, then strained to see down past his stomach. His face looked like he’d dunked it in a bucket of ice water.
“Pretty easy to ignite, too. A regular old cigarette lighter ought to light
the magnesium strips you’ve got in there, and they’ll set off the rest.” I held up a lighter I’d found out in a receptionist’s desk and started flicking it on and off. As I did, Civins retreated a step.
Now panting, Roosevelt said, “I don’t know anything about them taking the girl!”
“Oh, I know that,” I said. “But you do know lots of other things that could be helpful. Let’s start simple. What kind of pills were you selling Max?”
Roosevelt’s eyes were pointed away from me.
I flicked on the lighter and moved forward. “If we can’t even get through that question . . .”
“All right, all right. Adderall and Oxycontin.”
“Why those?”
“They’re what the kids like. Adderall’s an upper—speed, basically. Makes you feel good. Helps you focus. Then the Oxy’s for relaxing. Taking the pain away.”
In the corner of my eye, I could see Civins’s face harden. If I’d feared he might betray me, I needn’t have worried—not now that Roosevelt was spilling his guts.
“That shit you gave Max is super addictive,” Civins said.
Roosevelt snorted. “Of course it is—that’s the goddamn point.” After a pause, he shook his head. “I could have made a lot of money off a rich bitch like her.”
“You didn’t?” I asked.
“Had to give them to her for free. That’s what they wanted.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“The—uh—the folks you mentioned.” Roosevelt’s eyes were wandering all over the room now to avoid my face.
“The Second Guerrillas.”
He nodded once.
“How’d you get in with them?”
“What’s it matter?”
“It doesn’t, really,” I said. “I’m just curious. This seems like a nice little practice you’ve got here—why risk it all for people like them?”
Roosevelt’s head flopped back against the chair. “It’s stupid. I’d been married a long time to the same woman. I wanted to try something different. Feel that thrill of the chase again. But guys my age, we don’t exactly go cruising the bars on Sixth Street. So I called one of those agencies in the phone book. Got set up with a beautiful woman, took her to a nice dinner, then to a hotel. I didn’t realize they’d rigged the whole place with cameras.”
“They blackmailed you.”
He looked away for a moment. “Yep. They offered me this plan. Seemed simple enough.”
“How do you get the extra pills? If you’re not faking patients . . .”
“That was the angle they came up with,” he said. “I don’t really do anything different—just prescribe what I’d normally prescribe. Adderall for ADHD, Oxy for pain. But I volunteer to fill the prescriptions. Saves them or their parents the run to the pharmacy, plus I get to walk them through the meds myself. Parents like that. It’s totally legal—none of the pharmacies question it. But I prescribe more than I instruct them to take, and I skim the rest.”
“Why Max?” Civins asked. “Why’d they ask you to get her hooked?”
Roosevelt shook his head. “I don’t know. Keep her under control, I guess.” He shook his shoulders, trying to break free again. “I’ve answered your questions—now get that thermite off me!”
“We’re not done yet,” I said. “Where can I find them, the Second Guerrillas?”
“You really don’t want to do that.”
“Assume I do.”
“I don’t know. I just work for—”
“Baloney.” I got down in his face again, holding the lighter flame right near his eye. “You have to have seen some place, some kind of local headquarters, something. You tell me where it is, and everything about it, or I swear to Christ I’ll light this thing and let it melt you.” I leaned on the router box again, putting as much weight on it as I could.
All of Roosevelt’s muscles clenched, and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Okay. Okay. There’s a ranch, east of town. They had me out there a couple of times.”
“Great,” I said. “Tell me all about it.”
Once Roosevelt had told me everything he could, he said, “Now what?”
I was pulling the burner from my pocket as he asked the question. “Now, I have a little planning to do before I go see your friend Petén.”
“What about the thermite? Get it off me!” Sweat had soaked through the neck of Roosevelt’s shirt, while his face had gone pale as a sheet.
“Don’t worry,” I said, picking up the router. “It’s not going to hurt you.”
“How do you know? That stuff’s volatile.”
“Because,” I said, popping the bottom panel open, “I took the thermite out.”
CHAPTER 23
Tuesday, July 21
Even though Civins offered to handle the cops as they processed Roosevelt, by the time I dropped them off, got my own plan straight, and left Lavorgna a voice mail about it, it was approaching five in the morning. Max had been gone almost twelve hours. No word from Drew. No contact from the Second Guerrillas. Part of me wondered what they were waiting for, but mostly I hoped I could beat them to whatever it was.
The eastern sky had begun to brighten, a thin stripe of robin’s-egg blue against the remaining navy of nighttime. After weaving my way through downtown, I pointed the sedan toward the burgeoning light.
The address Roosevelt had given me sat sixty-eight miles outside the city, according to the map on the burner’s GPS. Civilization fell away rapidly, replaced by the same kind of flat prairie I’d encountered on the drive from Dallas. No hills out here, only fields of grass and clusters of trees.
Cruising along the narrow roads, I passed signs marking little towns with colorful names like McDade and Dime Box, but they proved to be little more than small breaks in otherwise endless stretches of barbed-wire ranch fencing. Buildings grew fewer and farther between; I saw far more cows than cars.
As the miles flew by, I tried to focus on the details Roosevelt had provided about the Guerrillas and their headquarters, but it was no use. I couldn’t shift my mind off Max. She’d been so weak before the explosion. Had she suffered any injuries? Would the Guerrillas be taking care of her? She was their leverage against Drew, so presumably they would if they could. The setup at Roosevelt’s confirmed they knew technology . . . would they have a doctor on hand?
Answerless questions like these had me squeezing the wheel and shifting in my seat nearly the entire ride. Forty-five minutes after leaving the city, though, the burner said I was getting close.
Although the sun still hadn’t hit the horizon yet, the entire sky had brightened to a deep royal blue. A part of me wanted to press the pedal to the floor, but I reminded myself of the plan and backed off the gas: I’d need to time this exactly right.
Five minutes later, coming around a slight bend, I saw it, ahead on the left. The Second Guerrillas’ compound was unmistakable once you knew what you were looking for.
The ranch fencing that had continued for miles stopped abruptly, replaced by a stone wall ringing a large tract of land. Constructed from large blocks of sun-bleached stone cemented together, the wall looked almost decorative, not unlike the walls in Max’s ritzy neighborhood. But little details confirmed this wall was far more functional. It stood taller than any person. Clusters of dark metal spikes adorned the top of the wall, and as I drew closer, I could see they were razor sharp. Security cameras were mounted at various intervals, peering down to cover wide swaths of the ground between the wall and road.
I needed nearly two more minutes to reach the wall’s midpoint, where metal gates blocked the only apparent entrance to the compound. I couldn’t get too much of a glimpse of what lay behind their silver bars, but I did spot several guards inside.
Continuing onward, I drove as far as I figured I needed to so no one at the gate could see the car anymore. Then I pulled to the shoulder. Unsure whether any cameras could see me, I steered as far off the road as possible, parking behind a tree.
Once the engine was s
ilent, I inhaled deeply several times, trying to overcome the shallow breaths I’d been taking. Not knowing exactly when—it had to be when, right?—I would return, I checked to ensure the shotgun and breaching ammo were hidden beneath the rear seat. Then, despite a sharp pang in my chest, I wedged the Sig and its magazines into the glove compartment and locked it.
Before leaving the sedan, I yanked out my earpiece and tucked it down into the pocket holding the audio player. Then I made sure I had the burner. Those two had to come with me, and they’d need to be enough.
I checked the time: 5:50 a.m.
As I started back toward the gate on foot, I stuck to my side of the road, trudging through the grass, kicking up dust. When I finally drew parallel with the gate several minutes later, I raised my good arm and crossed the road. Several men appeared just inside the gates, which were bound together by a heavy chain. All the men were muscular, with tattooed faces. Two leveled M16 barrels at my chest from their positions inside.
“Don’t shoot,” I called before I’d even crossed the double yellow line. “I’m not armed.” Placing my fingers on top of my head, I took slow, deliberate steps the rest of the way across the road. When I’d drawn within a few feet of the bars, I said, “I need to see Petén. Roosevelt, the doctor, sent me with a message.”
One of the guards produced a walkie-talkie, then disappeared behind the wall. He returned several seconds later. “Who are you?”
“I told you, I need to see—”
“Petén doesn’t see anyone. What’s your name?”
The gunmen on either side of the talker looked fidgety. “My name is Walker.”
“What’s Roosevelt’s message, Walker?”
“I can’t tell you. Only Petén.”
“Then we’ll just shoot you now and be done with it,” the walkie-talkie man said, raising his own weapon and staring down the sights at me.
Ignoring the pounding in my chest, I shrugged. “If you want. But then you can explain to Petén why Roosevelt’s gone. And why all the money from Roosevelt’s drugs has disappeared with him.”
