by Alex Cage
Matt slowly nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Toben moved his arm and followed Matt out of the room.
Ashley was just about to sit down at her desk. “She’s waiting near the elevators,” she informed Toben.
“Thanks,” he replied.
Matt walked out of the office first and Toben trailed. The echo of idle chit-chat flowed down the hall. Toben saw his wife near the elevators, but she wasn’t alone. Stokes was there with her.
Toben picked up his pace, passing by Matt to reach Kristi and Stokes first. The two were smiling in conversation.
“What’s going on here?” Toben asked.
“Hi, honey,” Kristi responded.
“Nothing. Just telling your wife how nice it is to work with you.”
Toben squinted his eyes. His lips parted, but he said nothing.
Kristi noticed Matt approaching and raced over to him.
Toben and Stokes locked eyes.
“I was so worried about you. You can’t do that again. Do you hear me?” Kristi’s voice resounded.
“I know. I—I’m sorry,” Matt replied.
Kristi released a long sigh before giving Matt a hug. “Let’s go,” she said, walking with him to the elevator and pressing at the console.
Toben moved his gaze from Stokes to his wife and son. “I’ll be down in a second,” he said.
Kristi acknowledged him with a forced smile. The elevator doors dinged open and then thumped closed again after she and Matt entered.
Toben turned his attention to Stokes. “What were you talking to my wife about? Why were you even speaking to her?”
“Nothing. Just small talk.”
“Stay away from my wife,” Toben demanded.
“What? Afraid I’ll tell her about your extracurricular activities?”
Toben stepped up to Stokes. He was inches away from his face, glaring at him.
Stokes returned a smirk that challenged, What are you going to do about it?
Toben relaxed and took a small step back.
Stokes kept his eyes on him. “Hmph. Well now,” he said, walking around Toben. “I have to use the restroom. Then I’m going to grab a bite and head over to FBI HQ. See you there, Agent Toben.”
Toben watched, upset, until Stokes disappeared from view.
9.
BLACK’S PAST TWO hours had consisted of stopping for gas, driving and parking strategically to make sure he wasn’t tailed, and contemplating his next move. His tank was full, no one was following him, and he was cruising through downtown South San Francisco. The town was small, clean, and a little busy. There were a number of people strolling the sidewalks. There were many cars, some parked, but most flowing on the roads.
He made a left and drove another quarter of a mile before he reached his destination. It was an orange-hued brick building at the top of a small hill. There were four white pillars standing before the building’s front entrance, and concrete steps leading up the hill to it. Black parked on the street in front of the building and hiked up the hill to the side entrance.
The first thing he noticed as he entered were short bookshelves, about chest height. There was a bathroom, a play area for kids, and a front counter. Black spotted what he was looking for and began to walk towards it. On the other side of the building was an area with a few long tables. Resting on top of the tables were computers. There was practically no one in the area. Out of about sixteen computers, only two were being used. As Black approached the computer desk, he was intercepted by a middle-aged black woman.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the lady said with a slight smile, using her index finger to push her glasses up. “Can I help you find something?”
Black smiled. “No, just wanted to use the computer for a little while. Looking things up on a cell phone can be annoying.”
Her smile grew. “It can be annoying. Well, if you need anything, anything at all… just let me know.”
“Thank you.”
The lady walked away, looking back at Black a few times before walking into a room behind the front counter.
Black sat at the computer. He shook the mouse and was welcomed by a screen that read Grand Avenue Library. He opened up a browser and typed in the web address of a search engine. The first name he searched was Matt Toben. The top search result was the only relevant one, but it led him to a social media site that listed the profiles of many Matt Tobens. None of these look like the kid I saw at the pier, Black thought to himself as he looked through the profile pictures. He tried a second search: Ashley DHS. He got way too many results to wade through and knew his search wasn’t specific enough. He thought for a second before typing in a third search for Ashley Toben DHS. This time he found something useful. One of the top search results linked him to a website for the Department of Homeland Security, West Coast division. The top of the page read Customs and Border Protection Support and Threat Prevention Unit was listed beneath it.
There were pictures and names of three people on the page, along with a paragraph of information about each. The first was a black man with light brown skin. He was clean-shaven and sported a small fro and a smile on his face. Next to his picture was the name Jake Toben and the title “Lead Agent.” Black read his information. Seems like a stand-up guy, Black thought. The following picture was someone that Black had seen before—the brunette from the old pier. She stared at the camera with numb eyes and a hard smile. The name Ashley Chapp displayed next to her picture.
“Someone didn’t care for picture day,” Black whispered to himself.
The final picture was of a fair-skinned man with dark brown hair dressed into a classic fringe. He had glasses over his dazed eyes and his mouth was slightly open as if the camera caught him by surprise. Victor Boyar was his name.
Black reclined, folding his arms, looking intently at the screen. “Oh yeah. I almost forgot about her,” he mumbled, leaning towards the screen. He typed the name Johana and got nothing but some wiki and dictionary sites providing the origin and history of the name. The next couple searches were of the two cops he left on the Golden Gate Bridge, Nick Reeves and Kevin Guo. He didn’t find much more about either of them that he didn’t already know. One thing that stuck out was that Guo had a social media profile and on his page was a picture of him, Reeves, and one more guy whom Black had never seen before. The man had dark hair, an aquiline nose, and strong dimples. The three looked to be at some bar or casual social event.
Black relaxed into his thoughts, tapping his fingers against the desk, trying to connect all the dots. Still too many unanswered questions. Leaning forward again, he typed the shipping address he had seen on the box inside the storage unit. A link to a navigation site displayed. Black clicked it and was taken to a site that provided step-by-step directions and a map of the location. It was in Treasure Island. Black memorized the directions, closed the browser window, and restarted the computer. He stood from the table and walked to the same door he had entered.
“Have a good day, sir,” the librarian beamed, leaning over the counter and waving at him.
Black stopped, returned a smile, and continued out the door. He slid in his car and took 101 North to I-80 East. The highway ran into the Oakland Bay Bridge. The bridge was occupied by late afternoon traffic, but the sights were stunning. On the right was a breathtaking view across San Francisco Bay. On the left was a remarkable scene consisting of a large body of water, the ferry ports, and mountains. It was a beautiful portrait framed in steel trusses. He continued across the bridge, thumping over the bridge joints every few seconds.
When he reached Yerba Buena Isle, he took the exit for Treasure Island. He followed the road around the outside of the small isles. After a mile and a half of driving, he was invited into Treasure Island by some palm trees and a marina side by side with the Treasure Island Administration Building. He made a right at the next street past the Administration Building and drove a couple hundred feet before he heard his mental GPS system tell him he had reached his destination.
It was a large warehouse structure sitting behind the Administration Building. Unlike the latter, however, there was no name or sign revealing the identity or purpose of this building. It was surrounded by tall barbed wire fencing and there was a security hut at the front driveway. Black made a right turn off the road and slowly approached the security hut. Immediately a guard exited it and extended his arm, signaling for Black to stop. The guard was wearing a black cap, a black shirt, and camo fatigue pants. He carried an AR-15 in his hand and a firearm on his hip. Black also noticed that he was wearing an earpiece. Stepping to the driver’s side door, the guard motioned for Black to roll down his window.
“How can I help you, sir?” the guard asked.
“Is this where I go to apply for the government position?” Black played it off.
The guard shook his head. “No. You may want to try this building,” he said, pointing at the Administration Building. “Or the building here across the street,” he continued, throwing his thumb in the direction of the road.
“Oh. So this isn’t a government facility?”
“No, sir. This building is privately owned. Now if you go down—”
“What is it you guys do here?”
The guard shortened his stance, sighed heavily, and said, “We process and package seafood here, sir.”
Black nodded at the man’s rifle. “You guys must be packaging sharks with that kind of firepower,” he remarked.
The guard hunched his shoulder and cocked his head. “You never know,” he said, shaking his head.
“You’re right. You don’t.” Black responded, turning his attention to the windshield and pointing. “So, I go down here—”
“Yeah—yeah, so you go down and make a U at the circle roundabout,” the guard interrupted, rushing his words.
Black nodded, confirming he understood.
The guard stepped back from the car, pressing the small push-to-talk unit clipped to his shirt. “We have one turning around,” he said before releasing the unit.
Black rolled up his window and continued down the long driveway. He wanted to go to the end of the driveway and get a peek of the other side of the building but didn’t want to raise suspicion. He made a U-turn at the roundabout and noticed that the front entrance to the warehouse was behind a sliding gate. Through the metal diamond links of the gate, he spotted an armed guard. He was standing, holding his rifle, watching Black as he completed his circuit in the roundabout. Well, that makes at least two of them, Black thought, cruising back up the driveway, past the security hut, and making a right onto the road. He drove the length of the warehouse building, getting a lay of the land. Near the back corner of the building, inside the barbed wire fence, there was another armed guard. This guard turned the corner and walked the side of the building towards the front. “‘We process and package seafood.’ Yeah right,” Black whispered to himself, making a left into a parking lot before turning around and veering on the road in the direction he came.
He made a left at the Administration Building, followed by another left, entering the side parking lot. He found a spot and exited the car. The smell of freshly baked bread struck his nose. There was a sandwich shop attached to the Administration Building. Making note of the restaurant, he walked across the parking lot towards the marina. The scent of bread slowly disappeared as the smell of the ocean overtook the area. Black could hear splashing water, thumping on the deck, and screams of excitement and recreation. Docked at the marina were Jet Skis, small boats, and a few kayaks. On the deck were a couple of mounted binoculars for viewing the bay and a few people standing in swimwear and strapped in life vests. A sign that read Jet Ski and Kayak Rides and Rentals was nailed to one of the deck posts. There was a middle-aged man with a head full of brown hair on deck. He was wearing sunglasses, a white button-up, and red shorts. Fuzzy brown hair ran up his arms and legs. The man had a confident smile on his face as he handed out life vests and directed people to the Jet Skis and kayaks.
Black saw the warehouse with barbed wire fencing about one hundred yards out to his left. He creaked across the wooden deck towards one of the mounted binoculars, sliding through a crowd and feeling the dampness of their skin brush against his clothes as he stepped to the binoculars. He hunched over, looking into the eyepieces. At first, his view was across the water of Clipper Cove. He carefully adjusted the binoculars in the direction of the warehouse. It gave him a clear view of the side closest to the water. There was a small window and a door on that side of the building. Barbed wire fencing stood between the building and the water. Something interesting caught his attention. Part of the fencing near the bottom appeared to be split. No one noticed that, he thought to himself, continuing to watch for a few moments before standing straight and squinting at the building, then stooping down to the binoculars again. He watched for a couple more minutes and didn’t see a single guard on that side of the building the whole time. Hmm… No guards checking that side, he thought, standing back from the binoculars. He spotted the guy in the red shorts and was about to approach him, but he changed his mind after seeing that three other people had the same idea. Black shrugged and walked across the parking lot to the sandwich shop.
The inside of the restaurant was small and sparse with a few tables scattered around and a few pictures of San Francisco hanging from the walls. Besides Black, there were four other customers. Black made his way to the counter, where a tanned woman greeted him with a smile.
“Hiya, sir. What can I get ya?” she said in a British accent.
“Hi,” Black said, looking up at the menu board. “Ah… I’ll have your spinach salad with grilled chicken and a side of fruit.”
“Healthy eater, I see,” the lady said, brushing her blond hair behind her ear and typing at the register.
“For the most part. I may be staying up late tonight, so I don’t want anything too heavy.”
“Eat in or take away?”
“I’ll eat it here.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Just water.”
“Okay…”
The cashier gave Black his total and he handed her some cash.
“This warehouse behind you,” Black said, pointing his thumb to his right. “What is it?”
The woman looked up from the register, eyes partly closed, lips slightly pursed, and head cocked. “I think they’re a seafood packaging company or something,” she said, extending Black his change.
He waved for her to keep it, asking, “How long have they been there?”
The lady dropped the change into the register. “I don’t know, to be honest. Three years, maybe?” she answered. “They don’t receive many visitors outside of the shipments that come at night.”
“Shipments?”
“Yeah, every now and then they have trucks come in. I’m guessing it’s for supplies or the seafood they package.”
Yeah, I bet, Black thought. “What day do these trucks usually come?”
“You know what?” the woman said, closing the register and craning over the counter. “I don’t know if it’s ever on a specific day. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering. I don’t remember seeing the building the last time I was here is all.”
“Oh, okay. Well, is there anything else I can help ya with?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Alright, take a seat anywhere and I’ll bring your grub to you.”
“Thank you.”
“No bother.”
Black found a table in a corner of the restaurant and sat with his back facing the wall, giving him a clear view of the entire restaurant. He relaxed into his thoughts. Maybe I should just leave town, he thought, but remembered that it would make him look guilty. Not to mention there were a couple of terrorists fresh out of puberty running around the city. On top of it, he knew someone was looking to pin these bombings on him, and whoever it was had connections with law enforcement, considering his little run-in with Reeves and Guo.
Moments
later, the cashier came to the table and presented Black’s food. He ate and sat thinking for a little while before leaving the shop. Outside, the sun began to set and the evening darkness gradually coated the sky. Black walked back across the parking lot to the marina. The crowd of people and their screams of excitement had been replaced by seagulls and chirping. Black spotted the man in the red shorts and approached him. The guy was on the deck helping someone off one of the Jet Skis. He locked the Jet Ski to the dock, then faced Black.
“How are you doing?” he asked, smiling.
“I’m doing well. Thinking about renting one of these Jet Skis.”
The man looked Black up and down. “Where’s your swimwear?” he asked, chuckling.
“Won’t need it. I won’t be going too far.”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Okay, well, I’m locking up the Jet Skis. We don’t usually rent them out this close to dusk. You can rent one of those kayaks before I lock them up, though.”
Black took a look at the kayaks. “Okay, how much?”
“Twenty an hour. It’s getting late, so the longest I can rent it out will be one hour, and you’ll need to pay with a credit card since you don’t have a reservation. We’ve had a few things go missing, particularly a couple Jet Skis.”
“I see. That way if I don’t return the kayak, I get billed the price of it.”
“That’s right,” the guy said, smiling.
“Okay, how much do they run for?”
“Well, it depends,” the man said, stepping over to the kayaks. “We have some that’re three hundred” —he pointed to a dark grey kayak—“… and we have some that’re two thousand,” he continued, pointing at a slightly longer blue kayak.
Black pulled out his wallet, removing four crisp one hundred-dollar bills.
“I’ll take this grey one and a paddle.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Black was in Clipper Clove rocking over the waves in a kayak. It was night, but no lights were on at the warehouse building, yet. Black paddled to the area of the fence where he had seen the split earlier through the binoculars. He carefully rolled the kayak towards the shore, lightly knocking against the riprap stones, sending a trace of water splashing into the kayak.
