Far Gone (23 page)

“You have no way of knowing what sorts of communications are going back and forth?”

“Could be e-mails, Web surfing, whatever. But the log-in times raise some red flags.”

Andrea slumped against the wall, getting more depressed with every word. “How’s that?”

“Well, like I mentioned, this is a portable terminal. Picture a laser that beams up at the sky. It’s got to be outside and works best in clear weather conditions. I only caught two log-ins, both short, both around two in the morning. So whoever’s using it is only setting it up in the dark of the night and then putting it away, which means they could be paranoid about surveillance. Maybe they know the feds are watching them?”

“Maybe.” Andrea closed her eyes. She was running out of innocent explanations for all this. She was running out of
any
explanation that didn’t have Gavin involved in something truly horrific.

“The FBI techies need to step up their game,” Ben said. “This is a complex setup, not to mention expensive. We’re not talking about some guy covering his tracks because he’s cheating on his wife. When I see shit like this? It’s usually people involved in a child-porn ring, bank fraud, drug distribution. Without intercepting the actual transmissions, it’s hard to know for sure, but do you want to know what my Spidey sense is telling me?”

“What?”

“Whatever they’re up to out at that ranch, it isn’t good.”

♦

The inn’s fitness center consisted of only a treadmill and a weight bench, but Jon made good use of both before swinging into the lobby in search of coffee.

“Those biscuits just came out of the oven.”

He glanced up to see the front-desk clerk eyeing him.

“Thanks,” he said, putting a lid on his coffee. He thought about getting one for Andrea but decided against it. After spending an hour getting rid of all his pent-up energy, the last thing he needed was to see her sleepy-eyed face against the backdrop of a rumpled bed.

He grabbed a biscuit from the tray and nodded at the clerk as he slipped out. Andrea’s room was still dark. He neared his own door and heard the muffled sound of his cell. He hurried inside and grabbed it before it could go to voice mail.

“This is Pete McMurphy in Philadelphia. I got a message here?” Jon had never met the man, but judging from his voice, he had some years on the job.

“I hear you’re working the university bombing,” Jon said.

“The Julia Kirby case, yeah.”

So it was the “Julia Kirby case” now. After yesterday’s press conference, the media had latched onto the theory that an Al Qaeda cell had targeted the senator’s daughter as a political statement. Senator Kirby was on the Foreign Relations Committee, so speculation was running rampant about how that might have motivated a terrorist attack.

“Thanks for getting back to me.” Jon set his breakfast on the table and glanced at his watch. He had a plane to catch, but he needed this guy’s information. Everything he’d heard so far out of Philadelphia had been secondhand. “I’m on a task force down here looking into some antigovernment groups that might have had a beef against Senator Kirby.”

“I know.” So the guy had checked up on him. Jon was impressed.

“I wanted to see if you had any loose ends you haven’t followed up on. Stuff I might be able to check out on this end.”

Silence as McMurphy digested the question. It was touchy, because Jon was essentially accusing the task force of sloppy work. He muttered something Jon couldn’t hear. And then he said, “You know, when I saw your message, I almost didn’t call.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because so far, this case has brought me nothing but shit.”

“How do you mean?”

Another pause. Jon heard cellophane crackling and pictured the guy tapping out a fresh cigarette. “How long you got on the job?” McMurphy asked.

“Eight years.”

“I got nineteen. And a half, but who’s counting, right? And I’m probably gonna get canned over this thing, but I’ll tell you what. Reese can go fuck himself.”

Alan Reese was the associate director who’d given the press conference yesterday.

“And I’ll tell you something else: this case is radioactive. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“What did you think of yesterday’s arrests?” Jon asked, hoping to get specifics.

“The arrests were fine. Textbook. Judge signed off on everything. But it doesn’t matter, ’cause our evidence stinks. Videos, cell phones. We even been through the hard drives already. Word is, it’s thin. And some piece-of-shit civil-rights lawyer from Miami already signed these guys up. He’s gonna have a field day, this thing goes to trial.”

Jon heard him sucking in a drag.

“Another problem? I’m hearing rumblings out of the ME’s office. Something screwy about the autopsy.”

Jon scrounged up a pen and looked for something to write on. “The autopsy for Khalil Abbas? I thought we had positive ID.”

“We do. DNA checks out.”

There was a carryout menu on the table, and he started jotting notes as the agent talked.

“This is something else,” McMurphy said. “Don’t ask me what, because I got no idea, and from what I heard, the guy was blown to bits. But what’s left of him—the ME’s got an issue with something. He called in last night, said he had to do ‘additional testing.’ ”

Jon gripped his pen. Physical evidence was in question now. People could dismiss competing theories all day long, but concrete evidence was harder to ignore.

“Listen, what can you tell me about that bomb?” Jon asked. “I heard it was ammonium nitrate and racing fuel, but do they have any leads on where it came from?”

“Don’t know, but I can ask around. ATF’s all over it, so you know how that goes.”

He meant there was a turf war, which wasn’t surprising. It was conventional wisdom that any action by the FBI in a bombing case caused an equal and immediate reaction from the ATF. Maybe Jon could find someone over there who would talk to him.

“Hey, there’s one other thing,” McMurphy said. “Long as we’re tossing this around.”

Jon waited.

“These three suspects, they’re all with this mosque in Philadelphia. Couple days ago, we got a tip about a DOA who turned up about a block from the church. This is some homeless guy they found in an alley on trash day. Took the locals a while to ID him because he didn’t have a wallet or anything. Had to run his prints through AFIS.”

“This is near the mosque?”

“Yeah, only a block over. Apparently, that’s his stomping grounds. They posted the guy in Philly. Autopsy report shows a time of death consistent with the time of the bombing, give or take twelve hours. Maybe a coincidence? I don’t know.”

“Cause of death?”

“There’s the interesting part. Single shot to the forehead, downward trajectory, like maybe he was sitting in a doorway or something, and someone walked right up to him—
bam
. Could be he got hit by some thug who wanted his cash or his bottle. But how many street thugs you know who use hollow-point bullets?”

“That’s a little unusual.”

“No shit.”

“So you’re thinking what? This guy witnessed something go down at the mosque and got killed for it?”

“I don’t know. But someone should be asking questions about it, don’t you think? I’d say that’s a loose end, but far as I know, no one’s taken the time to look into it. I made a push yesterday, but the brass shut me down.”

“Why?”

“No idea. But I’ll let you know if I figure it out.”

Jon got off the phone and stared down at his scribbled notes. They wouldn’t make much sense to anyone else, but to him, they made one thing clear.

Despite all the spin out of Philadelphia, the task force didn’t have its case together. Jon suspected they knew it, too, which was why they’d sent a team down to cover the senator. If they were confident they’d neutralized the threat against him, they wouldn’t have bothered.

Jon needed to get back to Texas. He’d planned to take the nine thirty flight, but there was still time to make the eight fifteen. He crossed the patio to Andrea’s room, where a housekeeping cart was parked beside the door.

“Andrea?”

He stuck his head in and startled the maid who was stripping the bed. Jon glanced at the bathroom, but the door was wide open.

“The woman staying here,” he said. “Where is she?”

“Sorry?”

“The woman in this room.
La mujer
. Have you seen her?”

“
Sí
.” She nodded. “She took the taxi.”

chapter nineteen

SHAY KNELT IN THE
creek bed. He glanced at the range flag, then settled the bipod on the mound of sandbags and considered his shot. Moderate wind posed a challenge, but that was good. There was never a perfect moment, and he trained to be prepared.

He rested his face against the cheek piece, made his muscles relax, and filled his lungs with air. Then he looked through the scope and made adjustments for wind and gravity.

Another breath. Another heartbeat. He pulled the trigger.

A plastic drum exploded two hundred yards away. Ross stepped into his peripheral vision, and Shay shifted his earmuffs.

“You’re using the fifty?”

He glanced at Ross, then down at his weapon, a Steyr-Mannlicher HS .50. The Austrian-made rifle fired a .50 BMG cartridge that could penetrate armor and bulletproof glass. Human flesh was like butter.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Shay said.

Ross nodded. He was on board with this phase of the mission. Message Two had been delivered and now Ross was himself again—a soldier unafraid to kill in the line of duty.

Shay loaded another round, enjoying the smooth sound of the Austrian engineering at work. He lined up the shot. The second target was three hundred yards. He peered through the scope and got his head in the game. Took a deep breath.

Boom.

Another kill. He sat back and smiled as he hooked the earmuffs around his neck.

“So I went into town,” Ross said.

“Anyone see you?”

“Just the spic.”

“Whose phone did you use?”

“Deb’s at the gas station.”

Shay glanced at his watch. “And?”

“And I talked to my brother. We’re all set on that end.”

Shay stood up and shook out his stiff legs. He stretched his neck. He rested the gun on his shoulder, liking the weight of it. It was a world-class weapon, and he was glad to own it, especially since it was outlawed on the Left Coast.

Ross continued to stare at him. “So this is getting pretty intense. You really think it’s going to go down?”

“Yes.”

They climbed out of the creek and started trekking toward the house. He looked out over the land he now called home. In some ways, it was the same as his family’s—craggy ridges, weathered fence posts, dusty roads. But the old place had gnarled oaks and rich pastures, while this land was covered with cacti and thirsty scrub trees.

He thought of his mother in the nursing home, sitting in her chair, gumming her food like a baby, staring at the landscape for hours and hours without really seeing it.

He looked at the empty creek bed. Lost Creek. When he’d come here, it could have been called Lost Hope. But he’d found something here. He’d formulated his plan here, the plan that would redeem his family and send a message to those who would take away his property, his livelihood, his rights.

Message Three was coming.

“How do you know they’ll be there?”

He looked at Ross and slapped him on the shoulder. “Trust me, they’ll be there. I guarantee it.” Shay was confident, because he knew his enemy. And he knew his enemy, because he was disciplined. It all came back to training—an irony that wasn’t lost on him as he neared the zero hour.

They crossed a field, and a faint noise droned above as they ducked into the barn.

Ross checked his watch. “On time again.”

Shay smiled up at the cloudless sky. “Like clockwork.”

♦

Torres pulled up to the oil derrick and surveyed the line of vehicles. Two ICE pickups and two rental cars. The Lincoln would belong to Maxwell, which left the Taurus for the agents down from Philly.

A gray pickup zoomed up the road, trailed by a cloud of dust. North pulled up beside him and climbed out.

“How was Phoenix?”

“Fine.”

“Where’s Andrea?”

“No idea.” He slammed the door.

Hey, ho. Looked like North got the brush-off. Torres had been rooting for him, but apparently, he’d blown it.

“You met these guys yet?” North scowled at the vehicles.

“Nope. Santucci and Theilman. Word is, Santucci’s smart, Theilman’s an asshole.”

They entered the trailer and found everyone squeezed around the plywood table littered with coffee cups. A ravaged doughnut box sat in the center, with a few globs of jelly stuck to the lid.

Maxwell made the introductions. Special Agent Theilman was pale, pudgy, and balding, and Torres couldn’t imagine anyone less cut out for the Texas border region. Special Agent Santucci was thin, dark, and quiet. He didn’t say a word, just nodded from the end of the table.

Torres grabbed a seat while North hit the coffeepot.

“I think we should just pick him up, bring him in for questioning,” Theilman was telling Maxwell.

“He could take the Fifth and leave us with nothing,” Maxwell said. “And then he knows we’re on to him, so he goes home to destroy any evidence he has before we get a search warrant. We need more evidence than we have now before we confront him.”

“All due respect,” Theilman said, without any, “what
do
we have now? I been briefed twice since yesterday, and I gotta tell you, I’m not seeing it.”

“North?” Maxwell looked at him. “You want to bring our Philadelphia colleagues in on the latest?”

All eyes swung to North. Continuing with tradition, their SAC was letting him take the lead on this, just in case it fell apart.

North sat down and glanced around the table. “First off, we have surveillance footage showing Shay Hardin’s pickup truck parking at the El Paso Airport three days before the bombing.”