Hollywood Prisoner: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller (5 page)

I got up at three-thirty the next morning to make my flight. I used the key my friends had given me and took Bernie next door to spend the next few days with them. I then made the forty-five-minute drive to the small airport in Van Nuys the FBI used. My plane was deserted, except for the pilot and a steward, which gave me time to think about the events of the past few weeks.

I spent part of the flight remembering my near-death experience and the voice I now recalled hearing. The disembodied voice came back to me, repeating in my mind over and over.

You must choose between love and fear.

I now had no doubt what the message meant. My former partner Ted Grady’s theory about the world being divided between fear and love came back to me. The choices we make determine how we respond to the world. When we choose fear, we allow darkness and evil to enter our lives. Love, on the other hand, is the decision to choose compassion and understanding, even when there is loss.

Despite what Ted knew in his heart, he’d ultimately given into fear. He had taken his own life after ending the life of a man who had shown no remorse for shooting and killing his daughter. It was a heartbreaking end to a good man, and I didn’t know if I’d ever really gotten over losing him.

Even though the message I’d heard was similar to what Ted had said, I was sure that it wasn’t my former partner speaking to me. There was a remote possibility that the voice was that of my deceased father. My love-dad had come to me—at least I’d thought he’d come to me—after Ted’s death, consoling me and reaffirming what Ted had told me. My father had also reiterated an earlier message he’d given to me, telling me that, in life, we are the dance, not the dancer. He’d meant that we can’t control much of what happens to us because life is a dance that’s far bigger than our individual lives.

My father had also told me that music forms the dance, but it’s the silence between the notes that gives birth to the sound. There are times when we have to listen to the silence before we can hear the music. His message was that, in time, our feelings of grief and loss begin to fade and a gift is born into the world. He’d said that gift is the only thing that really exists. It’s called love.

The last few weeks had left me shattered, inconsolable with grief over the loss of Buck McCade. I’d felt so empty that I had planned to quit the job I love. But after my near-death experience, all that had changed. While I knew I still had more grieving ahead of me, I was ready to move on. As my plane touched down in Nashville, I was determined to honor the message I’d been given. I would choose love over fear, and the first part of that choice involved bringing my sister home.

Joe Dawson met me at the airport. The FBI agent was a big guy in his early forties, with sandy hair fading to gray, and the palest blue eyes I’d ever seen. He was as tough as they come when it came to finding justice for the victims of this world, something that I admired. We’d become close friends, bonding over our difficult cases and the commitment to find my sister.

We exchanged hugs, and Joe said, “I think you get better looking every time I see you, Buttercup.”

I’d let him take some liberties with the nickname he’d chosen for me. “I can honestly say the same thing about you. You look like you’ve lost a couple pounds.” I playfully punched his stomach. “You on the wagon, Dawson?”

He laughed. “Yeah, the beer wagon.” He waved a hand. “Let’s go. Greer and the others are waiting for us.”

A half hour later, Joe and I settled into a conference room at the temporary headquarters the FBI was using in Nashville, along with a dozen other FBI agents. There were also a couple civilian profilers present, some who I’d worked with on previous cases.

After introductions, John Greer, the supervising agent in charge, took over. Greer was a few years older than Joe, with a solid build, brown hair, and the requisite FBI issued dark suit. After some chit-chat and introductions, he told me where they stood on finding my sister.

“Lindsay’s with a group of about a half-dozen members of the Swarm on a farm outside the small town of Woodbury. We’ve had a confidential informant named Gerald Meyers embedded with the group for the past several weeks. He’s made affirmative contact with us on more than one occasion, telling us something big is about to happen.”

“What exactly does that mean?” I asked.

Joe, who I knew had been working directly with Meyers, answered. “He isn’t sure, but he thinks the group is planning on hitting a soft target.”

“I think they’re going to hit someplace where there are a large number of people gathered,” a civilian profiler named Jeremy Spender said. “My money’s on them hitting a political target.”

Spender was with a Boston based think-tank. He was knowledgeable, but his arrogance rubbed nearly everyone the wrong way, especially Joe, who took great delight in irritating him. “What kind of political target, Jerry?”

Spender, who had insisted on being called Dr. Spender, shot lasers at the big FBI agent. “If I knew that, I’d be a mind-reader.”

“I guess that means you’re just making shit up.”

“I don’t make shit up.”

“Sure you do, and it happens all the time. That’s why you’re always full of it.”

The two men went at one another for a couple minutes, with Spender whining about being disrespected.

Ben Wilson, the local agent in charge, changed the subject after Greer restored order. “The farm where the Swarm is gathered is owned by a man named Jenson Moore. He’s a wealthy investor who has made a small fortune in the overseas oil industry. There’s been some speculation he’s buying crude oil from terrorist organizations on the Syrian-Iraqi border.”

“Do we think he’s connected to the Swarm?” I asked.

“It’s an unknown,” Wilson said. The local agent was a powerfully built African-American man with a shaved head, who brought to mind a much younger version of Leo. “But the fact that Moore is allowing members of the Swarm to use his property is telling.”

“I think he’s just an opportunist,” Jeremy Spender said. “If he has ties to the Swarm, they’re ancillary, at best.”

“Give us a break,” Dawson said. “Moore’s dirty or he wouldn’t let a bunch of terrorists live with him.” He looked at Wilson. “What about the other members of the Swarm? Have any of them been ID’d?”

Wilson shook his head. “The group has been very effective at keeping their members off the radar. We haven’t been able to affirmatively tie anyone to the group.”

“What about my sister?” I said, looking at Greer. “Joe told me she’s been in touch and is working for us.”

“All communication has gone through Meyers,” Greer said. “He’s told us that Lindsay’s on our side, but we have nothing from her to confirm that.”

I tamped down my frustration. I’d believed, or maybe just hoped, that Lindsay had been able to communicate directly with the agents. It was possible that Gerald Meyers was making false statements to either serve his own ends or those of the Swarm. And, if that was happening, it meant my sister was in deep trouble.

Greer continued. “Here’s how we’re going to proceed. We have a warrant to search the compound that we’re going to serve tonight. We’re going in under the cover of darkness, hoping we can take those involved by surprise.” He looked at me. “Since you have a personal interest in this, you’ll be there in the capacity of a bystander only.”

I nodded, still trying to deal with my anxiety. “I understand.”

***

The farm where the Swarm had taken up residence was about an hour southeast of Nashville. I rode with Joe, following a convoy of undercover cars, including a couple trucks with tactical operations teams. The feds were also sending a couple helicopters, from nearby Arnold Air Force Base, with several additional agents.

As he drove, I updated Joe on the deaths of Collin Russell and Harlan Ryland, and told him about Harlee Ryland now being in control. “Harlee inherited all of her grandfather’s holdings, including his estate and the Tauist Retreat. She also told me that she and Noah Fraser were engaged before his death, and that her sole purpose now is retribution.”

Joe looked at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure, exactly, but I took it personally. I think she wants to stop any investigation into Russell’s and her grandfather’s role in embezzling funds from Wallace Studios and the killing of my adoptive father.”

“You think she means business?”

“I only met her briefly when she showed us that her grandfather has been put in a cryogenic state, but I think she’s serious.” I saw his questioning look. “The Tauists believe that in the future medical science will advance to the point of being able to revive the dead members of their religion.”

He smiled. “You ask me, somebody needs to pull the plug on the fridge.”

We chatted about Ryland and the Tauists for a few minutes before the discussion turned personal.

“How are you adjusting to returning to work?” Joe asked.

“Not bad for someone who died.” I laughed. “Maybe I should become a Tauist.”

“You’re going to need to explain that one to me.”

I took a few minutes, telling him about my near-death experience and hearing the voice about making a choice between fear and love. I ended by telling him, “All I know is that I came back to work to try and make a difference, and to continue to find justice for my dad.” I met his pale eyes. “I think that’s the love part of the equation.”

“Makes sense to me. As I’ve told you before, you’re a natural when it comes to police work.”

I brushed a hand through my wayward hair. “I just work hard at my job, but I appreciate you saying that.”

He then asked about Pearl, and I told him he was still missing. He thought about what I’d said for a minute, then told me, “I’ve got a feeling Pearl’s lying low for a reason. He’s going to surface one of these days and explain things.”

I chuckled. “That’s good, because there’s a lot of explaining…”

My words were cut off by John Greer’s voice coming over the radio. “All units be alert. Our choppers have a visual on the compound. It’s on fire!”

When Joe and I arrived at the farmhouse, it was fully engulfed in flames. The sprawling two story dwelling was in a rural area. By the time the fire department arrived, I knew there would be nothing left of the residence.

“What do you think?” I said, looking at Joe as the glow from the fire lit up his handsome features.

He glanced at me. “I think somebody tipped them off to our raid and they didn’t want to leave any evidence behind.” His gaze wandered over to the woods. I looked in that direction and saw the vague outline of an outbuilding in the darkness, maybe a storage shed. Joe began walking toward it. “Let’s check it out.”

As we walked over, I asked him, “Does our CI have any way of contacting us?”

“Meyers uses burner phones when he wants to communicate. There’s no way to track his location.”

When we got over to the building, I realized it was a workshop. A couple other agents had followed us, and we took a few minutes going through it, with our guns drawn, to make sure it was empty. After putting my gun away, I went over to a workbench. Instead of tools, the bench had about a half-dozen notebooks like you’d buy in an office supply store.

I asked Joe, “Do you think this is where they planned whatever they have in mind?”

“Maybe. Hard to say.”

I took a moment, thumbing through the notebooks. They were empty, like someone had purchased them but never used them. I was about to give up on finding anything when a folded piece of paper fell out of one of them.

I unfolded the paper and called over to Joe, “I think this might be some kind of message.”

Joe came over to me. “What does it say?”

I read the capital letters aloud. “SESL.” I looked at him. “What do you think it means?”

“I have no idea.” He called the other agents over and showed them the paper. “Either of you make any sense of this?” He got headshakes. He looked back at me. “Google it.”

I used my iPhone and did as he requested. After scrolling through the webpages, I said, “I just get a bunch of stuff about soil and environmental issues.”

Joe took the paper from me. “Let’s go ask the others, see if anyone knows what it means.”

We took the paper to John Greer. After explaining what we had, he asked the other agents to gather around as he showed them what I’d found. “It says SESL. Does this mean anything to anyone?”

A young Hispanic agent with a southern drawl spoke up. “It’s just a guess, but it might stand for the South East Soccer League.”

Greer took a step closer to him. “What can you tell me about it?”

“They’ve got about a dozen teams that play games in the southern states.” He scratched his jaw. “I think there might even be a game scheduled…”

“It’s in Memphis,” I said, reading what I’d pulled up on my phone. “Their team, the Southern Storm, is playing tonight at Western Arena.” I took a breath, looking up after reading some additional details. “The stadium holds twenty thousand people.”

By the time we left for the soccer stadium, it was less than an hour until the game was scheduled to begin. Joe and I managed to talk our way onto the helicopter carrying John Greer. The head of our taskforce called ahead, alerting the local police.

When the call ended, it was obvious he was frustrated. “They’re sending police units to the stadium to assist with the evacuation, but the game is sold out. It’s going to take some time.”

“What kind of security screening is done on the fans?” Joe asked.

“I got the impression it’s mainly checking bags and backpacks. It’s pretty minimal.”

“Has the media been alerted?” I asked.

Greer shook his head. “They don’t want to start a panic.”

“I’d rather have a panic than a bunch of dead fans,” Joe said. “Let’s send something out on social media.”

After some discussion, Greer authorized me to work on behalf of the FBI, alerting the media and putting out a general notice about security concerns, via Facebook and Twitter, asking that fans evacuate the stadium. We had no way of knowing if what I’d done had made a difference until we got to the arena. As we landed in the parking lot, I saw people were running from the stands. When the door to our chopper rumbled open, we heard the explosions coming from inside the stadium.

“They’re using suicide bombers,” Joe said, as we got to the stadium’s entrance and heard and saw multiple explosions. “They’re sending their people into wherever there’s a concentration of fans.”

By the time we got inside the stadium, I realized we were too late. I counted a half dozen explosions and saw that those who could get away were running from the areas where the bombs had been detonated. Several people were being crushed in the stampede.

I was making my way into the stands to try and assist the injured, when the panicked crowd surged in my direction, knocking me down. I was trying to get up and regain my bearings when a woman bent down to me. Even though I recognized her features, I knew it might be a hallucination brought on my stress. Then, all at once, I knew this wasn’t my mind playing tricks on me. I was looking into the face of my sister. She was wearing a scarf and had no makeup, but I had no doubt it was her. There were tears in her eyes as she pushed an envelope into my hands. An instant later, a man pulled her up by the arm and they disappeared into the crowd before I could respond.

I managed to get to my feet, frantically scanning the panicked crowd and calling out for Lindsay. After a few minutes I gave up, realizing she was gone, probably ushered away by the man who was with her. I stumbled away from the crowd, trying to put the chaos out of my mind. I took a moment, opening the envelope she’d given me. In the dim light at the recesses of the stadium, I managed to make out the message. It filled me with terror.

Another attack coming soon. Please stop them!