Did they know about Gracie? Did they care?
41
The cold April night’s wind blew off Lake Michigan into Soldier’s Field, sending a chill through Mack’s bones. The sky was filled with thick, dirty-looking clouds. It could pour at any moment.
Mack walked over to the spot from which the assassin had executed Heather Wright and Loretta Rains. TJ was there, squatting, scrutinizing every detail.
“Look at how far a shot it is to the McCormick Place parking lot,” Mack said, gazing outward.
“My guess is a thousand yards,” TJ replied.
Mack shook his head. “It’s insane. I was number one shot at the Academy, and I couldn’t hit a garbage can lid at this distance but two out of ten tries.”
“This joker hit two hearts in three shots, then fired an RPG 100 yards past it’s self-destruct range and bulls-eyed a van. Who is this guy?”
Moretto walked up beside Mack and looked at him sidelong. “This wasn’t some pissed off anti-liberal. This was a professional.”
TJ nodded. “What do you think, big man? Do we have anything here?”
Moretto leaned up against the cement wall that rimmed the top ledge of the stadium. He ran the hand holding his cigarette along the coarse, weathered surface of the ledge, then pointed. “Here. Right here is where he propped his sniper rifle on a stand.”
“How do you know that?” Caroline asked as she walked over.
“Look. There are fresh marks here from its legs. They’re exactly eight inches apart.” Moretto scuffed the cement with his thumb.
“It’s strange he left the rocket launcher behind.” TJ looked at the pictures the Chicago P.D. had provided of the shoulder-launched weapon found at the crime scene.
“Too much to leave the scene with, quick and quiet.” Moretto took a drag of his cigarette. “Any prints found on the rocket launcher?”
TJ flipped quickly though the report. “Nope.”
Caroline piped up, “He probably left the launcher behind because it was a one-shot. When illegally acquired, it’s hard to get them with more than a single rocket.”
Moretto shot Caroline a quizzical look. “TJ, did ballistics give us anything yet?”
“I’ll check my emails.” TJ pulled out his smart phone.
“How does it feel to be playing with the big boys?” Moretto asked Caroline.
“I’ll let you know when I find them,” she replied.
“Listen to this.” TJ read aloud from his smart phone: “The rounds recovered were 7N14, a type of bullet developed in Russia in 1999 to replace the 7N1—whatever that is. The 7N14 has a lead-jacketed projectile with an air pocket, steel core, and a lead knocker in the base for maximum terminal effect. This bullet was developed specifically for the Dragunov sniper rifle, or SVD. The SVD was designed by the Russian military and has a maximum range of 1300 meters.”
“Wow, that’s heavy. Maybe KGB?” Moretto took another drag.
“Could be—considering this guy’s skill, high-level military training is likely,” TJ responded.
Mack noticed a couple of sunflower seeds on the floor, and bent down to pick them up. He turned a couple over in his palm, then put his palm to his nose and sniffed. He stood up, his fist full of shells. “I’ll bet he’s not KGB.”
Mack opened his palm for everyone to see. He took one and snapped the shell in half—it made a crisp, cracking sound.
“Hear that? This shell would have been as soft as butter if it was here from the last sporting event. These were eaten by the killer.” Mack held the shells up to his nose and took a deep sniff.
“What are you, a hound dog?” Moretto chuckled. “Gonna pick up his scent?”
My guess is that he’s Hispanic, not Russian.”
Moretto lifted an eyebrow at TJ.
“Here,” said Mack, holding the seed under Moretto’s nose. “What’s that smell like?”
“Meatballs,” TJ said with a laugh.
Moretto laughed as well, saying, “I know a great Italian place on Division Street.”
“I’m guessing you eat there often,” Caroline quipped.
“It’s got some type of heat to it,” Moretto concluded.
“Exactly—hot pepper or Tabasco,” Mack said.
“Okay,” said Moretto. “So what?”
“When I played baseball, we had this guy Angel, from the Dominican, on our team. He would pour Tabasco into his bag of seeds, shake it, then let it dry into the shell overnight.”
TJ bent down to examine one of the thirty or so seed shells scattered in a ten-foot radius. “I like Tabasco, too, there, Mack. And sriracha. Your profiling needs work.”
“Still, these might lead us to something.” Moretto pulled out a plastic bag and a pair of tweezers and handed them to Caroline. “Here. It’s time to play detective.”
She accepted the job grudgingly.
TJ nodded. “Right. We should be able to get the killer’s DNA from the saliva in the seeds.”
“It’s starting to rain.” Caroline said, rushing to collect the remaining shells. “Got them all.”
“Good job—you saved the case,” Moretto said. “Folks, you heard the man. Be on the lookout for a killer tree squirrel with a taste for Mexican.”
A low crack of thunder rolled out over lake Michigan, and the clouds unleashed a downpour.
42
Mack and Caroline ran through the obstacle course of the parking lot’s dark puddles.
Mack opened the door for Caroline and then sprinted to the other side as the wind-driven rain spattered against him. He dived in and closed the door.
“I’m soaked,” she laughed.
Mack could see that. Her wet blouse accentuated her breasts. He hastily looked away and started the car. The radio came on, blaring out an advertisement for male enhancement. Distracted and a little embarrassed, he backed out of the parking spot.
“Mack, put on your wipers.”
“That would help, wouldn’t it?” Mack fumbled around the steering column, then stopped the car. “I promise that as soon as I find them, I’ll do it.”
The rain slapped heavily against the windshield. Mack looked in vain for the wipers. He grew increasingly frustrated until Caroline said, “Let me see.”
She then proceeded to lean over Mack, her body pressing up against him as she reached over to the left side of the steering wheel. “Here they are, right here.”
As she rose off Mack’s body, she paused, caught by his stare. The pause, silent, tense, expectant, was almost palpable.
A car horn blared behind them. The startling noise killed the moment, and Caroline quickly returned to her seat.
As Mack drove, Caroline thumbed through the case files. They took turns sneaking awkward glances at each other.
Mack sneaked a peek, but then saw the photo of the rocket launcher, which triggered an idea. “Remember that case study we did several months ago on the weapons tracking program?”
Caroline pulled the photo out of the file to take a closer look. “That’s right—I’m almost positive this was one of the launchers in the program.”
Mack called TJ’s number. “TJ, it’s Mack. We found something.”
“What’s up?” TJ replied.
“We think that rocket launcher was part of a U.S. Army weapons tracking program.”
“Our assassin would have scratched out the serial number,” TJ rebutted.
“That’s just it—the program was implemented to hide a set of serial numbers. A second set is concealed in the spotting rifle cartridge.”
“Sounds like something, then. Good work.”
“Great. Caroline and I will follow up on this first thing tomorrow.”
43
Mason had spent all evening in his BC Electronics office watching video footage, and though it was past midnight, he was enjoying it. Investigating this mysterious man who had bought the phone from his store made him feel like a spy. That the man
had been wearing a watch that cost about $900,000 only made it more interesting.
He had found the man’s car and looked up the plates—the car was registered to Ted Jones. Mason couldn’t wait to tell this to Mack, but he knew getting more information on this Jones character would only help.
He wondered after more searching if he had found the right Jones—looking up this Jones’ home address on Zillow suggested the house’s value was only $230,000. Why would someone wearing one of the most expensive watches known to man live in a modest, three-bedroom house? The more he dug into this Ted Jones, the questions—and not answers—began to pile up.
Finally, he found something. He picked up the phone to call Mack, not noticing the figure walking past the store video camera.
Mason got Mack’s voicemail. “Hey Mack. I found the guy you’re looking for, and you’re not going to believe this, but …” Mason suddenly spied the man in the live feed. “How the hell...?” Mason said to himself, hanging up the phone. He grabbed his nickel-plated 9mm out of his desk drawer and walked out into the main area of the store.
“Store’s closed,” Mason said, holding the pistol behind his back.
“Phil Utah, DEA,” said the man, flashing his badge with a black-gloved hand. “Got a call in to follow up with you on a lead you might have.”
Mason instantly relaxed, and said jokingly, “Utah, give me two!”
Utah cracked a smile. “Never heard that one before.”
“DEA? Who sent you?” Mason asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Mack Maddox. Ever hear of him?”
“I was just calling Mack. You’re not going to believe what I found out about this guy buying that burner phone. Come here.” He motioned for Utah to follow him into the back office.
In the office, Mason sat in his chair with his back to Utah and pulled up the information.
“What did Mack say?” Utah asked.
Mason pounded away at his computer. “I didn’t get to speak to him yet.” He said. “Okay, here it is—I think it’s a smoking gun, I found a picture of Ted Jones at a campaign fundraiser with Congressman John Tid—”
“Sorry, son,” said Phil Utah with a sigh, dismantling the still-smoldering silencer from the gun barrel. “Sometimes, wrong place, wrong time.”
44
Steven Vorg pumped his fists with each powerful stride as he surged up the mountain. A two-humped peak, it rose imposingly above the multimillion-dollar homes that cluttered Paradise Valley, Arizona.
Sweat clung to his forehead. The jog was taking a lot out of him, despite the cool morning air. Taking deep breaths, he mentally recapped the previous day’s meeting with a startup’s CEO who was asking him to invest a quarter of a billion dollars in their company. Vorg took immense pride in being America’s most sought-after venture capitalist. His twenty-six-year track record of growing some of the most successful startup companies in the world meant investors would follow him wherever he put his capital. The startup knew that, too.
He was high enough up the mountainside that the bottom half of the sun had cleared the horizon. He grinned as the warm rays bounced off the shiny retractable dome roof of his most prized possession: the stadium where his professional baseball team played. Seeing it always reminded him of that day twenty-six years ago when he had walked into a startup communications company with only seven employees and had made his very first venture capital investment. Today, that company had over 90,000 employees and was one of the largest communication conglomerates in the world. It had earned him billions.
Bic waited for Vorg behind a large boulder, stealing furtive glances from his position to spot the target. As Vorg’s turn-around point at the top of his jog, it was the best time to ambush him when he stopped there to catch his breath before making his descent down the mountain.
Peering again through his binoculars, Bic spotted the cheerfully focused jogger. He crawled backward, concealing himself in a crouch behind the boulder. Several seconds passed before he heard Vorg’s heavy breathing on the other side of the rock.
Bic made his way silently around the rock until he stood just behind Vorg. The venture capitalist was breathing so heavily, he didn’t sense Bic.
“Do you know why I’m here?” Bic asked him.
Vorg turned, his eyes wide, to see Bic and the silenced Beretta pointed at his chest. Bic stood patiently, waiting for an answer. In his left hand he held the five-gallon white bucket bearing the hazmat warning. On top of the lid lay a roll of gray duct tape.
Bic wouldn’t let Vorg see his eyes—yet. That was for when it was time for the man to die.
As Bic stared at him silently, he grinned slightly. This gave Vorg a modicum of courage.
“What do you want from me?” Vorg said pugnaciously. “Money?”
Big nodded. “I need you to wire $300,000 to an off-shore account.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
Bic put down the bucket. “That’s the amount I want. That’s what I need. It’s nothing for a guy like you.”
Vorg thought for a moment. “I can manage that amount, but I can’t do it here.”
“Yes, you can.” He pulled out a cell phone from his shirt pocket. “You’re going to do it right here. But first, I need you to put this tape around your feet.” Bic picked up the roll of duct tape and extended it to the sweaty entrepreneur.
“Why?”
“Insurance,” said Bic. “I don’t want to have to worry about you trying to run and calling 911, or something crazy like that.”
Vorg grabbed the roll of tape.
“Make sure you tape your shoes together tight.”
Vorg sat in the sand and taped his feet together.
“Good. Now pull up your socks and tape your ankles together.”
“Aren’t my shoes good enough?”
“No.”
Vorg clenched his teeth in frustration, but he complied. He rose unsteadily.
“Alright, now turn and put your hands against the rock.”
With a muttered curse, Vorg hopped a couple of feet to the boulder, falling onto the stone as he put his hands up against it. “I want to make sure you understood me—I can get you the money.”
Bic grabbed the bucket and walked up behind him. With the rock on one side and Bic on the other, Vorg was pinned. A thump came from inside the white bucket as Bic placed it on the ground.
“What the hell’s in the bucket?”
Bic jammed the barrel of the gun in his back. “Look forward at the rock.”
“I thought you wanted money. What the hell’s in the bucket?”
“That’s right. All I want is money,” Bic said, as he peeled the plastic lid off the bucket and dumped two large diamondback rattlesnakes at Vorg’s feet. With Bic holding the bucket on one side, and Vorg and the boulder on the other, the snakes had nowhere to go and were instantly agitated.
45
Mack pulled out his pistol and aimed it at his reflection, ready to fire. He smiled as he checked himself out in the full-length mirror, naked except for his boxer briefs. Serious as he swung the gun from right to left, flexing his biceps and abs and admiring their well-developed tone. We’re going to see some serious action soon—you need to be ready for anything. Faster, stronger, smarter, he thought.
It was 6:30 AM in his Chicago hotel room. Mack usually slept until at least his second wake-up call, but he had a sixth sense of excitement about today. For the first time in a while, he didn’t regret his decision to become an agent, to reject a career in finance, making the big bucks, the same way he would have in baseball.
Mack sat in the desk chair and grabbed his phone. He knew he couldn’t call Mason yet—it was way too early in California—so he texted him: ‘Hey Mason, sorry I missed your call last night. Call me when you get up. Mack.’
Mack picked up his complimentary copy of the Wall Street Journal that the concierge had left by the door that morning. A story regarding the tragic death o
f Larry Tukenson segued into a column on double taxation of the wealthy. According to the author, it was downright unconstitutional for any American to have to pay estate taxes to the government. Mack, a capitalist at heart, agreed.
Then he saw the amount of the tax and whistled aloud. “You’ve gotta be kidding me—the government gets over twenty-seven billion from his estate? That really should be illegal,” he said, tossing the paper down in disgust.
46
The snakes rattled as they coiled.
Vorg remained stiff, his breathing coming in hitches.
Bic held his ground with the bucket.
The rattling intensified.
Vorg turned his head ever so slightly and looked at the two snakes, both within striking distance. “What kind of sick game is this?”
With the slow grace of a dancer, Bic stood up from his crouched position and begun to unwrap the pork chop wrapped in wax paper.
Bic took off his glasses. “Look at me.”
As Vorg did so, Bic mouthed the words, “It’s pork chop-eatin’ time,” and tossed the thing at Vorg’s feet.
The sudden movement set the snakes into a striking frenzy. Vorg screamed and thrashed as the rattlers repeatedly launched their thick heads towards his ankles and legs, thrusting their fangs into his flesh.
Vorg tried to hop away but lost his balance and fell to the sand. He curled into a ball, shielding his face with his arms. One of the snakes became disinterested and slithered off. The other, still shaking its rattle, remained coiled just two feet from Vorg’s head.
In desperation, Vorg hopped up on his hands and knees. The snake sprung forward and struck him in the neck. The snake then coiled again for another strike. Not wanting any more bites on Vorg’s upper body, Bic moved toward the snake. It reacted with a vicious strike at Bic, who deftly swung the bucket at it. With a loud hollow thump, the stunned snake flew several feet, where it quickly slithered away.
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