by Chad Zunker
“What’s going on in there?” said JB at the door.
“Sorry, just dropped the soap bottle.”
“Hurry up.”
Natalie’s heart was racing. It was now or never. Holding both arms of the hoodie together like a climbing rope, she reached up with her right hand and pulled herself off the sink counter. She was dangling now, her arm muscles straining. She reached her left hand above her right, began lifting her body up through the ceiling, like she was climbing the gym rope back in middle school. She had to ascend only a few feet before she was able to grab the beam with her right hand. Then she pulled herself up completely out of the bathroom ceiling and sat on the beam. Swiveling her shoes out of the way, she replaced the ceiling tile. She set the hoodie and the dispenser on the beam and left them there. It was already a hot morning. She set a mental countdown clock. She figured she had two minutes before JB would show more concern. Maybe three minutes before he angrily burst through the door when she didn’t respond to him.
She studied the dark space. There were several big cracks in the warehouse walls, allowing just enough light through to help her maneuver around. Her eyes followed the beam over to the wall of the warehouse, where she noted it was attached to another steel beam—one that traveled the full width of the building. At the very end of the second beam, her eyes narrowed. Looked like a storage space with possibly a ladder. Like a gymnast on a balance beam, she quickly stood, held both arms out to her sides for balance, and then walked toward the wall. When she got there, she stepped over onto the second attached beam. She quickly put one foot after another, moved the full width of the building.
When she got to the end, she confirmed what she thought she’d seen from a distance. A makeshift plywood floor with stacks of boxes, and an opening with an attached metal ladder. She dropped to her knees, stuck her head down through the opening. It was an undeveloped front room with wooden crates stacked up against one wall. Natalie spotted the door to the outside. Her adrenaline kicked up a second notch. Behind her, she heard a muffled voice. She was sure it was JB, questioning her delay. Time was running out. She knew when she didn’t respond, he would bust the bathroom door wide open.
Then all hell would break loose. She had only seconds.
Grabbing on to the metal ladder, she began swiftly scaling down into the dusty warehouse room. She heard another outburst from JB, even louder this time, and then the sound of him pounding a fist on the bathroom door.
Natalie dropped to the dirty floor, raced for the door to the outside.
Another crash from the other room. JB had broken into the bathroom.
Natalie turned the door handle, pulled the door open. She peered both ways. To her left, a dirt parking lot and the front of the building, where she spotted the white van. Straight in front of her was a long dirt road that was probably the only way in and out of the property. And to her direct right, at about one hundred feet, a thick set of woods. Although she needed to follow the dirt road, she couldn’t go straight at it. JB would come outside and find her right away. She had to go the route of the woods.
More loud yelling behind her. Pushing away from the warehouse building, she sprinted toward the woods, saying a prayer that JB would not immediately step outside and spot her before she disappeared into the trees. If she could create some separation, she could make it out of there. The woods were a comfort zone—she camped every summer with her father and brothers. She knew she could find a track through the trees and make it back to the main road at some point. If she could get there.
Running at full speed, she was through tall grass now, the start of the tree line thirty feet ahead of her. Ten feet. Five feet. She hit the tree line like a sprinter crossing the finish line and kept moving deeper into them before she finally stopped, spun around, searched. She found a line of sight back toward the warehouse building; she could now see there were no other buildings on the property. The huge warehouse sat all alone, in the middle of nowhere, which was precisely why they’d chosen the place. Seconds later, JB exited the building and searched frantically in all directions. She ducked back behind a tree, slowly peeked out again. He was cursing and spinning every which way. Looking defeated, he finally pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, punched a button, and held it to his ear.
Natalie set a new mental timer. He was calling in the full gang. Turning, she stepped over fallen branches and ran even deeper into the woods—a safe distance from the dirt road but never fully losing sight of it. For the first time in twelve hours, she breathed a sigh of relief. She was free of the warehouse, free of her captors, free of that black hood, but now she had to somehow get back to DC.
And find Sam.
THIRTY-FOUR
Sam took his first nerve-racking steps off the plane in New Orleans. He hated being forced down a tunnel with no idea what awaited him—like a pig ushered toward the slaughterhouse. Was anyone waiting at the end for him? Federal agents? Mexican assassins? Drug-cartel mercenaries? It was a leap of faith to hope his new alias remained viable and no unwelcome greeters would be at the gate. He couldn’t be sure if the police search for him in Mexico would transition into a search for him in the United States. Did the two agencies cooperate with each other? Would Mexico drop its pursuit of him if they found out he was back inside the States? Not that Sam wanted anyone to know he was back. He’d prefer Agent Mendoza and the Mexican police still believe he was stuck inside Mexico.
Sam stepped into the clearing of the gate, paused briefly, and took a slow panoramic view of the many faces inside Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport. No men in trench coats. No Mexican assassins. No cartel mercenaries. He moved into the flow of people traffic, found an empty gate up the corridor, and tucked himself away into a quiet corner. He quickly pulled out his cell phone, put in the headphones, logged in to Leia’s Lounge. A few seconds later, Tommy was inside the video box on his phone screen. He noticed a collection of Red Bull cans scattered across Tommy’s desktop. Sam wasn’t the only one who’d gotten loaded with caffeine during the night.
“You made it?” Tommy asked.
“I made it. I’m here in New Orleans.”
Tommy smiled wide, looking pleased. “So, no trouble with the tunnel?”
“Trouble? Let’s just say there’s a pissed-off cartel looking for me and their stolen car. But, yes, I made it through their tunnel. I’ll give you the full story later, if I somehow survive this deal. You got anything for me?”
Tommy frowned. “Still no sign of Rich Hebbard. The man hasn’t used a credit card anywhere since last night. No cash withdrawals, either. And there’s been zero activity with his cell phone or e-mails. The guy just disappeared and hasn’t resurfaced yet.”
“He’s here somewhere. I’ve got to find him.”
“I did find out more about Lex Hester, Hebbard’s client who owns Arnstead Petroleum. He’s the man I initially connected to Francisco Zapata. Hester certainly is a guy capable of doing these heinous things. His hands drip with all sorts of corruption. There are rumors everywhere about bribes, extortion, backroom deals, and even murder.”
“Tell me more about him.”
“You ever read anything about the devastating hurricane that hit the Texas coast way back in the 1960s? Hurricane Carla?”
“Nope. Why?”
“That’s where Hester’s story starts.”
Tommy took a few minutes to explain about how Hurricane Carla hit the coast of Texas as a Category Four back in 1961. Killed about forty people. Between a quarter and half a million people were evacuated. At the time, it was the largest peacetime evacuation in US history. In Port Lavaca, a small town of probably about eight thousand at the time, there was a local legend about an eighteen-year-old kid, an orphan boy who was known to be a real hell-raiser, who refused to leave town with everyone else. The kid got a fishing boat, packed it with a cooler of beer, pushed it onto the beach, and sat there as the fierce winds and waves began to torture the empty town. When morning hit and local author
ities began searching the coast, they found the kid, still alive, and still inside his fishing boat. He’d tied himself to it with a thick rope. Only the boat was now more than two miles away from shore and planted on the roof of a three-story office building. They said when they climbed up, the kid just smiled at them and held up a beer.
“That was Lex Hester. After that, people around there began calling him Hurricane Lex. A shady local oil guy gave him a job to exploit the kid’s famous story. That same local oil guy ended up stabbed to death behind a bar a few years later. Most felt it was at Lex’s hands, although the police never made a case. By the time Lex is thirty, he’s bribed and extorted his way into owning his own small oil company worth five million dollars. Today, the company is worth hundreds of millions. Through the years, Hester will spend time in jail for extortion and corruption; at one point, he’s even tried and exonerated in court for the murder of a competing oilman. Hester got more involved in politics two decades ago, pouring tens of millions of dollars into secret PACs, playing both sides, and he began making a lot of new friends as well as enemies. Although he’s constantly under suspicion of stealing, bribing, bullying, and everything else in between, he’s gotten very rich in the process.”
Tommy concluded by saying, “One of those friends appears to be Senator Liddell from Alabama. I’ve found a ton tying the two men together.”
“Why does that matter?” asked Sam.
“Because Senator Liddell is also directly connected to Francisco Zapata. I actually have a photo of the three men together—Hester, Zapata, and Liddell, all looking quite chummy.”
“What’s the connection among the three?”
“I have a theory, but I can’t substantiate anything yet.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“There’s a very lucrative deepwater government-oil auction scheduled for this coming September in Mexico. Ten blocks in the Gulf of Mexico worth an estimated ten billion dollars. It’s a huge opportunity potentially worth over forty billion to Mexico in the long run. Apparently, Senator Liddell has played a significant role in negotiating opportunities for certain US oil companies, one of which is Hester’s Arnstead Petroleum. For Mexico, Francisco Zapata seems to carry equal political clout when it comes to oil exploration. As I mentioned before, there are a lot of stories out there involving potential corruption with Zapata.”
“So you think they were all working together on some secret deal?”
“I can’t prove it yet. But I have travel records for Senator Liddell, who’s been down to Mexico City six times in just the past year. Get this, Duke: all six times the senator has stayed in the exact same hotel as Francisco Zapata. While I can’t confirm they were directly meeting, I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
Sam was starting to put it all together. “So Hebbard and Hawkins were representing Hester in this deal with Liddell, Hester, and Zapata. Then something happened, and both lawyers wanted out? But they couldn’t just walk away? Hawkins mentioned to me that people had already been killed on this deal. So they were looking to turn to the government and seek witness protection. Zapata got to Hawkins yesterday, and now Zapata and Hester are on the hunt for the final key player: Rich Hebbard?”
“That’s my working theory.”
Sam sighed. “And somehow I managed to get caught in the middle of it.”
“Just bad luck, man.”
Sam knew there was much more to it. Unable to say the words out loud, he withheld the prospect of Rich Hebbard being his father from Tommy. He also thought back to Hawkins’s empty briefcase—something that continued to baffle him. Why was it empty? Had someone already stolen what was inside? Had Hawkins lost his mind? There was still so much about this ordeal that didn’t sit right with him.
“I’ve got to find Hebbard,” declared Sam.
“I’ve got my antennas up.”
THIRTY-FIVE
After finishing a four-mile run on the treadmill in the FBI gym, Lloyd met up with Epps inside Krieger’s tech lab. Lloyd didn’t even bother changing; he just came up in his running shorts and T-shirt, sweat still dripping. Epps said it was urgent. The tech lab had six computer stations that all faced a giant screen. Lloyd always marveled at the fact that all six agents in the room, including Krieger, had not even turned thirty yet. They were just kids. Hell, most were still in diapers when Lloyd first joined the Bureau. Yet these pimple-faced agents had quickly become the most valuable members of his growing team.
Epps and Krieger were already involved in an animated discussion.
“What do you got?” Lloyd asked, stepping into their huddle.
Epps turned to the giant screen. “We think we’ve got Callahan.”
“How?”
“I’ll let Krieger explain.”
Krieger adjusted his glasses. “Sir, we took the airport-security video of Callahan from Mexico City last night and ran it through a full analysis with our facial-recognition program. Then we tapped into security video from over a hundred different points in Mexico City, as well as all along the southern part of the United States. Basically, anywhere we thought Callahan might show. Airports, train depots, bus stations, and all border crossings. We got a legitimate hit on him ten minutes ago.”
“Where?” asked Lloyd, perking up.
“New Orleans,” Epps replied, pointing at the screen.
Krieger punched a button on the computer directly in front of him, and airport-security video appeared in the center of the giant screen. A man was walking down the main corridor wearing a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and what looked like a Dallas Cowboys cap on his head. He held a black backpack over his shoulder. Krieger paused it, enhanced the video to show a clear and up-close image of the man’s face. Lloyd had to admit it looked a hell of a lot like the same guy in the airport video from last night.
“How sure are you, Krieger?” Lloyd asked.
“Sheila says ninety-four percent.”
“Sheila?” Lloyd questioned.
“Sorry, sir, that’s what we call the facial-recognition program.”
“Ninety-four percent is really solid,” Epps mentioned.
Krieger nodded. “Sheila has never registered anything over ninety-six percent. It’s about as sure as it gets in this situation.”
Lloyd’s head was spinning. “We still think the Gray Wolf is in New Orleans as well?”
“All signs point to it, Chief,” Epps confirmed.
Lloyd sighed, cursed. “Okay, Mike, call Mitch and have them get the jet ready. We’re going to New Orleans. And send all of this to the New Orleans office ASAP.”
“Yes, sir,” Epps said.
THIRTY-SIX
Natalie stayed off the dirt road, instead fleeing through ditches, woods, and farmland. She did all of it within eyesight of the road, knowing it had to eventually spill her out somewhere more prominent. Twice, she had to duck away behind trees—once when the white van sped up quickly behind her, JB behind the steering wheel, and then again, just now, when the white van raced back in her direction. Her heart had flooded with adrenaline when the white van skidded to a stop not fifty yards from her, dust circling up behind it. JB jumped out and began searching the woods in her direction. Natalie was on the ground, chest down, just barely peeking out from behind a tree. She could feel the rapid thumping of her heartbeat in her chest. JB’s eyes slowly peered over her and then farther down into the woods. Frustrated, he climbed back into the white van and spun the wheels. The van moved down the dirt road, back toward the warehouse.
When the van was out of sight, Natalie was up and sprinting again. Fortunately, she was a conditioned runner, so long distances were nothing to her—although she didn’t usually run at this fast a clip, and certainly not while jumping over tree branches and stepping through mud. Her familiarity with running allowed her to keep track of her overall distance traveled. She thought she was about two miles away from the warehouse already when the winding dirt road finally met up with a paved road. She stepped into the middle of the main road
, panting heavily, not sure whether to head right or left. No cars could be seen in either direction. There were no road markers that gave her any indication of her current whereabouts, so she chose left. She stayed on the pavement this time, as the running was much easier, and she felt she had enough of a view in all directions to see if a car was approaching.
A mile down the paved road, Natalie spotted an old farm truck that was parked at the head of a long dirt drive. An old man in denim coveralls worked on a white wooden fence and hammered a new board into place. She was out of breath when she rushed up to him. He turned, startled by her sudden appearance. He looked to be in his seventies, trim of build, with a thick white mustache and a tan weathered face. He immediately reminded her of what her own father might well look like in ten years. Rugged but healthy.
“I need help,” she exclaimed, trying to catch her breath.
“What’s wrong, miss?” he said, looking genuinely concerned.
“I need to call the police. Do you have a phone?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t carry a cell phone with me. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“I will be if I don’t get to the police right away.”
The old man stood straight, wiped his hands on a towel. “Well, the police station is just up the road from here a few miles. I can certainly drive you there, if you want.”
“Yes, please!” she begged. “Thank you.”
She jumped into the front seat of the farm truck as the man climbed behind the wheel. He turned the key in the ignition, and the truck sputtered to a start. Natalie glanced in the rearview mirror at the street behind them. Still no sign of JB and the white van. She exhaled. The old man pulled out onto the paved road.