“He’s coming,” Braxton announced. “On the other side of the fence.”
We’d been watching the entrance road. Now we swiveled as one in the direction of the Bay. Behind a chain-link gate was a large flat lot the size of several football fields, separated from the beach by low mounds of sand. A path skirted the gate, allowing just enough room for a person to squeeze by, but not enough for a car. Trailing a cloud of dust, a brown Bronco was approaching fast.
We stepped out of our vehicle as the Bronco pulled up on the other side of the gate, swerving broadside to the fence to be poised for a quick departure. Sims yelled through the window over the noise of the engine. “Keep your men back! The car’s packed with C4. If I see anyone within a hundred yards, I’ll blow it!”
My ears were ringing, desperation surging through me like a narcotic. The need to do something was overwhelming. With a strangled cry, I surged forward, stumbling against the fence between us, straining for a glimpse of the car. Clearly, though, my family wasn’t there. Jeanie’s hand gripped my arm.
“Come on,” Braxton told him. “There’s no need for that. Where are they?”
Sims’s gun was pointed through the window toward me. “Send Maxwell over to me. We need to have some private words. If you do as I ask, he’ll be with his family within the hour. If not, he’ll never see them again.”
“You were supposed to have them here!” Braxton said.
It was impossible to tell whether his surprise was genuine or this sequence of events was prearranged, a piece of theater put on by two schemers.
Sims’s eyes shifted to the FBI agent, but the gun didn’t move. “Did I mention the C4? Half’s here with me. The other half’s with them. I’ve got it wired to a detonator and one of those cheap cell phones. It’s set to blow on a sixty-minute timer, running now. If the phone rings before then, the countdown stops. But of course, I can start it ticking again with a second call.
“When I’m free and clear, and I’m sure you’re keeping the promises you’re about to make, I’ll call the number and then send you their location. If I don’t get clear, it’ll be pretty fucking obvious where they are. Hell, you might even be able to see the blast from here.”
“That’s not what we agreed,” Braxton shouted.
“Too bad,” Sims said. “You’ll still get what you were promised. But I changed my mind. Maybe I don’t feel like doing the time after all.”
“If you think I’m handing you another hostage, you’re crazy. Maxwell stays with me.”
“You don’t have the leeway to negotiate this one, Agent Braxton. Maxwell needs to do exactly as I say.”
Braxton glanced at me. I nodded, and then, without further hesitation, slid through the gap in the fence. Sims leaned over and pushed open the passenger door, and I climbed in beside him, every muscle in my body pumped with blood.
Before the door had finished closing, the throttle roared and the tires spun, spitting gravel. Sims, leaning out the driver’s window as he drove, fired six quick shots at Braxton’s SUV. Though his aim was wild, at least three bullets struck home with metallic thunks. Then the Bronco was rocketing away, trailing a cloud of dust as we sped across the empty lot, with me struggling to keep from being thrown out the door.
“Now we go down together,” Sims yelled. “Or you and I can make a deal.”
I braced myself against the dashboard and looked back. In the dusty rear window I saw the Tahoe accelerate toward the gate, one tire flat. The two halves of the gate flew open with the collision, Braxton coming in pursuit.
The promised chopper, however, was nowhere in sight.
Sims floored the accelerator, opening the distance between us and our pursuers, a trio of SUVs now spread out across the dusty lot behind us as we raced toward the grandstands.
“How can I trust you when you just blew off the deal you made with Braxton?”
“That deal’s still in place. Don’t kid yourself—we’re surrounded. No way we’re busting out of here.” He seemed surprisingly relaxed, driving at sixty miles per hour over rough terrain. He glanced at me. “You didn’t think we were getting away, did you?”
“You’ve got to disarm the bomb.”
“I’m a man of my word. Once I’m in custody, I’ll make the call. But if the FBI gets trigger-happy, fucks it up …” He shrugged. “But that’s not what you and I need to be talking about.”
I waited. For a moment, steering required all of Sims’s attention. He swerved recklessly through the parking area at the main entrance, causing two cars to collide while people ran for cover in his wake. Laying on the horn, he had no choice but to slow. He swerved around a line of parked cars.
“My first thought when I grabbed your family was that you fucked me over, so they deserved to get wasted. Then when I calmed down, though, I started to see that you did what was asked. Not in the spirit of obedience, maybe, but you actually got her off a murder charge. That deserves respect.”
“If you think I can do the same for you, you’re wrong. You’re going back to prison.”
“Sure. Surrendering was Braxton’s idea, but it suits me. Don’t get me wrong, it needs to be a little more dramatic than Braxton wants. But despite what I said back there about not wanting to do the time, I’m no idiot. We all know this ends with me on the inside, calling the shots.”
“Alice is going to do what you want. She already fired me. As we speak, the new lawyer’s issuing a statement that the shooting had nothing to do with the AB. She’ll swear you were nowhere near the scene. We did our part.”
“The first part. You want to see your family again, you also have to understand that you’ll be working for me. I’ve got to hear you say these words. ‘I belong to Jack Sims and the Aryan Brotherhood.’ That’ll be your oath. You can never take it back.”
I felt cold. Angry tears welled in my eyes. “I don’t belong to anyone. I never did.”
“You belonged to Bo. Bo’s dead. I killed him. That means you’re my boy now.”
Clear now of the entrance and the parking lot, he continued from the roundabout at the front entrance of the racetrack at a mad speed onto Gilman Street, then followed the curve of the Bay, where a low breakwater was the only barrier between the pavement and the waves.
The road was bordered inland by a fence, with parked vehicles lined up on both shoulders. In the distance ahead, I saw two police cars with their lights flashing pull into position across the road.
“Why would you ever expect me to work for you after what you’ve done to my family?”
“You even hear what I’m saying? Haven’t you been paying attention? Braxton needs me. He understands that. A power vacuum’s no good for anyone. Until order’s restored, blood will continue to be shed. He’s always been a realist. I can offer him the same deal he had with Bo. He’s agreed to my conditions, so I’m giving myself up, going back in to fill the empty chair. In return for certain … benefits. I thought you were supposed to be a smart guy. I can’t believe you don’t see your part in the arrangement.”
“So you’re going to be his mole at the top of the organization.”
“Or he’ll be mine. I’ve got to get to the top first. Can’t do that out here. Once I’m inside, I’ll need Braxton’s assistance. He understands that. And he also understands that for me to solidify my position, I’m going to need a man with a clean sheet who’ll do what I tell him on the outside. What I’m saying is you won’t have to worry about the FBI.
“It’ll be different from how it was before. I’ll leave your brother out of it. Don’t need him. You’ll be making more money than you’ve ever made in your life, enough to rent yourself an office in one of those Embarcadero towers. Hell, I’ll send you plenty of legit clients. You and your family will be well paid for the inconvenience you’ve been through.”
The words and the offer they conveyed seemed to pain him in the delivery, but I guessed he was putting his bitter feelings aside for the higher cause of business.
My mouth was dry. �
��You call the deaths of my father and his wife an ‘inconvenience’?”
“I call any man an inconvenience when he stands in my way.”
“And if I say no?”
It seemed, for a moment, that Sims intended to ram the police cars. Then he braked, swerved, and accelerated into an opening that suddenly appeared on the left. The Bronco clipped a pair of vehicles, knocking them akimbo as it smashed through the valet line. Thrown against the door, I grabbed my seat belt and fastened it. Sims, securely strapped in behind the driver’s seat, sped through this gap toward an opening in the perimeter fence, not swerving for the attendant, who leaped out of the way.
“If you say no,” he continued, “then I surrender today without making a call, and a bomb goes off. I can probably live that down—it’ll be on the feds. Then, in a few months, after this trouble fades,
one of my guys will pay you a little visit. By then you’ll probably know just what you want to write in your suicide note.”
Row after row of low-roofed stables stretched behind the fence just ahead. Sims held the Bronco into a skidding turn through what must have been an employee parking lot, and, next, coming out of it, careened through a roundabout beneath the track’s official observation tower. Nearly rolling the vehicle again, he then wrenched the Bronco around this outpost into a 180-degree turn, a groom diving out of the way as another man shook a rake at Sims. Then he accelerated the Bronco into the stables proper.
“On the other hand, once you agree, your family becomes my family. I guarantee the harassment will stop. You’ll be under my protection. Keep in mind that they’ll know nothing. Not even your brother. As far as he and his wife and their little girl are concerned, you’ll be out.”
Between the stables, in a concrete space about as wide as a two-lane road, were a series of pedestals with tie-outs dangling from crossbars, allowing the horses freedom to walk in a circle while their keepers tended to them. Two horses were tied in this fashion directly in the Bronco’s path.
“Got to have a little fender bender now,” Sims said. “A little something for my boys to talk about, during those long nights after lights-out. Because no one respects a man who just gives himself up.”
I glanced over.
He was still talking. “How much you think that horse is worth? This is your last chance. Say the words.”
“I belong …” I began. But the words didn’t come. I knew that the lives of my family depended on my accepting the fate Sims offered, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Sims didn’t brake, didn’t slow. The first horse reared as he accelerated past it, a groom racing out to seize its bridle.
Sims’s gun was on the other side of him, wedged under his left ass cheek. My hand flew down and pressed the button to unbuckle his seat belt just in the instant before he struck the second horse across the midsection at forty miles per hour.
The vehicle skidded, plowing sideways into the stable. Dust rose from the half-collapsed structure. Sims, his seat belt off, was launched through the windshield, though not so forcefully as to eject him entirely from the car, perhaps because he was thrown against the horse, which had fallen kicking onto the hood.
The horse slid to the ground amid the wreckage, writhing as three men ran up to it. Sims was trapped in the windshield, his head twisted around at a strange angle, looking back at me through the shattered glass.
Behind us, the Tahoe pulled up, followed closely by the other vehicles. Still stunned by the impact, I touched my arms, my face. No blood, but I felt dazed, and my ribs hurt. I realized I was holding my breath, dreading the explosion Sims had threatened.
I stepped from the Bronco and walked around to Sims. He was conscious, a look of dawning panic in his eyes. “I can’t move my legs,” he said. “Can’t feel them.” Then, with sudden heat: “Bring the gun…. Do it.”
I realized what he wanted. An executioner’s bullet.
“Where’s the phone?” I asked him.
At my feet, the horse lay on its side, pink foam oozing from its nostrils, its chest heaving.
“My pocket.” His breath came in strangled gasps. “Please. Hurry.”
But Braxton was already there, stepping in front of me, keeping his gun trained on Sims, foreclosing any possibility of the mercy Sims had begged for. He bent and quickly frisked him, coming up with a flip phone. No detonator.
He tossed the phone to me. “Check the call history,” he said.
The phone was unlocked. I was able to view the call log, which listed three outgoing calls, all to the same number this morning. The first two calls were to test the switch, I guessed, the third to activate the timer after the bomb was armed. According to what Sims had told us earlier, another call would disarm it.
“Where are they?” Braxton asked Sims. “Teddy and Tamara and Carly. Tell me now.”
Several grooms had come out from the stable, looking on with horror at the fallen horse, Sims still lodged in the windshield, the FBI agent close to him.
“Just wait and you’ll find out,” Sims said, his voice low enough to draw me closer than I wanted to be to that piece of human wreckage. My thoughts of revenge were gone now. All I saw was a pathetic, destroyed man. “Or dial the number, see what happens. Maybe calling the number doesn’t stop the countdown. Could be it triggers the explosion.” His voice was hoarse. “One way to find out.”
Braxton stepped away as a California Highway Patrol cruiser and an ambulance rolled up. He held out his hand to take the phone from me and spoke the number into the radio. Behind him, the paramedics began examining Sims, talking to him in calm voices as they worked to immobilize his spine and extricate him from the windshield. Meanwhile, one of them was testing Sims’s extremities for sensation. “Looks like a cervical injury,” the paramedic said.
A white-coated man arrived and, in anguish, began to examine the horse.
Braxton had Sims’s flip phone in his hand. “We have a StingRay unit in the chopper. We can use that to trace the phone he called.”
I knew what a StingRay was from my criminal defense work. It was a surveillance tool commonly used by law enforcement that functioned by mimicking cell phone towers and forcing all cell phones in the area to connect to it, providing real-time tracking.
“The bird’s setting down on the infield in two minutes if you want to ride along.”
As we rode out onto the racetrack in the Tahoe, I heard the thump-thump of rotor blades and saw the chopper descending. The grandstands were filled with spectators, many of whom would have had at least a partial view of the scene that had just unfolded in the stable area.
Bending low beneath the wash, we ran to the copter. I found an empty seat and strapped myself in. An agent was in the copilot’s seat with a tablet computer on his knees. As soon as we were aboard, the chopper seemed to leap into the air, leaving my stomach and the rest of my internal organs down below.
Braxton handed me a headset. Putting it on, I immersed myself in operational cross-talk. Braxton had the cell phone in his hand, his sleeve pulled up above his watch. “It’s been twenty minutes since the first call,” he said. “He wasn’t lying about the explosives in the car: Just as he said, the Bronco was packed with C4. There’s no telling when he started the clock, or even if he’s telling the truth about a sixty-minute countdown, but we have to take his threat seriously. If we don’t pick up a signal within fifteen minutes, I’m going to ring the number.”
The chopper wheeled in wider and wider circles, pitching precipitously toward the ground, my stomach plunging with each turn as familiar landmarks whirled past in dizzying succession: Sather Tower at UC-Berkeley; Oakland’s Mormon temple, looking like a spacecraft readied for takeoff. The agent in the copilot’s seat shook his head, not bothering to voice the obvious.
The swooping loops of the helicopter brought on waves of nausea that seemed to block my breath. My eyes were only on the man in the copilot’s seat. The pilot soon abandoned his spirals outward from the track and flew northward, th
e engines roaring as the helicopter raced toward the Richmond-San Rafael bridge. We carved a wide inland turn and raced south again to Hayward, where, for the first time, the copilot reacted with attention and focus to the screen in his lap, signaling the direction the pilot must turn in.
We spiraled lower and lower, the pilot refining his course as the man with the StingRay directed him, while squad cars, lights flashing, raced to meet us, turning broadside to block vehicle traffic as the helicopter settled to a landing in the middle of a dirt-bordered street in the Hayward Flat. The copilot pointed out a once-pink bungalow.
Braxton donned a vest one of the officers offered him, and ordered the cops on the scene to cuff me and lock me in the back of a squad car if that’s what it took to keep me from following him. Then he disappeared through the weeds at the side of the house. A few seconds later the front door opened and Tamara appeared, my brother limping beside her. Braxton carried Carly, then set her down to run forward into my arms.
Learning the details of their plight would have to wait. Promising that I’d be with them shortly, I walked the perimeter of the crime scene until I found myself face-to-face with Braxton. Seeing me, he ducked under the tape and grabbed my arm, leading me down the residential street, away from the flashing lights and the onlookers.
He seemed to be waiting for me to thank him. “You were going to sell me out,” I said instead.
Braxton met the accusation with indifference. “Sims has got his life sentence. It’s a shame, in a way. But the truth is, he wouldn’t have lasted long at the top. He doesn’t have the brains that Wilder had—or the survival instinct.”
“He told me the arrangement you made with him. You offered me up.”
Again Braxton didn’t deny it. “He was going to kill you,” he countered. “And your family, too. All I did was convince him it was in his best interest to give that plan a second thought. Because of me, your family’s still alive.” He paused before going on. “And, anyway, he was going to need the help.”
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