As they turned onto the famous Strip, Rory reluctantly looked out of his car window at the buildings, all familiar again and nothing like his dream; it was the same Las Vegas, and Rory felt weirdly disappointed.
A little seedier perhaps, Rory acknowledged, surveying the slightly worn exteriors of the shops and restaurants. Of course, it had been ten years since he had last visited.
The casino hotel resorts seemed inexplicably less shiny, less colorful. Perhaps it was the cloudy sky, which cast a gray pall on everything.
But Rory couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that it was something more, and with dread for the future, he desperately wished he could return to the past, could go back in time and return to his tedious job, his lonely apartment, his boring hometown, his “normal” albeit lackluster life.
He saw a dirty, scrawny man holding a brown cardboard sign. They were stopped at a traffic light, so Rory decided to read the sign. He could just make out the words scrawled in black: “The end is near—be a sheep, not a goat. Matthew 25.”
Rory wondered what the sign meant. He vaguely remembered some New Testament story about Jesus separating the sheep from the goats, something about the goats asking Jesus, “Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?”
The light turned green, and Rory glanced up from the sign and felt a sharp pain in his chest as he found himself staring into the rheumy gray eyes of the old beggar. Just as quickly, he lost sight of the man when the car turned a corner and pulled up in front of the Las Vegas Police Department.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rory sat in the ten-foot-square interrogation room, which was bare except for a small table and two metal folding chairs. He was waiting for … what? He wasn’t quite sure. At least they had removed the handcuffs. Rory rubbed his sore wrists.
His bleach burns had healed, although his skin would be forever scarred with white patches.
Now he sat, still a prisoner held captive for an alleged crime he wasn’t even sure how to define.
A burly white man with a black mustache and heavy black eyebrows lumbered in. He was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and an FBI baseball cap. He sported tattooed “sleeves” on both of his arms. He looks like some Wrestlemania fighter, Rory thought. Well, if they’re planning to intimidate me, they chose the right guy. The hulk flipped open his wallet-sized credential case, flashed his FBI identification and badge, then sat across the table from Rory, who made quick eye contact and then looked down. This is absolutely crazy, was all Rory could run through his mind as the agent stared at him with his black beady eyes.
“Mr. Justice.” It came out as a statement in a gravelly voice that completely matched its owner. “I’m FBI Special Agent Mark Glover. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Agent Glover fired questions at Rory for nearly two hours, his voice starting softly and slowly, then rising in a rapid, rough staccato while he paced, circling Rory like a tiger eyeing its prey.
Rory answered each question, recounting his story.
“So what do you know about the nuclear event your dad was warning Sheriff Dade about?” Agent Glover sat down at the hard, metal table directly across from Rory.
“Nothing, really, just that it’s going to happen.”
Mark Glover leaned across the table, his huge bicep muscles taut, his intense face just inches away from Rory’s. He squinted his eyes warily. His voice was barely above a whisper. “C’mon, Rory, you have to know something. Or do you think your dad was just bluffing … that all of this is just … well, the ravings of a man who was getting older and maybe losing his mind?”
Rory bristled at the comment. But then he took a deep breath. I thought the same thing at first. And then came the dreams … the nightmares.
He sat up straight, remembering. “What day is it?”
“May twenty-seventh. Why?”
“Can you get me a calendar?”
Agent Glover stood hesitantly then exited the interrogation room and returned with a day planner.
Rory quickly thumbed through the thin book until he landed on a particular page. He shook his head.
“What is it?” Agitated, Mark Glover impatiently removed his cap, revealing a shiny, bald head.
“I know this sounds crazy, but my dad visited me in a dream.” Rory continued quickly before he lost his nerve. “It was so real. Las Vegas had already been nuked. It was like that movie The Day After, where the whole city has been blown up. It was like a nuclear wasteland. I saw my dad in the dream. Actually, he has visited me a few times now. He said this would happen if we didn’t stop them. And he told me when it would happen.”
“When?” The FBI agent seemed mesmerized, at least for the moment.
“During the big fight between Jay-Jay Moss and Carmen Gallo on July sixth—in forty days.”
“Them being the terrorists?”
“Yes, the ISM, the Islamic State Mafia.” Rory noticed the weathered FBI agent’s face twitch almost imperceptibly. I’ve probably just confessed too much. Rory was so overtired and anxious he was starting to feel paranoid. Of course, I’m sure this guy has already read the letter and knows more than I do. Still….
“Thank you, Mr. Justice, that will be all.” Agent Glover promptly ended the interrogation and walked out of the room.
“Just like the reports from the captains of the Voyager and the USS Alaska and the statements from the FBI agents who made the road trip here, my report will also state that Rory Justice is not in the least bit exhibiting any personality traits or behavioral aspects of a suspected terrorist,” Special Agent Mark Glover concluded. “He doesn’t seem to be hiding anything and I concur he is telling the truth.”
Agent Glover delivered his conclusion to Sheriff Ned Thomas and FBI Special Agent in Charge Rodney Steele in the hallway outside the room following the interrogation. They could see Rory through the one-way glass. He was slumped forward, rubbing his eyes.
“How can you possibly know that after one session?” Sheriff Thomas asked skeptically.
“He knows,” said Steele, practically scowling at Ned Thomas, silencing him.
Known as Chief by his colleagues, Rodney Steele was a wiry man of about sixty who had paid his dues rising up through the ranks from a tough rookie street cop in New York City to detective, then NARC agent, SWAT team member, FBI agent, and finally, Las Vegas Special Agent in Charge of the FBI Bureau in Las Vegas. He had lost an arm in addition to his innocence in service when a stray bullet had hit him in a narcotics sting operation. He was no-nonsense, knew his stuff, and believed in his agents.
The sheriff sulked but remained quiet.
The three men turned away from the window and proceeded into a nearby conference room.
“So now what, we just turn him loose?” Sheriff Thomas was flustered, his face turning from pink to crimson.
“Not yet.” Chief Steele sat drumming his fingers on the table. He stood abruptly. “Although we have no evidence to detain Rory Justice further, we still need to handle this matter as a national security threat. We need to remove any doubt whatsoever Mr. Justice and John Dade are somehow involved in this alleged ISM scheme. The only way to do that is to make sure neither of them have read the letter. Mark’s questioning contends that Rory hasn’t read it, but we can further confirm it if we monitor their reactions by reading it aloud. We’ll be able to pick up on whether any of its contents come as less than a surprise to either. We will also be able to deduce whether they’re telling the truth about not knowing each other. It’s time Rory met the man his father wanted him to meet all along. Go get Dade.”
Rory sat fidgeting in his chair in the interrogation room. The clock on the wall ticked loudly reminding him of the slowly passing minutes. All to wear a suspect down, he thought. He had been sitting alone for at least twenty minutes.
He nearly jumped out of his chair when the door opened and Agent Glover walked in followed by a man Rory hadn’t seen yet—a man whose
appearance shouted tough ex-Marine: he was stocky with ruddy skin and a gray flat-top, and wore a suit jacket with a name badge. It read “Dade.”
Agent Glover made a cursory introduction between them, although none was needed at that point.
“You don’t look much like yer dad.” The former sheriff took Rory’s hand in a firm handshake, squeezing his fingers. His western drawl was engaging, and Rory felt himself relax in his presence. Dad’s friend and confidante, Rory reminded himself. He may be the only one on my side.
“No, I look like my mom, uh, Mister Dade.”
“Call me John.”
“John. It’s nice to finally meet you. My fault it hasn’t happened until now.” Rory felt his cheeks flush with guilt.
“No worries, son. You’re here now’s all that matters. And of course, the problem we have on our hands ….”
He was interrupted as if on cue by the arrival of Chief Steele and Sheriff Thomas, who walked into the room and introduced themselves to Rory.
The five men stood awkwardly around the table in the cramped room.
“Shall we make ourselves more comfortable in the conference room?” Sheriff Thomas spoke up, exuding the exaggerated air of a gracious host. “That may be more accommodating.”
“Sure, why not,” Chief Steele said. “We may be here a while.”
Once seated in the larger conference room, which was much less confined with its pastel walls and windows looking out over a grassy yard, the five men seemed to relax a little, although the air still felt tense in Rory’s opinion.
Sheriff Thomas motioned for his predecessor and Rory to sit on one side of the long oak table, while he took a seat across from them together with Agent Glover and Chief Steele.
Rory immediately didn’t like Ned Thomas, sensing a stiff defensiveness in the man who had been introduced as Las Vegas Sheriff, a title that had formerly belonged to John Dade, who was introduced merely as Mr. Dade.
He feels threatened, Rory guessed, suddenly feeling a little insecure himself.
Chief Steele began the meeting in his gruff tone, looking around the conference table at each man with his iron gray eyes. He was wearing a long-sleeved, pressed collared shirt, and one sleeve that otherwise would have dangled limply due to his missing arm was tucked neatly into his pants pocket. “First things first: I prefer that we not discuss this ‘problem,’ as Mr. Dade put it, outside of this room, gentlemen.”
Rory and John Dade nodded in agreement.
“As you can see by now, you are no longer wearing handcuffs,” Steele said to Rory, motioning to his wrists. “That’s because Agent Glover here, who interrogated you, believes your story. You are now a free man.”
Rory felt all of their eyes bearing on him like laser beams, and he looked down for a moment at his hands. They’re probably expecting me to jump up and run for the door, he thought. But I’m here now; may as well see what this is all about.
“Thank you.” Rory said, not knowing what else to say.
Sheriff Thomas sneered, unconcerned that Rory noticed it.
“What do we do now?” Rory felt compelled to speak in the uncomfortable silence. He was the only man in the room who wasn’t a cop, an FBI agent, or military man. He was just an advertising account executive probably soon to lose even that meager title.
“Now we will read the letter your father wanted you to hand deliver. But before we do, Mr. Justice, let me extend the sincere apology of the FBI for holding you captive on the Alaska. I’m sure you understand you were a suspected terrorist and had to be treated as such.”
“Understood.”
“And while you are free to go, and not compelled to help us further, the FBI would like to ask your help to see this matter through, if you so choose. After I read the letter, I’ll order in some lunch, and you and Mr. Dade can speak privately and let us know your intentions. Would you like to stay for now?”
A picture of his dad squatting on the sidewalk of a nuked Vegas flashed into Rory’s memory. “Of course.” I can always change my mind, he mused uneasily, knowing he was probably fooling himself.
“Sheriff Thomas, please read the letter.” Rory could see the sheriff’s chest literally puff with pride at the Chief’s request. Steele handed him the envelope, sealed within an evidence bag.
Ned Thomas removed it, stood, and cleared his throat.
“Dear John,” he began, looking over his bifocals at John Dade.
“I know I haven’t seen you for years, and I do apologize for that. I have not done well physically of late with my lung disease, and if you are reading this letter, well, that means I am most likely up in heaven—at least let’s hope so.
Rory sighed, and fought to hold back tears.
“I am writing to you about a matter of grave danger. I chose you because you are one of my closest friends and the only person in the world with whom I trust the nation’s security, since I would trust you with my life.
They all noticed John sniff with emotion and rub an unexpected tear from his face.
“Toward the end of my career, before I had to step down as Executive Director of the National Security Branch a few years ago due to my failing health, I was informed of a terrorist threat in Las Vegas that I had the Counterterrorism Division investigate.
I couldn’t bring it to your attention at the time because it was an internal FBI matter, and as you know, policy calls for us to notify as few people as possible until absolutely necessary to do otherwise.
I was told by my source that several years ago, a sect of the Islamic State terrorist regime called ISM, which stands for Islamic State Mafia, started infiltrating the casinos in Las Vegas and setting up shop in some of them, taking over the most insidious trades including sex and drug trafficking. Reports from undercover field agents have revealed that this new mafia has grown in power, and an increasing number of US citizens have become victims of violent crimes in Vegas. Some have even been murdered. Meanwhile, some police officers, perhaps even a few higher up government officials, both locally in Las Vegas and in our nation’s capital, have become suspect of possibly working with the ISM. I believe there is obviously a cover-up at hand.
Ned Thomas paused and cleared his throat, looking over the rim of his glasses at John Dade. The sheriff then looked around the room, his face a deep red. “Gentlemen, I assure you all that I am not aware of any such cover-up, nor have I been part of one.”
“We know, or else you wouldn’t be here,” Chief Steele addressed the sheriff tersely. “Please finish the letter.”
Bravo, Rory silently cheered the FBI boss, glad the pompous sheriff’s ego was deflated a bit.
Ned Thomas’s face turned an even darker shade of red, and he cleared his throat again, attempting to regain his composure before continuing to read.
“Upon investigation, we have discovered that key government officials in Las Vegas have been looking the other way, probably as their pockets are being lined, to allow this Mafia sect to do their thing. And more digging turned up the very real suspicion that these same terrorists are building a nuclear bomb.
One of our agents, who unfortunately was killed by ISM members on the streets of Las Vegas, informed us that their plan is to plant the bomb in one of the casinos. He also uncovered inside information revealing the schematics—the bomb is being built so that it cannot be detected by drones, dogs, x-rays, lasers, acoustics or even any of our latest sophisticated espionage technology. I’m not sure when or exactly where the bomb will go off, although I strongly suspect it may be detonated at a place and time to kill as many Americans as possible and to send a message to the United States that the whole country is in jeopardy.
Once my health deteriorated and I was forced to take an early retirement, I had to sit back and watch as this information got stalled somewhere and then was literally shelved. When I tried to find out more information, I was told it was no longer a priority of the director, who said that the investigation revealed no such plans for a nuclear bomb, and the case was c
losed.
I believe that either the ISM has paid off or seriously threatened someone in the Bureau, or our country’s administration doesn’t want to admit the Islamic State jihad has revived itself and regrouped here in our own country—or maybe both.
But I am convinced beyond a doubt that the original allegations are real and being carried out as I write this. I have enclosed the schematic of the nuclear weapon based on what my source witnessed before he was murdered. You must not show this to anyone until you do your own investigation or they—the FBI, the CIA, etc.—may bring you in for questioning and stall everything long enough that it might be too late to do anything to stop it. Or worse yet, they may suspect we—me, you, Rory—are part of this scheme somehow. If there really is a cover-up going on, I wouldn’t put it past them to frame us.
Rory saw Ned Thomas look at John Dade then quickly return his attention to the letter lest he get called out by Chief Steele again. Dad was addressing John, not knowing that someone may have been paid to run him out of office, Rory realized. Oh well, at least he’s here now. Except for his initial display of emotion, John had sat stone-faced and silent.
Sheriff Thomas continued reading:
“I know this is a lot to ask of you to undertake, and I’m sorry, but if there’s even a remote possibility that it is true, you owe it to your city and we owe it to our country to find the truth, to bring these terrorists to justice and most importantly, to protect innocent people. Of course I can’t trust any mail or dispatch service so I am entrusting my son Rory to bring you this letter under strict confidence.
John gazed quizzically over at Rory for the first time during the reading. Rory felt his face turn hot with shame and averted his eyes, staring down at his hands.
“Please don’t hesitate to ask him to help you. I’m not sure if he will be able to, but I believe he could be an asset to you. While he doesn’t see it, Rory is a man with a big heart. I believe you will be able to convince him that he needs to look beyond himself to serve others. I hope whatever faith in God I have instilled in him will take hold, and he will agree to be part of your team.
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