Surviving The Dead | Book 9 | War Without End

by Cook, James N.

  “I protect what’s mine.”

  A slow nod. “Interesting. What exactly do you mean by that?”

  I smiled at him. “I’m not a suspect, Agent Kaminsky, nor am I an idiot. And I’m certainly not here to satisfy your curiosity. Take it however you want.”

  The agent’s face did not change much, but the dark eyes hardened and the stare they leveled became direct and penetrating. It was a subtle shift, but the effect was significant. I could only imagine how many nervous suspects had cracked under the scrutiny of that merciless gaze, how many men had not seen the trick for what it was. I did, however, and I had faced men far worse than this one. If Kaminsky expected me to start sweating and blabbering, he was in for a long wait. We stayed that way for a while, staring each other down. Finally, Kaminsky grunted and looked back at Gabe.

  “You willing to vouch for him?”

  “Yes. He has my full confidence.”

  Kaminsky looked back at me. “Mr. Riordan, you can’t speak a word to anyone about what we discuss here today. Not one single word. Is that clear?”

  “Believe it or not, Agent Kaminsky, I’ve done this kind of thing before.”

  A sigh. “Fine. Here’s what I know.”

  He laid it out. I was impressed. The breadth and scope of his investigation, and the evidence he had collected, was the work of a world-class investigator. The fact he had accomplished what he had while working with minimal resources made it even more praiseworthy. But impressive as all that was, it was not nearly as remarkable as the evidence his team had uncovered in the Refugee District. Listening to the details, my heartbeat sped up and I felt heat rising in my face. If what Kaminsky was saying was true, it meant the city of Colorado Springs was in a hell of a lot of trouble.

  “So what now?” Gabe said when the agent was finished. “What does the Bureau want you to do next?”

  “Me?” Kaminsky said, smiling bitterly. “Not a damn thing. I made my report to the assistant director this morning, and you know what he said? He thanked me for my efforts, told me what a great agent I am, and ordered me to turn over all my evidence, every scrap of it, to the inspector general. And when I was finished, I was to destroy all my notes, shred any official documents, delete any emails or other electronic communications, and impress upon my agents that from here on out, this was a matter of national security under the direct authority of the Department of Homeland Security.”

  Gabe stared in open astonishment. “Homeland? Are you kidding me?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  “But…why? Did he give you a reason?”

  Kaminsky barked out a laugh. “Let me explain something to you about the Bureau, Gabe. Assistant directors do not explain themselves to those under their authority. They hand out orders and expect them to be obeyed, and woe betide the poor dumb fucker who disappoints them. That’s how it works.”

  “Then why are you here?” I said, growing impatient and not particularly liking his tone. “What was that in the conference room? You put on a hell of a show, but so far all you’ve done is speculate about evidence and bitch about the Bureau. I mean, don’t get me wrong—that sucks. But with all due respect, Agent Kaminsky, boo-fucking-hoo. No one put a gun to your head and made you join the FBI. You’re a grown man. You know the rules. Sometimes it goes your way, and sometimes it doesn’t. That’s life. Now can we cut the shit and get to the actual point, here?”

  For a moment, Kaminsky’s face darkened, and I thought he would come back with a harsh reply. But then he stopped, took a deep breath, and seemed to gather himself. When he spoke, the bitterness was gone from his voice and he was all business again.

  “I happen to know the agent at Homeland who’s taking over my case. He’s a good guy. We go back a long way. I gave him what I had, and he told me he was sorry about all this, and I told him hey, no hard feelings, and asked if he could use any help on the case. When he said no, I asked him if he’d sent anybody over here yet to take statements. He said no to that too, so I told him I have a good working relationship with Mr. Garrett here and offered to handle it. He patted me on the arm and said sure Stan, that would be great. Like he was doing me a fucking favor. And now, here I am.”

  And there’s only one reason you would do that.

  Looking at Kaminsky, it dawned on me I had underestimated the man. I had taken him for a jaded, world-weary public servant carrying out his marching orders like a good soldier. But he was not here to be anybody’s soldier. He had his own agenda, and it did not involve gathering evidence for Homeland Security. The interviews had been a ruse, a way to get his foot in the door without drawing suspicion so he could speak to Gabe in private. My involvement had not been part of his initial equation, but he was crunching the numbers quickly.

  “Two years of work,” Kaminsky continued, speaking mostly to himself. “Two goddamn years of surveillance, and sleepless nights, and waking up in the same suit for a week, and stroking a bunch of chicken-shit bureaucratic egos, and now the whole thing is out of my hands. All of it. Two years of my life down the drain.”

  The room was silent for a while. The frustrated, defeated look on Kaminsky’s face made him look ten years older than when he had walked into the conference room a few hours ago. I did not know the man, had no personal investment in his life or career, but I felt sorry for him anyway. Gabe went over to his desk, took out a bottle of Stall’s reserve, and poured the agent a drink. Kaminsky stared at it briefly, then said fuck it and accepted the glass.

  “What do they want you to do now?” I asked. “I mean, you’ve got all this information about SRT, right? You know more about them than anyone else. What are you supposed to do, sit on your hands?”

  Kaminsky drained the moonshine in a single gulp, made a face, and held up the glass. Gabe refilled it. “They want me and my team identify the bodies we found in the Refugee District. The ones in the bunkers.”

  “Bullshit,” Gabe said angrily. “They just want you out of the way.”

  Kaminsky took another drink, set the glass on Gabe’s desk, and stood up. “Yes, they do. And that’s exactly where they think I am. Safely out of the way.”

  “But you’re not,” I said.

  “No.”

  “What can I do?” Gabe asked.

  “Those steel sheets I mentioned. The ones from the ironworks. I want you to follow up on that.”

  Gabe and I looked at each other.

  “We can handle that,” Gabe said. “I’ll call you when we know something.”

  Kaminsky nodded. “You’re going to need coverage on this. I’ll do what I can, but you need to keep things quiet. And you can’t reach out to me through official channels.”

  A nod. “Of course.”

  “And you understand this is not an official endorsement. I can’t know about anything you do, or how you do it. I have to be entirely hands-off.”

  “Understood.”

  “Alright. And Gabe, we can’t have any bloodshed. You drop any bodies, you’ll have to explain it to a judge. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Okay.” Kaminsky walked to the door, opened it, and stopped. “Good luck, Gabe,” he said over his shoulder. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Kaminsky left and shut the door behind him.

  “So what now?” I asked.

  Gabe went to his desk, removed a holstered pistol, and clipped it into his waistband.

  “Now we go shake some trees.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Eric,

  BSC Headquarters

  Gabe waited in the hallway while I visited the little apartment.

  Allison and I sat at the dining table and I told her everything we had found out, minus the part Kaminsky had admonished me to keep secret. Without that part, the conversation did not amount to much. Allison listened in silence, her eyes on little Gabe as he played with action figures at the coffee table.

  “What now?” she asked. “You have contacts in the city. Is
there anyone who might know more?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “How, exactly?”

  I raised a hand. “Easy, Allison. We’re just going to ask some questions, that’s all. I might have to shake the bushes a little, but I’m not looking for violence.”

  “You never do, Eric, but it finds you anyway.”

  “Well, I’m going to do my best to avoid it.”

  She folded her arms over her stomach and turned to look out the window. Her expression was far from happy. She had been looking that way a lot lately. I reached out and took her hand.

  “Allison, I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day. About stepping back from all this.”

  She looked at me.

  “You’re right. I’m still living like it’s the old days, back when I was young and struggling and had no responsibilities. Things have changed, and I need to change with them.”

  I slid my chair closer until our hips touched, draped an arm around her shoulder, and put a hand on her stomach. She put both her hands over mine.

  I said, “I have to help Gabe today. Between the two of us, we can get information the FBI can’t. Or won’t. And after what I saw yesterday, if there’s anything I can do to help take down the sons of bitches responsible, I’m going to do it. But after that…I need to be home more. I need to spend more time with you and the little guy.”

  “And the little girl,” she said. The dangerous look had faded, and her eyes were soft again.

  “You pick a name yet?”

  A small smile. “Like I would tell you.”

  I gathered her close and hugged her. “I’m going to find out sooner or later. Isn’t that what you always say to me?”

  “You’ll find out when I decide you will. Unlike some people, I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Ouch.”

  We held each other and watched our son play. The little guy smashed his toys together and invented cartoonish dialogue while chronicling some sort of battle amongst the tiny protagonists and villains. He looked so small and happy sitting there, and I wished he could stay that way forever, innocent and unaware. But I knew it would not last. Sooner or later, he would wake up to the kind of world he lived in, and when he did, he would never be the same.

  “I have to go,” I said. “The others are waiting.”

  Allison gave me a final squeeze. “Be careful.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  I kissed her, hugged my son, and joined Gabe at the end of the hallway. We left the building and proceeded to the small courtyard in front of the main office where Great Hawk and the rest of my crew waited. It was bright outside, forcing me to put on a pair of pre-Outbreak sunglasses. The wind had not relented since yesterday, and the snow covering the ground had become a powdery blanket over layers of crunching ice. To the northwest I saw a shadow gathering over the white-capped mountains and knew we were in for a storm.

  Great Hawk sat on a bench in the courtyard, long legs stretched out in front of him, hands in the pockets of his sheepskin coat. The others stood in a semi-circle and watched us approach. To my surprise, Caleb Hicks was among them.

  “What’s the word?” Holland asked.

  “Kaminsky’s staying out of the way,” Gabe said. “He’ll help us if he can.”

  “He give us any leads?” Thompson said.

  “He did. I need you guys to help me follow up on it.” Gabe pointed at Hicks. “You want in on this?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t. But what we’re about to do isn’t exactly legal.”

  A shrug. “When is it ever?”

  Cole pointed a thumb eastward. “Daylight’s burnin’, people. If we gonna do this, let’s get to it.”

  “Hold on a minute, fellas,” I said. Gabe glanced at me irritably, but I ignored him.

  “Before we go anywhere, I want you to listen to me. What we’re about to do is strictly off the books. Okay? If we get caught, we could get into a lot of trouble. And Kaminsky won’t be able to save us. We’re on our own here. No backup, not even the Blackthorns. Bearing all that in mind, are you all still sure you want in? If not, now’s the time to walk away.”

  My crew’s response was to look at me like I was an idiot. Even Great Hawk, he of the blank and stony face, slid his sunglasses down his nose and peered at me over the frame.

  “Right. Sorry I asked.”

  *****

  BSC headquarters occupies a facility that was once the US Olympic and Paralympic Training Center. To the north lies a wide spit of land called Bricktown where the city’s most affluent residents make their homes. An arm of the Rocky Mountains curves around this area to the east, providing a natural barrier to the denizens of the Refugee District farther eastward. South of all this, in an area once packed with residential neighborhoods and strip malls and chain restaurants and even a golf course, lies an area that was leveled by heavy fighting during the Outbreak. In the years that followed, it was rebuilt by a huge influx of survivors from all over the country. As the local economy recovered, the area grew and changed and took on the characteristics of the people that now made their homes there. Somewhere in the process of all this, the locals started calling the place Southtown. The name stuck.

  While not the city’s poorest neighborhood, Southtown is a far cry from the opulence found farther north. Parts of it are livable, populated mostly by decently paid blue collar workers and their families. Other parts, the ones farther south, are nearly as bad as the streets of the Refugee District.

  And that was precisely where we were headed.

  We rode in two of the canvas-covered wagons that had brought me, my family, and my crew of highly trained wrecking machines to the Springs. Holland and Cole had retrieved the wagons from a warehouse while the rest of us armed ourselves and devised a strategy. I rode in the lead wagon with Gabriel, Great Hawk, and Hicks. The others followed close behind. I stared southward as we rode, my eyes fixed on a tall column of black smoke standing against the sky like a burn mark. Beneath that black scar sat the Schule and Hastings Ironworks, our destination.

  “Man, this is nice,” Caleb said, startling me. He was sitting on the bench beside me, holding the reins.

  I turned to look at him. “What is?”

  “This,” he replied, grinning. “Us. Gettin’ the gang back together. When was the last time we all rolled out on a mission?”

  “Illinois,” I said, frowning at the memory.

  “Oh yeah. Christ, what a cluster-fuck. How long ago was that? Three years? Four?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And here we are again. Feels like old times.”

  I glanced at him sideways. “I think your recollection is a bit more nostalgic than mine. I remember being tired, injured, and scared shitless.”

  “Me too. But God, what a rush.”

  “Well, I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t going to be like Illinois. We’re conducting an investigation, not an assassination. When we get there, let me and Gabe do the talking, okay?”

  Caleb held up a hand. “Fine by me. It’s your show. But while you and ole leatherneck talk, what are the rest of us supposed to do?”

  “What you do best. Stand around and look menacing.”

  Caleb grinned at me. “If that’s the case, then what’s Holland doing here? He’s about as menacing as a woodchuck. What’s he gonna do, annoy people to death?”

  I tried to fight it but found myself laughing. “Damn, dude, that’s harsh. I thought you two were friends.”

  “We are, and it’s good to see him again. But I swear, that damn Yankee accent of his…”

  “Like nails on a chalkboard.”

  “Fuck yes, it is.”

  I laughed quietly. “I’m not worried about Holland. He can hold his own.”

  “I know. We served in the same platoon, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Seems like a lifetime ago. So much has happene
d since then.”

  Caleb stared ahead, looking reflective. “You know, I miss those salvage runs we used to do back in Tennessee. Used to be a lot of fun.”

  “I don’t know if fun is the word I would use, but it certainly wasn’t boring.”

  “Hasn’t been too boring since then, either.”

  “Speaking of which, what have you been up to in Arizona?”

  The cheerful expression grew brittle, telling me I had caught him off guard. Caleb was almost never off guard, so I knew I had him on the back foot. He would not stay there long, so I had to press my advantage if I wanted information from him.

  “I told you. Salvage ops.”

  I shook my head. “Bullshit. Jacobs wouldn’t send his right-hand-man down there just to scavenge toilet paper and tampons. What were you really up to?”

  The smile vanished. “No offense, Eric, but I can’t talk about it.”

  I gave him a dubious stare. “What’s your interest here, Caleb? Why are you getting involved?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not riding along on this just to talk about old times. That’s not your style.”

  No answer.

  “They’re connected, aren’t they?”

  “What?”

  “Your mission in Arizona and the attack on the Refugee District. They’re related somehow. That’s why you’re so interested.”

  It was Caleb’s turn to glance sideways at me. “I don’t know anything for sure yet,” he said after a moment.

  “You must know something, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

  At first, he said nothing. I stayed quiet and waited him out. A quarter mile passed under the wheels before my patience was rewarded.

  “I had some trouble down in Phoenix with a group called the Storm Road Tribe. Ever heard of ‘em?”

  “I have. Crime syndicate out of the wastelands. Reputation for being smart and ruthless.”

  Another glance, this one more impressed than irritated. “Well, I learned a few other things about ‘em while I was down there.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like they’re a much bigger enterprise than anyone gives them credit for, and they run their operations out of Colorado Springs. Which means their leaders are probably right here in the city somewhere.”