Serpents in the City (Mac Ambrose Book 3)

by HN Wake

  The room stirred collectively. Everyone in here except Joyce was probably a communications wonk, and they recognized a political bomb when it was dropped.

  As if knowing the importance of her words, Senator Gillis leaned into her microphone and spoke slowly. “News in this country has turned into a consumer business that distorts the facts and divides our people.” She turned off her microphone and sat back.

  The room burst into action. Up on the dais, twenty staffers sitting behind their respective Senators stood and rushed toward the doors. At the witness table, the FCC Chairman threw himself back against the chair and started vigorously shaking his head from side to side. Behind him, FCC staff jumped to whisper in his ear. Across the dais, senators suddenly jolted from their stupor, sat up, and raised their hands to speak or pressed the buttons on their microphones.

  It took a lot to wake up a sleepy senate hearing, Joyce thought. This must be some serious shit. And well, well, well, wasn’t it coincidental that Senator Gillis was proposing legislation that might impact a certain cable news company called Patriot News?

  The Committee Chairman in the center of the dais banged his gavel, tilted his head out and to the left, staring down at Senator Gillis. “I suggest we break for lunch. This will give us all an opportunity to digest this announcement.” He then looked down his nose at the FCC Chairman. “Sir, we thank you for your service to this country and for your presentation here today.”

  The rest of the room stood and rushed to the exits.

  13

  New Orleans, LA

  Alicia Cade couldn’t move. She just stood staring at the spot by the pond. That had been where her boy had been leaning over the dark water, searching for fish and turtles, before her mind broke.

  She had been walking behind Elijah, watching him run to the pond when two cops rushed her. They scared her. That small, dim cop and the twitchy cop with the scars on his cheeks. She jumped.

  That twitchy cop had yelled, “You seen two juveniles?”

  She shook her head no.

  The twitchy cop yelled again, “Two black guys. You seen them?”

  He was scaring her. She shook her head again.

  The twitchy cop thinks she’s dumb. “Two black juveniles, where are they?”

  Alicia glanced to the pond, making sure Elijah was safe from the edge. It wasn’t till she looked back, she caught her mistake. The twitchy cop followed her look to the pond. The twitchy cop’s hand was on his gun. The twitchy cop’s hand was coming up. The twitchy cop’s finger was pulling the trigger.

  The gun cracked and reared back.

  Her eyes flashed to the pond. Elijah wasn’t standing anymore. Where my Elijah?

  She had taken off running, flying over green grass, hollering, “Elijah, Elijah.”

  The two cops running after her. Their gasping heavy, like a horse.

  She skidded on her knees to her boy. Clasped the small body to her chest and felt the limpness.

  Alicia Cade knew in that instant her boy was gone. Her boy was strong, her boy was stubborn, her boy had never been limp a day in his life.

  She screamed like a banshee. Loud. Shrill. All the pain in her chest flying out on winds of heaven.

  Her shirt warmed. Pulling his little body away, she looked down at his chest. A big blossoming red. A hole in the middle.

  Both her hands on his face, pressed tight up against her cheek. He had no breath. Her boy had no breath.

  Where my Elijah?

  She was screaming.

  The twitchy cop started hollering in his walkie talkie.

  Later, the EMT men had pushed a big stretcher across the field. Too big for a little boy. White sheet pulled tight.

  They left behind only mashed grass, matted like a poor girl’s hair, where her Elijah had been staring down into the pond looking for fish and turtles. Just like she told him to do.

  The big crowd kept hollering as it grew. Black folks streaming in. They musta taken buses and trolley cars cause there weren’t lots of black folks out here in City Park normally. They were waving their hands. All around her. Shouting and grumbling.

  In the distance there were sirens. Wails. That’s what they sounded like. Wails of crows. But they were police car sirens. Crows were bad omens and it was fitting that they cop cars sounded like crows, black and evil eyed, circling on the air.

  Them cops stood over under the trees, outta the sun, talking on phones. Keeping a watch. They numbers kept growing too. More and more cops walking out over the grass. Chins tilted up. Some of them had them hands on their pistols, resting there, telling us silently that they in charge. There were white cops and black cops.

  Over here in the crowd there’s only blacks.

  Where my Elijah?

  She should have listened to her bones.

  Her bones didn’t ache no more. She had no feeling. The tears don’t come. There ain’t no tears. There ain’t no ache, there ain’t no voice, there ain’t no thinking. Just nothing.

  The crowd is pushing in. An old lady with wrinkles and small eyes takes her hand. Alicia can’t hear her. She saying something but Alicia can’t hear her. She’s just staring at the spot. Where Elijah left. When her mind broke.

  The wrinkled lady squeezed her hand. Alicia can’t move. Then the lady looked down at the plastic Piggly Wiggly bag. She was rummaging. The old lady had a phone. Looked like Alicia’s phone. The old lady was scrolling down the address book. The old lady was listening on the phone for someone to answer. The old lady’s lips were moving.

  There ain’t no ache, there ain’t no voice, there ain’t no thinking.

  The old lady hung up the phone and slipped it into Alicia’s hand.

  Then she stepped in to Alicia, put her arms around her, pulled her in tight.

  From a far off place, across time and space, the old lady’s words whispered. “Your mamma comin’, Licia. I talk to your mamma. She comin’.”

  Where my Elijah?

  It struck Alicia that now she shared one more secret with her mamma. She knew the coldness of death wrapping his icy wings round her.

  14

  New York, NY

  Ernest stepped quickly out onto the fourth floor landing of the apartment building in Alphabet City. The two officers glanced up, their faces full of anticipation.

  “Where are the building residents now?” Ernest spoke softly and slowly. It helped distract people from his hard features. He would rather they focus on his words.

  Bronx accent said, “Outside, waiting for NYC Gas.”

  Ernest nodded, “It was good you called it in.”

  Both cops stood straighter.

  “Okay. We’re going to pretend as if there was nothing out of the ordinary here.” His voice dropped softer, “I was never here. Got it?”

  They both nodded.

  “Don’t talk about this to anyone other than your unit leader. Got it?”

  They nodded again.

  “We’ll take care of this one.”

  They both nodded, and all three headed down the stairs.

  He asked, “You got a black and white outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Wait for the gas company but once they’ve cleared the building, I want you guys to move on.” Over his shoulder, he said slowly and gently, “Nice work, gentlemen. You may have reeled in a big one for us. You deserve some beers tonight.”

  Outside the sky was bright and the street was fairly empty. He began walking slowly toward the corner. This could be big, he thought. I could be about to break an illegal surveillance ring on a US Senator.

  Ernest had always been good at slowing his thoughts, assessing a situation, and acting with deliberate action.

  One particular night back in Loyal High School, football practice had ended under an evening sky. The team had shuffled in a row off the field, helmets swaying against padded thighs. In the distance, Ernest had noticed a small black kid with big ears turn the corner into an alley behind the auditorium, heading to the buses. The
scrawny kid hadn’t noticed a pair of thugs, with the look of bad intentions, following close behind. Ernest recognized a moment that may require intervention. He broke from the team, jogged along the brick wall, and rounded the corner. The black kid was on the ground, his bag tangled, books scattered. One of the thugs was poised to kick him.

  Ernest yelled, “Yo.”

  The two thugs glanced up.

  The setting sun threw a long shadow down the darkening alley, his immense size projected threefold in the space. The two thugs stepped away from the kid.

  Ernest stood rock still.

  The thugs turned and headed out toward the buses.

  The black kid scrambled to his feet, retrieved his books, threw the backpack on his shoulder and ran toward Ernest. As he reached him, Ernest noticed the tears, recognized the shame and put his arm around the kid’s skinny shoulders. Together they stepped back into the sunset. For the first time in his life, Ernest felt proud.

  After high school and with no financial support from the Christian family, Ernest applied to Oklahoma State on student loans. He honed in on a History major and an Ancient Civilizations minor. Despite what the football coaches at Loyal High School had portended, he got a GPA of a 3.9, which was just what he needed to apply to the FBI.

  Reaching the corner, Ernest paused as a truck rumbled past him. It was the gas company. The two uniformed cops spoke to the driver and pointed back up to the apartment building.

  Ernest pulled out his cell phone, dialed his boss.

  “Castle here.”

  “It’s Ernest.”

  “My lone wolf. What have you got?” The assistant section chief of International Terrorism Operations Section One responsible for the FBI’s counterterrorism investigations in the continental United States had given Ernest the nickname when he had first been assigned after Quantico. Ernest always wondered if John Castle had looked up his background check, noted that his Pawnee name Shiriki meant Coyote.

  Ernest said, “NYPD was smart to call it in. It was a routine clear of a building with a gas leak. One guy wasn’t home. They found a cache of expensive surveillance equipment. Out of place in this particular building.”

  “Okay.”

  “This is where it gets hinky. His camera had a series of shots of Senator Billy Greene crossing Times Square.”

  “He’s casing a presidential candidate?”

  “Looks like it. ”

  “Shit.”

  “I’d like a warrant” Ernest said.

  “You want to run him?”

  “Yeah. I think it’s worth a few hours tomorrow.”

  “Agreed.”

  Ernest felt a tingle in his gut. This could be something big. “I’ve also got a name for the suspect.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Otis Reddenbacker.”

  “Like the popcorn?”

  “Like the popcorn.”

  “Gotta be an alias right? Give me a sec.” The line went dead as Castle put him on hold. Five minutes later he picked up again. “Nope. That’s his real name. Former Charlotteville Police. Current occupation listed as Private Investigator. Been at that residence for five years now. Ernest, you’ve got 24 hours on him.”

  15

  Langley, VA

  Outside the CIA headquarters at 4:45 p.m., Herbie Linen sat in the rental car in a rebellious mood, the AC was on full blast and the windows were wide open. The sun glared across the asphalt. A stream of workers were leaving for the day, crossing across the huge parking lot with tired shoulders and slow feet.

  He’d been out here since 4:15. He was waiting for Director Hawkinson. Surveilling Frank Odom would have been too dicey. But Hawkinson wouldn’t see Herbie coming. In fact, he didn’t think Hawkinson even knew what he looked like.

  The fact that these two were meeting outside of HQ was super fishy, but they were smart enough to take it off campus. The hallways of Langley had ears.

  Herbie’s preparation paid off. From where he was parked, half way down a row of cars, he got a clear visual on Hawkinson as he left the building. Herbie dropped the rental car into drive and slowly rolled out of the space.

  Hawkinson moved briskly down the first row of cars.

  Herbie let the rental car pick up speed.

  Hawkinson fished out keys from his jacket pocket.

  Herbie pressed on the brake to slow the rental car.

  Hawkinson pressed his key chain and a blue town car beeped. A town car—nice and innocuous, thought Herbie. He let the rental car roll a few feet as Hawkinson dropped in behind the wheel and started up the town car.

  Herbie gassed and moved up along the row. At the end of the row he braked and waited for Hawkinson’s car to reverse out of the space and head toward the exit. Herbie maneuvered the rental behind Hawkinson and followed him out onto the street. He didn’t expect the Director to go far; the rendezvous was in ten minutes.

  The thing about spies, Herbie thought as he pulled the rental car to the curb by an empty neighborhood park across from Hawkinson’s town car, was that they were sneaky. On the passenger seat was a freshly purchased, $100 foot-wide parabolic microphone intended for nature lovers or kids. The beauty of it was that it allowed someone to hear a conversation across an open space of up to 500 feet.

  Across the park, Director Hawkinson stepped out of his car and headed along a meandering path. Herbie checked his watch: 4:55pm. He picked up the microphone and waited.

  A red Honda Civic pulled into a space a few cars behind the town car. Frank Odom stepped out and headed into the park, soon getting lost behind a copse of trees.

  Herbie jogged through the trees, careful to not jiggle the microphone in his hand. When he reached the tree line, he paused in the shadows. Hawkinson had chosen a bench overlooking an empty tennis court. Herbie positioned himself behind a tree, aimed the microphone at the bench, slipped the headphones on his ears, and turned it on. The earphones screeched as the microphone jumped to life. This was followed by the cry of a bird. Peeking around the tree, he kept the microphone lined up with the bench as he adjusted the volume.

  Two minutes later, he heard Frank Odom’s voice. “Director.”

  Odom sat down on the bench.

  Hawkinson started, “What have you got?”

  “Well, we know she’s still in Philly. We had a sighting just a few days ago.”

  “You still have a guy on her?”

  “A young guy. Fresh recruit. He thinks he’s following a Russian. But he lost her.”

  “What the fuck is she doing?”

  “I don’t know, Sir,” Odom replied. “But I have a feeling. A gut feeling.”

  “That’s the part of this business I like the least—guts. Instincts. Because sometimes you’re wrong. I prefer detailed under cover work and working with facts.”

  Odom waited him out.

  Hawkinson said, “Well, get on with it Frank. What does your gut think she is doing?”

  “I think she’s reintegrating. I think she’s home for good.”

  “Why not let us know that?”

  “I think she’s fed up.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Maybe she wants to do things her way.”

  Hawkinson remained silent.

  Behind the tree, Herbie watched a brown, leggy spider climb across a branch.

  After a long silence, Hawkinson said, “Well, I need you to find her. I need to know what she wants to make Thai Consolidated go away. I need a dollar figure.”

  Herbie pressed the earphone to against an ear. Did he just say Thai Consolidated? Yes. The phrase Thai Consolidated was data point one. And was he suggesting Mac knew something that could harm Hawkinson in some way—so much so, he was willing to make her a cash payout? Yes. He was offering a bribe. Yes. Data point two. This had to be a black op and it was important enough for Hawkinson to be offering bribes for silence.

  Odom said, “Yes, Sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

  It sounded as if someone had stood up. Hawkinson replied, �
�Just find out, Frank. Mac Ambrose has had far too long a leash as it is. It’s simply unacceptable. As long as she’s not playing by the rules, we are both vulnerable. Both of us, Frank.”

  16

  New York, NY

  Mac had settled into a restaurant, the misnamed Brooklyn Diner, whose wall of windows faced the north end of Times Square. Red vinyl booths lined up against the windows. Like everything in Times Square, it was crowded and noisy.

  On the laptop screen were three sets of black and white images of the Patriot News lobby. Two uniformed security guards loitered by the front doors. Once every thirty minutes, a third security guard leading a bomb dog entered to chat with his colleagues.

  Behind the desk, the reception staff—one woman and two men—took identification of visitors, confirmed their meeting with a call, and logged them in. Employees streamed through the lobby, swiping ID cards at turnstiles and swarming toward elevator lobbies. For employees, there was no human check of ID. Access was granted by the touch of card against the reader on the turnstile.

  Twenty minutes ago, Mac had slowed the video and examined the arrival behind the reception desk of a tall Eurasian man in a sharp suit, his face angular and observant. Perhaps he was Head of Security?

  The whole set up was smart. Whoever designed that lobby had security in mind. There was nothing to distract either the guards or the reception staff from recognizing something odd. There were clear lines of sight across the entire space. The open windows along the street provided an unobstructed view of anyone, or anything, approaching. The gleaming white lights of an operating room were precise, pristine, and cold.

  Good thing she didn’t have to go in.

  Mac felt her cell phone ping. It was a message from 89. “I can’t crack their network.”