Fletcher hated games with a passion. He was tempted to just walk out on principle. But he was too intrigued at this point, too invested in the case, to just walk away.
“Was it your folks who rolled my house yesterday?”
“What?”
“Someone did a thorough job on my house. Nothing out of place, but a light was left off that I always leave on. I figured it was you.”
She actually looked surprised, and intrigued. “It wasn’t on my orders. I would never invade my team’s privacy like that. We should put someone on your house in case they come back for more.”
He watched her for a moment, trying to decide if she was telling the truth. She seemed genuinely disturbed by the news. Which worried him even more—if it wasn’t JTTF looking in the corners, then who was? No, she was lying. He could see a little muscle in her cheek twitching. A tell. Good to know.
First things first. “We can talk about that later. I’m in. But you pull another number like this and I’m gone faster than you can say bye.”
Bianco smiled. “Fair enough. Now I’m going to tell you what I know, and you need to tell me what you know, and what you’ve done, so we can all go forward together and shut this killer down.”
Chapter 27
Red to red. Black to black. Yellow to yellow. White to white. Green to green.
Blue to...careful now, this is the most important one, hold your breath, hold it...there. Blue to blue.
He took a deep gulp of air and blew it out, careful not to jiggle anything loose. Perfection. Everything was wired up now.
He sat back on his stool, away from the workbench, and allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and breathe regularly, in and out, measured, careful. The worst was behind him. All he had left was the trigger, but that was already soldered to the back of the cell phone.
He opened his eyes and without hesitating laid the last piece in place, biting his lip, watching the metal edges as they lined up perfectly. Of course they were perfect. He was careful that way. Precision was an art, one he happily engaged in with regular practice. One must hone one’s craft if one expects to be the best.
He screwed the last corner down, inserted it into the tube, carefully unscrewed the mount, then laid the finished masterpiece on his workbench.
Four identical tubes lay to the left of the current one, bringing the total to five. Five perfectly constructed bombs, any one of which could take down a large house if placed in the proper spot. All five blown together would take down a building.
By the time he hit Send on the cell phone, the world would be at a standstill, and he’d be miles away.
The perfect crime. Even better than D.C.
The idiots there still didn’t have a clue what they were looking for. All the right people were dead, all the right people were sick, languishing in hospitals, giving blood samples that told contradictory stories. Chasing their tails, while the main event was yet to come.
They thought they were in the clear. They thought someone from one of those fucking medieval countries was responsible. An enemy of the state.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Let them think it. He didn’t care who got the blame, or the credit, so long as he had time to fulfill the last part of his agenda.
He left his workshop and went to the kitchen. He’d earned a beer. He grabbed an ice-cold Budweiser from the rack and went out onto the porch to enjoy the afternoon sun beating down from on high. Like a blessing. Like God wanted him to succeed.
He laid waste to the beer, watched the sun wither the weeds under the scrub oak. It shouldn’t take him long to drive the bombs to their final resting place, only three hours at most. He’d have to use some of the gas he kept stored, but that was no small sacrifice when he weighed its use against the greater good. A tank of gas would be well used. He could be in and out of the building in less than thirty minutes if all went well. Forty-five if it didn’t.
But it would. He didn’t do things halfway, he’d been plotting this out for weeks. And he wasn’t dumb enough to tell anyone about this part, either. That’s how you got caught. That’s how you ended up behind bars for life, or ended up lying on a cold steel table while grave men stood over you and poison dripped into your veins.
Not that he hadn’t done a bit of misdirection, just in case.
He shifted on his bench, finished the beer. He had so much more to do before tomorrow, and the day wasn’t getting any younger. He went to the kitchen and tossed the bottle in the trash, marveling again that there were people who thought they could save the world by putting glass and plastic and paper into their proper receptacles. Poor things. The world was fucked. They were all fucked. He was just going to help hasten them along the path.
“Daddy?”
The little voice startled him. He turned and saw his daughter standing in the door to the kitchen, trailing her bear with one arm, her blond hair haloed by the afternoon sun, wiping her eyes.
“What’s the matter with you? You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“I was, but I had a bad dream.”
“In the daylight? Don’t you know there are no bad dreams when the sun shines, little girl?”
“I know.” Her lower lip quivered. She didn’t like to show weakness, he’d taught her that there was no room for weakness in their world. But she was scared, and he remembered what it was like to be a little kid who didn’t understand why bad things had to happen.
“Why don’t we read for a little bit. Would that help?”
“Yes, Daddy. It would.”
“All right. You get the book, I’ll meet you in a minute.” He didn’t need the book, they’d read it so many times he knew the words by heart, and so did she, but it completed the illusion to grasp the well-worn Laura Ingalls Wilder in their hands as he recited the words of another pioneer, who shared her story of life in the woods of Wisconsin, and was well loved for her stories of truth and suffering and sacrifice and love.
She disappeared from the doorway, and he washed his hands and rinsed his mouth.
He whispered the other words he’d memorized, from another book full of love and sacrifice, as he went to read his small daughter a naptime story.
“And I will execute great vengeance upon them with furious rebukes; and they shall know that I am the Lord, when I shall lay my vengeance upon them.”
Chapter 28
Denver, Colorado
Dr. Samantha Owens
It was dark when Sam landed at Denver International. She was tired, and overwhelmed by the information she’d gathered on the three-hour flight. She knew Xander was most likely at his parents’ place, and she knew that address, so she figured she’d just get a car with GPS and drive west until she found him.
It was as sound a plan as any she’d had today.
She had an account with Hertz, so she decided to take the bus to their counter in the hopes that they could hook her up with a vehicle that wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg. She was walking out to the buses past the baggage claim when she heard a voice call her name.
Xander was standing by the doors, a huge smile on his face.
She went to him immediately, didn’t say a word, just let him fold her in his arms and buried her face in his shoulder.
God, that felt good.
After a few moments, she pulled back and looked up at him.
“How did you know I was coming?”
“I was trying to call you forever, and I got worried when you didn’t answer, so I called Fletcher. He told me what was up.”
“And Fletcher didn’t insist that you turn yourself in immediately?”
“No, strangely enough.” He gave her a grin. “I’ll tell you everything in the car. We’ve got a couple of hours on the road. There’s just one little hitch. Are you ready to meet
my parents?”
There was an intriguing note in Xander’s voice, like he was half worried she’d say no, and half worried she’d say yes. She had to admit, the idea of the Whitfields intrigued her tremendously. She wanted to see the couple who’d created this amazing man. And she’d never been on a commune before. She had no idea what to expect.
“I’d love to meet them. You know that. I’ve talked to your mom before, she seems very sweet.”
“They’re going to go bonkers for you, that’s for sure. Come on. Let me take you home.”
She accepted his hand, and took a deep breath. Having him by her side would make everything so much easier. Everything.
* * *
Sam hadn’t been to Colorado in years, not since a ski trip in college, and was disappointed she couldn’t see the mountains as anything more than hulking shadows as they drove west into the darkness. Instead, she stargazed a bit, surprised at how close the night sky became when you were a mile up in the air. It was a moonless night, and clear as a bell, so she could easily see the stars as they wound their way into the foothills. “It is beautiful here.”
“It is. Different than Tennessee. This land gets in your conscience, in your being, and you can’t escape it. That’s why I need to live in the mountains. The air is clearer, the whole world feels different. I wouldn’t mind moving back here one day.”
She let that go. Only a few months before she hadn’t been able to see a life for herself outside of Nashville, where she’d relive the horror of losing her family over and over daily, her penance for surviving. Xander had already forced her from her comfort zone once. Of course, he might not want her with him when he moved. They hadn’t done a lot of talking about where their relationship was headed. Which suited Sam just fine. She didn’t like the idea of having to define herself right now. She was in transition, she knew that, and everything in her sphere was, as well. Maybe she and Xander would talk about it, but one day. Not now. Not with everything going on.
“You’ll have to show me all your favorite places,” she replied, and he shot her a smile. Enough said.
“We have a ways, right?”
“About two hours. You need a nap?”
“No. I’m going to check in with Fletcher, let him know what I found out on the plane. I’ll keep it on speaker so you can hear everything. And you can share what you know, too. Save us time so we don’t have to repeat it.”
“Go for it. I already gave Fletcher some info to work with, I’ll be interested to hear if he’s made any headway.”
She dialed Fletcher’s number, and he answered on the first ring.
“Did Xander find you?”
“He did. Thanks for telling him, Fletch. Made my life easier.”
“Well, that’s my goal. Do you have anything for me?”
“I do. Loa Ledbetter lived a fascinating life. The book talks about some of the places she’s gone native to research, but her particular focus was on spending a year with a pseudomilitia group in Montana who were convinced the world was about to experience an economic collapse and were preparing for that inevitability. The book is rather dry reading, there’s a lot of information about food storage and preparation, weapons, setting guard duty and activity rosters. How to grow food, preserve it, find water, shelter, the works. If there is a socioeconomic collapse, these are the people to be with. But what was interesting was a big run-in she had with a family who joined the group toward the end of her stay. They found out what she was up to, that she was taking extensive notes on the group, and went to the elders to complain about her. They raised enough of a stink that she had to come clean about her motives. Suffice it to say the group kicked her out, rather uncordially, and there’s been some bad blood ever since.”
“Okay. Where’s the group?”
“In the book, they’re in the mountains outside of Billings, Montana. But that’s not necessarily the right name, or place. After they kicked her out she assumes they changed locations—having someone from the outside aware of their entire world is exactly what they were trying to avoid. When she wrote the book they sued, and the publisher dropped her. She went ahead and self-pubbed it, just for her own personal use, but to be safe she changed several details to protect their identities. They must have made some pretty serious threats to divert her from her course. She doesn’t strike me as the type of woman who’s easily dissuaded.”
Xander had gone stiff in the seat beside her.
“They aren’t in Montana,” he said.
“What? How do you know?” Fletcher asked.
“Because I know exactly what group she wrote about. My God, I can’t believe I didn’t put it together sooner. They’re here in Colorado. Up near Grand Junction. I knew one of the members.”
“Who is he?”
“Knew. Past tense. He’s dead. Taken out by a roadside bomb in Kirkuk. I haven’t kept tabs on the group since, but he was an acquaintance, of sorts. Hung out with some people I hung out with, in the past, of course. Wow. It is a small world, isn’t it?”
Fletcher’s voice had an edge of excitement to it. “These people possibly pissed off enough about the book to stage an attack on the Metro, and take out Dr. Ledbetter in the process?”
“I don’t know, Fletcher. The FBI will probably have them on their radar—they call themselves the Mountain Blue and Gray. They don’t have an agenda, so to speak, and they’ve never been violent, are very self-contained, but I wouldn’t want to roll up on them unannounced.”
Sam could hear Fletcher scribbling notes.
“Mountain Blue and Gray. Got it. What else?”
Sam shifted the phone back toward her. “I started to go through her photographs, but there are thousands of them. It’s going to take some time to sort through them all. I was trying to focus on the events that she had public photos of, but there’s just too many. I’ll keep looking, but if you have help, that would be great.”
“Sure. I’ll get Inez on it. But what are we looking for?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. But a woman so committed to detailing every bit of her life must have secrets. You’re starting to think the three dead were targeted, right?”
“Right. I’m about to go talk to Marc Conlon’s mother and get into his computer. Just waiting for the warrant. I need to go ahead with a warrant for Ledbetter’s work as well, even though we have pretty open access already, just to make sure we don’t run into an issue down the road. Should have all my ducks in a row in an hour or so.”
“What about the congressman and his...other issue?” She didn’t know how much they should discuss on an open cell line until Fletcher was certain about the case.
“Waiting on the DNA. Even with a rush it’s going to be a day or two. In the meantime, I’m trying to talk to the cop who handled it so he can fill me in. I have an appointment with the wife...oh, crap. I gotta leave right now to go meet her. Thanks for all of this. If you get more, let me know right away.”
“Will do, Fletch. Be safe.”
They hung up and Sam rested her head back against the seat, suddenly exhausted.
“You okay?” Xander asked.
“Yeah. It’s just been a really long couple of days.”
“Why don’t you shut your eyes for a little bit? I’ll wake you when we’re close.”
She didn’t need asking twice. She twisted in her seat so her seat belt was still on but not cutting into her shoulder, and lay down with her head in Xander’s lap. He ran his hand along the back of her neck, kneading the knots out, playing with her hair as he drove, and the lulling rhythm of the car’s tires on the highway and Xander’s ministrations did the trick. She was out before she knew it.
Chapter 29
Dillon, Colorado
Alexander Whitfield
Xander watched for deer as he guided the truck higher and hig
her into the mountains, thinking simultaneously about how lovely Sam looked when she slept and about the Mountain Blue and Gray.
His “friend” was named Stephen Upland. In the unit, they called him 7UP for his upbeat personality. Xander hadn’t known him well—he was attached to Bravo Company and 7UP was in Charlie Company—but they crossed paths occasionally, and since they came from the same part of the world in their civilian lives, they occasionally hung out and talked about what they missed from back home. He had lived in the Mountain Blue and Gray community since he was a little kid, and had volunteered to go into the military to gain the training necessary to be the head of their defensive system should the economic collapse they feared occur.
He remembered the flack from Ledbetter’s book now. She’d posited that the Mountain Blue and Gray, and groups like them, were cults. That hadn’t gone over well at all. If he remembered correctly, there were some group members from other survivalist camps who’d been quite keen in showing Dr. Ledbetter what a cult was really all about.
But that had all gone down seven years or more ago. The groups weren’t necessarily fluid, but seven years is a long time for a group of survivalists not to have some changes in dynamics. People come and go.
He started racking his brain to think about where those threats had come from. Not from people he knew; Xander wasn’t a prepper, or even a survivalist. He didn’t think the world was going to go down in a blaze of glory in the next few years. He recognized the resiliency of the American people, the ease with which governments shifted from party to party, without protests in the streets and journalists being kidnapped and beheaded and bright fires burning down the cities. In another country, the situation could easily grow dire—my God, the things he’d seen in Afghanistan and Iraq would turn any logical person into a survivalist—but in the United States, he firmly believed that even if the absolute worst were to happen, it wouldn’t be as difficult to put the pieces back together as it would elsewhere. Some of the preppers were downright insane, truth be told. His friends were more a group of like-minded men and women who didn’t make preparing for an unknown event the main focus of their world, just shared some handy information in case the shit hit the fan.
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