by M. Z. Kelly
Joe Dawson met me at the airport. The FBI agent was a big guy in his early forties, with sandy hair fading to gray, and the palest blue eyes I’d ever seen. He was as tough as they come when it came to finding justice for the victims of this world, something that I admired. We’d become close friends, bonding over our difficult cases and the commitment to find my sister.
We exchanged hugs, and Joe said, “I think you get better looking every time I see you, Buttercup.”
I’d let him take some liberties with the nickname he’d chosen for me. “I can honestly say the same thing about you. You look like you’ve lost a couple pounds.” I playfully punched his stomach. “You on the wagon, Dawson?”
He laughed. “Yeah, the beer wagon.” He waved a hand. “Let’s go. Greer and the others are waiting for us.”
A half hour later, Joe and I settled into a conference room at the temporary headquarters the FBI was using in Nashville, along with a dozen other FBI agents. There were also a couple civilian profilers present, some who I’d worked with on previous cases.
After introductions, John Greer, the supervising agent in charge, took over. Greer was a few years older than Joe, with a solid build, brown hair, and the requisite FBI issued dark suit. After some chit-chat and introductions, he told me where they stood on finding my sister.
“Lindsay’s with a group of about a half-dozen members of the Swarm on a farm outside the small town of Woodbury. We’ve had a confidential informant named Gerald Meyers embedded with the group for the past several weeks. He’s made affirmative contact with us on more than one occasion, telling us something big is about to happen.”
“What exactly does that mean?” I asked.
Joe, who I knew had been working directly with Meyers, answered. “He isn’t sure, but he thinks the group is planning on hitting a soft target.”
“I think they’re going to hit someplace where there are a large number of people gathered,” a civilian profiler named Jeremy Spender said. “My money’s on them hitting a political target.”
Spender was with a Boston based think-tank. He was knowledgeable, but his arrogance rubbed nearly everyone the wrong way, especially Joe, who took great delight in irritating him. “What kind of political target, Jerry?”
Spender, who had insisted on being called Dr. Spender, shot lasers at the big FBI agent. “If I knew that, I’d be a mind-reader.”
“I guess that means you’re just making shit up.”
“I don’t make shit up.”
“Sure you do, and it happens all the time. That’s why you’re always full of it.”
The two men went at one another for a couple minutes, with Spender whining about being disrespected.
Ben Wilson, the local agent in charge, changed the subject after Greer restored order. “The farm where the Swarm is gathered is owned by a man named Jenson Moore. He’s a wealthy investor who has made a small fortune in the overseas oil industry. There’s been some speculation he’s buying crude oil from terrorist organizations on the Syrian-Iraqi border.”
“Do we think he’s connected to the Swarm?” I asked.
“It’s an unknown,” Wilson said. The local agent was a powerfully built African-American man with a shaved head, who brought to mind a much younger version of Leo. “But the fact that Moore is allowing members of the Swarm to use his property is telling.”
“I think he’s just an opportunist,” Jeremy Spender said. “If he has ties to the Swarm, they’re ancillary, at best.”
“Give us a break,” Dawson said. “Moore’s dirty or he wouldn’t let a bunch of terrorists live with him.” He looked at Wilson. “What about the other members of the Swarm? Have any of them been ID’d?”
Wilson shook his head. “The group has been very effective at keeping their members off the radar. We haven’t been able to affirmatively tie anyone to the group.”
“What about my sister?” I said, looking at Greer. “Joe told me she’s been in touch and is working for us.”
“All communication has gone through Meyers,” Greer said. “He’s told us that Lindsay’s on our side, but we have nothing from her to confirm that.”
I tamped down my frustration. I’d believed, or maybe just hoped, that Lindsay had been able to communicate directly with the agents. It was possible that Gerald Meyers was making false statements to either serve his own ends or those of the Swarm. And, if that was happening, it meant my sister was in deep trouble.
Greer continued. “Here’s how we’re going to proceed. We have a warrant to search the compound that we’re going to serve tonight. We’re going in under the cover of darkness, hoping we can take those involved by surprise.” He looked at me. “Since you have a personal interest in this, you’ll be there in the capacity of a bystander only.”
I nodded, still trying to deal with my anxiety. “I understand.”
***
The farm where the Swarm had taken up residence was about an hour southeast of Nashville. I rode with Joe, following a convoy of undercover cars, including a couple trucks with tactical operations teams. The feds were also sending a couple helicopters, from nearby Arnold Air Force Base, with several additional agents.
As he drove, I updated Joe on the deaths of Collin Russell and Harlan Ryland, and told him about Harlee Ryland now being in control. “Harlee inherited all of her grandfather’s holdings, including his estate and the Tauist Retreat. She also told me that she and Noah Fraser were engaged before his death, and that her sole purpose now is retribution.”
Joe looked at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not sure, exactly, but I took it personally. I think she wants to stop any investigation into Russell’s and her grandfather’s role in embezzling funds from Wallace Studios and the killing of my adoptive father.”
“You think she means business?”
“I only met her briefly when she showed us that her grandfather has been put in a cryogenic state, but I think she’s serious.” I saw his questioning look. “The Tauists believe that in the future medical science will advance to the point of being able to revive the dead members of their religion.”
He smiled. “You ask me, somebody needs to pull the plug on the fridge.”
We chatted about Ryland and the Tauists for a few minutes before the discussion turned personal.
“How are you adjusting to returning to work?” Joe asked.
“Not bad for someone who died.” I laughed. “Maybe I should become a Tauist.”
“You’re going to need to explain that one to me.”
I took a few minutes, telling him about my near-death experience and hearing the voice about making a choice between fear and love. I ended by telling him, “All I know is that I came back to work to try and make a difference, and to continue to find justice for my dad.” I met his pale eyes. “I think that’s the love part of the equation.”
“Makes sense to me. As I’ve told you before, you’re a natural when it comes to police work.”
I brushed a hand through my wayward hair. “I just work hard at my job, but I appreciate you saying that.”
He then asked about Pearl, and I told him he was still missing. He thought about what I’d said for a minute, then told me, “I’ve got a feeling Pearl’s lying low for a reason. He’s going to surface one of these days and explain things.”
I chuckled. “That’s good, because there’s a lot of explaining…”
My words were cut off by John Greer’s voice coming over the radio. “All units be alert. Our choppers have a visual on the compound. It’s on fire!”
ELEVEN
When Joe and I arrived at the farmhouse, it was fully engulfed in flames. The sprawling two story dwelling was in a rural area. By the time the fire department arrived, I knew there would be nothing left of the residence.
“What do you think?” I said, looking at Joe as the glow from the fire lit up his handsome features.
He glanced at me. “I think somebody tipped them off to our rai
d and they didn’t want to leave any evidence behind.” His gaze wandered over to the woods. I looked in that direction and saw the vague outline of an outbuilding in the darkness, maybe a storage shed. Joe began walking toward it. “Let’s check it out.”
As we walked over, I asked him, “Does our CI have any way of contacting us?”
“Meyers uses burner phones when he wants to communicate. There’s no way to track his location.”
When we got over to the building, I realized it was a workshop. A couple other agents had followed us, and we took a few minutes going through it, with our guns drawn, to make sure it was empty. After putting my gun away, I went over to a workbench. Instead of tools, the bench had about a half-dozen notebooks like you’d buy in an office supply store.
I asked Joe, “Do you think this is where they planned whatever they have in mind?”
“Maybe. Hard to say.”
I took a moment, thumbing through the notebooks. They were empty, like someone had purchased them but never used them. I was about to give up on finding anything when a folded piece of paper fell out of one of them.
I unfolded the paper and called over to Joe, “I think this might be some kind of message.”
Joe came over to me. “What does it say?”
I read the capital letters aloud. “SESL.” I looked at him. “What do you think it means?”
“I have no idea.” He called the other agents over and showed them the paper. “Either of you make any sense of this?” He got headshakes. He looked back at me. “Google it.”
I used my iPhone and did as he requested. After scrolling through the webpages, I said, “I just get a bunch of stuff about soil and environmental issues.”
Joe took the paper from me. “Let’s go ask the others, see if anyone knows what it means.”
We took the paper to John Greer. After explaining what we had, he asked the other agents to gather around as he showed them what I’d found. “It says SESL. Does this mean anything to anyone?”
A young Hispanic agent with a southern drawl spoke up. “It’s just a guess, but it might stand for the South East Soccer League.”
Greer took a step closer to him. “What can you tell me about it?”
“They’ve got about a dozen teams that play games in the southern states.” He scratched his jaw. “I think there might even be a game scheduled…”
“It’s in Memphis,” I said, reading what I’d pulled up on my phone. “Their team, the Southern Storm, is playing tonight at Western Arena.” I took a breath, looking up after reading some additional details. “The stadium holds twenty thousand people.”
TWELVE
By the time we left for the soccer stadium, it was less than an hour until the game was scheduled to begin. Joe and I managed to talk our way onto the helicopter carrying John Greer. The head of our taskforce called ahead, alerting the local police.
When the call ended, it was obvious he was frustrated. “They’re sending police units to the stadium to assist with the evacuation, but the game is sold out. It’s going to take some time.”
“What kind of security screening is done on the fans?” Joe asked.
“I got the impression it’s mainly checking bags and backpacks. It’s pretty minimal.”
“Has the media been alerted?” I asked.
Greer shook his head. “They don’t want to start a panic.”
“I’d rather have a panic than a bunch of dead fans,” Joe said. “Let’s send something out on social media.”
After some discussion, Greer authorized me to work on behalf of the FBI, alerting the media and putting out a general notice about security concerns, via Facebook and Twitter, asking that fans evacuate the stadium. We had no way of knowing if what I’d done had made a difference until we got to the arena. As we landed in the parking lot, I saw people were running from the stands. When the door to our chopper rumbled open, we heard the explosions coming from inside the stadium.
“They’re using suicide bombers,” Joe said, as we got to the stadium’s entrance and heard and saw multiple explosions. “They’re sending their people into wherever there’s a concentration of fans.”
By the time we got inside the stadium, I realized we were too late. I counted a half dozen explosions and saw that those who could get away were running from the areas where the bombs had been detonated. Several people were being crushed in the stampede.
I was making my way into the stands to try and assist the injured, when the panicked crowd surged in my direction, knocking me down. I was trying to get up and regain my bearings when a woman bent down to me. Even though I recognized her features, I knew it might be a hallucination brought on my stress. Then, all at once, I knew this wasn’t my mind playing tricks on me. I was looking into the face of my sister. She was wearing a scarf and had no makeup, but I had no doubt it was her. There were tears in her eyes as she pushed an envelope into my hands. An instant later, a man pulled her up by the arm and they disappeared into the crowd before I could respond.
I managed to get to my feet, frantically scanning the panicked crowd and calling out for Lindsay. After a few minutes I gave up, realizing she was gone, probably ushered away by the man who was with her. I stumbled away from the crowd, trying to put the chaos out of my mind. I took a moment, opening the envelope she’d given me. In the dim light at the recesses of the stadium, I managed to make out the message. It filled me with terror.
Another attack coming soon. Please stop them!
THIRTEEN
Joe Dawson and I spent a long night at Western Stadium, helping triage those victims who had survived the attack. A total of eighty-seven people had been killed by what we determined were seven suicide bombers. There were several victims in critical condition, so we knew the number of casualties would grow.
It was after eight in the morning when Joe and I managed to pull ourselves away from the crime scene and grab a bite to eat in a local diner. As we drank coffee and looked at menus, we talked about the note Lindsay had given me.
“I have a feeling what they’re planning next will be worse,” I said. “They’re terrorists and they want nothing less than panic and chaos.”
Joe set his cup down and tossed the menu on the table. “Can’t say that I disagree.” He regarded me for a long moment. “You’re sure it was Lindsay?”
“I have no doubt. I only saw her for an instant, but I got the impression she was under duress and took a big chance leaving me the message.”
“What about the guy who took her away?”
“I only saw him for an instant. He didn’t look familiar.”
“And you didn’t see any sign of our CI?”
I shook my head as a waitress came over. After we ordered and she left, I said, “I’m worried Meyers could flip on Lindsay, tell the others she’s working for us.”
“If that was going to happen, I think he would have done it by now.”
We were silent for a moment, each of us lost in our thoughts, before I said, “Where do we go from here?”
Joe sighed. “Every law enforcement agency in the country is on alert. We have to hope we catch a break, somebody sees something, and we take the leaders down.”
“Any word on Jenson Moore, the owner of the farm where the Swarm was gathered?”
He shook his head. “In the wind, along with the others. At least we have no doubt now that he’s connected to the group. We just have to hope we catch a break, and he eventually surfaces.” His pale eyes held on me again. “Rough way for you to get back to work. How are you doing?”
I took a breath and thought about his question. “It’s been rough, but I know coming back to the job was the right decision.” I thought about all the years Joe had put into police work. “What about you? You ever thought about doing anything else?”
He laughed. “Like being a mailman?”
I chuckled. “It’s an honest living.”
“Can’t imagine any other life.”
“Like father, like son,�
� I said, remembering that his father had been a legend with the agency years ago.
He held up his coffee mug, and we clinked our cups together as he responded. “And, like daughter, like father.”
After we set our cups down, I said, “Maybe that’s why we get along so well. We have a lot in common.”
“Except you’re still trying to find justice for one father and just trying to find the other.”
Maybe it was exhaustion, but I laughed. “When you put it like that, it makes it sound like I need years of therapy.”
He smiled again. “Don’t we all.”
Our food arrived, and we chatted aimlessly as we ate. I learned that our taskforce was about to get a whole lot larger, with some big players from Quantico coming aboard.
Joe said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re assigned to follow up with the locals in Podunk, while the big boys take over.”
“Maybe Greer will have some influence. You and I have been on this case for a long time.”
“Maybe.”
“And there’s my sister. Since she’s already contacted me once, maybe she’ll make another attempt.”
He chewed, nodded. “That’s our best hope.” His phone rang and he checked the screen. “It’s Greer.” He took the call, listened without saying much, then responded, “We’ll head out now.”
“What’s up?” I said, as he put some bills on the table.
“We’re heading to the airport. There was an explosion in Times Square about ten minutes ago. Greer said they think it was a dirty bomb.”
FOURTEEN
By the time we made it to the airport and got on a plane for New York, we had reports that the city was in chaos. I knew from attending several training classes that so-called dirty bombs inflicted most of their damage by creating panic and fear, rather than the widespread damage of a nuclear explosion. The bombs were, in theory, made with a combination of radioactive and conventional explosives, limiting their dispersal area, something that I mentioned to Joe as we landed at LaGuardia.