Red Right Hand

by Chris Holm

  “Congratulations, then. You’re officially my tour guide.”

  “Come again?”

  “You heard me. We’re going to San Francisco.”

  Hendricks had called in a favor and got them on a private jet out of Philly—a sleek, luxurious Citation X+ with room for twelve and twin Rolls-Royce Allison engines so powerful that its top speed bumped up against the sound barrier. Cessna claimed it was the fastest civilian aircraft in the world, and unlike most charter jets, it could travel coast to coast without refueling. It cost just shy of twenty-three million dollars, not counting fuel and upkeep. A single cross-country flight ran twenty-five grand.

  Hendricks knew all that because the guy who owned the plane—a former client named Morales—had made sure to tell him. It was clear Hendricks’s request had put him out. Hendricks hated cashing in so big a chip, but time was of the essence, and the TSA was on high alert, which made traveling-while-criminal a bad idea. Plus, commercial flights to the Bay Area were grounded. The only reason the tiny Palo Alto Airport—which boasted a single runway, and warned pilots on approach to watch out for jackrabbits—was open to private travelers was its proximity to Silicon Valley. The tech lobby had pressured Congress to ensure their top executives could get in and out, and Congress had in turn pressured the FAA.

  The flight from Philly had taken five hours—two with the time change. The Cessna had raced the breaking dawn across the country, flying toward darkness pricked with stars, the sky bloodred behind it the whole way. Hendricks had dozed off long before daylight overtook them. Cameron, apparently, hadn’t.

  “I thought I told you to get some sleep,” he said.

  “I tried. My brain wouldn’t let me. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “What, sleep?”

  “Yeah. After everything that happened yesterday. Knowing what we’re walking into.”

  “We’re not walking into anything—I am. You’re going to hang back and support me from afar, like we discussed.”

  “I’ve been keeping an eye on the coverage,” she said. “It’s getting ugly out there. Someone set fire to a mosque in Dearborn, Michigan. A Sikh cabbie in Los Angeles was dragged from his car and beaten. And the Feds raided some poor guy’s apartment in Alameda an hour ago on what turned out to be a false lead called in by a pissed-off neighbor.”

  “Any follow-up attacks?”

  “Not yet, and I’ve seen no further mention of the old guy from the video.”

  “How about the mess we left in Port Jefferson?”

  “Nothing new, although the paper speculated it was a gangland killing.”

  Not too far off, Hendricks thought, and at least that line of questioning kept interest away from Cameron. “Anything else I ought to know?”

  “I downloaded some apps to your phone because the preinstalled ones sucked. Maps, GPS, video chat—the BART app too, while I was at it.”

  “Bart?”

  “Bay Area Rapid Transit.”

  “You think I’m gonna catch a lot of buses while I’m in town?”

  Cameron reddened. “It’s more than buses. The app keeps track of trains, cable cars, ferries…although I guess not so much that last one lately.”

  “Water traffic’s still shut down, huh?”

  “Yeah. Sounds like the search has been slow-going. They’ve been bringing food and water out to the smaller vessels to tide them over until they can be cleared. Anyway, I figured the app might come in handy for a guy who doesn’t know the town. Chance favors the prepared mind, as my mom would say.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  The aircraft taxied to a stop. Silence descended upon the cabin as the engines wound down. Then the cockpit door opened, and the pilot stepped out. “Welcome to sunny Palo Alto,” he said, his tone teetering between bored and irritated. “Enjoy your stay.”

  The air was cool, the airport quiet. Small private aircraft were parked in rows, two- and four-seaters mostly, single-engine prop planes belonging to rich hobbyists. Most of the airport’s outbuildings were shuttered and dark. Palo Alto was situated on the southwestern tip of San Francisco Bay, where the water peters off to wetlands. The airport was bordered by a salt marsh to the north and east, and a municipal golf course to the south and west. Through the morning haze, Hendricks could just make out the gentle rise of the mountains across the bay.

  A man in an orange vest and coveralls pointed them toward a nondescript gate in the chain-link fence that surrounded the airport. From this side, at least, it was unlocked.

  When they reached the parking lot, Hendricks frowned. It contained maybe a dozen cars.

  “What’s wrong?” Cameron asked.

  “We need a ride.”

  “And?”

  “This is a short-term lot. If any of these went missing, they’d be reported by day’s end. Besides, without proper tools, boosting one could take a while, and we’re liable to be seen.”

  “I’m guessing Uber’s not an option.”

  Hendricks shook his head. “In my line of work, it doesn’t pay to leave a trail.”

  Cameron poked at her phone a moment. Then her face brightened. “I have an idea.”

  She led him southwest on Embarcadero Road, four lanes bracketed by sidewalks and lined with trees. To their right, as they walked, was the golf course. To their left, an office park. The golf course was empty. Most of the businesses were closed.

  After a quarter mile or so, they reached a shuttered auto-rental agency. Cameron circled it, glancing at her phone from time to time. Then she sat down in the shadow of a live oak and took her laptop from its bag.

  Hendricks eyed the building with suspicion. Surveillance cameras monitored the parking lot. Sensors protected the windows and doors. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, kid, but I can tell you that it’s not a good idea.”

  “Shh.”

  “Rental places track their inventory pretty closely—”

  “I said be quiet.”

  “—and this place is wired for security, which means—”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Cameron snapped, “would you shut up and let me work?”

  Hendricks fell silent.

  Three minutes later, the overhead door on the far side of the building rattled open.

  “Cameron,” he said warily, “what did you do?”

  “You said we needed a ride no one would miss. This place is closed until Monday, and their after-hours return slot drops the keys into the garage. If we swipe a car before it’s checked back in, they’ll just assume it hasn’t been returned yet.”

  “What about the security system?”

  “Please. I shut it off before I triggered the door. If they were serious about security, they would have locked down their wireless network. They’re practically begging to be hacked.”

  “And the cameras?”

  “Currently experiencing technical difficulties. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole day’s feed was compromised.”

  “That’s a damn shame,” Hendricks said, smiling.

  “Isn’t it?” Cameron replied. “Now, how about we go pick out some wheels?”

  20.

  CHET YANCEY SLURPED terrible coffee from a Styrofoam cup and watched the rescue efforts from a scenic overlook while he waited for the new guy to arrive.

  Though the fireboats had quelled the blazes in the wee hours of the night, the sky was still dulled by smoke. The road along the water’s edge was crowded with rescue workers and equipment. The bay was choked with police boats and Coast Guard cutters. A pair of tugboats maneuvered a massive crane barge into place beside the Golden Gate Bridge, their engines laboring.

  Most of the survivors had been successfully evacuated, but seventy-five or so were still up there, trapped or pinned down by rubble. Throughout the night, the bridge’s vertical suspender ropes had snapped at random, steel cable nearly three inches thick breaking loose and slicing through cars and asphalt like razor wire through flesh. The remaining support ropes squealed under the added
strain. Rescue workers hoped to use the crane to clear the roadway and support the bridge’s weight until the remaining survivors could be reached.

  The hills flanking the walking trail were dotted with yellow flags, indicating debris, and red flags, marking spots where biological evidence—a polite euphemism for bodies and body parts—had lain. The debris sat where it landed. The biologicals were moved once they were flagged and photographed, to avoid predation.

  Upslope, at the Golden Gate Bridge Pavilion—which served as the command center for the rescue effort—FEMA and local fire-and-rescue crews argued with state and federal crime-scene investigators over priorities. SFPD and U.S. Park Police quibbled pointlessly over jurisdiction. Homeland Security and the FBI’s National Security Branch butted heads and measured dicks. The bickering—and the lousy coffee he’d grabbed—gave Yancey flashbacks to his public-sector days.

  Yancey’d spent two decades in the FBI’s employ, even heading up the Albuquerque field office for a time, but he’d gotten out years ago. Now he worked for Bellum Industries as manager of West Coast operations, a title intended to obfuscate rather than describe.

  Bellum was a private security contractor, a major player in the Middle East, with nearly sixty thousand private military contractors in the region. Bellum’s duties included securing borders, bases, embassies—even entire cities—at the U.S. government’s behest. Protecting the interests of well-heeled multinational corporations—their oil fields, shipping routes, employee housing—and any private citizens who could afford to pay. Supplying the CIA with manpower—called consultants, officially, although in reality they were off-the-books hit squads.

  Bellum’s domestic interests included training members of the U.S. military and law enforcement at their compound north of San Francisco, the translation and analysis of electronic intelligence at their headquarters in DC, and protecting foreign diplomats on U.S. soil. Bellum also, via its subsidiary companies, provided more prosaic security measures, such as CCTV monitoring and personnel, to everything from amusement parks to schools.

  As Yancey stared out over the bay, his thoughts returned unbidden to the phone call he’d gotten yesterday.

  “Hiya, Chet. It’s been a while.”

  The number had been blocked, but he recognized the voice immediately. It was the Council’s mouthpiece, Lombino.

  “Why the fuck are you calling me? I paid my debt, and haven’t so much as lost a nickel on a friendly game of cards in seven years.”

  “Good for you, pal, only here’s the thing: your payment bounced.”

  “The hell it did,” Yancey whispered. “I put Segreti in the ground, just like you asked.”

  “Yeah? Then how’d he just end up on my TV?”

  “What do you mean, your TV?” Yancey hadn’t seen a television in days. He’d been tied up dealing with a crisis at work—unsuccessfully, as it turned out.

  Lombino filled him in. Yancey lit a cigarette with trembling fingers while he listened.

  “Look, Chet,” Lombino said, “I’m not an unreasonable man. I can tell this was an honest mistake. As far as I’m concerned, if you fix it, we’re square. Of course, this time we’re gonna have to ask for video evidence. I’m sure you understand.”

  “What if I say no?”

  “Seems to me our deal last time was, you take out Segreti and we forgive your debts, you don’t and we kill your daughter. But that was seven years ago, which means there’s interest to consider. Speaking of, I hear she just had twins.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m in the middle of a work thing. I’m not sure I can—”

  “Lemme stop you, Chet. That sounds more like a you-problem than a me-problem. See, I don’t care how it gets done, but I care very much that it does get done. Understood?”

  “Yeah. I hear you,” Yancey had said, and Lombino’s words had echoed in his mind ever since.

  Footfalls behind Yancey brought him back to the here and now. He turned to find the new guy, Reyes, strolling down the path in a pale summer suit, a venti Starbucks in his hand.

  “Morning, boss.”

  Yancey downed the rest of his own coffee and pitched the cup into the bushes. Then he tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it. “Is it still?” he asked, exhaling smoke. “I’ve been waiting so goddamn long, I thought for sure it would be afternoon by now.”

  Bellum had hired Oscar Reyes three months ago, and Yancey was still breaking him in. There was no denying Reyes had talent, but Yancey found his swagger grating. He seemed to Yancey like a horse that wouldn’t take a saddle. The ivy-educated son of Dominican immigrants, Reyes was recruited out of grad school by the CIA and had spent the past decade running solo ops throughout Central and South America. Consequently, he was accustomed to his independence, and—unlike the majority of men in Yancey’s employ, who hailed from the military—punctuality was not his strongest suit.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I got tied up with this kid from the Park Police who wouldn’t shut up. Then—”

  Yancey cut him off. “Bellum doesn’t pay you to make excuses, son, and they don’t pay me to stand around. How about you skip ’em and just give me the fucking sitrep?”

  “You got it, boss.” Reyes took an infuriatingly long sip of his coffee before continuing. “First off, the subject’s still alive, near as I can tell. I spent half the night looking at bodies. Saw some seriously gory shit—and probably won’t be eating lasagna for a while—but none of them matched the stills you sent me from the video.”

  Fuck, Yancey thought. He’d been hoping to get lucky. “So if he isn’t dead, where is he?”

  “Good question,” Reyes replied. “We found his hat in the bushes not far from here. He must’ve lost it when he fell. And that kid from Park Police I mentioned had a run-in with a guy matching our subject’s description not long after the blast. Sounds like he was banged up. Disoriented.”

  “Where was this?”

  “About a quarter mile uphill from here.”

  “I thought the local boys were tasked with bringing the injured to the medical tents for triage. Why’d Ranger Rick let him go?”

  “He claims our guy told him that a family downslope needed his help—the people from the video, maybe—and promised to stay put until the cop returned. The kid combed the scrub beside the trail for half an hour but couldn’t find any family, and when he came back, our guy was gone.”

  “So he’s in the wind?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve spoken to my contacts at Homeland Security, since they’re the ones patrolling the park’s perimeter. Far as they know, nobody meeting his description has left the grounds, which means he’s likely still inside.”

  “They sure?”

  “Sure as they can be, given that they’ve got over three miles of perimeter to cover. And they’ve got the Coast Guard monitoring the beaches, so we know he didn’t leave by sea.”

  “Okay, say you’re our guy. You get caught pants-down when shit meets fan, but you can’t get out before the Feds drop the net. Where do you go?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? Obviously, it’d help if I knew more about him. His background. His training. His identity. Without more intel, I feel like I’m conducting this investigation with one hand tied behind my back.”

  “Sorry, no dice. All I’m authorized to tell you is, he’s a person of interest in the bridge attack,” Yancey lied.

  “That and a blurry picture’s not a lot to go on.”

  “True enough,” Yancey agreed, “but Lord knows, I’ve tracked down men with less. What’s your next move?”

  “I’ve dispatched a four-man team to his last known location. They’re conducting a grid search as we speak. And I’ve got dogs en route. I figure if he’s hurt, he may’ve left a blood trail, and if he’s holed up nearby, they’ll take us right to him. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Good. Keep me posted. Text me if you find anything.”

  “You’re not sticking around?”

  “I can’t.
I’ve got another matter to attend to.”

  “Which is?”

  “Way above your pay grade, son.”

  21.

  YOU SURE YOU wanna do this?” Cameron asked.

  “Nope,” Hendricks replied, “but I don’t have any better ideas, so this one’ll have to do. Are you clear on your part of the plan?”

  Cameron smiled. “Are you?”

  They were in San Francisco, parked on the northbound side of Lyon Street in the Nissan Altima they’d lifted from the rental agency. The Presidio was to the west behind them. Hendricks twisted in his seat, the stitches in his side pulling, so he could keep an eye on the two Homeland Security officers within sight of their position. One was stationed at the Presidio’s Lombard Street gate. The other was nearer to where they sat, leaning against the low stone wall that encircled the old base. Though the day was warm and clear with an easterly wind holding the city’s trademark fog offshore, they wore full tactical gear, all of it black: helmets, fatigues, ballistic vests, utility belts, hard plastic elbow and kneepads. Both looked hot and tired, but watchful.

  Homeland Security had the Presidio pretty well locked down. There was an agent stationed at the end of every dead-end road that jutted north from Lake Street, which ran east to west along the westernmost half of the park’s southern border. East of Lake Street, the park’s edge became more accessible, so agents were stationed line of sight from one another just outside. There were regular foot patrols along the Mountain Lake Trail and vehicular patrols along West Pacific Avenue, both of which ran just inside the southern edge of the park’s stone fence. But to the east, no road or trail ran along the inside border, and closing Lyon Street—which ran parallel to it just outside—was impractical, so Homeland Security’s presence was thinner there. Not much thinner, but still, it was a weakness Hendricks had every intention of exploiting.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “I need to know you’re good to go.”

  “I am.”