Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  Nick cupped a hand over his eyes. “Jule, I’m not coming home to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”

  There was a pause. “Is that how you would feel if you stopped right now—like danger will follow you home?”

  He didn’t want to frighten her, yet he couldn’t allow her to be caged by FBI protection twenty-four hours a day. Not long term.

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “But Sweetie, that puts us back to square one. There will always be someone out there,” her voice cracked. “It’s never going to stop.”

  Nick paced into a dark hallway that led to the prison cells. The only thing on the wall was an ancient payphone jutting out into the narrow corridor. Atop the phone was an abandoned Styrofoam cup. Nick increased speed as he spoke. “Listen, Jule, this time it’s different. It’s personal. I promise I will not be an FBI agent thirty days from now. One way or another, I will be done.”

  “I don’t know if I like how you said that, Nick. What do you mean ‘one way or another you’ll be done’?”

  “I mean . . .” Nick thought about what he meant. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t plot out his goals on a chart and check them off as he went. How could he possibly resolve the KSF threat in such a short period? “I mean . . . I mean I’m going to get Kharrazi.”

  “Will you ever be able to let go?”

  Nick didn’t have the details yet, just disconnected ideas floating around in his head like tiny bits of hydrogen and oxygen looking for a way to merge into something significant. He was distracted by a pair of headlights that lit up the inside of the reception room. He heard Carl Rutherford murmur something about sticking a bullet between the Sheriff’s eyes.

  “Listen, Jule, I’ve got to go.” Tell her, he thought. Tell her what she needs to hear. But the moment passed, and once again, Nick grappled for something resembling appropriate. “I’ll be home tomorrow—I promise. We’ll talk then.”

  “I love you.” She hung up, giving him the out he needed.

  “Now listen up,” Matt was instructing Rutherford and Tolliver. “We go straight by the book. We read him his rights and take him into custody. End of story. We don’t want any well-paid attorneys getting him off on a police brutality charge. Understand?”

  The two agents were more interested in their burritos than some corrupt Sheriff. They both nodded with mouths full of beans. The front door creaked open and Sheriff Skrugs marched in with his airy smile intact. He stopped cold when he saw the audience waiting for him. He tried, but he couldn’t hide his astonishment. He continued through the doorway tentatively while his eyes darted from agent to agent as if he was trying to discover how much they knew.

  “Evening, Sheriff,” Matt twanged.

  “Well . . . how did it go?” Skrugs’ voice was shaky.

  Matt approached the sheriff with a sinister grin. “Bet you didn’t think you’d ever see us again.”

  Skrugs assumed his trademark pompous smirk. “Now why in the world would you go and say a thing like that?”

  Matt hesitated for just a moment, then squeezed his fist shut and flew an uppercut into Skrugs’ chin. The Sheriff’s teeth snapped together like castanets as he fell back and hit the floor flush, the full weight of his body causing the room to shake.

  Nick jumped to Matt’s side. He looked sideways at his partner. “By the book, eh?”

  For the first time in their tenure together, Matt was speechless. He just stood with his fist clenched as if he were waiting for Skrugs to get to his feet and take another blow.

  But Skrugs was phlegmatic. He slowly rose to one elbow and rubbed his chin with an air of superiority, as if his acquired knowledge would sustain him. Nick wasn’t sure if it was the grin or the residual tension left behind from the ambush, but he suddenly found himself with his hand grasping the Sheriff’s throat. His grip was so tight that Skrugs’ skin oozed from between Nick’s fingers like Play-Doh. Skrugs' face turned red while appearing anxious to hear Nick’s demands.

  Nick simply squeezed harder and harder until he was fairly certain he would suffocate Skrugs in a matter of seconds. The Sheriff desperately pulled on Nick’s arms and searched the room for support from anywhere he might find it. He found nothing but steady glares from the observing agents.

  With the wall of blood rushing to his head, Nick didn’t hear the door open.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  Silk stood in the doorway with the confused expression of a child who had just found his little brother opening up all of his Christmas presents. He froze open-mouthed, while a green toothpick defied gravity on his lower lip. He looked at Nick for an explanation.

  Nick released Skrugs and the big man’s head bounced on the linoleum floor like a bowling ball. A strained surge of air fought its way through the Sheriff’s collapsed trachea.

  Silk looked down at the Sheriff gasping for air. He pointed his toothpick. “That’s supposed to be my job.”

  “Silk,” Nick stopped him before he went any further. “This is not who you’re after.”

  Silk looked pensively at Skrugs, as if any revenge might curb his appetite.

  Nick kicked Skrugs. “How much did they pay you?”

  Skrugs was on his side. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath. Nick couldn’t tell if one of the heaves was a shrug. He pulled out his 9mm and pointed the barrel at Skrugs’ head. “Where are they?”

  The Sheriff’s eyes widened.

  The bathroom door opened and even before Nick saw Jennifer Steele working a towel over her wet hair, he heard her gasp. “What are you doing?”

  Almost embarrassed, Nick holstered his gun.

  Silk leaned into Nick and whispered, “You want I should take him out back and get some answers?”

  Nick sighed. He stared at Skrugs, who had resumed his eternally smug grin.

  “What do you need to know?” Silk asked.

  Matt answered for his partner. “We need to know where the KSF are hiding.”

  Silk nodded and seemed to turn this information over in his head. He pointed to Nick, “I think I know someone who could maybe help us.”

  Nick was still looking at Skrugs and noticed his face fall.

  “Who?” Nick asked.

  “Let me make a call.”

  Silk flipped open his cell phone and stepped outside. Nick tapped Skrugs with his foot and said to Matt, “Cuff him and throw him into a cell.”

  Matt ripped the Sheriff’s shirt when he yanked him upright, then slapped cuffs on him. As Skrugs was led toward the back detention area, he sneered, “You ain’t got squat on me, Mr. Federal Agent.”

  Nick ignored the comment and looked at his watch. His head was one gigantic pulse.

  Chapter 33

  Kemel Kharrazi sat back in his chair and picked at a plate of grapes and cheese. He pointed at the television monitor. “Truly they are idiots, no Hasan?”

  Hasan Bozlak nodded, sitting upright at the edge of his chair.

  The two men watched the small television monitor in the basement of the safe house, in Kharrazi’s private quarters. The walls were bare but for a detailed map of Arizona and a map of the United States littered with colored thumbtacks. The low ceiling gave the room a closed-in feeling. It bolstered the stillness that thrived in the basement. Thirty soldiers patrolled the grounds, protected the perimeter and secured the interior of the cabin with the professional quiet of jewel thieves. Kharrazi could barely hear their footsteps overhead as he enjoyed the scene on the monitor.

  A lamp sat alone on an end table between the two men. Kharrazi twisted off the light, causing the TV to become the only source of illumination. The room became eerily dim.

  On the screen, Matt McColm, Ed Tolliver, and Carl Rutherford attacked tortilla-wrapped food, while Nick Bracco spoke with his wife on his cell phone. From the angle of the camera hidden in the ceiling panels of the Sheriff’s office, Kharrazi could hear Bracco speaking with his back to the group. Even from behind it was obvious that the FBI agent was wipin
g his eyes.

  Kharrazi mocked. “His entire world is about to explode and he’s worried about his female partner. What emotional weaklings these Americans are.”

  Kharrazi had fiber optics installed inside of the Sheriff’s station weeks ago. He knew that once Payson became a focal point, the Sheriff’s station was the most likely place to set up a command center. His foresight was now paying huge dividends.

  Like people waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square on New Years Eve, Kharrazi and Hasan were counting down the minutes until the White House exploded into rubble.

  “One hundred and forty-two minutes, Sarock,” Hasan said. They both found the digital display atop the detonator irresistible. The detonator beamed the countdown from an open-doored wall safe. At the first sign of trouble, Kharrazi would lock the safe, but he knew it was irrelevant. The detonator was foolproof and could withstand scrutiny from the world’s best bomb experts without deactivating. Any tampering would merely cause the missiles to deploy earlier than scheduled. A true Rashid Baser masterpiece.

  Kharrazi noticed his number one soldier fidgeting in his chair. “Relax, Hasan. You worry too much.”

  “Yes, Sarock,” Hasan replied, twirling his thumbs.

  “What is your concern?” Kharrazi asked.

  Hasan pointed to the detonator. “We should push the button now. It makes no sense to wait.” The second Hasan finished his statement he immediately appeared to regret it. He searched Kharrazi’s face for a reaction and squirmed with anticipation.

  Kharrazi smiled. “Hasan, you are a warrior. I can’t expect you to understand the finer points of using political pressure to maximize our assets.” He patted his soldier on the knee. “You have a bulldog mentality, but sometimes all a bulldog need do is bare his teeth.”

  This only added to the confusion on Hasan’s face. Kharrazi offered his plate of grapes and cheese to the young man and Hasan nodded, placing it on his lap. He picked a couple of grapes and flung them into his mouth.

  Kharrazi rose to his feet. This caused Hasan to gulp down his partially chewed grapes.

  Kharrazi’s stiletto was leaning up against the wall in the corner of the room. He reached down and retrieved his favorite blade. “You see, the American people do not have the backbone for a war on their turf. They will do anything necessary to avoid it, including impeaching their own President.”

  With his stiletto behind his back, Kharrazi paced in the darkness. Hasan watched Kharrazi with hawk’s eyes.

  “If we explode the White House early,” Kharrazi explained, “it could make the President a victim, which would draw sympathy from U.S. citizens. But if we give him the full opportunity, every possible chance, every minute we offered, and still he refused to remove his troops from Turkey, well, then he got what he deserved. And we did precisely what we said we would. And any threat that followed—” he swiftly dove his dagger into Hasan’s lap, stabbing a large chunk of cheese and drawing it to his mouth. Hasan nearly fainted at the maneuver.

  “Would be treated with respect,” Kharrazi finished with a cheek full of cheese.

  Hasan nodded enthusiastically, appearing grateful to be alive. “Yes, Sarock. You speak the truth.”

  “Of course I do.” Kharrazi returned his attention to the TV screen. The FBI had no clue where he was. Even if they found him and overcame his squad of soldiers protecting the safe house, they couldn’t stop the missiles from deploying. In just over two hours, Kemel Kharrazi would harvest the fruits of his labor.

  He watched as Nick Bracco turned toward the camera. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. Bracco looked to be a beaten man. Kharrazi remembered his failed attempts at eradicating Bracco’s family. Bracco himself would not be so lucky. He had to be done away with. Kharrazi was going to put him out of his misery very soon.

  Kharrazi thought about his own wife and his children back home, counting on him to rid their country of the pestilent American soldiers. Soon he would be able to return to a hero’s welcome and rally his soldiers to victory over the Turkish Security Force. Statues would be erected in his image. Kemel Kharrazi was going to be a legend for all of eternity.

  He found it hard to remove the smile from his face.

  * * *

  Headlights flashed across the front window of the Gila County Sheriff’s Office. Nick knew it was too soon for the SWAT team from Phoenix. A short, burly man eased out of a Cadillac wearing a dark suit. Nick realized who he was. Silk went out to greet the man with a bear hug. Both of them pecked each other’s cheek. They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, then Silk pointed inside. He stood gesticulating this way and that. The squat man nodded repeatedly. The conversation ended with the two smiling and slapping one another on the back.

  Silk led the man into the building and the man strode in patting his generous stomach. “The veal scaloppini is to die for, Silk. They have—” the man looked up and noticed the group of short-haired FBI agents sitting behind receptionist’s desks shuffling papers and banging on laptop keyboards.

  “Jeesh,” the man said, “some fancy deputies you got up here.”

  Silk found Nick working a highlighter over a list of newly purchased homes in the area. “This is a friend of mine,” Silk motioned to the man. “Gasper Continelli, this is Nick Bracco.”

  Nick shook the man’s hand, almost expecting to come away with a couple of hundred dollar bills. “Good to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Gasper said affably.

  Silk gave Nick a conspiratorial nod toward the Sheriff’s personal office. Nick glanced at his watch wondering when reinforcements were coming. He waved the two men into Skrugs’ office.

  The Sheriff’s private sanctuary seemed of keen interest to Gasper. His head circled the place as if admiring the decor. He gestured toward the tall portrait of Geronimo, “Hey, I know that guy. He used to play second base for the Indians.”

  Nick pretended not to hear the remark as he took up a chair behind Skrugs’ desk. Silk laughed hard enough for the both of them.

  Gasper sat down across from the desk and leaned back and crossed his legs.

  Nick rocked anxiously in his chair, his hands folded to his chest. “You have something for me?” he asked.

  Silk stood behind the plump man and patted his shoulders. “Gasper here knows something that you might find interesting.”

  Nick lowered his head toward Gasper and raised his eyebrows.

  Gasper looked about the room with wide-eyed innocence. “I’m a big fan of the police,” he announced loudly.

  Nick glanced at Silk, then back to Gasper. “Excuse me?”

  “I donate a couple of dimes each year to the Police Athletic League.” Gasper was nodding as if to verify his own declaration.

  Nick bit his lower lip. “Listen, Gasper, I’m not an IRS agent looking for dinner receipts. I’m kind of tied up with—”

  “Tell me about it,” Gasper said. “I’ve been watching it on TV all day. They’ve evacuated a square mile around the White House.”

  “Look,” Nick said, “speaking for all law enforcement officials nationwide, I truly appreciate your financial support, but if you don’t get to—”

  “I ain’t saying a thing until we’re alone,” declared Gasper.

  Nick tilted his head. “You want Silk to leave the room, or Geronimo?”

  Gasper pointed to a silver sprinkler hanging from the ceiling above them. “That thing ain’t just loaded with water up there. If you look close enough, you’ll notice that the part where the water is supposed to come out, well, it’s filled in with a wire. Probably fiber optic if my eyesight ain’t failing me.”

  Nick stared at the man. He thought about Skrugs and his deception. Had Nick underestimated the depth of the man’s betrayal? Had he actually allowed Kharrazi to wire his own office? Nick finally looked up and saw exactly what Gasper saw. The head of the sprinkler was covered with a tiny glass bulb. Behind it, a faint red light beamed its narrow beam of absorption. It never occurred to him to debug th
e Sheriff’s office, but someone like Gasper probably never entered a room without scanning for bugs.

  Nick almost put his finger to his lips, then remembered who he was dealing with. He pulled his duffle bag onto the sheriff’s desk, unzipped a side pouch and produced a narrow metal cylinder topped off with a clear plastic ball. The ball was a gauge with the needle leaning up against the left side of the dial in the green zone. Nick crawled up on the desk and got to his feet. Before he moved the device even halfway toward the sprinkler, the needle was already buried deep into the red side of the gauge. Nick grabbed the sprinkler with his free hand and tugged hard. It came loose, but not completely unattached. He reached into his bag again and retrieved a Phillips screwdriver. A minute later, he had loosened the casing that held the sprinkler in place and yanked down on the device. The sprinkler came free and Nick cursed as he unfurled the black cable that came rushing out of the ceiling behind the sprinkler head.

  From below him he heard, “Am I good, or am I good?”

  Nick looked into the tip of the cable and said, “You don’t know how much I learned from this little game, Kharrazi. Is this what your daddy used to do to you when you were a kid? Did he spy on you and watch you get undressed, you piece of shit?” He quickly clipped the cable with a wire cutter and rendered it useless. “You were right, Gasper. Fiber optics. State of the art video monitoring.” He waived his wire-tapping detector around the room and found no other devices. He would sweep the reception area as soon as he finished with Gasper.

  Gasper’s chest heaved with pride while Silk maintained a steady grin.

  “It’s a gift, really,” Gasper said. “Like when people can sense when they’re being watched. I can always tell where the wires are. Actually, I’m pretty good at both.”

  Nick hopped down from the desk and returned his tools to his duffle bag. “All right, Gasper, we’re all clear. Tell me what you know.”

  Gasper folded his arms across his chest. “So you’re Tommy Bracco’s cousin, huh?”

  “That’s right,” Nick said.