“Easy there, Becca.” He smirked, looking around. “You know, if you’re a bit tense, I could help with that.”
Rebecca glared at him, her stance unconsciously widening. “That bullshit ever work, Agent Hawkins?” She bit off the words.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot you hate that nickname,” Hawkins said in a way that seemed as genuine as the cheesy grin on his face.
Actually, his words weren’t true. Becca was the nickname she reserved for her closest friends. Even Clements hadn’t made it into this circle, although that was mostly because theirs was a working relationship. But she wasn’t about to tell Hawkins. If he knew she liked the name, he’d never call her anything else.
Rebecca continued to glare in silence, and after a few moments, Hawkins apparently abandoned hope for more. “I just wanted to say, you probably think I gave you a crap assignment. Sure, the chance you see any kind of action is pretty slim. But if anyone catches wind of the raid, there’s a good chance they’d try to sneak out through the woods. Keep your eyes open and your guys in line.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to say she would when Hawkins raised a hand. “And, yes, I’ll be giving Blewitt the same pep talk.”
Rebecca believed him. When Hawkins wasn’t being a jerk, he was an excellent tactician and he wanted this raid to go well. It would be another feather in his cap. But still, it amazed her how well he could compartmentalize these disparate personalities—the leader who wanted them to succeed and the jerk who wanted her in bed.
“Thanks. I’ll do my best.” She turned and left before he could revert to the degenerate.
She was about halfway back to her work area when she spotted Clements and a couple of other agents walking her way. When they were close, Clements said his good-byes and dropped from the group. “Mind if I walk along?” he asked.
“Course not,” replied Rebecca. “You’re done fast.”
“We got through basic assignments, then broke for homework,” he said, waving a small stack of papers at her. “So, what’d you think about the plan?”
She glanced sideways as they walked, wondering if this was a test of her tactical knowledge, an attitude check, or just small talk. “I think I’m going to need new boots after this ditch crossing.”
When her comment failed to generate a chuckle, Rebecca crossed small talk off her mental list. “It seems solid to me. Hawkins adapted to the setting, took what it gave him and worked around the rest. What did you think?”
Clements didn’t answer. “What about going in without much intel on the place?”
If that was to make her scratch her head, she didn’t see it. “I’m more than OK with it. True, delaying would improve our intel, let us know what we’re facing. But the Crusaders could find out and dig in further. And even if they didn’t, it might give them time to kill again. Nope, now is the right choice in my opinion.”
Clements nodded. “And your assignment?”
OK, this was mostly an attitude check. “I’m fine with it.” Clements started to say something else when Rebecca cut him off. “And no, you don’t need to tell me about the time you thought you’d pulled some make-work surveillance at a drug lab, only to have a Hummer come barreling through the back wall of the building. What did you say he missed you by, two feet?”
“Less than a foot,” said Clements, frowning.
“I swear he gets closer every time you tell that story.” Clements opened his mouth to say something, but Rebecca never gave him the chance. “Sorry, gotta run. Can’t keep the boys in the Council for the Right waiting for their beer.”
Tuesday, May 14
12:17 AM – The Seven Hills Baptist Church
In another 43 minutes, Agent Rebecca Marte, acting member of the Just Desserts caterers, could start to pack up. She still wondered about the name of the company they used for her cover; they served a lot more than sweets. Catchy, she figured, if not especially accurate.
Her eyes were drawn from the wall clock by a wisp of blue smoke. A local sitting at a nearby table had lit up, the sickly, sweet smell of the cigar now reaching her nose. She started toward the man but stopped when she saw Wanda Jennings moving his way. Wanda was their crew lead and not a woman to be treated lightly. Rebecca had seen her deal with problems like this before and had no doubt the man was seriously overmatched.
Wanda stopped at the table and stood silently looking down. After a moment, he looked up, a guilty grin coming to his face. “Can’t a man have an after-dinner smoke around here?”
Rebecca concealed a smile behind a hand at the man’s plaintive tone and Wanda’s scowl.
“Beer and buffalo wings don’t make a dinner,” replied Wanda as she waved a hand at the table full of empties and red-stained, paper plates. “Now get that dirty stogie out of here.”
“Ah, Wanda, have a heart.”
“Ain’t got one. And besides, we’re making the trek clear out here to this church basement because you and your cronies got us kicked out of the last place in town. Now, take it outside before I call Sally Ann.”
The man glared at his friends who were now chuckling at his plight. He stood without another word and headed for the door.
“Thanks, Wanda,” said Rebecca when the woman walked over. “I don’t think he would have left so easily if I had asked.”
“No asking with these boys,” Wanda replied. “And it helps if you’ve known their wives for the last 30 years. I like this place. Don’t want to get booted again, ‘cause you never know where this bunch will land.”
Rebecca looked around the dark, somewhat dank basement. The floor was battleship gray. The ceiling was suspended panels, water-stained brown in places, yellow everywhere else. An industrial shade of green paint covered the concrete block walls; it reminded Rebecca of pictures of hospitals from the 1950s. But while not luxurious by any standard, Rebecca understood Wanda’s sentiment. The kitchen was clean and spacious. Setup was simple, with the tables and chairs stored just off the main room. They even had separate men’s and women’s restrooms; the last place had required a guard at the door of the communal facilities whenever a woman needed them.
“Say, what’s wrong with Connie?” asked Wanda. “You just filled in for her—what was it? A week or so ago?”
Connie Tischner had agreed to take a night off with pay when the FBI wanted Rebecca on the scene. It was an arrangement known only to the owner of the catering company, Connie, and the Bureau. “Just a touch of a stomach problem,” replied Rebecca, using the agreed-upon excuse. She was supposed to add something about a 24-hour bug going around, but some heated words at a nearby table caught both women’s attention.
So far tonight, none of the discussion had been even vaguely anti-Islamic—or about any religion or nationality for that matter. Rather, the Council for the Right had focused on automation. Their misconceptions about technology ranged from appalling to amusing in Rebecca’s view, but whatever their notions were, they were always passionately held. The consensus was that in five years, the only work that would be left would be servicing the robots who stole their jobs. But what drew Rebecca’s attention now was the mention of another despise-worthy group—doctors.
“He’s a damned, cut-first hack,” said a balding man, the veins starting to show on a neck that was already beet-red. “And now Janey’s in the hospital ‘cause of him.”
“That’s all they know, Bobby,” said another. “I was getting tired jumping off the tractor every half-hour to relieve myself, so I went to see my doc. He wants to put me on some pill, but I took care of it myself. I quit climbing down.”
“You won’t even bother stopping the tractor before long,” said a third man over the chuckles at the table. But if they were trying to calm Bobby, it wasn’t working. If anything, he appeared angrier than ever.
“I’m not lettin’ that bastard kill my niece,” he said. “No one does that to my kin and gets away with it.”
A fourth man joined the talk. “I know something you can do about it, Bobby. Something perm
anent, so that quack won’t ever bother you or yours again.” He held Bobby in a hard stare.
“What are you gonna do?”
“Not here,” replied the man, shaking his head. “Call me when you have time. But I will tell you one thing. What I’m thinking is nothing some damn robot can do.” That brought another round of laughter to everyone except Bobby. “How about another round?” asked the man. He left to a chorus of thanks and slaps on the back.
“Bobby’s niece having some trouble with surgery?” asked Rebecca, as she and Wanda started back toward the kitchen.
“Surgery?” Wanda gave Rebecca a sideways glance, her forehead wrinkled.
“He said something about a cut-first doctor.”
Wanda took Rebecca’s elbow and guided her to a quiet corner. “That has more to do with Bobby’s wife than his niece.” Wanda released a long breath. “She had some sort of growth around her heart. The way I understand it, he prayed on it for months. When he finally brought her to the hospital, they tried surgery but couldn’t save her. As for his niece, I’m not sure. They live a ways down south, and I don’t see her much. But she’s been in and out of the hospital for meth. You need to keep quiet about that, though. Bobby’s a proud man.”
“Of course,” said Rebecca quickly. “And the man who just got the round of drinks? He’s familiar, even said hi earlier, but I don’t remember his name.”
“Handsome, isn’t he?” said Wanda, her elbow poking Rebecca in the ribs. “Well, if he’s flirting, you should know—he’s married. Keeps someone on the side happy, too, if you know what I mean.” Wanda winked suggestively. “You might want to wait for someone with a bit more lead in his pencil.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t ….” Rebecca only got that far before realizing that Wanda wasn’t listening, having drifted off to some imaginary world of her own. But the problem was, she was afraid Wanda had forgotten the question. And if she had, should she ask again? Being too curious could be a bad thing if this ‘fixer of problems with doctors’ was somehow connected to the Crusaders. Fortunately, the woman was only sidetracked for a moment.
“I’m surprised you don’t know him. That’s Walter Bledsoe, treasurer for the Council and a dirt pimp in real life. Has his office up north a bit, off the interstate. Lives up that way, too.”
“Dirt pimp?”
Wanda drew back and looked at Rebecca. “Real estate agent.”
“Oh, OK. At least I can say hi in return. Say, has the company changed the recipe on the wings? I swear they’re better tonight.” Actually, she had no opinion, hadn’t even tasted them, but knew she needed to change the topic.
“Nah, you’re just hungry, girl. You should eat more, put some meat on those bones.” Wanda looked away for a moment. “Looks like that table in the far corner needs something. I’ll go check.”
Seeing that Walter Bledsoe had taken a chair there, Rebecca replied, “No, let me get it. You could probably use some time off your feet.”
“I could. Thanks.”
Rebecca spent the rest of the evening trying to eavesdrop on Bledsoe’s conversations but to no avail. The man was always leaning over to whisper in someone’s ear or pulling a fellow council member to a corner for a private talk. About the only words she ever caught were something about a will and later, a strip shopping mall. But she did see him accept some money—all in cash.
After the cleanup and drive, Rebecca got home at 2:30. She didn’t even debate going to bed; she knew she couldn’t sleep without words on paper. By 3:30, her report on the evening was done, and she sent it as an encrypted email to her supervisor and Clements. She also added Hawkins to the distribution at the last moment, figuring he should know about the possible connection to the Crusaders, even if it was extremely tenuous.
Rebecca went to bed, wondering if she’d get a call in a few hours with news of the latest Crusaders’ massacre, but the thought lasted mere moments before exhaustion overtook her.
8:03 AM – The Offices of Ruger-Phillips
I got up from my desk, walked to the door, and peered into the hallway. It wasn’t like my boss to be late, but he was nowhere in sight.
I’d finished a design for the virtual maintenance technician study, as I had taken to calling it. The next step was to present it to the customer, get their concurrence. That would happen right before lunch. This meeting with my boss, on the other hand, was pro forma. He had never changed any of my designs and, frankly, didn’t have the background to do so. He just wanted to hear about them in advance, which was only logical. But the lockstep process left me with little to do for the next … well, two hours if he was a complete no-show.
I wandered over to my window, stuffed my hands in my pockets, and looked out at the traffic on the freeway just beyond the Ruger-Phillips fence. Rush hour was still in full force. The traffic exiting a quarter of a mile up the road was at a near standstill in front of me.
My thoughts returned to the early morning. I could almost feel Nicole snuggled up against my back, the warmth of her body coming through my T-shirt. Her soft, slow breathing caressed my neck. Her hand twitched on my arm, perhaps a meaningful gesture in her dream. After a while, she stirred and stretched. I rolled over, placed a hand on her cheek, and kissed her softly.
I turned from the window, smiling with the memory, but knowing it was pointless, perhaps even frustrating to follow it further. I sat down at my desk, another thought popping into my head unbidden. And with certainty, I knew this one would drag my mood down because the same issue had been cycling in my mind for the last two days.
Just what the heck are the Crusaders trying to accomplish?
The question had surfaced as I watched the news of the mass shooting near Washington University, and nothing had happened since to resolve it. The problem was, they couldn’t kill everyone in medicine or even all of those pushing state-of-the-art. There were just too many people involved and the need for their services too strong. It was equally unlikely that they could obtain concessions from the government on public policy. Conceding to terrorists was considered a lose-lose proposition—give them what they want now and it only emboldens them to demand more in the future.
The Crusaders might be able to slow the demand for treatment if people became fearful enough. But given the choice between the certainty of a fatal illness or the slight risk of being caught in the crossfire of a Crusader attack, wasn’t the choice obvious? In fact, if anything, the attacks were having the opposite effect on the masses. People were starting to circle the wagons around medicine, rather than turning from it.
Damn, is that what the Crusaders want?
Were they using reverse psychology? Were the attacks designed to increase support from public backlash rather than stall medicine’s advance? Despite how convoluted it first appeared, it was an explanation that fit what I knew. Public outrage was increasing by the day. The state legislature had passed a resolution condemning the Crusaders and pledging support for the embattled schools and clinics. The mayor of St. Louis had declared May 19 a day of solidarity with the medical community. She’d also identified emergency funding to increase police presence on and around medical facilities. Even commercial businesses were doing their part. Two local security companies were offering alarm system upgrades to medical facilities at cost, presumably hoping the goodwill would impact their bottom line later. And one well-known, local businessman had donated a million dollars to both the Washington University and the St. Louis University Schools of Medicine.
But when I ran this line of reasoning to its logical conclusion, it too made little sense. As a result of the attacks, the medical community had received several million dollars in donations and a bump in public support, but at the same time, they had paid with ten lives. Even I didn’t need to turn those deaths into dollars of lost productivity to know that medicine had come out on the short end of this exchange—the very short end. And if you added the reduction in quality of life due to missed and delayed scientific breakthroughs, the gulf between medici
ne’s gain and its loss was enormous. They couldn’t be trying to help medicine by attacking it.
I rose from my desk, recognizing that pacing my office was my only option for dealing with my frustration. But no sooner had I stood than my phone rang. It was the administrator for my group, telling me my boss was tied up in another meeting. He’d come by later for the call to the customer. After I hung up, I sat back down and opened the briefing I’d prepared, thinking I would review it one more time. But each time I started rehearsing the pitch in my mind, my earlier concerns pushed it aside. Finally, I gave up and went to walk the halls.
I couldn’t see a flaw in my reasoning, but maybe if I considered the implications of using reverse psychology, I find the error in my arguments. Or perhaps, I’d show that the notion wasn’t quite as crazy as it sounded. But nothing affected the idea until I considered it in light of James Conroy. Unless his entire life was a lie, he represented a movement to increase access to medicine and reduce its cost. And the Crusaders? Under the assumption they were trying to create a public backlash, they wanted the same.
Ergo, Conroy and the Crusaders were working together.
When the thought struck, I was walking in a short hall between two buildings, the bottom half of its walls a solid panel, the top, large windows. I moved to the side and placed a hand on a pane of glass as if needing its stability. I stared sightlessly at the strip of green lawn and the gray of the parking lot beyond. Two people walked behind me. I hardly registered their presence.
If this was true, James Conroy had allowed himself to be martyred for the Crusader’s cause. It seemed an unbelievably high price to pay, but I’d heard his story. In his mind, medical policy had condemned his sister to death, and he had been powerless to stop it. He had suffered from these thoughts every day. So, perhaps dying to make sure this never happened again wasn’t that farfetched.
I pulled my phone from a pocket and stared at it. Should I call Agent Marte? To some degree, this deduction fell into the new-set-of-eyes category. And it certainly helped explain how Constance had gotten into the rally—something that had clearly bothered Marte. The problem was, nothing in this hypothesis came from my eyes. Rather, it was the product of a chain of logic that rested on a highly improbable assumption—that the Crusaders could inflict so much death and destruction that long-held beliefs about medical science would shift. And I still couldn’t accept that premise.
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