by Neal Griffin
Delafield turned to the other man in the room. “Tanner, you’re not involved in this shit. Do something before it’s too late.”
“You think his dumb ass is going to help you?” Kane waved the gun in Tanner’s general direction. “Hell, Curtis. The boy didn’t even know what he was doing. All this time, he’s been in the damn dark. Apparently you fellas paid him five hundred bucks to get my ass to Sturgis and shit for brains didn’t even ask why. I’m the one that had to tell him you were a goddamn fed. I’m telling you, Curtis, the scary thing is, as far as the NAF goes, Tanner here is the brains of the operation.”
Delafield spoke, his voice full of defeat. “What do you want, Kane?”
Kane pulled up a chair and sat. “Are we there already, Curtis? Are we already to the point where we can discuss what I want?”
“Just tell me. Please. I don’t want you to hurt them. I’ll do whatever you say.”
Kane put the chair up close to the defeated agent and leaned in. “I’m glad you feel that way, Curtis. I thought maybe it’d be harder to break one of you G-man types. No offense, boy, but I’ve had strippers hold out longer on giving a half-price blow job.”
Kane clapped the man on the knee. “So tell me. What was the plan? How many of you boys are out there?”
Delafield hung his head. “I don’t know. It’s an arrest team. All tactical guys. Probably seven, eight guys. When you go out to the van and take possession of the weapons, you’ll be arrested.”
“Nice and simple, huh? After two years of jerking me off, building me up, you plan on taking me down in the parking lot of my own joint, huh?”
Delafield’s gaze had gone back to the photos spread out on the table. His voice was soft. “Just tell me what you want me to do. Then let my family go. You can keep me, Kane. I don’t care. Just let them go.”
Kane got in closer and spoke. “I need you to hear me on this, Agent Delafield. We aren’t anywhere in the vicinity of having that kind of conversation. Your family belongs to me and that fact ain’t going to change anytime soon. You hear me?”
“Please, Kane. I’ll do whatever you ask. Just let—”
Kane slapped the man hard across the face. “Did you hear me, boy? We ain’t there yet. For now? Figure they are suffering beyond your imagination. But play your cards right and maybe, just maybe, somewhere down the line, we’ll talk about a little family reunion. I imagine there might be a need for some pretty hard-core therapy, but hell, boy. It’ll be a start.”
“Tell me!” Delafield tried to stand, but Tanner kept him in his seat. “What do you want, Kane? I said I’ll do it.”
“Thatta boy.” Kane patted the man’s cheek. “That’s where I need you, in that ‘I’ll do anything you say’ place. Now, we got some things to go over. I’m not too concerned about you feds, but god damn, we gotta figure out how to deal with that pesky little bitch, Suarez.”
THIRTY-ONE
Twenty minutes of wandering through the bowels of the Milwaukee federal building had Tia aggravated and ready to give up. She had decided to try to find her way back to the main entrance when she finally came across a check-in station behind a placard that read: “Federal Business Requiring Escort.” A twentysomething man, built for rugby, sat hunched behind a gray metal desk, his face buried in a copy of Guns & Ammo. He wore standard junior G-man attire: an ill-fitted dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. Tia stood in front of him for several seconds and he didn’t so much as look up. The pasty white skin of his face was pocked with acne red as a flame that looked to have been scrubbed off with a Brillo pad as recently as that morning. Her lingering frustration at the previous night’s activities and the morning’s conversation with Connor coupled with the desk jockey’s obvious disinterest, brought out her irritable streak. She rapped her knuckles against the metal of the desk.
“Detective Suarez. Newberg PD.”
He looked up, moving just his eyes as if to make sure Tia knew she was intruding, then looked back at his magazine. With a deep breath Tia knew was meant to signal obvious reluctance, he set Guns & Ammo aside and picked up a clipboard. He slowly moved his finger down a list of typewritten names, some of which had been checked off. When he found hers, as she knew he would, he tapped it with his finger, twice, then stared at her, eyes narrowed.
Setting down the clipboard, the agent handed Tia a large manila envelope. “Empty your pockets,” he said in a thick New England accent. “Everything goes in. Cell phone, badge, ID. Jewelry. Everything.
“Lock your sidearm in one of the lockers,” he added, gesturing with his head toward the opposite wall, where Tia saw several rows of small lockboxes. Key goes in the bag, too.”
“My gun?” she asked.
“And all your ammo.”
“You’re serious?”
He nodded but said nothing more. Clearly, he’d heard the same complaint before. After a stare-off that lasted several seconds, Tia reluctantly disarmed herself. Figuring the guy was less than a year out of some federal training academy, she resisted the urge to ask him how long he expected to be stuck with such a shitty assignment. Instead, she followed his instructions and handed the full envelope over without further comment. The man dropped it into a safe, then came around from behind the desk, wand in hand.
“Arms straight out to your sides. Feet shoulder width apart.”
“You’re going to wand me?” Tia asked. She almost laughed but stopped herself.
He took a deep breath, gave an audible sigh, and tried again. “Arms straight out to your sides. Feet shoulder width apart.”
Tia raised her arms while she shook her head, keeping her opinion over the process to herself. She did her best to strike up harmless conversation. “So what are you? FBI? ATF? DEA? What?”
He set the wand on the table, took a ring of keys from a desk drawer, and walked away, saying, “Come with me.”
Tia followed her unamused escort to a nearby elevator where he summoned the car and used a key to open its doors. He waved her inside. Tia once again tried to make small talk as she stepped past him. “Sounds like you’re from the East Coast. I’m guessing Maine, right?”
She turned to face the doors in time to see them close between her and the junior agent. Tia called out, “What the hell?” The whole cloak-and-dagger thing was getting old. “Hey, where am I supposed to go now?”
There was no reply. Tia scanned the inside of the elevator, realizing there were no floor buttons or indicator lights. A hint of panic came over her and she balled her fist, preparing to bang on the door. Before she moved, a TV screen built into the wall behind her came to life and she turned to watch. The words on the screen were read in a voice that was a too-perfect modular tone of disarming female.
“You have been granted limited access to the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility of the Domestic Terrorist Assault Team. Prior to entry, you must acknowledge that all activity and conversations that occur in your presence, either intentionally or unintentionally, are classified. Any unauthorized disclosure of such information shall result in criminal prosecution under federal law governing the release of intelligence deemed vital to national security. Please acknowledge your understanding by pressing your right thumb firmly against the green box located in the bottom center of the screen.”
Tia rolled her eyes but did as the voice commanded. When she pulled her thumb back from the screen an image of her fingerprint was revealed, the whorls and loops standing out in bright red lines. After several seconds the image faded and was replaced by her DMV photograph along with her full name, date of birth, and Social Security number. Two small buttons appeared, labeled Yes and No. The voice returned. “Please confirm your identity by pressing yes.”
Tia pushed the button. Seconds later the elevator began a smooth descent. Tia paid close attention to the amount of time that passed before the cab came to a stop. Two levels down, she thought. Maybe three. The doors opened and Tia was met by yet another man in a suit. “Detective Suarez, you have been granted limit
ed SCIF access requiring escort. Come with me.”
Tia followed him down a tight concrete tunnel that reminded her of the bunkers in Baghdad abandoned by the Revolutionary Guard. Their boot heels echoed sharply in the confined space, which was bathed in a dim red light. Eventually they reached a heavy steel door that opened after the guard submitted to a retinal scan. Beyond the door lay an underground cement parking structure, with a low-slung ceiling and about the size of two basketball courts.
Tia paused when she came through the door, taking in the scene. A conga line of vehicles included two tactical trucks, an ambulance, and a fleet of matching dark-colored SUVs. A group of what looked like uniformed cops in black BDUs stood beside most of the vehicles; Tia noted that none of their combat fatigues bore any type of insignia. A dozen or so men in full SWAT gear, also absent any sort of organizational patch, had taken over a large corner of the cavernous space and were practicing what Tia recognized as mock entries. It was obvious an assault was imminent. Maybe all the bullshit will be worth it, she thought.
“This way, Detective,” said her escort. He led her across the open area to a structure that looked like a sleek high-end shipping container. He opened the door and nodded that she was to enter. Once she did, he shut the door behind her, staying outside.
When the door closed, all the exterior noise vanished. The sudden silence made Tia feel like she had stepped into a vault. The windowless room was lit with a brilliant white light and dominated by a large wooden conference table littered with hardline phones and built-in computer monitors. Along one wall were a half-dozen flat screens, each displaying a different angle of the exterior of a building Tia recognized as the Roadhouse Score.
Nearby, a group of men were gathered around a whiteboard that took up most of one wall. Several wore blue windbreakers with the letters DTAT stenciled in yellow across the back. Tia remembered the computer voice saying, “Domestic Terrorist Assault Team.” Apparently Ben’s suspicions were correct. Tia had never heard of DTAT, but she didn’t doubt it was a post-9/11 agency and very well funded.
She recognized Lester Stahl as part of the group studying the board, which was covered with names and mug shots arranged in a link chart configuration with Kane and Tanner front and center. Tia took a step forward; the shift in position revealed a familiar figure sitting a little off to the side: Patricia Graham. With her legs crossed and her body pulled in on itself, she looked like she would rather be anywhere else.
Stahl and Graham, Tia thought. Two of my very favorite people.
“Hey, Stahl,” Tia called out. When he looked her way Tia picked up on his disappointment that she had actually turned up. “I’m good to go. When are we briefing?”
“Not now, Suarez.” Dismissal was clear in his voice. “I’ll let you know if we need you.”
Tia took a seat at the conference table, studying the whiteboard crowd. Towering over the comparatively tiny Stahl was a man who looked out of place. His hair was cropped close like the rest, but he was dressed down, in jeans and an untucked flannel shirt. His leather boots were more biker-style than tactical. An oversized leather wallet was connected to his belt with a good-sized chain. Damn, Tia thought to herself. They not only got that ass-clown of a snitch Tanner in the mix but a U/C agent, too. Big-time shit, she thought. Good to know the entire case against Kane wouldn’t come down to the word of a crook working off his own beef. Tia moved in closer to try to hear what the conversation was about. The U/C agent addressed the group.
“He wants twenty crates of Hellhounds. Along with launchers. Says he has a mission for the NAF and this will put them at operational readiness. That’s why I signaled to abort the arrest. If he makes this purchase, it really ups the ante.”
“Rocket launchers?” Stahl asked. “What’s he planning? Did he say?”
“Not yet,” the agent replied. “But if we make delivery, I can probably get him to talk about it.”
The agent tapped his finger against the picture of Gunther Kane that stared out from the whiteboard. “Whatever he’s up to, it’s big. I don’t care what kind of gun nut he gets on his jury. He can’t talk his way out of grenades and launchers.”
Tia recognized the argument. Winning a conviction against anyone in Wisconsin for illegal gun possession was always an uphill fight, especially in federal court. These days, most any defense lawyer could poll potential jurors and find one or two Second Amendment zealots. Always men and usually white, these were the guys programmed to believe the government was determined to take away their weapons through laws and regulations. Federal juries almost always came back hung on charges of illegal possession of firearms. At the end, there’d be at least one juror wearing a red, white, and blue shit-eating grin, overcome with the thrill of being able to tell Uncle Sam to take a twelve gauge and blow it out his ass.
Stahl turned to Graham, in the corner. “This would really strengthen the prosecution. Grenade launchers?” He shook his head and Tia could hear the excitement in his voice. “Holy shit. He’d be screwed. This would be the biggest domestic arrest since the Nichols case.”
Graham seemed hesitant to accept what Stahl was selling, but Tia could see she was beginning to waver. Tia couldn’t help herself. “What’s going on? I thought the plan was to take Kane down this morning.”
Stahl turned her way. “Officer Suarez, this is a federal briefing. Need-to-know basis only. Please wait outside with the uniforms.”
“It’s Detective Suarez,” Tia said firmly. “And you invited me, remember?”
“Yes, of course. And you will be apprised of what you need to know. Now, please, Detective, wait outside.”
“Wait,” the dressed-down agent said. “You’re Suarez?”
“Yeah, I am.”
The agent walked over and offered her his hand. “Curtis Delafield, DTAT. I’m covert on this op.”
“Tia Suarez, Newberg PD.” Tia accepted the handshake. There was an intensity in the man’s eye that seemed missing from the rest of the crowd. His grip was strong. She figured he had to be wrapped pretty tight.
Delafield glanced at Stahl, then returned his attention to Tia. “So you’re the one who’s got Kane all bowed up. In two-plus years of dealing with this shithead, I’ve never seen him so wrapped around the axle.”
“How’s that?”
“Stahl briefed me on what went down in Milwaukee,” Delafield said, and again she picked up on some tension in his demeanor. “So you know, I had nothing to do with that bullshit. But I played it off with Kane, let him think I’m hooked up with a source inside the jail. He told me all about your meeting. Like I said, you got him pretty worked up.”
From the corner of her eye Tia saw that Graham was listening—and plenty annoyed. Tia couldn’t resist. She smiled at Delafield and said, “Yeah. I figured why the hell not. He was getting a pass on the whole thing. Might as well try and mess with him a bit. Glad to know it got to him.”
Delafield smiled back, but there was something odd about his expression, almost like she was getting played. “He was hot under the collar for a couple of days after that.”
Tia studied the man’s face as she answered. “It was about all I could do at the time. No one else gave a shit.”
“Excuse me, Curtis?” Stahl interrupted. “Do you mind? Can we get on with it?”
Delafield winked at Tia. “Sorry, Lester. Sure. C’mon, Suarez.” He turned back to the whiteboard. “Now, where was I?”
Tia took a step after him and Stahl frowned. “Like I said, Detective, this is need to know only.”
Before Tia could say anything, Delafield said, “She’s need to know, Lester.”
Stahl’s frown deepend. “Look, Curtis. This—”
“Look nothin’,” Delafield said, cutting Stahl off. Tia watched as the deep-cover agent squared off with the desk jockey. “I mean, if nothing else, out of respect. The way I see it, Suarez and I are the only ones who got real skin in the game.”
“Fine.” Stahl’s irritation was clear in his
voice. “Suarez, you can stay. But let’s get back on track. What’s Kane expecting at this point?”
Tia could tell that Delafield had the others eating out of his hand. Tia had a long history with undercover operatives, dating back to her early days in the Marines. She’d known CIA agents who worked deep cover in foreign nations for years, never coming up for air. Since becoming a cop she’d met a few narcs who did some limited undercover work, going into hazardous locations like gang hangouts or dope houses. That kind of work required balls big enough to carry around in a wheelbarrow. Tia had done some low-level U/C street work, but nothing that involved the high risk of an extended swim in shark-invested waters. In law enforcement circles, when a covert speaks cops listen.
“He wants to take delivery of the Hellhounds tonight,” Delafield said. “Says he’ll put up another two hundred thousand.”
There was a low murmur from the crowd; then Delafield went on. “I figured we’d be interested, so to keep Kane dialed in, I let him hang on to the guns and his hundred grand in good faith.”
Tia could hear the nervous strain in Stahl’s response. “That seems a bit risky, Curtis. Kane is sitting on a lot of government hardware, not to mention cash.”
It was Delafield’s turn to be dismissive. “I know this guy. He can be a real dick if he feels like he’s being disrespected. Kane likes to be courted. So I say, we let him hold the guns and tell him we’ll close out the finances on final delivery. If we’re going to try and close a deal on something like Hellhounds, believe me, we want everyone as relaxed as possible.”
Stahl turned to the attorney. “That would be a three-hundred-thousand-dollar federal seizure. Plus, we can take Tanner’s property and the Roadhouse. We could clear almost a million in seized assets and completely gut the North Aryan Front. We’ll probably end up with at least a dozen bodies for federal prosecution.”
“Hang on a second, Stahl,” Tia interrupted. “What about the girl?”