by Jay Klages
“Hey!” someone shouted.
Over a hundred yards away, somewhat in the direction he came from, he saw a male figure dressed in an all-black outfit walking toward him at a brisk stride.
He made a decision in two seconds. He threw on the backpack, turned, and half ran, half crawled up the hill toward the unseen road. When he heard the first gunshot, he was already moving as fast as his body would permit, trying to zigzag between the trees on the slope. The sound of the next shot sent another surge of adrenaline into his body, turbo-charging his legs. By the third shot, he was up on top of the road.
He turned left and ran down the damp dirt-and-gravel road for two to three minutes, bypassing or vaulting over puddles remaining from the recent rain. The road twisted enough that he couldn’t see anyone behind him when he looked over his shoulder, but he assumed the guy was still in pursuit. He couldn’t believe he’d been shot at! Were these the kind of people Kade was mixed up with?
In a few minutes, when he didn’t feel like he was running for his life any longer, he realized he was headed in the wrong direction. Somehow he needed to get back to the motorcycle, but he sensed he was only getting farther away. To head back down to lower ground, he turned left again at a spot that wasn’t such a steep grade. After slowing to a walk for a few minutes and collecting his thoughts, he saw and heard someone again. He didn’t know whether it was the same person, but he dropped to the ground and crawled behind a fallen tree, gambling he hadn’t been seen.
He thought about getting out the Glock, but knew he couldn’t go there. It wasn’t like he knew how to fire the gun properly anyway. He took out another water bottle from inside his pack and took a small drink. When the real or imagined human noises subsided, he sat up and powered on his Garmin again. The initial electronic chime made him cringe and look around.
Once he had a fix on his location, he got back on his feet and walked through the forest. It took him another two hours to return to the Honda, because he walked small segments of twenty to thirty yards at a time, tree to tree. Stopped, listened, continued. He didn’t want to run into anyone else by accident.
When he finally reached the undisturbed motorbike, he started it up and wasted no time. He rode the fuck out of there as fast as he could without wrecking it. Two backpackers seemed to look at him with more than a casual interest when he slowed at one of the pole gates to weave around it, but they didn’t say anything. The entire ordeal lasted about four hours up to the time he finally pulled up to the pub’s parking lot. Longer than he thought it would.
Alex finished the Reuben and started on the potato salad. Despite the cooler day, he broke a sweat again while recalling the narrow escape. When he took off his windbreaker, he noticed in horror a bullet had entered and exited his jacket sleeve and torn through the slack in his T-shirt underneath. It had missed skewering his upper arm by a fraction of an inch. Or his vital organs by less than a foot.
Those motherfuckers.
He powered up his iPad and checked the Hotmail account that Kade had set up, looking in the Drafts folder to see if a message had been left in there. Kade didn’t trust sending an actual e-mail, so he’d instructed Alex to check the folder first, but nothing was in there. The Inbox contained nothing except a few spam e-mails promising yet another safe, effective way to increase penis size.
He sat and zoned out for a minute. There was something else Kade had mentioned, Alex now remembered. Kade said it was possible he might not even be able to draft an e-mail, so he’d devised another means to send a message. Alex typed in the AgriteX website address, and after the main landing page loaded, he clicked on the About AgriteX link and went to that page. In the web browser, he chose to view the HTML for that page and sifted through the gobbledygook language. And there it was, inside an HTML comment tag.
Alex’s heart started beating faster. “It” was the Glock, and now he had to think through some sort of exchange to get Kade the gun. The twenty-fifth was tomorrow. Was Kade now a patient at the Nehalem Clinic? Maybe he should go and check out the clinic beforehand. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten himself into this mess. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of shit.
But I’m not going to let Kade down.
The waitress appeared again, her timing flawless.
“Another stout?”
“No, a Bombay dirty martini, up, please.”
CHAPTER 23
Monday, June 24
12:42 p.m. (PDT)
AgriteX
The young male driver stepped out of the heavily tinted SUV into the adjacent visitor space, lit a cigarette, and stretched while the two other men remained inside. He was skinny and tall, wearing a green Adidas wind jacket over a black T-shirt and jeans.
The front-seat passenger, Cisneros, was in his midthirties, about three hundred pounds, and wore a short-sleeved Tommy Bahama shirt. He waited a few minutes for the backseat passenger, Messia, to finish a phone call on a borrowed prepaid cell phone. Messia was late forties, his mustache and sideburns streaked with gray. Gazing out the backseat window, he showed an intensity of thought from behind his crystal-framed eyeglasses.
“So what does Tesar think?” asked Cisneros.
“He thinks there are three possibilities,” Messia said. “If the information is correct, then they’ve had production difficulties, or they’ve moved the seed to a different location. But our forest spotters haven’t seen any of the trucks our source marked for seed transport moving off-site. They’ve seen a great deal of ATV and dirt bike traffic. There’s always some, but the increase was notable enough to report. They’ve taken down license plates when they can.”
“And what do you think?” Cisneros asked.
Messia pulled off his glasses and repositioned them back on his face. He said, “Owens is smart. It’s possible they’re moving the seed out in small quantities, to multiple buyers or competitors, for higher margin. That would be very troubling.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We’ve tried following some of these people on ATVs and dirt bikes, and it’s very difficult. If you find one that’s had clear contact with AgriteX, assign one of our affiliates to follow them. And if they attempt a transaction, our affiliate can go ahead and send a clear message. Then they can bring us the product so I have proof.”
“All right.”
“Okay, leave your weapons in the car,” Messia said, and opened the car door. “Vamanos.”
Inside the entrance atrium, the stocky, gray-haired front-desk security guard watched his video screen and picked up the phone.
“They’re on their way in, Mr. Owens.”
“Thanks, Ken,” Owens said, “I’m watching them.”
The visiting group of three men walked down the moss-spotted path to the headquarters building’s entrance area. The driver held one of the heavy glass doors open while the others seemed to take their time appraising the building’s aesthetics.
When they stepped inside, the man with the glasses stopped and pulled what looked like a smartphone out of his pocket and stood there for a moment while the other two talked. They then walked around the rolling sphere–style fountain bearing the AgriteX company logo and arrived at the security desk. The security guard picked out the expected guest from a photo image on his screen.
“You are Mr. Messia?” the guard asked.
Messia stepped forward. “I am.”
“You have a one p.m. meeting with Mr. Owens?”
“That’s right.”
The guard printed a visitor badge that read JOHN MESSIA. The other two signed the visitor log with fake names, the driver receiving the badge TOM MORENO and Cisneros clipping on the badge DAVID SOTO. The security guard conducted a weapons search with a wand and pat down. Messia looked unhappy about it, but he’d already been told this was a requirement.
Two AgriteX employees wearing the black company uniform wi
th tree logos came through the secure access door.
“Right this way, please,” the first escort said.
The group proceeded down the hallway, Messia and Cisneros glancing at some of the corporate awards posted on the walls as they walked. They arrived at a steel door bearing a placard labeled “EX.” After the door clicked, the first escort yanked it open and held it while the second escort led everyone through.
The receptionist waved from behind the glass of the expansive reception counter. Meeting rooms flanked the reception area on the left, and several couches were in a waiting area to the right.
“Mr. Owens will meet you in room two,” she said. “Please help yourselves to any refreshments in the refrigerator.”
The square meeting room contained four faux-leather lounge chairs facing a low table resembling an enormous tree stump that was coated in a glassy finish and topped with a large piece of square glass.
Marshall Owens, Joshua Pierce, and two Sentries entered the room. Owens was dressed in a light blue dress shirt and khakis. Pierce and the Sentries wore their AgriteX company uniforms and had their holstered pistols visible.
“Well, you’re looking good these days,” Owens said.
“Not so bad yourself, Marshall,” Messia said. “Good to see you.” They shook hands.
Marshall had been introduced to Juan Messia three years ago when shopping around AgriteX’s first strain of bioengineered cannabis seed, and the two had established a mutual regard. Owens knew Messia had been born and raised in El Paso, his parents undocumented immigrants from Mexico. He joined the U.S. Army, serving through Desert Storm as a buck sergeant and assistant team leader in an infantry scout platoon. His younger brother Raúl became involved in drug dealing in high school, later trafficking for the Sonora drug cartel before the Barrio Azteca murdered him. After that event, Juan Messia decided to not reenlist in the army and was recruited by the Sonora cartel, quickly rising in it and strengthening its armed capabilities in the U.S. He now lived in Hermosillo, Mexico, for about half the year.
“Juan, this is our Chief Operating Officer, Joshua Pierce.”
“Nice to meet you,” Messia said.
Messia shook hands with Pierce, and with no further introductions, they sat down. The Sentries moved to the far wall and remained standing.
Owens said, “We’re happy to see you, but I admit I’m a little perplexed why you came out to AgriteX today. Something about a progress report?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Messia said. “Mr. Tesar is deeply concerned about the delivery of your product being delayed to July thirty-first after you had committed to a May first shipment per our agreement. So he sent me to discuss the matter further with you.”
Owens and Pierce looked at each other with confused expressions before Owens responded.
“I’ve provided Mr. Tesar my personal assurances we’ll deliver the amount of seed committed, and the seed will have the rapid growth, yield, and minimum THC percentage we specified. We also gave Mr. Tesar a sample of both the indoor and outdoor grades so he could validate our yield projections. And he communicated to me that he was very pleased that the maribel was the quality we’d stated. But we sometimes experience production delays, just as any company can.”
Messia nodded. “Yeah, I’m aware that he was happy with the sample, but you’ve already delayed shipment once, and now we’re halfway through the main growing season.”
Owens cut his hand through the air. “You’ll still yield a full harvest from our outdoor strain alone. And product from our strains will fetch four times what your Mexican product will. Listen, you’re losing market share and profit margin to the mom-and-pop outfits here in the U.S. With states starting to legalize, that’s going to further impact your margin. Mr. Tesar knows if he wants to compete, he needs a much better product, and he’s made a wise investment in us for the future.”
“Mr. Tesar is losing trust,” Messia said. “He has information that your production has fallen short and you won’t be able to deliver your commitment . . . That it’s mathematically impossible.”
Pierce jerked his head back like he’d been slapped in the face. “Mathematically impossible? What the hell is he talking about? What information?”
“Mr. Tesar monitors all of his key suppliers,” Messia said.
Pierce held both palms up.
“So what the fuck does that mean?” He glanced over at Owens but saw that he was hunched over, grimacing, with his forehead in the palm of his hand. “Are you okay, Marshall?” Pierce asked.
“Yeah, just give me a minute,” he said.
Messia continued his answer.
“It means Mr. Tesar has already made a $231 million investment to secure an exclusive deal with your organization. He has high expectations, and so defaulting on this delivery would, of course, have severe consequences.”
“So you came here to threaten us,” Pierce stated.
“You can call the purpose of this meeting whatever you want,” Messia said.
“Gentlemen,” Owens said as he straightened up and raised his hand to force a pause. He respected that Messia came to play hardball, and so now it was his turn.
“Okay, Juan. First, let me say thanks for coming to discuss this in person. I respect that. I can give you my utmost personal assurances that we’re very much on track to deliver your order. Please again communicate my apologies for the delay. I can appreciate the fact you have good information, and so do we. Such as your wife’s address in Hermosillo and your daughter’s in Bahia de Kino. Your girlfriends’ in Tucson and Phoenix. Mr. Cisneros’s apartments in Portland, Tualatin, and Vancouver, and his various storage units. Locations of his numerous significant others. Names of the many people in your network of growers across Oregon whom you finance.”
The room fell dead silent. Owens stared down Messia and then rattled off the cell phone numbers of the three visitors’ wives without referring to any visible notes. Cisneros started to get out of his chair but Messia put a hand on his knee.
“Marshall, you don’t want to start a war with us,” Messia said.
“Juan, I have no intention of picking a fight with Mr. Tesar. And obviously he’s invested in your assistance at a premium. But if you bring a war to my organization, we’ll aggressively defend our interests. We’re not worried about your sicarios. We’ve planned and trained for such contingencies, and have more than adequate manpower to follow through. I pray this doesn’t escalate. I’d prefer we remain friends.”
Messia broke another stretch of silence.
“Okay, so we’ve brought you the message, and it looks like the message is understood. You’ve told us you’re on track with delivery of your order in full no later than July thirty-one.”
“I think we understand each other,” Owens said. “So this is a rather short meeting after all. Is there anything else?”
“No. We look forward to the remainder of our partnership,” Messia said.
“As do we. Thank you.” Owens and Messia shook hands again. No one else did.
“Mr. Bishop, if you could please escort our visitors out,” Owens said to the Sentry.
Owens and Pierce stood while everyone else filed out of the room. After the visitors had exited the executive area, Owens shut the door of room 2 and he and Pierce sat back down.
“We have a leak,” Owens said.
“Yes,” Pierce said. “And Tesar must know that by laying this card down they’re exposing that person to us. It won’t be hard to narrow down who it is.”
“It’s someone who has been able to observe activity around the storage facility,” Owens said. “They formed the wrong impression as we shuffled the inventory around. It’s someone who’s seen the inside of the facility in the past. Someone without total access, or otherwise they’d know we haven’t produced any new seed for months.”
“Yeah,” Pierce said. “Maybe Tesar has it in his mind that he can seize his order by force before the delivery date.”
“Then his force
will be decimated, and he would legitimize our keeping his advance payment. So I doubt that’s his strategy. But I may have underestimated him. It seems he did successfully cultivate or activate someone inside us within the last few months. Someone who’s been quietly passing along information. The fact they’re willing to expose that person now may mean they’re ready to escalate.”
“We’ll find out.”
“I hope that person is still around. When you narrow your possibilities down, put them on the Verax. Is it back online?”
“Almost. The technical team is still running diagnostics. We think the latest hotfixes will correct our potential issues.”
“Okay, we need to resolve this situation immediately, given we’re so close to launch.”
“Agreed. Have the Russians or Chinese voiced any concerns?” Pierce asked.
“No, they still feel good about their own exclusives. All of their advanced payments have been moved offshore. The account access information is in the succession plan that you have access to. Really, delivery to the Chinese is all I care about, but we have to exercise great discretion.”
“Okay,” Pierce said. “We continue to roll over these bumps in the road. Give me forty-eight hours to dig up our mole.”
“You’ve got twenty-four.”
CHAPTER 24
Tuesday, June 25
8:05 a.m. (PDT)
FBI field office, Portland, Oregon
The speakerphone in the briefing room beeped in an undulating double tone during the conference call in progress.
“Who just joined?” Velasquez asked.
“It’s Brendan Collins. Sorry I’m a few minutes late.” Brendan Collins was the ATF liaison, located in the ATF’s field office in nearby Maywood Park.
Morris flashed Velasquez a look of disapproval. They had discussed earlier in the break room that it would’ve been nice for Collins to show up to one of these meetings in person. After all, it was only a five-minute drive between field offices.