Shadow Shepherd (Sam Callahan Book 2)

by Chad Zunker

  “How’s the shoulder?” Epps asked.

  “Fine,” Lloyd grunted.

  “Liar,” Epps replied, shaking his head.

  “Let’s get started.”

  Epps turned to the young agent who was sitting behind a laptop at the conference table. “Show him what you showed me, Krieger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Krieger began pecking away, and screens popped up on the digital wall in front of them. Lloyd stepped around the table and moved closer to them. The digital screens showed several still images that had been taken from Krieger’s computer screen in the past few hours, documenting part of his online search.

  “What am I looking at?” Lloyd asked Krieger.

  “I basically followed the trail from this afternoon when we got the first flag on the alias Gildas Vaughn—the one that quickly disappeared on us, mind you. As I told Agent Epps, it’s been a chess match for me the past few hours. Whoever is behind this has been working overtime to cover their tracks. To this point, I’ve been able to at least keep them in sight. Until thirty minutes ago.”

  “What happened thirty minutes ago?” Lloyd asked.

  “They pulled the rip cord and ejected.”

  Lloyd turned in frustration. “What the hell does that mean in English, Krieger?”

  “Sir, it means they shut it down so they couldn’t be discovered.”

  “So we still don’t know who they are?”

  “No, sir. Not yet. But we think we know more about why Alger Gerlach is here. Or, more important, who he is here for. We were able to grab something in a file before they went dark.”

  “Pull it up,” instructed Epps.

  A photo appeared on the middle screen of a young man with wavy brown hair wearing blue jeans and a Georgetown Law T-shirt.

  “Who is he?” Lloyd asked.

  Epps stepped in. “His name is Sam Callahan. Until recently, he was a law student at Georgetown. He just graduated last month and joined a law firm called Benoltz and Associates.”

  Lloyd studied the face on the screen. “Wait . . . isn’t that the same guy who was involved in the Redrock deal last year?”

  “Yes, sir,” Epps confirmed. “The same guy.”

  Lloyd turned to Epps, frowned. “You’re trying to tell me that someone brought in the Gray Wolf, a million-dollar-a-job assassin, to take out this rookie lawyer?”

  “I’m not telling you anything,” Epps countered, holding up a defensive hand. “All we know is that Krieger here found this directly attached to Alger Gerlach, in the same online thread where someone hacked security and allowed Gerlach safe passage into DC.”

  Lloyd studied the screens. It seemed far-fetched. “We know where to find Callahan?”

  “I have his address. Just waiting on you.”

  “Well, hell, go get him. Let’s talk to him.”

  TWENTY

  Billarama Santa María was a dimly lit pool hall on the first floor of a two-story building in between a liquor store and a drugstore. Tommy’s instructions were to meet someone he simply called Diablo. Sam didn’t need to be bilingual to recognize the name meant devil in Spanish. As he entered the place, he could only imagine what kind of guy he would find owning that nickname in a smoky pool joint currently filled with dozens of tattooed and testosterone-laden men. A real badass, he figured. The place was busy. Men of all ages were crashing pool balls around with lots of drinking and yelling. Sam stepped carefully through the crowd, getting lots of glances. He obviously stood out. For one, he hadn’t spotted another white face yet. Two, he had no apparent tattoos and wore nothing in black leather.

  Sam found the bar off to the side. A bartender with beefy forearms and a thick black mustache made his way over to him.

  “¿Qué deseas?” he said.

  “Looking for Diablo,” Sam said in his deepest voice, feeling weird about it.

  The bartender nodded toward the pool table in the back corner. Sam thanked him and followed the dirty floor to the corner, where five of the biggest men he’d ever seen surrounded the pool table. The group looked like they could be the starting offensive line for the Broncos, all wearing matching black leather vests, dark goatees, and beards, and most of the men had tattoos crawling up and down both of their massive arms. One of the men’s ink was nothing but huge flames—Sam’s first guess at Diablo. He fit the mold. He was the biggest of the bunch and looked like he could lift a truck over his head. Sam sure as hell hoped Tommy knew what he was doing, sending him into this joint. He felt like a herring swimming into a shark den.

  Sam waited for the man to finish a pool shot and then hesitantly stepped up.

  The man looked at him, growled with his eyes.

  “Diablo?” Sam asked. “Tommy sent me.”

  The man gave him a quick grin, which Sam found odd. The man then turned, gave a head nod toward someone sitting on a bar stool directly behind the pool table. A five-foot-nothing bleached-blonde girl in her early twenties. She wore tall-heeled boots that went all the way up above her knees, a short black leather miniskirt, and a formfitting pink T-shirt with a picture of a teddy bear on it. Was this guy messing with him? He stepped around the linemen and approached the young blonde.

  She eyeballed him. “Sam?”

  He nodded. “You’re . . . Diablo?”

  “Sí,” she replied, as if it was no big deal.

  She got off the stool, found her oversize black leather bag on the floor beside her. She knelt, reached inside, and pulled out a small pink Victoria’s Secret shopping bag. She held it out for him. He took the bag from her and gave a quick peek inside. He spotted a new cell phone, a passport, and a bundle of new IDs, along with a thick roll of pesos. It was all there. He looked back up at the blonde, still finding this exchange bizarre.

  “Gracias,” he said.

  “De nada. Buena suerte.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Twenty-two hours, thirty-eight minutes.

  Sam kept his eyes on the clock, feeling the weight with each passing minute. He didn’t understand the rules of this sinister new game. Twenty-four hours? Why had they given him a deadline to find this guy? Did they not think he would do exactly what they said, anyway, with Natalie in their possession? And did they also know that Rich Hebbard claimed to be his real father? Was that their true reason for pulling Sam into this mess? The meeting with the black-haired lady brought few answers and only initiated more frustrating questions.

  Sam immediately took a taxi straight to the airport. He knew his first order of business was to get out of Mexico City. While riding in the back of the car, a text message from a random number appeared on his brand-new smartphone. Can you meet for pizza?

  Sam immediately knew it was from Tommy, asking to video chat. Can you meet for pizza? was the string of code words that Tommy always used when wanting to get in touch with him, even just to invite Sam to the movies. The kid was cloak-and-dagger about everything. Sam logged in to Leia’s Lounge on the cell phone and pinged his friend. Sam held the phone close to his face, although the driver seemed to be lost in his Spanish pop music, anyway.

  Moments later Tommy was on his screen.

  “I guess this means you got everything?” Tommy asked.

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Don’t use Sam Callahan for anything anymore. The federal police now have you tagged in their system, and they’re on the hunt. An all-points bulletin has also gone out to local police. Everyone is looking for you right now, dude. You’re officially a wanted man in Mexico.”

  Sam shook his head. “Okay, thanks. Please tell me you found something with Natalie’s video.”

  Tommy sighed, shook his head. “Nothing, man. There is no way I can track it. The threads have been wiped clean. Whoever did this to Natalie knows what they’re doing. And no matter how much I enhance the still images in the video, I can find nothing to distinguish her whereabouts.”

  “Damn.”

  “I know, dude. I’m sorry.”

  “You find anything on Hebbard?” />
  “Born in Shreveport. Second of three kids. Undergrad degree at Tulane. University of Mississippi School of Law. Worked as an associate for five years in Dallas for a big corporate firm. Then moved to Denver and spent two years at a different corporate firm. From there, moved to New Orleans and joined his third law firm, where he made partner. Spent over twenty years with that firm before starting his own firm three years ago with Tom Hawkins. I sent it all to your account.”

  Sam perked up. “When was he in Denver?”

  “It was 1991 and ’92.”

  Sam cursed. Twenty-six years ago.

  “What?” Tommy asked, clueless.

  “Nothing. He have a wife? Any kids?”

  “He was married for ten years and then got divorced. Two kids. The boy is in law school in North Carolina. The girl is a nurse in Tallahassee.”

  Two kids? Or three kids? Sam couldn’t believe where his mind was racing.

  “What can you tell me about his clients?” Sam asked.

  “Not much just yet. Looks like a standard client list. Mostly oil clients from Louisiana and Texas. Although I think I found a connection to Zapata.”

  “Who is he?”

  “One of Hebbard’s clients is Arnstead Petroleum out of New Orleans. I found a link between Arnstead’s founder, a man named Lex Hester, at a banquet at a five-star resort in Cozumel with a man named Francisco Zapata. Zapata is a member of the Chamber of Deputies, Mexico’s congress, elected from the city of Lázaro Cárdenas.”

  “A congressman?”

  “Yes, correct.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “Zapata’s brother was the governor of the state of Michoacán when he got murdered two years ago. The police blamed the drug cartels. But Zapata publicly blamed another political party. Zapata had a brief military career where he was a member of Cuerpo de Fuerzas Especiales, which is Mexico’s Special Forces. According to his political bio, twenty years ago, a group of thirty guerilla rebels known as EZLN took over a small town in Chiapas. Zapata led a Special Forces team to recapture the town, where they killed all thirty rebels and disposed of their bodies on a riverbank with their noses and ears sliced off.”

  “Lovely. Anything else?”

  “There are rumors of corruption all over the place, as is the case with many of Mexico’s politicians. Mostly involving drug cartels. Nothing that I can tell that’s directly connected with the names you mentioned just yet.”

  “Keep digging, Tommy. And see what else you can find on Lex Hester.”

  “All right.”

  As the cab approached the airport, Sam watched the streets of Mexico City. Suddenly, the thought of a corrupt Mexican congressman sending a crew to kill him didn’t sound so preposterous. Zapata certainly had the right military background and connections. But what kind of conspiracy did Rich Hebbard and Tom Hawkins know about that got Hawkins killed and forced Hebbard to go on the run? It appeared to Sam that Zapata wanted Hebbard dead. Was Natalie’s abductor somehow connected to Zapata? If so, how?

  “What’s the last location you have for Hebbard?” Sam asked Tommy.

  “He last used his personal cell phone a little over four hours ago at a hotel in New Orleans. He used his credit card three hours ago at Rubenstein’s, a men’s clothing store off Saint Charles Avenue. Nothing since then. All signs point to New Orleans.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  His new alias identified him as Will Kane. Sam knew immediately where Tommy found the name. High Noon. The classic Western starring Gary Cooper. The movie was in Tommy’s top-five favorites, although this list seemed to be ever-rotating. Tommy talked about “the list” all the time—which old movie had recently slid into the top five, which had recently been pushed out. Sam couldn’t keep up with it all. He guessed High Noon was currently on the list. Under the new alias, Sam now had a new driver’s license, a credit card likely attached to one of Tommy’s hidden offshore numbered accounts, and a passport. It was his current DC driver’s license photo on the fake license and passport. The passport was stamped with his trip into Mexico City that morning. Tommy knew these details all mattered.

  Sam was now Will Kane.

  The taxi dropped him on the curb outside Mexico City International Airport. Sam quickly ducked inside the building. He was not surprised to find the airport busy. Most of the traffic seemed to be coming from those arriving in the robust city. Sam was determined to get the hell out, as soon as possible. He found a digital board listing departures. There was a midnight option for Air Canada. If he could get a seat, it would put him in New Orleans at nine the next morning. That meant he would have just under twelve hours to find Rich Hebbard and somehow exchange him for Natalie. He quickly crossed through the airport concourse, looking for Air Canada, his eyes guarded and yet still taking in everyone around him—especially airport security, which had men stationed at every turn.

  He found the counter for Air Canada. He had to wait only a few minutes for two people in front of him to move through. He stepped up to the counter and asked the female attendant if there was any room left on the midnight flight. She typed into her computer, said they still had seats available. Sam handed over his IDs and credit card and said a prayer. The attendant handed them back a few seconds later, along with a newly printed boarding pass. He was good to go. Sam exhaled. Tommy had again been his lifeline.

  He stepped away from the counter, found an airport shop up the walk where he purchased small headphones, a bottle of water, and two prepackaged sandwiches. He was famished. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast back in DC earlier that day, and he’d been running nonstop since midafternoon. If he was going to get through this, he knew he needed to keep his body fueled and hydrated for the next twenty-two hours. He quickly downed the sandwiches and then got into a long line for security to get to his terminal. He planned to find an isolated corner, far away from anyone, hide out for several hours, board the plane at the last minute, and then get some much-needed sleep in flight—if that was possible.

  The security line plodded forward, each passenger showing his or her ID and boarding pass to the security guard behind the kiosk, taking bags through the conveyor belt, and finally getting the once-over from more security.

  Sam was only ten people back from the security checkpoint when he noticed two men in uniform with security ID badges join the man behind the kiosk. One of the men held a piece of paper in his hands and set it before the guard. All three men studied it for a second, had a quick conversation, and then they looked up and began to scan the crowded line. Sam slipped in behind the tall traveler in front of him. He felt a sudden surge of uneasiness. Taking several slow, deep breaths, he tried to convince himself it was just nerves. He leaned around the tall guy, noticed the two security guards had taken a step back but were still monitoring the security line. The kiosk guard started to pass people through again.

  Sam felt sweat on his neck. He inched forward. He was five people away now. One of the guards behind the kiosk guy placed steady eyes on him. He didn’t move them away for a few seconds. Sam thought of Natalie. Twenty-two hours. He swallowed his growing fear and kept taking slow steps forward. He had to get to New Orleans.

  Three people away.

  March 7

  Four months ago

  A nurse frantically woke him up in the middle of the night.

  There was an emergency with his mother. They needed to hurry. He was fuzzyheaded as he struggled from bed. An emergency? The nurse couldn’t explain, said the doctor just ordered her to come and get him ASAP. He immediately felt fear grip him. An emergency on the heels of a bone-marrow transplant sounded ominous. Especially for a woman who was already in a desperate situation. He checked the clock on the wall: 2:15 a.m. Natalie had gone home around midnight. He wished more than anything he’d agreed to let her stay the night, like she’d wanted, rather than demanding that she go home and get some rest.

  He was afraid. Natalie always made him feel stronger.

  They took an elevator
up the two flights to his mother’s floor. A doctor met them in the hallway right outside his mom’s door. There were several other medical personnel inside her room, but no one was scrambling about or acting like there was an emergency. He tried to peek into the private room through the window but was blocked by a medical cart. This was a different doctor from the one earlier in the day. His face was already dour.

  “Sam, I’m Dr. Edgars,” he began, a somber tone.

  “What’s going on with my mom?” Sam interrupted.

  Dr. Edgars noticeably swallowed. “Your mom went into unanticipated cardiac arrest twenty minutes ago. We worked tirelessly to revive her, but her body was already incredibly fragile and weak. I’m sorry, Sam.”

  Sam felt sideswiped. “Wait . . . what are you saying, Doc? She had a heart attack?”

  “Yes. There was nothing we could do.”

  “I don’t understand. She’s dead? My mom is dead?”

  He nodded. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. I’m very sorry.”

  Sam felt the air knocked out of him, a numb panic traveling the length of his body, head to toe, like a powerful wave trying to carry him out to sea. “I don’t get it. Did the bone-marrow transplant do this? Did my marrow do this to her?”

  “Nothing did this, Sam,” the doctor tried to reassure him. “Certainly not you. From all accounts, the transplant went really well today. Everyone was pleased. But her body was so weak, it just wasn’t ready and able to handle an unexpected heart failure. We can monitor and be ready to respond, which we were, but sometimes the body just does what it wants to do, in spite of all of our advanced medicine and procedures. I’m afraid her heart just gave out and did not want to come back, no matter what we did. No matter how long we tried.”

  Sam couldn’t believe it. The numbing wave was dragging him farther out. He could barely breathe. “Can I go see her, Doc?” he managed to ask.