He sank onto the sagging armchair beside his weight bench and started untying his boots.
Andrea was still watching him with a look of despair.
“You know this investigation all started with a bank heist?”
She didn’t react.
“Six thousand dollars, back in September. This was in San Antonio.” He tossed his boot into the corner. The second one joined it with a thud. “Then, a month later, seven thousand. Both nothing amounts. Robber wasn’t armed. After Thanksgiving, another bank got hit for sixty-five hundred. It would never have gotten on our radar, except one of our eager-beaver new agents noticed some similarities, thought the cases might be part of a series.”
He stood up and loosened his vest. “Turns out this agent was right. We went back and looked at the tapes. Guy’s wearing shades and a baseball cap or a hoodie each time, but you can tell it’s the same perp.”
“Shay Hardin?”
He pulled off his vest and tossed it onto the sofa. Now he was down to a sweaty T-shirt and jeans. He unfastened his leg holster and put it on the table. “No,” he said.
She looked confused.
“Several aspects of the crimes pointed to an inside job. Someone who knew standard ops at these banks. Each hit, they took just under the amount that would attract the FBI’s attention.”
“Don’t all bank robberies attract attention?”
“We get hundreds a year in Texas alone. We prioritize cases, like everyone else.” He sat down and looked at her. “Besides the amounts, we also noticed the timing. First robbery happened while the bank manager was at lunch—but it was two in the afternoon, which was kind of an odd lunchtime. Also, the perp didn’t say anything, just presented the teller with a note. But the wording was interesting. He used jargon that made us think he had inside knowledge of the procedures at this bank.”
“So what did you do?”
Jon leaned back in his chair. “Checked out the bank employees, starting with the first hit, which we thought would be most revealing. Ran everyone’s close relatives and significant others to see if anyone had ever been arrested or in trouble with the law. Guess whose name came up?”
“Hardin’s.”
He nodded. “We found four bank employees with exes who had rap sheets, but Hardin was the only one of those who’d been investigated for killing a federal judge.”
She looked frustrated. And intense. And she had a little worry line between her brows that he hadn’t noticed before.
“So you’re saying Hardin’s suddenly robbing banks now? Why would he do that?”
“Because”—he smiled tiredly—“that’s where the money is.”
chapter nine
“YOU THINK THIS IS funny?” She looked as if she’d just found gum on the bottom of her shoe. “I’m being serious here!”
“So am I.”
He got up and went to the sink. He ran a dish towel under the faucet and wiped down his face, which was covered in grime. He could have used a shower and a pizza, but he wasn’t getting either until he got rid of Andrea. It was either get her out or get her in his bed, and she looked like she’d bust his jaw if he so much as touched her.
He leaned back against the sink. “I started poking around, looking into what Hardin’s been up to for the last six years. I didn’t like what I found. Two weeks later, I persuaded our SAC to let Torres and me come out here to do some more digging.”
“You had to convince him?”
“San Antonio’s a busy field office. Besides antiterrorism and everything else, we’ve got our hands full with drug cartels and human trafficking. Not a lot of people sitting around twiddling their thumbs.”
“And what’d you find?”
“I can’t tell you all of it. But none of it’s good.”
She thrust her chin forward in that stubborn look that got his blood going.
“That’s the way it is, Andrea. I can’t tell you everything about my case. I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this much, but for some reason I trust you.”
“That, and you want me to get my brother to help you.”
Again, he figured his silence was confirmation enough.
She walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, facing him. Some of her color had returned, but her expression still looked grim.
“So you came out here to dig, and now you have reason to think Hardin’s going around knocking off banks. Why don’t you arrest him?”
“There’s the little problem of evidence. We’ve got some, but it’s all circumstantial. Ditto the judge’s murder. We need something concrete on either case to get an arrest warrant or even a search warrant.”
He thought about the rumor Elizabeth LeBlanc had told him that Maxwell was ready to pull the plug. It wasn’t a rumor. Maxwell had told him point-blank that he was getting ready to shut down this op. Jon was running out of time, but he’d never felt so close to a break, and he needed Gavin Finch to get it.
Andrea was watching him with suspicion. She still looked confused, too, and he didn’t blame her. It was a complicated case, which was one reason he’d had a hard time selling his theory to his superiors. Much easier to believe a simple explanation—especially one supported by the evidence.
“But what does this have to do with Senator Kirby? And my brother?”
“I’m not sure. Could be Hardin is using stolen money to fund other illegal activities. When I investigate, I always follow the money.” He suspected she did, too. She’d been asking about how Hardin earned a living.
“But why the senator?” she asked. “I thought Hardin had a vendetta against the judge.”
“He did. But the judge is dead, and now he’s moved on to bigger targets. Kirby’s conveniently nearby, and he’s controversial. He’s been in the news a lot.”
“I don’t even keep up with politics, and I’ve heard all about him,” she said. “He’s ticked off a lot of people by putting his name on that gun law.”
“He’s trying to prove he’s tough on crime.”
“Well, it backfired. Now there’s no shortage of people who’d like to see him lose the next election.”
Jon nodded. “And a fraction of those who’d like to see him dead. Or hurt his family. Believe me, we know. Until this morning, we had a team of agents in Philly working ’round the clock on whether the university bombing was directed at the senator. They put together a list of groups that might be responsible, and you know what’s at the top of the list?” He stepped closer. “Militia groups, neo-Nazis, and antigovernment orgs. And you know what else? We have no surveillance footage of Hardin on his property at the time of the bombing. None. But Torres and I did find footage from the parking garage at the El Paso Airport three days before the attack. Looks like Hardin was catching a plane somewhere. Two days after the attack, he’s back on the ranch again.”
“You checked—”
“None of the airlines has him on a flight, so he must have been traveling under an alias, probably using a phony driver’s license.” There was a huge black market for fake IDs around here—no surprise to anyone working law enforcement in a border state.
“You said you had agents working ‘until this morning,’ ” she said. “What happened this morning?”
He stared down at her. Of course that detail had caught her attention. It was all over the news anyway, so he might as well tell her.
“Our forensic lab traced the vehicle used in the bombing to a cleric at a Philadelphia mosque. Now it’s looking like an Al Qaeda cell. Everyone’s efforts have been redirected.”
Her face brightened a fraction. “There goes your Shay Hardin theory.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe what? You’ve got the whole Bureau saying international terrorists. And you’re hung up on some yahoo out in West Texas?”
Jon tossed the towel away and folded his arms over his chest. “Okay, forget the university bombing for a minute. I know Shay Hardin has a deep-rooted hatred for the federal government. I know
he’s capable of violence and that he killed a judge. I’m almost positive he’s masterminding a string of bank heists that may be funding his violent activities. What are the chances your brother’s living there and not involved?”
She fumed up at him. He could see the answer in her eyes. The chances were zero, but she refused to admit it. “You don’t know my brother. He’s never even had a traffic ticket. He would never get involved in any of this.”
“How sure are you?” Jon edged closer and watched her body stiffen. “Don’t tell me—just think about it. Because I’m offering Gavin a chance here.”
“Right. A chance to get thrown in jail for something he didn’t do. Or get his face on the evening news. Or get a target on his back. All because you can’t do your job and put together a case against the guy you’re really after.”
She strode over and yanked open the door, leaving just as hot as she’d arrived. He clamped his hand over hers on the knob. “Hardin’s going away, I promise you. Your brother’s better off helping us.”
She jerked her hand away and stepped outside. Loco was going crazy, barking and lunging at the fence, but Andrea didn’t even seem to notice.
“I’m serious, Andrea.”
She glared at him. “I’m serious, too. You think your case is so good? Go make it.”
♦
Andrea was too mad to sleep. She flipped onto her stomach and punched at the pillow, but there was no way to get comfortable. No way to relax and let go of the arguments volleying through her brain.
She flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Even in the faint glow of the bathroom light, she could still see the chipping paint.
She was sick of this motel. She was sick of this town. She was sick of this dry, dusty air that made her skin itch. She was sick of eating gas-station food and sitting on this bed, hunched over her laptop at night.
More than anything, she was sick of leaving Gavin message after message that he refused to return. He wanted her to butt out. He’d made that clear. And yet with every day that ticked by, she felt more and more pulled in.
What are the chances your brother’s living there and not involved?
She knew good and well that the chances were nonexistent. It wasn’t just her experience as a cop that told her so, but it was also her grasp of common sense, a trait she’d inherited from her grandfather. You lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas. Gavin had been spending way too much time with Hardin not to be involved on some level.
She squeezed her eyes shut as images of those smoldering ruins flooded her brain. The charred building looked like some huge monster had just taken a bite out of it. Sixteen people killed, most of them students. Dozens more injured, some who’d lost limbs or been permanently scarred by flying shrapnel. Who could do such a thing? Who could murder and maim a bunch of innocent people on the very threshold of life?
Plenty of people could. Andrea knew it. She’d seen enough slain gangbangers and branded hookers and abused children to know there was really no limit to human cruelty.
Wind howled against the building, rattling the windowpanes. A scratching noise sounded on the pavement outside. Andrea glanced at the door. The noise drew closer. She kicked off the covers, grabbed her gun, and parted the curtains to peer outside.
Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch.
It sounded like something small. She unlatched the door and cautiously opened it to poke her head out.
A truck roared down the highway, and an armadillo scampered out from behind her Jeep. It darted to the corner of the lot and disappeared into the field surrounding the motel.
Andrea stepped outside and stared after it. Another gust of wind had goose bumps springing up on her bare arms. She glanced up at the clear night sky.
Thousands of stars. Millions. She tipped her head back to look at them, and for the first time all day, the clutch of anxiety loosened. Maverick, Texas. During the day, it was dry and prickly. Same as its people. But tonight it seemed . . . peaceful. For a full minute, she simply gazed up at the glitter and let her thoughts drift away from the turmoil.
I like the free, fresh air.
She shuddered. And she thought of Jon North.
He was a solid investigator. And he believed he had a case against Hardin for robbery and murder and maybe even mass murder.
If he was right, then Gavin had to at least know something. The question was what. And what had happened to his moral compass? What had happened to the gentle little boy she’d grown up with?
Jon knew a lot, but he didn’t know Gavin. This was a kid who’d steadfastly avoided rough sports. Who loved target practice but refused to hunt. Who caught lizards in the house and carried them outside where they’d be safe from his grandmother’s broom.
Andrea looked glumly at the vacancy sign in the window of the motel office. She’d been here a total of seven days. A full week of her life, and what did she have to show for it? Many more questions than answers. A pair of nasty bruises. A brother who ignored her messages and had basically told her to get out of his life.
An inconvenient attraction to a man she knew was using her.
Why had she let him kiss her? Why had she shared so much about her past, her job, her self? Why had she let her guard down?
Because she felt a connection with him. Attraction, yes, but a connection, too. Even though she knew she shouldn’t.
Everything about her being out here was so screwed up. She should be home, saving her career from ruin, not stuck out in this dust bowl, investigating a case that wasn’t even hers.
She sighed and stared out at the highway. She remembered Nathan’s advice when she’d first joined homicide.
You don’t find something under one rock, turn over another.
Nathan knew what he was talking about. Andrea had never once solved a case by sitting around waiting for evidence to fall into her lap.
She went back inside and zipped her pistol into her purse. She threw on some jeans and shoved her feet into Nikes. She chucked her toiletries into her duffel, packed up her laptop, and glanced around the drafty little room.
She checked her watch: 11:50.
She hurried to the motel office, where someone was switching off lights and shutting down early. Through the window, she wasn’t surprised to see the listless teenager who’d checked her in. What was his name? She remembered chapped lips, pierced eyebrows, and an abundance of greasy hair that hung past his shoulders.
Andrea yanked open the door and leaned in.
“Just letting you know, I’m checking out.”
He looked at her with blank, dilated eyes.
“Room eleven. Jeep Cherokee.”
Another empty look. Then his gaze dropped to her tank top and seemed to focus.
“Any messages for me tonight? Or anyone stop by while I was gone?”
He dragged his attention to her face. “Oh, hey. So the room rate—that’s nonrefundable.”
“Yeah, got it. Did anyone swing by here tonight? Maybe a blue Ford Focus?”
He shook his head.
Andrea noticed the glowing vending machine across the room. She quickly pounded out two Cokes and a Snickers bar and gave the desk clerk a wave on the way out.
She piled into her SUV and stuffed the snacks into the cup holder. She popped open one of the Cokes and took a long gulp. Then she rolled down the windows and braced herself for a five-hour drive.
She felt better. Buoyed. Doing something felt infinitely better than not doing something. She was still pissed at Jon, but maybe she could harness all that anger and put it to use.
♦
The converted tack room smelled like leather and animal sweat, and Shay liked it. The smell put him in a mind to work.
Message Two was coming.
He finished with the metal file and sat back to admire his handiwork. Not bad. The device was simple yet elegant and reminded him of the Colt revolver his grandfather used to keep in the glove compartment of his truck. No automatic anything, nothing
fancy. Just perfectly constructed parts that moved together for the desired effect.
Ross stepped up to the table and gazed down at the device. “Looks almost finished.”
Shay pulled off the latex gloves he wore in case agents from ATF or the Federal Bureau of Incineration managed to collect any debris. “I still have to hook up the timing mechanism.”
Ross folded his arms over his chest and pursed his lips. “I been thinking. Maybe we should skip this one. Kinda off-topic, if you think about it.”
Shay looked Ross up and down, disappointed. He would have expected something like this from the others. But he and Ross had been at Benning together. They’d been to Fallujah. He knew the tough decisions required in war.
Still, there had been warning signs. Ross had once been lean and fast, capable of humping a sixty-pound pack over dozens of miles, but eight years had taken a toll, and now he was soft and bloated, with a beer gut and a wife dragging him down. Maybe he’d lost sight of his creed. Maybe now he was just doing this for money. No mission commitment.
Shay didn’t need this shit now. He needed soldiers who weren’t afraid to engage the enemy.
“I didn’t define the rules of engagement,” Shay reminded him. “They were defined by the aggressor. Our government’s at war with its people.”
“Yeah, I know, I just . . . I think there’s gotta be a better way to make a point.”
Ross looked at him, oblivious to how pathetic he’d become. Pathetic or not, though, he was still a necessary element of the plan.
“Are you in or out? I can get someone else. Olivia will do it.”
Ross tipped his chin up, proving his ego was intact, at least. “I’m in.”
“Fine.”
Shay turned back to his work. The barn door creaked open, then whisked shut again. Shay was left with the cold silence of his task. He pulled his gloves back on. He’d finish now, while he felt inspired.
Message Two was coming, and it was brutally simple.
There are no innocents in war.
Far Gone Page 9