Far Gone

by Laura Griffin

  “So, it’s back to our original question. What—or who—is in San Antonio?” Reese nodded at the agent to his right. The man gave a few taps on his keyboard, and a slide flashed up on the projection screen across the room. Jon turned in his chair and saw a giant image of what appeared to be a floor plan.

  “We accessed the digital storage device provided to us by”—Reese glanced at his notes—“Gavin Finch. This is what was on it.”

  “That’s all?” Torres asked.

  “That’s all,” Reese confirmed. “Only this file. It looks to me like a floor plan. Anyone know where this is?”

  Jon could tell by the tone that it wasn’t a rhetorical question. The assistant director of counterterrorism, with all the resources at his disposal, didn’t have a clue what this image was. The sole file on Hardin’s flash drive—a drive protected with biometric security—remained an enigma.

  “Looks like a house, probably a big one.” Torres leaned forward and squinted at the screen. “Maybe it’s Kirby’s?”

  “It’s not,” Reese said. “And it’s a pretty rudimentary floor plan—just showing a basic layout—but it appears to be on a fairly large lot, assuming this is drawn to scale.”

  Jon looked at the image. He wouldn’t assume anything. The picture consisted of some computer-generated lines and rectangles, something any ten-year-old could have slapped together on a computer. The map appeared to show streets surrounding the lot, but they weren’t labeled.

  “What’s that cross up in the corner?” Torres asked. “Is that a church? Or maybe a compass rose?”

  “We don’t know,” Reese said. “We don’t really know anything about this image, except that it was on Hardin’s storage device and it might be a building in San Antonio.”

  “Are we sure it’s Hardin’s device?” Jon asked.

  “His prints were on it.”

  Every face at the table looked disappointed. They’d been hoping the drive would provide a treasure trove of information.

  “Again, it’s back to figuring out where he is and what he’s targeting,” Reese said. “What’s his connection to San Antonio? Does he have any friends here? Relatives? Army buddies? Maybe a former commanding officer he hates for some reason?”

  “I’ll find out,” Jon said, thinking of Gavin. He was with Andrea right now. Maybe he knew something, although Jon had no idea whether Andrea would let him anywhere near her brother—at least, not without a lawyer present. He checked his watch. He didn’t have time to fight about it—he’d just have to convince her.

  “Another disturbing piece of news,” Reese said. “We have new information about the driver of the white Tahoe that was spotted trying to meet with Hardin in the middle of the night last week.”

  Jon looked at Torres.

  “Brian Floyd. I checked him out,” Torres said. “He works at a quarry about twenty miles west of Stockton. They don’t have any explosives missing, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “It is,” Reese said. “We checked out his background, and it turns out he previously worked at a quarry near Las Cruces, New Mexico. They recently had a theft at one of their facilities. Manager there thinks it was an inside job, someone who knew the layout of their storage lockers. Whoever did it drilled out a few padlocks and made off with more than two hundred blasting caps and fifty spools of ignition cord.”

  Jon leaned forward on his elbows. “When?”

  “March twenty-second.”

  “That’s the week before Philadelphia.” Jon looked at Torres. “Maybe that’s why we never found him on a flight out of El Paso. Maybe he didn’t fly out of that airport—he drove.”

  “In a rented vehicle,” Torres suggested. “He could have picked up the goods in New Mexico and then motored cross-country to carry out the attack.”

  “Would he have had time?” Maxwell asked.

  “Yeah, especially if he had someone to help him with the driving.” Jon looked at Reese. “Two hundred blasting caps?”

  “ATF says that’s more than he needed for Philly, same for the ignition cord. So now we have reason to believe he’s got another bomb in the works. Which again brings us back to what he’s targeting in San Antonio. What’s his connection to the city?”

  “What about the bank robberies?” Torres asked. “Probably not a coincidence that three of four of them happened here in town.”

  Reese looked at Maxwell. “What’s the status on that?”

  “I’ve got an agent working on it—”

  “One agent? Where is he?”

  “She’s . . . in the office, I assume.” Maxwell’s face reddened. “I can call her for an update.”

  “I’ll call her,” Torres said. “We touched base on this yesterday. She was running down the getaway vehicles. Maybe she’s got something new.”

  “Find out,” Reese said.

  “I’ll check with Gavin Finch,” Jon said. “See what he knows.”

  “And we need to talk to Leeland’s wife again,” Maxwell said. “She’s at her parents’ in Midland.”

  “Don’t waste time on details,” Reese ordered. “Our object is to find these suspects and bring them in. And in the meantime, we need to figure out what or who their next target is.” His gaze moved around the table and stopped at Jon. “If your theory holds and he’s planning something for the OKBOMB anniversary, then the clock is ticking.”

  He pushed back from the table and stood up. “Let’s go, people. We have less than twenty-four hours.”

  ♦

  Elizabeth pulled into a parking space and took out her file. Ten to the fourth. Ten thousand possible phone numbers. The computer database had eliminated more than half right away because they were not in use. But she’d been left with 4,400 numbers to check out, and she’d run down every single one of them. She’d whittled the list to a few dozen entries that merited further investigation, including her current prospect, an Adam R. Jones of A.C.C. Enterprises, listed at this address. Jones’s record was clean, but the business name sounded suspiciously vague, so she’d decided to check it out.

  Elizabeth got out of her car and read the sign atop the building: ALAMO CITY CHOPPERS.

  A.C.C. Enterprises.

  Well, goody for her. Maybe if the agent gig didn’t work out, she could get a job with the Bureau’s cryptanalysis unit.

  Elizabeth sighed and glanced around. The entire front row of parking was reserved for motorcycles. She glanced beyond them at the glass windows of the showroom, which faced the street.

  Elizabeth stepped into the building and peeled off her sunglasses. Her gaze landed on a low-slung bike with gleaming fenders and a fat back tire. She glanced at a few customers and felt immediately self-conscious in her tailored gray suit. But everyone seemed too busy to notice her. It looked as though half of San Antonio had decided to spend this sunny morning checking out custom bikes.

  She stayed on the periphery, browsing until she could catch a free salesperson. A man in coveralls whisked past her, and Elizabeth followed him with her eyes as he walked out a back door and into what looked like a workshop. She meandered over to the window and looked out at the long line of service bays facing the parking lot. A car at the end of the row caught her eye: a late-model Ford Fiesta, sapphire-blue.

  Elizabeth’s pulse picked up. What were the odds? She stepped closer to the window and studied the car.

  It had a dent on the back door, driver’s side, just like the car from the November bank robbery.

  She glanced around. She needed to get closer to confirm, but it might be the vehicle.

  She started for the door but then thought better of it. A blonde in a business suit waltzing past the garage would attract attention. She needed to go around.

  She made her way casually across the showroom and spent a few moments lingering in the apparel section. Then she pushed through a side door and stepped out.

  A narrow strip of pavement ran along the property line beside a chain-link fence. She moved swiftly now, because she didn’t belo
ng out here. She dipped her hand into her pocket to silence her phone.

  The repair shop was a corrugated-metal building with six service bays. The garage doors facing the parking lot were raised, but all the back doors were lowered, and she skirted behind them now to make her way around the building. A radio DJ’s voice penetrated the metal doors. She heard tools clanging and men bantering back and forth. She paused at the corner of the building and cautiously poked her head around. Her phone vibrated, and she jumped back.

  She took a deep breath to steady her nerves, then peered around the corner again. The blue car sat just yards away, and she had a clear view of the license plate, which had been obscured by mud in the bank’s surveillance footage. She pulled a notepad from her pocket and jotted down the digits. She started back to her car, then paused. Switching her phone to camera mode, she crept back and peered around the corner. A quick glance at the garage to make sure the coast was clear—

  She froze, riveted by the sight.

  chapter twenty-seven

  ANDREA HAD THOUGHT ELEVEN hours of sleep would restore her to her normal self, but evidently not. She couldn’t seem to shake this low-grade anxiety that had taken hold of her. All morning, she’d felt short-tempered and edgy. The television’s drone grated on her every nerve as she stared at her computer screen.

  “You mind turning that down?”

  The blanket-covered lump on her sofa didn’t move.

  She stalked across the room and switched off the TV. “Enough.”

  Gavin frowned at her.

  “You need to get up.”

  “Why?”

  “You can’t just lie there. You have to do something. Get back in school. Get a job. I never said you could surf my couch forever.”

  Gavin glanced at his watch. “I’ve been here twelve hours, Andrea. And I don’t have anywhere to be today.”

  “Exactly! That’s a problem. You need to get up and do something.”

  He sat up and kicked off the blanket. “Like what?”

  “Like . . . anything. Act like an adult for once, and take some responsibility.”

  He combed a hand through his hair, and it stuck out in all directions.

  “Are you planning to go back to school?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you planning to get a job?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked up at her. “I was thinking I could maybe go stay with Dee and Bob awhile.”

  She crossed her arms.

  “You think they’ll have me?”

  “Possibly.” They wouldn’t turn him away in a million years. “They’ll put you to work, though.”

  “I know.” He fiddled with the TV remote. “I was thinking that’d be good right now. Keep me busy while I figure out, you know, what I’m going to do and everything.”

  She just looked at him. He wasn’t exactly on fire with motivation, but at least he’d thought about it.

  He stood up. “Mind if I grab a shower?”

  “Fine.”

  He disappeared into her bedroom, and she stared after him. She wasn’t cut out for this. She didn’t like this nagging, bitchy side of herself. Thank God she wasn’t a mother. Her kids would run away from home as soon as they learned to walk.

  Andrea returned to her computer and opened an e-mail from Nathan. He’d continued to work Carmen Pena’s murder case even after the feds put it on the back burner to focus on other angles. Now he was reaching out for help, wondering whether she’d come across the name of Todd Greene, who looked good for a match with the partial print recovered from the pipe bomb.

  Andrea hadn’t heard the name, but that hadn’t stopped her from checking it out. The feds had their hands full, and she didn’t necessarily believe they knew their ass from first base, anyway. So she’d decided to try to drum up some leads.

  The name Todd Greene was exceedingly common. None in Maverick, but she’d found a guy by that name living in Fort Stockton. A few phone calls to the local police had netted some interesting facts. One, Greene had sobered up since the drunk-driving arrest that landed him in jail ten years ago and put his prints in the system. And two, Greene now worked at a Fort Stockton hardware store.

  Andrea typed up an e-mail to the cop who was helping her and attached Shay Hardin’s picture, the one with his eagle tattoo showing. She wanted to see whether Greene had ever seen him in the store before, maybe purchasing some pipe or bolts or ball bearings, for instance.

  If the lead panned out, she’d send it to Nathan, who would be annoyed by her meddling but would follow up anyway because he didn’t like Carmen Pena being overlooked.

  A sharp rap at the door. Andrea got up to look and was surprised to see Jon on her doorstep in a suit and tie. He gazed directly at the peephole, as if he could see her standing on the other side.

  She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “I’m here to see Gavin.” He stepped inside without an invitation.

  “How’d you know he was here?”

  “As a condition of dropping the charges, he agreed to keep us apprised of his whereabouts. He left me a message last night when he arrived here.” He paused. “He’s cooperating with us, Andrea.”

  She pursed her lips. Gavin was cooperating with the authorities. It was, quite possibly, the smartest thing he’d done in months.

  “He’s in the shower,” she said over her shoulder as she strode into the bedroom and pounded on the bathroom door. “FBI’s here to talk to you.”

  She rejoined Jon in her kitchen, where he stood beside the coffeepot. The scene was unsettlingly familiar, but this time, they had the added complication of a failed romance between them.

  She crossed her arms. “What is it you want with Gavin?”

  He looked her over, and she could see the stress on his face. Despite the suit and the shave, he looked ragged and anxious. She almost felt sorry for him. “The raid went sideways on us,” he said. “Hardin slipped through our fingers, along with Leeland and Driscoll. We think Hardin’s in San Antonio and we’re hoping Gavin might have some ideas.” He tucked his hands into his pockets and watched her. “We also recovered an image from Hardin’s thumb drive. We thought possibly he could identify it.”

  She lifted her eyebrows expectantly.

  He pulled up a digital picture on his phone and stepped over to show her.

  “It’s a floor plan,” she said, ignoring the familiar scent of him.

  “Recognize it?”

  “Is it Kirby’s?”

  “No.”

  “I have no idea.” She looked up, and something warm glinted in his eyes.

  He tucked the phone away and reached up to touch her face. “You look tired,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  He rubbed his thumb along her jawline, and her nerves skittered in response. “How are your bruises?”

  “Fine.”

  She remembered his hands gliding over her hips. She remembered his mouth and found herself staring at it.

  He tipped her chin up and kissed her. It was gentle at first, but then his hand slid down and pulled her against him. Hope surged through her, hot and fleeting, before she squashed it down.

  She jerked back. “Don’t.” She stepped away from him, and his eyes were simmering now.

  “Why not?”

  “Just—don’t.” She looked away, and she could feel his gaze on her.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  “Fine.” She stepped around him and flipped shut her computer.

  “Andrea?”

  “I said it’s fine.”

  “I was doing my job.”

  Anger flared inside her. “I don’t fault you for doing your job, North. It’s the way you did it that pisses me off.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “Fine, it’s done anyway.”

  “What do you mean, done?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Look at me.” He closed the gap between them and towered over her. She ca
st an impatient glance at the bedroom. Where was Gavin?

  “Don’t pull that crap. Look at me.”

  She met his gaze.

  “I made a mistake. Let’s move on.”

  “I don’t want to ‘move on’ with you. I just want to forget it.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “Well, I do! It’s done, so drop it.”

  He glared down at her. But then his hostility faded, and a look of surprise came over his face. “Oh, my God. I get it now.” He stepped back.

  “Get what?”

  “This is just like your job. You’re scared, and so you’re running away.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You’re scared of losing something good, so you throw it away with both hands. Before you have a chance to get rejected.”

  She felt as if he’d smacked her with a two-by-four. She turned away, and he caught her arm.

  “I’m right, aren’t I? I can see it.”

  “Oh, please. Spare me the psychobabble. This is not about my job. This is about you disrespecting me and doubting my integrity.” She could tell he didn’t believe her, and she felt a hot spurt of frustration. “This is about you being a prick!” She shook off his grip. “You left me naked in your house while you deliberately deceived me—”

  A loud cough had her whirling around.

  Gavin stood in the living room watching them, his shoulder propped against the wall. He looked at Jon.

  “You needed to talk to me?”

  She glanced at Jon, but he wasn’t even looking at Gavin. His attention was still fixed solely on her.

  Andrea crossed the kitchen and grabbed her computer bag. She stuffed the laptop into it and snatched up her car keys.

  “I’m going to the coffee shop,” she said, and stormed out.

  ♦

  Jon watched her leave. For the second time in two days, she slammed the door on him.

  “She has a temper.”

  He looked at her brother. “I know.”

  The kid sauntered into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. He took out some orange juice and guzzled it straight from the bottle.