The Gatekeeper

by Michelle Gagnon

  Thirty-Four

  “Pull over,” Syd barked. Maltz obliged, screeching to the side of the road. Fribush and Kane jolted forward but didn’t say anything. Syd ran her eyes over the low buildings. They were south of Phoenix, in an area dominated by abandoned warehouses and factories that had seen better days. The first three stops had been fruitless, just a bunch of people clambering over makeshift floats festooned with cheap-looking red, white and blue bunting. The entries ranged from floats with a “love your local farmer” theme, complete with fake orange trees, to papier-mâché tributes to the Declaration of Independence. It all struck Syd as horribly pedestrian, but she complimented their creativity profusely before moving on. They’d been at it for nearly two hours, and she could feel the team’s spirits flagging. If they didn’t turn up anything here she’d break for a meal. She needed them sharp in case the shit hit the fan.

  But first, there was one last place to check. An older man at the last site had mentioned driving by a float being assembled farther south. And bingo, within a hundred yards of the place her dosimeter went bananas.

  At her tone, Fribush and Kane straightened. “What do you want to do?” Maltz asked.

  “Circle once, not too slowly.”

  Maltz obeyed, swinging the SUV past the open entrance to the warehouse and continuing toward the rear. Syd kept her face relaxed while she studied the building. The nose of a red truck poked out the door. The familiar tacky patriotic bunting around the cab, a crisp new American flag mounted across the grill. One man visible by the door, most likely keeping watch. No way to know how many others were inside. The main exit was partially blocked by the truck. There was a narrow alley between that building and the one next door; it didn’t look like any doors opened onto it. Around back, a door was set in the wall next to a battered Dumpster, probably an emergency exit since there was no handle. Not good, that meant it might be alarmed. Syd couldn’t see any windows, either; whoever chose the site knew their job. Which didn’t leave a lot of options for her team. At least there were no visible cameras. She waved for Maltz to drive down the block while she turned it over in her mind.

  “What do you think?” he finally asked.

  “You and I go in the front,” Syd said, “using the cover we discussed. Fribush and Kane check the back to see if they can get in quietly. If they can, signal me via cell and we’ll use the flash bangs, throw them off enough to pin them down.”

  “And if the back is locked?”

  “Same plan, but on my signal we blow the door. I don’t want them heading out the back while we take the front. There are other cells out there, we don’t want them to know a target has been compromised.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt to do a more thorough recon,” Maltz said uncertainly.

  Syd shrugged. “I don’t think we have time. The drive-by might have already spooked them.”

  Fribush and Kane got out of the SUV, removed two duffel bags from the hatch, and trotted toward the rear of the building. She waited until they were in position, then nodded at Maltz. He pulled a baseball cap down low over his eyes and circled back to the front. The man inside the door stepped out as they approached. Maltz parked at an angle, discreetly blocking the truck, nose slightly out in case they had to leave quickly. Syd pulled out her ponytail and ran a hand through her hair. As she stepped from the car, she flashed the lookout a hundred-watt smile.

  He was young, no more than twenty-five, tough and stringy-looking. Definitely not the first team, Syd thought-strictly benchwarmer material. Whoever assigned him lookout duty figured it was something even he couldn’t screw up. But she was about to prove them wrong.

  “Hi there!” she said, letting her accent shine through. She jutted a hand toward him.

  He reflexively shook her hand, jaw slightly agape. Maltz stood right behind her. His HK was tucked inside a many-pocketed photographer’s vest, and around his neck hung a digital camera that harbored a 9mm and a huge flash designed to blind and disorient.

  “I’m Gail Jones, from the Arizona Republic? We’re doing a story on the parade tomorrow? You know, the sorts of things people are doing to prepare, what Independence Day means to them…” She laid a hand on his arm. “Human interest. We’ve taken shots of almost all the other floats, and would love to include yours. Did you go with a red, white and blue theme? Or something else?”

  “Umm…” he stammered.

  She brushed past him into the warehouse. It was stifling inside, the heat had been trapped by the cheap metal roof and the air appeared to shimmer. Syd fanned herself with one hand as her eyes darted around the interior. Another man was adjusting something on the truck bed. He straightened at the sight of her and frowned. No one else visible, but it was hard to make out the depths of the warehouse in the dim lighting. She caught movement by the back door-Fribush and Kane.

  “Hey, lady, you’re not supposed-”

  She swiveled to face the kid, who had a look of growing alarm in his face.

  “I really love this, your whole melting pot theme. Haven’t seen anything like it yet. Do you mind if we take a few pictures?”

  “No pictures!” The other man jumped off the float and ran toward them, waving his arms forcefully. Head of the local cell, I presume, Syd thought. Maltz raised the camera.

  She pasted her best startled look on her face. “But really, what you’ve done here is so great. Why don’t you all gather in front of it. One shot and we’ll be out of your hair. This could be the lead-”

  “Get the fuck out,” the guy snarled, skidding to a stop directly in front of her. He was average-sized but had a hard look to him-prison, or maybe the army, Syd thought. Shit. And he was clearly the brains of this particular operation.

  He glared at her, then his gaze shifted to Maltz. His eyes suddenly narrowed, and Syd knew they’d been made. “Flag!” she yelled, digging in her purse for her gun. She fumbled it and cursed.

  All hell broke loose in the warehouse. Maltz’s camera flashed, blinding her, followed immediately by the sputter of rounds being squeezed off. Something sparked to her right, and Syd instinctively dove in the direction of the flatbed, commando-crawling until she was underneath it. She got behind one of the wheels just in time to see the kid drop, felled by Maltz. The other guy had vanished.

  Shouting erupted from the rear of the warehouse. Syd panned the darkness quickly, eyeing through the sight on her HK. The yelling was coming from behind a door to a partitioned-off area. It slammed open and a spray of bullets pocked the floor and walls. There was a sudden bright light and piercing noise. Syd jerked her head away, wishing she had a free hand to plug her ears. The flash bang was hell in an enclosed space.

  Everything was muffled, as if sounds were crawling to her ears through glue. Maltz was fifteen feet away, aiming his gun at something she couldn’t see. She was rusty, since diving for cover it had taken her thirty seconds to process the scene and react. Not good. If she was still with the Agency, that alone would have been grounds for dismissal.

  A sudden rumbling, then a lurch. For a second Syd experienced the disconcerting sensation that the warehouse was moving away from her, then realized it was the tires as the truck headed out the door. She rolled in time to avoid getting squashed and lay as flat as possible, watching the tow lights blink red. A collision, the grinding of metal muted by her temporary deafness as the truck shoved their SUV aside as if it were an errant toy. She jumped to her feet. Maltz was already behind the wheel when she scrambled in. One side of the SUV was badly scraped and dented, but it looked driveable.

  “Fribush and Kane?” she asked, breathless.

  “It looked like they had it handled.” Maltz peeled out after the truck. “Bastard just missed me, had a 9mm subcompact in his jeans. By the time I reloaded he was in the truck cab.”

  “We’ve got to stop him,” Syd said, watching as the truck fishtailed, the flatbed whipping in a wide arc as he spun onto the main road.

  “We can try,” Maltz said, jaw set. “But I gotta be honest, a ca
r versus a big rig, I don’t love our chances.” He glanced at her. “You want to call the cops?”

  Syd chewed her lower lip. She hated the thought of it. But if that truck made it downtown…she dug in her purse for her cell phone. “Stay as close as you can without riding up his ass,” she muttered as she dialed.

  Jake picked up on the third ring. “Hi, partner,” she said.

  “Hey,” he said. “How’s Phoenix?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Call it a lucky guess. So, did you find the guy?”

  “We did, actually.” Syd watched as the truck nearly took out a Honda Civic. It swerved up the on-ramp to Route 10, headed north toward Phoenix proper. “One slight problem, though. He’s got the bomb on the road.”

  “Jesus, Syd.”

  “I was thinking you have a better shot at getting the police to respond. Coming from me, it might get dismissed as a crank call.”

  “Go figure.” Syd heard Jake talking to someone in a low voice, then an exclamation in the background. “All right, George is handling it. I’ll stay on with you while he patches us through to dispatch. What exit are you closest to?”

  “He just passed Exit 155.” Syd watched smaller cars struggle to get out of the way, several of them nearly colliding with each other. Maltz swerved around them, managing to stay fifteen feet back from the truck’s tail. It was surreal watching the float whip around, the Statue of Liberty canted sideways by the rapid turns, streamers tearing away and wafting back on the breeze. Syd wondered where the bomb was-inside the main statue? It would make sense, especially if someone had a funny sense of irony. “You’re pissed, aren’t you?”

  “Pissed isn’t the right word. I’m just wondering what it is about me that sends women running toward a bomb,” Jake said cryptically.

  Syd decided that didn’t bear a response. She called out the next few exits as they blew past them. The truck was gaining momentum. She watched nervously as their speedometer crept past ninety, then a hundred. Horns blared in their wake, but the truck cleared a straight swath.

  “Uh-oh,” Maltz said suddenly.

  Syd saw it at the same time: the highway swept up a bridge in a long arc, and there were brake lights ahead. Rush-hour traffic. “Shit,” she said.

  “Yup,” Maltz agreed.

  “Jake, he’s driving about a hundred miles an hour, and he’s about to hit traffic,” Syd said.

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. “The nearest unit is still a few minutes away,” Jake finally said. “They’re setting up roadblocks at the exits, but it doesn’t sound like he’s going to make it that far.”

  “Definitely not. This is going to get ugly.” Syd turned to Maltz. “Flip around and get us the hell out of here.”

  Maltz nodded, slowing down. The truck plowed forward as if the driver was oblivious to the danger ahead. “C’mon,” she breathed. “Slow the fuck down. Don’t do this.”

  They had almost decelerated enough for Maltz to turn the SUV around when the truck started climbing the bridge. Two cars skidded into each other as the drivers took too long to react. The screech of brakes, crunch of metal. A horn blared, then was cut off as the truck slammed into the wall of slower vehicles at the top of the ramp, scattering them like metal jacks.

  “Crap,” Maltz said. They watched in silence as the truck moved inexorably forward, slowing incrementally like a knife carving through butter. It hit the Jersey barrier on the shoulder of the bridge. For a second it appeared as if the concrete might hold, but the weight of the truck plowed through it. The cab suddenly vanished from view as the float pitched high in the air.

  “Stay low!” Syd said, diving into the backseat.

  Maltz spun the wheel in a tight turn, flipping them around. Their tires got caught in the loose gravel on the side of the road and spun helplessly.

  “Maltz, get back here! It’s too late!” Syd grabbed at his arm, trying to drag him into the backseat where they’d have more cushioning.

  He didn’t respond, just ground down on the accelerator until the SUV jerked free and fishtailed, spitting pebbles. He gritted his teeth as he floored it. Syd instinctively braced herself against the back of the seat. In her heart she knew it was already too late.

  Everything seemed to slow down. Maltz shouted something and her cell phone emitted tinny sounds from the front seat, but Syd couldn’t make them out. Her hands covered her ears, her eyes squeezed shut as she waited for what seemed like forever.

  Then a flash so bright it penetrated her closed lids, followed by a roar of sound and a wave of heat, and the world vanished in a roiling cloud of darkness.

  Thirty-Five

  “Syd? Syd!” Jake shouted into the phone. He spun around. “The call got dropped. I’m redialing, tell dispatch to hang on…”

  George and Rodriguez were staring at him, dumbfounded. Jake had been relaying Syd’s information to George, who conveyed it to the police dispatcher in Phoenix. There was a burst of chatter from the receiver. George looked at it; his arm had dropped to his waist when Jake started yelling. He raised it back to his ear. An expression of horror spread across his face. After listening for a minute, he squeezed his eyes shut and said, “All right. Good luck.”

  He hung up. Jake stared at him. “Jesus Christ, George. Why’d you hang up? Syd will-”

  George shook his head. “The bomb went off, Jake. Dispatcher had to go, they’re mobilizing special teams to the area.”

  It was hard to speak, but Jake forced the words out. “How bad?”

  George sat down hard. “They don’t know yet. They’re sending in a crew to check for radioactivity, but…”

  His voice trailed off. Jake shook his head. “Damn it, Syd. What did you do?”

  Leonard glared down at the ground. “Why the hell are we still circling?” He motioned one of the other agents to the cockpit. The agent walked up the aisle hunched over, his head brushing the ceiling.

  Kelly watched Leonard tap his heel restlessly against the floor. They were in a private jet, commandeered from an oil tycoon who apparently owed the government a favor. Shame that given the circumstances she couldn’t enjoy the trip. Contrary to the depiction of countless TV shows, there wasn’t a private fleet of planes available for FBI agents. They nearly always flew commercial, in coach.

  The agent returned from the cockpit.

  “Well?” Leonard asked.

  The agent leaned over and said something in a low voice. Kelly strained to hear. He had gone completely pale, which she took as a bad sign.

  “Jesus Christ,” Leonard hissed.

  “What?”

  “It went off,” he said bluntly, digging out his cell phone. “They’re not letting any planes in or out. Whole city has gone into complete lockdown. Governor called in the National Guard, and the Phoenix field office is scrambling.”

  “Oh my God,” Kelly peered out the window. The smog appeared denser to the south, but there was a nearly impenetrable layer everywhere. She pictured gamma rays coursing out in all directions, invisible but deadly, sliding over the sleek face of office buildings and skimming across benches in playgrounds and parks. “How many dead? Are they evacuating the city?”

  “I’m about to find out.” Leonard finished dialing and settled back in his seat, looking blankly out the window. Kelly could see other airplanes circling at various altitudes, waiting to be redirected. She caught herself chewing her lower lip, an old habit from when she was a kid, and forced herself to stop.

  After a clipped conversation, Leonard hung up. “Explosion was caused by a crash on the I-10. Thankfully they were still on the outskirts of town, so collateral damage is limited. Not many houses, mostly office buildings that closed early for the holiday. The initial blast zone…” He shrugged, raising both palms faceup. “Hard to say. They’re guessing no more than a hundred casualties. Took out a section of the highway, emergency crews are waiting to go in.”

  “And the radiation?” Kelly asked.

  “We should know t
he levels soon. Luckily we had a mobile unit driving around already, and some readers installed on government buildings downtown. National Guard is setting up mobile decontamination centers. They’re telling people to stay in their houses unless they were in the immediate blast zone, which will have to be evacuated. Not much wind, which helps.”

  “What the hell made it go off?” Kelly wondered, gazing out the window.

  Leonard’s face hardened. “Damned if I know. Maybe something spooked the bastards.” His eyes flicked over to her before shifting back to the window. He still seemed suspicious. Kelly tried not to take it personally. “It’ll be a while before they sort things out. Right now they’re focusing on treating victims and keeping the public calm. The rest we deal with later.”

  “So are we landing?” Kelly asked.

  “No point now. I doubt he planned on triggering all of them in Phoenix.”

  Kelly shook her head. “No, that wouldn’t make sense. If he wanted to create panic, it would be good to spread it out. And if other cities were involved, the link to Burke would be less obvious.” She rubbed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. They had arrived too late. And despite Leonard’s proclamation that it could’ve been a lot worse, it was bad enough. Up to a hundred people, possibly more, were already dead. “Has Burke made a statement yet?”

  Leonard shrugged. “I have no idea. Even if this was part of the original plan, he’d have to wait a few hours to make it look good.” He jabbed a finger at her. “If he was involved, and I’m still not conceding that he is.”

  “He is,” Kelly said sharply.

  “Fine. Any idea where he sent the other bombs?”

  “No one’s turned anything up?” Kelly asked.

  Leonard shook his head. “They’ve found property owned by Burke everywhere from Albuquerque to Little Rock. Parades in every major city in between. They’re sending teams to check each site, but like you said…”

  “The building might not even be connected to him this time. He only needed the space for a few days, so he could have paid rent, or they might be using an empty building for the setup.” Kelly was suddenly immensely relieved that Jake was still in Houston. With a concentration of agents from every department with an acronym, it was probably the only city safe from an attack.