“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” said Leeds. “If you brought pain pills for your leg, I suggest you down a few before they land. You look like a gimp.”
“I’m just a little stiff.”
“Might as well be missing a leg from their perspective,” said Leeds.
“You’re serious.”
“Dead serious. The initial meet-and-greet means everything. If they sense any form of weakness, they’ll test it.”
“That’s crazy,” said Olmos.
“That’s the way it works.”
“Nice of you to let me know about this a few minutes before they land,” said Olmos, shaking his head.
The Gulfstream’s tires bit into the concrete runway, briefly screeching before its powerful engines roared into reverse, bringing the elegant luxury jet to a surprisingly rapid stop. The jet taxied onto the apron, the pilot deftly maneuvering the precision machine into position less than forty feet away.
“Here we go,” said Leeds, glancing at Olmos.
A quick hiss drew his attention to the rectangular hatch behind the cockpit windows. The hatch lowered mechanically, hinging from the bottom, as an aluminum stairway smoothly unfolded to meet the asphalt. A sun-weathered, hard-looking man emerged from the aircraft, effortlessly descending the stairs with a massive duffel bag. Dressed in desert camouflage pants and a loose-fitting, short-sleeve, button-down shirt, he dropped the bag at the bottom of the stairs and moved swiftly to greet Leeds.
“Arkady Chukov,” he said, extending a tattoo-covered arm.
“Nick Leeds. Welcome to Mexicali.”
“I understand we have a tight timeline,” said Chukov.
“The sooner we wrap this up, the better,” said Leeds, glancing over Chukov’s shoulder at the team assembling.
The team looked like it had stepped out of a bar fight, and smelled like it, too. Seven amply scarred and heavily tattooed former Spetsnaz soldiers gathered behind Chukov, casting black glares at Olmos.
“My employer tells me you haven’t made much progress unearthing our targets,” said Chukov.
One of the Russians pulled a silver flask from his vest and offered it to Olmos, muttering, “Vodka,” in a heavy accent. Take him up on the offer, Ray. Chukov must have sensed his distraction with the unfolding drama.
“Let the boys get acquainted. Do we have a general idea where our targets may be hidden?”
“Mexicali,” he said, seeing no change to Chukov’s expression. “We’ve spread enough money around to let the cartel functionaries know they’re in for a serious payday if they cough up Fisher. Money loosens tongues down here, along with tequila,” said Leeds, nodding at the booze ceremony in progress next to them.
“Piss water compared to vodka,” said Chukov, turning to watch.
Olmos took a long swig from the flask, showing no reaction to whatever caustic liquid was surely contained within. When he extended his arm to return it, the Russian sprang forward, launching a fist toward the SEAL’s face. Olmos must have anticipated the move. He released the flask and pivoted on his left foot, grasping the Russian’s wrist with his left hand and guiding the mercenary’s momentum in a downward spiral arc. A quick reversal of the wrist brought the filthy ex-soldier to the pavement, his elbow locked straight and his face pressed into the tarmac. When one of the Russians moved to help his squarely incapacitated teammate, Olmos slipped a compact serrated knife out of an ankle sheath and slid it under the beaten Russian’s throat, shaking his head at the approaching mercenary.
“Enough,” stated Chukov, raising a hand.
The Russian stopped, melting back into the group. Leeds glanced at Olmos, nodding once. The former SEAL retracted the blade and released the elbow lock, pulling the man up by his wrist. He plucked the flask out of a nearly evaporated puddle and took a swig, holding it upside down in front of the Russian.
“I owe you a refill,” said Olmos.
“Keep it, Chicano,” the Russian replied, pulling another flask from one of his vest pouches and belting it back.
The seamless replacement of the Russian’s alcohol supply didn’t exactly inspire the highest level of confidence in the group. They appeared to carry more booze than ammunition. Maybe this wasn’t one of Flagg’s best ideas. Actually, Leeds was quite certain it was one of his boss’s worst ideas, but options had been slim at the time. He’d have to make this work.
“Ray. Get them organized in the vehicles,” said Leeds. “We need to get moving.”
“Where are we headed?” said Chukov, picking up his bag.
“Safe house in southwestern downtown area. Our contacts report that a convoy of SUVs entered the city around three thirty a.m., headed west on Route 2. They were last seen near Route 5, which cuts the city in half from north to south. We’re in a good position to rapidly investigate tips.”
“We don’t have time for this loosening-tongues business you talk about. Petrov wants the cartel spilling their guts to us now.”
“That’s not how it works down here. The whole town works for the cartel. If we crack the wrong skulls, we run the risk of turning the cartel against us. Ten of us against thousands of wannabe gangbangers is a recipe for getting skinned alive.”
“If we do this my way,” said Chukov, “we’ll be done before anyone notices the skulls cracked.”
“What do you need from me?”
“I need a list of names, organized by rank and affiliation within the cartel. You don’t hit anyone too high until you’ve verified they have what you’re looking for. We work through middle management until we identify someone rumored or confirmed to be dealing with outsiders. Gringos in particular. Nobody in the middle gives a shit what happens to the guy next to them. Less competition. We’ve done this before.”
“I can get you what you’re looking for. A few low- to middle-range guys. Even a high-level contact—when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready, Nick Leeds. I’m ready to quit wasting Mr. Petrov’s time,” he said, walking toward the lead SUV.
Nick met Olmos next to the convoy, patting him on the shoulder.
“That was quite a move. How does that leg feel?”
“Like someone slammed a car door on it,” said Olmos. “I have you and Chukov in the lead SUV, with two of his guys in the back. Myself and three more trailing in the second, with the final two taking the sedan. Looks like you’re driving. None of them seemed interested, and Chukov just took your seat.”
“That’s fine. I think most of them are too drunk to drive anyway.”
Olmos shook his head. “We could have outsourced this to a contract team looking to get on the Cerberus payroll. Plenty of solid crews out there to choose from.”
“I made the same recommendation to Flagg, but he felt Petrov’s hired guns would be better suited for the job,” said Leeds. “I’m starting to think he might be right. Chukov’s men look unstable enough to pull this off.”
“Without getting us killed?” said Olmos.
“That’ll be the tricky part. Knowing when to gently tug on Chukov’s leash,” said Leeds.
“Good luck with that.”
Leeds grimaced. “Get ready to roll. I’ll call this in to Flagg and see if he can dig up more names for Chukov to visit.”
CHAPTER 17
Flagg typed the last few lines of an update to Ethan Burridge and John Peralta and pressed “Send.” That should keep them happy for a while. Long enough to get things back on track and moving in the right direction.
Everything he had typed was true. He’d just omitted the part about going behind their backs with Petrov to tie up the loose ends he’d previously reported eliminated. If all went well tonight, the Russians would close the loop on Nathan Fisher in Mexico, and Riggs would shut the last open door on Fisher’s father in Montana, leaving nothing to bite Flagg’s operation in the ass.
Almost nothing.
The fact that the California Liberation Movement had taken such extreme measures to prot
ect Nathan Fisher remained more than a bit unsettling. Flagg still couldn’t figure out how they had identified him in the first place. The scope and complexity of the CLM’s rapidly mounted interest in Fisher suggested a traitor in Flagg’s organization, or a higher-level mole at Cerberus. He’d soon have a better idea of what he faced in terms of a leak. The ongoing effort to locate and kill Fisher had been assigned to his most trusted operatives in Southern California. If Fisher narrowly escaped another impossible situation, he’d know the problem originated close to home.
His computer screen indicated an incoming call from Riggs. This could be the breakthrough he had been waiting for in Montana. They had gotten lucky with one of the security cameras inside Starbucks, which had caught the license plate of the Jeep that had dropped off Jon and Leah Fisher.
He figured Nissie Keane had something up her sleeve, but like all of her previous jobs for Cerberus, she refused to give him mirrored access to everything her team could see. She was crafty that way, parsing just enough live data to keep him satisfied they were worth the money, without giving him the kind of full access that might strip away the mysteries of her profession, leaving her vulnerable to replacement. Most importantly, she never withheld the information he paid dearly to acquire. She’d mastered a delicate balance that kept him coming back for more, especially when the job required some distance from Cerberus oversight.
Flagg accepted Riggs’s call.
“Do we have a name and address yet?”
“The Jeep wasn’t traceable to an individual. It’s registered to SusCorps, an LLC located in Billings, Montana.”
“Dummy corporation?”
“Sort of. The address on record for the LLC belongs to a company that provides registered agent services.”
“A cutout,” said Flagg. “We should still be able to get some names from corporate documents.”
“Montana doesn’t require corporations to list company directors or officers. Miss Keane hacked into their files.”
“Of course.” Flagg sighed. “Am I being too hopeful to wish for a listing of real estate assets with addresses?”
“No real estate listed. Just vehicles purchased by the corporation.”
“How many vehicles?”
“Twenty-two,” said Riggs, “plus several boats.”
He’d expected to hear two or three. Twenty-two? It sounded like Jon Fisher might have tapped into something a little more organized than a sympathetic Marine buddy with a spare bedroom and a not-so-thrilled wife.
“That’s a damned fleet,” muttered Flag. “Don’t make any assumptions about your security situation up there. Can Miss Keane track any of the twenty-two vehicles? I’m guessing not.”
“She’s saying no. DMV registration doesn’t show a link to any GPS listings. And it turns out that Montana is one of six states that refuses to allow the use of automated license plate–reading technology.”
“This is the worst phone call I’ve had all day,” said Flagg before an idea flashed through his head. “Crazy question. Have you run the Jeep’s plates for moving violations?”
The ensuing silence answered his question. “Hello?”
“Hold on, sir,” said Riggs.
“It’s a simple question.”
“Fucking idiot.”
“I hope that wasn’t directed at me,” said Flagg.
“No. That was directed at myself. Speeding violation dated July 25, 2033. License information on the citation identifies the driver of the Jeep as Scott W. Gleason of 5190 Clearview Way, Missoula, Montana. Miss Keane is searching for any local links to Mr. Gleason.”
“I highly doubt she’ll find anything. Gleason and his friends have gone to considerable lengths to conceal their identities,” said Flagg. “Have her run all of the license plates for other moving violations. We might find a pattern.”
“She’s already on it,” said Riggs. “I bet these guys are ex-military.”
“I guarantee it.”
He typed the search string SCOTT W. GLEASON UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS into a custom-programmed Department of Defense and government agency database search engine. The program simultaneously penetrated dozens of personnel databases, anonymously searching hundreds of petabytes of data stored by the government.
Riggs spoke up. “Keane’s initial search turned up empty, outside of a driver’s license in his name. Do you need his birth date?”
The screen in front of Flagg filled with compiled information, including several photographs taken at various points in retired Marine First Sergeant Scott W. Gleason’s thirty-one-year career.
“No. I found him. You’re dealing with a retired infantry Marine who spent the latter part of his career teaching at the Mountain Warfare Training Center in Bridgeport, California. Combat tours in Afghanistan. No surprise there. Both Jon Fisher and Stuart Quinn served in Afghanistan during the same time frame, though Gleason wasn’t in the same unit. The plot thickens.”
“Any sign of Stuart Quinn yet?” said Riggs.
“You’ll be the first to know if we get a hit on him, though I’m not holding my breath.”
“Sounds like they’re getting the band back together.”
“It certainly looks that way,” said Flagg. He paused a moment, considering how to proceed. “All right. Check out the Clearview Way address very carefully. Use some of Miss Keane’s team if necessary. No offense, but your guys don’t exactly look like the suburbs types. From what I’m seeing on Google Earth, this is a tidy townhome development.”
“Believe me, you’d be better off with my guys. Have you ever seen her team? They look like aliens. We can head over to the Gap and pick up some clothes.”
“Just be careful. One pass only. Multiple cameras running so you can analyze the exterior. I see a few opportunities for surveillance nearby, but you’ll have to wait for nightfall. You know the drill.”
“Got it,” said Riggs.
“I want Jon and Leah Fisher alive. I can’t stress that enough. Taking Stuart Quinn alive is a bonus, but not required. I’ll pay a kicker either way. Thirty percent for everyone involved. Standard rates.”
“You say alive would be a bonus,” said Riggs. “That means you’re paying one if we deliver him alive?”
“You manage it without fucking anything up, I’ll pay more.”
“How much more?”
“I’m not going to tell you. I’ll roll a pair of dice after you deliver.”
“I hate when you do that,” said Riggs.
“I’d rather you pursued the easy money and just took him out, but if a no-shit, zero-risk opportunity arises, there’s no reason you shouldn’t get paid a premium. He could have information we can use.”
“Sounds good,” said Riggs, the call ending.
Flagg ran both hands through his thick black hair. Riggs gave him pause sometimes, but he’d never failed to produce results. Same with Nissie Keane, which was why he’d paired the two teams together. If initial reconnaissance of the town house revealed more than the Fishers and their host, he could have a second contract team in Missoula within six hours.
He clicked on a few commands to upload everything he’d found on Scott Gleason to Nissie Keane. She might find something useful in the glut of career information contained in the compiled data.
With the Montana situation moving forward, he turned his attention to the screen detailing the progress made in Mexico—or lack of progress. Hopefully, that was about to change. The Russians sounded just as unsavory as he had hoped, more than willing to ignore convention and spill some blood to appease their paymaster. The Russians would unearth Fisher soon enough.
He’d give the Mexicali drama time to play out before recalling Leeds. He needed Nick to shepherd the next big step in his plan to completely bury any realistic hope of an independent California. The pendulum of public opinion had swung squarely in favor of keeping the status quo favored by his clients, thanks to Flagg’s skillful manipulation of events.
It made no logical sense for the
California Liberation Movement to sabotage the nuclear triad plant in Del Mar, but throw Nathan Fisher’s role in the murder of a police detective and a nuclear plant engineer into the mix, and conspiracy-hungry Californians were off and running. Fisher’s bank accounts flush with cash and digital evidence suggesting frequent contact with CLM leaders sealed the deal. Top that with Lieutenant Governor McDaid’s assassination, and it was hard to shed a sympathetic light on the only radical group with a reason to kill the blatantly antisecessionist lieutenant governor. Even the blame for Congresswoman Almeda’s assassination back in Washington, DC, had started to migrate in CLM’s direction.
It was endlessly amusing for Flagg to watch the public respond to the media’s foregone conclusions, all influenced if not outright purchased by Cerberus money. Now Californians needed one more push, and Flagg intended to deliver it—just as soon as he took care of a few annoying loose ends.
CHAPTER 18
Nathan checked the makeshift ballistic vest provided to Owen by Jose’s team. Not a bad fit for something put together in a hurry from extra pieces of gear. Nathan pressed against the enhanced chest plate protecting his son’s critical organs from small-arms fire, wishing they could have fitted him with one of the liquid-gel vests. Not only was the latest-generation liquid-gel armor lighter, but it also dispersed the blunt force trauma of a bullet strike far more efficiently, cutting down on cracked sternums and internal organ damage.
He slapped the back plate. “Looking good, buddy. Mr. Quinn said this plate will stop a 50-caliber bullet.”
“Why can’t I have one like yours?” said Owen, pressing against Nathan’s vest.
“The gel inserts were too big to work with. They had some extrasmall plates used in concealed vests that better fit your chest. They tried, but the only way to get it to work was to fold the gel packs. Doing that messed with the gel’s sheer thickening effect.”
“I’ve seen this stuff on the Military Channel. If something hits it, it hardens. I don’t see why they couldn’t use it.”
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