“Let’s clear the rest of these passageways and start bagging up anything useful,” said Leeds.
“Like what? Empty coffee mugs?” said Chukov.
“Handwritten notes in clothing pockets. A secret journal about life in the CLM. A forgotten thumb drive. Dead phone,” said Leeds. “People leave the oddest stuff behind when they’re in a hurry. We need to treat this like a crime scene.”
“You want to go around sniffing panties? That’s your own business,” said Chukov. “We get paid to kill people.”
“Well, there’s nobody here to kill.”
“Precisely. I’ll give you five minutes. You’re on your own after that.”
Leeds knew better than to push back right now. The Russian was seeing red. His payday had disappeared, possibly for good, and the blame fell squarely on Leeds’s shoulders in his warped, killer-centric mind. Right or wrong didn’t matter when you were trapped forty feet below the ground with eight professional murderers. Leeds moved swiftly across the room to grab Olmos before he ran his mouth. He sensed they were one snide remark away from a Mexicali burial.
CHAPTER 30
The crisp digital satellite map of Mexicali blurred as Flagg’s head drifted slowly toward the screen. His eyes bolted open, the image instantly crystallizing. He took a deep breath and rubbed his face before standing up. Falling asleep wasn’t a luxury he could afford with two field teams on the verge of a breakthrough. He’d dig into the military-grade stimulants reserved for field operatives if he kept drifting off.
He examined the street map again, marveling at the audacity of the cartels. For years they had run an underground drug-packaging station within sight of the border. Probably drove the delivery vehicles right into the mechanic’s shop, where they were loaded with drugs and sealed up for the short journey to a distribution shop across the border in Calexico. They probably ran a dozen more operations like this along the wall.
Flagg didn’t care about the fifty-year war on drugs. A much more insidious group had taken residence in the former Sinaloa bunker, a faction of radicals far more dangerous to the country than a $200-billion-a-year drug habit. Chump change compared to the damage the California Liberation Movement could inflict on his client’s bottom line. And the problem extended far beyond the financial interests represented by the One Nation Coalition. The entire system was at risk if California managed to break free of its federal chains. Even a limited secession would cause a catastrophic ripple effect of states’ rights affirmations.
Of course, none of the big-picture impact truly bothered him, as long as he still had a place at Cerberus. A prospect in serious jeopardy unless he started to receive some better news tonight.
He considered calling Riggs. The guy had sent him one inane update after the other all fucking day—then went silent after breaking into the house across the street from Jon Fisher. Maybe he should ping Nissie Keane. She’d gone mysteriously quiet around the same time. He’d just reached for the keyboard when Nick Leeds’s satellite phone started tracking on the digital map again. They had just emerged from the bunker. Please. Please let this be finished. A call appeared on his screen, which he readily accepted.
“What do we have?”
Leeds hesitated too long, which told him everything he needed to know. It wasn’t over. “Nothing,” Leeds said. “Looks like they cleared out a few hours ago.”
A few hours? He wanted to scream.
“Nothing at all?”
“No electronics. No documents. We bagged up what little they left behind.”
“Talamanco made it sound like they were running the space program from that bunker. How could they have disappeared without a trace?”
“Probably slowly evacuated over the course of a few days. We found six dormitory-style bunk rooms. Two looked like they had been abandoned in a hurry. Sleeping bags, clothing, footwear, and other nonidentifying personal effects left behind. The other rooms looked empty, but we found signs of recent occupancy under a few of the bunks and in the usual nooks and crannies. I don’t think Talamanco was exaggerating, but I do think his CLM clients have been slipping quietly away under his nose.”
“Where does that leave us,” Flagg said, “other than five million dollars poorer?”
“I’d leverage Talamanco against the rest of the money. For that kind of payout, he can flex his muscle outside Mexicali.”
“There’s only one problem with that.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll deliver the message personally,” said Leeds. “I’m pretty sure Chukov won’t mind helping me with that.”
Flagg laughed, more at his own predicament than anything else. “That’s not the problem,” he said.
“It can’t be good if you’re laughing.”
“Talamanco doesn’t have any influence outside Mexicali. The jefes controlling territory along the California border don’t command any respect from the rest of the Sinaloa. They don’t make enough money to attend regular cartel meetings. They pay fees up the chain of command to continue operating their little fiefdoms, and that’s about the extent of their connection to the cartel. They’re more like franchises. I’ll have to widen the net and engage my primary Sinaloa contact.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“It makes the five million I wasted on Talamanco sound like a bargain,” said Flagg. “And my deal with the real Sinaloa isn’t negotiable.”
“Does it guarantee results?”
“You know better than to ask that,” said Flagg. “The only thing it guarantees is an extensive effort to accomplish our goal.”
“Extensive or expensive?”
“Both. They’ll do whatever, wherever we ask, for a limited amount of time.”
“Very expensive,” said Leeds.
“I’m conjuring an extensive excuse to justify the transfer of funds as we speak. I’m probably going to charge this to One Nation and label it a onetime security guarantee from the cartel to stay out of our business in the Wastelands.”
“You think they’ll buy that?”
“They don’t have a choice. Everyone on that council had a hand in Congresswoman Almeda’s assassination. We had the situation under control in California until they pulled that stunt, and I have no doubt Petrov put them up to it. He can iron out any concerns they have about the expenditure.”
“Good luck getting him to cooperate,” said Leeds. “The Russians I’m dealing with seem to do what they please.”
“Chukov is a means to an end,” said Flagg. “I can divert money to our new problem, but I can’t divert manpower. People talk. As far as Cerberus knows, and will ever know, the heavy loss of personnel last night was necessary to ensure the results.”
“I understand,” said Leeds. “Where do you want us?”
“With the Russians at the airport, on five-minute standby. No sense in guessing which direction they took. The Gulfstream can cover more miles in an hour than they can hope to drive in ten on the highway.”
“I’ll break the good news to Chukov,” said Leeds.
“And watch their drinking,” said Flagg. “This group has a bit of a reputation.”
“Oh, I’ve been watching them drink since they arrived. Hasn’t affected their operational performance in the least from what I can tell.”
“They’ll get the job done regardless. That’s not what I’m worried about,” said Flagg. “If they’re not killing or sleeping, they’re drinking and fighting. Keep your distance at the airport.”
“You don’t think they’ll just take a nap?”
Flagg couldn’t tell if Leeds was being sarcastic, and he couldn’t take the chance that he might be asking a serious question. “There’s no chance of them settling in for the night, and the drinking and fighting a bit more often than not leads to killing. I’d sleep in the aircraft, with one eye open. Probably the most comfortable place anyway.”
“Wonderful,” said Leeds. “Do I get a hazard pay kicker for working with them?”
“You’re overpaid as it
is. Check in with me when you get situated,” said Flagg, disconnecting the call.
A fit of yawning overtook him. He’d have no choice but to dig into the stimulant supply. Sleep was not on his immediate horizon, or any horizon he could imagine. Glancing at the time on the display, he shook his head. First, time to find out if the $5 million paid eight months ago for “twenty-four-hour VIP access” to his Sinaloa contact had been worth it. He navigated to a contact list on his encrypted Cerberus account and punched the number into his satellite phone. Moments later, he entered a series of numbers that rewarded him with a soothing recorded voice.
“Thank you. You will be called on this phone as soon as the client is available.”
Less than a minute later, his phone rang.
“Señor Flagg. How may I help you?”
Worth every penny.
CHAPTER 31
Riggs ignored the phone buzzing on the cheap wooden desk. He was frazzled, trying to walk through every step they had taken since arriving.
They’d kept the silver Yukon used to transport the team to and from Scott Gleason’s town house away from the hotel, parking it at a busy highway travel center a few miles north on Interstate 93 when it hadn’t been in use. There was no way to connect it to the Travelers Inn.
That truck had been abandoned, with Oz’s body, in the garage of a vacant home a few miles from the town house. According to Internet records retrieved by Nissie, the house had been on the real estate market for five months, indicating there was little interest in the home. The vehicle could go weeks undiscovered in that garage.
The minivan used by Nissie’s team hadn’t left the hotel. No issue there. Only the sedan had been in both places, but he’d kept that exposure to a single daytime reconnaissance pass. The police might be able to identify the vehicle from a street-facing security feed, but the team would be long gone before the car was linked to the motel. He planned on splitting the group up tomorrow morning, moving them to even shadier places near the University of Montana. Nissie’s crew might even fit in around there—not that they ever left their connected rooms.
Riggs buried his face in his hands, each buzz of the phone causing his jaw to clench. He’d followed the proper protocols, except for part about obeying Flagg’s orders. That was going to be a problem.
“You gonna answer that?” said Tex, his hand keeping up its ceaseless movement back and forth between his mouth and a bag of corn chips. The operative stared through a small opening between the room’s shades, his eyes fixed on the parking lot as he ate.
“I’m thinking,” said Riggs.
He’d fucked up big-time. There was no way around it. His only option at this point was to fess up and ask what he could do to make it right. He’d obviously start by returning the advance. He could afford to bankroll the team on this one. Work had been steady, and he wanted to keep it that way. A screwup like this could get him blacklisted.
“Do you need me to write out a script?” said Tex.
“Fuck off.”
“Hey!” hissed Tex, still staring through the shades. “You dick this up and we could end up dead.”
“I got it under control,” said Riggs, his hand hovering over the phone.
“You better,” said Ross from the doorway connecting the two rooms. His hand rested on the top of his thigh holster, the pistol’s retention strap unfastened.
“Really?” said Riggs, nodding toward the holster. “That’s the way it’s gonna go down?”
“If you fuck this up, it is,” said Ross. “You take the call on speakerphone.”
“I don’t think so,” said Riggs, gripping the phone.
Tex shifted slightly, the suppressed rifle cradled in his arms now pointed directly at Riggs’s chest.
“You, too?”
“It’s nothing personal, Chris,” he said. “But I’d just as soon shoot you dead and try to make my own bargain if your conversation with Flagg goes sideways.”
“I’ll remember this,” said Riggs.
“I hope you do. There’s a valuable lesson here,” said Tex. “Don’t fuck over your clients.”
Riggs pressed the screen, accepting the call, then hit the speakerphone icon.
“Mr. Flagg. I was just about to call you.”
“You can drop that bullshit right away. I have a fairly good idea of what’s happening in Missoula right now. You know how they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder?” said Flagg.
The line went silent.
Tex lifted the rifle’s barrel a few inches.
“Yes,” said Riggs, his eyes glued to the rifle. “I’m familiar with that phrase.”
“Well, in my case, absence makes me suspicious. There appears to be an unusual amount of police activity around Mr. Gleason’s town house.”
“We had a little problem with Fisher,” said Riggs. “There were unexpected—”
Flagg interrupted his planned speech. “Stop. Here’s the deal. You just inherited a post office box.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Flagg. “On top of potentially severing our only link to several key witnesses, you didn’t even glance at the scant evidence collected from Gleason’s town house.”
“I thought delegating that to Nissie’s team would be the best use of—”
“Chris,” Flagg cut in. “After such a colossal fuckup with Jon Fisher, I would have expected you to have pored over that evidence yourself as if your life depended on it. Because it does.”
“I haven’t heard from Nissie,” Riggs said. “What did they find in—”
“A total of five seconds sifting through the pile and they found a mortgage statement addressed to a post office box at 1100 West Kent Avenue.”
“Great. Got it,” said Riggs. “We’ll stake out the box.”
“Just so you completely understand, let me clarify. No matter how long it takes for one of the Gleasons to show up, your team owns this post office box.”
“Sure,” said Riggs. “What if nobody ever shows up?”
“Then you’re all dead men,” said Flagg. “And just so I’m clear—I did mean all of you. If either of your colleagues decides to cut his losses and make a run for it, I will place a permanent, tier-one contract on his head. The same goes without saying for you. Are we all on the same page, gentlemen?”
Tex and Ross acknowledged Flagg’s query with uncharacteristically crisp replies in the affirmative.
“Excellent. Check out of the Travelers Inn at a normal time in the morning, to avoid suspicion, and relocate to the address I’ve passed to Miss Keane. The location is residential, with a two-car garage. Nissie will have the entry codes. Nice touch ditching the Tahoe, by the way. I haven’t completely lost faith in your abilities, Chris.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Last thing. I need you to drive to the airport in Helena to pick up two new rental cars. The rental offices open at six a.m., and it’s a two-hour trip each way. Plan accordingly. Obviously, this will require at least two of you. One of you will need to stay behind and watch the post office. PO boxes are accessible twenty-four hours a day at this location.”
Tex lowered his rifle and silently mouthed an obscenity.
“We’re on it, Mr. Flagg,” said Riggs. “We’re gonna fix this. I made a really bad call back at the town house.”
Tex shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“Water under the bridge. All we can do is move forward,” said Flagg. “Last thing. Miss Keane’s team is off-limits. She didn’t reach out to me with any of this.”
The satellite phone chirped, indicating that the call had ended. Riggs verified that they were no longer connected, giving them a thumbs-up.
Ross whispered, “Power the phone down.”
Riggs removed the battery. Tex and Ross did the same with their phones.
“That went better than I expected,” said Tex. “Even though we’re still fucked.”
“We’ve been in tougher spots than this,�
�� said Riggs.
Ross nodded. “I’m still thinking about shooting you. This PO box thing is a long shot.”
“We can work around this if nobody shows up,” said Riggs. “Somebody in town knows Scott Gleason.”
PART IV
CHAPTER 32
Nathan’s helmet knocked against the bullet-resistant window, jolting him awake. The car was drifting to the right over the median, into the leftmost northbound lane. He looked at David, who glanced at him for a second.
“I’m good,” he said.
“You were halfway into the oncoming lane.”
“There’s no traffic on either side.”
“That’s not the point.”
He checked his watch—5:03 a.m. He’d been asleep for around eighteen minutes. He knew that because David had almost driven them off the road at four forty-five. Nathan had sworn to himself that he’d keep an eye on him, but the jolt of adrenaline had worn off much quicker than he’d expected.
“I’ll be fine once the sun comes up. The sky is changing,” David said, pointing past him.
Nathan raised his visor, not sure how anyone could make that determination looking at a synthetic daylight image, and stared into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, a thin strip of blue framing the low hills to the east became visible. David was right—about the sun coming up, not his ability to drive. Once they crossed into Arizona, they had to stop somewhere to grab some sleep. All of them. They faced a full day of driving to reach Las Vegas. Probably twice that, with the detours around Tucson and Phoenix.
“We’ll stop and rest on the other side of the border,” said Nathan.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It’s better than driving off the road and killing everyone. I’m even thinking we might be better off lying low for the day and heading out again around nightfall.”
“We need to keep moving north,” said David.
“Who’s going to drive? Me? Them?” He pointed at his sleeping family.
Rogue State (Fractured State Series Book 2) Page 18