“Don’t you dare apologize for making the right decision,” said Alpha, bending over to put both hands on his knees.
David grabbed his as well and looked up at Jose, breathing heavily. “I’ll take an apology.”
“No, you won’t,” said Alpha, standing up to gulp some air.
“You weren’t in the backseat,” said David. “Statistically, I was far less likely to survive.”
“I’m just glad the odds worked out in your favor,” said Jose.
“Me, too,” said David.
PART V
CHAPTER 50
Stuart Quinn pressed “Send” on his satphone, trying Jon’s number one more time before Blake drove them into the subdivision where he had been staying. Stuart didn’t like risking the exposure, but they had to investigate. The call went to voice mail again.
“All right. Let’s get as close as we can without drawing attention.”
They slipped into the neighborhood.
“It’s the second left after this turn.”
“Got it,” said Blake, easing them through the stop sign onto Hillview Way.
Stuart’s hopes sank as soon as they straightened onto Hillview. A marked police car coming from the opposite direction turned where they were headed, followed closely by an unmarked car. Neither vehicle stopped at the intersection.
“I think we should pass on the drive-by,” said Blake.
“Agreed,” said Stuart, reaching into the backseat to retrieve his laptop.
Hopefully, he still had access to the Homeland Secure Data Network through his current job at the Joint Intelligence Task Force. His sudden request for vacation hadn’t raised any eyebrows as far as he was aware, but he couldn’t make any assumptions with Cerberus involved. They appeared to have a knack for framing people.
A disturbing thought crossed his mind. He’d just assumed that nothing had gone wrong with his job back in DC, since his encrypted phone could still access the DTCS satellite network. One of the first things they would do if his security clearance had come into question was sever his connection to the network—unless they wanted to track him. He shook his head. Now he was being paranoid. Or was he?
Blake drove them past the turnoff into Jon’s friend’s subdivision, both of them glancing uselessly into the neighborhood. The town house in question was a few streets removed from the entrance.
He opened the laptop and synced with his satphone, typing in a series of passwords to authenticate his access. He was connected to his JITF portal moments later.
“I’m in,” said Stuart.
“Try to access something sensitive,” said Blake.
“I’d rather not raise any red flags while I’m on vacation.”
“You always access the classified portal when you’re fishing?”
“I’ve never been fishing in my life,” said Stuart, navigating through the JITF system to the Homeland Secure Data Network. “But I do like to make sure the neighborhood is safe when I rent a place.”
“Dare I ask?” said Blake, craning his head to take a look.
“This is classified,” said Stuart, turning the screen away from him.
“Really?”
“Just fucking with you,” he said, turning the screen as far as he could and typing. “I’m checking the Joint Fusion Center’s Assessment and Analysis Network.”
“Uh-huh,” mumbled Blake. “Sounds like hocus-pocus.”
“It kind of is. They take everything, from everywhere, and combine the data to identify incidents of interest and emerging threats. It’s shared across law enforcement and intelligence agencies.”
“Social media surveillance?”
“That’s a small part of it,” said Stuart, typing search parameters for Missoula.
Stuart clicked “Submit,” hoping the search would come up empty. He wasn’t surprised by what he saw, but it still cut through him like a knife. Several data points intersected to confirm that Jon Fisher had been killed at the town house. He didn’t say anything, fighting back the tears welling in his eyes.
The first point originated on social media from a neighbor reporting multiple gunshots. Several 911 calls immediately followed. The digital transcripts of those calls were already available. The most damning evidence came from the Missoula Police Department’s executive summary of the responding officer’s findings. By state and federal law, they were required to submit the summary within thirty minutes of the first officer’s arrival. The summary identified the victim by driver’s license and retired military ID card as Jonathan Fisher, pronounced dead on the scene by paramedics with a gunshot to the head. Significant bloodstains found on patio, along with bullet pattern, indicated a two-way shootout, with a possible second victim. At least he got one of them.
“I’m really sorry, Stu,” said Blake.
He took a deep breath, his grief flashing to anger—and back. All he could do at the moment was nod in response to Blake and let the reality of Jon’s death sink in while they drove toward the university area. After a few minutes, he felt level enough to talk without exploding.
“They’ll go after Leah next.”
“How do we stop them?” said Blake.
“We need to find out if the town house leads back to Jon’s friend,” said Stuart, scrolling through his phone for a number Jon gave him. He pressed “Send,” hoping like hell Jon’s friend would answer.
“Billings Lumber.”
“Jon is dead. My name is Stuart Quinn. I’m the friend that was driving into town to meet him this morning. If you’re sitting near Leah, please step outside.”
“Everyone’s still asleep here. How did you get this number?” said the man.
“Jon gave it to me in case something happened. I don’t know your name or where you are.”
“Then I should probably hang up and dispose of this phone.”
“They killed him at your town house,” said Stuart.
“There’s no link between the town house and our community.”
“Are you one hundred percent sure? They found the town house pretty quickly.”
“I think I’m going to hang up now.”
“Please don’t. Please don’t. I need you to think of anything that could possibly lead them to you. Anything,” begged Stuart.
“Nothing points in this direction.”
“Do you keep mortgage statements in the town house? Bills? Any paperwork?”
“Mail gets sent to a PO box. Sometimes I leave stuff in there, but the address on record at the post office is the town house. No link to our community. Nobody knows about this place. It’s unincorporated.”
“But they found the town house, which means they identified you, not Jon. How did they do that?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“You need to care. This group won’t stop until they find Leah. They’ll either kill her or use her as a hostage to leverage Nathan,” said Stuart.
“Then they’re going to be at this for a long time, because we don’t exist.”
“They found you somehow!” said Stuart, then suddenly pieced a theory together. “Jon used his laptop at a Starbucks to access his home security feeds.”
The man was silent.
“If they ran a trace on his remote access session, they could have identified the store’s IP address. That’s why he asked you to pick him up so quickly.”
“I’m listening,” said the man.
“What if they caught your Jeep on one of the store cameras and grabbed a license plate?”
“The Jeeps are owned by a corporation held in Billings. No identifying information.”
“You have a driver’s license, right?”
“Using the town house address. I keep a notarized letter in the Jeep, from the corporation, granting me permission to use the Jeep. It’s the only copy.”
“It sounds airtight,” admitted Stuart.
“That’s because it is.”
“I’ve been working within the intelligence community for to
o long to believe anything is truly airtight. We’re missing something. They found the town house.”
“And that’s as far as they’ll get. Unless somebody physically follows me here, there’s no way to track us to the community, and nobody followed me back. We designed this place to be sure of that.”
Jon had felt safe leaving Leah there. Maybe Stuart should leave this alone.
“Mr. Quinn?” said the man, his voice suddenly sounding hollow.
“Yeah?”
“I did get a speeding ticket about two years ago. I remember being a little nervous because I had to give him my driver’s license. Could they have gotten into the system and pulled the address from the citation?”
“Yes,” he said. “They could have done that very easily.”
A long pause ensued, as Stuart processed every scenario he could imagine through to determine if the trail ended there.
“How deep can this group dig?” said the man.
“Deep. If your shit isn’t hidden behind a lettered agency firewall, they can find it.”
“Then we have a problem. I’m not the only lead foot in here that keeps a place in town. If the group chasing the Fishers can access our corporate records—”
“I’m sure they already have.”
“Then they’ll have a long list of license plates to run, and I guarantee they’ll uncover a few more addresses in town. All of our vehicles are registered to the same corporation.”
“Shit,” said Stuart.
“Shit is right. I’m gonna have some seriously pissed-off neighbors. They’ll be watching those locations, too.”
“Not right away, probably,” said Stuart. “It’ll take a little time to move additional teams into place. They’ll start right away with something less manpower intensive—which presents us with an opportunity.”
“How’s that?”
He’d formed the idea as soon as Jon’s friend had mentioned the PO box. “They’ll start by watching the PO box. That would be my play,” said Stuart. “It’s a direct link to the second half of their objective.”
“Why would I show up at the post office, or anywhere in town, if someone was murdered at my town house?”
“Normally you wouldn’t, but if you want to put an end to this once and for all, you’ll show up this morning.”
“Say again, over. Your transmission was garbled. Or did I just hear you suggest I walk into a trap?”
“We want you to lure them into a trap.”
“‘We’? I was under the impression you were working alone. How many of you are there?”
“Two,” said Stuart.
“Two?”
“If we do this right, that’s all it will take.”
“What if you get it wrong?”
“We won’t,” said Stuart.
“And how does this make everything go away?”
“Because we’re going to burn their operation here to the ground. It’s the only way to stop a group like this. You have to make their continued presence here too costly to pursue, and I plan to charge them a fucking premium if they try to stick around. I just need to use you as . . . uh . . .”
“Bait?” said the man.
“I was looking for a more appealing term.”
“Like what?”
“Bait pretty much sums it up.”
“When do you want to do this?”
“Within the next few hours,” said Stuart. “We should meet to discuss the plan. You pick the place. Bring the Jeep, or they might suspect something is off.”
“I don’t want them tracking the Jeep back here.”
“You need to ditch the Jeep, sooner than later,” said Stuart. “I hate to break this to you, but every vehicle in your community needs to be replaced. Repainted, at the very least.”
“Damn,” he said. “I’m really up shit creek here.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, you did the right thing for Jon and Leah, which means you’ve made a new best friend.”
“I’m gonna need one. I’m about to lose the friends I have here.”
“Don’t count them out yet.”
After they’d finalized arrangements to meet and ended the call, Blake turned to him.
“So. What’s the plan?”
“I don’t know yet,” replied Stuart.
“Oh boy.”
“Oh boy is right.”
CHAPTER 51
Riggs straightened in his seat. A tan Jeep Wrangler had just appeared on Oxford Street, approaching the western parking lot entrance. From his vehicle’s position in the diner parking lot, directly across the street from the post office, he had an unobstructed view of all customer approaches to the building.
“Wake the fuck up!” he hissed, shaking Tex’s arm.
“Chill out!” said Tex. “And keep your hands off. I’m getting sick of your shit.”
He’d completely lost the team’s respect. Tex never would have back-talked him like that before last night’s debacle.
“You want to spend the rest of your life staking out this parking lot? Look,” said Riggs, nodding toward the entrance.
The Jeep turned into the lot, proceeding slowly toward a spot near the entrance.
“License plate matches,” said Ross, passing a pair of binoculars between the front seats.
Riggs took the binoculars and focused on the man driving the Jeep as he eased the vehicle into a space to the left of the entrance doors and got out. It was Scott Gleason.
“It’s him,” said Riggs, opening his door. “Man, we got lucky. This might work out better than the original plan.”
“Sure. If you consider never working in the industry again a better plan.”
“You’ll be fine. There’s always work for the sheep.”
“What the hell does that mean?” barked Tex.
Riggs shook his head in disgust and slammed the door shut. Screw that guy. Ross, too. Neither of them had ever put together a team and run an operation. They just did what they were told and collect their split. A glorified getaway driver and a trigger puller. That’s all either of those two worthless assholes could put on his résumé.
He reached into his coat pocket and removed the thumb-size tracking device he’d tested an hour earlier. The tracker utilized both the city Wi-Fi and cellular networks, in conjunction with GPS satellite signals, to find and transmit its location.
Riggs walked across the diner parking lot, timing his approach so he arrived at Kent Street, directly in front of the post office entrance, at the exact moment Gleason disappeared inside. His casual walk turned into the lazy jog of someone crossing a street with light traffic. He had timed the trip between the post office door and Gleason’s box when the place first opened.
He fast-walked across the post office lot, slipped between the tan Jeep and the car next to it, and knelt next to the rear tire well. He reached his hand high under the chassis, just behind the well, moving the tracker until he felt the magnet stick. He pulled on the device and tried to wiggle it side to side, but it was firmly attached. Rising to his feet, he glanced through the Jeep’s back windows at the post office door. All clear.
Riggs had just crossed Kent Street when Gleason emerged from the building, carrying a small package and a few envelopes. Riggs had really hoped that the box had been empty. The only foreseeable wrinkle in their plan occurred if Gleason decided to take the envelopes to his town house. Discovering an active homicide investigation into the murder of his good friend would undoubtedly delay Gleason’s day, and theirs. In the end, though, it wouldn’t matter. With the tracker in place, he’d eventually lead them to Mrs. Fisher.
When Riggs got back to the SUV, Tex wouldn’t look at him. He glanced over his shoulder at Ross, disturbed that he had to prompt him for information.
“The signal’s looking good,” said Ross, looking uninterested for someone whose life depended on tracking that signal.
Shit. They’d had a little confidential discussion while he was gone. His problem had just gone from i
nsubordination to mutiny. The only questions were how and when.
“All we can do now is wait and see where he takes us,” said Riggs.
Neither of them asked a follow-up question or made a suggestion, which sealed it. They had no intention of finishing the job. They’d move against him this morning, at their first clean opportunity. They’d probably try to leverage Gleason’s location for some kind of guaranteed truce with Flagg. Maybe he’d made a mistake by cutting Nissie out of the electronic loop. The tablet in Ross’s hands was the only device linked to the tracker. They could kill him now and try to negotiate with Flagg.
Gleason’s Jeep backed out of its space and back to Oxford Street, disappearing the way it had arrived.
“We’ll stay a few blocks behind them. Farther on the open road,” said Riggs, reaching his hand over the seat for the tablet. “I’ll do the honors.”
Ross didn’t look happy to hand it over, but refusing outright or putting up a fight would have been too obvious. Tex just stared through the windshield as he drove, pretending to pay no attention to the little power play that had just gone down. Now they couldn’t drive him into the woods twenty miles in the opposite direction and shoot him in the head. God forbid if they had to be creative and think on their feet. He caught Tex glancing at Ross through the rearview mirror. Riggs would have to play this one perfectly to survive.
Fifty minutes later, after an uneventful trip east of Missoula on Interstate 90, Gleason’s Jeep exited the highway in Drummond and headed south on Highway 1. Three minutes later, their SUV arrived at the Drummond exit. The off-ramp dumped them onto the state highway, which ran flat as far as he could see on the southern horizon. Farther south, gentle hills rose on both sides of the road.
His operational instincts told him to tell Tex to pull over to the side and give Gleason a few more minutes to open the gap. They’d traveled twice the distance on the highway that the Jeep covered in the same time on this road. His survival instincts reminded him that stopping in the middle of nowhere with two mutineers was undeniably bad for his health, so he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t see the next car south of them, anyway.
Rogue State (Fractured State Series Book 2) Page 26