by Spencer Kope
Jimmy finishes the call and slips his phone back into his pocket. He glances at Ross, who’s talking jovially with a colleague he ran into on our way out.
“Weir’s calling in resources from the field office: ten agents, an analyst, and a mobile command center,” Jimmy says quietly. “Says he’s going to run Abel Moya to the ground.” Jimmy raises his eyebrows slightly, as if skeptical.
“Moya’s not the guy.”
“I know, but we can’t exactly tell him, can we?”
Rocking my head, I use it to gesture toward the coroner’s office and whisper, “The dark green shine from the cemetery? It was all over the photo. No one else touched it other than Dr. Herrera. This malachite is who we need to be hunting, not”—I wave the name away impatiently—“Abel Moya.”
Jimmy nods his agreement.
“Marco may be the target—or maybe not,” I continue. “Either way, it would be sloppy on our part if we make that assumption without checking the others. Someone needs to get on the phone with New York and see who Noah was in bed with; see if any threats were made, or if he pissed off any nefarious investors. You can’t run a multibillion-dollar hedge fund and not make some enemies.”
“Agreed,” Jimmy murmurs. “I’ll contact Diane and have her make some calls.” Tipping his head toward Ross, who’s still yakking with the other detective, Jimmy asks, “What about him?”
“Eventually we might have to ditch him,” I say softly, “but right now there’s nothing to track, so no harm in keeping him around. Besides, he’s kind of cool.” Ross starts doing his belly-rub thing again, which I point out to Jimmy with a telling flick of my finger. “Reminds me of a Teletubby when he does that,” I whisper.
“A Teletubby?” Jimmy says with a suppressed chuckle.
“Well … look at him! He’s either a Teletubby or he’s kneading twenty pounds of dough, and I don’t see any baking pans lying around.”
Doing his best to be inconspicuous, Jimmy watches the detective out of the corner of his eye, but Ross seems oblivious to the attention and equally oblivious to the actions of his left hand and fingers as they massage his belly in a slow, counterclockwise direction.
“Jane did that with Pete during the last three or four months of her pregnancy,” Jimmy notes. “Always rubbing her belly, like that was going to speed things along.” He tips his head toward Ross. “Maybe he was pregnant in a former life?”
Jimmy says this in a voice that’s too loud and arrives with unfortunate timing. Ross is just waving goodbye to the detective and moving our way when the words rise and fade, leaving enough residue from their passing that Ross manages to glom on to a few words.
“You have a pregnant wife?” he asks, mishearing the word life.
“No … yes—she was pregnant,” Jimmy stammers. “She’s not anymore. She gave birth. We have a son.”
As I’m trying not to laugh, Ross thumbs at himself. “Two girls and a boy.”
He has pictures on his phone, which he’s more than glad to share as he explains that the boy, Allan, is starting high school in the fall, and the girls are a few years behind. Like a good father, Jimmy produces several recent pictures of Petey, and Ross proclaims that he’s the spitting image of his dad—which must be the UPS driver, because, if anything, Petey favors his mom. He even has her vivid green eyes.
“What about you, Steps?” Ross asks. “Any kids?”
“I have books,” I reply, refusing to get sucked into this conversation.
The first musical notes from The Pink Panther spill from Jimmy’s phone and he answers before the song can take shape.
“What have you got, Diane?”
Instead of putting the phone on speaker, which would have been the polite thing to do, Jimmy wanders away from us, and it quickly becomes clear that he’s looking for a flat surface. Fishing one of his precious pens from an open shirt pocket, he snaps his finger at me and motions for something to write on.
My pockets are empty. “You got any paper?” I ask Ross.
He empties his pockets and hands me a neatly folded gum wrapper. It’s better than nothing, so I hold it up for Jimmy and give him a how-about-this? shrug. He just glares at me. I wasn’t trying to be a smart-ass; it’s just when you demand paper, you should be satisfied with what you get.
Jimmy’s not satisfied, so I jog two parking spaces to the left and motion for him to unlock the Mustang door with the fob. When I hear the click, I open the door, retrieve his Fossil briefcase, rifle through it, and emerge triumphantly with a half-used notepad.
By this time, Jimmy has caught up, and I hand the paper off to him—along with the gum wrapper. After discarding the wrapper with disgust, he leans over the hood of the Mustang and uses it as an impromptu desk. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do.
“Give it to me again,” he says to Diane.
After a hurried writing session, he thanks Diane and ends the call. Turning, he pauses to read his handwriting, perhaps making sure it’s legible. “Diane called her contact at Homeland Security, and it seems they have a special interest in Abel Moya. They’ve had an open investigation on him for the past three or four months.”
“What kind of investigation?” Ross asks.
“Human smuggling. He’s been operating out of a warehouse near the intersection of Allen Road and Hagerman Road—”
“Hageman Road,” Ross corrects. “That’s about ten miles west of here.”
“Yeah, well, Homeland Security Investigations has had the place under off-and-on surveillance for a couple of weeks now.”
“Anything we can work with?” I ask.
“They don’t have a warrant for his arrest, but Diane says they have enough for probable cause. They were hoping to build a stronger case before arresting him, maybe scoop up some of the others involved in the operation, but they understand the urgency. They’re putting the PC statement together as we speak and said they’ll email a copy in thirty or forty minutes.” Jimmy glances at Ross. “I gave them your email address. Hope that’s okay.”
Ross grins. “Sure. I’ll make a call and get my guys working on the search warrant.”
“We should probably give Weir a heads-up,” I suggest.
Jimmy nods. “Yeah, I’m sure he’ll want to take lead.”
“Let him.”
Jimmy starts to scowl at me but then thinks better of it and nods. This is, after all, another distraction. Abel’s not the guy, but we’ve got nothing else to go on, so we may as well vet him and get him off the list.
Jimmy’s call to Weir is brief.
When Jimmy disconnects, he stares at the phone a moment before speaking. “Kip wants to move on the warehouse as soon as the warrant’s in hand. He’s convinced that Marco and the others are inside.”
“His circus, his monkeys,” I mutter under my breath.
14
The no-frills tan warehouse off Allen Road rests within a network of dozens of similar warehouses, all linked by six crisscrossing roads. Some warehouses serve a single client, while others are divided into two, three, or even four spaces and leased to businesses with smaller requirements. It’s what some might call an industrial complex, and thus a modest stream of vehicles comes and goes throughout the day, everything from UPS and FedEx trucks delivering individual packages to tractor trailers delivering pallets and containers.
Jimmy’s choice of a surveillance position is spot-on.
A hundred yards north, straight through the windshield, is the front of Abel Moya’s rented space. Unlike the other businesses in the complex, it’s unadorned except for a small sign next to the office door that reads CLOSED—a permanent statement from the look of things.
The entry door and accompanying sign are up a short flight of stairs to the left of the space. To the right of the door, two large windows are cut into the otherwise solid wall, their glossy black holes hinting at a dark interior. Finally, all the way to the right, a heavy steel roll-up door marks a loading dock.
Sorting through his go bag, Jimmy
retrieves a pair of Steiner tactical binoculars and sets his sights on Abel Moya’s distant warehouse. He sweeps left and right, then lingers on the windows for a full minute before lowering the German nocs to his lap.
“Looks deserted,” he mutters, handing off the binoculars. “Take a look.”
Letting the lenses draw the warehouse in for closer inspection, I focus on the windows first, noting the partially closed blinds. There’s no movement inside, but I do find something encouraging. “Abel Moya’s been here.”
To anyone else, the statement might sound like wishful thinking, but Jimmy understands. Abel’s faded-yellow shine is all around the building. I can even see smears of dusty yellow where he tried to wash the windows. The one thing I can’t tell Jimmy, even in our practiced code, is that the dark green shine from the cemetery—the polished malachite—is nowhere to be seen.
If Abel is responsible for the abductions of the four men and the murder of Jason Norris, there’s nothing here to hint at it. And if Mr. Malachite is an accomplice, I would have expected to find signs of his passing—at least a random visit.
There’s nothing.
We’re wasting our time.
Though this is as clear to me as the vast emptiness of our universe, there’s nothing to be done about it. A lever has been pulled and there’s nothing to do for it but ride this cart to the end. Perhaps if we get Abel in custody and Special Agent Weir can be convinced that he’s not involved, we can better focus his attention elsewhere.
Perhaps.
* * *
The layout of the building suggests a mix of warehouse and office space, occupying about three thousand square feet in total. Probably half of that is warehouse space, but we won’t know for certain until we’re inside.
And though the building looks empty, a blue nineties-era Acura parked out front suggests otherwise. A thermal scope indicates the engine is still warm—warm but not hot.
* * *
It’s not long before the op starts to breathe life.
We may not be in the command vehicle or sitting with the SWAT team members for the final brief, but when you’ve done enough of those, you can tell when things are about to get real. The texts increase, the radio traffic picks up, and the cell-to-cell comms increase.
More important, you can feel it.
Something buried deep in the lizard-brain part of the skull screams, Danger, danger, danger. Adrenaline dumps into the bloodstream at increasing levels, coursing through a hundred thousand miles of arteries, veins, and capillaries.
Skin tingles and hair rises.
When Ross finally gets the text we’ve been waiting for, he scans it. “We’re good to go. The BearCat is prepositioned two blocks away.” He presses an earbud into place and adjusts the volume on his portable radio, which is set to the tactical frequency picked for this operation.
“Two-man advance team moving along the front,” Ross narrates, giving us a play-by-play. In the distance, as if on cue, we see two crouched figures working their way along the front of the building and pausing just right of the nearest window.
“They’re using a pole camera to get a look inside,” Ross mutters. His perpetual smile is still in place, though it’s now tight and drawn as if he were wearing a mask of transparent latex.
“Movement confirmed,” he says in a near monotone, sounding for a moment like Kip Weir. “At least one … correction, at least two subjects inside … no weapons visible.… Undercover units are in position behind the warehouse.… No movement … the back door is closed, and the outside is blocked by wooden pallets.”
Ross leans forward in the backseat, his head now between Jimmy and me with a forearm on the upper back of each front seat. “SWAT is advising that one of the subjects is walking toward the front door.… Hold … negative, negative, subject turned around and went into a side room.”
After another minute of observation, the pole-camera team withdraws and takes position at the right front corner of the building, out of sight but ready to move.
“BearCat rolling,” Ross calls briskly. An odd vibration begins to emanate from my seat, and it takes me a moment to realize the detective is tapping his foot and thrusting his knee into the back of the seat at the same time.
Vigorous tapping.
A nervous tic.
He’s practically in the front seat with us.
Moments later, a murdered-out armored vehicle the size of a large SUV powers into view from the left. Its sides are festooned with black-clad figures, and as it screeches to a halt in front of the warehouse, the men and women of Bakersfield SWAT leap from their perches and flow toward the front door like black mercury.
The hodgepodge of tactically clad bodies quickly forms a neat and ordered stack. They converge on the entry and barely seem to pause as the lead, a mountain of a man, shatters the door with a single whack of his ram and steps to the side.
SWAT officers pour in, shouting commands and clearing rooms one by one.
“Go, go, go!” Ross suddenly yells, waving a bladed hand toward the warehouse.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
Strictly speaking, Jimmy and I are here to observe the operation and do a walk-through after the dust has settled. This minor detail doesn’t seem to faze Jimmy. Bringing the Mustang to life with a decided roar, he pounds the gas pedal to the floor. Ross flies back, laughing almost maniacally as the beast of a car accelerates and pins him to the backseat.
As the Mustang’s raw horsepower devours the distance to the warehouse, biting yards off in chunks, Ross finds his balance and points to a spot twenty feet back from the mean-looking BearCat. “There!”
Jimmy lights up the brakes and noses the car to the left, parking at a forty-five-degree angle to the building so that the driver’s side faces away and the passenger side—my side—is exposed to any hostility that might pour from the warehouse.
As I’m contemplating this, Jimmy and Ross bail from the vehicle. Ross doesn’t bother waiting for Jimmy to exit the door, but leaps over the side of the car from the backseat. It reminds me of a scene from so many movies, but with less grace.
Drawing their weapons as their feet hit the pavement, the two of them scoot up the side of the Mustang and take position along the nose, covering the front door with their Glocks.
Meanwhile, I’m still scrunched down in the front passenger seat.
The primal part of my brain is screaming a flashing red warning that this might be a bad idea, but the only other options are to drag myself across the center console and out the driver’s door or jump out the passenger door and run around the back of the car without getting shot.
I don’t like either choice.
Besides, I’ve got a clear view of the action from here, and a good amount of glass and steel is between me and any shooters. What could go wrong?
A moment later, I see Jimmy’s head peek up over the front fender as he watches the warehouse. His eyes come my way and then flare when he sees me hunkered down with just my eyes peeking over the dash. “Steps!” he barks.
Ross thinks it’s funny.
Making a big show of huffing and sighing, I drag myself across the center console—which is just as awkward and uncomfortable as I imagined—and over Jimmy’s seat. The steering wheel presses uncomfortably into my ribs until, at last, I pour myself out the driver’s door using nothing but biceps, triceps, and a little forearm action. I find the asphalt without too much difficulty. Dragging my legs free, I use my left sneaker to ease the door closed and then push myself upright. Ross grins and motions for me to take up position behind him.
The view sucks, but I keep the thought to myself.
I’m just catching my breath when Ross presses his finger to the earbud, listens intently, and says, “Uh-oh!” He repeats it a second time, more urgently this time, as if the meaning of the transmission is starting to sink in.
Then he finds his inertia. Swearing majestically, he leaps to his feet.
For a moment he looks like he’s g
oing to run, but then he screams, “Get in the car; get in the car!” Without waiting to explain, he throws himself into the backseat, landing with all the finesse of a humpback whale, minus the enormous splash.
“Get us out of here, Jimmy!” he yells, his face still planted on the seat.
At that moment, black-clad SWAT members begin to pour from the warehouse, running for all they’re worth. Some of them make for the BearCat, while others run right past and keep going. Some take cover behind nearby warehouses.
“Get us out of here,” I say in a remarkably calm voice.
The Mustang barely roars to life before Jimmy jams it into gear and smashes the gas pedal. The tires spew black smoke as the yellow monster tears at the ground, clawing itself into a full sprint. The acceleration throws me against the back of my seat and holds me there. I don’t know what we’re running from, and I don’t care.
In some circumstances, only the dead stop to ask why.
15
Blast radiuses are a tricky thing.
They depend on the type of explosive, the quantity, and the placement, among other factors. Small devices are generally only a threat to the immediate area and can usually be detonated in place or removed to a safe location for destruction.
Larger devices are more problematic.
Twenty-five to thirty barrels of ammonium nitrate fuel oil (ANFO) or ammonium nitrate and nitromethane (ANNM) is another story entirely. Such a quantity could leave a crater where the warehouse stands and level every building around it.
As SWAT swept through Abel Moya’s office and warehouse, that’s exactly what they appear to have found stored on wooden pallets just inside the big roll-up door. Initially unsure what they were dealing with, they removed the tarp covering the collection and triggered a countdown clock. As the device hummed to life, the word ARMED glared at them in neon-red letters.
Hence, the hasty exit.
* * *
In 1947, the freighter Grandcamp was docked at a pier in Texas City, Texas, when a fire broke out in one of its holds, most likely caused by a cigarette. Twenty-three hundred tons of ammonium nitrate had already been loaded onto the ship, and when the flames reached the explosive cargo at about 9:00 A.M., the ship was blown to pieces in an explosion that was heard 150 miles away. The blast left carnage in its wake: five hundred homes leveled, almost six hundred dead, and another thirty-five hundred injured.