The Liberty Covenant

by Jack Bowie

  He felt a lurch and the floor fell beneath him.

  * * *

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Walker replied. She was shivering against the wall of the elevator cab. “I guess I should thank you for saving my life.”

  “I could say the same, but we’d better save that until we’re sure we’ve gotten away. This guy can be pretty persistent.” He reached down, picked up the pistol, and stuck it in his pocket. “That was a pretty neat move, Sydney.”

  “I don’t even remember what happened. It was all automatic. I saw the gun and just reacted. I guess all that training wasn’t wasted after all.”

  As the elevator chimed off the floors, Braxton watched the lights count down to one.

  “It’s usually pretty easy to catch a cab around the corner,” Walker said.

  “It’ll be hell to get one tonight in the rain,” he replied. “Where’s the nearest Metro station?”

  “Down a couple of blocks. It’s not too far.”

  “Then let’s go for it.”

  He pushed Walker against the sidewall and cocked the automatic.

  “I’m sorry ma’am,” he said quietly to the cowering woman, “but you might want to move up here, out of sight when the doors open.” She stared at him blankly, then slid along the cab wall and pressed herself into the front corner.

  Nothing surprised him anymore. If the attacker was waiting for them, Braxton was going to be ready.

  The doors slowly pulled back. He counted to three, spun out of the cab into a shooter’s crouch and scanned the gun across the lobby. It was empty.

  “Sydney. Let’s go!”

  He took her hand and they ran through the outside door into the Bethesda night.

  * * *

  “What the hell are you doing calling me at midnight!” Slattery yelled into the phone.

  “Why should you get to sleep if I can’t, Roger?” Fowler screamed back. “Braxton’s in trouble. Taylor Luckett was killed tonight. The cops might think he’s involved.”

  “Jesus. Is he?”

  “Sort of. But he didn’t do it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’m not sure. I think they’re going to San Francisco. Something about Vision One.”

  “They?”

  “I don’t know who he’s with. I thought I heard a woman’s voice in the background.”

  “Shit. Walker.”

  “Who the hell is Walker?”

  “It’s Sydney Marino’s real name. His conspirator from Amsterdam. She’s with DIA. Or was. When are they going?”

  “They may already be on their way.”

  Slattery went silent. Fowler held his breath. The spook had to make the next move.

  “You know that man is trying to end my career don’t you? Pack a bag. I’ll meet you at Dulles at 6:00 a.m.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes, the morning, godammit. Get us two tickets to SFO. In the meantime use some of your contacts and make sure he hasn’t already been picked up by the locals.”

  Chapter 65

  Dulles Airport, Dulles, Virginia

  Sunday, 6:15 a.m.

  Slattery flashed his ID at the Dulles security guard and was escorted around the checkpoint scanners. Once he was clear, he saw Fowler pacing back and forth just outside the security area. Dark blue windbreaker, black rumpled pants, crepe sole broughams. The man would look like a cop until the day he died. A lone nylon athletic bag hung at the end of one arm.

  “Hey, Sam. How are you doing?” he said slapping his friend hard on his back.

  “Pretty lousy considering it’s 6:30 a.m. and I haven’t gotten any sleep. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Got tied up. You get our tickets?”

  “Yeah. You are going to pay for this aren’t you?” Fowler handed over a ticket envelope.

  “Absolutely. Uncle Sam never reneges on an obligation.”

  “Right. Just remember I only take cash these days. Anyway, thanks for helping out here. I think our friend is in way over his head.”

  “He’s your friend, Sam. I’ve got a case to close and Braxton is just one of the players.”

  Fowler shook his head. “Whatever you say, Roger. By the way, what did you tell your bosses about this little trip?”

  “Somewhere in the stack of leads was one from San Francisco,” Slattery explained. “I told everybody I was going to follow it up.”

  “And they believed you?”

  “It’ll work for a while.”

  Fowler looked down at his watch. “Time to catch the train. We’re on a 7:30 to SFO.”

  They walked to the AeroTrain hall for the C and D Gates and caught a car a few minutes later. Fowler dropped into the first seat he could find. Slattery stayed standing at his side.

  “All the non-stops were filled,” Fowler explained as the shuttle lurched forward. “So we’ve got to stop in Denver.”

  “Shit,” Slattery murmured. “Did you find out anything about Luckett?”

  “I called a couple of friends on the force. Worst goddamn murder they’d seen in years. Luckett’s hands were crushed and his face bashed in. Somebody must have wanted that information real bad.”

  “What about Braxton?”

  “They got an anonymous call about a shooting. When the black and whites got there they saw somebody running away. No ID, but they did find Braxton’s prints on an envelope in Luckett’s pocket. He’s just wanted for questioning at the moment, but if he doesn’t show they’ll put out a warrant.”

  “Great. Any identity on the killer?”

  “Nope. But he shot the hell out of the Memorial. Forensics was still gathering the slugs.”

  Slattery stood silently as the shuttle moved under the tarmac of the airport, adding pieces to his mosaic. Why did everything keep coming back to Braxton? And why did he keep coming up right?

  “We found out who was coordinating the militia attacks,” he said quietly.

  “No shit!” Fowler exclaimed a little too loudly. “Who?”

  The shuttle slowed into its berth, then jerked to a stop.

  “It’s a long story. Buy me a coffee and I’ll tell you.”

  “Sounds good. I could use a breakfast taco.”

  Slattery punched the ex-cop in his stomach. “You know, Sam, you really have been putting on weight lately.”

  * * *

  The Alameda Skillet was a 50’s style greasy-spoon squatting along the channel between Alameda Island and the Oakland mainland. It had somehow survived the closing of the Naval Air Station in the eighties, and now prospered on the new wave of high tech companies expanding from the over-crowded—and over-priced—Peninsula to the west.

  Braxton squirmed on the hard wooden bench at the diner’s window, nursing his fourth can of Coke. If Walker didn’t get back soon he was going to explode.

  The past twelve hours had been an exercise in evasion. They had taken the Metro to Reagan National, then an airport shuttle bus up to BWI. In Baltimore, Walker rented a car and they drove up to Philadelphia International Airport, stopping along the way to raid ATMs, dump the assassin’s gun in a roadside culvert and get a change of clothes at an all-night Wal-Mart. It had been all Braxton could do to get his companion to enter the store, much less buy anything off the rack.

  They had spent a fitful, uncomfortable night in the United Red Carpet Club on Walker’s frequent-flyer card. There had been little conversation; they were both too exhausted, and too frightened, to pass the time in idle chat. About 3:00 a.m. Walker had gone to the restroom. When she returned she had some positive news.

  “I called a friend in Amsterdam,” she had said. “Paul left for California last week. They don’t know when he’ll be back. Maybe our guess was right.”

  They had taken the first flight to San Francisco, arriving at SFO mid-morning California time. Walker had rented another car and driven up the peninsula and across the Bay Bridge to Alameda. She had dropped Braxton off to watch the old Vision One building,
then driven back to Palo Alto to find out what she could at Vision One headquarters.

  So he had sat here for the past three hours, staring out the window at the two story brick building across the street. A squarish, plain structure, only a faded shadow of “Vision One” etched into the brick above the entrance served to remind an observer of the structure’s hallowed history. Since he had arrived, Braxton had only seen about fifteen people coming and going, all of them casually dressed youngsters. Pretty odd for an abandoned warehouse. None of the visitors matched the description Walker had given him for Paul Venton.

  Walker reappeared in the diner at 2:30.

  “Jesus, Sydney,” Braxton complained. “Where have you been?”

  “I went to Vision One remember?”

  “No, Sydney. Where have you really been? That’s hardly the outfit you had this morning.” Walker was now dressed in a trim gray pants suit and white turtleneck sweater. Despite their sleepless night she glowed like an angel.

  “There’s this great Nordstrom in Palo Alto. I couldn’t stand those other clothes. Do I look okay?”

  “If you ask me, you always look good, Sydney.”

  “You’re sweet. I got some things for you too,” she said, sliding onto the bench across from him. “They’re in a bag in the car.”

  “So much for keeping a low profile. Now what did you find out about Venton?”

  “My friends in Palo Alto said they knew he was in the area, but he hasn’t showed there at all. Did you seen him?

  “Nope. There have been some people in and out but no one that looked like Venton. Maybe he’s not around.”

  “Oh, no. He’s there. If he’s keeping his normal hours, he was across the street by 6:30 this morning.”

  “Even on Sunday?”

  “Every day.”

  Braxton suddenly stood up and grabbed his jacket.

  “Where are you going?” Walker asked.

  “First I’m going to the john. I thought you’d never get back. Then I’m gonna check out this building while it’s still light. You know, while you were gone I was thinking. What if . . .”

  “Adam?” she interrupted.

  “Yes?”

  “Could you change your clothes? Please? You look like a refugee from the waterfront. I’d hate to get arrested before we get into any real trouble.”

  * * *

  “Detective Fowler?” A short oriental man approached the pair as they walked out of the jetway.

  “Inspector Huang?” Fowler replied.

  “Welcome to San Francisco,” Huang said with a bow.

  “Roger, this is Inspector Anthony Huang, from the SFPD. He worked on Megan Braxton’s case. Inspector Huang, this is Roger Slattery, he’s a . . . government representative.”

  “Please, call me Tony. Mr. Slattery.” Another bow.

  Slattery returned the bow. “We really appreciate your help, Inspector. You understand, however, that this is an unofficial visit?”

  “Yes. Sam briefed me on his call from the plane. I’ll accept the explanation, for now.” The cop’s eye’s twinkled and Slattery breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t really wanted Fowler to involve any of the locals, but they would have wasted hours without some help. His friend’s instincts were still intact.

  “Come, let’s get you started on your search.” Huang led them down the concourse. “We have determined that a Miss S. Walker arrived with her brother this morning and subsequently rented a car.”

  “Her brother?” Fowler asked.

  “Undoubtedly an alias for your Mr. Braxton. I’ve got a bulletin out on the car, but this is a very large metropolitan area. Do you have any idea of their destination?”

  “It has something to do with Vision One,” Fowler explained. “Their offices are in Palo Alto.”

  “Yes. I am familiar with the company. We use some of their products in forensic reconstruction. But the car rental agent remembers Miss Walker asking about a map of the East Bay. Alameda in particular.”

  “Alameda?” Fowler asked. Why would they want to go there?”

  “Could there be another facility there?” Slattery responded. “Or the homes of some of the executives?”

  “I can have someone check, Mr. Slattery.”

  “Thanks, Tony,” said Fowler. “That’d be great. But for now Roger and I’ll check out Palo Alto.”

  * * *

  Braxton and Walker finished their fisherman’s platter—which wasn’t actually all that bad for the West Coast—paid the bill, and walked out into the mild California weather. The setting sun cast long shadows as they walked across the street to the channel. Water lapped up at the seawall giving a soft, melodic background to their stroll. If anyone had been watching, they would have seemed just another pair of lovers enjoying the romantic evening.

  “I really like the new clothes,” Braxton commented, modeling his khakis and sweater for her. “You can do my shopping anytime.”

  “You really do need to get out more. Your other clothes are kinda, well, out-of-date. And you can look quite dashing.”

  He wasn’t sure he liked Walker’s comment, but figured it was probably true. Ever since Megan had left, well . . .

  “So where are we going?”

  Her question knocked him out of his dream. “What’s the rush? You’re not enjoying the company?”

  “I’m flattered but I thought you had other things on your mind.”

  Braxton stopped and took Walker’s hand. “You know you don’t have to do this. It’s my fight.”

  She returned his solemn stare. “We’ve been through this before, Adam. Megan was my friend, too. And we both know neither of us is safe until we find who’s behind all this.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Then I guess we’d better get started.”

  He led her farther down the street. “Vision One is the next building ahead. There’s a service entrance on the side. One of the people inside took a cigarette break this afternoon and I taped the door after he went back in.”

  “Not bad for an amateur. But what if someone noticed it?”

  “Ah . . . we think of something else.”

  They continued toward the building and, after checking for prying eyes, turned into the alley. Braxton led her to the entrance and reached for the door. It squeaked open. The tape was still in place.

  “Wait!” Walker cried as he was about to enter. She reached into her new duffel bag and pulled out two long magnesium flashlights. “I thought we might need these.”

  “Always prepared,” he said smiling. He took a final look up and down the dark alley, and pulled her into the building.

  * * *

  “This was a helluva waste of an afternoon.” Fowler tossed another cup of coffee out of the car window onto Calle Escondido in Palo Alto. Across the street stood a sprawling glass and concrete building with a stainless steel “Vision One” pushing through the top story.

  “You’ve wasted a lot more time than one afternoon on a stakeout, Sam,” Slattery replied from behind the wheel of their Taurus. He rubbed a stiff and sore neck.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t have a friend’s life hanging on those.”

  “Look, Sam. We’ve done all we can. Nobody we’ve talked to has seen or heard from either Braxton or Walker.”

  “Or they have and aren’t willing to tell us. Dammit, Roger. They’re here somewhere. We both know it.” He hit the dashboard with his huge fist.

  “Jesus, Sam. Take it easy. We talked to the employees. We’ve driven around for hours searching for their car. What more can we do but wait? I’m open to any good ideas.”

  “Okay. What about this Alameda Island? We could go there.”

  “And do what? We don’t even have a place to start.”

  Fowler leaned back in the seat and sulked. Slattery welcomed the silence.

  “What’s your angle on this, Roger?” Fowler finally asked. “You think the killer and Vision One are connected?”

  Why couldn’t the cop turn off that six
th sense?

  “I honestly don’t know, Sam. But Braxton seems to be a lightning rod for both. I hope he can stay alive long enough for us to figure it out.”

  “Like he did with Saracen?”

  Slattery threw his friend a withering glare. The agent did his job the best he knew how. He wouldn’t apologize to anyone for the decisions he made. Especially when civilians stuck their nose where they shouldn’t.

  Further discussion of the uncomfortable subject was eliminated with the buzz of Slattery’s cell phone.

  “Slattery.”

  “Oh. Mr. Slattery. This is Tony Huang. I was expecting Sam.”

  “He’s right here in the car with me. Would you like to speak with him?”

  “No, no. That’s alright. I just wanted to tell you that we did find a connection between Vision One and Alameda. They own an old building on the island.”

  Slattery grabbed a paper bag left over from lunch and scribbled the address Huang dictated.

  “Got it. We’ll head over there now.”

  “Take the San Mateo. The Bay Bridge is a parking lot during rush hour. And give me a call if you find anything, Mr. Slattery. Or you need any help.”

  “Will do, Inspector. And thanks.”

  He flipped the phone shut and started the engine.

  “What’s up, Roger?” Fowler asked.

  “You’re getting your wish. We’re going to Alameda.”

  Chapter 66

  Vision One Warehouse, Alameda, California

  Sunday, 4:30 p.m.

  Braxton and Walker spent the next half-hour wandering the first floor of the building. After sticking their heads into every office and opening every seemingly discarded box, all they had discovered was how filthy an abandoned office building could be. They didn’t find any evidence of a laboratory or human activity.

  “Enough, Adam,” Walker pleaded as they stood in the dark lobby. “We’ve been through these offices twice.”

  Braxton swung his flashlight across the cracked reception desk. “Okay. There’s nothing here. But I did see people coming in today. Where were they going?”