She couldn’t be chastened, either.
Van said, “I know you’ve got a two-year-old at home. These guys, they’re a lot like two-year-olds. They want attention, and they’re willing to destroy things to get it.”
That was a dirty trick. “How do you know about my kid?”
Van ignored the question. “McVeigh inspired dozens of copycats. The Unabomber’s Manifesto has four and a half stars on Amazon. If we tell the press that the Invisible Patriot Army bombed Emory, then we’re going to be dealing with dozens of copycats, and Dash is going to go even farther underground than he is now.”
Faith was already shaking her head. “Dash was early twenties, sweating it out with a Federale, looking at time in a Mexican prison. There’s no way he wasn’t making up shit as he went along. Maybe he really was a student at UC-SD. The name he gave Garcia—Charley Pride. Based on the pattern, you could assume Dash’s real last name starts with a P.”
“Terrific. You get the stack of mattresses. I’ll find a princess.” He took off his glasses and tossed them onto the table. “Look, it’s been one day, Mitchell. I get that you’re scared for your agent. We all want Sara Linton back. We want Michelle Spivey back. We’ve been working that case for a month with nothing to show for it but a shit-ton of brick walls. But don’t for a minute think that the FBI isn’t taking the IPA seriously. I don’t hold meetings in SCIFs because I’ve got a thing for bossy, opinionated women.”
She raised her eyebrows, because that had come out of nowhere.
He said, “Sorry, I meant that as a compliment.”
“Still weird.”
Van bought himself some time by cleaning his glasses with the end of his tie. “Proof. That’s what we need. All we’ve got now is conjecture and gut feeling. We think that’s Novak in the beach photo. We think that’s Dash talking to him. We think Dash took over the reins of the IPA when Martin was captured. We think Dash was the fourth man at Emory yesterday. We think that the IPA abducted Michelle. We think that they’re planning something bigger.” He looked up at Faith. “Since we’re tossing around unproven theories here, I’ll tell you one of mine: my gut tells me that Gwen Novak is married to Dash.”
“Shit.”
“Shit is right, because there’s no marriage certificate, no financial ties, no overlaps, but I’m doing the math here and I know how these groups value bloodlines. You want to take over from the king, you marry the king’s daughter.”
“Do you think Gwen had more children?” Faith’s queasiness made her head start to ache. “That’s Gwen’s job, right? She entraps kids for her dad and his frat buddies? Maybe Gwen found an easier way with Dash—she makes her own supply.”
Van rubbed his tie into his glasses so hard that the lens flexed.
She said, “Martin Novak is in custody. Go back at him and—”
“Novak hasn’t talked for over a year and he’s not likely to start now.” Van put his glasses on. “Novak wants whatever is about to happen to happen. He rejoiced when he heard about the explosion yesterday. He wants people to die. He wants to disrupt society and take down the government. He understands that his arrest left a leadership void. If there’s a grand plan, Novak isn’t a part of it. And he’s happy about that. He’s happy to see what comes next.”
Faith knew he was right. She’d spent hours studying Novak as part of the special transport team. The man lived for chaos. “So, what do we do? What’s the plan?”
“I’m working my informants. Carter’s not the only white supremacist I do business with.”
“Carter was such a huge success for you.”
Van acknowledged the dig with a smile. “Finding these guys is the hard part. Once I locate them, it’s basic RASCLS framework.”
Faith tried to hide her excitement over learning a new acronym. “Are you trying to impress me with shop talk?”
“Of course I am,” Van said. “How do you flip a bad guy into a confidential informant? Reciprocation. Authority. Scarcity. Commitment. Consistency. Liking. Social proof. RASCLS. Fortunately, I’m an expert at empathy, sympathy, and handing out cash.”
Faith had to ask, “They don’t know you’re Jewish?”
“Yeah, but it’s funny—you slip them a little money, you keep them out of jail, you listen to their problems without judgment, and they’re all, like, ‘Hitler? I hardly knew him.’”
Faith forced a laugh, but only to cut him some slack over the recent weirdness.
Van said, “I’ve got informants in all the major groups, but what we really need is someone inside the IPA. That’s what I’m working toward; a guy who knows somebody who knows somebody. The IPA is four men down now. Not just regular men, but soldiers. We don’t know what Dash’s medical condition is after the car accident. Whatever he’s planning next will take a certain level of expertise. According to Carter, Dash’s group is comprised of old men and boys. Soldiers like Carter, Hurley, Monroe and Vale were the real leaders. Dash is going to have to recruit some qualified men, pronto.”
Faith looked at the clock.
3:58 p.m.
Beau and Will would be waiting to meet Dash’s flunky.
She asked Van, “Why am I here?”
“Is that an existential question?” He saw that he wasn’t going to get another laugh out of her. “My boss wants you guys to know exactly what kind of people you’re dealing with. The IPA has Sara Linton. We know she’s family. Your family is our family.” He got to the point. “I’ve got a file waiting for you downstairs with everything we have on Michelle Spivey’s abduction. I had to redact the top-secret stuff, but as far as locating her, there’s not a lot of there there. Maybe a second set of eyes can break something apart that twenty of our analysts couldn’t.”
“Okay.” Faith offered, “I can send you the forensic reports from the motel, the autopsy reports. Everything we have is yours.”
He asked, “Everything?”
Faith couldn’t figure out his tone. He either thought she was lying or he was making another lame attempt at flirtation.
She flipped the Magic Eight Ball back in his direction. “My sources say no.”
13
Monday, August 5, 3:58 p.m.
Will groaned as he climbed out of Beau Ragnersen’s truck. The aspirin had definitely worn off. His muscles were locking up. He glanced around, noting a few cars, some dog walkers, but the Albert-Banks Park was experiencing an afternoon lull. Will nodded for Beau to lead the way. The man kept his head straight, hands in his pockets. Will did the same, following him across a strip of neatly cut grass.
There were no tracking devices on either of them. Amanda hadn’t suggested it and Will would not have let her anyway. His bigger concern was that he might not be able to bluff his way through his backstory. Will’s bona fides had him as an ex-soldier with an ax to grind. Will had used the identity before and learned the hard way that he wasn’t up on any military lingo. He hadn’t taken the time since then to study for the part. All he could do now was go for the quiet, menacing type. The quiet came naturally. The menacing had fallen into place the second Sara had been taken.
Will’s face was still unshaven. His hands were cut up. He was wearing a baseball hat and dark sunglasses. His wrinkled gray suit was in his work locker. Will had changed into jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt that he normally wore to the gym. His biceps strained against the material. His running shoes were splattered with rusty red stripes that looked like dried blood.
Paint.
Two months ago, he had remodeled his bathroom to surprise Sara. Will hadn’t realized until she’d pointed it out that the chocolate-colored walls made the small room feel even smaller. He’d put in a new vanity so she had a place to store her lady things. He’d painted the walls red to brighten the space, then he’d painted over the red with three coats of light gray because Sara was surrounded by bloody crime scenes almost every day. She probably did not want to shower in one.
Beau’s hands were out of his pockets. He gave an audible sigh
as he stepped off the paved path. He was pouting, which was irritating. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to be here. Amanda had made it clear that he would end up dying in prison if he didn’t help Will get into the IPA.
How that was going to happen exactly was still up in the air.
Beau sighed again as he turned toward the baseball diamond. Will shifted the duffel bag full of medications to his other hand. He clenched his fist. He told himself it would be a bad idea to punch Beau in the back of the neck if he sighed again.
This was for Sara. That alone was enough to unclench Will’s fist. He had to convince Dash’s Flunky to make an introduction. Beau had mentioned a guy in a van who served as backup during the pill trades. Will assumed that the van driver was higher up the food chain. That was the guy he needed to meet. Dash was four men down. He was planning something big. He seemed to like to work with ex-law enforcement and military, and he would be actively recruiting. Will’s first obstacle was convincing Dash’s Flunky to make a call to the Driver. The second obstacle was making sure that the Driver didn’t shoot Will in the head.
He looked around. No sign of a van.
Beau took another turn, gave another sigh.
Sweat dripped into Will’s eyes. He was glad to have the dark glasses. The sun was pounding onto the top of his head. He wished that Faith was here. Her meeting was probably important, but he knew if shit went down, Faith would always have his back.
He spotted the first undercover GBI agent sitting on a bench by the playground. A baby stroller was in front of her. She had her head down, her nose in a phone. Another agent was jogging on a paved path between the tennis courts and one of the baseball diamonds. A green station wagon was in the far parking lot with a male and female agent who were playing the roles of married people who were not married to each other. There was a second chase car parked at a tavern down the street and another parked at the water treatment plant but to Will’s thinking, none of this was going to work because his gut was telling him that Beau was going to fuck him over.
Was his gut right?
He wasn’t getting the bad feeling off the pitiful sighs or the Charlie Brown drag of Beau’s feet across the grass. It was because the man was a junkie, and all junkies cared about was getting high. Amanda had let Beau keep a handful of pills in his pocket, but Beau had started tossing them back like Chiclets before they’d left the building. The special ops soldier could do the math as well as Will. Eventually, the pills would run out, and by the time that happened, Beau could be on the wrong side of a jail cell.
Will tried to think like Beau was thinking. There were three ways the man could get out of this situation: He could send a signal to Dash’s Flunky that Will was a cop. The Flunky would shoot Will, end of story. Door number two, Beau could make a run for it. He wouldn’t get far, but he didn’t know that. The third option was the most troubling. Beau was a highly trained combat soldier. His brain didn’t have to be fully functioning for his muscles to remember how to kill a man. Will’s folding knife was in his pocket, but he still wasn’t good with it. His Sig Sauer was held to the small of his back by an inside-the-waistband holster. He was a very fast draw, but not with a broken neck.
“This way.” Beau walked along the pie-shaped fence lining the ballfield. He looked at his watch, so Will looked at his watch.
3:58 p.m.
They were supposed to meet the Flunky at four. There was no going back now. Whatever Beau was planning, it wouldn’t be improvised. He had clearly already made up his mind. He seemed thoughtful, almost contemplative, as he let his hand brush against the chain-link fence.
Will’s gut sent up another warning flare.
When faced with danger some guys hyped themselves up, pounding their chests, screaming for blood, blinding themselves with so much adrenaline that they ran straight into the bullets. Then there was the other kind of guy, the one who knew the only way to survive the hell that was about to rain down was to lull himself into a trance.
Beau was that second kind of guy. The transformation was obvious. This wasn’t the pills. His training had taken over. His breathing had slowed. He’d stopped fidgeting and sighing. He oozed Zen like a Buddhist monk.
Will recognized the signs, because he was experiencing them, too.
“This is the spot.” Beau climbed the bleachers to the third row and sat down. He looked at his watch. “Might as well park it, bro. He’s not always on time.”
“Where’s the van?”
“Fuck if I know.” Beau stretched out his legs. “These guys aren’t stupid. He’s not gonna drive up and show you his face. That’s what the Flunky is for.”
Will tossed the duffel bag onto the seat between them. He sat down. He looked out at the baseball diamond. The fence was nice, covered in black vinyl. The park felt foreign to Will, who’d always lived in the city. No needles or junkies or homeless people. Just women wearing Gucci as they walked their well-groomed dogs.
Will had already studied an aerial map of the twenty-three-acre green space. The entire undercover team had spent hours strategizing, proposing alternate routes and scenarios, discussing the best places to park the cars and station the female agents. Twelve lighted tennis courts. Three baseball fields. A rubberized ballfield. A tennis center. A large picnic pavilion.
Will worked to get his bearings. He had never been good with left and right, but he knew that they were sitting beside home plate on the diamond that was farthest from the main road. The clay tennis courts were behind him, which meant that the elementary school’s football field was on the other side of the woods.
The school was a no-go zone for obvious reasons. The last bell had rung an hour ago, but there were after-school activities that put at least one hundred kids and a handful of teachers and administrators in the building. Technically, Dash’s Flunky could approach from that direction. Beau had told them the man would park in the nearby lot, but Beau was a junkie liar.
Here was the problem: If push came to shove, Will couldn’t chase the Flunky into the schoolyard with his gun. The cover agents couldn’t risk parking a chase car in the lot without alerting school security, and school security would not be happy to hear that the GBI was conducting a covert operation on their premises. They would be especially pissed off if they found out it was taking place in a public park.
Will was desperate to find Sara, but neither one of them could forgive him if he accidentally hurt a child.
Beau said, “Dude, you look like you’re in some pain.”
Will shrugged as if his joints were not lined with concrete.
“Bro, say the word. I can Perc you up no problem.” Beau reached into his pocket. He offered Will a round, white tablet.
Will considered accepting the pill. He wouldn’t take it, but it would be a good idea to try to get Beau on his side. It was hard to kill a man if you knew him. Rejecting the offer could be seen as yet another reminder that Will was a cop, and the cops were the ones who had him by the short hairs.
“Your loss.” Beau popped the pill into his mouth. He swallowed. He grinned.
Will stared at the field. He could hear the thonk of a heated tennis game on the courts behind him. His head turned when he heard the flicker of a lighter.
A cigarette dangled from Beau’s mouth.
Will told him, “Put that out.”
Beau squinted past the smoke. “Relax, bro.”
Will punched him in the ear.
Beau’s arms shot out as he struggled to stay upright. The cigarette dropped from his lips. He cursed, touching his fingers to his ear, checking for blood. “Jesus, bro. You need to chill.”
“I’m not your bro,” Will said, another fantastic reminder that they were not on the same side. “Don’t do another God damn thing that makes me think you’re trying to signal Dash’s man.”
“Just chill, all right? It wasn’t a sign.” Beau used the toe of his boot to stamp out the cigarette. He leaned back against the bleachers. The long sigh he gave could’ve come out
of a fog horn.
Will looked down at his hand. Beau’s ear had re-opened the skin. He rolled his wrist, making the blood slide across his palm the same way he used to play with caterpillars when he was a boy.
One of the first times Will was inside of Sara’s apartment, his hands were bleeding. Will had gone off on a really terrible human being, which was understandable, but also not the kind of cop Will wanted to be. Sara had guided him to the couch. She’d brought over a bowl of warm water. She had cleaned his wounds, bandaged the cuts, and told him that doing bad things was a habit that you could either give in to or try to break.
Will wiped his hand on his jeans. He no longer cared what kind of cop he was going to be. He was the man who was going to bring Sara home to her family.
“That’s him,” Beau said.
Dash’s Flunky was in the parking lot, exactly where Beau had said he would be. He was getting out of a blue four-door sedan. Still no sign of the van. The Flunky traversed the lot with a rolling gait. He rounded the fence at the back of the field. Short dark hair, white polo shirt, khaki cargo shorts and white sneakers. He was early twenties, probably a former high school baseball player, judging by his keen interest in the ballfield. He wore a backward baseball cap. His sunglasses wrapped around his face. A blue canvas backpack was slung over his shoulder. He looked like a frat boy in search of a kegger.
Will asked, “You recognize him from before?”
“Nah, man, they all look like that.” Beau stood up. He walked down to the fence. He shoved his hands into his pockets. He waited.
Will left the duffel on the bleachers and joined Beau by the fence. He looked at the scuffed home plate. He counted down a few seconds. He looked up at the kid.
The Flunky was playing it cool. Taking his time. Beau had already told Will what usually happened: the Flunky walked behind him and traded out the contents of the duffel bag for the contents of his backpack, then he kept on walking around the field and got into his car.
Real James Bond spycraft.
This time, Beau was supposed to stop the Flunky for a conversation. He was going to introduce Will as an old Army buddy. He was going to say they needed to talk to Dash. The Flunky was going to call the guy in the van instead. Will was going to work some as-yet-to-be-determined magic and wrangle an invitation to meet the leader.
The Last Widow: The latest new 2019 crime thriller from the No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author Page 28