Spectrum

by Ethan Cross

  Plus, Nic didn’t believe this was an airborne virus. It seemed to him that the terrorists’ goal was to steal something of immense value, not create some sort of pandemic. To him, this seemed like another diversionary tactic meant to cover their escape. And he had his own theory as to how all the hostages had been exposed.

  He radioed to have the hostages who had been released previously moved to the Walmart manager’s office and isolated under armed guard until they had more information. He also ordered everyone but a few SWAT officers to evacuate the building. Then he instructed the uniformed officers to cordon off the area surrounding the whole shopping center. No one in or out. Especially Ty Loria and his CIA buddy. They had a lot of questions to answer, and as the son and former apprentice of the infamous Tommy Jewels, Nicky knew how to encourage people to answer his questions.

  Nic drove the first ambulance over to show the rest of the paramedics where to go and how to unload their passengers.

  He was backing up to the doors of the enclosed garden center when he heard the explosion. He knew the sound well. He had even detonated some of them himself, to dispose of them, in Iraq.

  The sound was made by a small-yield anti-personnel device like an IED or, most likely in this case, a suicide vest.

  Chapter 61

  Samuel Carter had seen people die over the course of his career—a raid gone bad, a hostage situation turned murder-suicide, an officer catching a stray round to the head right in front of him. They all haunted his dreams from time to time. But none of those incidents could compare to what he witnessed in the GoBox parking lot.

  He had run as fast as his aging legs would carry him. He had yelled with all the air in his lungs. He had silently prayed with all the faith in his heart.

  But none of his efforts were able to stop the explosion.

  The civilians and other officers were well clear of the blast, but the vest’s wearer and his escort were not so lucky.

  Carter had front-row seats to the last moment of their lives. He had burst out the door and yelled at Stromberg to get back in the building. The SWAT officer turned to him, and the kid must have known from the look on Carter’s face. When their gazes met, Carter saw dreams dying in the kid’s eyes. A future stolen. The dreams of marriage and children and love and success and happiness. Carter saw it all die in the span of a second.

  Something beeped and something whirred, and Lamar said, “Hey, what’s—”

  And Carter’s vision went white. He felt the concussion wave drive him back and off his feet. But before his eyes succumbed to the light from the blast, he had seen the two men for the briefest of glimpses. The fire consuming them, blowing them apart, blood and bone and flame, Lamar’s head being blown completely off his body.

  That was the last image Sam Carter saw before he passed out, but even then, he knew that it wouldn’t be the last time. He would see the fire and blood and death again in his dreams, probably for the rest of his days.

  Chapter 62

  Nic growled into his radio, “What just happened? Someone answer me!”

  Finally, a voice he recognized as belonging to Jenny Kaplan, one of his team’s snipers, said, “It’s bad. Strom is gone.”

  “We have a whole room of paramedics over—”

  “He was right next to the blast. There’s nothing left to revive.”

  Tears welled up in Nic’s eyes. He quickly wiped them away and shook his head from side to side. No crying, that had been one of Pop’s rules. He forced himself to concentrate on the case, and those still breathing.

  “What about the bomber?” he asked. “Anyone else in the blast radius?”

  “The bomber went up with his toy. There was a bit of shrapnel, but only superficial injuries from that. Your friend from the FBI took a hit from the blast, but he’s fine. Taz is on his way to you with the last hostage. How are the others?”

  Nic leaned against a display of Purina dog food for support. All he could think of was Stromberg singing “Time After Time” with that big, goofy grin on his face.

  “Nic? You read me?”

  “Copy that,” he said.

  “Are you okay? Maybe—”

  He turned off his radio, not caring about protocols or SOPs, just needing a moment alone with the only voice in his head being his own. But he couldn’t get Stromberg off his mind, his voice, his laugh. It was a laugh that came completely from the back of his throat and reminded Nic of some Disney character, but it was also infectious and made Nic smile every time he had heard it.

  Someone called his name. He checked his radio. Still off. He was now sitting on the floor, leaning against the shelving unit, although he didn’t remember sitting down. How long ago had that been?

  “Hey, buttercup, did I give you permission to go on break?”

  Nic placed a hand on the rows of dog food and pushed himself to his feet. Taz, Carter, and the Indian woman the giant terrorist had used for Russian roulette practice stood at the end of the aisle. They all looked how he felt. The woman seemed to be in a sort of still half-terrified daze. Carter’s face was red and smeared with ash, his eyes lacking the calm confidence they had exuded during the rest of the day.

  “Did you have a nice nap?” Taz said. “You ready to get back to work?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nic said.

  Carter looked around and asked, “Where’s Dr. Burke?”

  Nic took a deep breath. He really didn’t need another punch in the gut right now, but he sensed one coming. He said, “Burke dropped me off and peeled out of the lot. Said to tell you he’s ‘retiring’ from the FBI.”

  “What happened?”

  From the FBI agent’s tone, Nic knew that he was really asking, “What did you do?”

  “He started a fight in my uncle’s club, and we got into it,” Nic replied. “I think I pissed him off.”

  “Obviously.” Carter retrieved his phone and held it out toward Nic. “Call him and apologize. Get him back here now.”

  “Whoa, I don’t think so. He was out of line, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk to me anyway. He’s the one who—”

  “I don’t care, Officer Juliano. We have a lot of sick people in there. Ms. Deshpande here thinks that the burgers may have been poisoned. She’s the only one not showing any symptoms yet, and she’s also the only one who refused to eat the burgers. If it’s a poison, there may be an antidote. But the only people who could be in possession of that antidote have vanished without a trace. We need Burke back here now.”

  Taz stepped in and said, “We have good people on this, and you’ve been solving cases longer than that kid’s been alive. I know he’s a genius and all but—”

  “But what? He’s different? Eccentric? That kid sees patterns and solutions that no one else sees. I met August because his father is an old friend, and he needed me to get his kid out of trouble. When he first asked, I immediately thought drugs or something else kids do when they’re young and stupid. But his son had committed fraud and hacked a bunch of computers. He received all of those degrees in his spare time in his room on a laptop under a false identity. And he didn’t pay for any of it, even though it looked like he did in the college’s accounting software.”

  “But you pulled some strings and got him off?” Taz asked.

  “Under the condition that he do some work for me. There was an old case that I could never solve. One of those that really gets under your skin and sticks with you. So I made Burke review the case. A fresh pair of eyes. I knew from his father that he’d always dreamed about joining the FBI. It was an obsession for him, but Burke was too scared to pursue it. He didn’t think he could handle the academy and the people portion of it. I wanted to see if he could find any clues I may have missed.”

  “So did he?” Nic asked.

  Carter smiled. “We had a suspect in custody within 24 hours, who’s currently serving 20 years for a crime she would have gotten away with.”

  “She?”

  “The details aren’t important, but the poi
nt is that since then, August has solved 27 cold cases without ever stepping out into the field. Nothing but the files, a computer, and a beautiful mind.”

  Nic rubbed his temples and said, “I’ll give it a shot, but I don’t think he’ll listen to me. I don’t know what to tell him.”

  “Start with, ‘I’m sorry,’ and go from there.”

  Nic rolled his eyes. Carter laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Nic, one of the biggest mistakes you can make in life is thinking that you can ever understand the thoughts and feelings of another person. And one of mankind’s greatest sins is thinking that everyone should think, feel, and act like they do. The truth is that we all have a unique view of the world around us. You’ll never understand the pain and difficult lessons that have shaped Burke into who he is. Just like he’ll never fully understand your pain or your perspective.”

  “So what do I tell him? I don’t think sorry is going to cut it.”

  “You never know until you try. A little bit of patience and understanding can change the world. Just remember this, I’ve found that every conflict needs one of the people in the relationship to be the hero in order for it to truly be resolved. Someone has to have the courage and confidence to put aside their pride and their ego and be the bigger person by humbling themselves. And you, Nic Juliano, strike me as the kind of person who is strong enough to be a hero. Remember that and make the call.”

  Chapter 63

  After rocketing out of the GoBox parking lot, August Burke had driven to a secluded spot only a few minutes from the scene. It was nothing more than an old turnaround looking out onto the desert. Not a person in sight, only scrub brush, cacti, and desert flowers. The smell reminded Burke of burned toast that had sat out for a week, like fire and dust and strange vegetation.

  The isolation brought to mind the movie Castaway, where Tom Hanks goes down in a plane crash and is stranded on a desert island. Burke never really understood the issue though. Hanks’s character even goes a little mad from the lack of companionship and creates a friend from a volleyball. To Burke, that circumstance would almost be a dream come true. All he would need was Hanks’s island to have solar power and a Wi-Fi connection, which would probably have to come from a satellite phone.

  Burke had climbed onto the hood of the Firebird and sat cross-legged, picking his fingernails down to the quick, feeling like a freak and an outcast. He considered going back and apologizing to Nic, even though he really didn’t understand what he had done wrong. But he hated always having to be the one to apologize.

  Nic obviously didn’t like him and was annoyed with him. Perhaps that animosity went even deeper. Perhaps Nic flat-out hated him. In that case, he would avoid contact, as a courtesy.

  As he picked at his nails, tears started to flow down his cheeks. He hated no one. Such strong emotions seemed counterproductive and illogical to him, and he couldn’t determine why everyone he met seemed to hate him.

  All he had ever wanted was to help people, to be an FBI agent and to help make the world a better place. But after dealing with bullies throughout his time in public school, he knew that the FBI would just be more of the same. After all, the bureau was composed of people, and people terrified him.

  He felt worthless and stupid. The familiar feeling of despair set in. He wondered if anyone would miss him if he were gone. Maybe, a few people, mainly family members. But the real question was whether those people’s lives would be better without him as part of them. Would the world itself be better without him in it?

  The anxiety and despair rose up inside of him like lava from a volcano, starting in his guts and erupting out his chest. He dug into a pocket, retrieved one of his pills, and swallowed it dry.

  As he looked out at the desert, he admired its beauty and its purity. He considered becoming a part of that forever. He could hop down from the hood of the Firebird and walk out into that magnificent seclusion, letting the lonesome sand claim him as one of its own.

  He felt his cell phone vibrate against his leg. Checking the caller ID, he saw that it was Sam Carter, probably ready to hold the whole fraud and identity theft thing over his head again and guilt him into coming back. He declined the call, but Carter merely called back two seconds later.

  Burke tapped the green button and said, “What?”

  The voice on the other end of the line said, “Hey, Burke, this is Nic Juliano.”

  The lava in Burke’s chest burned brighter, and he suddenly couldn’t breathe. He managed to say, “Okay.”

  “Listen, buddy, I just wanted to apologize. I was way too hard on you.”

  “Umm, okay.”

  “I was angry, and it’s been a rough day, which is only getting rougher, and I said some things I shouldn’t have. Things I didn’t mean. And I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, me too. I mean, I’m sorry too.”

  “We need you, Burke. Things have gone south in a hurry, and we need all the help we can get.”

  Burke, still dumbfounded by the call, checked his watch and said, “I’ll be there in seven minutes.”

  Chapter 64

  White leather recliners and couches lined the interior of the Gulfstream G650. Isabel sat in one of the rearmost chairs, facing the front of the plane. A flight attendant had offered her champagne, but she asked if they had whiskey.

  The stewardess had replied with a smile, “I believe we have a single malt. A forty-five-year-old Dalmore Aurora.”

  Isabel had fought back a laugh. The attendant likely had no idea, but that bottle of scotch probably retailed for at least $8,000 dollars.

  “I’ll take the bottle and two glasses,” Isabel said. “No ice.”

  “Of course, just one moment.”

  Christopher, sitting in a white leather chair opposite her, said, “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Absolutely not. But the scotch will help.”

  The woman returned, poured them both two fingers, and left the bottle. Isabel returned to the files that Mobius had provided. They were heavily redacted. Mobius, or more likely one of his underlings, must have gone through the records and removed anything that might have been incriminating or pertained to any job with which the syndicate leader or one of his companies were involved. Their incompleteness frustrated her. Once again, she had to play the game while only seeing a small portion of the board.

  According to the files, not even Mobius knew Kruger’s real name, not that the information would help her much once they reached Las Vegas. Still, she wanted to put a name to her pain, not some made-up alias. Kruger always worked with a woman who never spoke and never gave her name. Other than those few details, the mercenary couple’s background was a mystery.

  What Isabel did find useful was the listing of certain contacts and operations that Kruger had conducted—especially the ones that took place in Las Vegas and the United States.

  “Anything interesting in there?” Christopher asked.

  “You haven’t read the files?”

  “I’m just a liaison. You’re the detective.”

  “What do you know about the guy who is supposed to be smuggling them out of the country? This Fitzgerald.”

  “I know he’s the best, and he’s also off-limits. Mr. Mobius owns a twenty-percent stake in Fitzgerald’s business.”

  “What? Then why can’t he just have this Fitzgerald guy take care of Kruger when he picks them up.”

  Christopher laughed. “Because that would compromise the integrity of Fitzgerald’s business, which would cost Mr. Mobius a lot of money and hurt his reputation. Fitzgerald informed us that Kruger had requested his services out of professional courtesy and respect.”

  “Great. I would hate for your band of killers and thieves to do something that may violate corporate ethics.”

  “You can complain about the way the world works, or you can do your best with what you have.”

  Isabel wanted to punch him in his perfect, handsome face. A broken nose would look great over his smug little grin. “The file says that Kruger ha
s completed several operations in the Las Vegas area.”

  “Yes, a lot of powerful people travel to Sin City for high-stakes gambling, and it caters to those seeking excess and extravagance like very few other places in the world.”

  “I really don’t care who he killed or what information he extracted from some Saudi prince. What interests me is that for each mission, he was outfitted by the same man. A former commando with the Recces,” she said, referring to the South African Special Forces Brigade.

  “I know of him. Carl Verbeek. He handles private security for visiting elites, and he’s involved in several other illicit activities. Deals a lot with the cartels. I think that’s how Kruger connected to him.”

  “I thought maybe they knew each other from Special Forces or worked together in South Africa or something like that.”

  “To my knowledge, there’s no real history between them. Just professional respect.”

  “Kruger’s used Verbeek on every operation that has come up within a hundred miles of Vegas. Sounds like they’re friends.”

  Christopher chuckled. “Kruger doesn’t have friends. But I see where you’re headed. If Verbeek has done good work for him in the past, then Kruger would likely continue to use him. And if you want to get your hands on a fifty-cal or some C-4 in Vegas, Carl Verbeek is a good man to know.”

  Isabel nodded, finally feeling like she was on the right trail, her hunter instincts and her cop instincts both pulling her toward Verbeek. “I assume you’ll have a car waiting for us when we hit the ground?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. The first thing we’re going to do is pay a visit to Mr. Verbeek.”

  “He’s a dangerous man, and he’s not going to just volunteer information on a client.”

  “We’ll be persuasive,” Isabel said.