The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  Cruz gave that a moment’s thought and his face broke into a tough grin. “I’m firing on all cylinders, Jack. Past couple of days I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, meditating on it, and I don’t know of any other position or career that would give me that . . . that thing. I’m good to go. I’ll let you know if I’m in over my head.”

  “Excellent.”

  Mateo nodded his approval.

  “Then here’s the deal: I want you to keep your head down. Nobody knows you exist. Agent Flannery poked the hornets’ nest, and I don’t want you to get stung.”

  “No need to ask me twice,” Cruz said, never one to take Jack’s advice lightly.

  “Goes for you too, Mateo. There’s at least one member of the ship’s crew who knows we’re working the case together,” Jack said, not so subtly referencing Caroline Boudreau.

  Cruz barked a laugh and got the look from Mateo.

  “The New York family is here to nose around,” Jack continued. “One of their men disappears with half a mil, and we appear on-scene uninvited. I mix it up with Rusty, he gets arrested three days later, and the Mob loses a second bag of cash. They’re not happy, and Flannery put us directly in their line of fire. They’re gonna want to know who our client is, and Cardona might not have the juice to keep them at bay even if he’s so inclined. If they discover we’re on the FBI’s payroll, we’re as good as dead. Let’s keep our cell phones charged and close at hand. Any sign of trouble, text 999. And let’s all keep one in the chamber.”

  Sixteen

  Jack was sitting in his usual booth at Hal’s Bar & Grill, across from narcotics detective and his only real friend on the LAPD, Nick Aprea. Nick tossed back a shot of Herradura silver, licked salt off his fist, and bit into a lime with studied grace, never breaking eye contact. “So, you’re working for the enemy again.” Statement of fact.

  “I’m working for the FBI.”

  “Semantics. You’re sleeping with the enemy.”

  “His progeny.” Jack took a bite off a perfectly cooked cheeseburger, and chased it with a sip of cabernet.

  Nick was drinking his dinner and picking at a plate of fried calamari as Arsinio dropped another shot of poison in front of the red-eyed detective. “Thank you, Arsinio.”

  Jack watched Nick replay the ritual, knowing he was in store for more pearls of wisdom and a shit storm of honesty.

  “Welcome to my world.” Nick’s eyes creased into a sly smile.

  Jack knew he was referencing his own young wife, who still blamed Jack for the bullet to the shoulder Nick had taken on Catalina Island, and the shootout with Toby Dirk. But Nick wasn’t done talking.

  “You’ll lose some weight, you’ll lose some sleep, but you’ll grin a hell of a lot more.”

  “A reasonable trade-off,” Jack said, hoping he was getting off lightly, but knowing better.

  “You’ll lose all credibility with the cops, except for moi and a few old cronies. You can’t talk about your client or they’ll be picking your bones out of a landfill.”

  “Fuck ’em, except for you and my short list of supporters.”

  “Yeah, not like your life’s been a bed of fucking roses. You’ve been shot at, punched out, clubbed, and that’s just the past few months.”

  “You’re the only one at the table who’s been shot.”

  “Tou-fucking-ché, hombre.”

  “You’re mixing your cultures.”

  “The more I drink, the more I start speaking in tongues.” Nick turned slightly in the booth, and Jack could read the pain that Nick would never admit to. Arsinio read the body language and hurried over with a fresh dish of limes and another shot of tequila. “So, why so tight-lipped about the case?”

  “I’m serving two masters, trying to protect my guys and keep my eyes on the prize. My only focus is finding out what happened to Agent Luke Hunter, aka Luke Donato, and the bag of cash. And I really don’t give a damn about the money.”

  “It’s finding Luke, dead or alive. And from what little you told me, there’s a good chance he’s meat.”

  “I’m glad you haven’t lost any of your sensitivity.”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Only hurts when I’m on the crapper.”

  Jack set down his cheeseburger.

  “Fucking rotator cuff,” Nick went on. “Doc says I’ll be a hundred percent in a few weeks.”

  “About time.”

  “So, I’ll take the DNA samples and run them by Molloy. It’s gonna take a while. The ME’s office is backed up worse than I am with these pain meds.” Nick chewed a forkful of calamari. “I get Luke’s brush, where you got it and all, but where did you pick up the hair samples? I don’t think you said?” He bobbed his fork at Jack like a divining rod.

  Jack gave his good friend the eye-roll non-answer while sliding the shoe box with the hairbrush and DNA samples across the booth.

  “Fuckin’ Bertolino,” Nick said good-naturedly. “Good luck presenting it in court if we find a match.”

  * * *

  Trent was on the backside of Curtis Tech. One of the few universities on the West Coast still operating a nuclear program. At two in the morning the night air was cool and damp, but Trent didn’t feel a thing. He was operating on pure adrenaline.

  Sukarno had provided the map and the connection to Carl Flagell, who worked in the lab. The two men were standing in an empty parking structure behind the building that housed the reactor.

  Carl had stringy black hair, a gaunt face, sunken eyes, and a long, sharp nose that his face was still waiting to grow into. He smelled of marijuana, and his mellow unnerved Trent, who questioned Sukarno Lei’s judgment call. He wasn’t confident that this was the right man to facilitate the job.

  Carl rolled up a heavy-duty industrial cart, and both men muscled the heavy lead box out of the back of the Ford Explorer and onto the metal cart. Two aluminum briefcases and a wooden crate followed that.

  “How is Sukey?” Carl said, pushing the cart toward the back door of the building.

  “Who’s Sukey?” Trent said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. He needed this process to go without a hitch or the entire plan would fall apart.

  “Hah.” Carl laughed. “It’s what I call Sukarno at the poker tables. Gets him riled and off his game. I took him for thirty grand at Bellagio.”

  “Then why are you doing this?”

  “I’m two seventy-five large into my bookie. My bookie’s a made man. He promised to cut off my right hand if I didn’t deliver the cash with said hand.”

  The Mafia connection was almost poetic, Trent thought as they entered the lab and rolled into a still, silent space. The walls were white, the room filled with major electronic components, a world-class cyclotron, and a thick Plexiglas wall fronted by a massive block of concrete.

  “Take the robotic arms for a spin while I set you up.” Carl rolled the cart through a side metal doorway and could now be seen pushing the cart to a position on the other side of the Plexiglas wall. He made short work of centering the cart, turning on a dosimeter, and joining Trent, securing the metal door behind him.

  “That’s ten-feet-thick thirty-ton blocks of concrete that’ll shield the radiation emitted from your fuel rods. The robotic arms mimic your movements and deliver more power, more strength, than your own hands. Knock yourself out, you’ve got two hours.” And Carl left Trent to his own devices.

  Trent preferred to work alone.

  Sukarno had provided a replacement level-A protective suit for Trent and enough military-grade C-4 plastic explosives to sink the Queen Mary. The icing on the cake: the radioactive cloud that would umbrella death or nuclear contamination over a five-hundred-yard radius, depending on wind direction.

  Trent had learned the law of attraction in his physics class at UCLA. Like attracts like. For every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. What goes out comes roaring back like a locomotive. Sukarno Lei was the living embodiment of
that simple theory. It was clear from their first meeting that he was the mentor Trent had been searching for his entire life.

  Both men were motivated by the almighty dollar. And if all went according to plan, Trent would walk away from the terrorist attack a very wealthy man.

  And then along came Roxy. She was the purist of their small cell. She had all the right stuff. Military-trained and an anger quotient off the Richter scale. What motivated her was payback for her father. That and a little misunderstanding with her commanding officer while she was serving in Afghanistan. Roxy called it rape, the major called it consensual. He let her muster out with an honorable discharge; she accepted and vowed revenge.

  Trent didn’t feel a moment’s guilt keeping Roxy out of the financial arrangement. With the detonation of the bombs and shutting down Long Beach Harbor, he’d be delivering on his promise to Roxy: revenge against the United States government. Roxy would be seriously pissed when she discovered a financial payoff was part of the equation, but Trent was confident he could finesse her after the fact. Everyone would get satisfaction if all went according to plan.

  Trent jumped to his feet and put on the protective gear, making sure the seals were airtight. It might have been overkill, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  The original protective container was on a metal workstation, next to the two opened briefcases, lined with thick sheets of lead. Trent laid down fitted sheets of C-4 and molded indented pockets into the claylike material with his robotic hands, to snug the pellets that would be extricated from the fuel rod bundles. One bundle for each briefcase.

  Trent had assembled the bomb components back at his own storage facility before embarking on the trip north. He tamped the electric blasting caps into the malleable explosive material. He had already clipped the detonating cords and soldered them to the timers, and from the timers to cell phones. He snugged the entire device into the C-4. A call placed to the cell’s number would engage the timer. When the predetermined time was reached, it would create a charge from the lithium battery and the blasting cap would detonate, setting off the explosives.

  Now the hazardous work began. Trent was sweating in his suit, his work quick, methodical, and thorough.

  He unclasped the lid of the containment box from the trawler. The dosimeter’s raspy beep echoed in his hood, reacting to the deadly radiation levels. Trent’s clear plastic faceplate started to fog. He fought to still the wild beating of his heart but never stopped working. One mechanical hand lifted a bundle while the other snapped off the top that bound the rods together. He turned the bundle upside down and dropped the pellets onto the C-4 and snugged the uranium oxide into the claylike explosive. He repeated the same procedure with the second briefcase. He placed another precut sheet of C-4 over both mechanisms, tamped the malleable material tight, and swung the lids down, locking the bomb with the heavy-duty clasps.

  The dosimeter’s beep silenced, and Trent’s breathing returned to normal. He placed both cases in the original lead container and slammed the heavy lid shut.

  Trent pulled his arms out of the robotic sleeves, ripped off the constricting headgear, gasped for air, and wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes.

  He picked up his cell phone and called Sukarno. “Done,” he said before clicking off and stepping out of the white suit.

  * * *

  The men finished loading the cargo, and the rear of the SUV dipped under the weight. Carl Flagell still had work to do. Part of Sukarno’s deal called for Carl to dispose of the fuel rod casings.

  Trent pulled out a satchel containing three hundred thousand dollars and handed it to Carl, who rifled through the stacks of hundreds, then, satisfied, closed the bag and fist-bumped Trent.

  “I don’t know you,” Carl said. “You never met me. Take off, and put some miles between us ASAP.”

  Trent pulled silently out of the lot.

  Carl walked back toward the lab, reached up above the doorway, pulled an argyle sock off the security camera lens, and disappeared into the lab.

  Trent didn’t snap on his headlights until he hit the highway and then drove the speed limit to the twenty-four-hour diner where Roxy waited for their trip back to L.A.

  Seventeen

  Day Nine

  Jack called Doris and explained he’d be ten minutes late for their planned meeting at Starbucks on San Vicente in Brentwood. It was a busy location, and Cruz arrived ten minutes early to set up and snag a table.

  When Jack walked into the air-conditioned room, he saw Doris leafing through an L.A. Times in the rack. She turned as the front door pinged and flashed a thousand-watt smile. The tables were all occupied with laptop writers, out-of-work actors, and real estate agents. Doris offered to go somewhere less crowded, but on cue, Cruz vacated his table. Jack grabbed it, offering a seat to Doris and taking her drink order. Doris started texting the moment Jack ordered their coffees, and Cruz moved to the condiment counter. He appeared to be reading emails on his laptop but was busy hacking Doris’s phone.

  By the time Jack handed her an iced caffè mocha across the table, Cruz had downloaded her online banking statements and a list of recent phone calls.

  “Can you believe what happened to Rusty?” Doris said, her eyes bright and conspiratorial.

  “Sometimes bad things happen to bad people,” Jack said, grinning.

  Doris smiled back, assuring Jack that they were on the same team, and: “What have you found out about Luke? It’s all anybody’s talking about.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “That he’s sitting on a beach sucking down piña coladas, or dead.”

  “You’re a smart woman. I know you’ve got the pulse of the crew, what’s your theory?”

  “Hmmmm, the jury’s still out. I hope he’s okay, he’s really sweet”—and Doris leaned into Jack, lowering her voice—“for a gangster.”

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Okay.”

  “Did you have a personal relationship with Luke?”

  “You mean . . .” Jack raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Well, will this stay between us, we’re not supposed to,” and she continued without Jack’s answer, “once, one time. He walked me to my car, and one thing led to another, and . . . we did it in my car. It wasn’t easy; I drive a Prius. But it was hot.”

  “Just the one time?” Jack asked. And Doris nodded wistfully. “Tell me about your job, do you like it, do the clients treat you well?”

  “They’re the best. Just the best. The tips are through the roof. I almost have the down payment for a condo.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “We’re not supposed to say, but have you seen the Russian playing poker? Mr. Barinov? When he’s in town, I do very well. But then I’m very good at what I do. I understand the needs of my clients and work my tail off to be of service.”

  “That’s a rare trait,” Jack said, knowing her statement could be taken two ways. “I’ve seen you in action, and you are very good at your job.”

  “Thank you, Jack. Anything else? I’ve got a lot to do before we hit the open seas again.”

  “No, thanks for your time. If anything comes up that might help with my investigation, give me a call, and if I think of anything, I’ll be in touch.” Doris was good, and Jack almost had second thoughts about her connection to Barinov.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Doris said. She gave Jack’s cheek a peck and tossed her empty into the wastebasket.

  “Doris,” Jack said, waving her back. She bounced over, high on youth, and caffeine, and money in the bank. “Sit down, one more thing. The way it works here is I give you time to be truthful, and then if I see a problem with your story, I get truthful.”

  Doris’s smile dimmed a few watts. “Okay? What do you mean?”

  “I know you’re good at what you do.”

  “I told you that just now.”

  “You did. But the more you serve Barinov, the better he plays, and the more he wins. Understand?”

/>   “He’s Russian. The vodka relaxes him,” she said, the schoolgirl veneer cracking.

  “And here’s the deal. I know you understand deals, because I’ve seen you on the security cameras. The more he drinks . . .”

  “The better he plays . . .”

  “Because . . .”

  “I might get a bit excited when I see a hand where I know he can win. But I don’t say a word. I promise. When he wins, he tips.” Doris was red-faced now.

  “This will stay between you and me if you start telling me the absolute truth.”

  “But—” she squealed.

  Jack cut her off, leaning in close. “Did Barinov ever ask you about scheduling, money transfers, end-of-weekend deliveries?”

  “Am I going to lose my job?”

  “If you don’t tell the truth, and if Barinov is tied to Luke’s disappearance, it could mean jail time.”

  Doris’s eyes went wide, filled with tears, and Jack handed her a Starbucks napkin.

  “We have you on tape, on multiple occasions, signaling Barinov after you delivered a drink. You are very good at what you do. But in slow motion, your eye blinks become more pronounced, and the odds of the Russian winning a hand every time you drop off a drink gives good luck a bad name.”

  “Don’t tell Rusty.”

  “Talk to me about Rusty.”

  “He was always in my face, asking if I was fucking Luke. His words. Checking my tips. Invading my personal space. Please don’t tell him. He’s dangerous.”

  “Rusty is out of play for the time being. It’s Vincent Cardona you have to worry about. Do you think Barinov could have killed Luke Donato and taken the money?”

  Doris was crying again, and Jack handed her another napkin but didn’t break eye contact.

  “No, if I thought that, I couldn’t live with myself. So my tips got padded when he won. I’m a single woman in a cutthroat town. I’ve got a few good years to cash in. I’m a glorified cocktail waitress, for Christ’s sake.”