The Gatekeeper. Michelle Gagnon
shirt over a white undershirt and a blue-and-white Colts hat cocked to the side.
“Shut up, you little punk,” Rodriguez grunted.
“Agent Rodriguez,” Kelly said warningly. “Save it.”
“I got nothing to say to you,” Emilio sulked.
Kelly looked him over: too young to even be shaving. She repressed a sigh. “Your grandma seems like a nice lady, let’s have her join us. We need an adult present to question you anyway.”
“I ain’t answering no questions, bitch. I don’t disrespect the colors.” He jerked a thumb at his baseball cap.
Rodriguez rattled off something in Spanish, and Emilio responded with a tirade, struggling against the cuffs to get in Rodriguez’s face. Kelly pulled him back.
“Stop it, both of you,” she said sharply. “Not another word until we get him back to the house.” She cast a warning glance at Rodriguez. Anything said by a minor without a legal guardian present would be inadmissible. And she was hoping the grandmother might prove helpful. The woman had been shocked to find them on her doorstep, and judging by the way she called for Emilio, she didn’t tolerate back talk. With any luck her presence would cut down on his posturing.
In silence they proceeded down the street. The guy with the pit bull had righted himself, and as they passed by he muttered something. Emilio paled noticeably and jerked sideways as the pit bull growled. Kelly pursed her lips and wished for the hundredth time that she’d opted for Spanish instead of French in high school.
Dante fidgeted. His crew had been stuck in the warehouse for three days, and they were becoming increasingly restless. All twelve sat around a table playing endless games of five-card stud. They were almost indistinguishable, a solid mass of shaved heads and prison tats, clad in identical uniforms of black T-shirts and jeans.
Composed of three four-man teams, each was only privy to part of the plan. He was the only one holding all the proverbial cards. They knew enough, though, to potentially make it rain down cops and Feds. For that reason Jackson wanted them kept in complete isolation, to prevent a screwup on the magnitude of the KKK one in 1997. Back then a small group of Klansmen almost succeeded in torching a natural gas processing plant in north Texas. It would have been spectacular if they’d succeeded, could’ve taken out thousands and brought a lot of attention to the cause. But one of the morons got cold feet, and in swept the FBI. Jackson was too smart to allow something like that to happen.
One of the crew suddenly launched to his feet, scattering chips as he exploded in a stream of expletives. The guy he was yelling at stroked a knife clipped to his belt but remained seated. Dante frowned, debating whether or not to intervene. The other men tilted back in their chairs, watching with interest. One of them, Jimmy, glanced at Dante and raised an eyebrow.
When the first guy kicked back his chair, sending it skittering across the cement floor, Dante stood. They both caught the motion out of the corner of their eyes and paused. He approached the table slowly. These were hardened guys, between them they’d clocked decades in some of the country’s toughest penitentiaries. But there was a clear pecking order in the Brotherhood, as respected as any military rank, and in this room he was king.
“Cut the shit,” Dante said, voice low.
He eyed them, waiting. The second guy shrugged and muttered an apology that sounded more like a challenge. The troublemaker took longer to back down. Thanks to his enormous blond handlebar moustache he was nicknamed “Hulk,” after the wrestler. A full minute passed before Hulk turned, retrieved the chair, and straddled it.
“It’s been a long week,” Dante said when they’d settled down. Murmurs of assent. One of the other guys had gathered up the cards and was shuffling them. “I’m thinking it’s time to blow off a little steam.”
“Thought you said we couldn’t go anywhere,” said Hulk.
“We can’t.” Dante held up a hand to stem the tide of groans. “But I got a few girls cleared by management. One phone call and they show up to party.”
“No shit?” Hulk stroked his moustache. “How old? ’Cause I like ’em young.”
No surprise there, Dante thought. “Young enough. You know the rules, though.”
“No worries boss. I don’t need her mouth for talking,” someone chimed in, and everyone laughed.
Dante made the call. The girls were fresh meat, caught coming over the border by the local militia. They were supposed to report all illegals to Border Patrol without engaging. But this unit contained some of Jackson’s most avid supporters, and they were happy to provide whatever was needed, whether that meant gathering up a few women or ignoring a duffel bag tossed over the wall. Dante wasn’t really worried about the men talking—the language barrier would prevent that, and besides, the girls were headed to a pit in the desert afterward. They’d keep the boys occupied for a few days. And by then they should have their marching orders.
The thought reenergized him. It had taken years to set this thing in motion. Hard to believe that by this time next week, they’d be guiding the nation back on its true path.
Dante headed to the opposite end of the warehouse and ran a hand along the side of a truck. Two others just like it lined the back of the room, waiting to be called into commission. He allowed himself a small smile as a whoop from the card table signaled the arrival of the girls.
Eight
“It’s not like that.” Randall sighed. “I send a text when I’ve got something for them, and they respond with instructions on where to drop it off.”
“So you’ve never spoken to an actual human?” Jake pressed. He’d persuaded Randall to leave work a few hours early so they could talk. Randall’s apartment screamed bachelor pad. It was a small, cluttered one-bedroom. The walls were bare, and aside from the futon couch and a tiny TV on a rickety table, there was little in the way of decor. Clearly Randall didn’t subscribe to any Martha Stewart publications.
“Once, when they first contacted me. I thought it was a joke at first.” He paused, examining his hands. “It never occurred to me that my family might actually be in danger.”
Jake thought that for a smart guy, at times Randall was staggeringly clueless. Maybe a bus driver could be nonchalant in the face of such threats, but it should’ve given a guy working at a top secret government lab pause. Still he nodded sympathetically. “Sure. What did he look like?”
“He was a big guy, white, bald. Wore a hat and sunglasses, so it’s kind of hard to say. Lots of tattoos.”
“Interesting.” Eastern European gangsters mapped their entire criminal life on their bodies with tattoos. “Any accent?”
“He wasn’t foreign, if that’s what you’re asking. Southern, I think, but I’m not sure which state.”
“Okay.” Jake paused to think. Maybe a foreign operative trained to mimic American accents. Or a mercenary who lived stateside. “You sent your ex and daughter off to stay with a relative, like we discussed?”
“Yes, they went yesterday.”
“And didn’t tell anyone where they were going, right?”
Randall nodded.
“So back to the million dollar question. Any idea who took Madison?”
“I told you—”
“Because now we think it might be someone from one of the former Soviet bloc countries.” Jake watched him closely, but nothing seemed to register. “Turkmenistan, maybe.”
“Turkmenistan? But that doesn’t make any sense.” Randall’s brows furrowed.
“Look, Randall. I don’t know much about your work, but I’m guessing it has something to do with nuclear materials.” When Randall didn’t respond,