A Touch of Deceit (Nick Bracco Series #1) (39 page)

“Yes, but it’s the country you’ve been voted to lead. Your decisions will have a profound effect on the future. You can make changes necessary to promote a safer, less suspicious environment.”

Merrick looked at his friend with a guarded glare. “I’ve instructed Fredrick to schedule an 11:30 press conference.”

Fisk gave him a stony look, but didn’t speak.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Merrick said, looking at his desktop. “If we don’t find Kharrazi by then . . .”

“You’re going to pull the troops from Turkey?”

Merrick nodded. “A U.N. peacekeeping force will remain, but we will no longer participate in the effort. I won’t risk any more American lives. I refuse to wake up tomorrow morning with a smoldering White House on the cover of every newspaper in the world.”

Fisk stared at Merrick and kneaded his hands. “I don’t believe you.”

Merrick kept his head down. After a couple of awkward minutes passed, he sensed Fisk get up and leave his office.

* * *

They sat in the reception area of the Sheriff’s office in the stunned silence that often followed a shooting. Especially an ambush. Especially an ambush set up by another law enforcement official.

It was after 5 PM and, except for a dispatcher buried behind the reception area, they were alone. They sat in old cloth-covered chairs with lumpy padding and worn arm rests. Jennifer Steele was in the bathroom with a pair of scissors, trying to repair the damage she’d inflicted on her hair with her Swiss army knife. Ed Tolliver, Carl Rutherford and Matt were devouring fast-food burritos, looking drained, as if they had just run a marathon.

Nick paced, stopping only occasionally to feed the ancient vending machine for Diet Pepsi's. His head felt like the hull of a submarine diving too quickly toward the ocean floor. Another fringe benefit of stress-induced trauma. He could practically see Dr. Morgan rolling his eyes from two thousand miles away.

They weren’t any closer to the KSF hideout and now the news was interrupting programs on every station, including the cartoon channel, identifying Payson as the headquarters for Kemel Kharrazi and his crew of terrorists.

“What did Walt have to say?” Matt asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“He said that everyone was proud of us. Riggs wanted to congratulate me for finding the KSF hideout.”

“But we haven’t found the hideout.”

“That’s what I told Walt, but I guess they’re finally convinced that Kharrazi has his crew up here somewhere. DPS has quarantined Payson. No one comes in or goes out without inspection. They’re sending us a SWAT team and Special OPS from Phoenix.”

“How long before they get here?”

Nick looked at his watch. It was seven-fifteen, nine-fifteen in D.C. “The first chopper should get here in about twenty minutes.” Nick took a gulf of Diet Pepsi, then looked at Matt. He said something else.”

Matt cocked his head.

“He said the President has scheduled a press conference for 11:30 PM, Eastern Standard Time.
A frown curled Matt’s lips. “Don’t tell me.”

Nick nodded. “If we don’t find Kharrazi by then, he’s announcing a withdrawal.”

“You tell Walt that it wouldn’t be the last time terrorists threaten the White House?”

“I told him.”

“He have anything to say about it?”

“He said we should get Kharrazi and make this all moot.”

Matt walked away shaking his head. He shoved open the door to the men’s room and disappeared inside.

Nick knew that every minute counted, but he had to let the crew catch its breath while reinforcements made their way to Payson. He dialed his cell phone and when he heard his wife’s feeble voice, he nearly wept. “Hi, Baby,” he whispered. “How are you feeling?”

“I miss you,” Julie said. “Are you almost done?”

“Almost.”

“You know, Nick, what I said about . . . you know, killing him . . . I was kind of juiced up on pain killers at the time. I really want you to come home and be here with me.”

Nick cupped a hand over his eyes. “Jule, I’m not coming home to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”

There was a pause. “Is that how you would feel if you stopped right now—like danger will follow you home?”

He didn’t want to frighten her, yet he couldn’t allow her to be caged by FBI protection 24 hours a day. Not long term.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“But Sweetie, that puts us back to square one. There will always be someone out there,” her voice cracked. “It’s never going to stop.”

Nick paced into a dark hallway that led to the prison cells. The only thing on the wall was an ancient payphone jutting out into the narrow corridor. Atop the phone was an abandoned Styrofoam cup. Nick increased speed as he spoke. “Listen, Jule, this time it’s different. It’s personal. I promise I will not be an FBI agent thirty days from now. One way or another I will be done.”

“I don’t know if I like how you said that, Nick. What do you mean one way or another you’ll be done?”

“I mean . . .” Nick thought about what he meant. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t plot out his goals on a chart and check them off as he went. How could he possibly resolve the KSF threat in such a short period? “I mean . . . I mean I’m going to get Kharrazi.”

“Will you ever be able to let go?”

Nick didn’t have the details yet, just disconnected ideas floating around in his head like tiny bits of hydrogen and oxygen looking for a way to merge into something significant. He was distracted by a pair of headlights that lit up the inside of the reception room. He heard Carl Rutherford murmur something about sticking a bullet between the Sheriff’s eyes.

“Listen, Jule, I’ve got to go.” Tell her, he thought. Tell her what she needs to hear. But the moment passed and once again Nick grappled for something resembling appropriate. “I’ll be home tomorrow—I promise. We’ll talk then.”

“I love you.” She hung up, giving him the out he needed.

“Now listen up,” Matt was instructing Rutherford and Tolliver. “We go straight by the book. We read him his rights and take him into custody. End of story. We don’t want any well-paid attorneys getting him off on a police brutality charge. Understand?”

The two agents were more interested in their burritos than some corrupt Sheriff. They both nodded with mouths full of beans. The front door creaked open and Sheriff Skrugs marched in with his airy smile intact. He stopped cold when he saw the audience waiting for him. He tried, but he couldn’t hide his astonishment. He continued through the doorway tentatively while his eyes darted from agent to agent as if he was trying to discover how much they knew.

“Evening Sheriff,” Matt twanged.

“Well . . . how did it go?” Skrugs’ voice was shaky.

Matt approached the sheriff with a sinister grin. “Bet you didn’t think you’d ever see us again.”

Skrugs assumed his trademark pompous smirk. “Now why in the world would you go and say a thing like that?”

Matt hesitated for just a moment, then squeezed his fist shut and flew an uppercut into Skrugs’ chin. The Sheriff’s teeth snapped together like castanets as he fell back and hit the floor flush, the full weight of his body causing the room to shake.

Nick jumped to Matt’s side. He looked sideways at his partner. “By the book, eh?”

For the first time in their tenure together, Matt was speechless. He just stood with his fist clenched as if he were waiting for Skrugs to get to his feet and take another blow.

But Skrugs was phlegmatic. He slowly rose to one elbow and rubbed his chin with an air of superiority, as if his acquired knowledge would sustain him. Nick wasn’t sure if it was the grin or the residual tension left behind from the ambush, but he suddenly found himself with his hand grasping the Sheriff’s throat. His grip was so tight that Skrug's skin oozed from between Nick’s fingers like Play-Doh. Skrug's face turned red while appearing anxious to hear Nick’s demands.

Nick simply squeezed harder and harder until he was fairly certain he would suffocate Skrugs in a matter of seconds. The Sheriff desperately pulled on Nick’s arms and searched the room for support from anywhere he might find it. He would find nothing but steady glares from the observing agents.

With the wall of blood rushing to his head, Nick didn’t hear the door open.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

Silk stood in the doorway with the confused expression of a child who had just found his little brother opening up all of his Christmas presents. He froze open-mouthed, while a green toothpick defied gravity on his lower lip. He looked at Nick for an explanation.

Nick released Skrugs and the big man’s head bounced on the linoleum floor like a bowling ball. A strained surge of air fought its way through the Sheriff’s collapsed trachea.

Silk looked down at the Sheriff gasping for air. He pointed his toothpick. “That’s supposed to be my job.”

“Silk,” Nick stopped him before he went any further. “This is not who you’re after.”

Silk looked pensively at Skrugs, as if any revenge might curb his appetite.

Nick kicked Skrugs. “How much did they pay you?”

Skrugs was on his side. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath. Nick couldn’t tell if one of the heaves was a shrug. He pulled out his 9MM and pointed the barrel at Skrug’s head. “Where are they?”

The Sheriff’s eyes widened.

The bathroom door opened and even before he saw Jennifer Steele working a towel over her wet hair, he heard her gasp. “What are you doing?”

Almost embarrassed, Nick holstered his gun.

Silk leaned into Nick and whispered, “You want I should take him out back and get some answers?”

Nick sighed. He stared at Skrugs who had resumed his eternally smug grin.

“What do you need to know?” Silk asked.

Matt answered for his partner. “We need to know where the KSF are hiding.”

Silk nodded and seemed to turn this information over in his head. He pointed to Nick, “I think I know someone who could maybe help us.”

Nick was still looking at Skrugs and noticed his face fall.

“Who?” Nick asked.

“Let me make a call.”

Silk flipped open his cell phone and stepped outside. Nick tapped Skrugs with his foot and said to Matt, “Cuff him and throw him into a cell.”

Matt ripped the sheriff’s shirt yanking him upright, then slapped cuffs on him. As Skrugs was led toward the back detention area, he sneered, “You ain’t got squat on me, Mr. Federal Agent.”

Nick ignored the comment and looked at his watch. His head was one gigantic pulse.

Kemel Kharrazi sat back in his chair and picked at a plate of grapes and cheese. He pointed at the television monitor. “Truly they are idiots, no Hasan?”

Hasan Bozlak nodded, sitting upright at the edge of his chair.

The two men watched the small television monitor in the basement of the safe house, in Kharrazi’s private quarters. The walls were bare but for a detailed map of Arizona and a map of the United States littered with colored thumbtacks. The low ceiling gave the room a closed-in feeling. It bolstered the stillness that thrived in the basement. Thirty soldiers patrolled the grounds, protected the perimeter and secured the interior of the cabin with the professional quiet of a jewel thief. Kharrazi could barely hear their footsteps overhead as he enjoyed the scene on the monitor.

A lamp sat alone on an end table between the two men. Kharrazi twisted off the light, causing the TV to become the only source of illumination. The room became eerily dim.

On the screen, Matt McColm, Ed Tolliver, and Carl Rutherford attacked tortilla-wrapped food, while Nick Bracco spoke with his wife on his cell phone. From the camera angle hidden in the ceiling panels of the Sheriff’s office, Kharrazi could hear Bracco speaking with his back to the group. Even from behind it was obvious that the FBI agent was wiping his eyes.

Kharrazi mocked. “His entire world is about to explode and he’s worried about his female partner. What emotional weaklings these Americans are.”

Kharrazi had fiber optics installed inside of the Sheriff’s station weeks ago. He knew that once Payson became a focal point, the Sheriff’s station was the most likely place to set up a command center. His foresight was now paying huge dividends.

Like people waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square on New Years Eve, Kharrazi and Hasan were counting down the minutes until the White House exploded into rubble.

“One hundred and forty-two minutes, Sarock,” Hasan said. They both found the digital display atop the detonator irresistible. The detonator beamed the countdown from an open-doored wall safe. At the first sign of trouble Kharrazi would lock the safe, but he knew it was irrelevant. The detonator was foolproof and could withstand scrutiny from the world’s best bomb experts without deactivating. Any tampering would merely cause the missiles to deploy earlier than scheduled. A true Rashid Baser masterpiece.

Kharrazi noticed his number one soldier fidgeting in his chair. “Relax, Hasan. You worry too much.”

“Yes, Sarock,” Hasan replied, twirling his thumbs.