End Game (9 page)

Jolaine had to get back to Graham. It was entirely possible—maybe even likely—that he was awake by now. Despite the note she’d left him and his boisterous declarations of independence, it wouldn’t take long for him to feel abandoned. Nothing good could follow from that.

T
en feet under the parking lot that separated Jonathan’s firehouse home from the basement of St. Katherine’s Catholic Church, Jonathan and Boxers worked together in the twenty-five- by twenty-five-foot armory, selecting the weapons and tools they might reasonably need to meet the requirements of the upcoming 0300 mission. Built of reinforced concrete, and accessed by an enormous steel door that was originally designed for a bank vault, the armory was a place of solitude for Jonathan. Something about the combined smells of Hoppe’s solvent, gun oil, and the hints of isocyanates from the explosives brought him comfort.

The room was lit as brightly as a surgical suite. Heavy fireproof cabinets lined the walls, and two wooden workbenches with additional lighting took up the space in the middle, their tops covered in a carbon-rich conductive plastic that was connected by braided copper cables to the grounded floors. On the occasions when Jonathan or Boxers would manipulate primary explosives, say in the creation of specialized initiators, they would wear conductive shoes and electrically bond themselves to the workstations via conductive bracelets. Explosives knew few enemies more dangerous than static electricity.

“Wish we had better intel,” Boxers said. Anticipating the need for quick action, Big Guy had followed Jonathan home and spent what was left of the night in the guest room on the firehouse’s first floor. “We’re packing for every contingency.”

No argument from Jonathan. He took a sip of his coffee. Not knowing where they were going, or what they were going to find when they got there, they had to plan for both mechanical entry and explosive entry. Not knowing what kind of reconnaissance they would be able to perform, they had to plan for multiple contingencies there, too. And so it went with every element of the upcoming operation.

“These are all clean, right, Boss?” Boxers stood at the gun locker.

“Affirm,” Jonathan said. After every operation where shots were fired, the weapons involved needed to be retooled so that they could not be traced to past or future uses. Because of their spooky pasts, both men were so far off the grid as to have no official, truthful pasts or identities, but the additional attention to details improved their already stacked odds of never getting caught.

Jonathan heard footsteps approaching from the tunnel beyond the door, and recognized Venice’s quick stride. “Don’t shoot,” she said as she closed the distance. It was an unnecessary step, but an understandable one under the circumstances.

“Come on in,” Jonathan said. When Venice appeared in the doorway, he noted the laptop and notebook in her arms, and he pulled the elements of his deconstructed Colt 1911 closer to make room for her. “Help yourself to some coffee. You’re up early.”

Venice set her stuff down. “No,
you’re
up early. I see seven in the morning every day.”

“And I see it as rarely as possible,” Jonathan confessed. “What brings you all the way down here?”

Venice took him up on the offer for coffee and headed for the pot. “I’ve been scouring the Internet and other sources looking for some mention of the grand shoot-out that allegedly happened last night.”

“Allegedly?” Jonathan asked.

Venice looked into the coffee pot and winced. “When did you make this?” She poured some into a cup—one that bore the logo of the Central Intelligence Agency—and added enough cream and sugar to turn it into a dessert drink. “I say allegedly because I find no mention of the assault anywhere. Not even on ICIS, and if past is precedent, a shoot-out is exactly the kind of event that would have ICIS buzzing like a beehive.”

Jonathan recognized ICIS (pronounced EYE-sis) as a post-9/11 program that documented ongoing police investigations in real time so that other law enforcement agencies could be aware of what was going on, in case they wanted to weigh in and recognize similarities in their own jurisdictions. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

“I’m just making an observation,” she said. “If it was as big as we’ve been led to believe, that would be a lot of people not showing up to work or the breakfast table. You’d think somebody would make a report.”

Boxers laid a pile of empty thirty-round magazines for his HK417 onto his bench next to the open ammo box filled with loose 7.62 millimeter bullets. “Uncle’s suppressing the news,” he said as began pressing bullets into the first mag. “That’s what I would do if I had a big secret to keep and unlimited resources to keep it with.”

“Still no word from the nanny bodyguard?” Jonathan asked as he concentrated on applying a drop of oil onto the pistol’s slide rails.

“She’s still lying low,” Venice said.

“That’s the smart play,” Jonathan said. He used a one-by-one-inch fabric patch to wipe away the excess oil. “With the world coming apart around you, it’s easy to feel expendable. I’d hide, too, at least until I knew it was safe to be visible.”

“Maryanne said that it might even be our guys who are chasing them,” Boxers recalled. “I hope she’s well armed.”

“If she knows that the government might be on the other team, she can’t even call the police,” Jonathan said. With the oil distributed, he reinserted the pistol’s barrel and guide rod. “You brought your computer, Ven. Do you have info on Jolaine and Graham?”

“Some,” Venice said. She carried her computer over to the coffee station and hooked it to the USB cable that dangled from the wall-mounted television. Because of explosion-proofing issues, the screen itself was contained within a clear Lexan box. A few seconds later, the television had converted to a computer screen.

“I wasn’t able to find many pictures of her,” Venice explained. The screen displayed an institutional image of a surly-looking young lady with thin lips and utterly average features. Devoid of makeup, she stared into the camera. Her hair was so tightly pulled back that it was impossible to tell what color it was.

“This is the picture I lifted from her security badge from when she was a contractor with Hydra Security.”

“Looks like she’s under arrest,” Boxers said.

“Probably felt like it, too,” Jonathan said. He was familiar with Hydra, and he was not impressed. “Hydra came late to the game and gave bottom-feeders a bad name.” In the post-9/11 rush to staff private security contractors, it became impossible to keep standards high. Not all of the Hydra guys were pukes, but too many of them were.

“Here’s a nicer picture,” Venice said. She clicked, and the screen revealed a younger version of the same face, this one vibrant. Her broad smile revealed a row of white, uneven teeth that to Jonathan looked more attractive than the engineered perfection that passed for pretty these days. “This one is from six years ago, before she got into the war-fighting business.”

Jonathan looked back to the pistol to concentrate on reinserting the slide stop. “Are those the only two images?”

“She’s got a Facebook photo, too, but that looks even older.” Venice clicked and the screen filled with what appeared to be a smiling college student, framed in the familiar setting of a Facebook profile. Jonathan glanced long enough to see that it appeared to be a professionally composed portrait shot, and then looked back at the pistol.

“She’s got only a hundred and twenty-four Facebook friends,” Venice said.

“Only?” Boxers interrupted. “That’s a lot of people.” With the current mag filled, he tapped the back edge against the table to seat the rounds, and then picked up another empty.

“Not in the world of social media,” Venice corrected, “and especially not for someone her age. I haven’t been able to turn up much on her earlier years, except for the fact that she appears to be some sort of orphan.”

Jonathan looked up. “How many sorts of orphans are there?”

Venice’s jaw dropped. “You fund an entire school for sort-of orphans.”

“Ah.” He slid the recoil spring into place and reached for the plug that would hold it in place.

“Jolaine Cage grew up in a series of foster homes, starting, from what I can tell, at a very young age. I’m talking four or five. I haven’t yet tracked down whether her parents are dead or were druggies or criminals.”

“Are we talking good foster homes or bad foster homes?” Jonathan asked. He twisted the barrel bushing back into place and cycled the 1911’s action a couple of times. The pistol was whole again.

Venice said, “If you’re in enough orphanages, I imagine you live the whole spectrum. She didn’t excel in school, but she did slog her way through a history major at the University of Florida.”

“What about the kid?” Jonathan asked. “Graham, right?”

“Nothing,” Venice said. “He’s fourteen and in school and otherwise unremarkable.”

“Don’t forget scared shitless,” Boxers said. “I bet he’s that.”

Jonathan holstered his Colt and pulled his shirt over to conceal it. “What else do you have?” He walked to the gun locker and helped himself to his own pile of thirty-round mags and a box of 5.56 millimeter ammo.

“Since the Antwerp shoot-out flew below the radar, I thought I’d do a little extra digging on ICIS,” Venice explained. “Turns out that shots fired were reported just a few hours ago in Defiance, Ohio, a short drive from Antwerp.”

Jonathan placed the ammo and mags onto his workbench and started loading. “Close enough to maybe be the same incident but with different labels?”

“I don’t think so,” Venice said. “The times are too far off. The strange thing with the Defiance incident is the lack of follow-up by police.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“There’s a report on ICIS of a call being placed about a shots being fired, but then there’s no follow-up. No report filed, not even a report of a unit being dispatched.”

“Maybe the cops thought it was bogus,” Boxers said.

“Possible,” Venice said. “It’s just an interesting confluence of events, especially with the boss’s views on coincidences.”

“They don’t exist,” Jonathan said. “I know this is all the result of a lot of work, Ven, but it’s not much to go on.”

“There’s more,” Venice said. “And this is probably the most important of the lot. Arrest warrants have been issued for Jolaine Cage and Graham Mitchell.”

Jonathan paused with his hand hovering over the ammo box. “What’s the charge?”

“Interstate flight to avoid prosecution.”

“That’s a federal rap,” Boxers said.

“To avoid prosecution of what?” Jonathan asked.

Venice pulled from her coffee. “The warrant doesn’t say. Or if it does, no one put it up on ICIS, which would be very unusual.”

Boxers asked, “Does ICIS say which agency is looking for them?”

“DHS.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Does DHS actually issue warrants under their own name?” Following a series of reorganizations in the months after 9/11, the Department of Homeland Security was created as a new repository for federal agencies, among them the Secret Service, and the Coast Guard. Jonathan never liked the idea. “Homeland” sounded too much like Fatherland or Motherland, European constructs that had resulted in far too many wars.

“Aren’t warrants issued by the constituent agencies?”

“I don’t remember ever seeing it before,” Venice said. “Maybe it’s just a smoke screen.”

Jonathan put the mag on the table. “Why hire us to bring these folks to safety and then swear out warrants for their arrest?”

Venice said, “Maybe the FBI wants to bring them in, while the CIA wants to put them in jail.”

Jonathan shook his head. “The CIA can’t do that. Not on American soil.”

Venice rolled her eyes. “Okay, then the Secret Service. Or maybe the CIA drags them out of the country and renditions them. Work with me. Since we’re only guessing, there could be a thousand possible scenarios.”

Jonathan turned his attention back to loading. “Let’s go through it again,” he said. “What did the police reports say about the shooting in Ohio?”

“Nothing,” Venice said. “That’s my point. A call was made and a complaint was filed. After that, there’s nothing. It’s as if nothing happened.”

Jonathan looked over to Boxers. “In context with the other non-shoot-out and the warrants, that’s very strange,” he said.

“Maybe the arrest warrant is really a protective custody thing,” Boxers offered. “You know, bring them to safety long enough for the FBI to shelter them from people who would hurt them.”

Jonathan dismissed the idea. “Why spin up every police department in the Lower Forty-eight to be looking for felons when the real point is to give them an administrative hug?”

“What’s your theory, then?”

“I don’t have one,” Jonathan said. “What I have are fears. If one arm of the federal government is fighting against another arm, we’re in the middle of a fight that we can’t possibly win.”

“Who do
you
think the two arms are?”

Jonathan had no idea. “I think the smart money says the FBI is one of them. After that, I would guess CIA, but only because they’ve been such a pain in the ass over the years. But if that’s so, why aren’t the warrants issued by them?”

Venice fell silent for long enough to pull Jonathan’s attention back to her. “You’re troubled,” he said.

“You mentioned context,” she said. “Well, let’s go to an even bigger context. This Maryanne Rhoades chick makes my skin crawl. Just the way she comes on. First, there was the familiarity, and then there was the aggressiveness. I learned a long time ago to trust my instincts, and she makes my instincts uncomfortable.”

“You suspect she’s lying?”

Venice gave him
that look.
“I think everyone’s lying, thanks to you,” she said. “Hanging with you is to take a master class in mistrust.”

“You’re welcome,” Jonathan said with a smile. In Washington, DC, mistrust was a survival skill, particularly when it came to senior political appointees. It wasn’t that they were unpatriotic—in fact, they were so friggin’ patriotic that they believed their zeal to be better than the words in the dusty old Constitution. They scared Jonathan more than the crooks. Crooks did what they did for personal gain. Jonathan might not agree with their logic or their approach, but at least he understood it. The ones who purported to speak for the public’s own good gave him the willies. Paging Adolf Hitler . . .