The Gate (3 page)

“Who’s paying for all this? Who’s giving you the orders?”

Preston was shaking. The man had sat in on all the meetings in dirty halls and campsites and raised his open right hand in the hard core Patriot salute. Probably even stomped a Jew or a black in some dark alley in the company of others of his kind, but Lake doubted that he’d ever seen someone’s brains blown out or had a gun shoved up against his chin and had to face someone down while all alone.

“Talk or you’re dead,” Lake said.

“What are you doing, man?” Preston’s voice quivered. “Why’d you do that to Starry?”

“I’m asking the questions,” Lake said, emphasizing that by a sudden shove of the barrel. He could hear Preston’s teeth clash together. “Who gave you the orders to do this?”

“I don’t know. Starry didn’t know either, man. We got it off the web. The money followed. Then we were told where to pick up the gear.”

“You did all this just cause someone on the Internet told you to?” Lake asked.

“They were with the cause. There was a notice, man. Four months back. On the Patriot newsletter, looking for volunteers for a special, secret mission. We responded. I don’t know why we got picked.”

Lake wanted to rub his forehead. He’d hoped that the orders had come from the Patriot organization in California. But he believed what Preston was saying and not simply because he was holding a gun on him. The Patriot movement was very fragmented and paranoid. There was no overall leadership and each group did its own thing. If there was one thing that held it together, it was the Internet. At least he could try to follow this lead on the Internet website where the Patriot filth piled up and fermented.

“What happens below?” Seeing the confusion in Preston’s wide eyes. Lake amplified the question. “After we jump. What happens?”

“Boat picks us up. It’s supposed to be waiting. That’s what Starry said. I don’t know nothing else, man.” Preston blinked. “Why’d—-”

He never finished, as Lake squeezed the trigger. He’d fine-tuned the trigger tension. He’d had nothing else to do for the past couple of days and it didn’t take much work.

The top of Preston’s head mingled with the gore inside and the body flopped back. Lake threw the legs up and tossed the AR-15 on top of the two bodies, then wedged the doors almost all the way shut. His static line kept them from latching.

He then pressed a button on the side of his watch, checked to make sure the pager had activated, then he stepped over the railway onto the walk. He reached inside his shirt, ensuring the High Standard silenced .22 was secured in the shoulder holster, then crossed the walk. He made sure his static line was clear as he stepped up on the outer railing, balancing himself with one hand on a steel cable. The water below was a sheet of black. There was a stiff breeze in his face, something he knew that Starry’s plan had called for to carry the contents of the glass jar toward the city.

Lake paused as tires squealed and two blue vans with dark tinted windows screeched to a halt, one behind, one in front of the parked van. Men in black combat gear flowed out of the vehicles, weapons at the ready, the red dots of their laser sights flickering over the scene, a pair fixing on Lake’s head.

Lake kept his grip on the cable and his other hand away from his side. “I’m Lake. Two bodies inside,” he called out. “Their getaway boat is below. I’m going down to take it out.”

A thin old man dressed in a long black raincoat stepped forward. “Lake, hold on—”

Lake pointed with his free hand. “I think they have bio-agents in the glass jar in the sprayer inside, so don’t break it, Feliks. I’ll meet you at the Coast Guard station on the south shore.”

“Lake!” Feliks’ voice threatened. “Take backup.”

“They’ll just get in the way.” Lake threw himself out into space, then immediately tucked into a tight body position as he’d been taught on the thirty-four foot towers at Fort Benning what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Lake counted, knowing it would take longer because he didn’t have the added speed of an airplane to get to the end of the static line. One thousand, two thousand. At five thousand he felt a tug, then a jerk as the chute blossomed open. Just in time as he hit the water three seconds later, still pulling the quick release he had put into the waist belt.

The shock of the cold water caused Lake to gasp, expelling what little air he had in his lungs. He didn’t panic even though he was completely submerged. He’d been in this situation in the past and he calmly felt for the small knobs for the water wings. Locating them, he pulled and they inflated, popping him to the surface. The chute settled down into the water off to the side and Lake struggled with the chest release, then each leg release.

Lake kicked to get away from the chute and was promptly entangled in the web of parachute line. He immediately stopped kicking. Drawing a knife from inside his left boot he carefully began cutting the 550 cord to clear himself before the chute became soaked and sank.

As he was doing that, he heard the mutter of a boat’s engine. Small, maybe sixty-horsepower, Lake estimated from the sound. It was coming from the southwest. He cut through the last line as the sound of the boat came very close. He kicked as a wave rose him up and looked. The silhouette of a zodiac with a man in it was about forty meters away. Good thing there wasn’t much of a swell, Lake thought, or that zodiac would be in trouble. He glanced up. The current had already pushed him well away from the bridge toward the ocean.

“Over here!” Lake yelled.

The zodiac turned head on and slowly puttered forward. Lake grabbed the safety line rigged around the forward pontoon and pulled himself up as a swell helped lift him. He rolled into the bottom of the zodiac.

“Where are the others?” the man running the engine hissed, as if his whispering negated the sound the engine made. The man was holding a large pistol, one Lake knew he hadn’t worked on. He couldn’t make out the man’s features in the dark. It had only been Starry and Preston for the past several weeks, so this man was a new factor.

“They’re coming,” Lake said as he pulled off the water wings.

“You were all supposed to jump together! I only saw one chute.” The man looked up, over Lake’s head toward the bridge. Lake dropped the water wings into the bottom of the boat. As he did so he saw the man bring the pistol up level, muzzle pointing at Lake’s chest.

Lake rolled right along the rubber bulkhead, drawing his High Standard as he moved. He heard the sound of a gun going off and the flat crack of a bullet. Coming to a halt against the right pontoon, Lake fired twice, aiming for the man’s gun shoulder.

The man was startled by the impact, not sure what had happened as the slight sound of the receiver working on Lake’s gun was easily muffled by the engine. He looked at Lake, who immediately knew he was in big trouble. Either the small caliber rounds hadn’t hit anything important enough to immobilize the arm or the man was wearing a vest. Those thoughts flashed through Lake’s brain as the man brought the pistol to bear again.

Lake swiftly fired two more shots, directly into the man’s right eye socket. There was no exit wound this time. Lake’s homemade .22 shells mushroomed upon passing through the eye socket into the man’s brain, making jelly of the gray matter. The gun fell to the floorboards with a clatter, and the man slumped over.

“Fuck,” Lake quietly cursed. He checked the body and found that the man was indeed wearing a bulletproof vest. The .22 slugs had barely cut through the cloth on top of the armor. He looked at the face, ignoring the bloody eye socket. The man had slightly Asian features. Lake patted him down. No ID. Nothing other than the gun and the clothes.

Lake pushed the body aside and took the engine handle. He opened the throttle and headed for the Coast Guard station on the south shore. The engine fought hard against the strong seaward current, but Lake kept on course, guiding off the massive south pier of the bridge, which he knew was over a thousand feet from the south shore. He passed the tower by, just to his right, then headed in to shore, angling against the current.

On the jetty for the Coast Guard station, Feliks was waiting for him with one of the blue vans and several of his men. The men secured the line Lake tossed them, then grabbed the body, taking it into the van. They hauled the boat up onto the jetty and began deflating it.

As they were doing that, Lake held out a hand to Feliks. The older man reached into a pocket of the raincoat and pulled out a cigarette case. He handed it to Lake. Lake snapped open the battered metal top and pulled out a cigarette. Feliks lit it for him. There was a crest on the case. Lake had seen it the first time Feliks had given him a cigarette several years ago. He’d checked the crest and found out it was from the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, the World War II predecessor of the CIA.

Feliks had white hair and appeared to be in his mid-sixties, but Lake didn’t know for sure—the man could be a dozen years either way. Lake didn’t know much about Feliks other than the cigarette case. No one at the Ranch did. Feliks was as tall as Lake and his skin was very white, as if he spent little time out of doors.

The first question Feliks asked was the one Lake knew he would ask. “Do you believe they were on their own?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Those bozos couldn’t plan a trip to the bathroom,” Lake said. “They also had plenty of money to spread around. You knew that when I picked up the weapons and sold them. Someone was financing them and making the plans. Before he died, Preston told me they were recruited over the Internet. Their specific instructions and money probably went directly to Starry in a dead drop.”

Feliks nodded. “The Internet’s an avenue we can check. The FBI has been monitoring that and has records. What about the Japanese evidence planted in the van?” Feliks asked.

“I don’t know. Probably put there to throw the FBI off track when they found the van, I suppose.”

“There’s a lot of people who’d like to whip up a little hatred for the Japanese,” Feliks noted.

“Yeah.” Lake pulled off his soaked clothes and slipped on the one piece coverall one of Feliks’ men had brought over. “Take a look at the body I brought in.” He smoked his cigarette while Feliks walked over, then came back.

“Doesn’t look like good Aryan Patriot material,” Feliks noted.

“Nope. And he tried to shoot me as soon as I was on board. I don’t think he was down there to rescue us. I think he was down there to close out the loose ends.”

Feliks was an unmoving figure as Lake continued.

“Like I said, those idiots were just doing what they were ordered. They might have had their own thoughts as to why they were doing it, but the people giving the orders probably had different ones. That’s one of the curses of being a peon,” Lake added, giving Feliks a hard stare. “You never know what’s really going on.”

Feliks returned the look. “And?”

“And what?” Lake was tired. He’d been up all night. The adrenaline rush was gone and the nicotine didn’t quite make up the gap.

“Any idea who the mastermind is?”

“No.” Lake handed the cigarette case back to Feliks.

“Well, we certainly can’t ask anyone you ran into, can we?” Feliks said sarcastically. “You couldn’t take him alive?” he asked, pointing at the van where the boat driver’s body had been taken. “You couldn’t take anyone alive?” Feliks amended the question.

“Starry was getting ready to let whatever was in that glass container loose when I shot him. I don’t think the citizens of San Francisco would be too happy if I’d let him live another two seconds.”

Feliks nodded. “Randkin’s with the van. He thinks it might be anthrax, but he’ll have to take it back to the Ranch and test it to make sure. One of my other operatives has a line on someone who might be working for the Patriots making biological agents. We’ll have to see if we can connect the dots, then roll up the puzzle.”

“The jar had Japanese markings,” Lake repeated.

“Yes. I saw it. But we know that the men were Patriots,” Feliks said. “I really doubt the possibility of a link between the Patriots and the Japanese. That would be like the FBI and the CIA sharing information.”

“The Patriots could be getting used,” Lake noted. “It’s happened before. The guy in the boat had to be from somewhere.”

“Even the Patriots can tell Japanese markings,” Feliks said. “They wouldn’t use that stuff unless they had a reason.”

Lake continued his report, not wanting to discuss theory with Feliks. “The other man, Preston, didn’t know shit and taking him alive would have made a scene on the bridge. I wasn’t exactly very mobile in my parachute rig.”

“And ...” Feliks nodded at the van again.

“I don’t know who he is. Never saw him before. I tried to take him alive, but he was wearing a vest and it came down to him or me.” The cigarette burned bright as Lake turned toward Feliks. “And you do prefer that it was me, don’t you?” His tone was light, but there was an edge to it.

“Of course, of course,” Feliks said. “You did well. But this is very serious. Beyond what they planned to do, we don’t have a clue who wanted this done. And the body from the boat complicates matters. This might not be a simple Patriot plot.”

No shit, Sherlock, Lake thought, but he kept the words to himself. Feliks seemed worried, which was a first in the years they’d worked together. Lake rubbed his forehead. “There is an advantage to them all being dead.”

“There is?” Feliks waited.

“My cover is still intact.”

“Ah, yes.” Feliks smiled without any humor. “And, of course, our three friends have just vanished off the face of the earth, correct? Or perhaps they should be in an accident? The van perhaps?”

“I think disappearing would serve better,” Lake suggested. It was the way they worked. Outside the law. Even if he had taken any of the three alive, Lake knew from experience that the men would never have seen the inside of a courtroom. And the people of San Francisco would never know how close they had come to disaster.

“Starry and Preston were supposed to disappear,” Lake added. “The guy in the boat not coming back is the one that’s going to rattle someone’s cage.”