Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (31 page)

One hundred nine

Mark had just booted up his laptop to surf through photos of people on the terrorist watch list when he heard two nervous knocks at the side door.

That was quick, Frank.

“It’s open,” Mark called out.

The door opened, followed by soft footsteps on the kitchen floor. Mark looked up to find Kenny standing in front of him with an extended index finger held tightly to his lips. He started to speak, but Kenny waved his arms and said nothing, indicating that Mark should remain silent. “Trust me,” Kenny whispered.

As Mark sat back in his chair and watched, Kenny grabbed Mark’s cell phone from the kitchen counter, opened the freezer, and placed the phone inside. The little man held his finger to his lips again as he approached the kitchen table, where he closed Mark’s laptop and removed the battery.

“Now we can talk,” Kenny declared.

“Good, let’s start with you telling me what the hell you’re doing.”

“Just making sure this conversation stays between you and me, Mark.”

“By putting my phone in the freezer and shutting down my computer? Listen, I don’t have time for games right now, Kenny. I have work to do.”

“So do I!” said Kenny, raising his voice. “But I need your help, so let’s talk.”

“What do you need from me?” Mark asked impatiently.

“I want to know who is responsible for yesterday’s attack.”

“And you’re asking me?” Mark asked, rising to his feet. “Watch the news, Kenny. I can’t help you.”

“You and I both know that’s not true, Landry. I need to know. Tell me who’s behind this and I’ll be on my way.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and why the hell did you put my phone in the freezer? Have you lost your mind?” asked Mark.

“Because I can’t be sure they’re not listening,” replied Kenny with a sober stare.

“You can’t be sure who isn’t listening?”

“The Family.”

Mark took a deep breath, moved toward the door, and opened it wide. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and quite frankly, I don’t have time for this right now, Kenny. Can we talk some other time, please?” he asked.

“No, we’re going to talk right now. I’m not playing around here either, Mark. I want to know who is responsible for these attacks. If it’s a country, I’ll crash every bank and electricity provider they depend on. If it’s an organization, I’ll steal every penny they have stashed away and fry every machine they own. If it’s an individual, I’ll make him so fucking miserable he’ll kill himself. But in order to do any of that, I need to know what you know. So please start talking, Mark. Tell me what you know. Tell me what the Family knows.”

Mark was spellbound during Kenny’s rant until the end, at which point he forcefully rolled his eyes. “Jesus, what family are you talking about? Agnes was my only family and she’s gone. Listen, the whole town is devastated by yesterday, Kenny. And we all want revenge. But you’ve come to the wrong place if you’re looking for information beyond what you can get from CNN.”

“Bullshit,” Kenny replied, walking across the kitchen and pointing to Mark’s laptop. “I hooked a rootkit into your kernel.”

“Come again?” asked Mark.

“You’ve been connected to my Wi-Fi since you got home, Mark. I hooked a rootkit into your kernel. That means I infiltrated your machine, and from there I just followed the crumbs into your servers once you connected. But I swear I backed out once I realized whose yard I was playing in. Regardless, I know whom you work for. And I know what you do. So please don’t tell me you can’t help.”

Mark shut the door. He breathed deeply, bowed his head, and shook it back and forth as he spoke very slowly. “If what you just said is true, you have no idea how much trouble you could be in. The penalty for something like this could be worse than anything you have ever imagined and entirely under the radar. Do you understand me, Kenny? This is bad.”

Kenny reached into his back pocket and flopped his father’s ball cap onto the kitchen counter. The Vietnam veteran embroidery and 82nd Airborne patch were stained with freshly dried blood. “Worse than having my own father bleed to death in my arms on Founders Field, Mark?”

One hundred ten

“Mom, can I interrupt your reading for two minutes? I have some information you asked for. If not, just tell me when to come back.”

McDermott looked up from the large oak desk in her Senate office and smiled. “Now is good, Meg. And I could use the breather. Honestly, I haven’t had this much to read since, well, never.”

“You know you have people who read all this stuff and then brief you on it, right?” asked Meghan, pulling up a chair next to her mother.

“I know that. But I still like to read as much as I can on my own. What have you got?”

“Before I give you what you asked for, let me share something interesting. As you are painfully aware, the majority of your peers don’t speak to you very much and their staffs speak with me even less. Actually, in my case, only one other staffer speaks with me at all, Muriel. She works for her uncle, Vermont Senator—”

“Samson. Yes, I know,” said McDermott.

“I saw her in the food court and she looked white as a ghost. Remember the anonymously leaked information on covert operations we were getting? The documents? The gruesome video of an interrogation labeled Berlin? The guy with one ear ripped off? The one that looked like a clip from some low-budget slasher movie?”

“Tough to forget, Meg. Get to the point,” answered the Senator.

“Well, whoever sent it to us apparently got impatient when we didn’t do anything public with it. So they moved on to Samson’s office, but Muriel and her uncle don’t want anything to do with it either. Just wanted to let you know.”

McDermott removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Okay, thanks. What else have you got?”

“I have the most current casualty list from the Massachusetts terrorist attack. There are a few names with asterisks, because the next of kin have yet to be informed, and there are still several people in critical condition. But this is as up to date as of one hour ago.” Meghan folded her arms across her chest and held onto the file. “Mom, can I ask you a question?”

“Obviously,” answered McDermott.

“Why are you so interested in this attack? In this town? I could see something different in your face when you heard the news. You don’t have to tell me. But I’d really like it if you’d share with me. What is it? Do you know people who live there or something?”

The Senator took a deep breath, sat back in her chair, and exhaled slowly. “I did once. But I honestly don’t know any more, Meg. I appreciate your concern, but it’s nothing you need to worry about, okay? And I have a lot on my mind, so try not to read into things too much.”

McDermott waited for Meghan to leave the office before opening the file. She held her breath as she slid her index finger down the list of casualties. When she reached the end, she exhaled and reached for the glass of water on her desk. Glancing at her watch to confirm that she had enough time before the next appointment, she reached for the jewelry box in the bottom drawer of the desk. The past came roaring back as she gazed into the photo of an older gentleman beaming with pride, his arm wrapped proudly around a vibrant-looking young man with a peculiar smile.

“Senator, your security coordinator is here and ready when you are,” said the secretary’s voice over the intercom.

McDermott quickly snapped back to the present. She returned the photo to its secret place, took a deep breath, and depressed the intercom button. “Go ahead and send him in, please. I’m ready.”

One hundred eleven

Special Agent Stevenson knew what the rest of the Boston ATF office called him behind his back: Ashton Brown’s Right Nut. But it didn’t bother him. While the rest of the agents and administrative staff had tried to swim against the tide of Brown’s management style, the five-year veteran agent simply lifted anchor and went with the current. As a result of his cooperation and no shortage of brown-nosing, he was in good stead with the boss but sorely disconnected from the rest of the team.

Frank Tagala had arrived in Boston to confront Ashton Brown about the missing rifles but instead found an empty office. Brown was out of the office, probably at the JTTF or somewhere in between, he had been told. When Stevenson saw Frank storming in and out of offices with a determined look on his face, he quickly fled the building. Unfortunately for him, Frank Tagala was not so easily avoided.

Stevenson scurried east for several blocks before deciding to turn south toward his regular haunt, a hole-in-the-wall pub with cheap drinks. Once a week for the past eight months, his wife had sat at home with the kids, believing that her husband was out bonding with the guys. In reality, Stevenson had sat and drank alone. He had no friends to bond with, and he didn’t seem to care.

Frank’s already substantial distaste for the Right Nut grew with each step as he tailed him through Boston’s narrow streets. He had seen the expression on Stevenson’s face and his panicked body language as he rushed out of the building. Stevenson knew something. And whatever that something was, it had made his bones shiver when he saw Frank Tagala.

The bartender delivered a shot and disappeared without saying a word. Stevenson tilted his head back, poured the whiskey down his throat, and quietly put the empty shot glass on the bar in front of him. The pub was more than half full and the music was louder than usual. He scanned left to right and slid the empty glass toward the far edge of the bar to indicate that he wanted another. He checked the time on his phone—and nearly fell off his stool as Frank’s palm came down hard on the back of his shoulders.

“Stevenson! How the hell are you? Mind if I join you for a drink?”

The startled agent took several shallow breaths and composed himself as best he could. “Oh, hey Frank … actually, I was just on my way out.”

“Bullshit!” said Frank with a smile as he wrapped an arm around Stevenson’s shoulders. “You just got here. So what do you say we have a drink together and catch up?” Frank pointed at the empty shot glass in front of them and bellowed to the bartender. “Sir, two more of these, please.”

Stevenson waved a hand toward the empty seat next to him. “Yeah, sure, Frank. Have a seat. I’ll have one more and then I have to get home. The wife’s been busting my balls lately about never being there for dinner, and I’m already cutting it close.”

“You bet, buddy. No worries. Just relax. You’ll be home for dinner. I promise.” Frank said cheerfully. “I have just one question that needs to be answered and then you’ll be on your way.”

“What’s that, Frank?”

The bartender dropped two shots of whiskey in front of them and disappeared again.

“Let’s do these first, eh? Let’s do these two shots first and then we’ll get to business. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

“Good. What should we drink to? Never mind, I know. Raise your glass, Stevenson.”

The junior agent raised his glass, bowed his head, and braced himself. Frank leaned in close to Stevenson’s ear and spoke softly.

“I say we drink to the dozens of victims of yesterday’s terrorist attack on my hometown. What do you think, eh? Should we drink to them? Or should we drink to what I’m gonna do to the bastards that did it? Because you know I’m gonna make them fucking suffer. Which do you think, Stevenson? To the victims? Or to what I’m gonna do to the assholes who did it?”

Stevenson took a moment to collect himself before answering. “How about both?”

“Good idea,” Frank replied, raising his glass high above his head. “First and foremost, to the innocent victims and their suffering families. And to the future suffering of those responsible. I’m gonna find them and make them pay. They picked the wrong town. Salud!”

Both men drained their glasses. Frank stared into Stevenson’s eyes until the younger man couldn’t take it anymore and turned away. “Frank, I gotta hit the head, okay? I’ll be right back. Then maybe we can have one more, but I really do have to get home.”

“No problem. You can leave as soon as you tell me what you and Brown did with the Sig Sauer M400s I brought in from the Russian sting.”

Stevenson leapt to his feet. “Frank! Come on, man. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Listen, I’ll be right back. Order two more for us if you want.”

Frank held up two fingers to the bartender and tried to keep his cool.

Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. I know you were there with Brown when he withdrew the rifles from evidence and mentioned something about a sting. So don’t waste my fucking time.

The next round appeared in front of him and he exchanged polite nods with the bartender.

Fuck it.

Frank poured both shots down his throat as if they were warm water and headed toward the bathroom.

* * *

Stevenson splashed cold water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror of the tiny bathroom
.

I haven’t done anything wrong. I just did my job. I did what I was told. This is not my fault. We didn’t sell guns to any terrorists. It was a sting. Stings can go bad and I can’t control where the hardware ends up. How the hell do I get away from Tagala? He’s a crazy man.

He patted his pockets, cursed himself for leaving his cell phone on the bar, and took three deep breaths to compose himself before unlocking the bathroom door.

The instant Stevenson turned the knob, the door burst open and crashed into the side of his head. He reeled backwards. Frank slipped into the bathroom, locked the door, and pinned him against the wall by his throat with remarkable speed. Stevenson struggled to speak as Frank tightened the grip on his throat.

“No, no,” whispered Frank. “You’ve already wasted enough of my time with your bullshit. Look into my eyes. Look! Do I look like a man who gives a shit about anything anymore? Do I?” Stevenson shook his head in horror. “Good. I’m glad you understand that. Now understand this—the next thing out of your mouth will be the answer to my question or I’m going to break your nose. No second chances. No do-overs. Answer my question or the nose gets broken. What did you do with the Sigs?” Frank released his grip on Stevenson’s throat so he could speak and took a step backwards. “Tell me right now.”

Stevenson bent over, coughed forcefully, and held his throat with both hands as he struggled to catch his breath. After several moments of silence, he stood as tall as he could and held up both of his hands in professed innocence. “I don’t know anything about any Sigs, Frank. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Before he could complete the last syllable, the calloused knuckles of Frank’s tightly balled fist came crashing down on Stevenson’s nose with whirlwind speed and an audible crunch. Blood sprayed from his nostrils and he would have collapsed to the floor if Frank hadn’t advanced, snatched him up by the front of his shirt with both hands, and thrown him head first into the far wall. Stevenson’s body crumpled to the bathroom floor. He tried to scream, but Frank was immediately on top of him, one hand wrapped tightly around his throat and a knee buried deep into his chest.

“When I remove my hand from your throat, you will answer my question. If you don’t, I will break every bone in your right arm. I’ll start with the fingers and work my way from your wrist all the way to your collarbone. No second chances. No do-overs. Do you understand?”

Stevenson sobbed and gasped for air. Frank casually looked at the stainless steel watch on his free hand and shook his head disapprovingly. “I’m trying not to get too nasty with you, but this is taking too long, Right Nut. I already know that you and Brown took the rifles from evidence, okay? I already know that. I was about ninety percent sure those same rifles were used in the attack, but judging by the way you ran from me and the look in your eyes right now, it’s more like ninety-nine percent. So answer my fucking question and I’ll be on my way. When I let go, you have three seconds to answer my question or I will break both of your arms. I know I just said I was only gonna break the right one, but it’s getting late so I’m trying to save time. As we speak, the terrorists who shot up my town are celebrating. And you have no idea how much that pisses me off.” Frank released his grip, rose to his feet, and stared deep into the younger agent’s tear-filled eyes. “Three, two, one.”

Stevenson covered his head with both hands and moaned desperately as he rolled back and forth on the filthy bathroom floor. Blood ran down his face in all directions. He pulled his knees tightly into his chest. “Okay, okay! I was just doing my job … doing what I was told … it was all Brown’s idea … all of it!”

“What was all Brown’s idea? Get to the fucking point. What did you do with the rifles?” Frank demanded.

“We set up a sting and sold them. We took them out of evidence and sold them. I told him it was a bad idea. I told him it was crazy, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Frank turned on the bathroom faucet, washed his hands, and ran his fingers through his hair as he spoke. “Who did you sell them to? And why? Tell me right now.”

“Some gangbanger. A Latin King who is related to the Supreme Inca of the whole thing.”

Frank turned and looked down on his bloody colleague. “Why would the Latin Kings set off a bomb and shoot up a town? That doesn’t make any sense. They’re criminals, but they’ve never been terrorists,” he asked.

“They didn’t. At least I don’t think so. We sold him the guns and were planning to track him. Brown said he’d lead us right to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. We’d get a huge bust, press coverage, promotions. I told him he was crazy to try it with just the two of us, but he didn’t want to hear any of it.”

Frank ripped open the broken paper towel dispenser mounted on the wall, tore off a dozen sheets from the roll, and handed them to Stevenson. “Keep talking. Tell me exactly who you sold them to and how you fucked it up.”

Stevenson’s nose was swelling quickly as he struggled to speak. “Brown set the whole thing up. We did it on some side street. We put the hardware in his car and attached a tracking device to the vehicle. He drove away and that was it. I told Brown it was a bad plan. I told him the guy would just …”

“He drove away and immediately switched vehicles,” interjected Frank.

“Yeah. We tracked him. When we found the vehicle, we staked it out for four hours before I could convince Brown it was empty. By then he was long gone. I swear I never wanted to do it, Frank. When it went south, I said we had to tell someone but he wouldn’t listen. You gotta believe me. It wasn’t my fault!”

“Bullshit! You didn’t have to do it. You could have told someone. Hell, you could have told me and I would have stopped it. Now tell me exactly who you sold them to and don’t fuck around. If you fuck around, I’m gonna start breaking shit again. Tell me right now.”

Stevenson raised his aching body and leaned back against the discolored bathroom wall. “His name was Hector. Hector Gonzales.”

“What’s his King name?” asked Frank.

“King Heavy.”

“Why don’t you think the Latin Kings were behind the attack? Do you think this Hector guy fenced the hardware?”

“Yeah. Supposedly he’d been stealing money from the nation for a long time, which is unforgivable in their eyes. My guess is that he used their money to buy the guns, then sold them to the highest bidder and disappeared. Every Latin King in New England is looking for him as we speak. Which means he’s probably already dead or will soon wish he was.” Stevenson winced as he inhaled through his nose and spat out a mouthful of blood onto the grimy floor.

“So you do know for a fact that the guns used yesterday were the same ones you and Brown sold to this Hector asshole?” asked Frank.

Stevenson bowed his head, unable to look Frank in the eye any longer. “One hundred percent, but Brown is moving heaven and earth to cover the whole thing up. He has erased every record of those guns at the office, running interference with all the other agencies, and spreading enough misinformation to spin everybody’s heads. I protested, but he threatened to pin it all on me as well as a whole bunch of other shit I never even did. He’s a fucking lunatic, Frank.”

Frank was trying to absorb all of the information and formulate a plan at the same time. “Hector Gonzales. Latin King. Anything else? If you know anything else, I want to hear it right now.”

“That’s it. That’s everything I know. I’m sorry, Frank.”

“Don’t apologize to me, asshole. There are a lot of other people you owe an apology to, people whose lives have been ruined. I promise you’ll eventually pay the piper for what you’ve done. But for now, clean up and go home. Don’t say a fucking word to anyone, and call in sick for the foreseeable future. If you don’t, I swear to God I’ll find you and pick up where I left off.”

Frank checked his look in the mirror one last time before exiting the bathroom. He walked briskly past the two empty shot glasses still sitting on the bar and shouted above the music to the bartender on his way out the door, “My buddy’s gonna take care of the tab.”