"You connect the methane to this value and an oxygen source to this valve," he says, pointing. Then you pour a specially designed liquid containing the phosphorous into the third valve under pressure, and heat this flat area," pointing again. "The result will be a highly toxic nerve gas flowing out the end."
"From what Officer Perez says, each of the dirtbags coming into the country had eight ounces of liquid with them in their carry on bags. Given how long they have been doing this, they have chemicals sufficient to make enough gas to kill everyone in the greater Los Angeles area, though exposing that many people is difficult."
"Without the nozzle, they can still create the gas, but it is a much more difficult proposition. Most likely, they would have to mix the chemicals, and then create an explosion to generate the heat and pressure. It means they would have to settle on one site, and limits casualties to a few hundred thousand within a wind borne radius, rather than millions, though that is still an unacceptable figure."
Then he turns to another suit I don't recognize, a 40 something woman dressed in an impeccable blue outfit. "Special Agent Rona Flaherty will bring you up to date on the last few hours of activity."
She gets up, and a PowerPoint starts simultaneously. I didn't know that so much work, including the presentation, could get done in an hour and a half.
"Bureau agents went to the Marquis, and showed a picture of one of our suspects to the staff who confirmed an extended stay in a suite on the 27th floor, but that he checked out this morning. Forensics is in the room as we speak. The van was found abandoned in the Marquis parking lot. They left via taxi, but unloaded at a Ralph's grocery store on Santa Monica without cameras in its parking lot. Four of them were scheduled to fly to Vancouver tonight, and we will be at the gates, but it is logical to assume that the suspects will not be. Pictures are being circulated to every law enforcement agency in the five county area."
"LAPD cyber crimes unit has confirmed that Lieutenant Crane's account was used to hack Officer Perez's email, and that the account was active in the past eight hours, meaning the bad guys had access to LAPD computer systems. We have deactivated the accounts we know about, but no sensitive information should go in the system, or through LAPDmail until we advise otherwise."
"We found $500,000 in cash in Crane's home, and are attempting with the help of Secret Service and Treasury to identify its source. We have agents and LAPD officers out talking to every major supplier of methane and oxygen gas."
"Gentlemen, at the moment we have no actionable leads. Sans a very observant young police officer who was willing to ignore her chain of command, we would not even know a major attack was about to happen. The implications of our failures will be shaped by our ability to make up for them before whatever the plan is can be brought to fruition."
She finishes, I squeeze Perez's shoulder during the last bit of the talk. There is more talk going on, but it's the distribution of assignments, and a rookie reserve officer is not on the yellow pad. Flaherty and Johnson head our way as the room clears. We shake hands as she introduces herself.
"Officer Perez, you are being reassigned to me as my liaison to the LAPD effective immediately."
Kiana gets out an "I...." but little more than that. Flaherty keeps going.
"Three hundred plus officers in this fucking airport and one of you saw what was going on. You've earned a spot on the team, regardless of what those assholes think." I am sure that FBI agents are not trained to talk that way. I like her. Then she turns to me.
"You're flying to Denver tomorrow and Kona on Monday, correct?" I nod, a little surprised that they bothered to research my flight schedule. "Good. When you're in town, you'll be under FBI surveillance. They'll almost certainly come after you again if you are accessible. We will keep you safe, and out of harm's way. How's that?" I don't like her as much as I used to.
"Personally, I would prefer you left me in the open and encouraged them to try. It might be the only way to catch them." I hope I sound stupid, not brave.
"Not likely cowboy," she opines.
"McConnell's working 7 on his own," Johnson steps into the conversation, "You should get up there and go to work, Simon." Clearly, I am dismissed, and I head out without looking at Perez. I should be happy for her, but I'm more pissed about me.
I find McConnell and convince him I need food before I get to work. Perez texts me while we're at the taco counter, apologizing. I text congratulations back to her, and apologize for leaving without saying it first. We finish the shift without incident, and I head for home, Jen once again working late as they deal with year end business.
An unmarked blue car pulls out behind me, follows me onto the freeway and all the way home. Standing on my balcony, I can see them sitting across the street. Really messes with my flying schedule, and I don't mean in the airplane. I should be out there looking for the bad guys, not hiding in my room.
I'm getting ready to cook dinner when there's a knock on my door. I open it, and Perez is standing there with a plastic bag containing good smelling takeout.
"Jen called and asked me to come feed you. Since my duties involve standing around doing and saying nothing, it wasn't too hard to get away."
I invite her in, help her set the table and spread four boxes of Thai delicacies between us.
"Any news?," I ask between bites, strangely not sure what I want the answer to be. Part of me wants this over, but my brain also wants us to be the ones to solve it.
"Not a damn thing. No sign of them, no large purchases of methane or oxygen, nothing at Crane's place, just a whole lot of nothing. We did get a couple of fingerprints, which turned out to be former Army Rangers with Bad Conduct Discharges. Soldiers for hire, not the brains of the outfit."
"Any ideas of your own?"
"No. Everyone's convinced the attack will be Christmas, New Year's Eve, or New Year's Day, which makes sense, but that doesn't help with the where in 5,000 square miles."
"Speaking of Christmas," I cleverly change the subject, "are you staying in town now? Should I tell mom you're coming over?"
"Yeah, that would be great."
"What did your dad say when you told him you got this special assignment with the FBI?"
"A, I haven't told him yet, and B, you really don't get the cop thing yet. The only time a local cop sees a fed is when they're stepping on your toes. I'll tell him I'm on a special task force, not that I'm hanging with the Bureau."
"So we're not one big happy family in law enforcement?"
"Not even close, Air Force, not even close."
We finish eating and she heads home, not wanting to start any rumors about us on the task force. I change, turn off the light, close the curtains, read until daylight, then head off for Denver.
Chapter 17
Christmas Eve is Jen time, we spend the day and night together, then head over Christmas Day to my parent's, where I spend the day of joy and peace being made fun of by Jen, Perez, my sister, and my dad. Mom feeds the feds parked outside, which I'm sure they appreciate.
Kiana and I spend 20 minutes talking about the lack of progress on the case, but her new boss thinks that's a good thing, and nothing bad is going to happen today. The theory seems to be that the bad guys don't have their oxygen and methane yet, and will acquire it just before they attack. The only interesting note is that their rental van went out with 10,000 miles on it, and now has 85,000, so they did a lot of driving in six months, even for LA. Just like me, though, Perez has no idea of anything else we might try.
Monday I am due to fly to Hawai'i, and only make the trip because Perez insists. I do learn that Ms. Mankat, while technically not of a Christian faith, still expects Christmas presents. I promise to return with a Mele Kalikimaka present from the islands. There are high clouds and some turbulence much of the way, which serve only to remind my why flying in airplanes is sometimes better than flying naked.
Perez and I exchange frequent texts while I'm in Kona, leads that come and go like the fog. I fly back to the mainland overnight again, just to keep an eye on her, but no dirtbags appear. Everybody is sure that we are days away from catastrophe, but so far we can't do anything about it. I can't even figure out a way to make myself bait, since it's unlikely that they are reading our emails. No Jen at dispatch when I return, so I lead my FBI escort home.
Wednesday is another eight hours of frustration. I want to do something, anything, except I am patrolling Terminal 7 with Officer Emily Bradford, one of the few women besides Perez in the airport command. She's as frustrated as I am, says that most of the officers have rotated in to help the task force a day at a time, except her name has yet to come up on the list. Still, she's good company and we survive our day.
Jen puts me off one more evening, with only three working days before the new year, she is buried eyeballs deep in work. She promises that she will make it up to me over the weekend. So I drive home with my tail, stopping on the way to get groceries to cook a hamburger delight. It occurs to me while I'm shopping that eating healthy isn't as important as it was a few months ago, and I scoop up a small tub of chocolate ice cream as well.
Sitting at my kitchen table, I eat and read until about nine, when there's a knock on my door. It's got to be Jen done early or Perez come to talk. I bounce over to the entry, deciding on my way that the t shirt and shorts I have on is good enough for either of them.
I swing the door open, big smile on my face. There are three large men standing there, men I recognize, men I would never smile at under any circumstances other than putting them in cuffs or the ground. There's a fourth to my left side, unseen until I feel a pinch at my neck, and I swivel to watch him pull a syringe away. I reach for the light, but before I get there, everything goes dark.
My bed feels unusually lumpy and uncomfortable, then I remember that I am not in it. The floor is hard, not flat by any means, creaking as the movement of what must be a vehicle causes strain in the joints. My eyes are closed, and when I open them it's still dark, but I get the picture. It's not that I can't see, it's that there is a piece of cloth a half inch in front of them. I can't be sure, but it seems to be a blanket, or a canvas sack, that covers me from head to foot. My legs below the bottom of my shorts feel the material, as does my cheek, and the exposed part of both arms. Likely another rental van or truck, me on the floor.
My mouth is full of something, and there is what I assume to be tape across the front of it. I can feel the stickiness against my cheek as I move, or try to move, my lips and tongue. I reach for the light and it is there, eager. I say a word, more intention in it that any word I have ever said before, "Perez," except nothing happens. The word does not come out clear, the intention and the garble are apparently not enough, and I am still me. It's a stupid comic book maneuver. The bad guys, without knowing it, disable the superhero. Clark Kent accidently put down next to a block of Kryptonite. If they came for me, they came for her, and there is nothing I can do about it.
The ride is painful, and not short. Every bump bruises my left side. My hands are in handcuffs, probably my own, behind my back, and I am sideways in a fetal position against the bare metal floor, protected only by the rough cloth. My head takes a shot or two as well, then we smooth out, I assume we have taken to a freeway. I listen, but they are not talking. No hint of where we're headed, no idea of where Kiana is. I keep the light in my hand. I am not strong enough to break out of the cuffs, but it reassures me to have it there, and the second I have the chance, these men will pay.
After what seems like hours, but could be anything, we exit back onto the surface streets, and very shortly pull to a stop. The engine goes silent and there are obvious preparations for departure. The cloth around me starts to move, and which confirms that I am in a bag, or suitcase, or some similar contrivance. I do my best to pretend to be out, not resisting or moving on my own, letting my body go where gravity takes it. There is now a continuous bumping, with my head in what my body thinks is the up direction. If I were a betting man, I'd think that one of the men was walking with me along as luggage. Whatever, it means that my chance, if I get one, is coming.
There is noise suddenly around me, as if we are walking down the concourse at the airport, many, many people on every side. Perez is right, these guys are completely arrogant. We have to do something about that. Then I hear mechanical sounds, bells, doors opening and closing, and we lose the sounds of the people, I realize it's an elevator, and headed up. Another bell, we move again, we must be walking down a corridor, alone. We stop, a door opens, we move again, and then the door closes.
Whoever is holding me shifts me to my front, what must be his right, and then I am falling, not far, and hit the floor. The bag, or whatever it was, leaves me. It takes everything I have not to make a sound. Clearly my well being is not high on their list of concerns, I am garbage spilled onto the floor, garbage that is anxious to return the favor.
