The Last Line (52 page)

If Preston was waiting to see if he had in fact killed the man chasing him, he would be staring into the glare of light in the trees, and his night vision would be gone.

Teller was counting on that as he maneuvered his way through black water and carefully, carefully raised his head above the surface once more.

The bank was lined with stone. Teller pulled his Glock from its holster and edged his way forward, crouched low to avoid silhouetting himself against the light. He could hear lots of noise in the forest around him, men running, men shouting and calling to one another. They'd heard the gunfire and were trying to create a new perimeter, not easy in pitch darkness. If Preston avoided that net—quite possible in the confused tangle of night and woods—it would mean a drawn-out manhunt, with every possibility that the quarry would escape. The Bohemian Grove was something like 2,700 acres, all of it thickly wooded, and plenty of wilderness beyond its perimeter where a fugitive could disappear.

Teller stopped, holding absolutely still, listening. That sixth sense that combat operators relied upon was running full-tilt. He could
feel
Preston out there, silent, waiting, just a few yards away …

He couldn't see, though, could see nothing but darkness. Teller sank down lower, closer to the earth, and took a quiet breath. He needed to flush the fugitive out, and he could think of only one way to do it. Raising his Glock .45, he licked his lips, then called, “
Got
you, Preston! Hands up!”

He heard movement, a rustle off to his right, and a sharp intake of breath. Teller rolled to the left just as Preston fired, the muzzle flash piercing the darkness just five yards away. Teller fired an instant later, aiming at Preston's muzzle flash. He heard a gasp, a moan, and the thud of something heavy hitting soft ground.

Cautiously, Teller rose and approached. Lights flashed and glared through the trees as tactical team members closed on the sounds of the shots. One light bobbed and jittered as it came closer. “You got him!” Procario's voice said.

By the harsh glare of an LED flashlight, Teller could see Preston on the ground, clutching his chest, still breathing, his eyes open and aware, a 9 mm automatic lying on the ground nearby. He was sprawled at the foot of an unusual statue—not the immense owl on the other side of the pond, but a life-sized wooden figure of a man in clerical robes, holding his forefinger in front of his lips.

“You … don't know … who … I
am,
” Preston managed to say, his voice gurgling a bit, and broken by pain.

Teller knelt beside him, moving his hands to look at the wound. “Randolph Preston,” Teller told him. “Adviser to the president, domestic terrorist, and traitor. Anything else we should know?”

He began to work to stop the flow of blood.

 

Epilogue

 

INSCOM HQ

FORT BELVOIR, VIRGINIA

0915 HOURS, EDT

25 APRIL

“You are
still
in a world of shit, Captain,” Colonel MacDonald said. “I wouldn't want you to think any differently.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Teller replied. He glanced at Procario, who said nothing. The two had been summoned into the McDee's office that morning, interrupting their ongoing round of debriefing sessions. Teller decided it was best to hold his tongue, to stick to “Yes, ma'am” and “No, ma'am” until he knew just how this summons was going to play out.

“Operating independently of this command, without authorization,” she said. “Creating an international incident in Mexico and in Belize. Conducting illegal wiretaps of American citizens on U.S. soil. Initiating military action on U.S. soil in violation of the Posse Comitatus Act. I could go on.”

“Permission to speak, Colonel,” Procario said.

“Well?”

“Just how were we in violation of Posse Comitatus?”

The act was designed to limit the powers of local government to enforce the law on U.S. territory. Contrary to popular belief, it did not prohibit the army from engaging in law enforcement activities—so long as the orders to do so originated with Congress or the Constitution.

“Neither Congress nor the president
officially
gave you any orders to act,” MacDonald replied.

Oh, God, here it comes,
Teller thought.
They're going to lock us up where the sun never shines, and flush the key
.

He desperately wanted a drink. He'd been holding off for the duration of the debriefings. Now he was wishing he'd submerged himself at Executive Sweets once he'd returned and never come up.

“However,” MacDonald said after an agonizing hesitation, “the TJAG is looking into it. The president did grant certain broad powers to government personnel while we were searching for those suitcase nukes. It might be argued that you two were operating under his verbal instructions. The charges of kidnapping and illegal arrest … that will probably be covered by the current NDAA.”

That again. Teller didn't know whether to be happy that he wasn't facing criminal charges, or furious that his case was actually justifying that piece-of-shit legislation undermining the Constitution.

“Chris
did
save Congress's great collective ass,” Procario said, “when he tracked down those nukes. Damn it, you ought to be giving him a fucking medal.”

“The language is unnecessary, Colonel,” MacDonald told him. “And, believe me, the fact that they didn't incinerate most of Washington, D.C., will mitigate in your favor. Normally, we can't condone cowboy tactics, but in this instance…”

Only then did Teller catch the twinkle in MacDonald's usually cold eye, and realize that this was going to work out okay. Damn it, she was
playing
with them!

“Needless to say,” she went on, “the public doesn't need to know just how close we came to a major … incident in the Capitol. Or about how drug money was connected both to members of Congress and to the White House itself. All of that
will
remain classified.”

“Permission to speak, ma'am?” Teller said.

“Yes?”

“What about Preston? When he goes on trial—”

“Randolph Preston is dead,” MacDonald said with stiff finality.

“Dead? I thought we got to him in time. The medics were there in—”

“Randolph Preston is dead,” she repeated. Obviously she was going to say no more.

Which left Teller wondering. Dead, as in he'd died of his wounds while being medevacked to the hospital? Or dead, as in someone high up in government had decided that they couldn't risk a public trial … or that what might come out about cartel connections and federal banking irregularities would be embarrassing for the president? Dead, perhaps, as in “disappeared,” locked away at Supermax while the government decided what to do with him?

Teller suppressed a shudder. The NDAA again. “What about all the others we rounded up at the Grove?”

“In custody. Undergoing questioning. Walker and Delaney are cooperating with the AG, as are Logan and the others—all except Escalante, of course. The whole affair is being kept quiet. You can imagine what would happen to oil prices if the North American Oil scandal becomes public knowledge. Mr. Gonzales will be impeached, will probably be indicted on charges of racketeering—his involvement with the cartels. All in all, very, very messy.”

“And the Iranian? Reyshahri?”

“At an undisclosed location with the Company. I gather he's cooperating fully. My contacts at Langley tell me they're learning a great deal about the inside workings of Iranian intelligence from him.”

“I guess that wraps things up, then,” Teller said.

“Almost. You two should know that we're officially shutting down Cellmap.”

“What?” Teller was startled. “Why?”

“Wiretapping Mexican citizens engaged in the drug trade is one thing,” MacDonald said. “Deliberately wiretapping American citizens is something else.”

“It wasn't deliberate. The virus jumps from phone to phone all by itself. Doesn't distinguish between one side of the border or the other at all.”

“Nevertheless, we're hitting the kill switch.” The Cellmap virus, Teller had been told, included code that disabled the software if it received a signal from its controllers, a kill switch.

“If this became public knowledge,” MacDonald continued, “there'd be a firestorm, maybe worse than the controversy over NDAA 2012. The White House is
very
concerned that this technology be … properly controlled. And kept quiet.”

Which might well mean they would keep using it, but keep the fact as deeply buried as the knowledge of Z-backscatter vans conducting personal searches without warrants, or a scandal that had reached all the way into the White House.

She
had
said “
officially
shutting down Cellmap.”

Fourth Amendment be damned.

“Oh … one last thing.”

She picked up a single piece of paper from her desk and handed it to Teller, almost tossing it at him.

Teller broke attention to look at it.

“Congratulations, Captain Teller—you were selected by HRC for promotion to major, effective 1 October. I hope you can stay out of trouble at least until you pin it on. Dismissed.”

He
really
wanted that drink—it was way overdue.

At the very least, however … perhaps Galen Fletcher now had a measure of peace,

MORALES

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

1345 HOURS, LOCAL TIME

“Mi amigo,”
Agustín Morales said with a smile,
“estás en uno mundo de la mierda.”

A world of shit. It was a term he'd learned during his training with the U.S. military, one he liked.

Miguel de la Cruz gave another piercing scream, back arching convulsively as the interrogator applied another jolt of electricity. Stripped naked, tied spread-eagle on a large and filthy wooden table with electrodes clipped here and there, de la Cruz was smeared with sweat, blood, and excrement, scarcely recognizable now as human.

“Please!” he gasped, chest heaving. “
Please!
What is it you want me to tell you?”

“Tell me? Why, absolutely nothing. I already know everything. In particular, I know how you risked our entire operation by sending those spies to the Escalante safe house. You jeopardized our operation in the United States. You cost us an important asset, Enrique Barrón, and both he and the Perez bitch are singing to the Americans now.”

Morales's pleasant smile darkened. His agents in Florida had reported that both Barrón and Perez were there, in custody. They couldn't be reached … now.

There would be other opportunities.

“I didn't know Escalante was a part of it!
Please!
”

“Ah, well, now you know.” Morales looked at the interrogator. “Give him … let's say, three days. Let him truly understand the consequences of his ignorance. Then end it.”

“Sí, Calavera. Con mucho gusto.”

The former CISEN officer turned cartel informant shrieked again as the Skull walked out of the basement room.

He would have to discuss this with El Chapo, the Sinaloan boss of bosses. The Iranian affair had been damned expensive, with little to show for it. The Iranians' promises hadn't counted for much after all.

Much worse was the possibility that Perez, Barrón, or Escalante would give away too much. How much had the enemy learned? How much would they learn?

In the long run, Morales thought, it probably didn't matter that much. A lot of street-level cowboys might get caught. Perhaps a few of the high-ranking ones as well, but not even Escalante knew enough to really cripple the organization.

In the meantime, the
yanqui
government would fuss and fume and debate and pass laws and rescind them, and in the long run not much of anything would be accomplished. There were still lots of people within the American government deeply and solidly in the pockets of Sinaloa, Los Zetas, and the others.

So long as the incredible
norteamericano
appetite for product remained, the organization would continue to thrive.

U.S.–MEXICAN BORDER

2 MILES EAST OF NOGALES, ARIZONA

1725 HOURS, MST

“
Freeze
, dirtball!
¡No mueva!
”

Ernesto Jesús Mendoza scrambled up off the struggling girl, his trousers nearly tripping him as they bunched around his feet.
“No disparar!”
he cried, raising his hands. “Don't shoot!”

“Step away from the gun,
hombre,
” one of the men nearby said, gesturing with an M-15—the semiauto version of a military assault rifle. Mendoza had a holstered pistol in the belt at his ankles. “And get away from her.”

The posse was a mixed bag of ranchers and county law enforcement. Nathan Spangler, a deputy on the Nogales police force, took another look at the map displayed on his smart phone, then switched it off. “So … Ernesto Mendoza?”

“¿
Que
—? How is it you know this?” the man cried, managing to kick free of his pants and belt. “You have no right—”

“I got all kinds of right, amigo,” one of the civilian men said. “This here's
my
land, and you boys're trespassing.” He looked Mendoza up and down. “Indecent exposure, too, looks like.”

“We're not Border Patrol, if that's what you mean,” Spangler told him.

“That's right,” another rancher said. “We're not
nearly
that nice.”

Elsewhere in the small arroyo, other members of the posse were rounding up the other coyotes. There were five of them, plus a dozen filthy men and women. The coyotes had herded four young women together underneath a broad, low-spreading tree brightly festooned with panties and bras and had been in the process of raping them when the Minuteman Patrol had finally caught up with them.