The Trap (Agent Dallas 3) (21 page)

He turned to the stack of banking documents and picked up where he’d left off. Maddox had to have a holding company that money flowed through. Or else he used an alias to access an account. Drager was determined to uncover who had been funding the acts of sabotage, and he suspected the activists would never tell him, even after they were caught.

His phone rang and he snatched it up. “Agent Drager.”

“This is Tim Arbuckle with the Marshal’s Service, returning your call.”

About time. “I have an undercover agent who’s encountered someone named Aaron Foster. The name is in WITSEC’s database, but there’s no information about him.”

“Let me see what I can find.” The line was quiet for a minute, but he could hear chatter in the background. The marshal came back on. “You couldn’t find anything because Aaron Foster, aka Aaron Mortlock, is dead.”

Mortlock? Dead?
Drager didn’t know whether to rejoice or panic. “You mean Aaron Mortlock, the fraud ringmaster and brother of Shawn Mortlock, the domestic terrorist?”

“Yes, but Aaron died five months ago. Pulmonary fibrosis. Even bad guys get sick.”

How did witness protection handle those deaths? He’d never thought about it before. “Did you contact his family?”

“We don’t do that. They would still be at risk.”

“Where was he living at the time?”

“Ohio.”

“All right. We must be dealing with a different Aaron Foster. Thanks for the call.”

“Any time.” The marshal hung up.

His team had found a dozen Aaron Fosters so far, just not the right one yet. Drager tried to get back to his financial documents, but the possible connection to Aaron and Shawn Mortlock unnerved him. He opened the Real Food blog again. Nothing from Dallas. He had to assume the group was preparing for their mission, and she didn’t want to risk anything by contacting him. He had to let it go. UC agents were notorious for not checking in. He posted another comment, communicating that he wanted to hear from her, then went back to reading bank statements.

At four that afternoon, Drager pulled into the driveway of Senator Pearlman’s property and shut off his car. A newer building with a sleek modern design, the house stood out among all the gabled roofs and dormer windows in the rest of the upscale neighborhood. Pearlman had done well for himself as a corporate lawyer before winning his senate seat four terms ago. They had talked on the phone a couple of times already about the sting, and the Pearlmans were expecting him. Agent Wunn, who would be part of the arrest team, had parked on the next block over and would jog up and down the street, scouting locations where other agents could find cover tomorrow. Someone from the inner circle could be casing the house, and they didn’t want to spook them by having a bunch of people in dark suits visit the senator and his neighborhood the day before their planned assault. Which reminded Drager to pull off his jacket before getting out of the car.
Damn,
he wished they’d had more time to set up.

On the walk to the house, exterior lights came on automatically. He found it interesting that the activists had timed their assault for broad daylight in the middle of the afternoon. He still wanted to know exactly what they had planned, but Dallas was obviously limited in what she could communicate through blog comments. So he and his team had to be prepared for anything. Seven agents, in addition to himself, were lined up for the operation, and a SWAT unit was on standby. This case had been unusual from the beginning, but having the UC embed with the activists had called for extra precaution. Now his team had to make sure they didn’t shoot her in the takedown. Or let the assailants take her hostage.

The senator came out to greet him, shaking hands silently, with a nod of appreciation. Pearlman wasn’t as big as he looked on TV, giving press statements. Only five-nine, but in good shape for a man with a full head of gray hair. Inside the house, the senator led him to a bright kitchen with an island counter and offered him a drink.

“No thanks. Where’s your wife?”

“She’s coming down.” Pearlman poured himself something that smelled like scotch.

“Did you find the house plans with the layout?” Drager wanted to move this along. He still had to return to the office, make copies of the plans, and hold a tactical meeting.

“I did.” Pearlman went into an office down the hall and came back with a cardboard tube. He pulled out the engineered drawings and laid them flat on the counter. “There are four points of entry,” the senator said, pointing to markings on the perimeter. “Front door, access to the garage, and two sets of French doors to the back patio.”

Drager studied the plans, mentally mapping where his people would be. Three agents would show up before daylight tomorrow to station themselves inside the home. The rest of the team would arrive over the morning and wait in neighbors’ homes or in cars down the street. A few would be on the next block over, waiting for the signal. “Considering the mid-afternoon time, I expect a front-door approach,” Drager said. “We know they have a van, so they’ll probably pose as repairmen or cable installers.”

A pretty woman entered the kitchen. “When is this supposed to happen?” She had thick shoulder-length blond hair, but her face had lost its smoothness and she was obviously in her sixties. She carried a small matching blond dog in her arms.

Drager smiled at her. “Tomorrow, sometime between one and three.”

“Good, I won’t be home.” She held out her hand. “I’m Stella Pearlman.”

He shook it, surprised by her statement. The activists had planned the assault for a time when no one was home? That didn’t make sense. He glanced at the senator. “You’ll be at the capitol building, correct?”

“I will. The legislation we talked about, to change marijuana’s classification, is scheduled for that time tomorrow. I’m sure the timing isn’t a coincidence.”

“I’m sure it’s not.” Drager rubbed his throbbing eyes. “But why come here if no one will be home?” He started to pace the kitchen, and the little dog yapped at him. He spun back. “Will the dog be home?”

Pearlman’s jaw dropped, and his wife let out a little gasp. “You think they plan to kidnap or harm Tessie?” She hugged the little terrier closer to her chest.

“I’m not sure. We’re acting on limited intel.” Drager mulled it over. Mrs. Pearlman’s absence from the house was both a blessing and a curse. It made the operation easier, because they didn’t have to worry about her getting taken hostage or hurt in possible crossfire. But it also meant they couldn’t charge the inner circle with a home invasion or kidnapping. A B&E at the most, depending on what happened with the dog.

“I’m not leaving Tessie,” Mrs. Pearlman announced. “I know your people will be here, but I can’t let her be traumatized.”

Drager hesitated, choosing a careful response. “If no one is here when they arrive, it’s not a home invasion, so we can only arrest them for breaking and entering, or maybe burglary if they try to take something, neither of which carries much of a sentence.”

Mrs. Pearlman narrowed her eyes, trying to read him. “Then I’ll stay home from my appointment. That way Tessie won’t be traumatized, and you can arrest them for home invasion.”

The senator snapped his head toward his wife. “That’s a bad idea. You don’t know what these people are capable of.”

“But the FBI will be here.” She turned back to Drager. “You’ll have agents in the house, right? People with guns to protect me.”

“Guns!” The senator shook his head. “That’s exactly why I don’t want you home. You could get hurt.”

“I won’t. Because I’ll know exactly what’s happening.” She stroked her husband’s arm. “Ray, we have to put this group away for a long time. They’ve been targeting you for six months. They also stole your campaign funds, and you’re down in the polls.”

“But the bureau will be here to arrest them, with or without you.” The senator’s argument lacked his earlier conviction.

Drager stepped in. “She’s right. On a simple B&E, some of them could be released in a year or less. Then they can start right up again. And so far, we can’t prove they took your money.”

Pearlman locked eyes with him. “Promise me Stella will be safe.”

“She’ll be fine. As far as we know, the inner circle doesn’t carry guns.”

“All right. What else do we need to know?”

They talked for another fifteen minutes, then Drager walked through the house, just to see the details that didn’t show up on the plans. The Pearlmans invited him to stay for dinner, but he declined and left, feeling better about the whole operation. Still, it wasn’t ideal. At this point, he was more worried about Dallas than Mrs. Pearlman. Why hadn’t his UC found a way to contact him?

Out in the car, his phone rang, and he looked at the screen:
Jocelyn Larson, MDP
. Would this call from his ex-wife be personal or somehow related to the judge’s murder? He knew the answer, but he drummed up a pleasant tone. “Hello, Joce. What’s going on?”

“You didn’t make the Bidwell task force meeting.”

Did she sound worried?
“I know. I’ve got a special-op going down soon, and I’m preoccupied.”

“I thought you should know Judge Bidwell’s ex-clerk was murdered the day before he was.”

What?
The intel startled and confused him, and he made her walk him through it. “Someone who used to work for the judge was murdered?”

“Yes, Callie Sayers. She was his clerk for ten years in Richmond, Virginia.”

“And she was killed a day before he died? How?”

“Shot twice in the face and dumped at a construction site in DC. With a prostitute’s ID.”

Bizarre.
“Any leads?” He knew the answer to that.

“Just the judge. He could have killed her to keep her from testifying against him.”

Drager started the car and backed into the street, while processing the possibilities. “Then Maddox could have killed the judge after he learned about the payoffs to CSA?”

“Maybe.” His ex chewed something crunchy as she talked. Dinner in the car, he guessed. She continued, “Or the same person could have killed both of them. Someone else who didn’t want the truth about the payoffs to come out.”

He didn’t want to let Luke Maddox off the hook, but the other murder changed the scenario. “Maybe it was another judge who was taking bribes too.”

“I plan to look into it, but I’ve had a full day. You should know that someone burned her feet with a cigarette and tossed her house looking for something. My guess is evidence of the judge’s crime.”

Good grief.
Maybe Maddox hadn’t done it. He hoped Jocelyn and her team would untangle the threads and bring someone to justice.

“Ross? Did I lose you?”

“No, I’m just getting on the road. I have to go back to the office and hold a tactical meeting, but thanks for the update.” The clerk’s death was intriguing, but not likely related to his case against the inner circle, especially if Luke Maddox wasn’t the killer. Drager started to ask if she wanted to have dinner sometime, but Jocelyn said goodbye and hung up.

Friday, Oct. 10, 9:15 a.m.

Dallas woke with a headache, and her mouth was so dry her tongue felt swollen. It took a moment to get her eyes open, and when she did, her stomach heaved. The sight of Aaron’s filthy room in daylight brought it all back. The bastard had drugged her and she’d been unconscious all night. Dallas tried to get up, but couldn’t move. A double strip of duct tape across her mouth kept her from swearing out loud. Her wrists were taped to the chair as well.
What the fuck?
She remembered thinking he might rape her, but this seemed worse. Where was he?

She spotted Aaron on the bed, lying down. She hoped he was asleep. With time, she could pull free. Duct tape didn’t stick well to leather, and now that the drug was out of her system, she could kick his ass if he woke up. Dallas jerked up with her arms, but the tape didn’t budge.

Aaron sat up. “Oh good, you’re awake. We don’t have much time left.”

Time for what?
But she couldn’t ask.

He walked over, his breath ragged and foul. “I’ll take the tape off your mouth as soon as we have an understanding.”

Who the fuck was he?
She wanted to kill him! But she needed answers too.

He pulled up his desk chair and sat in front of her, but out of range of her feet. “You have an explosive device strapped to your stomach—”

No!
She sucked in her breath and looked down.

“So forget any idea of calling for help, assaulting me, or rescuing yourself.”

He’d put her running jacket back on her but left it unzipped, and underneath she could see a bulge. Only about five inches long and maybe three inches deep.
Was it real? What did he want?
The pounding in her head escalated.

“You’d like to know all about it, wouldn’t you?” His laughter gave way to coughing. Aaron finally got up and drank some water. Dallas desperately wanted some too, but she couldn’t risk consuming more sedative.

“I’m proud of my skills, so I can’t resist telling you.” Aaron sat back down and leaned forward like an eager teacher. “The device has two parts. One is a glycol-based liquid, which acts as the detonator. It’s powerful enough to kill you by itself. The second explosive is PETN, which is stable until it’s triggered, but then, BOOM!” He gestured with both hands, indicating it could take down the house.

Aaron reached behind him and pulled out a big silver gun.
A Glock
. He smiled, his small teeth making him look like a nasty rodent. “I can also shoot you in the head without triggering the glycol.”

Dallas swallowed to wet her throat.

“I’ll take the tape off your mouth if you’re ready to shut up and listen.”

Dallas nodded. She had to be able to talk to him, find out what she could. He ripped the piece off her mouth in a quick painful movement.

She swallowed again, and her lips felt cracked. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

“I’m Aaron Mortlock, and my plan is to free my brother, Shawn Mortlock.”

A lead ball landed in her stomach. Shawn Mortlock was a small-scale domestic terrorist, who’d blown up a federal courthouse fourteen years ago. The only reason he wasn’t on death row was that he’d picked a holiday, and the courthouse had been empty. His lawyer had argued that was intentional, that Shawn wasn’t a killer, just an anarchist. The FBI thought he was both deadly and stupid, and they used his case in training classes.