Red Cell Seven (18 page)

CHAPTER 19

“D
ECUS SEPTUM
,”
Travers muttered across the laminate tabletop as he picked up his mug and took a careful sip of steaming coffee.

Troy took a careful sip from his mug, too. “Honor to the Seven.” God, this coffee tasted good. Maybe it would have tasted good even if it was mud after what had just happened on the Kohler farm.

Troy always made certain to appreciate being alive after a close call. He’d actually take a few breaths and consciously consider the wonder of life when death ran close to the line—as it just had. He’d taken those deliberate breaths in this booth a few minutes ago, as soon as they’d sat down.

“Protect the peak,” Travers said.

Troy glanced across the table. Travers was still studying the menu even though they’d already ordered breakfast.

He’d asked his father about those words the other night on the plane ride back up to New York. He’d asked Bill specifically what “protect the peak” meant. The old man had shrugged and claimed it was already a custom to say it when he’d signed on to run the RCS associate pool thirty years ago. And that he’d never asked Roger Carlson what, if anything, it actually meant.

Troy doubted that answer but hadn’t pushed. Bill Jensen would always be a secretive man, even to his family. Even to a son who was inside Red Cell Seven.

“Yeah,” Troy murmured as he looked around the Denny’s. It wasn’t crowded in here for this time of day, and he found that odd, given it was morning and the place was best known for breakfast. “Protect the peak.”

After spraying the basement with bullets, he and Travers had sprinted up the steps through the smoke and burst through the door to the outside. Then they’d raced back across the pasture beneath the moonlight, jumped the tall four-slat fence twice within a few seconds—Travers with Troy’s help each time—and hustled into the protection of the forest. When they were certain they weren’t being followed, they’d stopped only long enough to catch their breaths—and bust the handcuffs still snaring Travers’s wrists. Then they’d taken off again.

They couldn’t return to the car Troy and the other two agents had driven to the farm from the Raleigh airport. They’d parked the car on the side of the road that passed the driveway leading to the farm, a few hundred yards south of the entrance, and then hiked into the spot on the ridge they’d used to watch the place. He’d tried to hide the car as best he could—he’d pulled it a little ways into the woods through a slight opening among the trees—but he was worried Maddux would still locate and watch it, figuring Troy would return at some point. He wasn’t at all confident he’d killed or even wounded Maddux with that burst of fire he’d sprayed the basement with.

Troy didn’t want another knife blade to his throat. He’d never experienced that before, and it was much more terrifying than having a gun leveled at him, which he’d already experienced several times. A bullet was fast acting; a knife, not so much.

An hour ago they’d finally come out of the trees onto a twisting country road. Fortunately they’d quickly hitched a ride from a passing farmer who was headed into a Raleigh suburb for supplies—Troy hadn’t wanted to stay out on the road long, vulnerable to being seen by Maddux out there. The guy hadn’t asked any questions, not even “Where’re you headed?” and they’d ridden into town in the bed of his pickup. Starving, they’d come into this Denny’s for a big breakfast as soon as they’d jumped out of the vehicle and waved their thanks to the farmer.

“Thanks for getting me out of there, man,” Travers said. “I figured I was done.”

“It wasn’t very graceful. And we lost two of our own.” He’d have to tell his father about Agents Wyoming and Idaho. He wasn’t looking forward to that. “They were good men.”

Travers nodded solemnly. “There’s been a lot of that going around lately. I lost my—”

“I know. You lost Harry Boyd in Wilmington. You two were close.”

Travers gestured at Troy with his mug. “How the hell did you find me anyway?”

“My father had it figured.”

“Your father’s Bill Jensen?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s how you know about Harry Boyd being my partner.”

According to Bill, Travers was intensely loyal to RCS. And it was very possible that he held the key to everything—which was the reason Troy had led the rescue mission to get him out. They were going to be partners through all of this, and they needed to forge strong trust quickly. Being completely transparent about everything would help that process along.

“Yup. And he told me that as close as you and Boyd were, you and Kohler were the same distance apart.”

“He was right.”

“Why. What happened?”

“Nathan and I got into it bad during his first training sessions last summer, one time in particular. I was hard on him, but I’m hard on all new recruits I train.” Travers shook his head. “He never got over it. More to the point, he wasn’t very fond of us black people.”

“I heard, but that makes no sense. His father, Douglas, was—”

“A senator. I know.”

“And a huge civil rights advocate,” Troy added. “It was one of his passions on the Hill. How does that work?”

Travers shrugged. “I know Nathan and his father didn’t get along. Maybe it’s as simple as that. Everything Douglas loved, Nathan hated. It wouldn’t be the first time a father-son story exactly like that’s been written.”

Absolutely true,
Troy thought. In a way, that was how Jack had been with Bill—until recently, until he’d finally felt like a true member of the Jensen family.

“My father mentioned that,” Troy said. “He also heard about Nathan and Maddux getting close.”

Douglas Kohler was one of the few associates who had a direct relationship with Shane Maddux. However, Bill had made clear to Troy that he had no knowledge of Maddux doing any personal favors for Douglas. No taking out abusive fiancés or influencing fraud-committing CFOs. As far as Bill knew, the senator had kept his relationship with Maddux strictly professional. Of course, the nothing ever being a hundred percent certain rule
always
applied.

“All that led us straight to the Kohler farm. That’s why my father sent me down here. It was a guess, but it was a damn good one.” Troy hesitated. What he was about to say was tricky. “You know why I came after you so fast, don’t you, Major Travers?”

Travers stared at Troy grim-faced for several moments. Finally, he broke into a wry smile. “Well, since we’ve never met, I know it wasn’t because you liked me so much.”

“It was because my father says you have something—”

“Or because I’m so damn good-looking.”

Troy chuckled. “No, not that either.” Travers seemed to be taking this the right way. “My father says you have something very valuable.”

“I figured it had something to do with that,” Travers mumbled as their waiter approached the table, carrying a large tray stacked with food.

“So what is it?”

“Can’t tell you. Not without your father’s permission. Sorry.”

Troy wanted to know badly. But he knew Travers wouldn’t say anything if that violated a direct order. So pushing for an answer would prove futile. “Okay, well, I’m glad we got you out of there. My father has a lot of respect for you, Major. He says you’re the real deal.”

It took the waiter thirty seconds to serve all the food. They were both famished. They’d ordered heaping portions of eggs, bacon, hash browns, sausage gravy, biscuits, pancakes, and fruit.

“Where is everybody?” Troy asked the waiter as he refilled their coffee mugs.

“Those death squads have people spooked,” the kid answered in a heavy southern drawl as he glanced quickly over his shoulder at the entrance. “Everybody’s staying home.”

“Is everybody worried because of the mall shooting in Charlotte?” Travers asked. One of the squads had hit a major mall in Charlotte, 170 miles west of Raleigh. “That’s pretty far from here, isn’t it? And that was the closest one.”

“I think it was more them hitting that school in Missouri that’s got to everybody,” the kid answered. “Ain’t nobody safe when they go out now, you know? And they killed little children.
That’s
what really has everyone going. You guys need anything else?” he asked when he’d finished refilling Travers’s mug.

“This is fine for now,” said Troy as he looked at all the food hungrily. “Thanks.”

He watched the waiter walk away, and glanced at the entrance. How horrible would it be to look over there and see several men come in wielding submachine guns? Mostly it would be the desperation of knowing you were helpless, especially if you had children with you. For a moment he pictured Little Jack sitting beside him. It was just like the waiter said. The baby would be so vulnerable. But the bastards wouldn’t give a damn.

As he picked up a piece of bacon, Troy thought back to that comment Maddux had made about Jack. It seemed as if Maddux was saying he hadn’t been the one who’d shot Jack on the back porch of their parents’ home in Greenwich. But he was probably just trying to fool them, worried about Bill coming after him, and using the opportunity to raise doubts about being guilty of the shooting. Maybe that was actually why he hadn’t intended to kill Troy in the basement. He wanted the lie about not killing Jack to get back to Bill fast.

“Why do you think Maddux shot Kohler back there?” Travers asked through a mouthful of biscuits and sausage gravy.

“Maddux didn’t shoot Kohler,” Troy answered as he glanced warily at the restaurant’s entrance once more.

“What do you mean? He was the only one who could have.”

Troy shook his head. “Somebody else was down there. I heard a pistol go off, and Maddux didn’t have a pistol. He had one of the submachine guns.”

He’d been thinking about that bullet tearing through Kohler’s throat ever since he and Travers had raced from the house. Who the hell had shot Nathan Kohler?

T
HE
M
USLIM
family of six climbed out of their minivan and began walking leisurely toward the mosque to attend morning prayer service. It was early, but the temperature had already reached sixty degrees, which, for December in this area of the country, was quite warm. Tomorrow it was supposed to turn cold and possibly snow. But today they would enjoy the beautiful weather.

The mosque was located in a quiet suburb of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. It was a beautiful building with an imposing minaret rising from the center surrounded by several smaller spires. The mosque was only a few miles from the Mother Mosque of America, which had been built in 1934 and was the second oldest mosque constructed in the United States as well as the oldest still standing. But this one was much larger than the Mother Mosque, and the family admired the towering spires in the morning sunshine as they strolled leisurely toward them.

The couple had four children. The girls were fourteen and twelve, and the boys were eight and seven. They laughed with each other and waved to friends as they threaded their way through the large parking lot, which was filled with cars even at this early hour. At the door the boys would go with their father and the girls with their mother. Muslim men and women prayed in separate areas.

The two boys were tussling with each other in front of the rest of the family when a pickup truck pulled slowly out of a parking space fifty feet ahead and then stopped in front of them. As the boys ceased their pushing and shoving, a man wearing a soiled John Deere cap, a checkered flannel shirt, and dirty jeans climbed out of the vehicle. He smiled and waved, then pulled an over-and-under twelve-gauge shotgun from inside the truck and began firing.

By the time he climbed back into the pickup he’d killed the mother and father and mortally wounded the two girls.

“That’s for those kids in Missouri!” the man shouted at the two little boys, who were cowering between cars as he roared past them. “I hope you’re next, you little bastards.”

CHAPTER 20

J
ACOB
G
ADANZ
leaned forward and pressed a button on his desk that triggered the office door’s magnetic lock. It did so with an audible thump, and now he was comfortable that they had complete privacy. He didn’t want anyone barging in and interrupting this meeting. That could prove problematic for both of them. Of course, he had more to lose if that happened—much more. Perhaps that was how Kaashif was able to rationalize what he was doing and stay so calm. He had nothing to lose.

“Sit down,” Gadanz ordered gruffly, motioning toward the wooden chair beside the desk.

“I am always so impressed by the physical beauty of your operation,” Kaashif said sarcastically as he eased into the uncomfortable chair and gestured around the starkly furnished room.

“And I’m always so impressed with your gratitude,” Gadanz replied tersely.

“Why should I be grateful?”

Gadanz scowled at the younger man. “How can you even ask me that?”

“You are not doing this for me, Jacob. That fact cannot be more certain.”

“But I’m doing it.”

Kaashif pointed at Gadanz. “You only do what you do for blood, Jacob. We both know that. And you are doing this specific thing because you owe a large debt to that blood.”

Gadanz glanced at the photograph of Elaina and Sophie. So Kaashif knew more than he was supposed to. At least, more than Gadanz was told he would know, which surprised him and wasn’t a good sign. Not everyone was as loyal to the family as he, apparently. But he couldn’t raise the issue. It would not be well received if it got back—and that was an understatement.

“Did your people have to attack that school in Missouri?” he asked. “Was that really necessary?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I believe that school attack has had more of an impact on the United States population than all eleven mall attacks combined. People are terrified now.”

“And furious,” Gadanz snapped.

Kaashif scoffed. “They would have been furious anyway. By attacking malls we took away their beloved shopping. But they would have gotten over that, especially in today’s world.” He laughed loudly. “By attacking that school we took away something much more precious. We took away their freedom. Now they are afraid to go anywhere. They are even afraid while they are in their homes. And if they are not now, they soon will be.” His eyes gleamed. “I love it, Jacob.”

“I know you do, Kaashif.”

“There will be more blood soon. There are so many small towns with so many soft targets to choose from.” Kaashif closed his eyes and smiled like he was having a good dream or he was inhaling a wonderful aroma of food that was wafting to his nostrils from a gourmet kitchen. “Homes, movie theatres, gas stations, grocery stores, more schools, churches, and they are all protected by pathetic local police who have no chance against our superior weapons, training, and planning. We will change the way this country lives. The public will begin to order everything ‘in,’ and then we will start attacking the delivery people so they are scared to supply the population. It will be chaos.” His smile grew. “It already is, to some extent. It is beautiful.”

“He’s using you. You know that, don’t you?”

“And we are using him. It is symmetric, which is how any important partnership should be constructed.” Kaashif gestured impatiently at the anteroom to this office where he’d waited for Gadanz. “I brought two suitcases, Jacob. Inside them is a total of one hundred thousand dollars, which is the two-week burn for what are now ten teams of four men each, thanks to that unfortunate occurrence in Minneapolis.” His eyes flashed angrily at the admission of losing one team already. “You will wash the cash through Gadanz and Company as agreed and as you have before. Then the teams will access the money through the corporate accounts with their cards.”

“This can’t go on.”

Kaashif winced as he changed positions in the chair. He’d been bothered by an upset stomach for the last few days, but it wouldn’t slow him down. Nothing would. There was too much momentum to let anything slow them down. “What do you mean by that?”

“First of all, I have to pay taxes on all that money.”

“Why?”

“I put that cash in my registers at my stores so you don’t have to deposit it in a bank and risk that deposit being reported to federal authorities.”

All cash deposits over ten thousand dollars were required to be reported to the Treasury Department by the receiving bank. The government couldn’t realistically investigate every cash deposit over that amount, because there were so many on a daily basis. However, computer programs enabled agents to quickly hone in on deposits that were more likely to generate criminal leads than others. Large cash deposits made by stores that normally received large amounts of cash on a daily basis were not typically investigated. Gadanz & Company was the perfect washing machine for the cash the death squads needed.

“So it looks like I received it from customers who are buying items from my stores,” Gadanz continued. “And then it goes into my bank as though I earned it. But then my accountant must declare all of that cash as revenue at the end of the year. So I must pay taxes on it.”

“So what? I still do not understand.”

Gadanz clenched his jaw. Kaashif was incredibly arrogant, but he was smart, too. These questions were being asked simply to annoy. But Gadanz would finish this out. He wanted his objection heard and noted.

“So if your teams use all one hundred thousand dollars I’ve deposited for you in my company accounts, I’m being shorted. With state and local income taxes, my total rate is nearly forty percent. That means I have to pay another forty thousand dollars on each hundred thousand you have me launder.”

Kaashif waved. “Deal with it.” He chuckled. “Consider it your contribution to the greater good.”

Gadanz clenched his jaw again, harder. “And I hate them withdrawing amounts all over the country from random ATMs.” That was what could really get him in trouble. That was what could land him in jail forever, maybe even get him strapped to a gurney waiting for a lethal injection to cascade into his arm.

“I’m not sending cash through the mail, Jacob. The Feds are getting too good at spotting that and following it. People don’t know it, but even Federal Express and UPS must notify the Feds of large cash mailings when the machines identify them.”

“But I—”

“If anyone asks,” Kaashif interrupted, “tell them you are paying suppliers. Tell them you buy things for your stores from many different locations.”

“Yes, I’m sure that will convince everyone and there will be no blowback. Come on. You know that won’t work.”

“Think of something else, then. I do not have time to deal with your issues. I have many of my own.”

“What you mean by that is, if this thing is uncovered then I get screwed while your people have time to scatter with the wind.”

Kaashif rubbed his stomach again. He really needed to get something at the store for the pain. It was getting bad. “I may need you to get even more involved, Jacob.”

“What are you talking about? This is all I agreed to do.”

“My team here in northern Virginia may need another place to hole up. They have been in the same apartment complex for a while, and they are getting nervous. I want them to stay around here because I want a team causing chaos at least somewhat in proximity to Washington, DC. It will get much play in the press.” Kaashif nodded to Gadanz. “Yes, I definitely want you more involved. I want you to rent them a new place through the company. Do it today.”

This was getting out of control, Gadanz realized. The problem was he was already in so deep. That rule about only blood mattering wasn’t working out as it was supposed to. It was what he had held on to as the saving grace of everything when this had all been initially proposed to him, and what he had hoped would see him and his family through all of this. But it was now obvious that his hope had been hollow at best.

“Imelda has been taken, along with her child,” Kaashif spoke up.

Gadanz’s eyes raced to Kaashif’s. “What?” he whispered.

“She’s gone.”

Gadanz felt his chest tighten and his breathing go fast. “Maybe she ran.”

Kaashif shook his head. “No chance. She would never have done that. She was completely committed to the cause.”

“Well, I—”

“You will take her place in everything,” Kaashif ordered, “and there will be no further discussion about it. Do you understand me?”

The little bastard. He would kill him right now with his bare hands—but that would be suicide. Worse, it would mean the end for his daughters. There would be no mercy.