Cloudburst

Fourteen THE WHITE HATS AND THE BLACK HATS

Sammy knew his big brother would take care of everything once he got to California. Three more hours. He had to remain cool. His shift ended at 2230, leaving him free for a late night on the town, but he wasn’t planning for that.

“So he’s alone?” the FBI agent asked. He was a huge man, reminiscent of a hockey goalie who had played too many years without a mask.

“Absolutely,” the Army lieutenant answered.

The agent nodded and looked to the three others with him. They all wore the familiar blue windbreakers with the bright yellow FBI stenciled on the back, and two had their high-capacity 10mm autos in hand, locked and loaded. At the back of the Watch Office two MPs stood waiting. They wore full combat gear, flak vests and Kevlar helmets, and carried their M-16s ready to fire.

“Okay. Everybody ready?” All the parties nodded.

Their location, one building away from Private Sammy Jackson’s post at the base armory, also housed the base telephone exchange, an ancient piece of equipment by standards of the day. Its antiquity would be useful, though, in the trickery they were about to attempt.

No calls had come through for the armory yet this evening, and Sammy had made none, making the operation all that much easier. One of the agents was from the Technical Services arm of the Bureau. He had with him two devices, both of which were plugged into the telephone-switching system, specifically the lines to the armory. One of the devices blocked all inbound calls, but recorded their origin.

The other suitcase-size apparatus would display any number dialed, but would not allow it to go through. “We’re ready,” the bespectacled agent announced, looking the part of a computer nerd.

The lieutenant waited for a go-ahead from the lead agent before buzzing the armory.

“Armory, Private Jackson.”

“Jackson, you get any calls?”

“Nah. Not tonight, Lieutenant.”

“Son of a… Your brother called and the switchboard couldn’t put it through. Goddamn ancient fucking wires!”

“When’d he call, sir?”

“A few minutes ago. He wants you to call him back, pronto.” That was a gamble. Did Sammy know where to contact his brother Marcus?

“Yeah, okay. Thanks for the message, sir.”

The scar-faced agent smiled with a crooked mouth of teeth. “That was good. Get moving.” The other two Bureau men and the MPs left for the armory.

“Hey,” the lieutenant said. “Go easy. Nothing’s been proven. He’s innocent until, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” one of the arrest team answered sarcastically before closing the opaque-windowed door behind himself.

“The phone’s up.” Attention turned to the digital readout connected to the line and the agent sitting on the floor next to it. “He took a few seconds to pick up. Maybe he’s spooked.”

“Or maybe he was just getting the number,” the leader responded. The TS agent agreed with a look.

“Dialing.”

“Whiskey One, copy?” Scar-face called on his portable.

“Whiskey One, go.”

“You in position?”

“Ten seconds.”

“Ten-four, stand by.”

The phone number’s eleven digits came up on the display as dialed, and the outgoing line was locked out. All Sammy Jackson heard after dialing the last number was a dial tone.

“Whiskey One, move in.”

The stupid phone had to act up now! Sammy dropped the receiver into its cradle and took a deep breath. He just wanted his shift to be over so he could get to the airport.

He jumped when the door opened hard and swung back against the wall. Within a few seconds there were two men behind him with their guns pressed against his back as they pushed his nearly bald head down on the desk.

“Fucking traitor,” one of the MPs mumbled, incorrectly labeling his onetime comrade.

“Stow that crap, soldier,” one of the agents ordered. “Samuel J. Jackson, you are under arrest for murder, and for conspiracy to assassinate the president. Do you understand?” The handcuffs clicked shut.

“Yes,” he answered in a quiet voice. The nineteen-year- old high school dropout hadn’t expected this. His big brother promised him that everything was going to be fine. All he had to do was sit tight for a few days. He had done that. What went wrong? Sammy wondered.

“I’m going to read you your rights, Sammy.”

“Go ahead,” he said, with no hint of defiance in his shaking voice.

Scar-face had already transcribed the phone number onto a cipher pad for transmission to the L.A. office when the word came from the arrest team that Sammy was in custody. This had been easy, but then most busts were, contrary to popular, uninformed belief. This perp was just a stupid, scared kid, who had no idea what he had gotten himself into — wrong: what someone had gotten him into.

Los Angeles is a city unlike any other, especially its weather. Seasons rarely follow a pattern of normalcy. Summer, the predominant and most miserable of all, usually began its reign in March and continued all the way into November, autumn being just a week or two of pseudo- summer with the added humidity of the coming winter.

One level above the Bureau’s parking garage the city was winding down from another day of choking heat and smog.

The thermometer still read ninety-two and was expected to drop only nine degrees before midnight. It was cool in the basement lot, and in the cars. Four rows of nondescript government sedans filled the area to the right of the elevator, but Art and Eddie exited and turned left, to the row of “boss’s” cars parked parallel to the gray cement wall.

“You wanna pack anything bigger for this?” Eddie asked.

Art opened the trunk. They discarded their jackets and took the dark gray flak vests from the compartment.

“Nope.” Art patted his gun, as much for reassurance as for demonstration.

“It’s gonna be hotter than hell in these things,” Eddie observed, pulling the Kevlar one-piece vest over his head. It hung down in front to cover his groin area. Velcro straps cinched it snugly around his sides. “We’ll crank up the A/C, right?”

“You bet.” Art looked down into the trunk. There was a stockless semi-auto shotgun and a fully automatic CAR-15 on the floor. He held his hand out and down, gesturing for Eddie to choose one.

“Me neither, boss. Too much noise,” he explained, then closed the lid.

One nice thing about pursuit vehicles was their reliability. Art’s car was serviced every three weeks, as were the others. The Chevy started up immediately and its tires squealed when Art cranked the wheel full to the left to pull out of his spot. On the way up and out they passed the cover cars, ones that few agents would choose to drive. They served the purpose of looking like ordinary cars, unlike the official sedans with their small hubcaps and dull one-tone paint jobs.

“You ever drive that old Torino?” Eddie asked. Art shook his head. “The sucker hauls. Mostly duct tape for upholstery, though.”

“Yeah.”

The reflected sunlight hit the car as it emerged from the underground garage. Art flipped the visor down and took his new sunglasses from the elastic holder. Eddie already had his on, but not the ones he liked. Off duty he wore his flashy rainbowed Oakleys.

Eddie checked the car clock against his watch. “The other units should be at the park.”

Next to the Sheraton Townhouse was Lafayette Park, one of the urban oases that the city somehow never managed to keep free of crime, mostly drug dealing. It was appropriate that Marcus Jackson should choose the hotel next door to lie low. Thank God for his idiot brother, Art thought.

The drive down Wilshire to the Townhouse would be short in distance, but a fight with traffic the whole way, not to mention the dipping sun that would shine in their eyes continually. Time wasn’t much of a concern, thankfully. One team was already in a room next to Jackson, after notifying the hotel manager and admonishing him to keep quiet. Three other teams would assist in the arrest.

“How do you think we should do this?” Art asked at a red light.

“Well, there’s no reason to think he wouldn’t be armed, so I say we kick it in — no warning.”

“What if he’s got someone in there? Everything points to him being a pretty scuzzy guy, and if he has any money for his part, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s purchased some company.”

Eddie laughed. “He’s a red velvet kinda guy. Frankie said that car is pretty damn gaudy. How much you figure it set him back?”

“Who knows. We’ll see how much we get for it at auction.” Art accelerated away from the pack at the green. The engine whined through the gears, pushing the car through the next two lights as they went from yellow to red, before the back of a traffic wave slowed them. They were a scant seven blocks from the hotel.

“Let’s you and I go through first, with King four coming behind us.”

“Frankie and Thom second,” Eddie suggested.

“They’ve done good.”

“Damn straight,” Eddie confirmed, playing the cheerleader.

Art weighed it quickly. No matter how equal they were, he just didn’t like the thought of a female agent taking a bullet. But… “They deserve it. Okay.”

“Seven Sam,” the radio crackled.

Art grabbed the mike. Three blocks. “Seven Sam, go ahead.”

“Seven Sam, King Four — we have movement. Suspect is with a…stand by.” The last words were hushed. Art stepped on the accelerator and swerved out into traffic, passing a group of four vehicles with only his blue and red rear lights flashing through the back window. “Seven Sam, suspect just passed our door. He’s with a young Caucasian female. Looks like a working girl. He’s got no bags with him. Should we take him?”

Dammit! Art’s chest began to pound. “Negative.” He let off the mike. “Ed, did the warrant get processed?”

“Yep.” Eddie had his gun in hand, resting it on his lap.

“King Four, when it’s clear you kick that door and secure the room. Copy?”

“Ten-four.”

“What’s Frankie’s team?” Art asked, swerving the car into the curb lane one-handed.

“King Eight.” Art swung the car right and pulled across to the opposite side of the street, bringing the gray Chevy to a stop facing the wrong way on the east side of the park.

“King Eight, go.” It was Frankie.

“Frankie, where’s Jackson’s car?”

“In the lot on the north side of the building. We’re across the street in the tailor’s.”

“Are there any people in that lot?”

“Affirmative. Ten or twelve in a group. Business types.”

The decision was a bitch, and it had to be made fast. Jackson and his friend would be in the lot within a minute. If the agents tried to take them there, a lot of people could get hurt: Stray bullets don’t care about guilt or innocence. He could have had King Four make a move up on the eighth floor, Art thought, but hindsight was worth shit now. There was only one choice.

“King Eight, where’s the outlet for that lot?”

“Right in front of us.”

There wasn’t enough time to clear the lot, and Jackson could turn right or left onto the street, complicating things further. They had to isolate him somewhat, and try to get the lady out of danger. She was just doing her job, after all.

“Frankie, get your car out there and block it so he’ll turn east. Block the westbound lane on Sixth — put the hood up. And have Thom stay in the store. Copy?”

“Copy.”

Art looked over his shoulder before flooring the gas pedal, pulling the car back into the right-hand lane of Lafayette Park Place. “King Five.”

“Five by.”

“King Five, set up on Commonwealth north of Sixth, and keep out of sight. Copy?”

“Ten-four, got it.”

“King Six.” Art turned left onto Sixth.

“King Six, go ahead.”

“Cover Commonwealth and Wilshire, but stay away from the intersection: It’s too close to the front of the hotel. Copy?”

“Ten-four. We’ll set up over on the south side of the park.”

“All right, folks. We’ll take Sixth east of Commonwealth.” Art wanted to box in Jackson. Any direction he traveled could be blocked by one of the four units. Traffic was just beginning to let up on the periphery streets, but not on Wilshire. There was a steady flow westbound of late workers heading toward Santa Monica, and King Six found themselves the object of constant car horns as they turned west on Wilshire from Hoover, blocking the curb lane of traffic.

“Where the hell’s he going?” Art stopped on the left again, this time on Sixth.

“Food, I’d say.”

Seat belts were off now and the adrenaline was beginning its slow rise to the crescendo that would soon come.

Two minutes passed without Jackson appearing. The agent in the passenger seat of King Six had his binoculars trained on the Commonwealth and Wilshire entrances to the hotel, at times having to peer through the amazingly lush trees. He saw nothing. At the rear of the hotel Frankie had maneuvered the Bureau T-Bird at an angle so that all of the westbound lane of Sixth, and part of the eastbound one, was blocked. She was at the right of the vehicle, trying her best to be interested in the quiet six-cylinder engine and trying equally as hard to fend off several offers of help from passing motorists, all of them male.

Another minute.

“Seven Sam, this is King Eight,” Thom called. “We’ve got nothing here except a crowd gathering to help Frankie.”

Art hit the steering wheel. “Where is he?”

“Maybe they’re eating inside,” Eddie surmised, shrugging. Art flashed him a “you would have to say that” look.

“Seven Sam, King Six. We’ve got him. He’s on foot, with his lady friend, westbound on Wilshire. He came out the front.”

“Son of a bitch!” Art cursed, throwing the car hard into gear. “We could lose him in that traffic on Wilshire. King Eight.”

“King Eight, Frankie’s heading for Wilshire on foot.”

“Seven Sam, King Six, my partner is on foot.” Two agents were now out of their vehicles, moving to cut Jackson off: one behind, and Frankie trying to head him off on Wilshire.

Art and Eddie reached the intersection of Commonwealth and Sixth as King Five did from the north. Art went south on Commonwealth, more out of fear of colliding with the other unit than desire, and King Five went west on Sixth.

“Best-laid plans, boss,” Eddie commented. He was chewing his gum hard now.

Art slowed a hundred yards shy of Wilshire, and then there was the sound.

LAPD had been notified of the Bureau’s presence in the area, a routine practice when one law enforcement agency was operating within the jurisdiction of another. The message was passed over the radio to the divisional units, but without having a divisional roll call to acknowledge the information. Two motor officers missed the call, having been involved in a minor altercation with a traffic offender. After all, it hadn’t been an “officer needs help” call, something that would have grabbed their immediate attention.

This made it somewhat understandable, but no less damaging, when the two officers gunned their Kawasakis to catch up with the beat-up-looking Chrysler that had pulled away from the curb and across two lanes of traffic into the oncoming lanes. They were too far away to see the radio antenna at the front of the car, but then it became inconsequential as both hit their sirens and lights simultaneously.

The sound of a wailing high-pitched siren was not unusual in L.A. at any hour, but there was enough of a ghoul factor to make anyone look.

Marcus Jackson turned to see what unfortunate soul had gotten busted. Probably someone running a light, since there were only two bursts on the siren. Kind of a ‘hey you, look in your rearview’ sort of message. What a bitch…

The man was definitely out of place, both in posture and appearance. First of all, he was white, a distinctive trait in this racially mixed minority area. And he was jogging, but then stopped when he saw Jackson turn around.

No more warning was needed. “Later, babe,” Marcus said, patting the lady’s ass before darting out into the stop-and-go traffic on Wilshire. The .357 revolver came out from under his jacket.

Agent Dan Burlingame from King Six saw the suspect bolt. His feet began immediately propelling his slightly overweight frame faster. “He’s running, south across Wilshire,” he yelled into his radio.

“Who was that?” Art asked. “He didn’t identify!” The accelerator hit the stops and the car lurched forward. Ahead, a wall of cars blocked the intersection.

Eddie hit the siren, but it could not make the cars, nose to ass, move; there was just no room. The threat of a $250 fine didn’t deter people from filling the intersection. King Six worked past the jam on the opposite side of the street, but slowly. One of the LAPD motors followed him, clued in now to the Bureau car’s identity, but unsure of what to do. The other motor officer pulled into traffic to clear a path in the intersection for the Chevy, its siren wailing and grille lights flashing.

Frankie, at a dead run, reached Wilshire in time to see Jackson dodging traffic in the eastbound lanes. “This is Frankie, I’m on him. He’s westbound on Wilshire. South side of the street. I see a gun. He’s armed.”

Cars were slowing at the sight of the man and his gun, making it easier for Frankie to weave her way across the street, but slowed traffic even more at the rear of the pack. She saw Dan entering lanes to her left. He was having a harder time, even having to do a half roll over the hood of a taxi.

In front of Art the motor cop threw up his hands in frustration.

“Screw it, let’s go.” Art pushed the door, taking the keys and a radio from the charger. Eddie followed.

The sight people were seeing was uncommon even for Los Angeles. Traffic had come to a halt on Wilshire as the agents converged on Jackson on foot and in vehicles. The lone motor officer who had stuck with King Six was in the dark as to what was going on, but he stayed close behind the Bureau Chrysler, yelling frantically into his radio for information from his dispatcher.

Jackson spun in a running circle to check his rear — he didn’t like what he saw. Two of them were close!

Inside, Marc. The doorway was set into the old building. He pushed off hard up the three steps and was inside.

Frankie and Dan hit the doorway simultaneously, seconds later, one on each side. Both were puffing hard.

“He’s inside a gray-brick four-story,” Frankie said into the radio. “Dan, check for exits.”

“Gotcha.” He moved east along the building’s front and disappeared down a side alley.

Frankie’s partner brought their car to a screeching halt fifty feet away, blocking the eastbound lanes of Wilshire. He ran toward Frankie, who directed him to the opposite side of the structure. Art and Eddie ran up, looking like half-dressed knights in their flak vests.

“Where’s he at?” Art was breathing hard.

“Inside, he went up,” Frankie answered. Several strands of hair had come loose from her ponytail and were hanging in her face. She threw them back with a toss of her head. “He’s armed.”

Art was pressed against the wall, looking alternately up and at Frankie. Eddie stood farther back by the comer, his gun trained upward covering the windows. King Five and King Six pulled up seconds apart from opposite directions.

There were now eight agents and one LAPD motor cop covering the building.

“Ed, over here.” Art shouted. Another agent took up Eddie’s position.

“Yeah, boss?” he panted.

“We’ve gotta take him. I don’t want him offing himself in there. No way.”

“It’s probably dark in there,” Eddie guessed, half joking and half not.

“You, me, and Frankie,” Art decided. “Okay?”

Francine Aguirre, whose unofficial Bureau nickname was Stud, smiled and nodded. Strangely, she was not afraid, but then it might have been the high-octane chemicals her body was pumping into her bloodstream.

“Let’s do it,” Eddie answered, spitting his gum on the sidewalk.

“You.” Art pointed to the faceless motor cop, still in his mirrored sunglasses and black-and-white helmet. The officer approached, crouching along the wall. “I’m Agent Jefferson, FBI. You cover the front. Anyone without a badge comes out, put them facedown. Got it?”

“Yeah.” What the hell is going on? He wanted the backup he called for to be there — now!

“All units: Frankie, Eddie, and I are going in.” Art tucked the radio in his back pocket. “Let’s go.”

Eddie led off. The front door creaked open inward — just like in the movies, Eddie thought. His gun was pointed forward, held in two hands. The Joker was deadly serious about this. Somewhere in the building was a guy who would more than likely blow a hole in him if given the chance. That didn’t sound appealing.

It was dark inside the old building, which at one time had probably been a bustling center of professional offices, but now was a dingy brick cube full of empty offices above the ground floor. A man poked his head out of a ground-floor office. Two guns, Art’s and Frankie’s, automatically centered on him.

“What’s u—”

“Get in-side,” Frankie ordered in measured syllables. “And stay there.” His head disappeared and the door lock clicked.

“You’re sure he went up?” Art asked.

“Yeah,” Frankie confirmed. “You should have seen the clodhoppers he was wearing. I heard them all the way outside.”

“Okay.”

Eddie looked up the stairs. “Here we go,” Eddie said.

Moving upstairs was a painfully tedious process when the stairs zigzagged up to each level. Eddie found himself the point, on his back squirming up each step while training his weapon at the perch of the level above. Art and Frankie following him also concentrated their attention upward, though it was considerably more comfortable. Eddie worked his way up to the second floor with the other two a few feet behind.

“Word has it you’ve got a good nose,” Art whispered to Frankie. “Now would be a wonderful time to demonstrate it.”

Frankie was on the right side of the wide hallway, looking down its short length. There were four windowed doors on each side, and a single window at the end of the corridor. Light pierced its glazed surface, shining through the swirling dust particles and illuminating the faded hospital green left wall. She twisted her head, looking up the center of the staircase shaft.

“I’d say he’s up top,” she surmised. “He’s gotta know he’s cornered. The higher up he goes, the farther he is from us.”

“I buy that,” Eddie agreed.

“All right, Ed, you and I go up. Frankie, you’re here. Don’t let him get past if he comes.”

“If he does, it means he got past us, which won’t be a good sign.” Eddie quietly snickered through his nose.

Frankie watched the agents begin their move up. She kept her attention focused on them; that was her job — cover. But she also shot frequent glances down the hallway, just in case.

It took a little over two minutes to make it to the fourth floor, two above Frankie. The third had looked like the second. They put it out of their minds that Jackson might be below them.

This level was like the others, but painted brown. Some real wood might have been there long ago.

Art motioned to Eddie to take the left wall. He would take the right. Each would cover the opposite side, especially the windows in each door, as they moved down the corridor. There was no light from the rooms, Eddie saw, deciding that the windows must be boarded up from the inside. Great. It would be dark in there, just like he had thought and feared.

This sucks, Eddie mouthed to Art.

The doorknobs were old, worn brass, probably original furnishings. Art could almost see it being the set for a movie, one of those 1930s private eye flicks. But there was no “So- and-So Bros. Investigations” stenciled on any of the doors. Behind one of them, though, would be a clue — one Marcus Jackson.

Art touched the first knob, twisting it easily with his fingertips. Locked. Eddie did the same. Also locked. Three doors left on each side.

One’s heart almost becomes a separate entity during adrenaline rushes. It pounds so quickly, with a rhythm all its own, that you half expect to see it in front of you. Art’s felt heavy in his chest as it thumped against the Kevlar fabric. He controlled his breathing, as was taught in the academy, or so he thought. In through the nose, deep, short breaths.

It was a bunch of crap. Whoever thought that up had never tried to clear a dingy building while wrapped in body armor. Art looked down, wondering if the vest would work at this close a range. That would depend, he knew, on what Jackson was carrying.

The second doors were clear. Maybe Jackson had done what Frankie said and gone as far away as he could — the last room. They’d see, but there were two doors to check before that.

Oh shit! Art’s door swayed back at his touch. Everything was so damn silent at that instant that he heard Eddie’s doorknob hit the stops — locked.

Then there was a flash, but no sound — he thought. It was so quick. Another flash, and another. And then the sound, three quick explosions — POP POP POP — followed by a trailing roar, like thunder echoing in the mountains. Art was going low, falling into the doorway, his gun coming around, pointing in and up as the room’s interior came into view.

Marcus Jackson stood about five feet inside the doorway, nearest the hinge wall. He was dark, and dressed in equally dark clothes, though there was some light sneaking in from — what were those, boards? — the outside. It shone from above on his shoulders. There was a look of surprise in his white eyes, Art saw very clearly.

Two cracks reverberated off the walls. Art had fired. The man was propelled back and up from the impact, his hat jumping off to the side. He fell against the far wall, making a sick thud as his head struck the solid wood of yesteryear’s construction, and there was the metallic sound of a gun hitting the tile floor.

Then all the sounds absent during the fury of the moment flooded back into Art’s head — sirens, radio calls, traffic sounds from a block away, and…

“Eddie!”

He was slumped on his side against the door. His eyes were semi-open and fluttering, and a strange gurgling hiss came from his mouth in a broken rhythm. And the blood — it was forming in a pool at the top of Eddie’s body, but Art couldn’t see where from.

“Seven Sam, agent down,” Art said calmly into the radio. “Suspect also down.” He backed across the hall close to his partner, keeping his own gun centered on the dark form sprawled on the floor in the room.

Frankie bounded up the steps, followed by the LAPD cop. Their guns were held low, two-handed.

“Oh my God…” Frankie said as she moved down the hall.

“It’s dark in there,” Art said. One hand cradled Eddie’s head.

The motor cop pulled his flashlight. He and Frankie entered the room with both guns aimed in a serious way at Marcus Jackson. He was lying in a heap, his head flopped to one side. Frankie slid the gun away with her foot.

“Cover him,” she instructed the cop. “I’ll cuff him.”

It didn’t appear to be necessary, but it was procedure. Dead or not, a downed suspect was cuffed. Frankie would just as soon make sure he was dead, but…she rolled him over and pulled him away from the wall. There was a pool of blood and a single hole in his back. When she turned him back she saw two distinct entrance wounds in his black T-shirt. Two perfect center mass hits. There was no pulse, she discovered, feeling very soiled by the blood on her hand.

“Check him for weapons and stay with him,” Frankie ordered. She picked up the gun by its barrel and examined it before laying it back down and going into the hall.

“Sir, it’s a .357.”

Art was gently stretching Eddie out flat. He heard a siren approaching and willed it to be the paramedics. Eddie had taken three slugs, though the Kevlar had luckily absorbed two of them. They were dark indentations in the fabric covering, one at the sternum and the other a couple inches above. Jackson wasn’t a trained shooter, not having compensated for the gun barrel’s rise as it recoiled from each shot. They had “stitched” up the vest. The third struck Eddie in the throat, slightly below and to the left of his Adam’s apple.

“Ed, you hang on,” Art said loudly, hoping Ed would hear.

Dan bounded up the stairs. “Paramedics are here… oh Jesus!”

Art felt the bullets, each one, as though they had struck him. His gut hurt. All the agents were there now, standing back as the paramedic firemen started working on their comrade.

“King Four,” Art said into his radio.

“King Four.” The voice was subdued. They had heard the “agent down” broadcast.

“Get a forensics team in there and lock it down tight. Anything obvious?”

“Only a bag of cash. Close to a million, I’d guess. Copy?”

“Ten-four.”

“Who’s down?”

“Eddie — looks bad,” Art answered, knowing he had to be honest. It did look bad.

“Yeah. Ten-four.”

Art looked in the room at the cuffed corpse. What was the toll now? Thirty people dead since this ail started, at least that he knew of, and how many that weren’t known yet. And maybe Eddie. Why? Someone at the top wanted to link this with the hijacking. Just fucking fine. It wasn’t enough that Jackson and his brothers had gotten a cool million for helping with the slaughter at Seventh and Figueroa, and it wasn’t enough that the shooters had sacrificed themselves. Hell, the whole damn thing started with the death of that little girl, an innocent. And why had it come this far? Hadn’t there been enough vengeance, and wouldn’t there be enough funerals? Whole families were destroyed by…

“Oh my God,” Art said aloud. His face showed fear, and anger.

“Sir?” Frankie saw something on his face.

“Frankie, you have the scene. I’ve gotta get to the office.”

“Okay,” she answered.

Art leaned in over one of the paramedics. “Ed, hang in there. I think we figured this one out Just hang on.” He looked to one of the men working on his partner and friend.

“We don’t know,” the paramedic answered the look.

It didn’t reassure Art, but it wasn’t a death warrant. He ran down the stairs, all the way to the bottom, and sprinted past the tangle of emergency vehicles to his car a block way. The vest came off and was tossed across the front seat to the passenger side. Art checked his holster before getting in — it was secured with the snap strap. His weapon had saved his life once again, but he hoped that, unlike the time many years before, his partner would survive.

The intersection was clear now, blocked that way by the city cops. Art had no traffic to fight going east, back to the Bureau office.

It was almost seven when Art ran into his office. Carol was on her way out after a semi-normal day, unlike the previous two.

“I need you, Carol,” he said. “It’s important.”

She sensed the real urgency in his voice, like time was an important commodity right now. “Okay. What can I do?”

“Get the evidence bag from the Hilton. I think it came over earlier. There’s one with a picture we took from one of the shooters — it’s of a young guy and a little girl.”

“Anything else?”

“Is Jerry around?”

“No.”

Art wanted to bounce his thoughts off someone, but he couldn’t wait. He might catch hell for going over his bosses, something he’d never done. Time. Time was a problem. “Get me a line to the director. Don’t get him on, just yet,” Art admonished her. Carol started back for her desk. Art grabbed her arm gently. “Carol, Eddie was shot.”

“Dear God,” she responded, her voice cracking. “How bad?”

Art shook his head. “I don’t know. It looked bad.” He rubbed her back. “I thought you should know. Now, we’ve got to do this, and you’re my right arm. Get the evidence, and the line to the director, okay? I’ll find Jerry.”

“Okay.” She wiped her eyes and walked away.

Jerry Donovan took the news like any man in charge of others would. He also listened as Art quickly explained a theory, but took no position on either side of it. That was all right with Art — a least he didn’t shoot it down.

The senior agent thought the idea was credible. It made sense, and it came from Art. That was enough. But his subordinate had also made a major error in judgment. Jerry wasn’t about to say anything at this stage, but there was going to be a change. He hated the fact that he had to make that decision.

“Go to the director with this,” Jerry said.

“First I’m going to confirm something.”

Jerry gave him the go-ahead and left.

Art dialed the number and waited. After it was answered he found himself waiting again while Meir Shari was tracked down by an assistant, half a world away. It would be the very early morning in Tel Aviv, just the time when someone wanted to be bombarded by questions.

The evidence bag was on his desk. In it was the picture.

So this is all about you? Art asked the smiling girlish face. She had dark, curly hair, and big brown eyes.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Shari. This is Arthur Jefferson, Los Angeles FBI.”

“Good morn — well, I believe it is good evening for you.”

“Yes. I’m sorry to accost you this early in the morning, but something very disturbing struck me a short time ago. The Khaled brothers have been identified as the killers of the president — your assistance was invaluable. Well, I was wondering if there was possibly a third brother?”

“I don’t know. What makes you ask?”

“This picture that we found, it looks like Nahar Khaled, but then it also looks like the older one. And they look very much alike themselves. What I’m getting at is a possible link to another event. Apparently someone in our government thinks the assassination could be related to the hijacking, and that would make sense when trying to figure out a reason.”

“Can you hold on while I check? We may not have a file on another brother, but there might be a notation of one in a family reference. It is a chance.”

“I’ll wait.”

Art wondered if he was creating something where nothing was. No. Something was fitting together, making sense. If there was a third Khaled, he could be the link, but beyond that he would provide the reason for this all. The assassination, as strange as it might seem, might have been only a prelude to a greater attack, one that the Khaled brothers had been cajoled into. They had a true sense of vengeance, and Art really couldn’t blame them for that honest emotion. Someone had used them.

“Arthur.”

“Yes?”

“You are truly a psychic. There is an older brother. Saad Khaled. There is a notation that the little girl’s body was released to her brother for burial. The two others were deported by this time, so it had to be another. We find that sometimes deportees sneak back in and use the names of others. That does not appear to be the case here.”

“Dear God, Meir…” Art had figured right, and the rest now made complete sense. He had the link, the motive, the players, and most important of all, the intent. “I have to go. Thank you so much.”

“Good luck, and shalom.”

Art had no time to waste. The last news he’d heard was that the aircraft had left the Canaries. He buzzed Carol and asked for the director.

What had been a murder investigation with probable international ties now was small in comparison to what he knew was going to happen. Art was relieved, but still found himself taking deep breaths to compensate for the tightness in his chest.

He was no longer in his Army uniform. That had been stripped off him during booking and was replaced by a white jumpsuit. His left hand was cuffed to the table, which was bolted to the floor for obvious reasons. Sammy’s hastily arranged attorney from the PD’s office sat next to him.

“Gentlemen.” His name was Bob Lomax, the special agent in charge of the Chicago field office of the FBI, and at the moment, he was one pissed agent. Word had spread that a brother agent was lying in the hospital, a bullet in his body, an event only slightly mitigated by the fact that the perp had bitten the big one. So you’re his brother. Have we got a surprise for you. Lomax was a tough agent, but one blessed by both street and administrative finesse. There was a need here, for information. All else was secondary — he could hate this man later.

“Lomax,” the attorney began, “this is highly irregular. You won’t release my client to custody, instead you keep him — keep us — in here.” He motioned to the cubic room. “Let’s all get some sleep. How about it?”

Bob Lomax smiled at the lawyer, then shifted his happy gaze to Sammy. “Sam, guess who’s here to see you. Well, actually he’s here to see us, but maybe we can arrange it so he can drop by.”

“Who…who are you talkin’ ‘bout?” Sammy asked. He was shooting looks between his lawyer and Lomax.

“Your brother,” Lomax answered, his smile becoming cheeky.

“Marcus? He’s here?”

“No, he’s dead.” The smile disappeared instantly. His face was flat, physically and emotionally.

“What?”

“Lomax, what the hell is this?”

“You, mister attorney, had better listen carefully, just in case your client is too grief-stricken to comprehend what is happening.” He turned back to the youngest Jackson. “Your brother shot and seriously injured an FBI agent in Los Angeles before he was killed. Now, you can and will be held as an accessory to assault on a federal law enforcement officer, plus multiple counts of conspiracy to commit murder, and anything else we can find. You are had, Mr. Jackson. We have you cold. The cases that held the weapons used in the assassination were found with the stencils still on them. Marcus wasn’t too bright, huh? And interestingly there was an inventory done just prior to a certain duty shift you worked, and those weapons were logged in — still in their packing crates. But,” Lomax said sarcastically, bringing a finger to his lips, “some of your fellow soldiers just finished another inventory and — guess what? — the weapons are gone. Can you believe that?”

“This is unheard of!” the lawyer protested, which only earned him a wave-off.

“And you know what? Your brother Ernest is next door saying that he knows nothing about any of this. He says his El Rukn days are far behind him, and he does have a hell of an alibi. So, it looks like you’re going to take this rap all alone.”

“My client has not even been arraigned, Lomax!”

“He will be…alone.”

Sammy tried to stand but was held down by the restraint. “No way! Ernie was the one, man.”

“Sammy!” his attorney shouted. “Keep quiet.”

“You shut up! This is my life, man. I didn’t do all this alone. Ernie set it up, man — him and his Rukn bros.”

“Do you want to talk, Sammy?”

“Hell yes!”

Lomax looked to the frustrated PD. “Shall I get a DA in here, and a crew?”

“Go ahead, why not?” he answered, giving his client a glance filled with pity. Stupid kid. “It’ll get thrown out, anyway.”

“You think so?” Lomax walked to the door. “I’m not so sure.”

For the next thirty minutes Sammy Jackson spoke slowly and clearly into the microphone, telling all, while the video camera saved every sickening moment of it.