Red Right Hand

20.

CHET YANCEY SLURPED terrible coffee from a Styrofoam cup and watched the rescue efforts from a scenic overlook while he waited for the new guy to arrive.

Though the fireboats had quelled the blazes in the wee hours of the night, the sky was still dulled by smoke. The road along the water’s edge was crowded with rescue workers and equipment. The bay was choked with police boats and Coast Guard cutters. A pair of tugboats maneuvered a massive crane barge into place beside the Golden Gate Bridge, their engines laboring.

Most of the survivors had been successfully evacuated, but seventy-five or so were still up there, trapped or pinned down by rubble. Throughout the night, the bridge’s vertical suspender ropes had snapped at random, steel cable nearly three inches thick breaking loose and slicing through cars and asphalt like razor wire through flesh. The remaining support ropes squealed under the added strain. Rescue workers hoped to use the crane to clear the roadway and support the bridge’s weight until the remaining survivors could be reached.

The hills flanking the walking trail were dotted with yellow flags, indicating debris, and red flags, marking spots where biological evidence-a polite euphemism for bodies and body parts-had lain. The debris sat where it landed. The biologicals were moved once they were flagged and photographed, to avoid predation.

Upslope, at the Golden Gate Bridge Pavilion-which served as the command center for the rescue effort-FEMA and local fire-and-rescue crews argued with state and federal crime-scene investigators over priorities. SFPD and U.S. Park Police quibbled pointlessly over jurisdiction. Homeland Security and the FBI’s National Security Branch butted heads and measured dicks. The bickering-and the lousy coffee he’d grabbed-gave Yancey flashbacks to his public-sector days.

Yancey’d spent two decades in the FBI’s employ, even heading up the Albuquerque field office for a time, but he’d gotten out years ago. Now he worked for Bellum Industries as manager of West Coast operations, a title intended to obfuscate rather than describe.

Bellum was a private security contractor, a major player in the Middle East, with nearly sixty thousand private military contractors in the region. Bellum’s duties included securing borders, bases, embassies-even entire cities-at the U.S. government’s behest. Protecting the interests of well-heeled multinational corporations-their oil fields, shipping routes, employee housing-and any private citizens who could afford to pay. Supplying the CIA with manpower-called consultants, officially, although in reality they were off-the-books hit squads.

Bellum’s domestic interests included training members of the U.S. military and law enforcement at their compound north of San Francisco, the translation and analysis of electronic intelligence at their headquarters in DC, and protecting foreign diplomats on U.S. soil. Bellum also, via its subsidiary companies, provided more prosaic security measures, such as CCTV monitoring and personnel, to everything from amusement parks to schools.

As Yancey stared out over the bay, his thoughts returned unbidden to the phone call he’d gotten yesterday.

“Hiya, Chet. It’s been a while.”

The number had been blocked, but he recognized the voice immediately. It was the Council’s mouthpiece, Lombino.

“Why the fuck are you calling me? I paid my debt, and haven’t so much as lost a nickel on a friendly game of cards in seven years.”

“Good for you, pal, only here’s the thing: your payment bounced.”

“The hell it did,” Yancey whispered. “I put Segreti in the ground, just like you asked.”

“Yeah? Then how’d he just end up on my TV?”

“What do you mean, your TV?” Yancey hadn’t seen a television in days. He’d been tied up dealing with a crisis at work-unsuccessfully, as it turned out.

Lombino filled him in. Yancey lit a cigarette with trembling fingers while he listened.

“Look, Chet,” Lombino said, “I’m not an unreasonable man. I can tell this was an honest mistake. As far as I’m concerned, if you fix it, we’re square. Of course, this time we’re gonna have to ask for video evidence. I’m sure you understand.”

“What if I say no?”

“Seems to me our deal last time was, you take out Segreti and we forgive your debts, you don’t and we kill your daughter. But that was seven years ago, which means there’s interest to consider. Speaking of, I hear she just had twins.”

“You don’t understand. I’m in the middle of a work thing. I’m not sure I can-”

“Lemme stop you, Chet. That sounds more like a you-problem than a me-problem. See, I don’t care how it gets done, but I care very much that it does get done. Understood?”

“Yeah. I hear you,” Yancey had said, and Lombino’s words had echoed in his mind ever since.

Footfalls behind Yancey brought him back to the here and now. He turned to find the new guy, Reyes, strolling down the path in a pale summer suit, a venti Starbucks in his hand.

“Morning, boss.”

Yancey downed the rest of his own coffee and pitched the cup into the bushes. Then he tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it. “Is it still?” he asked, exhaling smoke. “I’ve been waiting so goddamn long, I thought for sure it would be afternoon by now.”

Bellum had hired Oscar Reyes three months ago, and Yancey was still breaking him in. There was no denying Reyes had talent, but Yancey found his swagger grating. He seemed to Yancey like a horse that wouldn’t take a saddle. The ivy-educated son of Dominican immigrants, Reyes was recruited out of grad school by the CIA and had spent the past decade running solo ops throughout Central and South America. Consequently, he was accustomed to his independence, and-unlike the majority of men in Yancey’s employ, who hailed from the military-punctuality was not his strongest suit.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I got tied up with this kid from the Park Police who wouldn’t shut up. Then-”

Yancey cut him off. “Bellum doesn’t pay you to make excuses, son, and they don’t pay me to stand around. How about you skip ’em and just give me the fucking sitrep?”

“You got it, boss.” Reyes took an infuriatingly long sip of his coffee before continuing. “First off, the subject’s still alive, near as I can tell. I spent half the night looking at bodies. Saw some seriously gory shit-and probably won’t be eating lasagna for a while-but none of them matched the stills you sent me from the video.”

Fuck, Yancey thought. He’d been hoping to get lucky. “So if he isn’t dead, where is he?”

“Good question,” Reyes replied. “We found his hat in the bushes not far from here. He must’ve lost it when he fell. And that kid from Park Police I mentioned had a run-in with a guy matching our subject’s description not long after the blast. Sounds like he was banged up. Disoriented.”

“Where was this?”

“About a quarter mile uphill from here.”

“I thought the local boys were tasked with bringing the injured to the medical tents for triage. Why’d Ranger Rick let him go?”

“He claims our guy told him that a family downslope needed his help-the people from the video, maybe-and promised to stay put until the cop returned. The kid combed the scrub beside the trail for half an hour but couldn’t find any family, and when he came back, our guy was gone.”

“So he’s in the wind?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve spoken to my contacts at Homeland Security, since they’re the ones patrolling the park’s perimeter. Far as they know, nobody meeting his description has left the grounds, which means he’s likely still inside.”

“They sure?”

“Sure as they can be, given that they’ve got over three miles of perimeter to cover. And they’ve got the Coast Guard monitoring the beaches, so we know he didn’t leave by sea.”

“Okay, say you’re our guy. You get caught pants-down when shit meets fan, but you can’t get out before the Feds drop the net. Where do you go?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? Obviously, it’d help if I knew more about him. His background. His training. His identity. Without more intel, I feel like I’m conducting this investigation with one hand tied behind my back.”

“Sorry, no dice. All I’m authorized to tell you is, he’s a person of interest in the bridge attack,” Yancey lied.

“That and a blurry picture’s not a lot to go on.”

“True enough,” Yancey agreed, “but Lord knows, I’ve tracked down men with less. What’s your next move?”

“I’ve dispatched a four-man team to his last known location. They’re conducting a grid search as we speak. And I’ve got dogs en route. I figure if he’s hurt, he may’ve left a blood trail, and if he’s holed up nearby, they’ll take us right to him. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Good. Keep me posted. Text me if you find anything.”

“You’re not sticking around?”

“I can’t. I’ve got another matter to attend to.”

“Which is?”

“Way above your pay grade, son.”