The Black Bullet

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Eric Hunter shook his head, glanced down at the parking lot and then looked at O’Brien. “You’re wrong about me, but let’s see what he has to say.”

The homeless man watched them approaching. He grinned, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and asked, “Anybody got a quarter or two?”

“Sure,” said Hunter, peeling off a couple of one-dollar bills.

“Much obliged,” said the man. He was in his mid-fifties, matted dark hair, swimming pool blue eyes through slits of black dirt, new dirt on top of old dirt. He had a sour smell of old sweat and cheap wine.

“Now,” said Hunter, “you know, Robert, the church folk won’t let you have dinner in there if you’ve been drinking.”

The man sighed like the last ounce of breath just left his body. “Only had a swallow or two around noon.”

“And you haven’t eaten, right?”

“That’s why I’m here. You can get supper in there two nights a week.” He nodded toward the church, his eyes suddenly filled with buried thoughts.

“Robert Ingham this is Sean O’Brien. Tell Sean exactly what you saw when they kidnapped the young man.”

“I saw the young fella put some boxes in his truck, ‘bout the time he opened his door, this blue van, a Ford, pulled up and these two men jumped out. One of them stuck a gun in the dude’s ribs while the other pushed him into the van. I stood up to yell about the time two semi-trucks blew by. When the trucks were gone, so was the van.”

“Can you describe the men who took Jason?” O’Brien asked.

“Jason … that’s his name?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a fine name.” His eyes faded a moment and then returned. “One was tall, shoulders like a football player, bald. Other one was blondish. I’d say medium size.”

“Was there anyone else in the van?” O’Brien asked. “A driver, maybe?”

“Not that I could see. One of ‘em dudes who jerked him into the van was the driver.”

“Thank you,” O’Brien said. “If there’s something else, how do I find you?”

“I’m usually here Monday and Friday’s ‘bout this time. I had me a bicycle ‘till somebody stole it from my camp.”

“Camp?”

“Yeah, I used to sleep under the I-95 bridge downtown. But it’s got so damn crazy, teenage kids comin’ in and beating up people like me. Three of ‘em like to beat me to death last winter. I stay in the woods, west side of town off Wilson Avenue. I got me a little tent and a sleepin’ bag. I don’t bother nobody.”

O’Brien handed the man a twenty dollar bill.

“Now do you believe me?” asked Hunter as he and O’Brien walked across Chapman’s parking lot.

“I questioned whether we could find him again. We did. End of that story, but it’s the beginning of the rest of the story. I want to know where you fit into all of this.”

“Jason was kidnapped, we hope not killed. It shouldn’t have happened. His girlfriend is dead. Others may die if they’re in the way of whoever’s doing this. You need my help. I can dive down there with you and pull up the U-235.”

O’Brien was silent for a long beat, studying Hunter. “We brought it up.”

“You did? When?”

“Two nights ago. Nick and I dove back down. We off-loaded it in a storage unit, stored where only three people knew the location. Jason wasn’t one of them.”

“So they kidnapped him for information he didn’t have?”

“He initially didn’t know. Nick got boozed up, and while ranting to me, Jason overheard him. The HEU was just stolen. Storage manager was shot through the head. This tells me they got the information out of Jason. His immediate value to them may be gone.”

Hunter grunted. “How much uranium did they get?”

“Two canisters, probably enough to make a dirty bomb if they wanted.”

Dave Collins pulled his Land Rover into the parking lot. Dave, Lauren Miles, Ron Bridges, and Paul Thompson all hit the ground almost running. Nick walked behind them. O’Brien saw something in Hunter’s eyes, the subliminal recognition, the discovery and concealment coming in the blink of an eye. But it was all the time O’Brien needed. Hunter knew one of the four people.

Lauren said, “We have a multi-agency task force setting up near the U.S. Attorney’s office on the second floor of the federal building. Secretary of State and Homeland Security want hourly reports. Volusia detectives said that, when they were here earlier, the manager told them Jason bought twenty pounds of bait fish and left the store. He said no one in the store saw the abduction.”

“Guy across the street,” Hunter began, “a homeless man, said he saw two men push Jason into a blue Ford van. He said they put a pistol in his ribs and kidnapped him.”

“I’m sorry, who you are?” asked Paul Thompson.

O’Brien studied Thompson’s eyes, his body movement for a hint of deceit.

“Eric Hunter. I’m a family friend, also working with Homeland.”

O’Brien introduced Hunter to the others and looked in each person’s eyes as they greeted Hunter. Nothing. O’Brien said, “There’s a camera on the left corner of the building, pointed toward the parking lot. Did the SO look at the hard drives?”

Thompson said, “They’re doing that now at our headquarters.”

“Tape or drives?” O’Brien asked.

“Drives,” said Agent Bridges. “They downloaded the data. Drives are still in there.”

O’Brien said, “Maybe the one glass eye of the camera will give us a better picture than what a homeless man saw from across the street. Let’s go have a look.”