The Black Bullet

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

O’Brien and Dave got to the federal building at 8:00 a.m., cleared security at the front door and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. O’Brien said, “I’ll use this opportunity to get closer to freeing Jason, but I won’t let Gates take me out.”

“Remember, Gates thinks they’ve convinced me you’re a mercenary.”

“We don’t know what Gates thinks or why. But I’m exposing him.”

A Volusia County Sheriff’s deputy stood guard outside the door leading into the task force command center. FBI, Homeland Security, ATF, U.S. Marshals and people O’Brien assumed were CIA, NSA or a combination of each, entered and left the room constantly. O’Brien and Dave Collins approached the guarded door.

“ID please,” requested the deputy.

Dave handed a picture ID to the guard. The deputy studied it a moment, his eyes glancing from Dave to the photograph. “Says this expired in ’03.”

“We’re consultants,” Dave said.

“You’ll need somebody with a current valid ID to-”

“This is current and valid,” said Lauren Miles, coming up behind O’Brien and Dave, holding her ID between the two men. “They’re with me.”

“No problem, Ms. Miles.”

“Gentlemen, please follow me.”

Inside the cavernous room was a huge bank of phones, computers, long white boards, flat-screen monitors, and makeshift desks. Four boxes of doughnuts, a few eaten, were on the first table. Agents worked the phones, typed keyboards, and drank coffee.

Mike Gates, cell phone in his ear, sleeves rolled up, tie down, sweat stain growing like a blooming flower in the center of his blue shirt, looked up as O’Brien entered.

“Have a seat over there in the corner,” Lauren said.

They walked by a wall that displayed photographs of the four slain FBI agents and the two state troopers. The photographs were of the agents in suits, smiling like they’d graduated from the academy, the troopers in their dress blues. Above the pictures was a large digital clock, the time, down to the second, flashing in bright red.

“Coffee or anything?” Lauren said before she sat at the table.

Dave grunted and shook his head no. O’Brien said, “Sounds good.”

Lauren smiled and went across the room to pour two cups. Dave said, “Gates looks like he smelled a fart.”

“So does Paul Thompson,” O’Brien said as he watched Thompson at the white board glance his way, cap the black marker and approach Lauren. While he spoke to her, he looked at O’Brien, again, then turned back to face Lauren. She sipped coffee from one of the Styrofoam cups, eyes darting toward O’Brien.

“I wonder where Eric Hunter is,” Dave said, eyes scanning the room.

O’Brien was silent. He watched as Gates ended his call, glance at the clock on the wall, and approach Lauren and Thompson. They huddled; Gates had his arms folded across his chest.

A minute later, Lauren returned to the table and sat down. “Careful, coffee is a bit hot.” She lowered her voice. “We’ve got to stop Gates before this thing goes to hell.”

“Then do it,” O’Brien said.

“The audio recording from your meeting with Robert Miller, it’s more than enough for me, but I’m not a grand jury. Defense might say it’s the ramblings of a sick old man without all his faculties. If we could get something else to corroborate it-”

“Not easy,” Dave said. “Considering the situation.”

O’Brien looked across the room at Gates who checked his watch against the clock on the wall. “Is the HEU auction still supposed to happen at 4:00 p.m.?”

“Yes,” Lauren said.

“If we can nail Borshnik, have him implicate Gates, we’d have something else.”

“Or even Sharif,” Lauren said. “If Gates is that good, playing both of them-”

“He’s apparently that good,” Dave said.

“Officially, we don’t plea bargain with terrorists.”

“I don’t plan to,” O’Brien said.