The Gatekeeper

Eleven

Dante tapped a finger on his holstered gun. Chances were he wouldn’t need it, but he wasn’t a big believer in chance and preferred to hedge his bets. He glanced at the gate, legs jiggling nervously. Nearly time now. He was in a security booth at the entrance to a waste storage plant. One of hundreds in Texas that handled “low risk” radioactive materials, it had been mismanaged by an owner with a weakness for strippers and was currently stuck in bankruptcy court. They’d broken in the night before with a hacksaw and bolt cutters. Everything here had already been moved when the government belatedly consolidated hazardous materials at more secure facilities. There hadn’t been a shipment here in months. Although hopefully the truck drivers wouldn’t know that. And if they did, well, then it was their unlucky day.

It was a relief to finally have something to do. A few more days stuck in that warehouse and Dante would have gone out of his head. Despite the diversion provided by the girls, his men were increasingly hard to control. Things were close to combusting when the call came in. Dante had a sixth sense for when shit was about to hit the fan, it was kind of his gift.

So far the plan was going off without a hitch. Of course, Jackson had taken everything into account, down to the most minor detail.

They’d brought a small TV set with them. Dante had it tuned to a baseball game to maintain the illusion of a bored security guard. The Sox were top of their division again. He never thought he’d see the day when that team became a goddamned dynasty. But given enough time, even the worst sometimes came out on top. Kind of like what was happening in the country today, he thought, lips pursing in a sneer.

The rumble of engines in the distance. Dante straightened in his chair. He could see them coming over the hill, three eighteen-wheelers towing flatbeds draped with tarps. Eleven o’clock, right on time. The first truck slowed as it approached. The driver rolled down his window and Dante left the booth, opening the gate to greet him. “Morning,” he said, forcing a grin.

The driver was older, mid-fifties with a beard down to his chest. He craned his neck to see around Dante. “That the game?”

It took a second to realize what he was referring to, but Dante caught himself and said, “Sure is.”

“Damn, wish I’d seen that triple. Listening to it just ain’t the same.” He squinted at the low line of buildings ahead. “Awful quiet around here today. Place used to be bustling.”

Dante’s hand crept to his holster, but he kept his smile wide. “You know how it is. Cutbacks. They laid off half the guys.”

“Shame. Times are tough all over.” The driver nodded toward the flatbed. “Where you want it?”

“Wheel it on back. They’ll unhitch the trailer so you can get on your way.”

“Sure would appreciate that. I gotta be back in Galveston by noon.”

Dante waved him through and the other trucks followed, gears groaning as they lurched past with their payload. As he slid the gate shut behind them, his face split in a genuine grin. Easy as pie, just like Jackson promised. An inside man was changing the records to show the equipment landing a couple hundred miles farther west. Unless someone was paying real close attention, they were golden. And now that they had the raw materials, it was time to start phase two. Which meant their own personal D-day was less than a week away. Dante glanced down at his belt, checking the dosimeter clipped to it. None of the circles were tinted. Satisfied, he turned back to the Sox game and let out a whoop as a ball sailed clear of the stadium.

Panting, Madison forced herself through one more push-up before collapsing on the floor. Being stuck in this room with nothing to do for hours on end was driving her nuts. Finally she’d resorted to exercise, usually the bane of her existence. She spent a good chunk of each day performing half-remembered calisthenics from gym class-lunges, push-ups. She had a vision of herself as that ripped chick in The Terminator by the time she got out of here. Not that she would be getting out, but at least it kept her busy.

Madison forced that thought from her mind and started again. For a long stretch after they hurt her, she’d curled up in bed. Lurch had even added a piece of cake to her morning tray, but she didn’t see the point in fighting the inevitable anymore. She decided that she’d stop eating and drinking. If she was going to die anyway, she might as well do it on her own terms.

But for some reason when she awoke again, she felt better. Maybe it was because even in this dark place she could smell a change in the air. For the first time the metal walls felt warm; summer had finally arrived wherever she was. She figured it was time to stop sulking and get back to her routine. She might only have a few days left to live, no point spending them in bed.

She was getting stronger, now she could get to eight without collapsing. Madison lay on her stomach for a minute, gasping, catching her breath. The face of the man who had come for her rose unbidden in her mind and her teeth clenched. She pictured slamming her fist in his mouth, clawing out his eyes, yanking that creepy smile off his face. Gritting her teeth, she pushed off the floor again and kept counting.

“Apparently Mack Krex was a model prisoner.”

“Really? I find that surprising.” Jake crossed his legs and sat back in the chair. The Corcoran prison warden faced him. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it definitely wasn’t this glamorous woman in her fifties with a coiffed updo and manicured nails. She looked like someone who would be at home sipping martinis on the ninth hole. Yet here she was running a prison that harbored some of the most ruthless offenders, including Charles Manson and Juan Corona. Of course, when it was revealed a decade ago that guards were staging “Gladiator Days,” orchestrating fights between inmates, the Department of Corrections had frantically attempted to burnish the prison’s image. And appointing a woman like Elise Faulkner to run it was definitely a sea change. Despite her high society appearance, Jake sensed a steeliness that accounted for her success in such a testosterone-filled environment.

“It says here he had one or two incidents right after arriving, nothing too serious. We tend to see that sort of thing during the initial adjustment period.” Warden Faulkner pushed her designer glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Hmm,” she said, lips turning down as she read further. “Looks like he joined the Brotherhood.”

“What, the Aryan gang?”

She glanced up sharply. “Gangs are a way of life here, Mr. Riley. I don’t like it any more than you do, but I’d be hard-pressed to find a prisoner who didn’t join one.”

“Sure.” Jake knew that gangs offered protection in what could generously be described as a difficult environment. Without that, chances of surviving a prison term were slim.

“And once he matched up with them, no more trouble. Early parole, thanks to overcrowding.”

“Even for a violent offender?”

Warden Faulkner shrugged. “We only have so much room these days, Mr. Riley. And according to his record he never actually hurt anyone. The board would have taken that into consideration.”

“Great.” So much for keeping the streets safe, he thought.

“What’s he done now?” she asked, setting down the file and crossing her hands on the desk.

“We’re pretty sure he kidnapped a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“Interesting. That doesn’t match his priors.” The warden pursed her lips.

“I’m thinking he’s not the brains behind this. Someone else is pulling the strings.”

“That would make sense. Based on his file Mack wasn’t an initiator.”

“So can you tell me who he answered to in here?”

The warden sighed and tapped her thumbs against each other. “How much do you know about the Brotherhood, Mr. Riley?”

He shrugged. “They’re not fond of minorities and have a real thing for swastikas.”

She smiled thinly. “True. But don’t underestimate them. This is one of the most highly organized gangs in the entire country. Their methods of communication continually stump us, they’ve even managed to exchange information with inmates in solitary confinement. They have a whole system of hand signals that we’ve had no luck in deciphering, they pass coded messages with invisible ink created from their own urine. They make up one-tenth of the prison population, but they’re responsible for nearly a quarter of the murders.”

“Lovely,” Jake said. “Jesus.”

“Jesus, indeed. They’re practically a mercenary army, even assigning military ranks to members. Once indoctrinated they’re taught a very strict code, and they follow it or suffer the consequences. Chain of command, loyalty. You won’t find a more devoted band of soldiers.”

“And when they get out?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Excellent question. We, of course, don’t track them.” She leaned forward in her chair. “I will tell you something I’ve noticed personally. The rate of recidivism has dropped substantially in the past few years.”

“Here at Corcoran?”

The warden shook her head. “Everywhere. At the last national conference on Corrections, there was a seminar about it. One of the hacks in charge of the prisoner reentry program claimed we’re finally seeing the results of changes implemented years ago.”

“You sound skeptical.”

She leaned back in her chair and waved her hand. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. Riley. And leopards never change their spots.”

“So I’m guessing you’ve got a theory?”

Warden Faulkner eyed him. “I do. Just a pet one, but I’d like to know if it’s correct. Which is why I agreed to speak with you, despite the fact that you have no legal right to the information I’m providing.”

Jake tensed in his chair. Seeing his reaction, Warden Faulkner winked. “Relax, Mr. Riley. All I want from you is answers, if you happen to solve this little mystery of mine.”

“So?” Jake shifted uncomfortably. For the past five years he’d worked for one of the most powerful men in the world, and before that an FBI badge always greased the skids. Now that he was in business for himself, he had no real authority anymore. He was beginning to grasp how much harder that made things. “What do you think is going on?”

The warden leaned forward, a glint in her eye. “Someone has finally organized them. Think about it, Mr. Riley. An entire army of violent men with a wide range of skills and few morals. All these years they’ve been focused on survival, eliminating immediate threats to themselves. But what if someone with vision managed to organize them?”

“Like who?”

“That’s the real question here, isn’t it?” She sat back and arched an eyebrow.

“Huh.”

“You’re looking at me like I should be committed,” she noted. “All right, then. But keep it in the back of your mind. There might be a reason that men like Mack Krex are suddenly resurfacing, committing crimes outside their MO.”

Jake had to admit she had a point. Who would have expected a Saudi to orchestrate a plot from the mountains of Afghanistan that would take out the World Trade Center and a good chunk of the Pentagon? “So can you give me any leads?”

She pushed another file toward him. Jake flipped to the mug shot. A large man with a shaved skull, goatee and hooded eyes stared back at him.

“Dante Parrish, the capo of the Brotherhood when Mack was here. Rumor has it his influence extended beyond Corcoran. Track down Dante, and you’ll probably also find Mr. Krex. And a lot of other men, too. So be forewarned, Mr. Riley. These are the worst of the worst.”

“Sounds like my last family barbecue.”

“You have a robust sense of humor, Mr. Riley,” Warden Faulkner said, extending a hand across the desk. “I hope no one sees fit to beat it out of you.”

Rodriguez slid his bu-car into Park and left the engine idling. He squinted at the pay phone through the tinted windshield. He was in a section of downtown Phoenix where the sprawl edged the buildings away from each other, alleys gradually bloating into full parking lots. Everything looked empty and run-down: For Lease signs on the windows, trash in the gutters, relentless heat baking everything a cracked taupe. He tugged at his collar and considered loosening the top button. In a climate like this no one should have to wear a tie, ever.

The only place that showed signs of life was a bar on the corner. The pay phone was halfway down the block on the same side of the street. It was a long shot. Whoever called 911 to report the MS-13 stash house might have been passing through, stopping off to do a good deed. Or maybe they were involved, and foolishly opted for convenience. Either way, it was worth a shot. He was actually surprised to see a pay phone, he’d thought they’d gone the way of eight-tracks and VHS players. There was something reassuring about it.

Rodriguez chewed his lower lip. He should call Jones to share the info, but she’d been so pissy he figured he’d see if the lead panned out first. And if it did, he was damn sure taking credit for it. Solving the murder of a senator would be a huge boon for his career. He was no fool, he knew about the rumors swirling around his promotion. That he’d made it thanks to affirmative action and quotas, or worse, that he’d ratted out his partner. He’d caught Jones looking at him sideways a few times, knew she’d heard them, too. Well, screw her, she could believe what she wanted. Talk around the watercooler was that she was circling the bowl anyway, one more screwup and she’d be lucky to get a desk job. Not that he was on a mission to destroy her career, initially he’d even been excited to partner with her. Kelly Jones was still something of a legend at HQ. But the way she treated him was all too familiar. Truth was, most people liked having Mexicans clean their houses, mow their lawns and cook their food. But become their equal, and all bets were off.

He remembered Jones’s tone as she basically ordered him to do her scut work, and a flush rose up his neck. Then she got all holier than thou about that Emilio punk, as if the murder was somehow his fault. Like she suddenly cared about a dead wetback, when a dozen kids like Emilio had probably been murdered that week.

Rodriguez could call in a team to dust for prints, but a public pay phone would prove a nightmare for any Crime Scene Unit. And he had a feeling about the bar. It was obvious, but the truth was most criminals weren’t that smart. They made stupid decisions, they got caught, end of story. With any luck, he’d open the door and see someone sitting there with a machete. Or maybe he’d find a witness. You never knew.

Deciding, Rodriguez got out of the car and undid the top button of his shirt as he approached the bar. A faded sign on the door announced Happy Hour: $2 Pitchers 4-6 p.m. He pushed open the door with authority. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. And once they did, he realized that he’d just made one of the worst mistakes of his life.