Authors: Allison Brennan
“What did he say?”
“He told me to hide out at the Fosters’ place and not leave until he came for me on Sunday. But I had to get out for a while.”
“That’s a good place to hide out. I’m going to let Sean and Tim know that I found you and we’ll hang together until all this shit goes down. I don’t want to be in the middle of it.”
Neither did Ricky.
The Kelley Mine’s field office was built up against the hillside, and though boarded up and abandoned for decades, it had been shielded from the worst of the weather and remained standing. It would be a good place to hide out—in fact, it looked like a good place for teenagers to party. Tim noted that some of the boards had been replaced within the last year or two, being far less weathered than others. But he didn’t find any sign of Ricky here.
He approached the building cautiously, though he heard nothing except bird calls and the scurrying of rodents. He tried the boards. Most were firmly in place, but a few were loose, and he noticed one that appeared nailed in was actually on a hook.
His phone vibrated. He glanced down, and read a message sent simultaneously to him and Sean from Adam that he’d found Ricky and they were going to lay low at the Fosters’.
Tim responded that he’d meet them there, then pocketed the phone and assessed the building.
He carefully removed the large board, revealing a brand-new door with a padlock. Who would go to this trouble? There were plenty of abandoned buildings and houses in Spruce Lake. Why use this relatively insecure location?
He couldn’t break the lock, so he tried the other boards. The plywood blocking the windows of the locked room had been nailed from the inside, so he couldn’t get to those.
On the far side, where the building abutted the hillside, a two-by-four over one of the windows looked different than the others. Tim got out his Swiss Army knife and pried out the nails. He wouldn’t be able to fit in through the opening, but he could see what was inside.
Tim shined his flashlight inside and his stomach turned sour.
An open box of C-4 explosives sat on the floor in front of him. It looked as though four bricks were missing. Enough to take out a building or three.
He surveyed the small room. There was a recent calendar on the far wall, a small metal desk and chair, and some boxes of wires and other electrical supplies.
The sound of a vehicle on the gravel road startled Tim. He propped the wood back up and skirted around the edge of the building to see who was coming. He heard but didn’t see the car. He glanced at his truck, visible from the long drive. No sense in hiding. He bolted to his truck and reached the driver’s side just as a big black F-350 came into view.
Two men with guns aimed at Tim jumped out of the slowing truck. He recognized them but didn’t remember their names. The driver stopped and opened his door. Tim knew Gary Clarke from the Lock & Barrel.
“Tim Hendrickson, right?” Gary said.
“Hello, Gary.”
“Funny thing is, we were looking for you.”
“Funny thing that you found me here.”
“Not really. We followed you from your place. I need Sean Rogan, but he wasn’t there.”
“I’ll give you his number.”
“Naw, you’re going to tell him to meet you at your house. He’s stirred up a bunch of shit, and I need to sit on him for a while, make sure he doesn’t get himself hurt.”
Gary motioned to one of the guys to grab Tim. Tim bolted, but hadn’t gotten far when Gary shot him in the leg. He went down fast, vision blurred, hot bolts of pain shooting up his left leg. He grabbed his thigh. The bullet had gone in right above his knee.
One of the guys searched him, taking his knife, flashlight, and cell phone. He tossed the phone to Gary. “I’ll just send Mr. Sean Rogan a little message that you’ll meet him at the house in an hour.” He looked at the phone, then started to laugh. “Shit, this is even better! I’m going to get a fucking gold star. We’ve been looking for that brat everywhere.”
He grinned and said as he typed, “What time should we meet?” A minute later he hollered and jumped in the air. “We’ve just redeemed ourselves, boys. I know where Rogan will be in an hour. We’re going to get there first.”
He pocketed Tim’s phone and took his car keys. He tossed the keys to one of his partners. “Follow me.” Gary glanced at Tim. Tim flipped him off.
“With that bum leg, I figure it’ll take you a day or two to get back to your place, if you survive the night. Good luck.”
They left.
The sun was nearly gone and the temperature would plummet. He glanced at the mine entrance, then at the outbuilding. The latter was closer, so he dragged himself over there.
He’d have to pry off another board or two to get inside, but he liked his chances of survival better in the building full of explosives than in the cold, deadly mine.
THIRTY-THREE
The sun was a thin line on the horizon by the time Noah flew Sean’s Cessna over the greater Spruce Lake area.
Lucy had the Argus thermal imaging camera in her hands. “Is this going to work?” she asked. She was familiar with the imaging technology, but didn’t think a handheld device had the range that surveillance aircraft did.
“It’s top of the line,” Noah said.
Lucy smiled. “Sean likes his toys.”
“The weather is perfect and the plane is in good shape,” Noah said, “but this is still a risky maneuver.”
“I don’t understand. Because of the trees? Or that it’s getting dark? Do we have to fly too low?”
Noah glanced at her. “You didn’t seem like a nervous flyer this morning.”
“I’m not, usually.” She wouldn’t admit to it, at any rate. She didn’t consider herself phobic about flying. She was just having a touch of nerves when they flew low over rolling mountains with trees suddenly popping up here and there while she looked for a barn full of cannabis through a thermal imaging camera.
“The terrain is not my primary concern. I’ve flown under far worse conditions. I’m more concerned about ground security. We may draw unwanted attention.” He checked his gauges and slowly descended as they approached the town boundaries. “I don’t think Sean realizes this is like finding a needle in a haystack.”
They’d discussed strategy during the flight. Noah mapped the coordinates surrounding the greater Spruce Lake area and planned to fly in a circular pattern while Lucy monitored the thermal imaging camera. Barns or warehouses that might be growing marijuana would be easily spotted because of the extensive light needed to grow the crops indoors, which generated plenty of heat.
“Why didn’t ATF inform the local FBI? That’s protocol,” Lucy said.
“Because they do whatever they damn well please.” Noah shot her a glance. “A lot like your boyfriend.”
“Is this going to be pick-on-Sean day?”
Noah grinned. “That might be fun.”
Noah’s phone rang. He glanced down at the center console. “It’s Stockton. Answer it. I’m going to stay at this altitude so we don’t lose him.”
“Sean has a built-in cellular thingy,” Lucy said, feeling stupid that she didn’t remember the technical name.
Noah laughed, for the second time that day. “Why am I not surprised?”
Lucy answered the phone. “Lucy Kincaid.”
“Hello, Lucy. Rick Stockton.”
“Noah is flying. I’m putting you on speaker.”
“Where are you now?” Stockton asked.
Noah said, “We’re fifteen miles from the town proper. I’m beginning a circular rotation, starting wide. Lucy has the Argus. We’re at the upper range of this unit’s capabilities, but I still have visibility for the next forty minutes and can lower altitude if we see a potential hot spot.”
“Good. I spoke to the ATF operations director in Brooklyn. Took me nearly two hours to reach him—I could have flown to New York and met him in person faster. He bullshitted me for the requisite ten minutes while trying to figure out what we knew, so I pulled my ace out of the hole and informed him that his operative shot at a federal agent who was on vacation and if he didn’t give me everything he had, I’d make his life a nightmare.”
“It worked?”
“As planned. But it’s not good news. They have one deep undercover agent in Spruce Lake. Omar Lewis, going by the alias Omar Jackson. He’s been in deep cover for thirteen months.”
“That long?”
“A civilian contacted the DEA in January of last year regarding what he believed was an extensive marijuana farm. DEA was going to go in but ATF caught wind of the report and asked for leadership on it because one of the names in the file, Gary Clarke, was a known gunrunner with ties to the notorious Sampson Lowell. DEA stepped aside and ATF went in.”
“Thirteen months is a long time.”
“Yes, and there is no backup. Lewis reports weekly, and last asked that a team be ready within one hour on his call. Brooklyn has a team in Syracuse, which is two hours away. They informed Lewis, but he hasn’t responded that he got the message. They’re moving the team to Canton, but Lewis has yet to call them in.”
“Anything else?”
“He’s sending the files via courier, refuses to fax them. I swear, he’s the most paranoid agent I’ve spoken with.”
“Sir,” Lucy said, “do you have a description of Agent Lewis?”
“Of course.” The sound of flipping papers. “Thirty-nine, fourteen-year veteran of ATF. African-American—wait, I should say Jamaican-American. He was born there, came to the U.S. when he was three. Wears his hair very short or shaved, five foot ten, one hundred seventy pounds.”
“The cook.”
“You know him?” Stockton said.
“Omar is the cook at the Lock & Barrel. Sean and I saw him Thursday night. He stood out because he was the only black man we’d seen in town. No one paid him any attention, though. Reverse psychology—stand out so they don’t think you’re a cop.”
“It worked. According to his boss, he’s in with the number-two bad guy. But these past couple weeks, information has dried up. Lewis thinks there’s a new player, but everyone’s tight-lipped, so he didn’t call in the cavalry yet.”
“Did he report shooting at two civilians?” Noah asked.
“He didn’t know, but isn’t going to let his man get hung out to dry so refused to comment.”
“Understood,” Noah said. “Can he get word to Lewis about our presence?”
“He’ll try.”
“Sir, I don’t think that’s good enough.”
Lucy said, “Who was the civilian who made the original report?”
“Joseph Hendrickson.”
She glanced at Noah. “I think we—” She stopped as something flashed in the thermal camera. “Noah! Look!”
Noah glanced at the screen. “Bingo. Mr. Stockton, sir, we found our warehouse full of weed.”
“I’ll wait for your report.”
Lucy shut off the cell phone and adjusted the camera. The red, orange, and yellow glowing colors over the external structure of the warehouse told them that it was well heated with high-wattage lights. “Wow. I didn’t realize it would be so noticeable!”
Noah made a note on a pad attached to the console. “I got the location. We’ll swing around and take another pass, then—”
“No—go north. Look at this.” She pointed at the ground where there were clearings ahead.
As Noah headed north, one warehouse gave way to another about one hundred yards apart.
“Two warehouses?” Lucy asked.
“I think you’re right.” Noah looked at his map and the terrain below. “We’re approximately four miles northeast of the town center. The population center is in town, and most of the larger-acreage properties are south and west.”
“Could there be more?”
“Anything’s possible, but look at the size of those buildings.”
Trees dotted the area, which was relatively flat, but didn’t provide a complete canopy. The warehouses may have once been barns—they were the same relative size and shape—but they’d been completely renovated. Likely insulated to keep down the cost of the electricity and heat. It would still cost a small fortune to run the facilities.
“I’m going east to follow that road down there,” Noah said. “It appears that both those warehouses are accessible from it.”
The road dipped into a valley and ended before the mountain began to rise again on the far edge of the Spruce Lake area, opposite from the Hendricksons’ and Callahans’ properties. Four new buildings were nestled in the valley, each half the size of the large barns they’d passed a mile away. A rambling ranch house spread out on the far side of the property, at the base of the mountain.
“Two of the buildings are possibles,” Lucy said, showing Noah the screen. “The other two are dark. The house—very small thermal signatures.”
Noah glanced. “People. We need to get out of here.” He started his ascent and turned away from the property at the same time that three men ran from the house, and a fourth came from one of the buildings.
“They have semiautomatic rifles,” Lucy said, sliding the camera back into its case.
She heard the rapid fire of the guns even over the plane’s engine, sounding more like comic pops than weapons fire.
Noah increased speed and continued to climb. The window behind Lucy cracked. “Those are fully automatic,” he said grimly.
A sharp metallic bang was followed by alarms in the cockpit and the small Cessna dipped dangerously to the left. Noah’s hands gripped the yoke, fighting to control their descent.
“It’s the rudder,” he said. “We have to land. Look for a road, an open field. No trees.”
They were heading northwest and a small lake was directly beneath them. The sun was gone, they were flying in the twilight, and Lucy had a hard time distinguishing the terrain without any outside lights to point her to a road.
“Lucy, anything! I need to get her down while I still have some control.” The propeller sputtered and Noah flipped a switch rapidly until it came back on.
Lucy saw a dirt road just the other side of the lake heading back toward the town. “On the left.”
Noah glanced. “Twenty degrees left. I don’t know if I can turn the plane.”
As he moved the stick to go left the plane dipped precariously.
“Bad idea,” he said.
“I don’t see another road.”
“I’m aiming for the field.”
He couldn’t regain the control he’d had before he attempted the turn, and they were dropping fast.