State of Emergency (33 page)

 

Y
azid Nazif, his surviving two men, and Matthew Pollard poked their heads out of a two-mile tunnel under the Rio Grande River and into the outskirts of Laredo at approximately the same time the United States attempted to slam the door on the border. Luckily for Nazif, the United States had miles of border to patrol and only so many resources. The problem was they seemed to have brought all of these resources to bear at once. Green and white patrol vehicles threw clouds of dust on every back road. Military jets streaked overhead as if an air show was in town. Helicopters and specialized Predator drones with sophisticated camera pods loitered along a corridor formed by the river and an imaginary line thirty-five miles to the north.

Diego Borregos had remained in Mexico, reasoning that the U.S. Marshals held several warrants for him and his presence would only add to the likelihood of their capture. He sent his nephew, Carlos, to negotiate the crossing. Though Carlos was only in his twenties, Borregos assured Nazif that the young man was extremely loyal and could be trusted above anyone else to always “do the right thing.”

A Suburban with a Halliburton oil company logo was waiting outside the self-storage unit where the tunnel emerged to carry them and the bomb north, along the Interstate 35 frontage road toward San Antonio. Twenty-seven miles northeast of Laredo, the Suburban slowed and turned off the pavement, bouncing down a dirt track. Pump jacks rose and fell on either side of the road like giant, bigheaded ants.

“There is a CBP check station two miles up the Interstate,” Carlos said, punching a number into his cell phone.

Border Patrol aircraft still roared back and forth overhead.

“And you have a plan to get us around it?” Nazif asked, his voice tight in his throat.

“Of course.” The boy put the cell phone to his ear. “It is time,” he said. “Very well. 'Sta bueno.” Ending the call, he turned to look back, smiling broadly.

A minute later and the skies were quiet.

“What happened?” Nazif whispered, craning his head to look out the window.

Carlos snapped his fingers. “The United States government is not the only organization with drone aircraft. You would be surprised at the rapid response when such a thing speeds across the border at low altitude from Mexico. The trip wires and radar alarms near the checkpoint on State Highway 83 ten miles west of us just went crazy. We should have a few minutes of freedom from their increased oversight before they return. If the normal balloons see us, we will just look like oil field workers coming and going about our daily chores.”

Carlos ushered them into a concrete pump house partially hidden by feathery green mesquite trees. Under a piece of greasy plywood on the floor they found a ladder leading down into a second tunnel. The boy waved his hand in a flourish of pride.

“My uncle's men posed as oil field workers for over a year to dig their way around it.” He smiled. “Our services are well worth any price, no?”

Nazif gave a curt nod. He supposed that being a relative of a drug lord as powerful as Diego Borregos made the boy feel free to act so flippant. He glanced at the Omega on his wrist. It was almost seven. “You will stay with us until we reach my brother?”

“Of course, señor,” Carlos said. “I will accompany you as far as Austin.”

“We won't be going to Austin,” Yazid said, thinking better of it the moment he did.

Carlos cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps my uncle was mistaken,” he said. “I was told you were going to Austin.”

“Plans change,” Yazid said. “But you will still transport us to San Antonio?”

“We will be there before midnight.” Carlos nodded. “Did not my uncle tell you? I may always be counted on to do the right thing.”

The tunnel, complete with lighting and an electric handcart, emerged inside another well house a mile past the Border Patrol checkpoint. A second Halliburton vehicle, this one a battered white Suburban, idled in the sparse trees. Yazid's men loaded the footlocker in back and threw a blue tarp over it before piling inside.

Carlos took the front passenger seat.

An F16 fighter screamed overhead, flying west as the dusty Suburban merged into traffic on Interstate 35. A helicopter crossed a quarter mile behind them, skimming the treetops. Two Border Patrol sedans raced south in the oncoming lane, headed for the checkpoint.

“We were lucky,” Nazif whispered, repenting his lack of faith even as he uttered the words. He mouthed a prayer of thanksgiving. “There is no God but Allah. . . .”

Carlos looked over his shoulder, grinning at all the noise.

He waggled his eyebrows up and down, Groucho Marx style. “My uncle makes his own luck.”

 

 

Yazid's heart leaped when he saw Ibrahim waiting at the wheel of a rented Penske van beyond a row of idling semi trucks. They were so close now. The event held by Sacred Peace Church would have been a decent target with ten thousand spectators, but the blast would be partially contained. Ibrahim's research showed the parade in Houston would provide for at least double the immediate casualties and an untold number of those exposed to radiation. If Allah willed it, and Baba Yaga was as powerful as they had been told, the death toll could reach a hundred thousand as paradegoers packed along the route.

Yazid climbed out of the Suburban with a full heart at the blessings that had gotten them this far. He'd only gone a step when he realized something was incredibly wrong. Ibrahim stared straight ahead, unmoving. A hiss from the shadows behind a nearby tractor trailer caused Yazid to turn. His mouth fell open when he saw the two men standing there.

He shot an angry glare at Carlos, who'd hung back to wait beside the Suburban. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I am very sorry, señor.” The boy shrugged. “But as it turns out, the ‘right thing' was to tell him where you planned to meet.”

 

T
he B1 Lancer did a turn and burn, stopping only long enough to pick up its two passengers.

Quinn was surprised to find Major Brett Moore in command of the aircraft. Moore had been an assistant physics instructor at the Academy when he was a brand-new captain and Quinn was a cadet. A tall man, dressed in the green flame retardant flight suit pilots called a “bag,” his dark hair was beginning to gray at the temples. He'd been quite a boxer during his days at USAFA and followed Quinn's success throughout his Academy career.

The two shook hands and the pilot showed them onboard, anxious to get underway.

“You've dropped off the radar, son,” Moore said, helping Quinn and Aleksandra get settled in the two weapons systems officer seats in a compartment the size of a phone booth, six feet behind and slightly above the cockpit.

Quinn smiled. “You warned me how OSI types were. ‘Got their hands in all sort of secretive mojo,' isn't that what you said?”

“And here you are proving me right,” Moore scoffed. “This bird burns sixty thousand dollar bills every hour her fans are turning. By my estimation that means I'm giving you two a four-hundred-thousand-dollar taxi ride home from whatever you've been doing down here. Not to mention the fact that the president's national security advisor called me personally and ordered me not to spare the horses. I'd say that qualifies as secretive mojo.”

Moore handed each of them a helmet and headset. He pointed to the array of instrumentation on the console in front of the weapons system officers' seats. “You can make encrypted calls with this.” He pointed to a touch-screen keypad. “Just put us on mute if you need to discuss your secret-agent shit. But don't touch anything else.”

A consummate pro, Moore asked no questions about Aleksandra, assuming that whoever she was, it was Quinn's business. He turned to duck down the center hatch toward the cockpit, then looked back.

“You hear Steve Brun is finally tying the knot?”

“I did,” Quinn said, pushing away thoughts of his last conversation with Kim. “He's invited me to be in the saber arch if I survive this mission.”

“Roger that,” Moore said, turning to go. “You'll be there then. I've seen you fight. You're too mean to die.”

 

 

With the wings swept forward, Major Moore had the Bone off the runway in a matter of seconds after he started his takeoff roll. Climbing at nearly six thousand feet a minute pushed Quinn's stomach down like someone was standing on it. Moore leveled off three miles above sea level and kicked the plane into gear.

Quinn took a deep breath, letting his stomach settle. He shot a glance at Aleksandra. Her face hidden by the shaded face shield of her helmet, she gave him a thumbs-up and settled back in her seat. He was unsure what the gesture meant in Russia—“it's all good” or “up yours”—but felt he knew Aleksandra well enough now that if it had been the latter she would have followed it up with a knee to his groin.

Taking a long hit on the oxygen, he put the cockpit on mute and dialed his boss.

For all Winfield Palmer knew, Quinn was dangling off a parachute over the Pacific Ocean, but he started talking the moment he recognized Quinn's voice. There was, after all, a nuclear device headed toward an unknown target on American soil.

“Bexar County sheriff's deputies just found Yazid Nazif's body along with that of his brother Ibrahim and two unidentified males dumped in a Penske moving van outside San Antonio. We'd sent out Nazif's photograph in a BOLO just two hours before, so they were able to identify him right away.”

Quinn nudged Aleksandra awake, flipping the radio bug so she could hear his conversation as well.

“I've got Kanatova on the air with us,” he warned. “We can use all the help we can get here.”

“Very well,” Palmer said, sounding a little annoyed.

“What of Baba Yaga?” she asked.

“Still missing,” Palmer said. “Do you think Borregos double-crossed him?”

Quinn shook his head, though only Aleksandra could see him. “Makes no sense. He didn't need AQAP to get the device into the U.S. Why drag him all the way across the border just to kill him?”

Quinn thought for a moment. “You said Nazif has a cousin in Houston.”

“The FBI's swarming every known place associated with him,” Palmer said. “But he's still at large.”

“How about changing the parade route?” Aleksandra chimed in. “Or canceling it entirely?”

“We've discussed that,” Palmer sighed. “But the moment we deviate from a normal schedule, we show our hand—and they pick another target.”

Quinn drummed his fingers on the desktop in front of him, thinking. Something wasn't right. He thought for a full minute, the time it took the B-1 to travel nearly fifteen miles.

“Did they take any crime scene photos?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, they did,” Palmer said. I can send them to your phone if you can get a signal.”

Quinn checked with Major Moore and found that though there was no cellular signal, the plane had its own version of satellite Wi-Fi to aid in communications when loitering for hours at a time over targets.

By the time he'd switched the radio dial back to Palmer, the supersonic bomber had already transited Guatemala and sped over the Gulf of Mexico.

“Go ahead and send 'em,” he said. “We have a signal.”

“Already done,” Palmer said. “Listen, while you're waiting—Thibodaux led the raid on a farmhouse outside Moscow, Idaho. The professor's wife and baby are safe.”

“Are the kidnappers giving you anything useful?” Quinn asked, watching his phone for the incoming photos.

“Only a woman survived,” Palmer said. “And she's giving us zero. Looks like they killed one of their own and dumped him in a hole they dug for Marie Pollard and her kid. Garcia took care of the only other guy. According to Jacques, it's lucky they got there when they did. Sounds like Lourdes Lopez was Zamora's main squeeze and she had just given up hope on him coming back alive.”

“And Boaz?” Aleksandra asked.

A twinge of guilt cut Quinn's heart at the thought of dragging his baby brother into all this.

“He's still in intensive care,” Palmer said. “President Clark assigned his personal physician to see to him. He's not out of the woods, but things look positive. Your mom is already down from Alaska sitting with him night and day.”

Quinn nodded, smiling to himself. That figured. A woman who'd raised two boys like Jericho and Boaz Quinn had to be tough as a boot, but no matter what they did for a living, they were still her babies.

His phone lit up with an incoming message.

The crime scene photos were small but clear until he tried to zoom in. Quinn raised his visor to get a better look, then flipped the switch so he could talk to the cockpit.

“Major,” he said. “You there?”

Moore came back at once, voice crackling over the intercom. “Sure hope so.”

“I need to ask a personal question. . . .”

“Relief tube is at your feet,” the pilot answered. “Looks like a little horn.”

“I'm fine that way,” Quinn said. “I'm wondering though, an old codger like you is probably wearing cheaters to read the fine print, right?”

“Don't you have anything better to do than pick on your elders?”

“Seriously, Brett,” Quinn said. “I need something to magnify a photo.”

“Well, shit,” Moore said. “Why didn't you tell me my failing eyesight was a matter of national security? Heads up and I'll toss them back.”

A moment later a pair of cheap drugstore reading glasses sailed through the small hatch from the cockpit. Quinn played them across the face of his phone like a magnifying glass. What he saw made him catch his breath.

He looked again to make certain, then passed the phone and glasses to Kanatova.

“Look at Nazif's left wrist,” he said, tapping the face of the phone with his index finger.

“I don't . . .” Her voice trailed. “I see it!” she exclaimed. “He has a tan line indicating a missing watch, but there are still two gold rings on his hand.”

“I'm betting he still had money in his pocket,” Quinn said.

“I'm looking at the police report now,” Palmer said, still on the line. “You're right. Bexar County said this wasn't a robbery—more like an assassination. Initial shots to the chest, then a coup de grâce in the back of the head.”

“And who do we know who assassinates people and takes something from them as a memento of the act?”

“Julian Monagas,” Aleksandra whispered. “And if he went after the bomb . . .”

“Then Zamora is still alive.” Quinn finished her thought.

“But why would Zamora kill the guy he sold the bomb to?” Palmer mused.

Quinn continued to scroll through the photos. “There are no photos of Matthew Pollard here. His body wasn't found?”

“Nope,” Palmer said. “He's MIA along with the bomb.”

“Maybe Zamora wanted a different target than Nazif did,” Quinn mused. “Anything else going on in Texas in the next couple of days?”

He heard the click of computer keys as Palmer searched the Internet.

“Son of a bitch,” the national security officer gasped. “The governor of Texas will attend an interfaith youth choir concert in the Frank Erwin Center at the University of Texas. Press release says the event will consist of children representing all faiths from around the world. It will be televised live before a sold-out crowd of over sixteen thousand. . . .”

“And Zamora was kicked out of the University of Texas on suspicion of rape,” Quinn said. “The events drove a real wedge between him and his father. From what I've seen of Valentine, he's the type to carry a grudge.”

“Think you can get the Bureau to send a couple of guys to talk to the people putting on this show? Maybe have them postpone it?”

“Everyone is so invested in the target being Houston, it will take me hours to get ahead of the investigative inertia. It's too late for that anyway,” Palmer said. “Curtain goes up in less than three hours.”

“Hang on, sir.” Quinn flipped the radio and spoke briefly to Moore before switching back to Palmer. “I'm just informed we can be there in two.”