The Trigger (28 page)

“Oh shit!” McCullen shouted. “He just passed me going the other way.”

The sound of squealing brakes vibrated in her ear. Dallas hit her brakes as well. “He must be headed for a new target. Something close.” She braked again, looking for a place to turn around or lie in wait for him.

“I think I know,” McCullen said. “There’s an internet company just outside of Redding off Rancho Road.”

“I just passed that turn. I’ll head back and get there before he does.” She spun the Audi into a fast U-turn, crunching in the gravel along the side. Hitting the gas again, she sped back the way she’d come. “Give me a marker for the road I turn on.”

“It’s Kenzie Way. There’s a mechanic shop on the corner—a white building. Turn right. Kenzie Way is about half a mile long, and the internet company, Digi-something, is at the end.”

“On my way.”

Her heart pounded as she tried to visualize how this would play out. She would park her car off the road near the target and stand ready with the rifle. What she did next would depend on how Randall approached.

The sky began to lighten, and she could see occasional buildings and homes along the highway. Thank goodness. It wasn’t enough daylight for a clean long-distance shot, but all she had to do was stop the damn truck. If Randall got out with an explosive in his hands—or taped to his chest—she’d take him out.

“McCullen, you still there?”

“Yep. What’s your location?”

“I just passed a dairy.”

“You’ve got another three miles. Should I stay online with you?”

“No, I have to run through some scenarios.”

“I’ll be right behind Randall and will back you up. He’s not getting away. Good luck.”

Dallas raced along the rural road, not feeling any more familiar with it this time. The hardest part of undercover work was not knowing the geographical area. At least McCullen was there to give her some guidance.

She pushed hard, her forearms tense from gripping the wheel, and her right hand bruised from Randall’s stomping. The three miles seemed to take forever. Finally, the white mechanic shop glowed in the distance. She took her foot off the gas, but waited to brake until the last minute. Headlights came at her in the distance. The locals were starting to move around.

Squealing around a corner, she passed several homes and businesses, hoping that none would be in danger. They weren’t even sure where Randall was going. Dallas had a flash of doubt. What if he was headed back to Destiny? To destroy his creation—and maybe the brother who had turned on him? FBI agents were converging on Redding now, but they were coming up I-5 from Sacramento and San Francisco. Gibson was probably still at the bureau making calls. She hoped he’d enlisted the Redding Police to secure the evidence and suspects still at Destiny.

What if Randall was headed into town? Dallas’ gut was in turmoil about turning off the road to wait. McCullen had better be right.

The DigiSpace building was now visible in the distance. Halides illuminated the parking lot, and a few lights were on inside the building. Long and low, the single-story business was tucked into a clearing of Douglas firs. Two cars were in the parking lot, so she had to assume people were in the building, despite the early hour. They could be a janitor crew and needed protection.

Dallas slowed and looked for a place to wait. She spotted a rise in the terrain off to the right. A home was perched at the top of the hill, but halfway up was a flat spot, a parking area. She took the driveway, cruising up to the gravel turnout, then backed in so she’d be facing Randall as he came down the road.

Engine off, she tucked her phone in her pocket, grabbed the rifle, and climbed from the car. The house at the top had no lights on, and she was grateful. The last thing she needed was a gun-toting homeowner coming down to give her shit for being on his property.

Tapping her earpiece, she called McCullen. “I’m in place. Do you have eyes on the suspect?”

“I think so. There’s a vehicle in the distance moving fast. It’s only a mile or so from Kenzie Road.”

“Let me know if it turns.” Dallas took several long slow breaths, then prepped as best as she could. She opened the barrel of the rifle and checked for rounds. Fully loaded. She noted the wind—a gentle breeze from the north. She wished she had her own weapon, but at least this one had a scope. Without a tripod or adequate lighting, this wasn’t ideal sniper work, but she would do her best. She reached in her pocket for her lucky cloth, held it to her nose, and inhaled deeply. A quiet calm settled over her. She could do this.

“He’s turning!” McCullen’s voice rang in her ear.

Dallas brought the rifle up and sighted on a fixed spot on the road. If Randall came in slow, like he was going to park, she’d wait for him to get out of the truck. If he came in fast like a suicidal nut trying to ram the building, she would stop him before he reached the spot. She would put her first shot into his head if she could. After that, she’d aim for the tires to slow down or derail the vehicle. Her right hand ached, her head still hurt, and she worried she would miss.

She heard the truck engine roaring toward her and brought up the rifle. Dallas emptied her mind and relaxed her shoulders, as ready as she could be under the circumstances.

An engine started across the road in someone’s yard, a faint sound she barely heard over the roar of the truck bearing down. Across the way, headlights came on and eased toward the road.
Shit! Stay out of the way,
she silently pleaded.

The oncoming truck gained speed. Randall wasn’t slowing down to park and get out. Dallas put her eye to the scope.

The neighbor’s car slammed to a stop just as the blue truck screamed past. Randall’s face came into her sight.

Dallas pulled the trigger.

The blast shattered the night, followed by the quick sound of breaking glass. The truck slowed slightly as Dallas took aim at the front tire. She fired again. And missed the tire, hearing the bullet plink into the truck’s metal body. She aimed at the back tire as the truck flew past , still traveling around sixty.

The popping sound was music to her ears. She took three more shots, blowing out the other back tire and putting two rounds through the back window of the truck’s cab—in case Randall was still in control. The vehicle slowed and careened off the road, ramming into the four-foot building sign on the edge of the property. The impact slowed the truck down again, but it didn’t stop until it rolled into a car in front of the building. Dallas braced for an explosion.

The dawn was silent.

She lowered the rifle and ran toward the collision. Randall might not be dead. She had to keep him from setting off his device, whatever it was. As she neared, she saw no movement from the truck. She heard McCullen’s car roaring up the road behind her and heaved a sigh of relief.

Emma climbed from the passenger’s side, her face dazed and bloody.

“Get away from the truck and on the ground!” Dallas had no cuffs and no way to detain her, but McCullen would be here in a moment.

She moved around to the driver’s side, keeping her distance. They needed a bomb unit before anyone got near the vehicle. Randall was slumped over the wheel. She raised her rifle and peered through the scope. Her first bullet had hit its mark, and the bomber’s face was demolished. She had to think of him that way and remind herself that she’d saved the people in the building.

But it wasn’t time to celebrate. More bombers were headed to targets, and only Randall knew who and what they were. She needed his cell phone right now. Dallas sucked in a breath and jogged over to the truck. She gently pulled the driver’s side open. The coppery scent of blood mingled with hot metal and radiator smells. She ignored Randall’s body and visually searched for his cell phone. She spotted the briefcase on the seat beside him. The explosive?

McCullen’s voice came from a hundred feet behind her. “Get away from the truck! It could blow.”

She knew that.
Randall had been on the phone right before he crashed. It had to be here somewhere. Yet it wasn’t on the dashboard or floor. She reached between his legs and found the device. Dallas grabbed it and got the hell away.

McCullen ran to her and gave her a quick squeeze. “Good work, Dallas.”

Pounding footsteps made them both look up. Emma sprinted toward the tree-covered hillside. McCullen sighed. “I have to arrest her for murder.” He bolted after her.

Dallas shook off her surprise, found her last contact with Agent Gibson, and hit callback. “I have Randall Clayton’s phone and I’m looking at his last text message. He sent a
go
message to nine people. Should I read you the numbers?”

Gibson hesitated. “I’ll put you in contact with Special Agent Kerry Meyers in Sacramento. Give her the information directly. I’ll text her and let her know to take your call.”

Dallas waited to the count of sixty, hoping against odds that they were not too late. She felt shell-shocked, as if she’d just missed being in a fatal accident. The lack of sleep hit her full-on too. She trembled as she made the call.

A woman picked up. “Special Agent Kerry Meyers.”

“Agent Jamie Dallas. I have a list of the terrorists’ phone numbers. Two of them are in Europe.”

“Give them to me.”

Dallas read through the list, speaking slowly. They had no room for error. If these were all cell phones, law enforcement would be able to pinpoint their locations and hopefully arrest the perps before they set off explosions.

The bombers had a ten- or fifteen-minute head start. Dallas worried that they were too late, but she’d done everything she could.

Hakim Chehab glanced at the clock on his computer. On any other Saturday afternoon, he would be golfing or sipping tea with his lovely wife. Not today. He’d been on the phone for hours—with President Assad, the asset management company that had lost a hundred million of Syria’s money, and briefly with President Rohani of Iran. On this afternoon, he found himself in the stressful position of brokering talks that could escalate into a war with Israel.

In theory, they all wanted it. The Jews had no place in their region, and their destruction would honor Allah and allow the Palestinians to go home. Yet, they all dreaded the conflict. The United States would back Israel, and the Muslim casualties would be horrendous. He didn’t want those deaths on his conscience. In his heart, he believed they could conquer their age-old enemy. In his head, he wasn’t nearly as sure.

His cell phone rang, and he glanced at the ID. The name was blocked but the call came from America. Curious he answered. “Greetings. I am Hakim Chehab, minister of foreign affairs. I hope you are well this evening.”

“This is John Altman, U.S. Secretary of State. Thank you for taking my call.”

Why was the American diplomat calling him? Bashar was not giving up his leadership and would not succumb to outside pressure. “You are welcome. How can I assist you?”

“You can stop making plans for war with Israel.” Altman gave him a moment to process the information, then added, “Whatever Syrian money has been taken or is unaccounted for is the work of a hacker. The Israeli government was not involved.”

Relief, then anger threatened his composure. Hakim prayed for guidance. “How do I trust this? You’re Israel’s ally.”

“We have the hacker in custody, and we’re certain. We also have experts trying to locate the money. I’m happy to speak to President Assad in person, if he wishes.”

“I will pass the information along. Thank you for your call.”

For a moment, Hakim weighed his choices. If he kept this to himself, they had an opportunity to wage war with their enemy and reunite Syrians. Yet he remembered his initial relief at the news. He would call his cousin and tell him that Israel was not the thief. This would be the president’s decision.

Sunday, May 12, 8:52 a.m.

Dallas took a seat in the conference room at the Redding bureau. Gibson was already at the table, and McCullen sat down as she did. She’d stayed at his place the night before—after a long day of debriefings and interrogations—and they’d driven in together that morning. As much as she would have enjoyed a sexual romp with him, it hadn’t happened. They had both been exhausted. And McCullen had been depressed about arresting his ex-girlfriend and learning her fingerprint matched a murder weapon. Not to mention discovering she was a sociopath.

“Good morning.” Gibson pushed a box of pastries toward her. “I owe you a nice breakfast, but this is the best I could do on short notice. The Washington bureau is going to call in a few minutes.”

Dallas thanked him, took a small muffin to be polite, and sipped her coffee. Still drained, she looked forward to napping on the plane later that afternoon. She needed some time off, but the Redding/Shasta area no longer appealed to her. She was thinking about a trip to Flagstaff after she checked in with her boss in Phoenix. Or maybe Maui. She hadn’t taken a real vacation in years.

“Your work on this case was commendable,” Gibson added.

“Thank you.” She disagreed, but she was smart enough never to argue with praise. “Have you heard any updates?”

“I questioned Emma Clayton last night about Tamara Slaney’s death, and she claims it was self-defense. She wants us to drop the charges in exchange for her testimony against Spencer Clayton.” Gibson glanced at McCullen, who sadly shook his head.

Dallas nearly choked on her disgust. She couldn’t believe she’d risked her life to save a scheming self-centered killer. She felt sorry for McCullen, who’d wasted years pining for Emma. “At least Spencer Clayton had the decency to let me go and tell me about the situation in the Middle East.”
Why was she defending him?
“But I hope he goes to prison. Did the tech people recover anything from his damaged computers?”

Gibson nodded. “They did indeed. He sent millions of fraudulent FDIC emails over a period of twenty-four hours. The DOJ is threatening him with treason charges as well. He’ll probably take a plea deal for financial crimes to avoid the treason trial.”

“Did he trigger a run on cash machines?” Dallas wanted to know. As of late the night before, they hadn’t heard an update, but the main effect of the financial trigger wouldn’t have happened until Monday morning, so the FDIC had all day to send out corrective emails and run public announcements.