forty-five

By the time the first of an extended convoy of vehicles arrived from the local and state police and emergency services, followed quickly by a police helicopter, Ruth was tending to Vaslik’s wound, which was slight, and Dave Proust was explaining the situation to the father of the three children.

None of them could hide their disappointment at having been unable to find out more about Malak’s whereabouts, although Vaslik was more pragmatic. He watched as Ruth used a bandage from Dave’s first-aid box to bind his upper arm, where the bullet had scored a shallow path without hitting anything vital.

“We know where he’ll be,” he told her. “We just don’t know where exactly. But we will.”

“You’re optimistic,” she murmured. “Are you sure you’re not in shock?”

“It’s a scratch, nothing more.” He smiled but looked a little pale, and nodded at the incoming chopper. “Bet that’s Tom Brasher come to see how we kicked their asses.”

“Don’t change the subject. And we both know he’s not going to be pleased at the body count.”

He shrugged with his good shoulder and looked serious. “It’s not him I’m worried about. It’s the cops. This is their turf and they won’t like the FBI muscling in. They’re going to be even more pissed when they find out civilians just wound up shooting dead two terrorists.”

They weren’t long in finding out just how bad that was going to be.

The first man out of the helicopter was of medium height and lean, with the rank of a police captain and a face filled with thunder. He was accompanied by a civilian gofer scurrying along behind him and shouting details of what had been so far reported. The captain stopped to take a quick look at the crippled van and the bodies of the two dead men, then headed towards Ruth and Vaslik at a furious clip, scattering officers and emergency workers with an imperious flick of his hand.

“I’m Captain Hubert Danes of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol Special Operations Section,” the man declared loudly, coming to a halt. “What in holy fuck do you people think you’ve done here? This is not some private game park where you can carry on your own little wars and take the law into your own hands. In fact, who the hell are you? Tell me that!”

“They’re with me,” Tom Brasher said, decanting fast from a police cruiser that had just bumped off the road. He held up his FBI badge. “Tom Brasher, FBI. They’re on approved business.”

“Approved by who? Not by me, that’s for damned sure!” Danes stuck out his jaw and glared at Brasher. “This is an unauthorised action and these three are now under my jurisdiction, so the Bureau can go suck eggs. They’ll be arrested and charged with causing the deaths of those men and I’ll see they appear before a judge tomorrow.” He turned and studied Ruth, Vaslik, and Dave in turn. “I want your weapons handed over right now and you three had better not plan on going home anytime soon, because you won’t—that’s a promise.”

“What would you have preferred we did, captain?” Ruth replied quietly. She was reining in an overdose of anger tinged with the aftermath rush of adrenaline after the shooting. “Stood here and watched a group of children get taken into a hostage situation? Watched them and their father being killed like those people back at the county jail? Or is that how you treat your citizens out here when threatened with danger?”

“I would have preferred it, lady,” Danes snapped, “if you people had stayed out of my state and out of my way. We have a procedure here in the state of Oklahoma, and we’re the ones who dictate the course of action, not outsiders like you and your friends.” He blinked. “And what the hell is that accent, anyway?”

“It’s British.”

“Wait up!” Tom Brasher pushed forward, looking ready for a fight. He glared at the captain and said, “Listen to me and listen good. These are extreme circumstances here; you’ve just had a county jail damn near destroyed by rocket fire, and officers killed along with support workers. I lost a young female colleague in the blast. The terrorists involved—who we know are part of an organisation referred to as a brotherhood—were a direct and imminent threat to the lives of four innocent people, including small children. They’ve made threats against the lives of hundreds of military personnel and the president himself, and one of them is still on the loose. So let’s stop the pissing contest and remember what might have happened if these three civilians, all of whom have law-enforcement backgrounds, including the FBI and Homeland Security, hadn’t intervened.”

“I don’t give a damn who or what they are,” Danes retorted, now aware of a growing audience of his own officers listening to the exchange with more than a hint of interest.

“Well, seems to me you should give a damn, Hubert.” A figure stepped forward into the argument. It was the father of the three children, a tall man with a quiet voice and weathered skin, who eased his way through the crowd until he was standing alongside the captain and towering over him. “I’ve known you a long time—like I’ve known most of you fellas, on and off.” He looked round at the other officers before switching his eyes back to Danes. “It sounds to me like you’re forgetting yourself and who you serve.”

Danes snapped, “Stay out of this, Harry—this is a police matter. I know you’ve had a bit of a scare, but it’ll be best if you just leave this to me and run along home to be with your kids.”

“Aw, shut the fuck up, Hubert,” the man said softly, unfazed by the captain’s bullying manner. He ducked his head at Ruth. “Excuse the language, ma’am, I guess I’m a little stressed right now.” He looked back at Danes. “Fact is, the young lady here told it right; if they’d waited for you and your men to come along, my kids would all be dead or held hostage by those crazy bastards. Then what would you have done—quoted the law and tried to reason with them? Set up a dialogue, like they teach you in officer training?” He held up a large calloused hand as Danes tried to say something. “No, let me finish. Look at those men, Hubert—they were armed with M4 Colt carbines with 30-round magazines, for Christ’s sake. In case you forgot, I’m ex-military and I know what that stuff can do. You think they were playing games? And you might not have given a damn, but one of these outsiders here was shot and wounded while putting himself between my kids and the gunmen, so I have more than a peck of interest in raising hell with the governor if you don’t pull your darned neck in and see sense.”

Danes said nothing for a long moment. Then his red face turned slowly back to a normal colour as he calmed down. He grunted reluctantly, then turned to Brasher. “You prepared to take responsibility for these people, Agent Brasher?”

“Absolutely. But I’m not taking anything away from you or your people, captain. This is your investigation. We’ll all give statements whenever you want them. That do you?”

Danes nodded then turned to issue orders to his team.

Brasher beckoned to Ruth and led her, Vaslik, and Dave out of earshot of the crowd. “Listen, I’ve got to sort out a few things here and call in the details of Agent Wright’s death. This place is going to be swamped soon by news teams flying in from all over, so I think it might be best if you three disappear. You can give your statements later—I’ll make sure Danes stays off your backs.”

Ruth nodded. “Suits me. We’ll have to get moving to Altus very soon, anyway.”

“I get that. But where are you going to start your search?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. If we work on the basis that the drones have an approximate range of twenty miles, that’s the circle we draw around the base at Altus.”

“That’s a pretty big circle,” said Dave.

“But it’s a start,” Vaslik pointed out. “They probably won’t risk getting too close to the base itself because of security sweeps. That narrows down the corridor we have to check. Can we still rely on your help?”

Dave grunted. “Just try keeping me out of it.” He frowned. “Hang on, I just had a thought. Most military bases and some bigger civilian airports have geo-fencing in place to warn off unauthorised users entering their airspace. If these drones have GPS systems fitted, they might include a turn-back or disabling device onboard.”

Brasher took out his cell phone and stepped away to make a call. When he came back he looked unsure. “I just spoke to a colleague in Washington. He says most geo-fencing is user-related. That is, in normal circumstances, if these drones cross the geo-fencing perimeter around Altus, an SMS message would be triggered to alert the operator.”

“I can’t see this Malak giving a damn about that,” said Dave.

“True. I’ve told my guy to call the Woods County jail and ask Donny if the machines have a disabling device fitted. He’ll call back as soon as he finds out, but I’m willing to bet that they don’t; Malak would have thought of that.”

Dave gestured up at the sky, where the light was beginning to fade. “I suggest we get refuelled then find a hotel. It’ll be too dark to do anything if we set off now and I doubt this guy will be standing out in the open waiting for us. Better if we get there early in the morning and get down to it once we know he’s there.”

Ruth said to Brasher, “Has there been any more news about the ‘bidding’ chatter the NSA picked up?”

He grunted. “It’s like eBay for crazies out there. The bids are going up all the time, some from names we’ve never even heard of before.”

“So it’s working.”

“Damned right. This Malak is some piece of work, I’ll give him that. But he’s playing a high-stakes game. The big-money bids are coming from some of the most dangerous people on the planet. If he takes the cash and fails to go through with what he’s promised, it’s not us he has to worry about; his paymasters will have every asset they’ve got looking for him, and given that, I’d put his chances of survival at zero.”

“At least that would save us a job,” said Dave.

“Sure. For now.” Brasher looked round at them. “But let’s not forget: the genie’s out of the bottle. How long before another bunch of crazies or an individual with a grudge decides to go down the same route and get paid for carrying out their nut-bag schemes?”

It was a sobering thought.

“Another thing,” Brasher continued. “The dead men you found at the airfield were all Latinos except for one. They got a face and print match; he’s a former army jailer who got kicked out after the Abu Ghraib abuses in Iraq. He’s done some prison time since then on minor felonies. Now it looks like he got hired to carry on his old job looking after Chadwick.”

“Would he knowingly work for terrorists?” Ruth asked.

Brasher shrugged. “Depends how desperate he was. Either way, he’s paid the price.”