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(Seattle, Washington, Wednesday evening, Oct. 1, 2013)
Mac called the Examiner news desk through his Bluetooth wireless. There were times he liked modern technology, although he still kept it all turned off and unplugged unless he was on emergency status.
“Newsroom, this is Brett,” a male voice said. A not-Janet voice. Mac exhaled.
“Brett, it’s Mac,” he said. “You need to call in extra reporters. Get someone out to the Northgate Mall. There was an attack on a Planned Parenthood Clinic there, and cops are expecting there to be more.”
“What? Mac? What are you talking about?”
“I can’t talk. I’m headed to the police command center. I’ll call in when I know more.”
“Mac! I can’t call up reporters on a tip that vague!”
“What’s vague about it?” Mac asked, feeling somewhat insulted. “Just get it done, Brett. Seriously. The city is about to go up in flames. You need to be pro-active.” It was a word he could barely say without a sneer.
“You come in here, and you help organize it, then!”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m on my way to the police command center. You’re the assistant news editor, you should be able to do it. If you can’t, get Whitaker in there to help.” Mac hung up.
Eli glanced at him, said nothing.
Mac’s phone rang, and he answered, expecting it to be Brett again. Rodriguez’s voice instead.
“We’re at the clinic on Capitol Hill,” he said. “It’s quiet so far. Tell me about Northgate.”
Mac filled him in. Rodriguez grunted. “They got the fire out quick enough. No injuries. Thanks to your fast call.”
He paused. Mac said nothing.
“Look, swing by the clinic in the U-District on your way here,” he said at last. “I’ve lost contact with the team that’s supposed to be there.”
Mac swore. “Damn, man, is the whole PD a bunch of religious fucks?”
“Just go by, will you? Army of God could have taken them out, or,” he sighed, tiredly. “Someone could have called them off. I think the problem is probably at headquarters.”
“That is not an improvement.”
“No, I’d rather have a bunch of idiots in the rank and file than someone higher up who is doing the bidding of Army of God,” Rodriguez agreed.
“Lieutenant?” Mac said gently. “Why didn’t you call in the terrorist unit?”
There was a pause, and for a moment, Mac wasn’t sure Rodriguez was going to answer.
“Because if they were doing their jobs, they would have been on it already. So, either they’re screw-ups—and I don’t need that on an already cobbled-together op—or they’re looking the other way, and I don’t need that either.”
Mac took the 45th Street exit. “OK. I’m in the District. I’ll call you back when I know more.”
“Take care. I don’t like sending in a civilian with no backup.”
Mac glanced at Eli. “I’ve got backup, and neither of us are exactly civilians. This isn’t our first firefight.”
“OK, OK, but be careful anyway,” he said. And then there was dial tone.
“You left out the part about you being hurt,” Eli said neutrally.
Mac shrugged. “That’s a man who’s one ounce of stress away from a breakdown,” he said. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
His arm was hurting him, however. Eli made Mac let him out at the 7-Eleven on the corner. Mac gave him $5 and Eli got himself a cup of coffee. He shuffled down the street, sat on the step of the clinic to drink it. As he said, one more homeless man in an army jacket wasn’t noticed.
Which wasn’t right, Mac thought fiercely. Eli had seen some shit in the Middle East, comes home, and is left to drift? He didn’t blame Janet. But the VA? What were they for, if not vets who needed care?
But then, they would have locked Eli up in a mental ward, and he suspected Eli had experienced his fill of small rooms with doors that locked from the outside. Mac reached for the Tylenol, shook a couple more into his hand, and washed them down with the now flat and warm Mountain Dew. He grimaced as he swallowed.
A young woman came out of the 7-Eleven’s front door, handed Eli something, and then turned to lock up. Mac looked at his watch, it was 7 p.m. Eli thanked her, took a sip of his coffee, and inspected his treat before taking a bite.
Mac’s stomach growled. He sighed. Then rummaged in the sack Lindy had sent along and found one last tuna fish sandwich. He looked around the now deserted streets. The clinic was an old house, with steps leading up to a big front porch. There was a lot of security he noted as he identified cameras at key spots. But he didn’t see any other cars watching the place. Nor were there any unmarked vehicles sitting empty nearby. Wherever Rodriguez’s missing officers were, they weren’t here.
He picked up his phone to call Rodriguez and tell him so, when he saw Eli stiffen ever so slightly. Eli stood up, crumpled the coffee cup, and staggered toward the shadows separating the clinic from the house next to it as if he were looking for a place to take a leak.
Mac got out, locked his doors, and pocketed his keys. He was resisting getting a new rig because he didn’t want one with a fob that beeped at you when you locked the doors. Nothing like announcing to the world “look at me.”
He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and gripped his weapon loosely. He’d shoot through the jacket if he had to. Already had holes in the left arm anyway.
He sauntered down the sidewalk opposite the clinic, saw where Eli had gone. A house further down. He cut across and headed back toward the clinic.
He heard them before he saw anyone.
“What you looking for old man?” a voice said low.
“Need to take a leak,” Eli mumbled. He fumbled with his jacket, and his pants. “You got any cigarettes? A man could use one on a night like this.”
“Cigarettes are bad for you,” a second man said impatiently. “Go on, now, get out of here.”
Eli grunted. Took two steps toward the street, turned and threw his knife. He dived to the ground near the fence and disappeared into the shadows. Mac hadn’t even seen him pull it.
“Jesus,” the younger voice exclaimed. “Where’d he go?”
“Language,” said the second man. “Did he get you?”
“Sorry. Just a nick.” Mac saw him wipe his hand across his neck and look at it. “Well maybe more than a nick.”
The older man moved out of the shadows next to the clinic and looked at his partner’s neck. “You’re right, it’s just a nick. Bleeding, but not pulsing.” He handed something to him. A handkerchief, Mac assumed.
Then he pulled something from his pocket, and Mac tensed. Another flare gun.
“You shouldn’t use that,” Mac called out softly.
“Who’s there?” the older man asked sharply, fading back against the clinic wall. His partner moved toward the fence with his hand still pressed against his neck.
“Who are you?” the older man asked. Then he pulled a flashlight out and shined it directly into Mac’s face.
Expecting it, Mac closed his eyes briefly and moved toward a niche in the clinic wall where the porch met the house. He flattened tight.
“You’re that reporter,” the man said.
“And you’re the Army of God asshole who blew up my boss’s house last night,” Mac said. “Where did you take her? Jehovah’s Valley?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said, moving silently toward Mac.
He’s good, Mac thought. Military background. No discernible accent. Probably Midwestern? Middle aged... 40?... 50 maybe? Average height, fit, but not ripped. Nobody would notice him.
“Why are you here? Doing this?” Mac asked.
The man laughed, with real amusement in his voice. “You trying to interview me?”
“Why not?” Mac asked. “That’s what you’re doing this for, isn’t it? Publicity?”
“We’re doing this because it is a sin against God, a blotch on this country, that millions of babies are murdered every year in clinics like this one,” he said fiercely.
“You were in the military; you kill anyone over there?”
“That’s an honorable thing, defending one’s country.”
“Maybe, but that’s not what we were doing, was it? That’s what they were doing. We were invading. Making the world safe for Exxon Oil,” Mac returned. He had his Glock out now, sighted along the house wall for stability. He was sweating. He didn’t know where the man’s partner was, didn’t know where Eli was. And his arm hurt like a son of a bitch.
“You served?” The man’s voice had surprise in it.
“Yeah. Afghanistan.”
The man paused, then started backing up. “Matthew, we’re pulling out,” he said quietly.
There was no answer. “Matthew?”
Still nothing.
The man kept backing up, apparently willing to abandon his partner.
“That’s right,” Mac taunted. “Run. Because I’m coming for you.” He fired a shot off. Not expecting to hit him. Just to keep him moving so he didn’t fire the flare. If he’d been thinking, he would have. And Mac would have been trapped while the flames raced toward him. He shuddered. He hated fire.
He fired another shot, hoping to god there was no one else in the alley. He heard a V8 engine start up, and a black pickup crept slowly down the alley. Mac fired at a tire. The Army of God commander picked up speed and was gone.
He closed his eyes, gathered his wits.
“Hey man,” he said softly. “I assume you’ve got him.”
“I got him,” Eli said. “What do you want to do with him? Kill him?”
Mac heard the man struggle, so he at least knew Eli was serious. Mac shrugged. He might be crazy as well.
“Nah, we’ll deliver him to Rodriguez. I’m sure he’d like to chat.”
But when they got to the 4-Runner, Mac looked at the man Eli had a grip on, and then at his car. He wasn’t going to put him in the back, not with a small arsenal back there. He sighed. “Put him the front, between us, I guess,” he grumbled.
Mac started the car, while Eli urged “Matthew” into the car. Now that Mac could get a look at him, he saw a man in his mid-20s, clean-cut, farm fresh. He rolled his eyes.
He called Rodriguez. “Interrupted two Army of God at the clinic,” he said briefly. “We’ve got one, the other got away. But no fire. There’s diesel and accelerant all around, though, so someone is going to have get out here and clean it up. Someone is going to go out for a cigarette break, flick some ash, and get a hell of a surprise.”
“You see my men?”
“Nope. No car, no officers. No one showed up when shots were fired.”
Rodriguez swore. “Who fired?”
“I did,” Mac said, after a hesitation. “Didn’t hit anything. But he was going to fire that flare gun, and I was straddling his fire line.”
“Jesus, Mac,” Rodriguez said. “Can you sit there for a bit? I’ll get someone out there soon.”
“No can do,” Mac said. “I need to see you, file a story, and head out. I’m pretty sure that was the head guy who just lit out, and you and I both know where he’s going.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end.
“OK, you bringing your prisoner with you?”
“Well, Eli suggested we just leave him here dead, but I nixed that idea,” Mac said, as he put the car into drive and headed back toward the lights of 42nd Ave.
“Not funny,” Rodriguez said, and hung up.
Mac snorted. He didn’t really think Eli had been joking at the time.
An EMT first responder unit was headed past him with lights flashing as he took the exit back onto I-5.
When Mac pulled up behind the RV, there was a fire truck parked askew next to it with hoses out. Shorty tapped his horn from across the street.
“What the hell happened?” Mac demanded. “They set off a fire while you’re sitting here?
“They think it was wired to a timer,” Shorty said, tapping his laptop, to indicate the “they.”
“No one saw anyone,” he continued. “I didn’t either.”
Mac took a deep breath, realized someone was standing too close, and whirled around. He let the breath out slowly when he realized it was Warren.
“Good way to get hurt,” Mac said sourly.
Warren smiled slightly. Obviously, he wasn’t too worried about it. Mac’s eyes narrowed. No fighting with your own side, he reminded himself. He forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly, until he had his fight-flight instincts under control.
“You got a prisoner,” Warren said.
Mac nodded toward his car. “Eli does,” he said.
Warren grinned. He gestured toward two officers. “They want you to get him to stand down, so they can take him into custody.”
Mac rolled his eyes. He walked over to his car, opened the driver’s door, and pulled out his backpack. “Give the man to these nice officers,” he said.
“They going to keep track of this one?” Eli asked.
“What about it, officers?” Mac looked at the two women standing there.
“We’ll keep him,” one of them said.
Eli got out, tugged his prisoner out with him. The officers slipped on some cuffs. Mac got the impression “Matthew” was relieved to be with cops rather than Eli. He couldn’t really blame him.
“I’ll sit with the Shorty and the boy,” Eli said. “That RV is no place for me.”
Mac started to say something, and his phone rang. He pulled it out of the car and answered it. “Davis.”
“Mac?”
“Kate? Everything OK?”
He heard a deeply drawn breath.
“I think so, but,” she said with worry in her voice. “Did you say the police van would be staying until you got the guys? Because they’re gone. Is that OK?”
“Hold on, babe,” he said. “Let me check.” He muted his phone. “You know anything about the PD van leaving the Fairchild place?”
Stan Warren frowned. “Not unless the captain called everyone in to deal with the bombings.” He pulled open the RV door. “Lieutenant? Is there a reason the surveillance van would leave the Fairchild house?”
Rodriguez stiffened and looked over. “Not from me,” he said, punching in some numbers. Apparently, no one answered because he frowned and dialed a different number. He said something briefly, listened, then hung up.
“Captain didn’t order them in either,” Rodriguez said. “And I can’t raise the officer on his personal line.”
Warren closed the door. “I thought he knew all the people personally,” he muttered.
“I know some real assholes,” Mac said. “Related to some.”
Stan snorted. Mac unmuted his phone.
“Kate, listen to me. The van should not have left. I’m going to send Shorty back over. He’ll be there in 15 minutes. OK?”
“OK.”
“In the meantime, I want you to make sure all the doors are locked. That all the boarders go into their rooms and stay there without lights on. And you and your mother need to do the same, OK? It’s probably nothing. Things are pretty chaotic at the police station, and they may have gone to help. But no taking chances.”
“Thanks, Mac. I feel stupid, but...,” her voice trailed off.
“Always better to be safe,” he said, trying to unclench his jaw. Janet had said something similar. The echoes of her words spooked him a bit. He hesitated, thinking maybe he should go, too. “Call me if anything else alarms you,” he said at last.
When she clicked off, he called Shorty, explained the plan. “And maybe you could get Eli cleaned up,” he finished.
“She’s your girlfriend,” Shorty said indignantly. “This is not how it works. You don’t get the girl if you send in the sidekick to save the day. Why aren’t you going?”
Mac snorted. “OK, sidekick. I’ve got a story to file, and I don’t think this night is over yet. They’re not done.”
He shut his phone off and opened the RV door to the bedlam inside.
“You let someone sneak up and light a fire while you were sitting there watching?” Mac said flippantly as he closed the door behind him.
"What's the back story on Eli?" Rodriguez asked ignoring the snarky comment. "Janet's husband?"
Mac shrugged. "Her story to tell," he said. "All I know is that she got concerned that the emails and threatening calls were from someone who knew at least parts of her past. She asked me to track down some people, including Eli, to see if they could be involved. Obviously, not Eli. Then I went out to Jehovah's Valley and met her father—I don't think he's directly involved, but he's dying. And the heir apparent—John Welch—is a piece of work. From what Tim overheard, my guess is he's involved somehow."
"Jehovah's Valley has been linked to Army of God," Stan Warren volunteered. "And this kind of operation would be right up their alley."
Rodriguez grunted. "Agent Warren, you don't have to be here. And this is a crowded van."
Warren grinned. "But you requested help," he said. "You are the person who asked the FBI for information on the catch phrases at Janet's house, right? Got everyone all excited for a bit. We'd been looking for an inroad to Jehovah's Valley and the Army of God for several years, and there it was...in Janet."
Now it was Mac's turn to look at Stan Warren with narrowed eyes. "And that's why you're here?"
Warren sighed and ran his hand over his head. "No. About a week into the planning for an investigation, everything was ordered shelved. We don't investigate the Christian Right, I was told. Our resources are better reserved for real terrorists. But I was worried about Janet, and the more I learned the more alarmed I became. So that’s when I came out to Seattle. A day late unfortunately."
"More people been killed by white Christian terrorists than by any other kind," Mac said. In any given year, a couple hundred people were killed in mass attacks: 80 percent were from Christian white nationalists.
"Preaching to the choir,” Stan Warren said sourly. “I've had a crash course on Christian terrorism the past few days. But Christians make big donations to politicians—both political parties."
"Maybe the Muslims ought to try that—get better protection," Mac muttered.
Rodriguez snorted. "Take a hell of a lot of donations for that to happen," he said. He pulled a thumb drive out of his pocket and handed it to Mac. “Agent Nesbit sent this along with the hopes that Janet might return the favor and call her to chat.”
Mac took it. Too bad he didn’t have it before Shorty left. He’d plow through the files on the thumb drive faster than Mac could.
A quick rap on the door and a cop opened it, bringing in sacks of Subway sandwiches. It had been a long, tense afternoon since the pizza at the Fairchild's house. Rodriguez had to get clearance from his boss about who he shared information with. He had to be selective, to mount a quick task force of handpicked people. He hadn’t mentioned that his informants were a couple of college boys, a vet who never made it completely emotionally and mentally—home from Kuwait, and a local reporter to boot. Wisely, he did play up the unofficial help from the FBI, although Mac wasn't sure Warren knew about that.
Mac grabbed a sandwich, then stepped back outside to fresher air. Warren followed him, sandwich in hand.
“I’m going to call the office, file a story,” Mac said.
Warren shrugged. “Surprised you haven’t already.”
Mac ignored him, set up his computer. He popped in the thumb drive, looked at the massive number of files and general overload of information. “Shit! Stan, there’s a book’s worth of files here,” he said.
Stan Warren looked over his shoulder, whistled. “At least. Probably her dissertation too.”
Mac sighed. It would have to wait for the follow-up stories next week. He started typing what he already knew.