Chapter Twenty Two
The trio hid inside the rhododendron bushes at the site of the next meeting. The plan was to snatch the bag of drugs from the Silver Man’s assistant as she entered the abandoned warehouse in Yonkers. That was Alison’s only bargaining chip. Eliza made it clear she had no intentions of getting herself embroiled in a crazy attempt to save the other two and Michael. She wanted those drugs. Clara kept her mouth shut and let the other two call the shots. Her turn would come.
Both Alison and Eliza talked a little about the feeling of freedom they’d experienced on the drug. There were no boundaries, no judgment, no right and wrong – only the incredible freeing catharsis of rage which felt so incredibly good.
Alison was worried about Eliza; she was a wild card - crass, criminal, and as dumb as a doorknob. It seemed to Alison that the closer she got to Clara, the more Eliza asserted her claim to leadership. No matter who the leader was, they needed to be a team right now, so Alison did as she was told.
The finality of the fall season prompted Alison to think of what might lie ahead. Perhaps this was the end for her, but at least she’d go out knowing she tried to do something to atone for what she’d done under the influence of the serum.
She told herself there was nothing to worry about.
***
Deputy Director Fischetti ordered the Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team (H.R.T.) to conduct the raid on the Collective’s meeting.
The unit rolled out in Chevy Suburbans armed with Remington shotguns and sniper rifles. Their mission was simply to round up all the organizers and attendees of what they were told was a Manson-type of cult who called themselves the Killing Collective. Fischetti’s team would take it from there. He gave them instructions to confiscate any illegal substances if they found them. Fischetti could not officially tie Michael Santiago to the Collective or even to the drug he was allegedly dosed with, but that wasn’t going to stop him from sending in the big guns. This was his chance to prove himself worthy of the director’s chair – whenever the old man finally decided to call it quits.
Suburbanites heading home on their rush hour commute drove side by side with the army of Chevy’s crawling along the Cross Bronx Expressway. According to Red’s tip, the meeting wouldn’t get underway for another hour at least. Unit Commander Rosenfeld reminded his men by radio to take it slow and steady…slow and steady.
***
Eliza’s cell phone rang.
Alison whispered harshly. “Don’t answer it!”
Eliza picked it up.
***
The black vans moved like a conga line on the highway. Rosenfeld patted the .45 holstered on his belt and wondered if the attendees were primed to react to the threat of violence with violence of their own. From the sparse Intel he’d been provided by the deputy director, he understood only that there was one single speaker referred to as the Silver Man, who lectured by way of video conference and resembled Senator Pressman. The Silver Man spoke at every meeting of the Collective, slightly rearranging his fanatical rhetoric each time so that it sounded new.
Rosenfeld was familiar with the radical social science theory proposing that the only way to ensure the continuation of the species was by advocating survival of the fittest as a form of altruism – like when men went to war to protect their family and country.
He sounds like a real nut job.
The commander’s heart raced when the highway congestion finally opened up. It wouldn’t be long now. He swore to himself that he would have a heart-to-heart with his sixteen-year-old son on the subject of civic responsibility and right and wrong as soon as he got home.
***
Eliza sounded combative. “Yeah, well not unless you identify yourself.”
Alison whispered urgently, “Eliza, hang up. Hang up!”
“Shit! Someone knows what we’re doing. But how could he?”
Alison balled a shaking fist but Clara grabbed it and kissed it. “Now, everyone take a breath. Let’s all just calm down. There’s no way anyone could possibly know what we discussed in my own private place, right?”
Alison nodded. “Cut it out, Eliza. Stop trying to scare us.”
“Don’t you want to know what he said?”
***
The cars proceeded to Webster Avenue off the Major Deegan Highway, still maneuvering at an even pace. Commander Rosenfeld felt his heart sink as they approached the target.
This isn’t a warehouse; it’s a party hall!
Using sonar technology, Rosenfeld could also see that the hall was full of people. He jumped out of the lead car’s side door, but his unit remained inside waiting for his signal to engage. He trod as lightly as he could on the loose gravel in the parking lot and then peered into the soft, gold light of a window.
It’s only a bunch of teenagers!
Above them hung a banner congratulating them on winning the junior varsity football championship.
Rosenfeld leaned into his mike and terminated the raid.
***
A different black van rolled to a stop in a space close to the building. Eliza ran to the back of the van as the trunk opened. It knocked her to the ground in stunned silence.
It was the masked woman, Galatea, who emerged from the van with the bag they’d been waiting for. Alison leaped onto Galatea’s back from behind, hoping her weight and momentum would bring them both to the ground. Galatea jabbed her in the stomach, but she couldn’t shake Alison loose.
Clara couldn’t let Alison be overpowered or they’d all be in for it, so she jumped over Eliza and kicked the woman‘s legs out from under her, knocking her down to the ground. Galatea hit her head on the side view mirror as she went down. She was bleeding from the ear and definitely unconscious.
Eliza jumped up and got in behind the wheel. “Get off her, you two, and get in!”
Alison yelled, “We have to search her!”
“The bag fell out of the trunk when it opened. Get in!” Eliza held up a large black drawstring bag of vials and shook it. She floored the gas.
The masked woman came around as they drove away. She called her superior for instructions.
“Let them go. Now we’ll wait and watch.”
***
Deputy Director Fischetti pounded his fist on his desk. “What do you mean it was the wrong address, Rosenfeld?”
Fischetti didn’t wait for an answer. He slammed the phone and called Agent Carter.
***
“I’ve got some news that can’t wait. We attempted a raid tonight, and it failed. It looks like Red gave us a bad lead.”
Agent Carter listened to Fischetti with his mouth slightly open and paused before answering. “Deputy Director, why wasn’t I made aware of this raid and other developments in this case?”
“I promise a full rundown, Agent Carter, first thing in the morning. You needed to spend some down time with your wife. How is she doing?”
“She’s returning to normal. I think you should know that the lab results came back inconclusive. We don’t know what this drug is made of but it’s most likely synthetic, which would make it nearly undetectable.”
Seacrest waved a hand and took the phone away from Carter. “He’s partly right, Deputy Director; it will take some time to analyze, but it can be done.”
Fischetti’s voice boomed over the speaker. “We don’t have the time. Right now, we’ve got other leads to pursue.”
“But…”
“There’ll be more of the serum to study when we make the next raid, Agent Seacrest.”
Seacrest grumbled under her breath. “If the Bureau can manage to get the right address.”
Fischetti barked. “That will be enough, Agent Seacrest.” I want both of you in my office first thing in the morning.”
Carter kneaded her shoulders. “Just relax; I’ll take care of this.” He tucked away his anger, took the phone from her hand, and said good night to Fischetti.
Either Red was given a bad address by the Collective, in which case they’re on to him, or Fischetti sent the H.R.T team to the wrong place intentionally. Why would Fischetti want to do that? And why would he want to discredit Red?”
Doubt flooded Carter’s mind.
Fischetti needs to answer a few questions, beginning with Mr. X.
“I’ll run you a bath, hon, with those bath salts you love so much. You’ll forget all about today.”
Seacrest inhaled deeply before nodding. “You read me like a book, Carter. That is exactly what I need right now.”
He kissed her on the forehead and went into the bathroom.
“Carter! Come back here. Quick!”
He ran back out to her and peered over his wife’s shoulder, who was watching their wedding video on YouTube at their computer desk.
“What’s the matter?”
“I just saw a new comment.”
Carter recognized the quatrain instantly. It was from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam; he had read lines from that poem at their wedding, but the words in this quatrain were not meant to remind them to stop and smell the roses.
I sent my soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return’d to me,
And answered ‘I Myself am Heav’n and Hell:’