Rogues. Dante had never been keen on using bikers, they were too loosely organized, too likely to narc when they got caught. They were probably singing right now. He went over what they knew, trying to remember if any of it pointed to him, or worse, to Jackson.
“They didn’t say anything about that on the news.”
“Fuck the news. I want you to call around, find out what the fuck is going on. I want to know where they were taken, and what happened to the women in the house.” Dante started composing a list in his mind. He needed to get in touch with one of his soldiers on the inside, make sure the biker pricks got the message that anyone who talked would suffer. Winters P.D. probably didn’t have their own jail, and even if they did, wouldn’t want to risk locals overrunning it. So that meant they’d be stowed in either Vacaville or Davis: Vacaville if he was lucky, he still had a good network there. Worst-case scenario they would have been driven to the federal pen in Sacramento. It would be harder to get to them there, but not impossible.
If the news was covering this, the Feds probably stashed the girls in a safe house somewhere. Weighing what had happened, Dante decided bothering with them was no longer worth it. They’d been bad luck, ever since the girl was snatched shit started rolling downhill. And they were so close now, he couldn’t risk fucking things up any worse. Plus, with Grant dead, the only reason to mess with his family would be to exact revenge on his corpse. And for that he could wait. Feds wouldn’t be watching them forever.
Creeper came out of the office, motioning for his attention. Dante held up a hand to indicate he needed one more minute.
“You got that, Curtis? I want to hear back from you in an hour, max, and I want a fucking hell of a lot more than what you saw on CNN.” He clicked off without saying goodbye and looked at Creeper. “What?”
“They found the guy.”
“What guy?” I’m surrounded by a bunch of fucking morons, he thought.
“The scientist guy, you know…” Creeper shuffled his feet.
“What, in Houston?”
“Yeah. Feds are all over it. Thought you’d want to know.” He beat a retreat back to the office, clearly spooked by the expression on Dante’s face.
Dante still clenched the cell phone in one hand, squeezing it hard. He barely saw the progress on the float. He recognized this feeling, it was the one you got when a job was about to go really, really wrong. He’d had it that day in the bank, right before the off-duty cop pulled his piece and he wound up in Corcoran as an accessory to murder. If the Feds had the warehouse, the minute they saw the powder they’d know something big was in the works. And then they’d be shutting down every interstate, every bridge. He shook his head. One day away. They were so close.
He reviewed the list in his mind. He needed to get the other drivers on the phone and check their status. If it came down to it, he’d revise the plans. That was what separated a great general from a mediocre one, according to Jackson: the ability to adjust to changing circumstances on the battlefield. Dante took a deep breath. In the end, it would all be okay. He’d make sure of it, even if he had to drive a fucking float himself.
Thirty
Kelly awoke to the sound of pounding on her door. Blearily, she rolled over and checked the time: 8:00 a.m. She’d finally dropped off to sleep well past midnight. Her laptop sat open beside her on the bed, screen saver pulsating green. Next to it was the motel notepad on which she’d scrawled notes about Jackson Burke.
“What the hell, Jones. Are you alive in there?”
It was Rodriguez. She sat up slowly, straightening her blouse, wishing she’d changed out of it before falling asleep. It had been her last clean one, and now it was a wrinkled mess. “One minute.” Kelly checked herself in the mirror on the way to the door and frowned.
“Jesus, I was about to get a battering ram.” He looked her over. “Finally got some sleep, huh?”
“Not enough. What’s up?”
“They got an ID on our guy.”
“Yeah?” Kelly quickly skimmed the faxes he handed her. The dead guy was a nuclear physicist from a DoD research lab. That was a far cry from the extremists they’d been rounding up so far. But it didn’t bode well for the powder.
Rodriguez read her thoughts. “I talked to someone on the Hazmat team. He said we should get checked for exposure. McLarty set something up at the hospital downtown, and we’re supposed to head there ASAP. But since we were only in contact for a few minutes, and they got us out of our clothes and shoes, chances are it wasn’t too bad.”
“Meaning what, we lose all our hair?” Kelly tried to sound flippant, but the gravity of what had happened suddenly struck her. She thought of Jake, how he’d handle the news. A small, cold part of her wondered if he’d even care.
Rodriguez tried to match her tone. “That happens, I’m filing for full disability.” He ran a hand through his buzz cut. “People would kill for this head of hair. And I want compensation for those shoes. This case has been hell on my wardrobe.”
“Did Leonard have any theories on why they killed this guy Grant?” Kelly asked.
“Not for his clothes, that’s for sure.” She raised an eyebrow, and he dropped the tone. “Oh, we’re being serious now. Leonard still isn’t telling me jack-shit. But after we swing by the hospital, I’m thinking we head back to the warehouse, see what we can rustle up.”
“You’re that eager to expose yourself again?”
“I just want to find out what the hell is going on,” Rodriguez said. “This is our case, it was our lead that got the ball rolling. I say we fight to get back in there. Can you get McLarty to back us?”
“I can try, but you’re his golden boy.”
“Please, Jones.” Rodriguez shook his head and grinned. “Everyone knows you’re his favorite.”
Kelly flushed. “He has a funny way of showing it. Give me a minute to get ready.”
“Sure. Might want to run a brush through that hair, too,” he said pointedly, eyeing her scalp.
An hour later Kelly shifted in a chair as a technician drew her blood. “I didn’t realize you could test for radiation exposure this way.”
The technician focused on the syringe. “It’s a relatively new procedure, but probably the quickest.”
“And what if I received a serious dose?” Kelly asked.
“The doctor will be with you in a minute to explain,” the technician said. She avoided eye contact on the way back to the waiting room, which Kelly took as a bad sign.
Rodriguez was already slumped in a chair drinking a can of apple juice. His raised his hand in a halfhearted wave. “Did they give you some juice? It’s free.”
“They didn’t.” Kelly turned back to the technician. “Was I supposed to get some juice?”
“We usually only give it to people who might pass out, but if you want some…”
“No, that’s fine.” Kelly sat in the chair next to Rodriguez. “Fear of needles?”
He flushed. The bruises on his face were finally fading, although his nose remained noticeably off-center. “The week I’ve had, I can’t really afford to lose more blood. They tell you it’ll be at least twenty-four hours until the results come back?”
Kelly nodded. “The doctor is supposed to come discuss our options.”
“Antibiotics, antiemetics and potassium iodide. Worst-case scenario, we’ll need a bone marrow transplant.”
“Who told you that?” Kelly raised her eyebrows.
“Read all about it on the Internet last night. That pill they gave you before was potassium iodide. Keeps your thyroid from absorbing radioiodine. ’Course, if we were exposed to a different kind of radiation, we’re screwed. Until they get the results back, they can’t do anything.” He stood. “So let’s go.”
Kelly looked at him. His jaw was set, and he seemed determined. He was probably right. The doctor would tell them to wait for the test results, and they’d deal with the consequences then. She nodded. “Let’s go.”
