The Gatekeeper

Jake eyed Randall coldly. The guy was scratching at some ketchup that had congealed on the surface of the table. “So tell me, Doc. You’re a smart guy. Say you do everything they ask you to. I’m guessing you’ve got a pretty good idea what the end result would be, right?”

Randall paused, then nodded without lifting his eyes.

“All right. So what are we talking here? How bad could it be?”

Randall waited a long time before responding. His eyes swept the room, taking in all the people with their cardboard cups, laptops and cell phones. He slowly shook his head. “It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Let’s just say they could do a lot of things with what I give them. All of which could result in significant loss of life.”

“What, hundreds of people?” When Randall didn’t respond, Jake raised his eyebrows and asked, “Thousands?”

“Maybe. That’s why you need to find Madison soon. Because I can’t allow them to get their hands on what they’re looking for. No matter what.”

In spite of himself Jake was shaken by the finality in Randall’s eyes. If it came down to it, he was willing to sacrifice his daughter. And the only thing standing between him and that outcome was Jake and Syd. Bad odds, any way you looked at it. Jake cleared his throat. “So. Looks like I better get to work, huh?”

Dante Parrish ran a hand over his bald scalp, the stubble reassuring against his palm. No need to be nervous, everything was going better than expected. Still, he always had to gather himself before opening the large mahogany door. Most people would find that surprising: at six-five, two-fifty, Dante wasn’t easily intimidated. But Jackson Burke could make him quake.

Dante rapped twice with his huge knuckles, then turned the knob. Inside was the kind of office he used to think only existed in movies: plush carpets, fancy paintings on the walls, sweeping views of downtown Phoenix. An enormous desk dominated the room, mahogany, like the door. Aside from that and two small armchairs, there were no other furnishings. As always, Dante was momentarily awed by the fact that somehow he had ended up here. His reflection was cut short when the man behind the desk slammed down the phone. In spite of himself, Dante jumped.

Jackson’s cheeks were flushed, although it was hard to tell whether he was angry or excited. In Dante’s opinion, the most remarkable thing about him was that until he opened his mouth, you wouldn’t look twice at him. Brown hair, gray eyes, just under six feet tall. Completely average-looking. But then he started talking. Jackson had one of those voices that could “charm a cat off a fish wagon,” as Dante’s mother used to say. Within ten minutes of meeting him, Dante had been willing to lay down his life for the man.

“So how are things on the front?” Jackson swung around the desk, propping himself on the edge as he motioned for Dante to take a seat.

“All good so far, sir,” Dante said, picking his words carefully. He’d never made it past eighth grade, and every time they spoke he felt that disparity keenly. Not that he was stupid, just a different kind of smart. The kind of smart Jackson could use, like he always said.

“Excellent. Saw the news today, looks like our ducks are falling in a row.” Jackson raised his hands and mimicked firing a gun, then bellowed a laugh. Dante joined him.

Jackson cut it off abruptly. “Did you see the new census reports?”

Dante shook his head, and Jackson looked mildly disappointed. He tossed a folded paper across the desk and pointed at a headline halfway down the page. “See? Says right there that there haven’t been this many illegals since the 1920s. And back then they were mostly white. Ten more years of this, Spanish will be our first language. Not on my watch, no way no how.”

Dante nodded in agreement. “We won’t let it happen, sir.”

“Damn straight we won’t. So I want you to personally stay on top of this Grant thing, make sure there are no screwups. I’m counting on you, Dante. Don’t let me down, boy.”

Dante saluted. Jackson acknowledged it with a nod, then turned to face the view. Dante was halfway to the door when Jackson spoke again. Without glancing back, he said, “Never forget, this is a war we’re fighting.”

“I won’t forget, sir.”

Five

Kelly gazed through the glass wall of the observation room. Four MS-13 gang members were arrested in the house raid. Despite the fact they’d been armed to the teeth, SWAT managed to extract them without any bloodshed. Kelly pictured the four of them scattered through the house, three on the couch, one in the kitchen making nachos in a surprisingly domestic gesture. The confusion and disarray as flash bang grenades followed battering rams through both front and back doors. The four of them on the ground, eyes blinded, ears ringing, hands being cuffed. She almost envied the SWAT team. Their goal was simple: get in, get your guys, get out. What she dealt with was much messier.

She examined the putative leader of the gang, Marco Guzman. He was older than she’d expected, maybe late twenties, a testament to his survival skills. Gang tats rode up his neck and down his arms, framing a carefully buttoned blue-and-white shirt. Close-cropped hair and a face marked by a trim goatee and hooded eyes. Clearly Guzman was no stranger to interrogation rooms, he looked right at home.

His lawyer sat beside him. Despite the fact that he looked like a teenager, according to the local cops he’d developed a reputation for himself as the local MS-13 consigliere.

Kelly gathered herself. A successful outcome for this interview was highly unlikely. She was dealing with a seasoned criminal and an adept lawyer. Three hours of grilling by Phoenix P.D., and Guzman had only admitted to knowing there were steak knives in the house. The stacks of guns had apparently escaped his attention. Still, she had to give it a shot.

She entered with Rodriguez at her heels. She wasn’t crazy about having him sit in, but he spoke Spanish, which would come in handy.

“Good evening, Mr. Guzman.”

“Call me Psycho,” he said. His voice was different from what she’d been expecting, smooth with a slight trace of an accent.

Rodriguez rattled something off in Spanish. Guzman leered at him and shot back a response.

“Let’s stick to one language, shall we?” Kelly said.

“He was asking what my momma was thinking, naming me that,” Guzman said, smiling at her. He had probing eyes, and Kelly leveled her gaze to meet his. “I warned him not to mention my momma again, or—”

The lawyer said something sharp. Guzman clammed up, sucking his teeth loudly.

“It says here your momma named you Marco,” Kelly said, one eyebrow raised. “Seems like a perfectly good name.”

Guzman shrugged. “So call me that. Don’t make no difference to me, Roja.”

Kelly fought a flush over his reference to her red hair. “I’m FBI Special Agent Jones, this is Agent Rodriguez. We have some questions about one of the items found in your house.”

Guzman shrugged. “Not my house, Agent Jones.”

Without glancing up from his BlackBerry the lawyer said, “As my client informed the police, he was visiting that house today solely to watch a baseball game. He has no knowledge of any weapons being stored there.”

“No? Hard to believe, when there were handguns on the table behind him in the living room.”

“You know what’s psycho, is you showing up,” Guzman said. His lawyer threw him a hard glance, but he ignored it. “ATF, sure, but you got no business with guns.”

“This one, we do.” Kelly slid a photo of Duke Morris’s gun across the table.

He glanced at it. “Looks like a chica’s. Yours?”

Kelly shook her head. “No, Mr. Guzman. That gun belonged to a murder victim.”

He shoved the photo back across the table. “Never seen it.”

“You sure? Because it was used to kill a U.S. senator this morning,” Rodriguez said.

The lawyer’s head snapped up, as if he were a retriever who had just caught a scent.

Kelly tried to conceal her irritation. She had hoped to lull Guzman into complacency, so he might slip up and say more than he should. Now that Rodriguez had revealed their endgame, there was no way he would give them anything. “Got your attention now?” Kelly asked.

“I’d like a minute to confer with my client.” The lawyer said with finality.

She tried anyway. “Mr. Guzman, Senator Duke Morris was murdered late last night. Ballistics indicate that his own gun, this gun, was used in the killing. And then it turned up in your stash house.”

Guzman just shook his head. His eyes had cloaked over, dark and impenetrable. Shark eyes. “Don’t know what you’re on about, Roja. I was watching a game.”