A Voice from the Field (25 page)

Kane got in closer and spoke. “I need you to hear me on this, Agent Delafield. We aren't anywhere in the vicinity of having that kind of conversation. Your family belongs to me and that fact ain't going to change anytime soon. You hear me?”

“Please, Kane. I'll do whatever you ask. Just let—”

Kane slapped the man hard across the face. “Did you hear me, boy? We ain't there yet. For now? Figure they are suffering beyond your imagination. But play your cards right and maybe, just maybe, somewhere down the line, we'll talk about a little family reunion. I imagine there might be a need for some pretty hard-core therapy, but hell, boy. It'll be a start.”

“Tell me!” Delafield tried to stand, but Tanner kept him in his seat. “What do you want, Kane? I said I'll do it.”

“Thatta boy.” Kane patted the man's cheek. “That's where I need you, in that ‘I'll do anything you say' place. Now, we got some things to go over. I'm not too concerned about you feds, but god damn, we gotta figure out how to deal with that pesky little bitch, Suarez.”

 

THIRTY-ONE

Twenty minutes of wandering through the bowels of the Milwaukee federal building had Tia aggravated and ready to give up. She had decided to try to find her way back to the main entrance when she finally came across a check-in station behind a placard that read: “Federal Business Requiring Escort.” A twentysomething man, built for rugby, sat hunched behind a gray metal desk, his face buried in a copy of
Guns & Ammo
. He wore standard junior G-man attire: an ill-fitted dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. Tia stood in front of him for several seconds and he didn't so much as look up. The pasty white skin of his face was pocked with acne red as a flame that looked to have been scrubbed off with a Brillo pad as recently as that morning. Her lingering frustration at the previous night's activities and the morning's conversation with Connor coupled with the desk jockey's obvious disinterest, brought out her irritable streak. She rapped her knuckles against the metal of the desk.

“Detective Suarez. Newberg PD.”

He looked up, moving just his eyes as if to make sure Tia knew she was intruding, then looked back at his magazine. With a deep breath Tia knew was meant to signal obvious reluctance, he set
Guns & Ammo
aside and picked up a clipboard. He slowly moved his finger down a list of typewritten names, some of which had been checked off. When he found hers, as she knew he would, he tapped it with his finger, twice, then stared at her, eyes narrowed.

Setting down the clipboard, the agent handed Tia a large manila envelope. “Empty your pockets,” he said in a thick New England accent. “Everything goes in. Cell phone, badge, ID. Jewelry. Everything.

“Lock your sidearm in one of the lockers,” he added, gesturing with his head toward the opposite wall, where Tia saw several rows of small lockboxes. Key goes in the bag, too.”

“My gun?” she asked.

“And all your ammo.”

“You're serious?”

He nodded but said nothing more. Clearly, he'd heard the same complaint before. After a stare-off that lasted several seconds, Tia reluctantly disarmed herself. Figuring the guy was less than a year out of some federal training academy, she resisted the urge to ask him how long he expected to be stuck with such a shitty assignment. Instead, she followed his instructions and handed the full envelope over without further comment. The man dropped it into a safe, then came around from behind the desk, wand in hand.

“Arms straight out to your sides. Feet shoulder width apart.”

“You're going to wand me?” Tia asked. She almost laughed but stopped herself.

He took a deep breath, gave an audible sigh, and tried again. “Arms straight out to your sides. Feet shoulder width apart.”

Tia raised her arms while she shook her head, keeping her opinion over the process to herself. She did her best to strike up harmless conversation. “So what are you? FBI? ATF? DEA? What?”

He set the wand on the table, took a ring of keys from a desk drawer, and walked away, saying, “Come with me.”

Tia followed her unamused escort to a nearby elevator where he summoned the car and used a key to open its doors. He waved her inside. Tia once again tried to make small talk as she stepped past him. “Sounds like you're from the East Coast. I'm guessing Maine, right?”

She turned to face the doors in time to see them close between her and the junior agent. Tia called out, “What the hell?” The whole cloak-and-dagger thing was getting old. “Hey, where am I supposed to go now?”

There was no reply. Tia scanned the inside of the elevator, realizing there were no floor buttons or indicator lights. A hint of panic came over her and she balled her fist, preparing to bang on the door. Before she moved, a TV screen built into the wall behind her came to life and she turned to watch. The words on the screen were read in a voice that was a too-perfect modular tone of disarming female.

“You have been granted limited access to the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility of the Domestic Terrorist Assault Team. Prior to entry, you must acknowledge that all activity and conversations that occur in your presence, either intentionally or unintentionally, are classified. Any unauthorized disclosure of such information shall result in criminal prosecution under federal law governing the release of intelligence deemed vital to national security. Please acknowledge your understanding by pressing your right thumb firmly against the green box located in the bottom center of the screen.”

Tia rolled her eyes but did as the voice commanded. When she pulled her thumb back from the screen an image of her fingerprint was revealed, the whorls and loops standing out in bright red lines. After several seconds the image faded and was replaced by her DMV photograph along with her full name, date of birth, and Social Security number. Two small buttons appeared, labeled Yes and No. The voice returned.
“Please confirm your identity by pressing yes.”

Tia pushed the button. Seconds later the elevator began a smooth descent. Tia paid close attention to the amount of time that passed before the cab came to a stop. Two levels down, she thought. Maybe three. The doors opened and Tia was met by yet another man in a suit. “Detective Suarez, you have been granted limited SCIF access requiring escort. Come with me.”

Tia followed him down a tight concrete tunnel that reminded her of the bunkers in Baghdad abandoned by the Revolutionary Guard. Their boot heels echoed sharply in the confined space, which was bathed in a dim red light. Eventually they reached a heavy steel door that opened after the guard submitted to a retinal scan. Beyond the door lay an underground cement parking structure, with a low-slung ceiling and about the size of two basketball courts.

Tia paused when she came through the door, taking in the scene. A conga line of vehicles included two tactical trucks, an ambulance, and a fleet of matching dark-colored SUVs. A group of what looked like uniformed cops in black BDUs stood beside most of the vehicles; Tia noted that none of their combat fatigues bore any type of insignia. A dozen or so men in full SWAT gear, also absent any sort of organizational patch, had taken over a large corner of the cavernous space and were practicing what Tia recognized as mock entries. It was obvious an assault was imminent.
Maybe all the bullshit will be worth it,
she thought.

“This way, Detective,” said her escort. He led her across the open area to a structure that looked like a sleek high-end shipping container. He opened the door and nodded that she was to enter. Once she did, he shut the door behind her, staying outside.

When the door closed, all the exterior noise vanished. The sudden silence made Tia feel like she had stepped into a vault. The windowless room was lit with a brilliant white light and dominated by a large wooden conference table littered with hardline phones and built-in computer monitors. Along one wall were a half-dozen flat screens, each displaying a different angle of the exterior of a building Tia recognized as the Roadhouse Score.

Nearby, a group of men were gathered around a whiteboard that took up most of one wall. Several wore blue windbreakers with the letters
DTAT
stenciled in yellow across the back. Tia remembered the computer voice saying, “
Domestic Terrorist Assault Team.
” Apparently Ben's suspicions were correct. Tia had never heard of DTAT, but she didn't doubt it was a post-9/11 agency and very well funded.

She recognized Lester Stahl as part of the group studying the board, which was covered with names and mug shots arranged in a link chart configuration with Kane and Tanner front and center. Tia took a step forward; the shift in position revealed a familiar figure sitting a little off to the side: Patricia Graham. With her legs crossed and her body pulled in on itself, she looked like she would rather be anywhere else.

Stahl and Graham,
Tia thought.
Two of my very favorite people
.

“Hey, Stahl,” Tia called out. When he looked her way Tia picked up on his disappointment that she had actually turned up. “I'm good to go. When are we briefing?”

“Not now, Suarez.” Dismissal was clear in his voice. “I'll let you know if we need you.”

Tia took a seat at the conference table, studying the whiteboard crowd. Towering over the comparatively tiny Stahl was a man who looked out of place. His hair was cropped close like the rest, but he was dressed down, in jeans and an untucked flannel shirt. His leather boots were more biker-style than tactical. An oversized leather wallet was connected to his belt with a good-sized chain.
Damn,
Tia thought to herself.
They not only got that ass-clown of a snitch Tanner in the mix but a U/C agent, too. Big-time shit,
she thought. Good to know the entire case against Kane wouldn't come down to the word of a crook working off his own beef. Tia moved in closer to try to hear what the conversation was about. The U/C agent addressed the group.

“He wants twenty crates of Hellhounds. Along with launchers. Says he has a mission for the NAF and this will put them at operational readiness. That's why I signaled to abort the arrest. If he makes this purchase, it really ups the ante.”

“Rocket launchers?” Stahl asked. “What's he planning? Did he say?”

“Not yet,” the agent replied. “But if we make delivery, I can probably get him to talk about it.”

The agent tapped his finger against the picture of Gunther Kane that stared out from the whiteboard. “Whatever he's up to, it's big. I don't care what kind of gun nut he gets on his jury. He can't talk his way out of grenades and launchers.”

Tia recognized the argument. Winning a conviction against anyone in Wisconsin for illegal gun possession was always an uphill fight, especially in federal court. These days, most any defense lawyer could poll potential jurors and find one or two Second Amendment zealots. Always men and usually white, these were the guys programmed to believe the government was determined to take away their weapons through laws and regulations. Federal juries almost always came back hung on charges of illegal possession of firearms. At the end, there'd be at least one juror wearing a red, white, and blue shit-eating grin, overcome with the thrill of being able to tell Uncle Sam to take a twelve gauge and blow it out his ass.

Stahl turned to Graham, in the corner. “This would really strengthen the prosecution. Grenade launchers?” He shook his head and Tia could hear the excitement in his voice. “Holy shit. He'd be screwed. This would be the biggest domestic arrest since the Nichols case.”

Graham seemed hesitant to accept what Stahl was selling, but Tia could see she was beginning to waver. Tia couldn't help herself. “What's going on? I thought the plan was to take Kane down this morning.”

Stahl turned her way. “Officer Suarez, this is a federal briefing. Need-to-know basis only. Please wait outside with the uniforms.”

“It's Detective Suarez,” Tia said firmly. “And you invited me, remember?”

“Yes, of course. And you will be apprised of what you need to know. Now, please, Detective, wait outside.”

“Wait,” the dressed-down agent said. “You're Suarez?”

“Yeah, I am.”

The agent walked over and offered her his hand. “Curtis Delafield, DTAT. I'm covert on this op.”

“Tia Suarez, Newberg PD.” Tia accepted the handshake. There was an intensity in the man's eye that seemed missing from the rest of the crowd. His grip was strong. She figured he had to be wrapped pretty tight.

Delafield glanced at Stahl, then returned his attention to Tia. “So you're the one who's got Kane all bowed up. In two-plus years of dealing with this shithead, I've never seen him so wrapped around the axle.”

“How's that?”

“Stahl briefed me on what went down in Milwaukee,” Delafield said, and again she picked up on some tension in his demeanor. “So you know, I had nothing to do with that bullshit. But I played it off with Kane, let him think I'm hooked up with a source inside the jail. He told me all about your meeting. Like I said, you got him pretty worked up.”

From the corner of her eye Tia saw that Graham was listening—and plenty annoyed. Tia couldn't resist. She smiled at Delafield and said, “Yeah. I figured why the hell not. He was getting a pass on the whole thing. Might as well try and mess with him a bit. Glad to know it got to him.”

Delafield smiled back, but there was something odd about his expression, almost like she was getting played. “He was hot under the collar for a couple of days after that.”

Tia studied the man's face as she answered. “It was about all I could do at the time. No one else gave a shit.”

“Excuse me, Curtis?” Stahl interrupted. “Do you mind? Can we get on with it?”

Delafield winked at Tia. “Sorry, Lester. Sure. C'mon, Suarez.” He turned back to the whiteboard. “Now, where was I?”