Power Blind (33 page)

G
age heard “excuse mes” and “sorrys” as they worked their way through the restaurant. Then a cacophony of sizzles, dishes clacking, and pots rattling.

Gage hit redial. “Joe, they're going out the back through the kitchen.”

He then punched in Viz's number. “They're coming out on the Halleck Street side.”

Viz sprinted west to circle the block as Gage pushed his way through the curtain into the cab and started the engine.

T
he passenger doors of the silver Lexus SUV were already open in the alleylike street behind Tadich Grill.

“I didn't know you had a driver,” Brandon said.

Anston ignored the comment. “You sit up front. Socorro and I'll take the back.”

The driver's face made Socorro uneasy, somehow familiar, and somehow frightening. She decided it was just nervousness, then climbed in.

The driver turned toward the back. “Everybody got their seat belts on?”

The Texas accent. That's it
, Socorro thought,
he looks like that country singer
.

Boots started the engine and began rolling toward the intersection. He jammed down the accelerator when he spotted a huge man at the end of the block trying to see inside the SUV.

“Stop,” Socorro yelled.

Boots reached into the console, pulled out a .38 revolver, and then passed it back to Anston, who pointed it at Socorro. “Shut up.”

Brandon swung around in his seat as Boots charged down the alley.

“What are you doing?” Brandon's voice rose to a desperate squeak. “Let her go. My God, Anston, I'm a federal judge.”

Anston didn't take his eyes off Socorro. “Not another word, Brandon. Not another word.”

Then Socorro's voice: “Take your hands off me. Take your hands off me . . .”

V
iz held his ground as Boots bore down, then dived and rolled when the SUV hit the intersection, turning and skidding until it was pointed south. It blew past Gage stuck at the cross street, trapped behind cars and by oncoming traffic.

Gage called Casey's cell phone.

“They didn't come out my way,” Casey said.

“They went south. Boots Marnin was driving.”

“You want me to call Spike?”

“Hold on.” Gage conferenced in Viz. “You get a plate?”

“No. But I'm almost sure it's the same SUV I saw after the burglary at Socorro's.”

Gage's phone signaled an incoming call. He switched to it. It was his office, where Tansy, Alex Z, and Shakir were standing by.

“A man just called,” Tansy said, her voice wavering. “He told me to tell you that you can have Socorro back tomorrow night. If you call the police, he'll kill her. What's going—”

“I'll call you back.”

Gage reconnected to Viz and Casey and passed on the message.

“It's my fault,” Viz said. “I shouldn't have—”

“No, it isn't,” Gage said. “Any one of us could've closed this thing down.”

Gage punched in Faith's cell phone number. “Where are you?”

“At home. Is everything okay?”

“Things have gone sour. They've got Socorro.”

“Is she—”

“She's all right for now. I need you to—”

“Hold on, there's a knock—”

“Don't answer it. Get out the back way. Take the trail down to Tully's place, but stay connected to me.”

Gage put her on hold and called Casey.

“Contact the Oakland police, tell them there's armed burglary in progress at my house.”

He reconnected to Faith. He heard her feet thudding on the narrow path, then caught his breath at the sound of crashing branches, fearing it was the crook catching up.

“Faith?”

He heard a distant explosion of wood and glass. He knew it had to be the crook kicking out the back door.

“Graham? I'm okay,” Faith's breathing was heavy. “I slipped.”

More footfalls on the dirt and then on wood, pounding on a door, and finally Tully, the ex-cop, asking Faith, “Are you okay?”

A quick, gasping explanation, “Burglar . . . broke in . . . chasing me.”

Tully's voice came on the phone, “What's going on?” he asked Gage.

“There's too much explain.”

“Shit, what was that?”

“What?”

“Sounds like he's found the trail and is on his way down. I'll handle him.”

Gage heard a rustle had he handed the phone back to Faith, then the pump action of Tully's shotgun ripped the silence.

F
ive minutes later, Gage walked toward Casey and Viz in an underground garage near the restaurant. They looked at him, arms spread in expectation.

“She made it,” Gage said. “My neighbor scared the guy off, but OPD got there too late to catch him.”

“That means they were planning to kidnap Faith just to make sure you kept your mouth shut.” Casey shook his head. “If we hadn't spotted them grabbing Socorro, they would've gotten her.”

Gage took in a breath, then exhaled. It was the sort of trade none of them wanted to dwell on.

“Where do we stand?” Gage asked.

“Nowhere,” Casey said.

The obvious hung in the air, unsaid. Anston needed all the copies of the DVD, whatever was on it, and Boots possessed the techniques to find out where Socorro had hidden them—he'd proved it with Hawkins.

Gage leaned back against the van.

“What are they going to do?” He tried to visualize the moves. “Anston doesn't know we have Brandon and just wants to get through tomorrow. He's a survivor. He'll take one problem at a time.”

Gage pointed at Casey and said, “I'll take your truck.” Then at Viz. “You better ride in the back of the van. If Anston sees you . . .”

“Then my sister's dead.” Viz shook his head. “Damn. I screwed up.”

Gage reached over and gripped Viz's shoulder.

“We'll find her.”

He lowered his hand and his mind searched for a lead.

Finally, he said, “You remember the night you followed Boots after I spotted him watching me and Faith at Cal?”

Viz jerked his thumb toward the van. “My surveillance log is in the laptop.”

“You and Joe hit all those places. I'm going to go lean on someone.”

Chapter 86

T
he uniformed Secret Service agent waved Landon Meyer through the northwest gate onto the White House grounds. Ten o'clock and Landon still hadn't had dinner. CNN and other cable news reporters and their crews were packing up after filing their final stories for the night, all of them reporting on the same thing: the following day's full Senate confirmation vote.

Landon had thought about calling Brandon during the drive from the Dirksen Building, but he decided he wasn't in the mood for Brandon's kind of glee, not with Senator Lightfoot's death so heavy in his heart.

President Duncan and his chief of staff, Stuart Sheridan, both raised highball glasses toward Landon as he entered the president's study. Duncan pointed at the buffet along the far wall where a silver tray bearing decanters of bourbon and Scotch lay next to a matching ice bucket and crystal glasses.

Landon shook his head and took the only unoccupied seat in the room, an upholstered wing chair set at one point of an equilateral triangle.

Duncan tilted his head toward Sheridan.

“The brain trust here says you're ten points ahead of everybody else in New Hampshire, Republican
or
Democrat.”

Landon's first thought wasn't satisfaction. It was a question that had bothered him since he'd arrived in Washington: Why were taxpayers fronting the salary of a political operative like Sheridan?

“Give or take three percent,” Landon said.

Duncan smiled. “Ever the realist.”

“The Supreme Court nominations may have hurt me a little.”

“Americans have short memories. They'll have forgotten about them in a month. But if they haven't”—Duncan grinned—“just blame me. Everybody else does. And remember the old Nixon rule: Run to the right in the primary election and to the center in the general.” He laughed. “Not everybody can do a Bill Clinton or John McCain and run in all directions at once.”

Landon didn't respond. It was exactly what Duncan had tried and failed at. The Supreme Court nominees were his last chance to save his presidency.

“It may help if you make yourself scarce for the swearing-in tomorrow afternoon,” Sheridan said. “A face in the crowd. Give yourself a little distance.”

Landon grasped what Sheridan was really saying: Let Duncan be seen alone planting the flag to mark his legacy.

“Won't having the ceremony an hour after the vote seem a little rushed?” Landon said. “Maybe we should wait a day and make it look stately.”

“I want it to be more like a door slamming,” Duncan said. “You can do it your way when you live in this house.”

Landon's peripheral vision caught Sheridan stir in his chair.

“I wanted to talk to you about the campaign,” Duncan said. “A deal is a deal.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“But instead of making some kind of explicit announcement, I'll do it a little at a time. Each week the endorsement will get a little stronger. Sort of massage the base until it's lined up behind you.”

“It'll collapse if we move too quickly,” Sheridan said. “They like to see themselves as a voluntary army, not conscripts.”

Maybe a deal wasn't a deal after all
, Landon thought. It would be easy for political winds to blow away an endorsement written in sand. Impossible if it was etched in stone. He wondered what would be the quid pro quo that would bring out the chisel.

Duncan turned his body fully toward Landon. “I had a thought I'd like you to consider  . . .”

The pause at the end of the sentence revealed Duncan's timing at its best. It forced Landon to ask, “What's that, Mr. President?”

“I'd like you to consider taking Sheridan on as an adviser in a couple of months. I'm the lamest of lame ducks, so there's not much for him to do around here after tomorrow.”

Landon straightened. “I respect his abilities, Mr. President, but I'm not sure how that would play in the media.”

“That's not a problem. His wife has been diagnosed with a medical problem. He can resign for family reasons.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Landon said, looking at Sheridan. “I hope it's not serious.”

Sheridan shrugged. “She'll get over it.”

Chapter 87

R
osa M. dropped her dishrag as her eyes widened at the man filling her apartment doorway. It was the look on his face. She drew back, cowering.

“
No me haga daño
.” Don't hurt me.

“I'm not going to.” Gage flashed his ID. “I need some information.”

She nodded once. Slow, hesitant.

“It's about a guy who stayed in room 527 of the Mariner Hotel a while back. A Texan.”

Rosa's cheeks flushed.

“It's not about that.”

G
age called Casey as he drove away. “It's somewhere South of Market. A warehouse. It was used as a marijuana grow room before it got busted by the DEA. She overheard Boots talking on the phone just before he checked out. She thought it was part of an investment deal he'd been offered. It has an inner plywood structure. Almost soundproof. Boots referred to it as cocoon. A perfect place to take a hostage. But she doesn't know the address, or even the street.”

“We've already driven by a half-dozen warehouses. Nothing.”

“You have somebody in the DEA you can call to find out all the places they've raided?”

“I'll have the information by the time we hook up.”

H
ow many of these grows have there been in San Francisco?” Gage asked as he read Casey's notes. They were parked under the freeway a block south of the California Supreme Court building.

“Dozens and dozens. The medical marijuana movement has been good for business.”

“How many are South of Market?”

“Eight that have been closed down in the last couple of months.”

“Map it out. I'll drive.”

Gage climbed into the cab while Viz and Casey got into the back. Casey gave him the first stop and Gage headed south through the dark streets.

T
hey hit six in the next forty minutes. They were nearly to the waterfront, four blocks from Gage's office. And there were two left on the list.

“Maybe we missed it,” Viz said, lifting off his headphones. “I haven't heard a thing. Maybe they found the device on Brandon.”

“We're in big trouble if they did,” Gage said. “Joe, where's next?”

“Near the Flower Mart on Brannan.”

Gage drove west from the bay, then south away from downtown. He hit Brannan Street just east of the deserted flower market, then drove farther west toward Gilbert. The commercial street was abandoned except for the generic homeless people curled up in doorways with their overfilled shopping carts parked next to them on the sidewalks. Gage slowed when he neared his turn, then crept along, searching the street, headset pressed tight against his ears.

Listening.

Chapter 88

S
ometimes you have to take one for the team.”

The voice was faint and staticky, but recognizable.

“We got it,” Gage said. “We got it.”

Gage peered through the van's windshield as they crept along. The voices strengthened.

“Are you listening to me?”

Gage spotted the numbers stuck on the brown-painted brick front of the second warehouse from the next corner. The streetlight reflected off a red-on-white “For Sale or Lease” sign hanging above the trailer-wide roll-up door. He scanned the unlit windows filling the prongs of the sawtooth roof, then pulled around the corner and into a parking space.

Gage slipped though the divider curtain and into the back.

“Let's go,” Viz said, reaching to remove his headphones and turning toward the rear door.

“Wait,” Gage said. “We don't know what we're up against.”

“What if . . . ?”

“Yes, I'm listening.”

Gage pointed at Viz. “Just wait.” He closed his eyes and concentrated on the voices.

“Why are you dragging this out, Brandon?”

Gage knew why. Brandon would keep talking and stalling, hoping Gage would pick up his voice in the ether. Brandon had read enough search warrants and took enough testimony to know the range of the device was at least two hundred and fifty feet, and he knew Gage was somewhere out there.

“I'm not,”
Brandon said.
“I just need time to think.”

“We need those DVDs. The time for thinking is over.”

“But Socorro will never say anything. Will you, Socorro? You won't say anything?”

“No,”
Socorro said.
“Never. Just let me go. I have children.”

“See,”
Brandon said,
“you always have that threat. She can't be there all the time to protect her kids. Now she knows you're serious. And she needs medical attention.”

Gage reached out and grabbed Viz's shoulder. Casey locked on his arm.

“Let's not get her killed,” Gage said.

“It's hard to think in here. It's like a coffin.”

“The grow room is still there,” Gage said.

“A plywood coffin. It's suffocating.”

“Viz, get us a satellite shot of the warehouse.”

Viz flipped open his laptop.

“Suffocating? Brandon, you look like you're about to vomit. A little blood make you queasy?”

Viz's hands shook as he typed the address into the SAT-View Web site. Seconds later he had the image.

Anston again:
“It all looks a lot different down here in the trenches instead of up on the bench. It's easy to be a tough guy in a black robe.”

“There are skylights up there,” Viz said. “I can climb up the fire escape of the building behind, then drop down.”

“You'll sound like an explosion when you hit the roof of the inner structure.”

Viz glanced around the inside of the van. He reached for a fifty-foot coil of coaxial cable and held it up. “This is strong enough to hold me.”

Gage nodded. “You head for the roof. Keep an eye out for Boots. And be careful, he may have called in someone to back him up. I'll take the front door.” He looked at Casey. “You take the office window.”

Gage slipped a handheld receiver onto his belt and pointed toward the rear of the van. Viz headed out first. After he called to say he'd gotten into position on the roof, Gage and Casey climbed out and walked down the sidewalk toward the warehouse.

“What's going on. First we had a trip down memory lane on the way over here, practically a geography lesson. Then an architectural review of this place. Jesus Christ, you talk like a maniac when you're panicked.”

“That's not it.”
It was a new voice. A Texas accent.

Footsteps and scuffling replaced the voice.

Brandon yelled.
“Anston, let go of me.”

Gage heard the sound of Brandon's shirt ripping.

“You traitor. Boots, help me. You . . . whatever your name is . . . check the perimeter.”

Then a yelp and a crash, and silence.

Gage yelled into his cell phone:

“Viz. Go, go, go.”

He held his hand up toward Casey, who was poised with a garbage can raised above his head, ready to throw it through the office window and climb inside.

Gage pressed himself against the brick wall next to the warehouse door. He turned his head toward Casey and mouthed,
Wait
.

The metal door scraped opened an inch, then two inches, then three. The barrel of a 9mm semiautomatic appeared. Then a hand. Gage chopped down on it with the butt of his gun. The wrist cracked and the 9mm crashed to the sidewalk. Gage grabbed the arm, dragged the man through the door, and swung him headfirst into wall. Gage winced at the thunk of flesh and bone.

Casey set down the trash can and cuffed the man to a water pipe.

Gage ducked his head inside. Boots's Lexus SUV was parked just inside the roll-up door, next to the plywood grow room occupying most of the warehouse. Gage's angled view through the opening revealed a series of ten tables stretched across the room, each topped by an empty, full-length black plastic tub.

He slipped through the warehouse entrance, then edged toward the inner door. The smell of marijuana, long since seized by the DEA, but still infusing the plywood, filled the air. He peeked inside the grow room, then ducked back, everyone's places fixed in his mind:

Brandon was slumped against the right wall, holding his chest where the tape was torn off.

Anston was crouched behind Socorro, who was tied to a wooden chair by the left wall, his gun to her head.

Boots was poised behind a four-foot-tall grow table, pointing his gun at the ceiling, trying to track Viz's steps moving from north to south, waiting for the order to fire.

“Back off, Gage.” Anston's voice was calm. Hard. He sounded like a thirty-year-old intelligence agent. Not a sixty-eight-year-old white-collar lawyer.

“I'm not coming in,” Gage said. “Let her go. There's no point. We've recorded everything.”

“Then you'll just have to give me the recording.”

“And we've got Brandon's records from the hotel.”

“That's Brandon's problem.”

Gage heard Viz's boots hit the cement outside the structure behind Anston, who then fired through the plywood. Gage ducked inside. He heard Casey's footsteps behind him. He pointed to the right and dived left and rolled behind bags of potting soil stacked three feet high. He crawled farther toward the left as Casey took up his position in the right corner.

A four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood exploded inward. Gage looked over and saw Anston falling into Socorro, whose chair toppled to the side. He then spotted the motion of Boot's handgun and his arm stretching over the grow table to target Viz as he ducked through the opening in the wall. Gage and Casey opened fire together, the bullets cutting through the plastic shells of the tabletop tubs. Boots grunted, then collapsed.

Viz spun away as Anston fired, then collapsed to the floor, reaching for his sister.

Anston alerted to the motion of Gage rising from behind the bags, turned his head and raised his gun just in time to see the flash from Gage's barrel.