Fractured State: Rogue State Part 2

"Exactly," he said. "Nothing goes unnoticed by the cartels. I expect actionable intelligence within forty-eight hours. Possibly sooner. How quickly can you deliver a.s.sets to the area?"

"Why don't you use the cartels to kill Fisher and company?" said Petrov. "Why involve me?"

"There's only one cartel-the Sinaloa-but they're fractured west of the Colorado River. Factions controlling the Baja Peninsula, directly below California, make very little money compared to the syndicates operating south of the wide-open borders of the Wasteland states. If the CLM pays them rent to hide in Baja California, which is very possible, they'd be unlikely to give up the income source without a fight."

"Offer them more money! Enough to cover the rent for years to come," said Petrov. "I'd be glad to make a donation to that cause."

"Money is a slippery slope with the cartels, and quality is always an issue. I'd prefer to use professionals, guided by our network of trusted contacts."

"I know a team based out of Mexico City that would be perfect for the job," said Petrov. "Former SVR and GRU Spetsnaz types. Not cheap either, in case you think I'm cutting edges."

"Corners," said Flagg.

"Corners?"

"It's nothing. This group sounds more than adequate for the job. Move them into Mexicali as discreetly as possible, while I work on finding Fisher. I'll send a few trusted operatives down to join your group on the raid, to recover any intelligence, if this turns out to be a CLM safe house."

Petrov extended a hand. "It's good to be in business with you! I feel much safer with you on my side. And just to be clear. We are on the same side now. Locked at the hip, as you Americans say."

"Joined," said Flagg, taking his hand.

"That's right. We've joined the same team. And our fate will be the same. Don't forget that."

"How could I?" said Flagg.

They shook hands vigorously for a few moments before Petrov nodded toward the front seat of the SUV. The bulky shape on the pa.s.senger side muscled the front door open, filling the cabin with sediment and dust.

"He should wait until the winds die down," said Flagg, shielding his eyes from the sand. "Another minute or so."

"Sorry, but I need to get moving. We've been out in the open for long enough," said Petrov as the bodyguard wrenched open Flagg's door.

"Another minute won't make a difference. Not in this," said Flagg.

"Time to go, Mason."

A hand-size piece of dried wood hit the front of the door frame and ricocheted inside the SUV, barely missing his head.

"You're f.u.c.king crazy, Alexei!"

"Without a doubt. And don't you forget that either."

I won't, thought Flagg, fighting against the gale-force wind and random debris strikes on the return trip to his SUV. The wind eased when he reached the back of the dust-caked vehicle, a quick glance over his shoulder confirming that the dark shape of Petrov's convoy was gone. He opened the front pa.s.senger door and dumped his body into the seat, feeling wasted.

"Jesus!" said Leeds. "I didn't even see you coming. What happened?"

"Don't ask."

Leeds put the vehicle in drive, easing them forward into a wide U-turn. Flagg emptied the half-consumed bottle of spring water in the door cup holder over his sand-blasted face, saving the last swig to rinse the sand out of his mouth. He spit the grainy water into the foot well between his legs and took a deep breath.

"We have a deal with that crazy motherf.u.c.ker, but mark my words, Nick. I will kill that son of a b.i.t.c.h as soon as he no longer serves a purpose."

CHAPTER 3.

The aroma of deep-roasted coffee greeted Jon Fisher as he opened the coffee shop door for his wife. As she pa.s.sed through the door, he nodded appreciatively at Scott Gleason, who saluted Jon and drove around to the drive-through line in his tan Jeep Wrangler. He'd make sure to tell the barista to charge whatever Scott ordered to his own tab. It was the very least he could do for a friend who had opened his home to them under risky circ.u.mstances, asking for nothing in return.

Leah turned to him. "Why don't you get our boy on the line? I'll get your usual."

"Give them an extra ten and tell them Scott's drink is on me," said Jon.

"Great idea," she said, kissing him. "Be right back."

He watched her walk to the counter, every bit as deeply in love with her as ever. She had been a trouper during his long Marine Corps career, enduring his extended absences and extended work hours as a senior enlisted Marine without complaining. Well-she could complain with the best of them, but she never made him feel guilty for the time he missed with her or Nathan. She'd struggled to eke out a career as a special education teacher, making inroads at one school just in time to be ripped away by one of his mandatory career transfers.

She'd been able to settle into a longer-term position at an Oceanside, California, elementary school during the final eight years of his career, when he bounced around between sergeant major positions at Camp Pendleton. He'd been gone a lot, but she was the happiest he'd ever seen her. With his retirement looming, he'd left it up to her to decide whether they'd stay in California or head north. If she'd wanted to stay and build on her teaching career, he would have supported the decision wholeheartedly. Decision time yielded a surprising turn of events-unknown to Jon, Leah had given the school district notice of her departure a few months before his retirement.

As much as Leah wanted to stay and continue teaching, the realities of transitioning from a comfortable, military-subsidized lifestyle to being a full-fledged member of California's oppressed citizenry didn't appeal to her. Sure, they would have been able to skirt a number of regulations and social controls by shopping and ga.s.sing up their cars on base, but they would still be subject to the same travel restrictions, home water-use limits, and utility caps. Not to mention the fact that they'd only had two viable options for housing due to the insane cost of California real estate.

They could rent an apartment in the federally sponsored military retirement community adjacent to Camp Pendleton, a sprawling mess of high-rises built by the VA to address the retiree income issue. Two tiny bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, a kitchen that flowed into the family room and a glorious view of Interstate 15-all for the price of his monthly pension, plus part of Leah's paycheck. Not exactly what either of them had in mind after giving thirty years to the Marine Corps.

Their other choice involved sinking everything they'd saved outside of his guaranteed pension in a modest home twenty to thirty miles east. The state would cut them a break on travel back and forth from the military base of their choice and any VA medical facilities, but that would be it, beyond Leah's authorized drive to work and back. They'd be lucky to get a thousand square feet of home, on a desert scrub lot, in the middle of nowhere.

In the end, there hadn't really been a choice at all. Jon still felt terrible about it, even though Leah had called the shots from day one of their retirement. She'd chosen the land in central Idaho, the building site and the house plans. Everything. He was along for the ride, and a smooth ride it had been-until a few days ago. It had killed him to see the despondent but accepting look on her face when she understood that they might drive away from this house forever. That once again, Leah's life wasn't her own.

She'd said very little on the drive up to Montana, and he couldn't blame her.

Jon settled at a small table next to the front plate-gla.s.s window, opening his laptop case and placing the thin, silver laptop on the table. They had a few hours to kill in Starbucks while Scott ran a few errands. More than enough time to get in touch with Nathan and check on their house in Idaho. He was dying to know if Cerberus had paid it a visit. Part of him wished he had taken the time to rig up some kind of trap. He had a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun that would have made one h.e.l.l of a greeting for anyone entering his workshop through the ground-level door.

He smiled at Leah, who stood facing him by the counter, waiting for their drinks. She put a hand to her ear, gesturing for him to call. He wasn't sure who was more anxious to hear from their son. The strict but completely understandable rules enforced by Scott on behalf of the survival community had prevented them from making contact with Nathan while they were holed up with them. Neither of them had spoken with him since the night they'd left Idaho.

Jon took the phone out of his jacket, eyeing it apprehensively. The screen showed no new voice or text messages. Part of him didn't want to make the call. There was no guarantee that good news awaited him on the other end of the line. He stared at it for a few more seconds before selecting the right number and pressing "Send." Encryption protocols negotiated the satellite transfer as Leah gathered their drinks. She'd made it halfway to the table when the call forwarded to a voice mail box a.s.signed to the number.

The phone was powered down-or worse.

He waited for the digital voice to finish before leaving a message in the agreed format. "June tenth. Seventeen fourteen hours. No change in status," he said, pressing "End."

He shook his head at Leah when she arrived. "No answer. Sorry."

Her face deflated for a moment before she forced a thin smile and nodded.

"Hold on," he said, getting up to pull her chair out.

"Thank you."

They sipped their drinks in silence, staring at nothing in particular beyond the window.

"I'm sure they're fine," she said, putting her warm hand over his on the table.

He took a deep breath and let it out. "I know. I just want to hear it from Nathan."

"Me, too," she said, squeezing his hand. "He's in good hands."

"I know. I just thought he would have called by now. At least left a message," he said.

"They're probably being extra cautious. The longer Cerberus thinks they're still on Pendleton, the better," she said.

"You're right," he said, placing the phone on the table.

With Cerberus focused on Camp Pendleton, Nathan could slip away from the Marine Corps base in Yuma, eventually joining Jon and Leah to the north. He took a long sip of his coffee, savoring the dark roast flavor.

"Do you want to read the stories with me?" he said, scooting his chair a few inches toward the window.

"No. You go ahead for now," she said. "It's all lies anyway."

"All right," he said, opening the laptop.

Jon was kind of glad she didn't want to look. He wanted to check on their house first but didn't want to do that in front of her.

After connecting with the Starbucks wireless signal, he navigated to a pa.s.sword-protected site, granting him access to his home security system's page. A flagged message indicated activity deep within his home. He clicked on the message, reading the time and date of the activity. The infrared sensors had picked up movement in both his workshop and the first-floor hallway between 11:35 and 11:42 on June 7. Barely two hours after they left. Sons of b.i.t.c.hes! His left hand gripped the table next to his coffee cup.

The system ceased transmitting at 11:42, suggesting that the team had finally discovered the security system. He released the table and drank his coffee, signing out of the remote security server. They could have burned the house to the ground for all he knew. Even more infuriating, he might never know. They couldn't safely return to that house until this business with Cerberus was settled once and for all. The thought of what it might take to get to that point was beyond his grasp at the moment.

"Anything interesting?" said Leah.

"Not really," he said. "Do you want me to grab you a paper? They have the New York Times and a few local ones."

"I'm fine," she said, casting a distant, depressed look out the window.

"We may be here awhile."

"I may grab one in a minute," she said, nodding.

Jon typed a few keywords guaranteed to bring up the latest news, surprised to see that the manhunt for their son had been extended nationally. He found no mention of David Quinn, which was a relief. Stuart's son had risked everything to help Nathan and his family. He would have hated to see his name dragged through the mud, too. Reading the articles about his son stoked a rage he hadn't felt since Afghanistan. Cerberus had framed Nathan for two murders, one of which occurred while he was hiding at Camp Pendleton. Now the police were investigating unusual bank deposits. What a crock of s.h.i.t. He wished he hadn't bothered to check.

"You're turning red, Jon," said Leah.

"I think you had the right idea," he said, closing the laptop. "Bunch of bulls.h.i.t lies. He's a federal fugitive now."

"Of course he is. He'll be on Interpol's watch list next," said Leah. "Have you heard from Stuart?"

"No. I told him I'd call with an update once we got into town," said Jon. "At least David's name is still out of the news."

"He might appreciate hearing that, and maybe he's talked to them already through some other means. He seems to have a few tricks up his sleeve."

"True. I'll grab a refill and check in with him. Need anything?" he said, scooting his chair back.

"I'll take a blueberry scone," she said. "And a chocolate chip cookie. Why not?"

"I can't think of a reason," he said, kissing her on the forehead before he left.

CHAPTER 4.

Chris Riggs took another sip of lukewarm coffee from the Best Western mug and stared out of the suite's wide sliding door at the pine treecovered slopes of Mount Baldy. A few white lines of snow zigzagged between the seas of green, showcasing the remnants of Sun Valley Ski Resort. At least the room had a view. He'd been stuck in Ketchum since Thursday night. Close to three days babysitting the Cerberus tech-support team flown out by Flagg. The evidence team had done their work in less than twenty-four hours, finding nothing to indicate where Jon Fisher might be headed. That left him with the goth gang.

Nissie Keane, the lead computer tech, wasn't too hard on the eyes-if you didn't mind an unhealthy number of facial piercings, tattoos up her neck, and a partially shaved head. He wouldn't turn down a go at her in one of the bathrooms if she were up for it. So far, she hadn't shown any interest outside of the computer screens in the dining room and the playlist of G.o.d-awful music seeping past her earphones.

The rest of the group fit the same mold, which led him to suspect they were a contract team of hackers brought in from the outside. A group that had probably worked together for a long time on highly questionable projects-like his own crew. Disappearing the parents of a sanctioned Cerberus target must fall outside approved company boundaries-a first, in his experience.

"Got him!" yelled Nissie, spinning in her seat to face him. "He logged into the Protekt server at Aegis Solutions from an IP address corresponding to a Starbucks in Missoula, Montana-5750 Grant Creek Road. Total activity time, thirty-nine seconds."

"He knows we paid his house a visit," said Riggs, who had already arrived at the dining room table. "Is he still online?"

"His computer is still connected to the Starbucks Wi-Fi signal."

"Then we better get our a.s.ses up there right away. It's a thirty-minute flight from the Ketchum airport," said Riggs, pointing at his operatives. "Tex, call the crew and make sure they can take off as soon as we climb on board. Ross, load up whatever gear we need that isn't already stowed on the plane. We walk out of here in three minutes."

"You don't need to move that fast," said Nissie. "Missoula has citywide Wi-Fi coverage. I'm already pinging his laptop. We can follow him anywhere."

Both of the operatives stopped, looking at him to see if her statement changed anything.

"What the f.u.c.k!" he yelled at them. "Is she in charge now?"

The two men started mumbling apologies.

"Get moving!" he screamed before speaking calmly to Nissie. "What do you need to track this guy?"

"My laptop rig, power source, and a broadband satellite connection."

"Do you need another tech?"

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"Good. I'm taking you on the aircraft. You have two minutes to get the gear you need," he said. "I want the rest of your team driving up to Missoula within fifteen minutes. Can anyone here even drive?"

Only one hand out of the five remaining techs shot up.

"That's what I figured," he said. "We'll leave you the keys to one of the Suburbans."