Michelle Gagnon - The Gatekeeper

Randall bent to his task again. Despite the media hysteria in 2002 when Jose Padilla was accused of trying to build a dirty bomb, fashioning radioactive material into a dangerous weapon required expertise. Initially, the worst casualties would be the same as any bombing: people in the immediate blast vicinity would be annihilated by the explosion. Then iridium would be dispersed in a toxic cloud. Depending on wind speeds and other conditions, a huge area could be contaminated by gamma radiation. Few people would die initially, but over the long term anyone exposed was at risk of developing cancer or other genetic mutations. The area itself would be deemed uninhabitable, and the cleanup costs could be in the billions.

And that was what made a dirty bomb so effective. Called a “weapon of disruption,” as opposed to a weapon of mass destruction, the greatest danger would be from panic. If detonated in a major city, containment and decontamination of thousands of terrified victims would present an enormous challenge. Survivors of the blast might be trampled in the aftermath.

Transportation issues presented the largest impediment to unleashing a dirty bomb. Although the term “suitcase bomb” was coined after the Padilla case, unless a bomber used a specially lined container, he would probably die of severe radiation poisoning before reaching his target. And that container would be far too heavy to carry. Plus, they weren’t the sort of thing you ordered off eBay.

Judging by the preparations across the warehouse, Dante already had that covered. The other men were converting metal drums, lining them with overlapping sheets of alloys. Probably not enough to prevent all traces of radiation from leaking out, but it would stop detectors from going off at every firehouse and police station they passed. And once the bomb exploded, those metal sheets would turn into lethal shrapnel. Randall had to hand it to them, they’d thought of everything.

Randall returned to his task. Inside the lead box he maneuvered robotic hands, watching the monitor carefully. One claw held a file, carefully scraping off chunks of iridescence. Never in his life had he felt so helpless, responsible for the lives of not just his family but so many others. Scrape, scrape. He was finally going to achieve the fame he’d always aspired to. He’d be known as the man who helped engineer the single worst day in the nation’s collective history. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Didn’t figure you for the religious type,” Jake said, slipping into the pew behind Syd.

She half turned, grinning at him. “I’m hiding out.”

“Yeah, I get that.” He examined his hands. Audrey and Bree Grant had arrived at the hospital an hour earlier and were rushed straight to Madison ’s room. He’d caught some of the reunion while standing guard in the hall outside. Flanking him were two Benicia cops. He got the feeling they were more interested in keeping an eye on him than protecting Madison. The local P.D. hadn’t been all that satisfied with his story, and the discovery of another body on the ship didn’t help matters. But no one had pulled out the handcuffs yet. Jake assumed the bigwigs downtown were still trying to make sense of it.

He sat back and crossed his hands behind his head. The hospital chapel was small, three rows of pews facing a crucifix. The whole place seemed like an afterthought. Outside twilight sifted through the smog, tinting the concrete in shades of tangerine and magenta.

“Still no word from Randall?” The shadows made it hard to read Syd’s face.

Jake shook his head. “Nope. Talked to his coworker, Barry. Randall left work early yesterday, said he had a bug. Probably just couldn’t handle being there.”

“Strange that he’s not picking up.” Syd leaned forward, and he saw the concern in her eyes. “I’m worried.”

“I was going to check out his apartment. That is, if you’ve got this under control.”

“I’ll come with you.” She stood.

Jake balked. “Benicia P.D. feels strongly that at least one of us should stick around. Otherwise I get the feeling charges might be filed.”

“Not going to happen.” Syd waved a hand. “One phone call and it’s taken care of.”

“One phone call, huh? You’re not working for the Agency anymore, remember?”

“They still don’t want me getting frog-marched through some podunk P.D. Trust me, if an arrest warrant goes out with my name on it, it gets handled.”

“So what if it has my name on it?”

Syd shrugged. “Dunno. Guess we’ll find out.”

“Not comforting, Syd,” Jake said. “Maybe I will stay.”

Syd laughed. “I’m kidding. It’ll be fine, trust me. We’ll check on Randall, then head straight back. They won’t even know we’re gone.”

Jake debated for a minute, then sighed. “All right. Let’s go tell your boyfriend how you saved the day.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Syd grumbled, but followed him out into the night.

Neither of them noticed a battered sedan at the rear of the parking lot. A pair of bald men sat low in the front seat, watching their departure through binoculars.

“This is bullshit,” Rodriguez said.

“It’s not bullshit.”

“So we flew all the way to Texas to park outside a warehouse?”

“We don’t go inside without a warrant. And right now, no judge in his right mind would give us one,” Kelly retorted.

Rodriguez made an exasperated sound and collapsed against the headrest, sulking. They had requisitioned a bu-car from the San Antonio field office. It had an oddly tangy aroma from the spray used to cloak stale cigarette smoke. The odor was nausea-inducing when the windows were rolled up to use the air-conditioning, but the alternative was sweltering with them open. It was even hotter here than in Phoenix, and dustier, if such a thing was possible, Kelly thought. Her shirt was soaked through, and she wished she’d taken off her jacket before getting in the car.

The argument wasn’t helping matters. They’d circled the warehouse when they’d first arrived. Like the bar, the windows were painted black from the inside, doors locked. Rodriguez had picked up a rock, but Kelly managed to stop him in time. She might be willing to bend the rules, but she drew the line at breaking and entering.

So they’d returned to the car and sat, tucked in an alley between two other warehouses that offered a clear view of the building. After an hour passed uneventfully Rodriguez got itchy and pressed his point.

“This isn’t accomplishing jack-shit,” he grumbled, rubbing his less-swollen eye with a thumb.

Kelly had to agree. She’d been expecting a place where criminal activity was apparent, maybe another bar. The list Rodriguez’s friend gave them only provided addresses, with no indication of what type of business was at each location. This was probably a huge waste of time, Kelly thought, glancing at her watch: 4:00 p.m. She’d already basically closed the case, and it didn’t seem like there was anything to see here. Still, they should give it another hour.

“We should go to the next address on the list. It’s not far.” Rodriguez glanced at the printout in his hand. “Five miles, maybe.”

“I say we give this some time. If nothing happens by five, we’ll head there.”

“Then what? There are twenty others on the list. Do we fly around and sit outside all of them?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not anything happens here. If it does, we can put other units on those buildings. But like you said, right now we got nothing. And we’re not going to get much inter-departmental support based on that.”

Rodriguez muttered something under his breath in Spanish.