Michelle Gagnon - The Gatekeeper

Growing up, Dante’s favorite movie had been Red Dawn, about a Russian invasion of the United States. The truth was, America was already under attack. It was being invaded every day, slowly but surely, by people determined to steal everything. Pregnant women crossed the border when their brats were about to drop, just so they could be born Americans. Then they registered for welfare and food stamps. And now they were getting their own people into positions of power. It was like an ant problem, Jackson said: Give them a few morsels of food and the next thing you know they’re walking away with your refrigerator. We put up fences, they dig tunnels. We ship them back, they show up in even greater numbers.

Dante had seen it often enough in prison, the spic gangs getting bolder every year. Back home they’d been expanding their turf; never content with a few square blocks, they tried to drive everyone else out of business. Well, he and Jackson were finally going to put a stop to it. Take America back for Americans.

He watched one of his guys adjust the fence in front of the White House and smiled. Tomorrow was going to be the greatest day of his life.

Kelly scanned the airplane hangar. Her thermal imaging binoculars showed fuzzy forms clustered in a few different areas. Some in the center of the room, probably working on the float, then a larger group in the rear corner. Based on the Laredo discovery, she was willing to bet those were more illegal immigrants being offered up as sacrificial lambs.

She lowered the binoculars. One of Leonard’s roving radiation detectors went ballistic in this area, and they’d reconnoitered to make sure it was the right place. Sure enough, a group of skinheads was inside working on a float.

A dozen feet away Leonard was deep in conversation with the commander of an elite Hostage Rescue Team that had been brought in specifically for this infiltration. There were three FBI units surrounding the hangar. Unfortunately the building was located in San Diego proper, not far from the airport. Quick damage estimates brought the potential loss of life into the thousands if the bomb was detonated here. They had to do everything in their power to make sure that didn’t happen.

The HRT commander hustled off and Leonard walked back to her.

“What do they think?” Kelly asked.

“Tough but not impossible,” Leonard said. “Looks like at least fifteen people inside.”

“Some of those are probably illegals.”

“I know that,” he said, sounding irritated. “But we don’t know how many. And we can’t chance that bomb going off. They might even be wired to detonate it.”

The thought made Kelly sick. “So what’s the plan?”

“They’re going to storm in, full shock and awe.”

“What does that mean?” Kelly asked.

He turned away. “It means there probably won’t be any survivors.”

“Oh my God.” Kelly’s hand went to her mouth.

“Fifteen lives versus thousands, Agent Jones. It’s not a risk anyone is willing to take.”

Kelly started to argue, but stopped herself. He was right. They couldn’t afford to have this turn into another Phoenix. But she had to wonder: If the innocent people inside were American citizens, would it have made a difference? “When?”

“About an hour.” Leonard glanced at his watch. “It’s 9:00 p.m. now. We’re hoping some of them will be asleep.”

Kelly thought about the Mexicans in Laredo who begged her to help them. She remembered Emilio, skinny legs sticking out from his shorts, his grandmother wailing. “What about Burke?” she asked abruptly.

Leonard eyed her. “He’s in Virginia. They’re watching him, but without more evidence we can’t bring him in.”

Leonard might as well have added that because Burke was rich and powerful, he’d get away with it no matter what, Kelly thought. They’d pin this on Dante Parrish and a few other underlings, and that would be the end of it. A hard knot of rage formed in her stomach.

Leonard tucked his hands in his pockets. “You’ve done good work here, Jones. I’ll make sure your ASAC knows that.”

Kelly didn’t respond. She turned and walked back to the car.

Jackson Burke poured himself another finger of whiskey. He usually didn’t indulge in more than one drink a day. The doctors had cautioned against combining his medication with liquor, and he hated to lose his innate sharpness anyway. Lord knew that tonight he needed it more than ever. But he was still reeling from the discovery that the FBI was investigating Dante. He’d spent the drive from D.C. reviewing everything that linked them together. He called his office and ordered security footage from the past few years erased from the hard drives. A few of his staff had met Dante personally, but always under the guise of his bodyguard. All their real meetings had taken place nights and weekends, when the building was empty.

And the others-what if they were tracked down, too? Only three men in the world knew enough to connect him to the plan. Jackson shook his head. He’d been so careful not to leave a paper trail. He called them on disposable cell phones, met in out-of-the-way places, and firmly insisted they refrain from their natural and unfortunate tendency to boast.

Had the FBI already tracked Dante down? He should be at the backup location in San Diego, making sure everything was ready. But perhaps he was in a small room somewhere being interrogated. The thought made his hands clammy. Jackson crossed the room and dug an un-activated cell phone out of his desk drawer. He juggled it for a minute, wondering who would answer if he dialed.

I should have known better, he chastised himself. A bunch of thugs and rednecks could never be marshaled into an effective force. They simply weren’t capable of it.

Jackson slammed his fist on the table so hard the glass jumped. They were so close, and now his entire life might be snatched away. Jackson pictured himself in a cell, the walls closing in. It was too bleak to even imagine. They would paint him as the worst kind of traitor. Although given the right jury he might be able to make people understand…

Jackson flipped on the television to distract himself. It took a moment to figure out what was happening, he initially thought it was an action movie. A banner across the bottom of the screen read: PHOENIX BOMBING. His eyes narrowed as Humvees rolled past. Jackson turned up the volume and focused intently on the young blond newscaster whose voice betrayed excitement as she said, “The National Guard has moved us back another mile. They haven’t told us why, but it’s feeding speculation about what caused this explosion. As you can see-” she waved back over her shoulder “-there’s a large, noxious cloud over the blast area, and some of the survivors are complaining of tightness in their chests. They’ve secured and evacuated an area over three miles wide…”

“Huh,” Jackson said, sitting back with a frown. One of the bombs had gone off early. He wondered why. Phoenix was Jared’s responsibility. He watched as a map of Phoenix appeared on-screen, with the evacuated area tinted pink. Didn’t look like it happened at the warehouse, if CNN had the right spot marked. The truck, then-and if Jared was driving, that would eliminate at least one of the links to him.

Jackson took a slug of whiskey, feeling better. His home phone rang. He eyed it as though it might leap off the table and bite him. After three rings, he picked up.

“Senator Burke,” he said, trying to sound authoritative.

A hesitation, then a voice said, “Senator? It’s Chad.”

Chad. He thought hard, came up with a lanky, pockmarked kid who escorted him around the Capitol yesterday. Chad Peterson, his new assistant. Of course. “Yes, Chad. What can I do for you?”