Brett Battles - Shadow of Betrayal

“Where’s Peter?” Quinn asked.

“There’s a team of federal investigators sitting in his office right now.”

“What the hell?”

“He gave me his phone once we realized what was going on. Told me to leave and call you.” It sounded like Sean was walking fast, his breath audibly punctuating each word.

“Where are you?” Quinn asked.

“Out. Near the National Archives.” D.C., of course. Where the Office was located.

“So what you’re telling me is that I shouldn’t expect any help,” Quinn said.

“That’s what I’m telling you.” A pause. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t call us. It’ll be … safer for you that way. If things calm down, we’ll be in touch.” Another hesitation. “I’m sorry.”

Quinn hung up. There was nothing more to say.

When they reached Los Osos, they turned onto South Bay Boulevard. According to Orlando, that would take them to State Park Road, which wound around the local golf course before becoming Main Street in Morro Bay.

“What’s the plan?” Nate said.

“We get as close to the school as we can,” Quinn said.

“And then?”

And then … That was the real issue. Quinn had been trying to figure the best answer to that question since they’d left Marion in Shell Beach. One solution had come to mind, but he was hoping to come up with a better one before he had to act.

“Just drive,” he said.

A minute later Nate eased off on the gas. Ahead, five cars were stopped in the road. Parked on the shoulder at the front of the line were two Highway Patrol cars.

Checkpoint , Quinn thought.

Quinn pulled his SIG out of his backpack and slipped it under his seat. Though the last thing he wanted to do was use it, it needed to be accessible. He heard the zipper on Orlando’s backpack open a second after his. Their thoughts once again parallel.

“Orlando and I are here on vacation,” Quinn said, creating a quick legend. “Nate, you live up here. We’re visiting you, so you wanted to show us Morro Bay.”

“Got it,” Nate said.

“The car?” Orlando asked.

“Don’t worry,” Nate said. “No one will notice it’s gone for another couple hours.”

Quinn looked at him, a question on his face.

“Grocery store cashier. She was rushing to get to work on time. Never saw me.”

Nate pulled to a stop behind the last car in line. There were only two officers manning the checkpoint. One stood near the center of the road, leaning down to talk to the drivers as each car approached. The other stood just off the blacktop. His job was to observe, and react if needed. Low-level security, trying to weed out the obvious crazies.

Slowly the line inched forward. The officer seemed to be spending no more than a couple minutes or so with each vehicle. Just enough time to get a vibe from those inside, and check the trunks. So far, no one had been turned back.

As the car in front of them finished its check, Quinn said, “Nice and relaxed.”

Nate eased the car forward, then rolled his window down.

“Morning,” the officer said.

“Morning,” Nate said.

“How you doing today?” The officer’s gaze moved through the cabin, stopping for a second on Quinn and Orlando.

“Doing well,” Nate said. “Can’t beat the weather.”

The officer smiled. “Are you locals?”

“I am,” Nate said. “Arroyo Grande. My friends are visiting. Thought I’d take them out and show them the bay.”

The officer glanced at Orlando again. “So where are you visiting from?” he asked, his voice deceptively light.

“Los Angeles,” she said.

“I hear it’s been hot down there lately.”

Before she could respond, Quinn jumped in, “Not too bad. It’ll be worse in September.”

“Now that’s true,” the officer said. His eyes stayed on Quinn. “You look a little familiar. Have we met before?”

Quinn could feel a chill run up his arms. The police sketch , he thought. It was a question he wasn’t used to, so it caught him off guard.

“He’s an actor,” Orlando said. “Does a lot of commercials.”

“I’ve done a couple movies, too,” Quinn added, trying to sound appropriately defensive.

“But no one’s seen those,” she said. Then, to the officer, she added, “Straight to DVD.”

“No wonder you’re not my publicist,” Quinn said.

“That must be it,” the officer said. He took a step back. “I’m going to need to take a look in your trunk. Do you mind popping it for me?”

“No problem,” Nate said.

There was a dull thunk as Nate released the trunk. The officer walked around back and pushed it all the way open.

“Anything in there we need to worry about?” Quinn whispered through unmoving lips.

“Just the body of the owner,” Nate said.

“Funny,” Quinn shot back.

“I checked before I picked you guys up,” Nate said. “Standard stuff.”

A few seconds later, the officer closed the trunk and returned to the driver’s side window. “All right. You all have a good day,” he said.

“We’re so glad you made it, Mr. Lee,” Sylvia Stanton, principal of the R. J. Oliver School, said. “Doris in Santa Maria had a child who had a meltdown this morning, so they had to cancel. Since you were coming from so far, I was afraid you’d have the same problem.”

“We’re glad we’re here, too,” Tucker said.

Ms. Stanton was under the impression that Tucker was Harold Lee, director of a school several hours south in Ventura. The real Mr. Lee was indeed supposed to be transporting a group of children to the event, but his bus had been stopped not long after leaving Ventura by the squad of Tucker’s men that had split off and gone south in the dark hours of the morning. Mr. Lee would be thankful later, Tucker knew. At least he and his children would still be alive, as long as no one did anything stupid.

Tucker’s biggest concern had been the security check at the school. Mr. Rose’s tests at the Yellowhammer lab had shown the explosives’ delivery systems would pass through the government’s detectors without a problem, appearing to be exactly what they looked like: dozens of individual juice boxes. But passing tests in a lab wasn’t the same as carrying the containers through the actual screening machines. And all Tucker could think about as they went through the Secret Service check was the fact that for the first month those same tests Mr. Rose performed had all failed.

But they had passed through without a problem, and soon Tucker and his remaining men had their cargo—the children and the explosives—settled in the school’s cafeteria. That was when Ms. Stanton had offered to give him a tour of the facility.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d be honored,” he’d said.

There were classrooms, an indoor gym, the administration office, an outside play area, and even a swimming pool.

“Only three and a half feet at the deepest,” she’d told him.

But it wasn’t the pool or any of the rest of the school that interested him. It was the Secret Service members stationed throughout. Since he’d already passed through the security check and was on the inside, their focus was on other things besides him.

“My God, do you have to feed them all?” Tucker said as they walked out of the auditorium where the assembly would be taking place. Just under a dozen agents had been stationed around the room.

“I know what you mean,” Ms. Stanton half-whispered. “I’m told there are twenty others in the building alone, and more outside that I can’t see.”

Securing a perimeter that’s already been breached , Tucker thought. He had to force himself not to smile. “How long have they been here?”