“The sheriff is busy. Have a seat on the bench and he’ll get to you as soon as he can.”
Boone nodded to Croc as if signaling something, then sat on the bench, his long legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankle. Croc paced in front of the desk right below the officer’s nose. It only took a few minutes.
Scratching his pen over the reports, the desk sergeant suddenly looked up. He looked to his right and left and even behind him as if at first not understanding what was happening. Taking a manila file folder off the desk, he covered his nose with his other hand and waved it back and forth.
“Is that your dog, mister? Are you sure it ain’t sick? It smells like … like something … died!” He slipped off his stool and stepped back from the desk. The file folder was now a blur.
“I’m sorry, I don’t smell anything. I’m just waiting to see the sheriff so I can be on my way,” Boone said.
It didn’t take the sergeant long. Still covering his nose, he grabbed the phone on his desk and pushed a button, muttered something into the receiver, and hung up.
“The sheriff is right down the hall,” he said, pointing to Boone’s left.
Boone stood up. “Come on, Croc.”
Sheriff Hackett’s office door was open. Three glass panels to the left of the doorway made it appear a little brighter inside. On shelves behind his desk Boone spotted several trophies for pistol shooting, a small replica of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, and the assorted photos and certificates that every county sheriff in America possessed.
“May I help you?” the sheriff asked.
“I think so. My name is Boone. I understand you arrested a couple of men outside the Firebrand Ranch yesterday afternoon. I’m here to pick them up,” he said.
Sheriff Hackett leaned back in his chair and studied Boone. “I did take two men into custody yesterday afternoon. Imagine my surprise when I checked the IDs they were carrying and discovered they were from Homeland Security. Agents James and Younger?”
Boone knew X-Ray had given everyone various multiple sets of IDs but he couldn’t be sure which ones Eben and Ziv had used.
“Yes. James and Younger,” Boone said, making a mental note to instruct X-Ray not to create fake IDs named after famous outlaws. “Is there some reason you took them into custody?”
“Well, since I’ve never met you before in my life, let’s just say I didn’t like the way they looked, Mr. Boone. By the way, I don’t suppose your first name is Daniel, is it?” the sheriff asked.
Boone shook his head.
“No? Anyway, I also found two really interesting duffel bags in their trunk.”
“But as Homeland Security agents—” Boone began.
The sheriff held up his hand and removed a sheet of paper from an open file on his desk. “I don’t know many Homeland Security agents who carry a police uniform, two sawed-off shotguns, four 9-millimeter Beretta pistols, two Colt .45 Desert Eagle automatic pistols, a MAC-10 pistol with thirty mags of ammunition, two sets of brass knuckles, a bowie knife, four canisters of mace, an M-4 automatic rifle with five clips of ammo, six canisters of tear gas along with a tear-gas gun, two collapsible batons, a cattle prod, a bayonet, and two stun guns. I also checked passenger manifests for all commercial flights into San Antonio in the last three days. I don’t have any passengers named James and Younger arriving. But I suppose a couple of Homeland Security agents would have their own air transport, wouldn’t they?” He put the sheet down and glanced at Boone.
“They never know what their nation will require of them,” Boone said.
“Uh-huh,” the sheriff said. “Doesn’t look right to me.”
“Surely their credentials checked out,” Boone said.
“Oh, yes. See, that’s what I was working on right now. They’re in the federal database. Both of them are quite decorated. But when I call to verify their identities, no matter which number on their profile I dial, the same guy answers. He tries to change his voice. But it’s the same guy.”
Boone’s face showed nothing. He needed to tell X-Ray to change the phone contacts in the database so the verification calls were directed to Vanessa. She was a talented mimic and could pull it off. X-Ray was a technical genius but a horrible liar.
“Sheriff Hackett, I can assure you—” Boone said, but the sheriff interrupted him again.
“I don’t know who you are. Or who those two men are. But no one is going anywhere until I get this sorted out, and in fact—” The phone on his desk rang. He glanced at the phone, then hollered through the open door to the desk sergeant.
“Dang it, Mack! I said no calls!”
“I didn’t put one through!” the sergeant shouted back.
The phone kept ringing.
“I think you might want to answer that. And put it on speaker,” Boone said.
Hackett looked at Boone, then at the caller ID on the phone screen, and his eyes grew wide. He pushed a button on the phone. Before he could even say anything, a voice came over the line.
“Sheriff Tom Hackett?”
“Um. I … uh … yes. Who is this?” Sheriff Hackett asked.
“This is President J. R. Culpepper.”
“I … um … hello? Mr. President?”
“Do you have a question, Sheriff? I’m sure you recognize my voice, don’t you?”
“Yes … sir. I … recognize your voice,” he stammered. Sheriff Hackett sat up straighter in his chair.
“Good! The man across from you is Tyrone Boone. Older guy, gray ponytail. Sort of looks like Willie Nelson?”
“Ah. Yes, sir, that’s him,” Sheriff Hackett replied.
“Excellent. He works for me. So do the two men you have in your jail. I’m going to need you to release them,” J.R. said.
“Um. Mr. President, I’m … I’ve … I’m in a bit of a pickle here. They had a whole trunk full of weapons and if word gets out I let …” Sheriff Hackett said.
“Boone? You going to tell anyone?” J.R. asked.
“Don’t see why it would ever come up,” Boone said.
“I’m certainly not going to mention it. So there you go, Sheriff. Problem solved.”
The sheriff stood up at his desk now. “Mr. President, with all due respect—”
“Sheriff. I’ve looked into your background. I know you did two tours in the Middle East. You are, in fact, a highly decorated marine. Your marksmen scores are quite impressive and your service record book shows you were a squared-away jarhead, with outstanding performance appraisals across the board. If it were up to me, I’d tell you everything. But I can’t. All I can say is that these men are part of a vital national-security initiative. And I can’t have them eating bologna sandwiches and solving Sudoku puzzles in your jail right now. You have my word that if this causes you any grief, politically or any other way, I will do my very best to give you cover for it. I’m afraid that will have to do. Now, can you get my men out of your jail for me?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the sheriff said.
“That’s great. Really great! I appreciate this, Sheriff. You have no idea. Boone?”
“Yes, J.R.?” Boone said.
“I’m by myself in the situation room again. My staff is about ready to cut through the door with a torch. I’ve got to get out there before they call Congress and invoke the Twenty-fifth Amendment. Call me as soon as you have any news,” he said. The phone line went dead.
Sheriff Hackett looked at Boone. Then he looked down at Croc, who was curled up at Boone’s feet. It was almost as if he was noticing both of them for the first time.
“You call the president of the United States of America, ‘J.R.’?” He was incredulous.
“That’s his name,” Boone said.
The sheriff put his hand on his forehead and ran it over his buzz cut. He let out a long sigh.
“All right,” he said, “let’s get your men.”
A few minutes later the desk sergeant was handing Eben and Ziv two big envelopes with their personal effects. They d
umped their wallets and keys and a few other items on the countertop and began to fill their pockets.
Eben peered into his envelope and shook his head. “Where is my watch?” he asked.
The desk sergeant, unsure of exactly what was happening, shook his head.
“I don’t know, sir,” he said.
The sheriff came down the hallway with two large duffel bags. He put them on the floor next to Boone.
“I sure hope you and your special cargo have a safe trip. Out of my county,” Sheriff Hackett said.
“We won’t be troubling you anymore, Sheriff,” Boone said.
“There will be trouble if I don’t get my watch in the next thirty seconds,” Eben said.
“Stop fussing over your watch like an old woman,” Ziv said. “It is unbecoming.”
“Sheriff. When you arrested me, I had a very nice watch on my wrist. It is not with the rest of my personal effects,” Eben said.
“It wasn’t that nice,” Ziv muttered.
“It is an Omega Seamaster,” Eben said.
The sheriff, no longer amused, held up his hand. “Wait here, Agent Younger. I locked your watch in my office. Let me get it.” He returned a few minutes later with the watch in his hand.
“Thank you, Sheriff.” Eben grinned broadly as he strapped his prized possession on his wrist. He looked at it admiringly and held it to his ear, to hear it tick. Ziv muttered a curse under his breath and grabbed the duffel bags, storming out of the station. Eben followed after him, whistling.
Boone put out his hand. Hackett shook it but didn’t look happy about it.
“Thank you, Sheriff. And thank you for your service to our country,” Boone said.
“Yeah. Right. Good day, Mr. Boone,” the sheriff said, turning on his heel and storming down the hallway to his office.
A New Crew
The door to the warehouse opened and four men strolled in. The white Tahoe was parked in the middle of the empty space. Two of the men took up positions at windows next to the front and rear doors. The glass was clouded with dirt and grime. Each man carefully wiped away just enough of the gunk to see out but not enough to make the window look as if it had recently been cleaned. The ghost cell was obsessive about details like this. Do not leave any sign for your enemies to follow.
The men wore jeans, cowboy boots, and long-sleeved oxford shirts with the sleeves rolled up to their elbows and the shirttails untucked. They all wore cowboy hats, which were as numerous in Texas as the bluebonnet flowers that grew nearly everywhere. It would be important that they fit in later. The four young students who had driven the SUV from the East Coast had faded back into the shadows. These men were not like them.
None of the men referred to one another by name. They had never met, had no previous connections, and did not need any such information to complete their mission. They had been put in motion by an anonymous text, telling them to meet at a coffee shop six blocks away, then take separate routes to this location, making sure they were not watched. The text said something harmless and innocuous, like an everyday message sent between friends …
The text gave them the meeting place. The four-grain bagel reference indicated that there would be four operatives. The phrase “hot coffee” meant that when they received instructions on where to go next, to watch for tails or any countersurveillance.
Now one of the men approached the Tahoe while the others stood back. This was the man Number Four had told Malak about. It would be his job to inspect the timer and make sure it was still functional. Of the four, he was the longest-serving cell member and he had created many such weapons in their long and glorious struggle.
They had not searched for video or audio bugs in the warehouse. If they used an electronic sweeping or jamming device, they risked setting off the bomb. All of their cell phones had been powered down to avoid accidental detonation. If someone were watching and the police arrived, they would have to try to escape into the San Antonio streets.
The man removed his cowboy hat and cautiously opened the back window of the Tahoe. It was packed with C-4 plastic explosives. The timing device was close to the rear of the vehicle. Very carefully he shone a small flashlight beam on it. Its panel light was green, so it was still getting battery power. When the Tahoe engine started, it would recharge the battery to full capacity. He could see that each of the detonator wires looked secure and there were no loose leads.
He dropped to his knees and looked at the shiny aluminum box welded to the gas tank. The device, which Uly had spotted earlier, was a kill switch. If necessary, and once the timer had been activated, someone who held the proper device could enter a code and transmit a signal to this box and disarm the bomb. He inspected each wire attached to it. They were all securely fitted in place.
The man figured that unless there was a short in the electrical timer itself, everything looked good. The bomb should work perfectly. As he rose to his feet, he did not see X-Ray’s now dead tracking device, as it was hidden from his view by the vehicle’s bumper. He looked at his watch.
“Time to go,” he said. Retrieving the keys from the front driver’s-side tire, he climbed into the Tahoe and started it up. Two of the men joined him inside the SUV as the fourth pushed open the door leading out onto the street. Once through, the door was closed and all four were soon securely inside and accelerating down the street.
As they turned the corner at the first intersection all the traffic and security cameras in a three-mile radius went offline.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9
4:45 p.m. to 9:45 p.m.
What to Do About Boone
Boone had gone off to do whatever it is Boone did, and a short time later, Felix and Uly knocked on our door. Boone had told them to take us out and let us explore some of downtown San Antonio. At first Angela said she wanted to stay in the room.
“Boone says we’re to get you out, for fresh air and education,” Uly said.
We had sort of gotten used to Felix, who was scary in his own right. Uly was a near mirror image of Felix and just as imposing. Angela and I both decided we would enjoy a walk. Outside. For fresh air. And education. And because Uly said so.
The walk actually was kind of refreshing. Uly and Felix kept their distance, unless we stopped to look in a store window or read a historical plaque. If someone paused next to us or wanted to read the same plaque we did, the two men stepped up right behind us, invading the other person’s space and nearly blocking the sunlight. Usually the person took one look at the two of them and scrammed.
The space right in front of the Alamo looks kind of like a park, with lots of trees and walkways. It was abuzz with activity as equipment was being loaded onto the temporary stage in preparation for the concert. We watched for a few minutes as the roadies moved amplifiers and lights and all the other things you needed to successfully stage a concert. I’d seen it all before, but it was still interesting to watch.
The stage was right in front of the Alamo. All of the modern equipment was a stark contrast to the weathered walls of the mission.
While Angela and I watched, Uly disappeared into the Alamo Visitors Center. Felix stood behind us but didn’t say anything. A few minutes later Uly came back and he was holding four plastic badges on lanyards.
“The Alamo is closed to tours because of the concert, but Boone arranged for us to get passes.”
“How did he do that?” Angela asked.
Felix shrugged as he placed the lanyard around his neck. “Boone knows people.”
We went to the gate, where a guard looked at our passes and waved us through. We walked inside one of the most famous places in America and were completely alone. The feeling was … haunting.
I guess I didn’t know what to expect about the Alamo. It’s something you’ve always heard about but you don’t really have a sense of what it’s like until you actually see it for yourself.
Angela was looking at the brochure. “‘There were more than 180 men who died here trying to defend it agains
t thousands of Mexican soldiers. The Mexican Army laid siege to the Alamo for several days before they finally attacked on the morning of March 6, 1836,’” she read aloud.
“‘At the beginning, the defenders turned back two attacks, but the third time they were overwhelmed and it was over in a few minutes. The most famous men who died there were Colonel William Barret Travis, Jim Bowie, and David Crockett,’” she continued to read.
I couldn’t say what it was, but there was something about the place that really hits you when you walk through it. For one thing, it’s a lot smaller than I expected. In my mind, I thought it was like this big fort.
“A lot of people think it was this huge place. But it’s essentially a building just like many others that Spanish monks built throughout Mexico and the southwestern United States. They were places for Spain to convert Native Americans and organize and control their settlements. During the Texas Revolution, the Texians—as they called themselves then—fortified the Misión San Antonio de Valero to try to slow down General Santa Anna’s march through Texas. They were trying to buy time so the Texian Army could gather enough volunteers to stand against his vastly superior numbers and win their independence,” Angela said.
“I thought it would be bigger,” I said. “Being surrounded by all the huge modern buildings in downtown San Antonio makes it look even smaller.”
It was weird because as we walked through the place, read the signs on the displays, and touched the walls, all of us, even Uly and Felix, were silent. It’s almost like talking was disrespectful somehow. I’d never been in a place quite like it in my life.
In the sacristy, a small room inside the mission walls, there’s a little sign that tells how the women and children who were there during the battle hid in that little room. General Santa Anna spared their lives and told them to spread the word to the rest of the rebellious Texians about what happened there to those who attempted to oppose him. Only it backfired.