Desert on Fire

By Wes Engel

Along a quiet stretch of Idaho highway, terrorists hijack a shipment of nuclear waste material. As many had feared and warned, this disaster sets into motion a series of events. Will the stolen waste be used to leverage the President into backing away from her nuclear power initiative? Or will Americas security be threatened by the action of fanatics armed with dirty bombs . . . an attack on American soil with an impact similar in scope to 911? In a twist of fate, Rowdy Yates, a rogue private detective and Sandra Steele, an ATF agent, team up to track and battle the terrorists across the desert southwest. As the clock ticks down, their lives and Americas sense of psychological security hang in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984513403

Wes Engel

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Wesley Engel Wes Engel lives in Northern New Mexico where he writes mysteries and suspense thrillers. A child of the American West, he has explored every nook, corner and cranny. Wes has scaled its mountains, hiked its valleys, frolicked in its grassy wild flower dotted meadows, crawled across its deserts, kayaked its whitewater and rappelled into its deepest canyons. Wes is familiar with its people, history and culture. He is drawn to the challenges of the land. Like lovers, he and the American West are intimate. His plot driven stories are compelling and topical. Always fast paced and suspenseful, full of roller coaster twists and turns, Wes creates clear protagonists even clearer villains. I write about the American West; its people, its challenges, and the issues facing contemporary American West culture. I explore themes of economic development, the environment and lifestyle, all wrapped around a hard boiled thriller or mystery. My fiction has a strong sense of place and history. My stories are set in stunning locations. I am a dangerous writer, in that I am not afraid to break some rules. ~ Wes Engel

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Copyright © 2018 by Wes Engel.

ISBN:                Softcover                 978-1-9845-1341-0

                          eBook                      978-1-9845-1340-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 03/15/2018

Cover Design by Brian Cox

Formatting by RikHall.com

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Contents

Prolouge

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

PART II

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

PART III

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Prolouge

Idaho Falls, Idaho, Circa – Present day

Camera flashes popped balls of light as the four dignitaries strutted across the stage from the audience’s left side. Select legislators from the state’s congressional delegation gave a well-practiced public wave. Each took a seat on waiting folding chairs. William McConnell, Under Secretary of the Department of Energy stepped onto the podium. Tall and statuesque, the bureaucrat fronted the lectern and the assembled group with a sense of purpose. He adjusted the microphone and tapped on it to ensure it was working.

He cleared his throat. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Let me welcome you to the Idaho National Laboratory, the home of the world’s first nuclear reactor to generate electrical power. For the past sixty years the nation has looked to the INL for cutting edge research and development in nuclear reactors and nuclear waste management. Nuclear power development and waste storage is indeed what brings us here today.

He paused to scan the group. How I would like to proceed in today’s press conference is to first provide a statement, then I will take questions. The Under Secretary unfolded several sheets of paper. He commenced reading. The President is announcing her intention to open the long waited Phase II of The Waste Isolation Pilot Project in New Mexico, commonly known as WIPP. This will make WIPP fully operational resulting in a 300% increase in nuclear waste shipments to that facility. The increased capacity provided by Phase II is now needed to accommodate the anticipated increased electrical production by nuclear power.

Print reporters scribbled notes, broadcast reporters set-up in the back of the room whispered into microphones as they preened their hair for the lens. Under Secretary McConnell continued reading. As you know the nation’s energy crisis has become very real the past year. We are too dependent upon others to fulfill our energy needs; some of whom are not necessarily our friends nor do they have America’s best interests in mind. President Susan Wilder was elected partly on a platform and pledge to lead us to energy independence.

He captured a breath. The President has carefully considered the options and strategies to accomplish energy independence. We are all well aware that candidate Wilder’s campaign indicated her energy program would entail a multi-pronged approach. In addition to major initiatives designed to increase renewable and natural sources of energy such as wind, solar, and bio- fuels we will necessarily need to drill for and refine additional petroleum and natural gas resources. And yes, more clean coal and oil shale has not been ruled out as part of the nation’s energy mix.

McConnell transitioned to a more controversial topic. His throat tightened and dried. He reached for the glass of water. Several swallows helped to moisten it. His left pant leg served useful as he wiped perspiration from his free hand. Equally important to these strategies will be the expanded role of nuclear generated electric power. As you know we are burning too much fossil fuel, by far the majority of this resource, to generate electricity. In the future we will necessarily need to set-aside an increasing percentage of fossil fuel resources, specifically petroleum and natural gas, for transportation needs. We have other options for generating electricity but few realistic and cost effective options in terms of transporting people and the massive quantities of goods our nation needs. Nuclear generated electricity is the best option. It is a known and fully developed technology. It is efficient and safe as well as non-polluting of our atmosphere. Nuclear power will necessarily need to take the place of burning various fossil fuels to meet our electric needs. Most developed countries have already adopted this policy and strategy.

Under Secretary McConnell pulled out a second piece of paper and read. In order to accomplish the increased production of nuclear generated electricity the President has directed the Federal Energy Commission to approve ten pending nuclear power plant licenses, two of which will be sited here in southern Idaho. These facilities will come on-line and contribute to the overall electric grid within three years. We are aware this an accelerated schedule. The President will streamline all processes and make available any and all resources to accomplish such an ambitious timeframe.

He continued, Additionally, the President has directed the immediate relicensing of five existing plants which were decommissioned in the last fifteen years. These five along with the ten new nuclear reactor facilities are listed on the sheet currently being handed out.

He stopped reading and looked up. This brings me full circle, to my opening statement. The net result of the increase in nuclear generating capacity will be an increased need for facilities which are able to receive and store nuclear waste; waste associated with both the production as well as an enhanced program of research and development. The country needs, the times demand, that WIPP now fully performs its intended mission of nuclear waste storage. Specifically, it needs to receive additional nuclear waste shipments from Hanford, Washington, the Idaho National Laboratory, Oakridge, Savannah River, Rocky Flats and the Los Alamos site.

The Under Secretary folded the paper and tucked it away inside his suit jacket pocket. I will now take your questions. The media members pushed forward with raised hands. McConnell pointed to one to them.

PART I

Chapter 1

Sunday, June 14th, Seattle

It was the kind of evening where rats sneaked from their stinking nests knowing there would be easy pickings amongst the unsuspecting. Indeed, it was more than just such an evening, it was just such a season.

Matt Yates, ‘Rowdy’ to his long time friends, stood in the shadows trying to keep off the radar screens or gut suspicions of the four men he followed. While not unfamiliar with this situation, his stomach still tightened, its acidic juices churned. His heart rate quickened. He felt the erratic pattern of thump - thump knocking up against his ribcage. His clammy palms had nothing to do with the humidity of Puget Sound. As far back as basic law enforcement academy Rowdy learned the foolishness of heading blindly into a dark alley, hunting an unknown enemy of unknown numbers and unknown fire power. Nerves served his self-preservation. Nerves saved his life on more than one occasion. A good partner helps as well, he thought. And idiot me, I am alone tonight. I wish Sandra was with me.

The night air smelled richly of dankness and musty things. It was the smell of the sea. There was a slight breeze wafting the odors about. Seattle’s shipping docks were like those of all seaport towns; the spot where America intersects with the rest of the world, its edge. It was a place of rotting wood, litter and rat dung. It was a seedy, a little lawless and shadowy kind of place, harboring a variety of night creatures including the homeless, stow-ways, crooks, bums, smugglers, perverts and winos. It was also the working part of the city. The sound of heavy machinery labored in the background, metal creaking, clanging and groaning; the sounds of cranes lifting and trucks hauling. In the fading light the darkened shapes of the Port of Seattle’s loading cranes stood silhouetted against the western sky. They were numerous, standing there, necks out-stretched, heads high, looking like a herd of primordial dinosaurs. Cyclone fencing topped with razor wire looped along the rooflines of the warehouses. It keeps the brontosaurus corralled, Rowdy speculated.

A silver moon beam bouncing off the murky water of the Duwamish ship channel caught Rowdy’s eye. He stepped further back into the shadows, just in case, to make sure the reflected light didn’t give his position away. He was just south of the SoDo District somewhere close to Terminus # 25. To his north, not far away, SafeCo field shined; bathed in the illumination of the baseball park’s light stanchions. The Mariners are at home tonight, he thought. Wish I would have taken that extra ticket Sandra offered me. That would be much better than this.

The men he followed were afoot, traveling east on Horton Street. Rowdy stayed back, keeping a distance as they crossed under the Pacific Highway viaduct, over the railroad tracks, then in between the blaring horns and screeching tires of traffic on 1st Avenue South. Four blocks later his marks lingered in an isolated alleyway, cozying up against a warehouse. Under the cone of scattered light provided by a rusting street lamp Rowdy saw the foursome huddle then leave the sidewalk. They entered a doorway to some sort of establishment. From his position, a block away, and given the marginal street lighting, Rowdy could not tell what kind place.

He proceeded to the end of the alleyway and found himself outside the Neptune Tavern. His efforts to build up courage sufficient to enter the building competed with the goose-bumps rising on the back of his neck. He wiped both hands on his thighs to ensure all moisture was gone from his palms. He reached around to the small of his back where he found a little comfort and added confidence. He withdrew the .32 caliber Colt Mustang semi-auto. A firm pull backwards on the slide simultaneously chambered a round and cocked the hammer. He slipped it back into place leaving it in the locked and loaded position.

Damn I wish I had my .45. More fire power might help even the odds. The intimidating size of the larger .45 caliber bore was sometimes enough to preclude a gunfight. But the smaller .32 caliber was easier to pack inside the waistband of his pants, so that was the only piece he had tonight.

Rowdy had not planned well for this. There was no time to plan. The tip from Sandra came late and via voice mail. If only she could be here, covering my back like the old days when we were legitimate partners, he thought. Although he knew Sandra would never be able to be within ten miles of this situation. The Department of Justice didn’t like its ATF agents consorting with or sharing information with the private dicks such as him.

Satisfied his piece was in the ready position Rowdy double checked his cell phone to ensure a good battery charge. It would be his only way to call in for reinforcements; his lifeline down in this part of town. Not even the police come here after dark. . . unless specifically called in.

Rowdy took a deep breath and pushed against the door. The transition from the evening air to the Neptune Tavern was abrupt. The bar was a stereotype; dark and dingy with cheap fake- wood paneling and linoleum floors. Smoke hung in the air. Years of the yellowish-brown smog congealed into a film which clung and caked to the walls thick enough to be scraped off with a putty knife. Evidently they haven’t heard of the cities’ new non smoking rules. Imagine that, in a class act place like this, he mumbled.

His eyes swung in a broad arc, doing so as casually as possible. He scanned the layout and bar crowd. They likewise scanned him. His four marks had chosen a table off to his right hand side. He worked his way towards the bar keeping one eye on them. Along the way the rubber on the soles of his shoes stuck to a tacky floor. The bar stool had a large tear in the vinyl cushioned top. Foam rubber upholstery padding, yellowed by the years, extruded from the ripped seat. He sat anyway.

Can I help you? the female bartender asked.

He leaned forward to meet her at eye level and more easily talk in quiet tones. Beer.

Can you be a little more specific? Her annoyance and sarcasm flowed over her smacking lips as she noisily chewed gum. She blew a small bubble in Rowdy’s face for added effect.

Yikes, the lady bartender has attitude, he thought. She exuded it, from her greasy black hair, yellowed teeth and who knows from what other unmentionable places. She looks mean. Her hollow eye sockets, rotting teeth, open sores on lips and gaunt face screamed meth. Rowdy didn’t miss seeing the baseball bat she kept within easy reach under the bar by the cash register. Don’t piss her off. She is queen in these here parts and no doubt has busted more than one dude in the head with that club. In his mind he measured her physically. I am six foot, one inch tall, she’s probably only two inches shorter.

Yeah, Miller Light, draft. Less filling, you know.

No. . . her eyebrows narrowed coming together into a ‘V’, her black, beady, marble-like eyeballs locked onto him. She quarter turned to him presenting a larger profile. Her sleeveless arms showcased body art, including a tattoo of a multi-serpent headed Medusa on her left bicep. The snakes flared and spread when she flexed the muscle.

Like a reflex Rowdy pulled back, the air going out of his lungs. Bad idea to try the playful banter approach.

She pursed her thin anorexic lips then rocked back folding her arms across her chest. More taste, she smiled.

It was an ugly smile but Rowdy welcomed it. At least she has softened. I think you might be right, bar keep. Agreeing with her might reinforce the barkeep’s more pleasant side.

You new here, huh? Just come in on a container ship?

How’d you guess?

Everyone here does. . . come off a ship. Everyone here is from some other place, she said glancing around the bar.

It is an easy enough walk from the docks. The cold one will taste good after the long passage.

You’re not a very good liar, are you? She wiped her lips with a swipe of a bar rag stinking of beer. No longshoreman or sailor ever dressed like that, she indicated Rowdy’s clothes. In fact, you smell of cop. She winked, then shot a wry smile at him.

Whoa. Lady, don’t say that so loud, Rowdy whispered though his teeth.

Too late. They spotted you and had you made two minutes ago. Heads up, here they come.

Rowdy’s singular focus on the bartender caused him to miss when moments earlier two of the marks got up from the table. They had circled and now had him flanked on his left. When he looked back he saw only the remaining two at the table. The bartender’s warning and his over the shoulder glance came just in time to see them get up and approach.

The tallest walked with the attitude of being in charge. He had a grizzled three-day beard. His breath stank. An old knife fight left him with only half a right ear; the left one sported multiple sterling silver studs, an overcompensation for missing the lower lobe on his other side. Like the bartender he wore a sleeveless shirt, tattooed arms in full display. He spoke with a heavy Latino accent. You’ve been following us since the docks.

No. I think you are mistaken. I?

You’re the one who made the mistake, mister.

One of the guys on his other side kicked the stool out from under Rowdy. As he crashed downward hands from the other three were all over him. A fist connected with his jaw. Rowdy spat red.

Blood spewed from the hand of the guy who punched him. Shit, the assailant swore, cut my hand on his fucking tooth.

Rowdy hit the floor, hard. He landed on his tailbone. Worse yet his head hit the foot railing. In spite of being woozy he felt the cold hardened surface sticky from years of spilled beer and spit tobacco.

A foot kicked him in the stomach. Everything happened in overdrive speed. Rowdy was outnumbered. A combination of kicks, fists and a smashing chair came at him fast. Too fast, making it impossible to recover from one blow before the next landed. He reached behind his back. There in his pant waistband he found the Colt .32 semi-auto. From his prone position he pulled the piece from its hiding spot. Using the stool for support he staggered to his feet. For a moment Rowdy thought he might have an opening to take control of the situation. He was wrong. Just as he brandished the gun a long neck beer bottle crashed down on his head. He fell back to the floor. At the same time he squeezed.

KABOOM! The lead hit the ceiling. The gun fell away from his hand.

The sudden noise and muzzle flash stunned Rowdy’s attackers. Their assault stalled, but only for a second. Determined, they came at him again. He saw a glint of light as the knife blade reflected off a Jack Daniels promo lamp hanging from the ceiling. The tallest of the four, the one who spoke before, wielded it. Intent on getting off the floor Rowdy struggled to one knee. Halfway up to his feet the blade lashed out. A strikingly colored tattooed snake, red and green, blue and yellow, coiled up the forearm of the knife fighter. The image burned into Rowdy’s brain; indelibly branded, he would never forget that snake. He felt the cold steel running across his ribcage, then the warmth of his shirt getting wet - the temperature and feel of his oozing blood. He reached to his midsection and his hand came away covered in red. He went faint.

We need to get out of here. Back to the ship, he heard someone say.

As fast as it started the attack ended. In his waning consciousness time seemed frozen. He had no idea how long he was mired in the clouded state. It was long enough for someone to call for help. The last thing Rowdy remembered before blacking out was the voice of paramedics.

He heard the EMT say to his partner, This guy is lucky. At least it was a slashing cut, not a stabbing motion. Then came the sound of the siren. Then nothing.

Chapter 2

Sunday, June 14th, Kittitas County, Washington State

Gary Baldwin would have told you he didn’t deserve to die. But he was about to do just that. His only crime was stealing nuclear waste shipment information from his employer, the Department of Energy. Gary Baldwin worked at the Hanford Nuclear Development and Research facility.

In a muffled silence, leaving minimal wake, he guided his boat up to the landing. He set about tying it up to the dock cleat. That’s when Gary Baldwin thought he saw a glint of reflected light coming from the apple orchard across the way. He peered in that direction. Nothing. Never mind, he thought, I must be dreaming or working too many hours lately. His jumpiness was due to the added stress from his extracurricular activities; these actions, most would call them spying, had taken their toll on his mind. He had to admit, I am getting just a tad bit hyper-vigilant, paranoid even. Even his wife, had commented on it. Soon enough though, all the stress would be gone. When all this was over Gary Baldwin figured he could retire early from federal service and live comfortably, not dependent upon a government pension. He clutched the briefcase, holding it firm, while he clambered about preparing to exit his craft. His movements were ungainly, clumsy even. He was not an agile man. Too many visits with his daughters to fast food places contributed to his abysmal physical condition.

The lion becomes alerted to the presence of blood in the air. That’s when he stalks. He stalks using practiced skills of quietness, stillness and with the patience to wait in the shadows. John Santiago nestled up to the trunk of the tree. There he waited in the lengthening shadows, quiet and still as he could be - patient as could be. He observed Gary Baldwin through the rifle’s scope. As soon as Baldwin looked his direction, Santiago figured he had screwed up. Damn, he thought, realizing the last splinter of light from the setting sun had reflected off the lens of the rifle scope. He reproached himself, why hadn’t I brought along better equipment for this job? A true sniper’s scope, his Swarovski, had a coating which would not reflect the light’s rays. Okay, maybe not so bad after-all. The guy hasn’t a clue as to my position, he concluded. He smelled crisp apple. The fork where the branch and trunk met served as a good and steady rifle’s rest.

Gary Baldwin, his portly self, standing full front on the bow deck served a good target. The range finder showed muzzle to target was 510 meters away. Three minor movements of Santiago’s right hand was all the preparation that remained. First a pull up, next a backward draw toward his cheek and finally a push forward then down. ‘Click’. It was the calming sound of the bolt locking confidently in place. The 7.62X51 mm caliber shell was now seated in the chamber. He paced himself through the shooter’s progression. First he checked his heart rate. Then, with practice obtained from many years experience, he lowered it. His pulse settled into a steady and calm rhythm. Good. The sniper took a cleansing breath, clearing his mind. Now focus. Good. Visualize the copper coated lead impacting the target. Then, at the end of the inhaled breath, hold. Finally, squeeze.

The charge ignited. Hot gasses expanded in a mini-explosion pushing the chambered round. The grooved rifling of the barrel set the bullet spinning clockwise. The lead exited with a muzzle velocity of 2,800 feet / second. These events, subject to the natural law of physics, caused the U.S. made Remington M24 SWS rifle to recoil. The silencer canister and the vented ports minimized muzzle flash and sound. Still, provided the quietness of the night air, there was a thud and minor flare of fire. But the most noise came from the splashing sound when Gary Baldwin hit the water. The impact of the metal slug striking the target in the chest threw the victim backwards into the air. With an arched back and arms outstretched, the fat man flew from his docked boat. Prior to the target hitting the water Santiago saw Baldwin’s chest explode. The optical properties of the lens made the splattering blood in the compromised light appear black, not red.

Santiago smelled cordite, pungent; it intermingled with the smell of sweet apple. He opened the chamber ejecting the casing. The smell intensified. A wisp of smoke rose and diffused into air. His nostrils flared as the rush of the additional burnt gunpowder smell occupied his immediate space. Once it dissipated the more pleasing fresh fructose fragrance of the orchard returned. He bent over; his hand searched and found the ejected steel jacket. No sense leaving this behind, he smiled wryly. He broke a small branch from a surrounding tree. It would serve a make-shift broom to sanitize the crime scene. Most important was to sweep away any foot prints. He trotted down the rows of trees using only moonbeams to light his way. His physique was athletic and powerful, his movement lithe. Santiago took pride in maintaining his fighting warrior’s condition.

On the far end of the orchard Santiago’s ride waited. The sniper got in the passenger’s side of the pickup truck. The driver, Carlos Ortiz headed off down the section line. The rutted dirt double track trail barely qualified as a road.

Is it done? Ortiz asked the assassin.

Done. Success.

You sure? Ortiz bit down on his lower lip. He was not accustomed to this kind of work.

The US Special Forces sniper’s program trained me well. Santiago rolled his eyes upwards into his head.

Can you really be certain he’s dead at that distance? Ortiz remained uneasy, not knowing about such things. He needed reassuring.

He has a hole three inches across, center mass. On the outside Santiago’s words were expressionless, businesslike. Inside he was irritated someone would doubt his work.

Huh?

The chest. His chest was obliterated, last I saw it anyways, right at the instant he hit the water. The assassin, in true professional demeanor described the scene calmly, matter-of-fact.

Ortiz, anxiety evident in his voice asked, So the plan worked? The big guy is in the water?

Yes. He will float downstream tonight. A ways, not sure how far. The body will sink. But it will come up in few days. Not sure where. The Columbia is a big river. He might make it as far as Richland or the Tri-cities.

Maybe his body will get chopped up in some turbines somewhere downstream, Oritz suggested hopefully.

Well, then for sure, if he isn’t fish food now he will be then, Santiago smiled.

The assassin’s gallows humor did not register with Ortiz. The others should be getting his vehicle and boat as we speak, he explained. Once these are disposed of it will be difficult to know the exact scene of the murder, huh?

For awhile, Santiago replied. But some law enforcement official will figure it out. Someone always does. But you will have the time you need to put your plans in motion. Also, knowing the scene of the hit will not give the authorities any idea as to motivation.

What’s next?

You pay me and I take a short drive back to Seattle. There I take a boat ride to Barranquilla. Then lay low. Drink tequila. It’s always best to disappear for awhile. That’s as much as you need to know.

With what’s in that bag you can afford a mighty fine cruise ship, Ortiz said, motioning to the duffle in the back seat.

Unfortunately not some luxury cruis’n yacht. Passage on Coyote Esquibel’s freighter has been arranged. Cruise ships go through customs and require passports. I’m afraid the baggage I got, he pointed to the gym bag, rifle and case, wouldn’t make it through regular customs.

Carlos Ortiz reached behind the front seat retrieving the bag. He handed Santiago the canvas duffle, a cheap gym bag with a logo proclaiming the Richland High School Bombers. It contained the blood money, $800,000, the assassin’s fee. You want to count it?

No need. I know where and how to find you.

The words hit Ortiz like a fist in the stomach. He did not have time prior to check that all the money was in the satchel. I hope none of my new partners decided to short Santiago without running the idea by me.

Ortiz pulled the truck alongside Santiago’s rental car in the Wenatchee Mall parking lot. Santiago got out. He transferred the tools of the trade, now disassembled and in a medium sized suitcase, to the trunk of his car. He next grabbed the cheap duffle bag containing the large sum of cash.

Santiago stuck his head in the open window of the pickup. You do still have the way to contact me, right? You know, like for future work.

Right, Ortiz replied. Or at least Luis does.

Pleasure doing business with you. Maybe we will do it again.

You’ll probably see Luis Pedraza before me, on the ship. Tell Luis I want out of working with these gringos. It’s a shit assignment.

Santiago chuckled. At least the money is good. He held up the canvas duffle, Buenos noches, y hasta la vista. The assassin drove off into the inky darkness. Ortiz shifted the truck’s transmission into gear. His drove in the direction opposite the assassin. The rendezvous location was in Yakima. There he would debrief with the rest of the team. He thought about Santiago’s words, ‘at least the money is good.’

Two hours later Carlos Ortiz joined his waiting partners, among them were John Richter, Bud Shackelford and Russ Barnes. Ortiz was new to these men and them to him, the team a product of an unlikely conspiracy between a Mexican smuggling cartel and American environmental extremists. Ortiz, the Mexican cartel’s lieutenant was assigned to work closely with the eco-terrorist group, A.P.E., Advocates for the Protection of Earth. It was a task he detested, but out of loyalty to his boss, one he fulfilled.

Did Baldwin deliver the goods? Ortiz asked.

John Richter explained, Yes. It went down smoothly, just as arranged. Gary Baldwin came by boat to the landing. Brilliant bit of planning. No one possibly could have followed. It’s hard to follow a boat, unless one has a chase craft waiting and ready. He made the drop. Richter held up an accordion like file folder as if it were a trophy. We have here in our hands the details for all the scheduled waste shipments for the next six months. We double checked it. I am talking all the details. The information looks real solid.

He didn’t catch on at all to our double-cross, the set-up? Ortiz asked.

Richter, shaking his head back and forth, He had no idea once the exchange of his information and our money was complete it was his death warrant. At that point he became unnecessary. He puttered his boat away clutching the briefcase full of money and smiling a grin like you hardly ever seen before. He had no idea that him returning to his vehicle and boat trailer meant he was going to see his maker. No way he suspected you and an assassin waited for him back at the dock and his SUV.

Any trouble getting his boat hidden? Ortiz asked the team.

None, Big Bud Shackleford spoke. Me and Russ have arranged for the clean-up. It’s probably in a semi-truck now. By morning it will be five hundred miles from here. In two days it will arrive at the warehouse. A place no one will find it for a long, long time. Baldwin’s SUV as well.

You see Baldwin in the water. . . when you were sanitizing the scene, I mean? Ortiz asked. Santiago insisted he hit the target squarely.

Yeah. Russ responded. Well, I didn’t personally see him, but Big Bud here assured me the target ain’t talking to no one.

Shackleford chimed in, Baldwin’s heart was hanging out from a gaping cavity in his chest wall, held there only by a thin amount of connective tissue. He was already heading down the mighty Columbia River.

Well, he served his purpose, I suppose. No one could have suspected the chief of security for the Hanford Nuclear Research and Development facility to sell out, Russ Barnes said shaking his head in disbelief.

Richter spoke, Chalk it up to his disgruntlement over how the Veteran’s Administration treated his son when the boy came back from Iraq.

When it is your family member laying in a sub-par nursing facility, a double amputee and comatose and not receiving adequate care, well, then it becomes pretty personal at that point. The government was no longer Gary Baldwin’s government. Turning him was easy, Big Bud explained. He spit tobacco on the ground in a show of contempt; contempt for the victim or the government, no one could tell for certain. He then tugged at his pant’s waistband hitching them upwards over his bulging belly. Shackleford, a giant of a man, came by his nickname, ‘Big Bud – the Clown’, for good reason. His head was small in proportion to his body, his face rounded with a wide grin and bulbous nose. Top all that with an undersized British driving cap jauntily cocked off to the side made for his comical look.

We needed someone just like him; someone high enough up in the system to get us the information, the schedule of waste shipments. He, being the supervisor at Hanford Works security, was a double bonus. No one could have possibly suspected him of anything malevolent or that he might double cross his government. Richter sounded pleased the plan had worked out so well, a testament to him. He would get good kudos from the leadership back in their San Francisco office.

He continued. Still, it’s too bad he had to be eliminated. John Richter had not disliked Gary Baldwin. You know he had a wife and three kids? he said ruefully.

I’m not sorry in the least, Bud Shackleford countered. We couldn’t risk not capping him.

Ortiz added, After the switch of money for the information Baldwin became what Luis calls a loose end. Something that needed to be gotten rid of, tied up.

Yeah, Baldwin served his purpose. He had to go, away, permanently. For the cause. Shackleford raised a closed fist as added emphasis.

The environmentalists amongst the group echoed in unison. For the cause. Each was equally committed to what was in their minds the higher purpose of saving the environment, especially from any proposed nuclear development.

All except Ortiz. He stood silent. His cause was one of money and to a larger degree, loyalty. He was after-all not a member of A.P.E., Advocates for the Protection of the Earth. He was there at the direction of his boss, Luis Pedraza, boss of the Veracruz Drug and Smuggling Cartel.

Richter, aware of Ortiz’s pensive quietness in the midst of the celebratory atmosphere approached him. Come on new partner. Richter good naturedly slapped him on his back. Loosen up. I think Pedraza’s group joining forces with us, America’s original terrorist organization, is a good fit.

I believe the cartel’s interest is based on old fashioned motivation. It’s just business for us. Has nothing to do with a good fit or about changing public policy – or some fight with your government on environmental issues.

Humm. . . you’re right. Richter said stoking his chin and nodding his head in agreement. Your boss Pedraza did negotiate a very handsome payment to assist APE in implementing our terror plot, including the arranging for the services of Santiago. And that pretty much brings us to why my team is feeling good about things tonight. So please, don’t begrudge us Americans our victory lap.

I understand, Ortiz conceded. But let’s not celebrate too much amigo. We still have more work to do before we part ways.

Richter chuckled. Of course, you’re right. We have plans to make.

We have nuclear waste to steal.

Chapter 3

Monday, June 15th, Seattle

Rowdy awakened. Through the clearing haze the world around him was colored hospital mint green. He was on a gurney. Where I am, he asked.

Harborview Medical Center, Emergency Department, the nurse replied. She tended to an inter-venous drip line in his arm. Officer, your man is awake, she alerted the police waiting on the other side of the curtain.

The linens parted. They made a zipping sound as they were drawn back on the ceiling track. A hulk of a man approached the wheeled bed. Matt Yates, you old dog, what have you gone and done this time?

Detective Moses, I’ve been trying to mind my own business.

Billy Moses, big and black, all two hundred eighty pounds of him, looked like he still played defensive end for Udub. More recently he was a legend in the Seattle police force. He and Rowdy knew each other, their acquaintance went all the back to their days together at the University of Washington.

For a man who is always minding his business we seem to meet a lot. Way too frequently for that matter. The cop chuckled thinking he made a funny joke. His belly jiggled.

Don’t you know, it’s bad taste to laugh at your own jokes.

Whatever, He sat and pulled out a note tablet and pen. Care to share?

Rowdy repositioned himself on the mattress in order to get a better look at the detective. Ouch. The pain came from his side. He rolled over onto his back.

The nurse saw his pained expression. Stay on your back. You got twenty three stitches in your rib area and we don’t want you tearing away at them. She looked sympathetically at him, Looks like the pain meds are wearing off. I’ll get the Dr. to prescribe some more.

Yeah, why don’t you go do that, Rowdy talked through a grimaced expression as if clamping down on his teeth might make it hurt less.

She strode out.

I was working a gig, Rowdy began, "illegal alien smuggling operation. A contract with