Immune (The Rho Agenda #2)(5)
The Arabic clothing, the AK-47, and the weapons selected for this raid had all come from the special locker Jack had uncovered at the remote hideaway, which had formerly been used by one Carlton “Priest” Williams. That weapons locker had been one of many unusual discoveries Jack had made upon tracking down the site the day after he had killed Priest.
Priest had always been overconfident. It was one of many unprofessional aspects of the ex-Delta Force commando that Jack had despised upon first meeting the man. That overconfidence produced sloppiness, which had resulted in the insurance form Jack had found in the glove box of Priest’s truck. That form had revealed the truck was stolen from a man named Delbert Graves. A quick check of public records revealed that Graves was a hermit survivalist who owned a small ranch deep in the high country northeast of Los Alamos along the boundary of the Santa Clara Indian Reservation.
How many months it had been since Priest Williams had killed Delbert Graves and appropriated the man’s property as his hideout, Jack could not determine exactly. By the state of decay of the corpses Jack had found in the dry well near the main house, Priest must have been using it off and on for almost a year. There was little doubt that Priest had kept the place secret from everyone, including his unknown employer.
In addition to a collection of women’s bodies, there were two male corpses. One of these was probably that of the unfortunate Delbert Graves. Jack had recognized the other male corpse, despite the rot. Now he knew what had become of the assassin Abdul Aziz, for whom numerous agencies of the US government were still searching.
Here tonight, Jack’s earlier decision to avoid relaying the information of Priest’s hideaway to the people at the NSA was about to pay dividends.
Jack glanced down at the dimly illuminated display of his watch. 01:03. The drive from Kirtland Air Force Base to Los Alamos took an hour and a half under normal circumstances. The refrigerated truck carrying Priest’s corpse would be traveling the speed limit on roads that had little traffic at this hour. That meant that it would be turning off New Mexico Highway 84 onto Highway 502 right about now.
Pulling a small infrared flashlight from his belt, Jack flashed it twice, signaling Janet to begin the cell phone transmission. Then slipping his goggles into place and adjusting the infrared laser sniper-sight, Jack settled deeper into his hide position to wait.
The wait would not be a long one.
6
Yolanda Martinez was tired. It was never easy being a 911 operator, even in a small town like Espanola, New Mexico, but working the night shift was the worst. On weekends and paydays, the call volume built steadily as last call at the bars drew nearer. Drunk and disorderly were the most common calls, although stabbings and shootings happened often enough. Then there were the alcohol-related accidents and the late-night angry spousal confrontations.
But tonight was Monday night. Actually, it was now Tuesday morning, and it was most certainly nobody’s payday. It was one of those nights when even the low-riders who liked to cruise town in their hydraulically enhanced hopping cars could not find the energy to stay out past midnight. Out in front of the police station, where the Los Alamos Highway met up with Paseo de O?ate, only an occasional vehicle rumbled past to break the silence. The place was dead.
That should have been a good thing. But Yolanda’s daughter had stayed home sick from school, and Yolanda had been forced to take care of her until her husband, Roberto, had gotten home from work. She had barely had time to get ready for her shift, grabbing a microwave burrito at the Quick Stop on her way to the police station. Sleep was a distant memory. In the absence of things to do, drowsiness tugged at Yolanda’s eyelids as she sipped at another mug of burnt coffee. It didn’t help that Sergeant Billy Collins was fast asleep a dozen feet away from her, his booted feet propped on the desk at an angle that threatened to send a stack of unfinished police reports fluttering toward the floor. At least he didn’t snore.
As long as she could remember, it had been like this. Some nights so busy and disturbing that she wanted to cry, some nights so dismally boring that she wanted to go start trouble herself, just so someone would call.
When the 911 line rang, it startled her so badly that she jumped. Shaking her head to clear the grogginess, Yolanda answered it before it could ring again.
“Espanola Police Department. What is your emergency?”
The voice that answered her was so heavily accented that it took her several seconds to understand the import of what she was hearing.
“Listen carefully. Do not interrupt me, because I will not say this twice and I will not be on the line long enough for you to trace this call. My name is Abdul Aziz. I am the one your government has been hunting with such utter futility. On this night, only a few minutes from now, I will take something that America, the Great Satan, has been hiding from the rest of humanity under the name of the Rho Project. Are you listening to me?”
There was a pause on the line as Yolanda struggled to simultaneously answer and throw a pencil at Sergeant Collins.
“Yes. I am listening.”
The pause at the other end of the line dragged on for several more seconds before the man continued.
“If you hurry, it is possible that you might get some of your mobile police cruisers to the intersection of Highway 30 and Highway 502 before I have finished my business and departed, but I doubt it. There will be dead bodies, so be prepared. If you are wise, you will have the officers take some blood samples that they do not turn over to your military.