The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(23)

Oxley hesitated. There were significant risks with proceeding with their backup plans, but after Van Heerden’s fuckup, it was his only way to buy himself some time. He made his decision.

“Start with the cleanup in San Francisco, then go to Palo Alto,” he said to Krantz. “Report back when you’re done.”





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


The Ritz-Carlton Hotel


San Francisco, California

Abelard Krantz examined the scene before him. It was mayhem. There were emergency lights flashing everywhere. Fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances were parked all around the hotel. Krantz could even hear a helicopter in the distance. A few minutes ago, right before he had called Oxley, he had observed two paramedics carrying a stretcher with a man fastened to it. Despite the oxygen mask strapped to his face, Krantz had recognized Van Heerden. Two men dressed in dark suits, who Krantz assumed to be Secret Service or FBI, joined Van Heerden and the paramedic in the back of the ambulance.

Van Heerden had come highly recommended. In fact, Krantz had used his services under another alias a few years back. He had found Van Heerden to be professional and goal oriented. Most of his men were former Recces, not the cheap labor other mercenary outfits employed. It was a shame today’s operation had turned into such a nightmare.

Krantz wished Oxley had given him the authorization to play a bigger role in the operation, but his boss had been unyielding to his pleas, fearful of how Alexander Hammond would retaliate if he were able to prove their involvement.

And here we are, Krantz thought, frustrated by the knowledge that he was now the one stuck with the cleanup.

A crowd of curious onlookers had gathered around the main entrance of the hotel, their faces twisted in a tangy mix of curiosity and craving as they took pictures of the scene with their smartphones. Krantz watched in disbelief as one young couple took a selfie with a fire truck in the background. It looked to Krantz as though they were mostly people who had come out of nearby restaurants and apartment buildings, seeking a few likes for their Instagram accounts. Still, people with high-resolution smartphones were dangerous. It was time for him to earn his keep.



As he entered the underground garage, Krantz pulled the nondescript baseball cap lower over his forehead to shield his eyes and face from the surveillance cameras. There were only a few dozen cars left scattered throughout the parking structure. His late-model Jeep Cherokee was still where he had left it, which was a small miracle since smash-and-grab automobile thefts and break-ins had reached epidemic levels across the city. Krantz slid into the driver’s seat, his holster digging into the small of his back. He started the engine, his mind thinking about his next step. He had two options. Both were messy. One was definitely less dangerous, but the odds of getting caught were slightly higher.

Krantz pulled out of the parking garage and was immediately caught in traffic, thanks to all the emergency vehicles blocking the routes around the Ritz-Carlton. He had anticipated such a move from law enforcement and had parked five blocks away. Clearly that hadn’t been far enough. Up ahead, he could see a traffic bottleneck and several police cars. A roadblock. And there was no way to get around it.

Slowly, at least, the traffic was moving. It took less time than Krantz had expected to reach the roadblock, and as he drove past the first police car, he understood why. The cops weren’t stopping every car, only a select few. A uniformed police officer shined his flashlight into Krantz’s vehicle before waving him through. Krantz accelerated away, relieved he hadn’t been stopped and the car searched. It would have been difficult to explain why he was carrying explosives in the trunk of his rental car, though most cops wouldn’t even know what they were looking at.

Krantz entered an address in the navigation system of the Jeep Cherokee and followed the directions to his desired place—Van Heerden’s men’s staging area.



Located in one of the less desirable neighborhoods of San Francisco, the staging area was a medium-size apartment usually rented to criminals or unsuspecting college students looking for a cheap place to spend a night. Krantz had secured it through a popular online marketplace.

He parked the Jeep Cherokee down the street, but close enough so that he could keep an eye on it as he went to do his business. He killed the engine and climbed out of the vehicle. He opened the trunk and grabbed his backpack.

It was easy to see why the apartment didn’t fetch more than eighty dollars a night despite being within the boundaries of one of the world’s most expensive cities. The streets around the building were filthy and smelled of decay and waste, the light drizzle from the overcast sky incapable of dispelling the offensive odors. Trash, discarded dirty diapers, and empty liquor bottles littered the entrances to run-down, crumbling buildings. Ragged shelters of cardboard and tin had been put up in every alley.

Krantz shook his head in disbelief as a pair of rats ran past him, scurrying through split-open garbage bags. He wondered how the most powerful and prosperous nation on earth could allow such a terrible thing to happen to its citizens. In Krantz’s mind, it was an affront to human dignity. But it wasn’t his fight.

He spotted the getaway car Van Heerden had purchased for his men. It was an old, light gray Honda sedan. The kind of car that didn’t draw attention in a neighborhood like this, although Krantz was pretty sure that, left unattended, the wheels would be gone within days. There was nobody else in the street, but it was possible that eyes were watching him as he made his way to the front of the car. Krantz took from his backpack what he needed and then lay on his back next to the front bumper. He quickly installed a red filter on his penlight and rolled to his side, holding the small light in his mouth. Then he went to work.