April 18, 2008
Back on the interstate, fighting to stay awake on a long, straight stretch, Kestrel decided to pull into the first motel in sight. Forty minutes later, the Lone Star Motel—a rundown establishment with flickering red, green, and blue neon and a faint smell of chlorine from the pool—came into view. Its sign read: “Vacancy, Pool, Cable, and Free Wireless.”
An hour or so later, after stepping out of the shower, he checked his messages. His BlackBerry buzzed with an encrypted text: “Turn on your laptop.” He did. He flipped open the battered Toughbook, entered the VPN code over his cellular modem, and waited thirty seconds for the connection to be established. On the screen, six tiles appeared, each with a different camera angle covering the entrances and exits of the Imperial Hotel.
***
The next morning, while enjoying his continental breakfast with a Southwest twist—huevos rancheros on a Styrofoam plate—his burner phone vibrated once. He set his OJ down and answered it, recognizing the gruff voice immediately.
“General, good of you to call.”
“I owe you one, Bob, but as much as I’d like to help, my hands are tied. I’m not gonna divulge classified info on any of our operators, present or past. It flies in the face of OPSEC—you, of all people, should know that.”
“Don’t expect that, sir. All I want is a backchannel nod. Was he or wasn’t he one of yours?”
***
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Dosela. Is she available?”
“My grandmother’s in town right now.”
“Any idea when she’ll be back?”
“I don’t know—a couple of hours. Not a whole lot to do in town except maybe pick up a few groceries and go to the flea market.”
“What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Rachel.”
“Listen, Rachel, it’s very important that I speak to your grandmother.”
“Okay, about what?”
“Well, it’s not something I can talk about over the phone, but tell your grandmother I should be arriving at her place sometime in the afternoon.”
“Sure. You know where we are?”
“I have Google Maps. I’ll find it.”
“No, you won’t. Do you have a paper and pen?”
“Uh, sure.” Before he could find both, the sound of a siren rang out. He glanced at his speedometer, then at his rearview mirror; a white Tahoe was coming up on his tail, its lights flashing. “Sweetie, let me call you back.”
He hung up the phone, flipped his turn signal to the right, slowed, and then pulled off to the side. The Tahoe parked behind him, its PA crackling with a muffled “U.S. Border Patrol—pull over and stop the vehicle.” A male and female agent in forest green approached; the female flanked him on the left, and the male came from the driver’s side. Both had a hand on their sidearms, their expressions serious and professional. The agent, a blonde-haired Caucasian man, rapped on his window. He opened it.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“Is there a problem, agent?”
“Yeah, we clocked you doing 65.”
“Isn’t that the speed limit?”
“Exactly—nobody does 65 in this stretch; minimum 75, 80 more often than not. We just need to verify citizenship real quick. Standard procedure.”
“You folks carry radar now?”
“Look, sir, it’s my job to ask the questions. Your driver’s license, registration, and insurance, please.”
“Yeah, I know, just doing your job,” he said, passing over the papers with his DL from the glove compartment. “The SUV is a rental, and to make your work a little easier, I want to inform you that I am carrying firearms,” he added. That got their attention. Both agents pulled out their guns, holding them in a low-ready.
“Where exactly do you keep 'em, Mr. Kestrel?”
“My pistol is under my seat, and there are three cased long barrels in the back, unloaded.”
“You have a permit to carry and conceal?”
“I do.”
“Sir, do me a favor: slowly step out of the vehicle and keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Oh, and they’re legal transport.” He climbed out; the Hispanic female agent circled the front hood.
“This is for our safety and yours,” said the Hispanic agent, “but I’m going to need you to place your hands on the vehicle and spread your feet apart.” He complied, touching his fingers to the glass. While the male agent kept his Glock ready, the female holstered hers and patted him down.
The female agent—Rodriguez—gestured toward the gravel shoulder, away from the SUV’s open door.
“All right, sir. Take a seat for us. Right there on the ground, knees up, hands laced behind your head. Elbows out—no crossing your legs.” Her tone was sugar over steel. “Just till we clear the vehicle. Safer for everyone that way.”
The male agent—Hawkins—pivoted toward the SUV. Weapon drawn low, he swept the interior with a tac light: console, glove box, that ominous shadow under the seat. The female agent mirrored him from the passenger side, her free hand hovering near the radio.
“Clear on my side,” she murmured.
Hawkins grunted, fishing out the under-seat piece—a modified SIG Sauer 9mm prototype, matte black.
He watched, feeling the gravel bite his ass, his fingers twitching against his scalp, while the agents checked his documents.
“10-32 on the plates—rental, clear,” Rodriguez radioed.
“Permit checks out, AZ CCW,” the agent said into his radio. “Dispatch, run this 10-4—biometric lock, custom job.” He gripped the weapon. “Jesus, some pistola you got here. I’m guessing you didn’t buy this at Cabela’s.”
“No, it’s a SIG Sauer prototype—the grip has a palm reader. It’s slaved to my hand; I’m the only one who can use it.”
Both officers, confident that he wasn’t a threat, holstered their guns but kept a hand resting on them. Hawkins keyed his radio again: “Clear on the hardware—stand by.” “You want to explain to me what you’re doing with a gun like this?” asked the male officer.
“I’m beta testing it for SIG Sauer. They’re actually paying me to pack it.”
“Damn,” Hawkins said, passing it to Rodriguez to admire. She was equally wowed.
“Can I show you my credentials now?”
“Appreciate it,” Hawkins said.
“Okay, it’s in my wallet. I’m gonna get to my feet.”
“Go ahead.” In one smooth, slow-motion movement, he stood and lowered his hands. Reaching tentatively, he withdrew his wallet from his back pocket. He extracted his laminated PIV card, which served as his contractor’s license, and handed it to Hawkins. The male agent scanned it before showing it to his partner. The two agents glanced at him with curiosity before Hawkins returned to the Tahoe. Rodriguez stood vigilantly, holding the modified pistol.
“That PIV’s got some heavy clearances—ex-military? What were you doing before you became a contractor?” the female agent asked.
“If I told you…”
“You’d have to kill me?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a spanking.” She smiled despite the gravity of their situation.
“He checks out,” Hawkins said, handing back all of his papers—the mood lightening noticeably. “Can we look in the back?” Hawkins added.
He nodded, reached into the SUV, and unlocked the rear hatch. It popped open. Rodriguez handed the SIG to her partner. With his hand resting lightly on his Glock, his posture less guarded now, Hawkins watched him as Rodriguez circled to the rear of the Tahoe. Unzipping the cases, she inspected the long rifles.
“Remington 700, HK 416, and a Benelli M2—clean, no rounds,” she said, zipping up the cases. Closing the hatch, she came around to join her partner. “Sexy loadout. What’s the gig—oil fields?”
“Again, I’d have to.”
“Spank me?” Smirking, Hawkins gave him his pistol back.
“Here you go, Mr. Kestrel. Sorry to inconvenience you, but around these parts, you can’t be too careful. Drive safe. And hey—watch that speed next time.”
He eyed Rodriguez.
“Well, pardner, are you gonna just talk smack, or are you gonna give the man your number?”
Hawkins walked back to the Tahoe, giving the two a minute of unofficial business.
What was your favorite part of this chapter?
