They had no real reason to believe this would turn out to be anything other than one more wild-goose chase — but Craig himself had suggested the agents prepare for an armed response.
As he waited by the car for the rest of the backup to arrive, a few splatters of rain drifted down. The wind picked up, carrying a metallic smell of ozone as the precursor to the storm. Goldfarb wondered where Craig had gone, what he had learned at Mike Waterloo’s house. He just hoped their own search here would uncover something.
Jackson and two other Las Vegas agents — Rheinski and Holden — took up positions on the other side of the street, bracketing the darkened storefront with DENNISONS MACHINE REPAIR stenciled in a half circle on the glass. The agents wore black windbreakers with the letters FBI stenciled boldly in white on their backs; if the situation turned hot, the distinctive garb would help them tell the good guys from the bad guys.
Old pickup trucks lined the backstreet, each one displaying a prominent gunrack. Two converted Oldsmobile “low-rider” cars sat on bald tires in the parking lot of the pawn shop next to them.
A white van rolled down the street from the opposite direction, its engine idling, and parked a block away. Goldfarb knew the white van contained SWAT backup forces, just in case the FBI men should need help. Major Braden was taking no chances.
Goldfarb took the last swallow of his coffee and tossed the empty cup inside the car. His own bullet-proof vest pinched him, and he adjusted it, feeling like one of the Excalibur’s knights in armor.
“Does the SWAT team have ears on the building yet?” he said into the small microphone at his collar.
A thin voice came through his earphone from the communications officer inside the white covert van. “They’re using both the sonic horn and a laser Doppler on the window, sir. Getting ragged background sounds, like snoring, possibly from two people, but I get no movement from inside. Uh, one moment, Agent Goldfarb, Major Braden wishes to say something.”
The redheaded NEST commander said, “Agent Goldfarb — since we’re not picking up any special nuclear material inside, I’ll let the FBI run the entry. We’ll move back to an assist mode.”
Goldfarb felt a surge of adrenaline and second thoughts. In many ways he had secretly hoped the NEST team would take the lead in the raid — with the enormous consequences of surprising someone holding a nuclear weapon, the assault team would be empowered to shoot first and ask questions later.
But with the responsibility now relinquished to the FBI, Goldfarb had to follow conventional “rules of engagement” for a legal raid. He would have to give fair warning, identify himself before charging in — he hoped the militia wouldn’t start shooting the minute he rapped on the door.
“Just keep the SWAT team handy, Major,” he cautioned. “We don’t know exactly what we’re expecting in here.” Raising his hand, he signaled Jackson and the two other agents. All four moved together, converging toward the door.
“No sound from inside,” Jackson said.
“It’s still pretty early in the morning,” Goldfarb said.
“Not too early for a warehouse shift.” The tall black agent tugged on his Kevlar vest beneath his windbreaker. “Maybe the militia already pulled out.”
Even when coupled with the scraps of work orders from Connors’s house, Craig’s lead had not seemed too definite in the first place, and now the Dennison’s tip was a day old, thanks to the bomb on the railroad bridge. Goldfarb should have followed up the lead earlier… and Craig should have spent the day scouring DAF paperwork, and the NEST response should have been launched by noon Thursday.…
Now, their time was running out — unless the Eagle’s Claw was bluffing. And he doubted that, after the militia had already rigged high-powered bombs and murdered several people.
With his bandaged hand Goldfarb checked his pocket to make sure he had the warrant. Play by the rules. And hope the other guys did too. He wanted to make sure he came back home to Julene and the kids.
He wished he would have at least called his wife back in Oakland this morning… for nothing else but to reassure her. It made him even more nervous to be thinking about such things right now.
“I’ll take the lead,” said Goldfarb. “Jackson, you and Rheinski fan out. Holden, back me up. We’ll enter through the back. The SWAT team will cover the front, just in case. Any questions?” They shook their heads. “All right. Nobody screws up, nobody gets hurt. Let’s go.”
Goldfarb trotted around behind the building, keeping to the shadows. He motioned his team to the side, back by the warehouse doors. No sense raising a ruckus and going in through the front, giving the bad guys a good thirty seconds’ warning as they made their way to the back. He hoped the SWAT team was right about only two people being inside.
Goldfarb searched the shadows, clumsily holding his Beretta upright in his left hand. Jackson pointed at him and gave the high sign. Drawing in a breath, Goldfarb motioned with his head. He fought back a sudden wild urge to pee. Nerves. And too much coffee. Worry about that later.
He slammed his hand against the door. “Federal agents! We have a warrant to enter and search the premises.” He waited long seconds. “FBI — if you do not open up immediately, we will break it down.”
After a moment of silence, Holden bashed into the door, which bent but did not buckle. They had full locksmith equipment in the van, but that would take too much time. Still holding his handgun high, Goldfarb stepped back and kicked the doorknob. Wood cracked, and the side of the door splintered.
Holden threw himself against the door, and it finally crashed inward. A loud bell began clanging as they set off Dennisons’ built-in alarms.
Flushed and breathing hard, Goldfarb launched himself into the darkened warehouse. In the dim emergency lights glowing from the high ceiling, his eyes made out dark shapes, rows of machines, low work tables, storage boxes. The noise from the alarm startled birds that had roosted inside the big building; other staccato movement came from the shadowy rooms.
“Lights!” Goldfarb called into the monotonous din of the alarms.
Jackson slithered farther inward along the wall. “Got ‘em.”
The bright overhead lights snapped on, banks and banks of blazing fluorescent tubes, and Goldfarb suddenly saw the entire warehouse. Like frozen soldiers, rows of slot machines stood on pallets, some dismantled, some wrapped in sheet plastic. He recognized electronic machines as well as the old mechanical “one-armed bandits.” Tools and testing equipment lay strewn across workbenches.
A disembodied voice sounded groggy. “Hey! What the hell is going on?” The alarm bells continued their head-pounding clamor, throwing everything into confusion. “Oh shit!”
“Hey, you!” Jackson shouted. “Freeze! Over there.”
Goldfarb saw a young man staggering away, ducking for shelter between the rows of slot machines. The kid had close-cropped blond hair and wore only a pair of khaki boxer shorts. “Hold it right there! Federal agents!”
Jackson and Rheinski crouched, their handguns drawn, as they went in two different directions to head off the young man. A young woman screamed, then shouted a string of obscenities. Holden ran to investigate as Goldfarb hurried after the kid in the underwear.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Goldfarb called impatiently — then the young man lurched up from his hiding place and pointed a handgun at him. Goldfarb scrambled to the side as the kid fired two quick shots. “Aww, not again!”
The two bullets ricocheted from a half-dismantled slot machine. Goldfarb instinctively fired back with his left hand, but his aim was off and the shot went wide.