Fay screamed through her gag, but the momentary appearance of two heads above the cliff edge meant that Tyler Locke and the granddaughter were still alive. Not that it mattered. Once Colchev’s car was gone, he was sure the Americans would head back to Hanga Roa on foot. At a fast trot the two of them could reach the outskirts of town in a little over thirty minutes.
They would arrive just in time to die.
THIRTY-SEVEN
When Grant climbed down to the bridge’s vehicle deck, only Morgan’s intervention kept twenty police officers from training their weapons on him. He jogged over to her as he eyed the train stopped halfway up the bridge. Officers swarmed over part of the track behind the last car. The suited man she was speaking to got a phone call and retreated to take it.
“Who was that?” Grant asked.
“Roger Abel. Australian federal agent.”
“Are we all playing nicely?”
“Grudgingly on their part. They know this is related to Pine Gap. They’re leading the investigation here, but they’re instructed to share any info they find.”
“Given that you’re not interrogating your runner, I’ll bet he didn’t come quietly.”
Morgan nodded at the rails. “Pulped by the commuter train.”
“Anything useful left over?”
She shook her head. “He’s spread across a hundred feet of track. The Aussies will collect the pieces. They’ll tell us if they come across anything pertinent, but I’m not holding my breath.”
“We might have more luck with my guy.”
“I saw him hit the ground. What happened? I told you not to kill him.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“My guy was an accident.”
“So was mine.”
“I heard that you shot him.”
“Yeah, but only in the leg. It was a good shot, too.”
“Let’s go look.”
“By the way, anyone hurt at the hotel?” Grant asked as they walked toward the center of the bridge.
“No. We got lucky. These guys were just trying to sow confusion so they could escape.”
“It almost worked.”
The agent caught up with them. “That was my director. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to,” Morgan said.
“Nicely handled,” Grant said.
“We’ve got two dead gunmen,” Abel said, “one of whom your partner shot before he fell to his death. I need to know whether we have more of them out there.”
“You don’t. Did your director tell you to cooperate with us?”
They reached the corpse sprawled in the middle of the right lane. Abel crossed his arms. “According to him, I retain custody of anything we find, but you can see it before it goes into evidence. I’m allowed to get your statements, but then you’re free to go.”
“Good. We need to examine anything found on this man.”
Abel scowled and then nodded at a uniformed officer carrying a plastic baggy. He handed the package to Morgan.
The baggy contained a wallet, a US passport, phone, car keys, and a scrap of paper with an address. She opened the wallet to find two hundred Australian dollars and nothing else.
“This is it?” Morgan said.
Abel nodded. “We’re running down the ID on the passport.”
“It’ll be fake, just like the ones on the bodies we found in the warehouse in Alice Springs.”
“Were these men responsible for the explosion there yesterday?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
The phone was still operational. Since the guy landed on his back, Grant assumed it had been in his front pocket.
Morgan scanned through the recent calls and text messages. They’d been wiped clean. Same for the contact list.
“This guy didn’t make or receive any calls?” Morgan said.
“It must have been erased remotely,” Grant said. “My company worked on similar technology. It’s a common feature on secure phones used by foreign intelligence services in case they’re caught or lose the phone. That’s why this one’s not password protected. The remote erasure took that out, too.”
Abel stared at the body. “He’s with the CIA?”
“We think he may be a Russian,” Morgan said.
She glanced at the piece of paper and then showed it to Grant. It said 22 Lic. Jose Lopez Portillo Ore.
“Does that mean anything to you?” she asked Grant.
He shrugged. “A town in Oregon? Maybe someone he’s planning to meet with?”
“Or a street address where they’re going to meet.” Morgan jotted down the phrase in her notebook and handed the items back to the officer.
After making their reports of the chase to Abel, they walked back toward their car.
Grant searched for the phrase on his phone while Morgan was lost in thought. The entire phrase failed to yield anything useful, so he started plugging subsections of it into a search engine.
“When Kessler didn’t show to make the drop,” Morgan said, “their next move would probably have been to leave Australia. We think that they had some connection with the Baja drug gang. This could be related to their contact in the cartel.”
Grant continued trying different combinations. “Like we said earlier, a drug gang would be a good way to smuggle the Killswitches back into the US. They’ve got the systems already in place, and they’ll do anything if the price is right.”
“We can’t send out a blanket alert to the Border Patrol describing the Killswitch because of its secret status. And unless we send a detailed description, they won’t know what to look for. We’ll have to see if we can narrow it down to a particular city.”
“Got it!” Grant said triumphantly. “That guy had the abbreviation wrong or we couldn’t read his handwriting. It should have been 22 Lic. Jose Lopez Portillo Ote. It stands for 22 Licenciado José López Portillo Oriente. It’s an address in Tijuana. There’s a border crossing a quarter mile from there.”
“That could be where they’re planning to meet to repack the shipment for the smuggling operation.”
“If we can intercept them there, we might be able to retrieve the Killswitches before they even cross the border.”
“We’ll have to coordinate with the Mexican Federales to put a stakeout on the location. When the weapons arrive, we’ll raid the place and get them back.”
“How will you know when the Killswitches are there?”
“Because you’re coming with me. You know what the Russians look like.”
“Do I get to have a gun?”
Morgan squinted at him. “I guess so. You’ve come in handy so far.”
Grant smiled. “Then I’m in.”
She got on her phone. “This is Special Agent Bell. How fast can Grant Westfield and I get to San Diego?”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Jess had been shocked when Polk was dashed on the rocks by the falling Suzuki, but she’d been outraged by the kidnapping of her grandmother. Her instinct had been to charge up over the cliff edge to get Fay back, but Tyler had restrained her when he saw how well Colchev’s gunmen had them pinned. Harris’s lifeless form in the grass only confirmed that they would have had no chance.
When Colchev’s car was out of firing range, Tyler and Jess gave chase. Her feet crunched on the hard-packed dirt as she ran next to Tyler. They’d settled into a fast jog after sprinting for five minutes behind Colchev’s rapidly receding SUV, which was now long gone.
“How far … to the airport?” she asked between breaths. She wasn’t struggling for air, but Tyler’s long legs made it a challenge to keep up. He didn’t seem to be huffing and puffing.