Deadly Justice (26 page)

Nate and Carlisle sat around the enormous table in the conference room, working at laptops.  Carlisle gave a grunt to acknowledge them when they walked in, his eyes never leaving the screen, his hands flying across the keyboard in a blur.  Nate was studying screen shots from CCTV cameras, looking for the guy who'd taken a shot at them.

Carpenter thought about the scene, replayed it in his head over and over and only came up with one conclusion.  The shooter hadn't been aiming for him.  The lone bullet that grazed his arm hadn't been meant to take him out, or he'd be lying in the street with his brains splattered against the walls.  No, there wasn't a doubt in his mind—the shooter had been aiming for Andrea. 

“Got him!”  Nate's shout brought him back to the present, and he leaned forward as Nate spun the laptop around, showing a freeze frame picture of a Caucasian male who looked to be in his early to mid-thirties.  Dressed pretty much like every other tourist strolling through Jackson Square, he didn't stand out in the crowd.  He was nondescript, with brown hair and brown eyes—that much Carpenter remembered from the quick glance he'd gotten, because he couldn't tell that from the black-and-white shot he was staring at on the laptop's screen.

“You sure that's him?”  Remy's voice broke through the silence.  He leaned closer, studying the shot.  “Doesn't look familiar.  Can you print me a copy?  I'll see if I can find out anything.” 

Nate nodded and hit a few keys.  “I've also e-mailed it to your phone.” 

“The quality's not great.  Carlisle, think the facial recognition software could get anything with this grainy texture?”  He spun the laptop around, showing Carlisle the shot from the CCTV feed. 

The computer guru reached across and pulled the laptop closer, squinting at the photo.  “Lousy quality.  Let's see if we can get a hit anyway.”  Once again his fingers danced across the keys, activating the facial recognition software he'd developed and implemented specifically for Carpenter Security Specialists.  The FBI and the CIA were chomping at the bit to get hold of his software designs, but so far Carlisle refused to budge on sharing it with the feds.  Another reason why Carpenter liked the man so much; he didn't play well with authority figures.  He didn't give a damn that the government wanted his prototypes.  Nobody got access to his programs without his consent, and he was damned picky about who he shared with.

He turned to stare at Remy.  “You said we needed to talk.  What have you found out?”  Andrea stepped around him and pulled out a chair, and with a gentle pressure on his uninjured arm, urged him to sit.  Damn it, he didn't need to be coddled.  The bullet barely scratched him, but he settled his ass into the chair anyway.  It was worth it when he saw her smile. 

She pulled out a second chair and scooted it over to sit beside him, close enough he could smell the subtle fragrance of the shampoo she'd used earlier that morning.  The sweet scent of roses and a slight citrus undertone tickled his nose.  It reminded him of summers spent in his grandmother's garden, watching her dig her fingers into the soil. 

Remy leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.  The look in his brown eyes wasn't that of a happy camper.  Whatever he knew, the news wasn't good.

“I talked to a couple of guys I know.  Ex-military down on their luck men who panhandle down by the river.  They hang together and heard the same intel firsthand from a guy unloading shipments on the docks.  Said there'd been a lot of, and I quote,
suspicious shipments
coming in farther upriver.  Outside the parish limits.  You know damned well the battle the Coast Guard faces on shutting down the portable docks that seem to spring up daily.  Smugglers bring stuff in by the ton and only a fraction gets caught.”

Carpenter's spine tightened at Remy's words.  Yeah, he was more than cognizant of the drug smuggling taking place along the Mississippi River.  With its twists and turns and the strong currents, it was ideal for hiding things from the authorities.  He'd busted enough scumbags during his time with the DEA, and he'd never forgotten some of the atrocities they found once those seized boats were unloaded. 

“Anyway, these two vets mentioned a dock supervisor was looking for a couple of additional hands for a big shipment coming in two days from now.” 

He felt rather than saw Andrea stiffen in the chair beside his and reached over to squeeze her hand.  Her fingers trembled, and she wrapped them tightly around his hand, not letting go.  Did it make him a jackass that he liked her leaning on him for a little extra strength?  Tough, because he did like it—a lot. 

“I'm guessing this guy didn't say what they'd be unloading?”  Carpenter already knew the answer. 

Remy grinned.  “Nah, that'd be too easy.  But whatever's being brought in, they're keeping it under wraps.  These guys took the job because the money's too good to pass up.  Told 'em to come back tomorrow and get final instructions on where they'd be picked up and dropped off.  Apparently, they'll be taken to an undisclosed location where they'll be unloading the boats.  Somebody's being extremely careful about whatever's being brought downriver.” 

Carpenter caught one word that piqued his curiosity at Remy's statement.  “Downriver?  Doesn't that seem odd?  Most of the stuff comes up from points further south.  At least that's how it was when I worked with the DEA.” 

“I thought that was strange too.  Asked the guys and they were positive the man hiring them said stuff was coming
downriver
.  He might have misspoken or maybe gave them misinformation, in case things don't pan out with these two vets.” 

Remy ran his hand through his hair, before meeting Carpenter's eyes.  “I gotta tell you, Sammy, my spidey senses are going off like a Geiger counter.  Whatever they're bringing in is big enough to scare the crap outta me.  My gut is screaming Webster's behind this.  But I don't think its drugs.  It would make more sense to move those further upriver and away from New Orleans.  This is…bigger.”

Carpenter opened his mouth but before he could utter a word, Jean-Luc shoved through the doorway, the look on his face causing Carpenter to rise from his chair.  Jean-Luc was panting, chest heaving as he gulped in air.  Whatever it was, he'd been racing to get back and spread the word.

“What's wrong?”

Jean-Luc sucked in another lungful of air, and held out his hand, palm out.  “Things are a hell of a lot worse than we thought, boss.”  He bent over at the waist, and rested his palms against his knees, head hung low.  “Gator got word from one of his buddies.  He's being paid a butt-load of money to haul a package on his boat.  Course he said yes.  Money's tight since the fishin's been off in the bayou.  Folks are taking any side jobs, legal or not, to put food on the table.” 

Jean-Luc straightened to his full height, shoulders back, and stared him straight in the eyes.  “Abe explained to my pa about this opportunity to make huge money for a single boat trip.  Gator made Abe take him to his fishing boat.  Boss, he swears when he got there, he almost had a stroke standing right there on Abe's boat.  Abe had boxes hidden in the front, under some tarps.”  Jean-Luc paused, his gaze taking in every person in the room.  “Gator opened one of them.” 

He shook his head before running a hand through his dark sweaty locks, pushing them off his forehead.  “Abe's carrying four three by three boxes packed to the rim with C4.  Damn fool was warned not to open the boxes.  Course Gator didn't give a rat's ass about what Abe'd been told, he couldn't resist opening one.  At first, he couldn't tell what it was, by the packaging, but he figured it out damned quick.”

“C4?” 
Why would Webster need explosives?  And so much?
  Carpenter hadn't heard of him ever being involved with that kind of firepower.  Guns, automatic weapons, sure, those were easy money and easy transport.  Nothing of this magnitude.  Better question, what was he planning to do with that quantity of destructive explosives?

“Abe's supposed to deliver the packages tonight.  He'll meet up with a second boat at designated coordinates, and make the exchange.  Those four boxes for ten grand cash.”

Nate whistled.  “Nice chunk of change.”

“Can you imagine how many fishermen and shrimpers would be willing to risk their boats traveling up the Mississippi, delivering unopened boxes for that kind of money?  Or better yet, how many have already done it and not been caught?”  Jean-Luc's question drew curses from the men around him. 

“What about detonators?”  Andrea voiced the question Carpenter had been thinking. 

Jean-Luc shook his head again.  “Gator didn't see any, but that's the easy part anyway.  Hell, any kid in junior high could build a detonator.  C4 is regulated, with the military guarding the major supplies.  This had to come from outside the U.S., which means we have no idea how stable this stuff is.”

Remy reached for his phone.  “I need to contact ATF, have it confiscated—” 

“Remy, wait.  Let's think about this.  If we believe Webster is behind this,” Carpenter paused until everyone in the room nodded their agreement, “then he's got a specific target in mind.  The bigger question is who is bankrolling an operation this size, because it damned well isn't Webster.”

He walked across and squeezed Jean-Luc's shoulder.  “Good job.  Now we need to figure out who the target is and how we stop this from happening.”  He held up his hand when Remy started to interrupt.  “If the feds confiscate the C4, they'll only have more shipped in.  Hell, he may already have enough stockpiled to blow up half of New Orleans.  What's his endgame?  What or who is the target?”

The room remained enveloped in silence.  He knew everybody was trying to figure out Webster's next move, and he hated to admit it but he didn't have a clue. 

“Remy, I haven't been back long enough.  Is there anything big happening in New Orleans in the new few days?  Something that might attract national or international attention?” 

Remy took a few steps, pacing by the wall.  He rubbed at the spot between his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose.  “Let me think.”  He started counting, ticking items off on his fingers.  “The usual local stuff.  Mayor making a speech.  Saints football, home game against Miami.”  He froze in place, eyes widening.

“Hell.  The presidential debates.  They moved the location two weeks ago to New Orleans because of some kind of scheduling conflict in South Florida.  The Republican Presidential debates are being held live here on Tuesday night.” 

“Why would Webster get involved with that?  He doesn't give a damn about politics—never has.”  Carpenter shot back. 

“Boss, there are lots of folks who aren't happy that McKinley is the frontrunner.”  Carlisle interjected, spinning around his laptop to display an article highlighting the national debate being held in downtown New Orleans.  “McKinley's ultraconservative platform has appealed to a lot of people, especially with ISIS threats escalating, and all the unrest in the Middle East.”

Carpenter tried to remember everything he knew about Edward McKinley.  A conservative republican, he'd served in the senate for the last two terms, spearheading financing for American troops and endearing himself to the moderates.  The democrats had tried and failed more than once to find any salacious scandal in his background, but the guy was squeaky clean.

“It's pretty much a given he'll be the republican candidate for the presidency.  He's riding an extremely high approval rating, with pledges to combat ISIS and to play hardball with any terroristic threats.  Taking him out would leave a pretty big vacuum this close to the elections.”  Nate's quiet voice echoed in the silence.  When Carpenter stared at him, he shrugged, a grin stealing across his lips. 

“What?  I read.  I like to think I'm an informed voter.” 

“I'm having trouble wrapping my head around Webster consorting with ISIS.  I mean, he's a mean son of a bitch, but this is low even for him.” 

Andrea touched his hand, just a brush of her fingers against his, and he drew in a ragged breath. 

“It might not be ISIS, at least not directly.  We have enough homegrown terrorist groups that would jump at the chance of making a statement.  And blowing up the building housing a national presidential debate would certainly qualify as making a major statement.” 

“She's right.”  Remy gave a nod toward Andrea.  “Would Webster have the clout or those kinds of contacts in the Middle East, especially Syria?”

“Hell, I don't know.  When we worked together, I'd have said no.  Now?  Anything's possible.  Local terrorists here in the U.S.?  I bet he'd love that.  He'd feel superior to what he'd call their redneck mentality.  He'd get a kick out of pulling their strings and manipulating them into doing whatever he wants.” 

“Getting back to the C4, we can't let it be delivered.  You know that, Sam.  I'm going to have to report this to the ATF.”  Remy leaned forward, resting his palms against the conference table.  “There's no way we can leave pounds of that stuff laying around, even without the blasting caps to power it.  It's too dangerous.” 

“If we take it from Abe's ship, Webster'll hear about it immediately and know we're onto him.  Dammit, we aren't even sure they're going to use it to disrupt the debates, though it makes the most sense.  Can we come up with an alternative—a way to get the C4 off Abe's boat without alerting the feds or having Webster snooping around?” 

Remy shrugged and flopped down onto one of the chairs.  “I'm open to suggestions, though as a cop I'm going to get in a hell of a lot of trouble for not doing my job.”  He grinned before adding, “Won't be the first time.  If I lose my job, big brother can always hire me.” 

After brainstorming for a few minutes, each person in the room throwing out ideas, they came up with a plan and Remy headed back to the station, ready to play his part. 

Now, Carpenter had to convince Max to play along.

A
ndrea left the men in their war room, strategizing about the best way to confirm Webster's target.  She'd whispered in Samuel's ear about heading back upstairs, and he'd nodded, his focus off her, at least for the moment.  All hell was about to break loose—she could feel it and she didn't want to be a distraction.  Instead, she had her own plans to make.