The Assassin's List (14 page)

Kaamil forced himself to remain calm. He thought, when this is over, I’ll kill you myself. What could you ever know about dying for a righteous reason? The only god you’re willing to die for is money, or maybe good sex. That’s why we will win, Roberto, that’s why we will win.

“Oh, I do worry about my men, Roberto. I worry their sacrifice will be wasted if you let me down. If you do, I will have to kill all of you. That’s just my worry. I need to get back to Portland. You need to get to the ranch and make sure everything is prepared for Malik’s arrival tomorrow. If you let him down, make peace with your god, you won’t live another day.

Chapter 23

While the two men were busy eating, Drake called his secretary.

“Mr. Drake’s law office. He’s not practicing law this week, he’s out pretending he’s Superman. May I help you?”

Drake suppressed a smile. “You know you weren’t supposed to tell anyone about the Superman thing. If it’ll make you feel better, this is all on the clock, so there’s a possibility you’ll be paid this month. Is your husband there by any chance?”

“Just one moment please,” she said, mimicking a receptionist at the D.A.’s office they used to joke about.

Drake knew she used humor to cover her feelings. He imagined this time those feelings were probably anxiety and fear. He had to stop thinking he was the only one involved in what was happening. Margo was more than his legal assistant. She and her husband were friends.

“Afternoon, Adam. Margo tells me you’re in Hood River. What’s up?” Paul asked.

Drake pictured him standing ramrod straight next to his wife’s desk, with his square jaw clenched, waiting for an answer.

“Sounds like I have some fences to mend when I get back.”

“She’s worried about you. We both are. She’s not used to guys gunning for you and hanging around the office. She wasn’t exposed to that, even when she worked for you in the D.A.’s office,” Paul reminded him.

“Paul, I’m sorry. I had no idea this was going to turn out this way. Margo told you, I followed Kaamil, the ISIS manager, to Hood River this morning. Well, I’m watching him have lunch with someone you may remember, Roberto Valencia.”

“Sure, I remember the punk,” Paul said, after a moment. “Young Mexican drug dealer, son of that Mexican cartel leader. I thought he was still in prison. What’s he doing with the ISIS guy?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m not getting warm fuzzies, watching these two breaking bread together. Valencia’s sentence was fifteen years. Can you find out when he was released and what his parole officer says he’s supposed to be doing? I saw him come out of an old yellow warehouse here in Hood River, down on Portway Avenue. Maybe someone in the department knows someone up here who can tell us who owns the building. Don’t tell them why you’re interested. Valencia may have bought some friends here.”

“I’ll make some calls. If things take a turn, let us know what’s happening, or Margo says don’t come back. I guess she means she wants you to keep in touch,” Paul said.

“Tell her I promise.”

Drake focused again on the two men. When Valencia turned toward the street, to watch two young women in cutoffs and bikini tops walk by, he took two quick pictures of his leering face. Both men then got up and strolled toward Kaamil’s black roadster.

Before the two got there, Paul called back.

“Valencia was released six months ago. Good behavior apparently means you get ten years off your sentence. His parole officer thinks he fled to Mexico, only reported in once. The warehouse you had me check belongs to ISIS, according to the Hood River PD.”

“What a surprise, Kaamil’s in business with Valencia.”

“Well, there’s more. The warehouse is leased to a farm supply company. One of its key customers is a ten-thousand-acre ranch that ISIS owns and uses as a regional training facility.”

Strange that an international company like ISIS would locate a training facility in such a remote area, Drake thought. Even stranger that it had connections to a known drug smuggler.

“Paul, I have to go. Kaamil’s leaving with Valencia. Find out as much as you can about this training facility and call me back.”

Drake watched the roadster pull away from the curb and followed in the Land Rover. Kaamil turned right at the light on North Second Street and retraced his route back to the old warehouse. There, he pulled through the gate and let Roberto out. Kaamil didn’t get out of his car, and as soon as Valencio entered the warehouse, made a U-turn and drove back out of the fenced warehouse yard.

At the Expo Center where he’d parked again, Drake decided to stick with Kaamil. He knew about the warehouse. Now it was time to see what else Kaamil was doing in Hood River. As he started to pull out, he saw a yellow Hummer H2 drive out of the warehouse from the delivery bay.

Drake hung back until the Hummer drove by. He could see both cars ahead of him and hoped they were both going the same way. That hope didn’t survive for more than a minute. Kaamil pulled onto the I-84 ramp back to Portland. Valencia continued on to Hood River.

Now what, he thought. Follow Valencia and see what he’s up to, or stay with Kaamil. As much as he wanted to stay with Kaamil, his instinct told him to follow Valencia. Besides, Valencia was making it easy for him, driving the biggest SUV you could buy, painted bright yellow.

Valencia turned onto I-84 headed east, and then took the exit for Hwy. 35 heading south toward Mount Hood. Drake hung back a hundred yards or so as the highway passed through the outskirts of Hood River and then became a two-lane highway running through farmland. The twists and turns of the winding road interfered with his line of sight at times, but he was able to stay close enough to catch occasional glimpses of the yellow Hummer.

Leaning down until his nose almost touched the steering wheel, he could see the snow-capped peak of Mount Hood rising above, dominating the skyline through his windshield. From his farm, he could watch the distant peak turn pink with a good sunset. When you were near the mountain’s base, it dwarfed everything around it.

Before they reached the small town of Mount Hood, maybe ten miles from Hood River, the Hummer’s brake lights flashed. Drake was two hundred yards behind when it turned left, off the highway. As he passed by, he saw a manned security gate, a twelve-foot cyclone fence with a barbed wire crown stretching out on both sides of the gate, and an enclosed guardhouse. Next to the cement and river rock guardhouse, an elegant sign made of black lava rock with brass letters announced the location of the ISIS Pacific Northwest Regional Training Facility. Admittance was by appointment only. Before the gate disappeared from view, Drake watched in his rear view mirror as the Hummer was waived through.

He drove on until he saw a gravel road where he was able to turn around. Before he pulled back onto the highway, he called his office. Paul answered.

“Glad you’re still there. This is really starting to smell. Kaamil headed back to Portland, so I followed Valencia. He drove south of Hood River, and right into a restricted area operated by ISIS, their Northwest Regional Training Facility. Security guard, cyclone fence, the works. Valencia was waived right through. You ever heard of the place?”

“No, but if they’re hiding something there, they’re smart enough to keep under our radar. I was able to find out that the Hood River PD does a lot of their training there. It has a practical firing range, a shooting house that simulates real urban situations and a tactical driving course. We’ve never used them, but a lot of the smaller police departments do,” Paul answered.

What’s going on, Drake wondered. ISIS trains cops but lets a convicted felon drive right in with a wave of his hand. He rubbed his face for a moment, then turned to look down the road toward the ISIS facility.

“Okay, find out whatever you can about this training facility. Anything else on Valencia?”

“Nothing new, but I generated a lot of questions about why I wanted to know as soon as I started asking around. My guess is there must be a current investigation under way. Guys who were always straight with me got real vague when I asked for specifics. Pissed me off, to tell the truth. The guys I called owe me. One of them asked if I was making inquiries on your behalf.”

Drake was quiet for a moment. The Secret Service must have enlisted the help of the FBI, and details of the attack on his farm had gotten out. He’d have to see if Liz Strobel could keep a lid on things a little longer.

“I can’t get involved in a criminal investigation right now. If you’re asked what you know, say it’s all privileged, attorney-client work product, that you’re helping me on your off-duty time, okay?”

“I will,” Paul said, “but I’m not sure I like it. Margo works for you, and you know we’ll do anything we can to help. But I can’t put my job on the line.”

Drake heard the concern in his voice and understood it for what it was.

“Paul, I won’t ask you to do anything that puts your job in jeopardy. I’m not paying Margo enough to support you both. I’ll make sure you and Margo are kept out of it.”

Drake stared in the direction of the ISIS front gate after he ended his call. He was promising the two people he was closest to that there wouldn’t be unintended consequences that involved them. There were always unintended consequences. The only thing he could think of to prevent there being too many was to find out what was behind the security gate down the road.

Chapter 24

Roberto Valencia was still fuming as he drove through the gate at the ISIS Regional Training Facility. Having to pimp for wannabe black jihadists and bringing in young women to pose as virgins, for a taste of Paradise, was bad enough. Having to suffer the condescending manner of Kaamil was more than he could stand.

If his father hadn’t ordered him to cooperate with these Muslim clowns, he would have killed the first one of them to disrespect him. He knew their kind. He saw them in prison, getting special privileges, eating special food, having special prayer time. They even got special shower privileges, so they could shower without being seen by other inmates. If he’d had his way, his prison gang would have shanked all blacks hiding behind their prison-found religion.

But, business was business. The Middle Eastern jihadists controlled a lot of the drug supply his father’s cartel moved into America. Meth wasn’t the only thing that made them money. Heroin was still popular, and the terrorist presence in South America was starting to limit the number of cocaine suppliers. If he had to put up with fools who wanted to take over the world, so be it, as long as they kept him in business.

He did have to give them credit, he thought, driving along the paved road leading to the heart of the training facility. The old cattle ranch had been turned into a first-class operation. The two-story red brick operations center, with its state-of-the-art communication capabilities, was one of the finest facilities of its kind. There was a firing range, a one-thousand-yard-long sniper range and a shooting house for live-fire practice. It also had a landing strip, long enough for private jets, a dormitory and a military-style mess hall.

Pulling up in front of the operations center, Valencia smiled at the clever deception of the place. In addition to its legitimate purpose training ISIS personnel and selected others, ISIS had a secret underground facility. It was used to train and house its own cadre of terrorists. That’s where he was headed, to make sure everything was prepared for a last supper for the three men starring in next week’s attack.

The front lobby was manned by a uniformed security guard, controlling entry to the offices and classrooms above ground. He also made sure no one wandered into the research lab below, where Valencia ostensibly worked as a contract research chemist. What a joke, he thought, passing him off as a chemist. The only chemistry he’d been around was in the meth labs he operated for his dad. If that’s how Kaamil wanted to pass him off, it was okay with him. All he wanted to do was provide the cooperation his dad had promised ISIS, and live to enjoy another day.

The security guard looked up just long enough to recognize his security badge and wave him toward the sign-in roster on the counter. A retired cop who seemed unaware of the secret nature of the company he worked for, he had always been respectful.

“Afternoon Mr. Valencia, working today?” the man asked.

“For a while, Ken. I have some tests to finish, then I’m out of here. How about you,
como esta, bien?”

“Sure, I’m okay Mr. Valencia. My son is bringing the grandkids to visit this weekend. The wife has been getting ready all week. Don’t see them nearly as often as we’d like,” the old man said.

“Have a good weekend,” he said, walking to the elevator.

He knew what the man was talking about. He dreamed of being back in Mexico with his dad, and hoped he would be soon. The odds of pulling off Kaamil’s plan successfully were slim to none. Maybe he even wanted it to go wrong, just to prove Kaamil wasn’t Allah’s chosen.

The elevator descended a floor and opened to a lab on the left, and storerooms on the right. Next to the lab door was a keypad and a handprint scanner that opened the electronic locks. He didn’t know how many others were cleared to enter the lab, but from the look of the place, he was the only one to enter recently. Half windows ran the length of the front wall on either side of the door. There were two island counters inside, with all the usual lab equipment. Another door at the back of the lab was marked “Supplies.”