“He seemed okay about it.”
Jenkins was flipping avionic switches from a checklist as he spoke. “As far as I’m concerned, nothing’s changed. We keep reporting to Lansing as ordered.”
“Do we tell Lansing he knows?”
“Not unless we want egg on our faces,” Jenkins said. “He’d view McBride’s discovery as a blunder on our part.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. McBride seems like a decent guy. It’s not hard to guess how he got those scars on his face. They aren’t random and he sure didn’t get them from any chainsaw accident.”
Jenkins started the engines, keeping his eyes on the gauges. “I think you’re right, he’s a spook. Someone carved him during an interrogation. Had to be hell.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
Twenty minutes into the flight, Henning used the air phone to call Holly again. Nathan looked over, but there was no way to put the call on speaker. After a brief conversation, he hung up.
“She made contact with ASAC Pallamary from the Fresno resident agency. An agent’s going to meet us at the airport.”
“You okay with that?” Nathan asked.
“I just follow orders.”
Nathan heard the frustration in Henning’s voice. “Don’t read anything into it. Like I said, there’s a lot at stake.”
Henning didn’t respond, he just leaned back and stared straight ahead. Nathan felt for the guy, but knew the extra measures being taken by Lansing and Holly weren’t a reflection on Henning’s competence or loyalty. Although Nathan wasn’t familiar with FBI methods of operation, he figured it was probably standard procedure to double up on field assets whenever possible to ensure the best chance of success. Even though he preferred working alone, he’d play along for now. The FBI Lear was too big an asset to turn down. He figured having a federal ball and chain in the form of Bruce Henning was the price of admission, but he couldn’t in all honesty discount the help he’d received from Henning so far. If the time came to cut ties with his FBI friends, so be it, but for now, he was comfortable with the status quo.
The Lear touched down in Fresno a little after noon, local time. As it taxied to the general aviation transient parking area, Nathan admired the F-16C Falcons parked next to the Air National Guard hangar. They were beautiful machines, pure in form and function. Although he couldn’t imagine it, he wondered if flying them ever got old.
After Jenkins parked the Lear, Nathan spotted a man standing next to a plain sedan in front of a long hangar building. Their FBI contact. He was reasonably sure the agent assigned to them would’ve been briefed on their objective and the rules of engagement. He had no expectations about the agent’s attitude, but hoped it wouldn’t be a repeat of a few nights ago when he’d first met Bruce Henning. Because the director of the FBI had given him the use of a Lear, he hoped this new agent would show some discretion. Nathan had to admit there was a definite feeling of importance associated with traveling by Lear. He could get used to this.
As the Lear’s engines wound down to idle, First Officer Williamson appeared and opened the fuselage door and they said their good-byes. Unlike Fort Leavenworth, the air was dry. A bright afternoon greeted Nathan as he followed Henning onto the tarmac. Several dozen private planes were parked to their right.
Dressed in tan slacks and dark-blue Windbreaker to conceal his sidearm, their FBI contact began walking toward them. In his mid-forties, he had cropped thinning hair with a touch of gray at the temples. Former cop or military, Nathan thought. This guy would never make it as an undercover. Their new arrival identified himself as Special Agent Paul Andrews. He looked Nathan over from head to toe before smiling and offering his hand.
Located in the northeast area of Fresno in a mixed neighborhood of residential and commercial properties, Amber Sheldon’s apartment was part of a larger complex of identical structures laid out in pairs, back-to-back, with parking on both sides. Second-story walkways ran their entire lengths, accessed by concrete prefab stairs on each end. Several hundred yards to the north, the metal river of Highway 41 could be heard, but not seen. Andrews parked the sedan at the west end of the buildings where it wouldn’t be noticed from the target’s apartment. According to the NCIC file, Sheldon lived in apartment number 46.
“If she’s not here and has a roommate, we’re blown,” Henning said. “It’s fair to assume the roommate will call her and tell her the FBI came knocking on her door.”
“We don’t have much choice,” Nathan said. “We don’t have time for a prolonged stakeout. If she’s not here, we’ll ask where she works, that way the roommate will think we don’t know.” Nathan turned toward Andrews. “Do you know where Pete’s Truck Palace is?”
“It’s off Highway Ninety-nine, about twenty miles south of the city.”
“Okay,” Henning said. “It’s probably better if only two of us knock on her door. Andrews, you cover the stairwells and watch our backs in case the Bridgestones are around. Shoot first and ask questions later.”
“You got it.”
They followed a concrete sidewalk paralleling the building, then cut across the grass over to the west stairs. Apartment 46 was on the second floor. This had to be a nicer neighborhood because a big-wheel tricycle, along with several children’s bikes, were leaning against the building, unlocked. A smattering of litter was present, nothing serious enough to suggest it was a lowlife establishment. Licking its paws, a calico cat sat on the bottom step of the stairwell. She squinted in friendship as they moved past her. The windows on either side of Sheldon’s door were screened by closed curtains. Nathan and Henning paused and listened to the buzz of a muffled television set.
Nathan kept his voice just above a whisper. “Bridgestone could be in there. I’ll go left, you go right.”
Henning nodded and grabbed the butt of his gun. Keeping to the side of the door, he knocked twice. The sound of the television went silent, followed by a forceful, “Who is it?”
“FBI, ma’am. We’re just here to ask you a few questions. No one’s in any trouble, okay?”
The curtains parted, revealing a slightly overweight, dark-haired woman in her late teens or early twenties. Her yellow tank top revealed more than necessary.
“My mom’s got nothin’ to do with that man no more.” From what Nathan could hear through the window, Amber Sheldon’s daughter had retained most of her southern drawl.
“May we come in, please?” Henning asked.
“Y’all got some ID?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Henning held up his FBI badge.
“Lemme see your gun too. All you FBI guys carry guns, right?”
“That’s affirmative, ma’am.” Henning pulled his Windbreaker open.
“Okay, just a sec.”
They listened to the deadbolt click back and the slide chain being removed from its slot. The door opened and the smell of cinnamon greeted them.
Gun drawn, Henning rushed into the room and pivoted to the right.
“Hey,” the girl protested. “What the hell y’all doing?”
Nathan dashed into the kitchen and checked behind the counter. “Clear.”
Henning checked the bathroom, a hall closet, and both bedrooms. “Clear,” he called and returned to the living room. “I’m sorry for doing that, ma’am, but we had to be sure you weren’t being held against your will. We’re looking for a very dangerous man.”
“You could’ve just asked me.”
Both thinking the same thing, Nathan and Henning exchanged a glance.
“I apologize again, ma’am,” offered Henning.
Nathan surveyed his surroundings. Although the living room wasn’t a complete mess, it could’ve been neater. Some clothes were strewn on the furniture here and there, and a few dishes were out of place, but overall, it looked reasonably presentable. Nathan watched her freeze when she took in his face.
“What the hell happened to you?” she asked.
Nothing like a little tact, he thought. “Industrial accident.”