The Collectors (Camel Club 2)

“We’ll take over from here, boys,” a woman’s voice called out.

They all looked over. Standing outside the gate beside her black sedan was Annabelle. Milton stood next to her, wearing a blue windbreaker and a ball cap with “FBI” stenciled on it.

“Who the hell are you?” one of the guards said.

“FBI Agents McCallister and Dupree.” She held up her creds and opened her jacket so they could see her badge and also the gun on her belt holster. “Open the gate and keep the damn doggie off us,” she snapped.

“What the hell is the FBI doing around here?” the same guard said nervously as he ran over to the gate and unlocked it.

Annabelle and Milton stepped through. She said to Milton, “Read ’em their rights and cuff ’em.” Milton took out two pairs of handcuffs and headed over to Stone and Reuben.

“Wait a minute,” the other guard said. “We catch anybody trespassing, our orders are to call the police.”

Annabelle got in the plump young man’s face, looking him up and down. “How long have you been in, uh, security, kid?”

“Thirteen months. I’m weapons-certified,” he said defiantly.

“Sure you are. But put your damn gun away before you accidentally shoot somebody, like me.” He reluctantly holstered his weapon as Annabelle held up her creds again. “This trumps the local cops every time, okay?” The realistic-looking credentials, which were part of a packet she’d had Freddy make for her just in case, were what Annabelle kept in her tampon box.

The guard swallowed nervously. “But we got procedures.” He pointed at Stone and Reuben, whom Milton was handcuffing. On the back of Milton’s windbreaker was also stenciled “FBI.” They’d gotten that at the novelty shop along with their fake guns, badges and handcuffs. “And they were trespassing.”

Annabelle laughed. “Trespassing!” She put her hands on her hips. “Do you even know who you’ve got here? Do you?”

The guards glanced at each other. “Two old bums?” one of them answered.

“Hey, you little son of a bitch,” a handcuffed Reuben roared in mock fury, and jumped forward. Milton instantly drew his pistol and placed it against the side of Reuben’s head, shouting, “Shut the hell up, lard-ass, before I blow your damn head off.”

Reuben immediately froze.

Annabelle said, “The big ‘pleasant’ guy over there is Randall Weathers, wanted on four counts of drug dealing, money laundering, two charges of murder in the first and the bombing of a federal judge’s home in Georgia. The other guy is Paul Mason, aka Peter Dawson, among sixteen other phony names. This asshole’s got a direct line to a Middle East terrorist cell operating in the shadow of the Capitol. We’ve been running a wiretap on his cell phone and e-mail. We picked up his trail tonight and followed it right here. Looks like they were doing a recon to steal some explosive gas. We think they were targeting the Supreme Court this time. Park a truck of that stuff in front with a timer and watch all nine justices get blown right to hell.” She looked over at Stone and Reuben in disgust. “You guys are going down all the way this time. All the way,” she added ominously.

“Damn, Earl,” one of the guards said excitedly to his partner. “Terrorists!”

Annabelle took out a notebook. “Let me get your names. The Bureau will want to know who to give commendations to for helping with the bust.” She smiled. “And I think I see big raises in both your futures.”

The two guards looked at each other, grinning. “Hot damn,” the one named Earl exclaimed. They gave her their names and then she turned to Milton. “Get ’em in the cruiser, Dupree. The sooner these slimeballs are at WFO, the better.” She turned back to the guards. “We’ll bring the locals in, but only after we’ve done a little ‘interrogation’ of these boys, FBI-style.” She winked at the guards. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

They both grinned knowingly at her. “Kick the crap out of ’em both,” Earl said.

She said, “Roger that. We’ll be in touch.”

They put Stone and Reuben in the backseat of the sedan and drove off.

Caleb waited until the guards were out of sight, then raced back to the Nova and followed Annabelle’s car.

Inside the sedan, Milton took the handcuffs off Stone and Reuben.

“Milton, you were talking some serious trash back there,” Reuben said proudly.

Milton beamed. He took his ball cap off, and his long hair streamed down.

Stone said to Annabelle, “When you do backup, you really do backup. Thanks.”

“In for a dime, in for a dollar,” she said. “Where to now?”

“My place,” Stone answered. “We have a lot to talk about.”

CHAPTER 38

ROGER SEAGRAVES DROVE HIS rental car slowly through the quiet streets of the affluent D.C. neighborhood, turning left onto Good Fellow Street. At this hour most of the large homes were dark. As he passed the late Jonathan DeHaven’s house, he seemed not to even glance over. Another thunderstorm had come his way. He was getting a little tired of the weather pattern. But it really was the perfect setup; he couldn’t let it pass. He kept driving slowly, as though he were just on a leisurely tour admiring the old mansions. Next he drove around the block and made his way down the parallel street, carefully noting the lay of the land.

Observing it and coming up with a plan, however, were two very different things. He needed time to think. One observation had caught his eye: the house across the street from Behan’s. A person with a pair of binoculars was in there watching. Watching what? Regardless, he would have to take that into account when preparing his attack. And when eyes were watching, there was only one way to kill and then get away.

After he had finished his reconnoiter, Seagraves parked his rental car at a hotel. Gripping a briefcase, he walked into the bar, had a drink and then took the elevator up as though going to his room. He waited an hour and then took the stairs down. Exiting the building through another door, Seagraves slid into another car he had waiting in an adjacent parking lot. He had something else to do tonight besides contemplating another murder.

He drove to a motel, drawing a key out of his pocket as he exited his car. With ten quick strides he was at the door of a room on the second level overlooking the parking lot. He opened the door but did not turn on the light. He walked quickly to the door connecting to the next room, unlocked it and went through. As he stepped into the second room, Seagraves could sense the other person’s presence but said nothing. He took off his clothes and climbed into bed with her. She was soft, curvy, warm and, most important of all for his purposes, a shift supervisor at NSA.

An hour later, each of them satisfied, he dressed and smoked a cigarette while she showered. He knew that she had taken the same steps he had to avoid being followed, and the NSA had so many employees it simply couldn’t keep track of them all. And she’d never given anyone any reason to show interest in her, which was why he’d recruited her for his operation. And they were both single, so even if the rendezvous were discovered, it would be put down to simple sex between two consenting adults who happened to be federal employees, which, as yet, was not illegal in America.

The water in the shower stopped. He knocked on the bathroom door and opened it. He helped her out of the shower, gave her naked ass a squeeze and dropped another kiss on her.

“I love you,” she said, nuzzling his ear.

“You mean you love the money,” he answered back.

“That too,” she cooed, dropping her hand to his crotch and pressing against him.

“One a night,” he said. “I’m not eighteen anymore.”

She gripped his muscular shoulders. “Could’ve fooled me, baby.”

“Next time,” he said, slapping her butt hard and leaving a red mark.

“Be rough again,” she said, breathing in his ear. “Make me hurt.”

“I don’t know any other way.”

She pushed him against the wall, her damp breasts wetting his shirt, and ripped at his hair

as she tried to stick her tongue all the way down his throat. “God, you are so damn sexy,” she moaned.

“That’s what they tell me.”

He tried to pull away but she wouldn’t let go. “The money wire goes out on schedule?” she asked in between jabs of her tongue.

“As soon as I get my cash, you get yours, sweetie.” And she cooed again, and this time let him free after he’d given her butt another hard slap, leaving a mark on the other cheek.

Yes, stupid, it really was all about the money.

While she finished in the bathroom, he walked back into the other room, flicked on a light, grabbed her purse off the nightstand and slid the digital camera out of one of the inner pockets. He thumbed the twenty-gig hard drive out of the slot and used his fingernail to scrape off a small black veneer from the back of the inch-long drive. He stared at the miniature object for a few seconds. Tiny in size, it represented at least $10 million, maybe more, to an eager buyer in the Middle East who did not like America knowing his plans of death and destruction for those who opposed him.

The information on this black gem would balance out the fight, at least for a little while, until NSA figured out that their new surveillance program had been compromised. Then they’d change it, Seagraves would get another call and he, in turn, would make a call. Then a few days later he’d go to another motel, screw the lady again, peel off another veneer and make another eight figures. Repeat business was his staple. They’d continue to do it until NSA started to realize that the mole was somewhere close. Then Seagraves would shut the operation down at NSA, for a while anyway, since bureaucrats tended to have short memories. In the meantime he’d just go after another target. And there were so many.

He used a bit of gum to stick the piece of veneer containing digital details of NSA’s surveillance program behind one of his front teeth. Then he went to the first motel room he’d entered, where another change of clothes hung in the closet. He showered, changed and left, walking along the street for a few blocks, then grabbed a bus, rode it to a rental car shop, slid into another leased ride and drove home.