CHAPTER 58

“Downers Grove, Illinois, my friends. Downers Grove, Illinois.” Hardin and Wilson were driving back south through Wisconsin, north of Milwaukee, Hardin poking around the radio dial, looking for something to listen to. The town name caught his attention. One of those right-wing radio hosts, the guy who liked to dress like a Nazi on his book covers.

“That’s not Juárez, people. That’s not Tijuana. That’s not even El Paso or Nogales or some other border town. That’s a real nice place. I’ve been there. Folks like you, real Americans, church-going people, just trying to raise their families, hoping they can still make their house payments and pay their kids’ tuition after Washington’s through picking their pockets. Folks who are living by the rules. This isn’t some slum, these aren’t bottom feeders, these aren’t the miscreant offspring of some welfare queen who’s cranking out kids with every brother on the block to pad her government check. These are honest, hardworking, patriotic Americans. And now they’ve got the drug gangs turning their quiet little burg into a free-fire zone. If you don’t get it yet, let me spell it out for you. I don’t care where you are right now. I don’t care what you paid for your home, trying to move away from this kind of stuff. If this can happen in Downers Grove, Illinois, then it can happen anywhere.

“And I wish it was just about the drugs, people, I really do. I’m hearing things. I have sources. You know I have sources. There are people inside the wire on this, honest folks like you and me who still know what the flag means, people still in the belly of the beast – that bloated, voracious Leviathan we call a government – and they get word out to me when they can. And you want to know what I’m hearing people? Are you sitting down? Are you ready for this? It wasn’t just the drugs. This was a Mexican drug king having a dispute with Al Qaeda over money. That’s right. The two greatest threats to our Republic are teaming up. So the next time you hear some bleeding heart talking about immigration reform, you better ask yourself just who they want to let over our borders. You think dope is the only thing they might carry across our joke of a border? How about a chemical weapon? How about a dirty bomb? How about a real live nuke?

“It’s time to get real, people. You are at war, and the enemy is bringing the battle to you. And every one of those people who violated our trust, who wiped their feet on the Statue of Liberty by sneaking in the back door when all they had to do was ring the bell like our ancestors did, well every last one of them has always been nothing but just another criminal, just another lazy punk who won’t do the work to follow the rules. Sure, they always could have been the slime bag outside your kids’ school, the one trying to get your children to throw away their lives for a nose full of crap. But now they may just be something more. Every last one of them could be Al Qaeda’s trigger finger. Every last one of them could be the bastard with his finger on the switch that’s going to turn one of our gleaming alabaster cities into a radioactive crater. That’s right, people, that poncho might just as well be a burqa. And if this doesn’t have your attention, if this doesn’t have you ready to take your country back from the liberals and the apologists and the diversity freaks and the live-and-let-live, let’s legalize-every-damn-thing hippies, then I don’t know what will. Back after this word.”

Hardin flicked off the radio. “Seems a little worked up,” he said.

“Yeah,” she answered.

“That make any sense to you?”

“The immigration stuff? That’s just right-wing radio noise. But the other stuff, tying Al Qaeda and the cartels together? Even that fat-ass whack job wouldn’t make that up. That came out of somebody on Hickman’s team. Somebody fed him that story.”

They drove for a minute, radio off, tires humming on the pavement. “Something doesn’t add up,” Wilson said. “We know they want to keep this thing quiet, that’s why they haven’t gone public on us. But somebody’s got America’s favorite dickhead bloviating about it on the radio. If they want to sweep it under the rug, why raise the profile on the whole mess?”

Quiet for a minute, passing by a pasture full of Holsteins.

“We queered their play,” Hardin said. “They were supposed to have me in the bag last night. Me and the diamonds. Would have given them all the window dressing they needed on the Al Qaeda front. Probably leaked this BS ahead of time. A little public positioning to back their play on the cartels. Question is who’s doing the leaking? That Hickman guy, you think?”

Wilson shook her head. “He might be the mouthpiece, but this feels a little above his pay grade. That last meeting we had, there were some mysterious DC suits in the room, and all of a sudden we got the DEA and the FBI playing kissy face, coordinated raid to grab you, lots of background on money movement everywhere from Switzerland to Vanuatu. That wasn’t our intel, and I don’t think it was the Feebs’ either. That smelled like Agency.”

“Makes sense,” Hardin said. “If somebody was going to pick up some chatter out of West Africa after I knocked over that load, those would be the guys, them or Mossad.”

“And they’d know who the diamonds belonged to,” said Wilson. “And they know who you are. And they know about Hernandez. So this is their chance to tie all that shit up in one nice, neat package.”

“But without the diamonds, they’ve got no story.”

“And without you, they’ve got no diamonds.”

“And,” Hardin said, “with this BS story already out there, they’re running out of time. I think we just found our lever,” Hardin said.

“Something else to think about, though.”

“What?”

“Who else was shooting back at the condo?” Wilson asked.

“What do you mean?”

“That shit inside?” Wilson said. “Radio said what, two druggies and an old lady dead in the hallway? Who did that?”

Hardin thought for a moment. “Agency maybe? SOG guys?”

“I don’t think so,” Wilson said. “Hickman and whoever is pulling his strings, they were looking to get everything official, had a joint raid task force ready to bust you at Lafitpour’s office. If they’d known you were at my place, they would have had me in a box and they would have had enough shooters in raid jackets running around Downer Grove to invade Iwo Jima. You never would have made it out of the building.”

“Already had the mob after me once,” said Hardin. “Maybe Corsco took another shot, ran into the cartel guys, things went bad?”

“Possible, but Hernandez and Corsco? They have to coordinate shit to run their drug territories, so they’ve got channels, they talk. Seems like they would have talked about this.”

“That leaves Al Qaeda. I did steal their diamonds.”

Wilson’s face went still. “Ah shit. The guy from the briefing.”

“What guy?”

“Quick slide they threw up on the screen, some Al Qaeda hotshot. Husam something. I kinda lost focus there for a second, after they announced they were set to bag you.”

“Al Din?”

“Yeah, Husam al Din.”

Long exhale out of Hardin. “Fuck.”

“You’ve heard of him?”

Hardin nodded. “In the Legion. If the DGSE needed muscle in Africa, my unit was usually it. So I played ball with them a bit. Some after I was out, too. This al Din guy, he’s the best the Al Qaeda types have. If that was him up in your hallway, I’m glad we weren’t there.”

Wilson sighed, sank down in her seat a little, a long look out the window. She talked without turning her head. “So we’re dodging a drug cartel, the mob, the cops, the Feds, and some hot-shot terrorist guy.” Wilson said.

“Don’t forget the mysterious suits,” Hardin answered. “Somebody’s playing the man behind the curtain. Whoever the Great and Terrible Oz is, he may well be our biggest problem. But he’s also probably the guy who might want to buy our lever.” Hardin flicked back on the radio, scanned looking for some music. “We should be back in Chicago in a couple hours.”