John Locke - Lethal People

We were at his place, reviewing the surveillance videos and stills he’d downloaded from the weather drone.

The photos revealed a nice setup for Joe, what I’d call a luxury fortress. His twenty-thousand-square-foot residence was situated on top of a prominent hill. If you’re picturing a target, the house would be the bull’s eye. The next ring of the target would be the ten-foot-tall reinforced concrete wall that protected the main house and two guest cottages and enclosed about two acres of land. The target’s next ring was cordoned off by a chain link fence that guarded roughly ten acres. That fence was surrounded by more than two hundred acres of wooded scrub worth tens of millions of dollars.

The land ranged from gently rolling to steep drop offs. The outer acreage was thickly wooded with sparse underbrush, a cleared forest with a carpet of soft grass and pine needles.

According to Lou Kelly, it had once been a top-flight corporate retreat due to its proximity to the old highway, its raw physical beauty, and its isolated, tranquil setting.

Joe’s residential compound was accessed by a dirt and gravel road maintained by the state. The entrance to the property was a scant eight miles south of Ventucopa, fourteen miles northeast of Santa Barbara, near the center of what most people think is part of Los Padres National Forest.

Charlie was right about the level of activity. Joe DeMeo was running scared, and the proof could be found in the number of gunmen guarding his compound. From what I’d heard, Joe’s place had always been well guarded, but this was a ridiculous amount of security. We knew he had about a dozen guns, nine of which had surrounded the cemetery where I’d met him less than a week ago.

The drone showed he had another eight men stationed between the chain link and concrete fences. These eight had guard dogs on leashes, which told me they were on loan from a private security company. Joe was paying the big bucks and taking no chances.

It would have been nice to have someone on the inside, so I had Sal offer Joe some of his shooters. But Joe wasn’t in a trusting mood and felt it wouldn’t be prudent to invite a rival crime family inside his inner walls.

Especially one that had recently survived a bombing.

After the Beck Building went up in smoke, DeMeo voiced concerns about Sal’s loyalty. Sal gave an Oscar-winning performance of indignation, replete with threats. In the end, Joe DeMeo had no good reason to doubt his story, and one reason to believe it.

Sal had told DeMeo that I must have followed Garrett Unger all the way from New York to Cincinnati, because by the time Sal’s driver got him and Big Bad to the Beck Building, the place was in flames and the whole block had been roped off .

Joe DeMeo cursed extensively before saying, “You telling me you weren’t even there? You never made it to the meeting?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” Sal said. “You don’t believe me, you can check the tapes. I been there before, and Chris had cameras all over his private suite area. You call security and check the tapes. I ain’t on them.”

“That’s a pretty convenient test,” Joe DeMeo said, “considering the security cameras were destroyed by the explosion.”

“No shit!” said Sal. “What a rotten break.”

DeMeo’s reason for believing Sal’s story: just before the meeting, Sal had called Joe and said he wanted to bring Big Bad to the meeting, since the Ungers had a bodyguard.

“I just want—whatcha call—détente.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Joe had said.

“You need to clear it with the Ungers first?”

“Fuck the Ungers. Just get to the meeting.”

“I’m on my way,” Sal had said.

A few minutes passed, and Sal had called Joe to tell him he was sitting in his car a block away from the Beck Building but the area was roped off because the Beck was on fire.

“I just called Chris Unger,” Sal had said, “and he ain’t answering.”

Joe had tried with the same result.

It was a plausible chain of events. The way Joe figured it, Sal wouldn’t be making demands about bringing his bodyguard if he didn’t intend to show up at the meeting. But that didn’t mean he trusted Sal.

A few hours later, they had had another conversation.

DeMeo said, “According to witnesses, Chris Unger jumped—or was thrown—out of his window.”

“You think he jumped like them people in the World Trade Center?” Sal asked.

“My stooge in the CPD says their witness puts Unger on the sidewalk more than a minute before the bomb goes off .”

Their conversation had gone on like that awhile, according to Sal, but the bottom line was, Joe DeMeo was starting to panic. So he put together a small army and stationed them in and outside the walls of his estate. It would be a formidable challenge, but I was gearing up for it.

My phone rang.

“I’ve got the architect,” Quinn said. “I’m in his house right now.”

“Good. Bring him to the campground.”

Quinn paused.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“What about the wife?”

“I thought she was out for the afternoon.”

“Bad timing. She forgot something and came back to retrieve it.”

“Retrieve,” I said.

“Yup.”

“Bring her, too.”

Quinn paused.

“Jesus,” I said. “What else?”

“He doesn’t have the plans.”

“Why not?”

“It was part of the deal. Joe made him turn over all the blueprints.”

I sighed. “Bring him and the wife, anyway. We’ll tease them both with the ADS beam until he remembers what I want to know.”

“You got the Hummer yet?” Quinn asked.

“I’ll have it by the time you get there.”

CHAPTER 44

Darwin bellowed and blustered and raised nine kinds of hell when he heard what I was up to, but I believed he was secretly pleased I was planning to bring down Joe DeMeo. I decided to test the theory.

“I can kill him,” I said, “but I can’t take him alive without your help.”

“Why should I care if he’s dead or not?”

“If I take him alive, you can turn him over to the FBI for the hotel bombing, along with all the evidence we’ll find in his house.”

“There won’t be any evidence. Anyway, when the time comes, I’ll grab the other guy, the one who works the whores.”

“Grasso? He’s one of Joe’s guards. Lives in one of the cottages. Again, without your help, he’s not going to come out of this alive.”

“What about the whore?”

“Paige. Her name is Paige,” I said.

“Whatever.”

“Paige is probably dead by now.”

“Maybe not,” he said.

“I hope not. Even so, her testimony alone won’t be strong enough to put him away for the bombing.”

Darwin thought about it. “What do you want from me—and it better not be much.”

I knew whatever I told him would make him blow his stack, but really all I needed was a Pulsed Energy Projectile System (PEPS) weapon mounted on a Hummer.

“You’re insane!” he shouted.

“You can fly one to Edwards in a cargo plane,” I said. That’s just down the road from me.”

“I know where fucking Edwards is,” he said. “Didn’t you just fl y there with three ADS weapons?”

“Yeah, but I need the PEPS.”

“Let me guess: you want it by tomorrow.”

“Actually, I need it by six tonight.”

“You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

“Oh, c’mon, Darwin. There’s nothing you can’t do.”

“Except keep you on a leash.”

“Look, I know it’s not going to be easy and no one else in the country could do it—but you’re Darwin!”

“Fuck you!” he said. “It can’t be done. Period.”

“I’ll be there at six tonight,” I said. “Impress me.”

“Go to hell!” Darwin said.

CHAPTER 45

Hugo and his army of little people had made their base camp six miles east of Highway 33, near an ancient forest ranger lookout stand. I brought the Hummer to a stop about thirty yards from their campground and waited for Quinn.

“The fuck is that?” Quinn said as he pulled up alongside the Hummer.

“These are circus people,” I said. “That’s one of their circus wagons.” To be completely honest, it was a bright red Winnebago covered from one end to the other with circus paintings.

“I thought you were kidding about them being a circus act.”

“Nope.”

He looked at me. “We going in or what?”

“Hugo’s a military man,” I said. “He’ll probably want to invite us into the camp.”

“Victor and Hugo and the circus people,” Quinn said.

“And us,” I said.

Some of the little people started milling about in the distance, staring at our strange-looking vehicle. They were wearing colorful shirts and baggy trousers. They were pointing and chattering as others joined them.

“What do you suppose they’re saying?” asked Quinn.

“Follow the yellow brick road,” I said.

Quinn stared in disbelief.

“Are you in fact telling me we’re going up against Joe DeMeo, twenty shooters, and eight dogs with this bunch of clowns?” Quinn asked.

We looked at each other. They were in fact clowns. We burst out laughing. I don’t know, maybe it was the stress, maybe we were just glad to be working together again on a major assignment.

“I can see it now,” Quinn said. “The little people put a big flower on their shirts. When the goons bend over to sniff the flower, it’s really a squirt gun!”

I said, “When they shoot their pop guns, a big sign comes out that says BANG!”

“And Joe says, ‘Who are these clowns?’ and someone says, ‘The fuck do I know? Ringling Brothers?’”

I said, “Joe DeMeo, captured by midget circus clowns! Any chance they’ll make fun of him in prison?”

Hugo approached. “What the fuck is that thing?” he asked.

The PEPS weapon—pulsed energy projectiles—like ADS, was originally developed for crowd control. Accurate up to a mile away, it fires directed bursts of pulsed energy to vaporize solid objects. If fired near a target, it heats the surrounding air until the target explodes. The resulting shock wave will knock down anyone in the vicinity and render them helpless for a minute or more.

After explaining this to Hugo, he said, “If we have that, why do we need the ADS weapons?”

I explained that while PEPS would knock down walls and disorient people, it wouldn’t necessarily disarm them or render them helpless.

“The ADS weapon is different,” I said. “It offers an instant, permanent solution to the problem of resistance.”

Hugo turned his attention to Quinn. “You are one ugly bastard,” he said. “No offense,” he added.

Quinn said, “I got this way from eating shrimps. No offense.”

Looks were exchanged between the two.

“You want a piece of me?” Hugo snarled.

“Looks like that’s all there is.”

“Hey,” I said, “we’re all on the same team here.”

Hugo noticed the architect and his wife tied up in the back seat of Quinn’s car. “Who are they?” he asked.

“They’re going to tell me two things: the layout of Joe’s house and how to breach his panic room.”

CHAPTER 46

I’d completed my chat with the architect and his wife and just begun the final run-through with the circus army when Sal Bonadello called.

“Joe’s making a move on your wife and kid.”

I’d expected that. In a normal world, I would have had Callie take Janet and Kimberly to my headquarters for safekeeping, but this wasn’t a normal world; it was Janet’s world. I trusted Callie to protect them, but I feared Joe might firebomb the house from a distance.