36: A Novel Read Free Page B

explosion.
    “Almost six seconds early,” he said, turning to look at Agent Johnson.
    “She affected it.”
    “Yes, it appears so.  But, she didn’t stop it.  And the window has closed.”
    “Don’t forget she just died,” Johnson said, anger creeping into his voice.
    “So did over 2,000 other people,” Patterson said, turning fully to face the FBI agent.  “And frankly, I’m a little concerned that you may have grown too close to the asset.  Should I be worried?”
    The two men stood staring at each other for a long pause.  Patterson noted a light sheen of sweat forming on Johnson’s forehead.  It gleamed brightly against his ebony skin under the fluorescent lights.
     “She was a person, not an asset.  If you’d ever had a conversation with her, you’d know that,” Johnson said. 
    “It’s not my job to have conversations with assets,” Patterson said sternly.  “It’s my job to make sure this project does its job.  Perhaps you are having too many conversations with them.”
    “You know better than that,” Johnson said. 
    “Very well.  Just make sure you keep your relationship with the next asset strictly professional.  What is his status, by the way?”
    Johnson took a deep breath, calming himself before answering.
    “My team is in place to interdict.  They should have him in hand within twenty-four hours and will bring him directly here.” 
    “I’m not happy about this one,” Patterson said.
    “We don’t have much choice.  He’s all that’s available,” Johnson replied, earning a curt nod of agreement.
    “Get started on him the moment he arrives.  We’re out of assets until he’s operational.  The way things are going in the world, I’m afraid it won’t be long before we need him.”
    Agent Johnson nodded, turned and left the room.
     

3
     
    It was hot.  Not the kind of heat you find in Georgia or Alabama in the summertime, where the air is so thick with humidity you feel like you could cut it with a knife.  This was desert heat.  Everything was baking under a relentless sun which was almost directly overhead in a perfectly cloudless sky.
    Randy Palmer removed his sunglasses long enough to mop the sweat off his face, keeping his eyes averted from the harsh glare.  With them back in place, he turned a slow circle to survey the area, not surprised when he didn’t see anyone moving.  When it was this hot, people didn’t venture outdoors if they didn’t have to.
    “Car coming,” Jim Olsen, the man on duty with Randy, commented.
    Randy turned and looked in the direction Jim was facing.  From the glass walled guard tower he had an unobstructed view of a four-year-old Buick slowly approaching on a narrow strip of asphalt that was bordered on each side by twenty-foot high, security fencing.
    The access road ended at the first of two gates that controlled entry into the state’s maximum security prison in Florence, Arizona.  At the other end was state highway 79.  The highway had broad, gravel shoulders where it passed the penitentiary. 
    On the near side, a dozen news vans were haphazardly parked.  All of them had their antenna masts high in the air as reporters smiled for the cameras in between dashing into the air conditioned interior of the vehicles.
    On the far side, close to twenty cars were parked nose to tail, sunlight glinting off their windshields.  The people who had arrived in them stood on the blistering ground, waving signs at passing motorists and shouting slogans.  They were protesting the impending execution of a death row inmate.  Five state police cruisers sat idling, keeping watch, the troopers inside not leaving the air conditioning unless they had to.    
     Randy glanced down to make sure the guards at ground level had spotted the approaching vehicle.  They had, one of them already standing in the sun to meet the driver.
    “It’s his attorney,” Jim said, leaning close to the glass for a better view.  “Looks like he’s