Free The Gatekeeper by Michelle Gagnon

was shuffling them. “I’m thinking it’s time to blow off a little steam.”
    “Thought you said we couldn’t go anywhere,” said Hulk.
    “We can’t.” Dante held up a hand to stem the tide of groans. “But I got a few girls cleared by management. One phone call and they show up to party.”
    “No shit?” Hulk stroked his moustache. “How old? ’Cause I like ’em young.”
    No surprise there, Dante thought. “Young enough. You know the rules, though.”
    “No worries boss. I don’t need her mouth for talking,” someone chimed in, and everyone laughed.
    Dante made the call. The girls were fresh meat, caught coming over the border by the local militia. They were supposed to report all illegals to Border Patrol without engaging. But this unit contained some of Jackson’s most avid supporters, and they were happy to provide whatever was needed, whether that meant gathering up a few women or ignoring a duffel bag tossed over the wall. Dante wasn’t really worried about the men talking—the language barrier would prevent that, and besides, the girls were headed to a pit in the desert afterward. They’d keep the boys occupied for a few days. And by then they should have their marching orders.
    The thought reenergized him. It had taken years to set this thing in motion. Hard to believe that by this time next week, they’d be guiding the nation back on its true path.
    Dante headed to the opposite end of the warehouse and ran a hand along the side of a truck. Two others just like it lined the back of the room, waiting to be called into commission. He allowed himself a small smile as a whoop from the card table signaled the arrival of the girls.

Eight
    “I t’s not like that.” Randall sighed. “I send a text when I’ve got something for them, and they respond with instructions on where to drop it off.”
    “So you’ve never spoken to an actual human?” Jake pressed. He’d persuaded Randall to leave work a few hours early so they could talk. Randall’s apartment screamed bachelor pad. It was a small, cluttered one-bedroom. The walls were bare, and aside from the futon couch and a tiny TV on a rickety table, there was little in the way of decor. Clearly Randall didn’t subscribe to any Martha Stewart publications.
    “Once, when they first contacted me. I thought it was a joke at first.” He paused, examining his hands. “It never occurred to me that my family might actually be in danger.”
    Jake thought that for a smart guy, at times Randall was staggeringly clueless. Maybe a bus driver could be nonchalant in the face of such threats, but it should’ve given a guy working at a top secret government lab pause. Still he nodded sympathetically. “Sure. What did he look like?”
    “He was a big guy, white, bald. Wore a hat and sunglasses, so it’s kind of hard to say. Lots of tattoos.”
    “Interesting.” Eastern European gangsters mapped their entire criminal life on their bodies with tattoos. “Any accent?”
    “He wasn’t foreign, if that’s what you’re asking. Southern, I think, but I’m not sure which state.”
    “Okay.” Jake paused to think. Maybe a foreign operative trained to mimic American accents. Or a mercenary who lived stateside. “You sent your ex and daughter off to stay with a relative, like we discussed?”
    “Yes, they went yesterday.”
    “And didn’t tell anyone where they were going, right?”
    Randall nodded.
    “So back to the million dollar question. Any idea who took Madison?”
    “I told you—”
    “Because now we think it might be someone from one of the former Soviet bloc countries.” Jake watched him closely, but nothing seemed to register. “Turkmenistan, maybe.”
    “Turkmenistan? But that doesn’t make any sense.” Randall’s brows furrowed.
    “Look, Randall. I don’t know much about your work, but I’m guessing it has something to do with nuclear materials.” When Randall didn’t respond, Jake had to fight the urge to throttle him.