Free Out at Night by Susan Arnout Smith Page B

control center out of L.A.—”
    “Right. OCC’s set up to manage big situations. We’ve been lining up assets and manpower for months, pulling in bodies from all over Southern California. Field Intelligence monitors Internet chatter, blog sites, confidential sources. We have reason to believe a group calling itself Radical Damage has plans to disrupt the agricultural convention during closing ceremonies. ”
    “What is it?”
    “A violent offshoot of ELF out of Northern California.”
    He shifted in his seat.
    “These guys aren’t worried about collateral damage. They’ve taken credit for explosions in three labs that have led to the death of four scientists and crippling injuries to five others. One guy was left blind and without hands. The vics all worked with genetically modified plants. Here’s what’s at stake. There are delegates from every state and almost sixty countries at this ag convention. Frank Waggaman’s had death threats. He heads up the teams that created ten fields of GM crops here, six soy, a couple of sugar beets, and two corns.”
    “I didn’t think any of that stuff grew here.”
    “That’s why they picked Palm Springs for the convention. The genetic modifications—each field tweaked differently—had to do with making crops drought-, pest-, and-weed-resistant. Ag convention director Frank Waggaman believed that one field in particular, USDA Experimental Crop Project 3627, held the key to helping solve world hunger.”
    Grace stared. “And that’s where Bartholomew was killed? In USDA Experimental Crop 3627.”
    Pete nodded. “This whole thing could explode in our faces. The GM fields are off-limits now to delegates, but all we need is a foreign delegate killed and an international incident on our watch.”
    “Monday night.”
    “Monday night.” He glared at Grace, his eyes small balls of bright fury under drooping lids. “Two days from now. We need to figure out what Radical Damage has planned and stop it. The clock, as they say, is ticking. And damn, I hate that expression.”
    “Same old Uncle Pete. You still haven’t told me how I fit into this.”
    He glared. “Same old Grace. Always pushing it.” He stepped away from the table. “We’re done here. Not you, Grace. You’re coming with me.”

Chapter 10
    She followed her uncle past a gray fabric wall with notices tacked to it. On the other side of the wall was a row of work stations with access to a balcony that ran the length of the agency. Her uncle’s silence made her review every wrong thing she’d ever done. He kept walking and that gave her a chance to flip it, and think about every wrong thing he’d ever done, and by the time he opened his office door and motioned her in, she was herself again.
    He stood uncertainly, as if wondering whether to hug her, and Grace pretended to dig through her bag. She dropped into the chair across the desk from him, and when she looked up, he was seated.
    He looked smaller, somehow, diminished. His shirt had a button loose and he needed a shave. “Thanks for coming.”
    “Did I have a choice?” She folded her arms.
    He studied her a long moment. “I don’t think there’s anything I could have done that would have changed it.”
    Grace looked away. The walls were devoid of personal touches except of a framed photo of a much younger Pete in a SWAT group shot, but family photos jammed the top of the filing cabinets behind him. Her eyes settled on a black-and-white of three dark-eyed skinny boys shivering in wet swimming trunks, arms around each other. Her body knew it before it registered in her mind; heat coursed through her and pressed against her eyes. Her dad smiled back, the one in the middle, a tooth missing, squinting at the camera.
    “He always looked up to you.” Her voice caught.
    “When your dad ran off with Lottie—”
    “We were cut out of almost every family gathering, and why? Because he’d married outside the faith? Outside the Portuguese community? Give