Griffin didn’t bother sharing this information with Silva, though. “Get your mind out of the locker room and back into the op, Silva,” he commanded before jumping out of the car.
Leslie had her team of agents in place just outside the bay doors leading into the warehouse. Griffin’s team positioned themselves along the perimeter of the building, blocking all the possible escape routes. Based on the intel they’d gathered from the agents manning the stakeout, there was only one person inside. Presumably, he was packing up the printing presses, ink, and specialty paper to move to their next site.
“Okay, team, let’s see who’s at home.”
Leslie had no sooner gotten the words out when one of the garage doors opened. A rental box truck, its engine running, filled the warehouse bay. Sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck, a young man, wearing a Yankees baseball cap, stared wide-eyed at the twenty assault rifles trained on him.
“Federal agents,” Leslie called out to him. “Come out of the truck slowly with your hands where we can see them.”
Griffin watched the driver’s mouth turn up in a sneer as he reached for the gear shift.
“I’m going to disable the vehicle!” Griffin shouted while he aimed his rifle at the truck’s front tire. “I want this guy alive.”
The windshield exploded before Griffin could get the shot off, however. The box truck never moved, its engine quietly idling. Through the shattered glass, Griffin could see the driver leaning against the blood-spattered back wall of the cab, his eyes still wide and a perfect black hole in the Yankee emblem of his baseball cap. Chaos followed as Griffin swore violently.
“Damn it! Who the hell took that shot? I’ll have your ass fired tonight!”
Leslie was yelling for the strike force to check the perimeter rooftops as sirens peeled in the background. All Griffin could hear was the roaring in his ears. He took two steps toward the truck before Silva grabbed him, pulling him behind the line of vans.
“Stay back, Keller,” he said. “We need to check the area for explosives.”
Fuck. Not only was his best lead dead, but all the evidence could be blown to bits, as well. Two agents dressed in explosive ordinance disposal clothing exited one of the FBI vans, each with a dog by his side. The agents slowly circled the truck as the dogs danced around the chassis, sniffing for explosives. Like the dogs, Griffin was filled with his own nervous energy, pacing as the agents and their canine partners seemed to take their time inspecting the truck.
“The shot came from a rooftop two buildings away, Agent Morgan,” a voice said over the transmitter. “The shooter got away.”
Griffin ripped his receiver from his ear and let it dangle down over his shoulder as he swore viciously again. He didn’t want to hear about anyone escaping. Not tonight when he’d been so close to breaking the case wide open. His gut had been right about someone else watching the place. Whoever it was, they hadn’t bothered warning the kid in the truck. They simply silenced him instead.
“Can we make this go any faster?” He practically growled the question at Leslie who’d come up to stand beside him.
Griffin was impatient to get inside that truck to see if the gang had left any clues to their identity. Specifically, clues that would lead him to The Artist. Not that he believed he’d find anything, but there was always a chance the black hats had slipped up. Griffin didn’t want to stand around with his hands in his pockets while potential leads slipped away.
Leslie shot him a sympathetic look, but that was the only thing soft about her. “I won’t jeopardize the safety of anyone on this team, Agent Keller.”
She was right, of course. Busting into the truck would have to wait until the area was secure. Her ability to keep cool under fire was one of the things Griffin respected about the FBI Special Agent. Griffin had a tendency to act first and think later. A trait that bugged the crap out of his parents when he was a teenager, followed by every supervisor he’d ever had. He shoved his earpiece back in and continued his pacing.
“The lobby area is clear, Agent Morgan,” a voice said.
“Copy that,” Leslie said. “As soon as the bomb squad gives the all clear, forensics can go in and sweep.”
He ceased pacing and stood to watch as one of the bomb squad agents carefully opened the driver’s door. Griffin held his breath as the agent slowly turned the key, killing the ignition. He then checked the driver’s pulse before shaking his head, telling those assembled what they already knew. The guy would be heading to the morgue rather than an interrogation room. Griffin swore in frustration.
“The dogs aren’t picking up anything,” one of the bomb squad agents relayed through the transmitter. “I’m going to do a quick X-ray of the truck’s container just to be sure.”
“Ten-four, Agent Oswald,” Leslie replied.
Not wanting to wait any longer, Griffin sought out the two Secret Service agents he’d had staking out the warehouse. Mark Phillips trotted out from one of the nearby buildings, presumably the one where the sniper had fired his fatal shot.
Phillips shook his head when he saw Griffin. “Nothing. Not even a gum wrapper up there. I cordoned it off anyway. Maybe the forensics team can find something that will help.” Phillips dragged in a lungful of the night air. “That wasn’t an easy shot to make,” he said. “Whoever pulled the trigger was a trained sniper. A damn good one.”
Griffin made a mental note to check with his buddy from their days at West Point, Adam Lockett, a former army sniper who now served as a commander on the Secret Service Counter Assault Team. It was Adam’s job to know who and where the best shots in the world were. Keeping tabs on his competition was a source of pride for Adam who considered himself to be at the top of that list of the world’s best shots.
“I still can’t figure out why the shooter didn’t take more people out,” Phillips said. “Hell, he could have decimated the New York field offices of both the Secret Service and the FBI in one round.”
Griffin stared at the warehouse where the bomb-sniffing dogs sat at attention while their handlers x-rayed the truck with handheld machines. “That wasn’t his mission. This group is arrogant. Whatever we find in that truck will be sterile as the day it came from the factory. The tools can be replaced. As long as they have The Artist, they can set up shop somewhere else.” He kicked at a lamppost in disgust.
Two black sedans with sirens flashing rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop in front of Griffin. He blew out a heavy breath, having no doubt each car contained the director of both agency’s field offices. Steve Kass, the Secret Service field director of the New York office, alighted from his car first.
“What the hell happened, Keller?” he demanded as the FBI field director made his way out of his car and over to where Leslie was still trying to keep charge of the scene. “You told me this was as close to a sure thing as it gets. I’d assumed we would arrive in time to see you leading out counterfeiters in handcuffs.”
“It would seem someone didn’t want to leave behind anything that could incriminate the rest of the gang,” Griffin said. “Including the driver.”
“The truck is clean, Agent Morgan,” the bomb squad agent relayed thru Griffin’s earpiece.