Chapter 3
“Your grandmother is here.”
FBI special agent Max Rhodes heard the amusement in Melissa’s voice as she spoke through his intercom.
From the other side of his desk, Special Agent Mercy Kilpatrick snorted. “Your grandmother is going to make us all fat.”
“I told her that and suggested she bring something else,” said Max.
He’d worked at the FBI’s Bend office for four weeks, and every Monday morning his grandmother Paulette had shown up with doughnuts and usually a friend in tow.
She liked showing off her FBI grandson. He sighed and got to his feet. “I’ll be right back,” he told Mercy.
“I’ll start a fresh pot of coffee to go with the doughnuts.”
He grinned and headed toward the reception area, nodding at data analyst Darby Cowan as they passed each other.
“Dibs on the maple bar,” said Darby.
“You’ll have to arm-wrestle Jeff for it.”
“Not a problem.” She flexed and continued down the hall.
Max knew everyone’s name in Bend’s small office, and he liked it.
No unfamiliar faces here. He’d transferred from the large Sacramento office to be closer to family.
His sister Keira and her husband, TJ, lived in town in addition to his grandmother.
His mother and other two sisters were in Medford, where he’d grown up, which was a little more than three hours away.
Who am I kidding?
He’d initiated the inquiry to see if the Bend office would be interested in another agent because he’d fallen for Noelle Marshall and hadn’t wanted to return to Sacramento. He broke into a wide smile as he thought about her, positive that his blind leap to Oregon had been the right move.
So far, so good.
Better than good. Every day, Max wanted more time with her.
He opened the security door to reception and greeted Paulette.
His grandmother was a tall woman, her posture always straight as could be.
She’d come alone, and her gray eyes lit up when she saw him.
She turned to pick up a tray from the corner table and then held it out with a smile. “Is this better?”
It was a tray of sliced vegetables and fruit.
The office is going to kill me.
“That’s terrific,” he said, taking the tray. “Thank you.”
“Bullshit,” she said, her eyes narrowed on him. “This is not better than doughnuts.”
“It’s hard to beat doughnuts,” he agreed. “But this is a good change. For this visit anyway,” he said, hoping she got the message that doughnuts were still welcome.
“Hmph.” She looked him up and down. “Do you have time for coffee?”
“Not today. I’m in the middle of something.”
“What are you working on?”
She always asked; he rarely answered. “Nothing I can share right now. Maybe in a few weeks.” It was his standard reply.
“I need something I can tell them about,” she said, referring to her group of friends at the retirement community. “I’m tired of hearing about Doris’s grandson in the marines.”
There was a subtle competition among her friends over whose relative was doing the most important work in the world.
“Maybe next time I’ll have something for you.” He looked at the tray in his hand. “Are the doughnuts and this a weekly bribe to get me to share about my job?” he said, tongue in cheek.
A shocked expression filled her face. “Of course not. I’m just happy to finally have you in town more.”
Paulette was a master of the passive-aggressive comment. And at piling guilt on her grandchildren for not visiting enough.
“You’ll be at dinner at Keira’s this week?” Max’s casual reminder that she did see her grandchildren.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
He kissed her cheek and thanked her again.
As he went down the hall, Darby stopped him and stared at the tray, her eyes wide. “What did you do?”
“Everyone complained about the calories,” said Max, knowing he would be grilled by the entire office.
“Well, yeah. But that doesn’t mean we want the doughnuts to stop.” She gave him a stern look and then took several slices of red pepper, biting into one with a loud crunch.
Max continued to his office and steeled himself for Mercy’s reaction.
Her face showed profound disappointment, but she helped herself to some apple slices. “This is better for us, but I did pack a light lunch since I expected a doughnut this morning.”
Max set the tray on his desk and then sat. “Where were we?”
“The letter,” said Mercy, taking a carrot stick.
“Right.”
Portland FBI counterterrorism had sent a brief about an intercepted piece of mail.
It was just one example of an increase in chatter they’d picked up about a possible large terrorism event in Oregon.
Chatter meaning a number of things that had been intercepted: emails, snail mail, phone calls, and rumors.
“This is your area of expertise,” said Max.
“I wouldn’t say expertise, but I did spend quite a bit of time in counterterrorism. It’s like sifting a beach of sand while hunting for a few little rocks. There is an incredible amount of information to go through.”
“How do you know what’s important?”
“After doing the job for a while, you get a feel for things that aren’t right, or you see patterns. It’s easier when you’re looking for something in particular.”
“I had to look up the reference in the letter where the writer said, ‘The boogaloo is rising.’ I’d never heard of boogaloo.
At first I thought it referred to music.
” Max frowned. “The boogaloo concept isn’t very clear.
After researching everything, I got the feeling that it’s used however someone wants. ”
“That’s accurate,” said Mercy. “In general the term boogaloo refers to a future civil war in the US. But it’s not clear how that is to come about.
I’ve seen extreme boogaloo groups that call for action against the government to provoke the war, other groups that simply preach being prepared for this war, and others that believe the government will create this war by oppressing the people—usually this refers to taking their guns or other rights. ”
“There doesn’t seem to be a centralized network for people who follow the movement.”
“There is not. And there’s no central ideology.
Essentially boogaloo is rather new, starting back in the early 2010s.
We’ve had boogaloo groups espouse white supremacy while other groups demonstrated along with racial justice protesters.
Oddly, some have aligned themselves with the BLM movements, speaking out against police brutality, but some suspect this alignment was to have a cover for violence.
The common thread seems to be an attraction to areas of high tension.
They like chaos and taking advantage of any kind of chaos. ”
“I assume they spread information and recruit on the internet?”
“Of course,” said Mercy. “Their presence has increased since 2020.”
“So what’s it mean for us?”
“The usual. Keep an ear and eye out. They can be violent, or they can be peaceful. There’s no predicting what they’re about.”
Their boss, Jeff Garrison, appeared in the open doorway. “I heard that your grandmother—” He stared at the tray. “What’s that?”
“My grandmother,” Max said wearily.
“Huh.” Jeff looked at the tray for a long moment and then selected a pea pod.
“I’ve got something else to add to your brief from Portland counterterrorism.
One of them met with a CI who claims he heard through the grapevine that maybe something was going to happen in central Oregon.
It lines up with some of their other vague information. ”
“Central Oregon or Bend specifically?” asked Mercy.
“He didn’t say Bend.”
“That’s all they got from him?” Max asked.
“Yes.”
“And his source?” asked Mercy.
“Said he didn’t have a source. Just ‘heard’ something.” Jeff grimaced. “Yeah, I know. It’s weak. You should receive an email about it soon. But Portland sees a possibility of something brewing over here, so we sent word to the primary federal buildings to increase their security.”
“Better not be about destroying power substations,” muttered Mercy. “Not again. But last time that was just a few unorganized locals who shot them up. Portland didn’t hear a thing before that happened.”
“Any big, organized events happening here soon?” asked Max. “A concert or convention?”
“I’ll get Darby on that,” said Jeff. “There’s the expo center, and a few hotels have convention space. I’m glad it’s still too cold for outdoor concerts.”
“Reservoirs, dams,” said Max. “What else could be a target?”
“Shopping malls, schools, colleges,” said Mercy, writing out a list. “Churches, temples, mosques, synagogues.”
Max was overwhelmed. “We need more information.”
Jeff nodded. “I’ll get it to you as soon as I hear anything. Meanwhile, is there someone local who might have heard some rumors?” He looked at Mercy.
Her face lost expression. “I’ll ask.”
“Thanks, Mercy.” Jeff grabbed the rest of the pea pods and left.
Max eyed her for a long moment. She was focused on her list, but he suspected that wasn’t what she was thinking about. Jeff had said something that had upset her. “What did Jeff mean, Mercy?”
She sighed. “You know my whole family is in the area, right?”
“You’ve told me that.” He knew a lot of her family were heavily into prepping. Their daily activities focused on being prepared for any disaster.
“At one time my brother got a little too involved with some militia types. My father has had some brushes too.” She snorted. “And then there was my dead uncle, who was up to his eyeballs in it. But hardly anyone knew it was him.”
“He was killed?” asked Max, feeling she had left something out.
“Well, growing up, we were all told that my uncle had been killed in the Mount Saint Helens eruption in 1980. Turned out he wasn’t.
He’d used it as an opportunity to change his identity—he was in hot water with the feds at the time—and later became a leader of one of the largest militias in the area.
Their activities got him killed just a few years ago. ”
“That’s nuts, but I’ve heard of people who used 9/11 for the same purpose. Didn’t work out.”
“We have better tech these days,” said Mercy. “Everyone leaves a digital trail. Not so much in 1980. Anyway, Jeff implied that he wants me to ask my brother and father if they’ve heard anything.”
“Wouldn’t they have already told you?”
She gave a small smile. “Nope. Heavy distrust of law enforcement is in their blood.”
“But you’re family.”
Mercy shrugged. “They have their own code. They didn’t speak to me for a very long time for various reasons. It’s much better now, but I keep my expectations low.”
“Will they tell you the truth?” asked Max.
“I think they will if I’m very direct.” She raised her brows. “Families. Am I right?” she joked.
“You’re very right.” Max thought about the family history he hadn’t shared with Noelle.
I will eventually.
“I might have a better source than my brother or father,” Mercy said thoughtfully, looking out the window. “Want to go meet someone?”
“Like a confidential informant?”
“Yes, a CI, but she helps out because she respects me. And because I pay her.”
“Why didn’t Jeff suggest her?”
Mercy gave him a side-eye. “Because it’s confidential.”
Max’s interest was piqued. “Let’s go.”