Read Online Craig Kreident #2 Fallout by Doug Beason Kevin J Anderson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Doug Beason Kevin J Anderson
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again when we have arranged all the details,” Jenkins said. “Go brief the investigator yourself, so we can keep the number of people involved to a minimum.”
Overhead the fighter jets streaked northward toward the Nellis Air Force Base. Probably to see the UFOs Doog and his friends believed in , she thought sourly. She drew another deep, deep breath of the dry desert air. What a day this was turning out to be.
The sleek aircraft vanished into the haze at the horizon.
CHAPTER 8
Tuesday, October 21
4:07 P.M.
Hoover Dam
In the bright afternoon, Craig Kreident stood at the observation towers atop the Hoover Dam, peering down the vast expanse of concrete like the world’s most terrifying ski slope. Traffic rolled steadily behind him; tourists walked from the Visitor’s Center to the observation towers to the gift shop.
The area had returned to normal, despite the bustling wrap-up conducted by teams of FBI experts in one of the dam’s administrative meeting rooms, which had been converted into a temporary operations center.
Craig leaned against the railing, still exhausted from his adrenaline hangover. He tapped his fingers on the rail, shuffling from one spot to another, though the spectacular view did not change. He watched investigators moving about far below, combing the buildings for other evidence of sabotage.
It felt good to relax, but a sour feeling lingered in his stomach. In his mind Craig could still see the wild eyes of the bomber as he stepped backward, “I can go to Heaven.” It was never good to have someone killed during a bust. It demonstrated the volatility of his work, the uncertainty that accompanied every law-enforcement situation. Given a simple twist of fate, he himself could be dead instead.
What could he have done differently, what precautions should he have taken? He’d seen that guilt ruin competent investigators, blunt their edges as they worried too much about consequences to make rapid decisions in the line of fire. He had to work on developing internal calluses.
The law classes he’d taken at Stanford had dealt with such issues in esoteric ways — there, the world was black and white, right or wrong, making purely academic sense. Those self-confident professors didn’t have to deal with the gritty world Craig saw; he had realized the difference even when he had worked for a private investigator while putting himself through school.
The last time Craig had let down his guard, during a bust for white-collar crime, the president of a small computer-chip manufacturing firm had committed suicide. Had he been at fault then as well? The tragedy had resulted in a temporary administrative leave, but ultimately Craig had been cleared. And what about this morning?
You’re already in dreamland, man. . .
As he stood gathering his thoughts, Mr. Garcia came up to him, removing his yellow hardhat. He ran his fingers through short gray hair. “Agent Kreident, I want to report that one of my workers is missing.” Craig immediately snapped to attention. “He was here this morning when I called the meeting, but I can’t find him now. With all the mess today, I didn’t notice until now. His name is Bryce Connors.”
“You got a glimpse of the guy who took a swan dive into the water,” Craig said. “Could that have been Connors?”
The supervisor shook his head. “No, that guy was tall and skinny. Connors is short, broad shouldered, square jawed, and with very dark hair, the kind that gave him a five o’clock shadow by lunch time.”
Craig remained skeptical. “You don’t think he just got spooked and ran when he heard about the bomb?”
“Spooked?” Garcia laughed weakly. “No — Bryce Connors is the type to spit at an oncoming truck. Not real bright, mind you, but cowardly is not a word I think of when describing him.”
Craig let the words spin through
Overhead the fighter jets streaked northward toward the Nellis Air Force Base. Probably to see the UFOs Doog and his friends believed in , she thought sourly. She drew another deep, deep breath of the dry desert air. What a day this was turning out to be.
The sleek aircraft vanished into the haze at the horizon.
CHAPTER 8
Tuesday, October 21
4:07 P.M.
Hoover Dam
In the bright afternoon, Craig Kreident stood at the observation towers atop the Hoover Dam, peering down the vast expanse of concrete like the world’s most terrifying ski slope. Traffic rolled steadily behind him; tourists walked from the Visitor’s Center to the observation towers to the gift shop.
The area had returned to normal, despite the bustling wrap-up conducted by teams of FBI experts in one of the dam’s administrative meeting rooms, which had been converted into a temporary operations center.
Craig leaned against the railing, still exhausted from his adrenaline hangover. He tapped his fingers on the rail, shuffling from one spot to another, though the spectacular view did not change. He watched investigators moving about far below, combing the buildings for other evidence of sabotage.
It felt good to relax, but a sour feeling lingered in his stomach. In his mind Craig could still see the wild eyes of the bomber as he stepped backward, “I can go to Heaven.” It was never good to have someone killed during a bust. It demonstrated the volatility of his work, the uncertainty that accompanied every law-enforcement situation. Given a simple twist of fate, he himself could be dead instead.
What could he have done differently, what precautions should he have taken? He’d seen that guilt ruin competent investigators, blunt their edges as they worried too much about consequences to make rapid decisions in the line of fire. He had to work on developing internal calluses.
The law classes he’d taken at Stanford had dealt with such issues in esoteric ways — there, the world was black and white, right or wrong, making purely academic sense. Those self-confident professors didn’t have to deal with the gritty world Craig saw; he had realized the difference even when he had worked for a private investigator while putting himself through school.
The last time Craig had let down his guard, during a bust for white-collar crime, the president of a small computer-chip manufacturing firm had committed suicide. Had he been at fault then as well? The tragedy had resulted in a temporary administrative leave, but ultimately Craig had been cleared. And what about this morning?
You’re already in dreamland, man. . .
As he stood gathering his thoughts, Mr. Garcia came up to him, removing his yellow hardhat. He ran his fingers through short gray hair. “Agent Kreident, I want to report that one of my workers is missing.” Craig immediately snapped to attention. “He was here this morning when I called the meeting, but I can’t find him now. With all the mess today, I didn’t notice until now. His name is Bryce Connors.”
“You got a glimpse of the guy who took a swan dive into the water,” Craig said. “Could that have been Connors?”
The supervisor shook his head. “No, that guy was tall and skinny. Connors is short, broad shouldered, square jawed, and with very dark hair, the kind that gave him a five o’clock shadow by lunch time.”
Craig remained skeptical. “You don’t think he just got spooked and ran when he heard about the bomb?”
“Spooked?” Garcia laughed weakly. “No — Bryce Connors is the type to spit at an oncoming truck. Not real bright, mind you, but cowardly is not a word I think of when describing him.”
Craig let the words spin through
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