Although Mark Vasko had been cautious enough to turn off his phone as soon as he stepped off the plane, the high-end Mercedes he drove had no such luxury. Its onboard GPS tracker gave away his movements.
Using the vehicle data provided by the ATF (Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives), the FBI tracked him from the Milford airstrip to Danbury, a small industrial city in southwestern Connecticut. After driving in circles for a while, Vasko had parked his car at the Golden Sun Casino, where he was currently indulging himself.
At the same time Jack returned to the operations center, a team of FBI field agents positioned outside the casino was ready to act. Once Jack gave the green light, they stormed the building and arrested Vasko without incident.
"Don't you ever sleep?" Jubal yawned as he entered the operations center, catching Jack just as he hung up the phone.
"Got a few hours. You didn't seem to get much yourself," Jack replied, pouring him a cup of coffee and gesturing to the corner of his own eye to point out that Jubal still had crusty eye discharge.
"Thanks. This stuff is keeping me alive." Jubal didn't care about appearances and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand before downing half the coffee in one gulp. He let out a long sigh of relief.
"You'll learn when you hit my age that getting a good night's sleep is one of life's greatest luxuries. Maybe once we catch Emma Kane and her crew, I'll finally take that vacation I keep putting off."
"I can get you some herbal teas that'll help you sleep better. You're probably just over-caffeinated." Jack smiled as he poured himself a cup, though he was mostly drinking it for the sugar boost, knowing the next tasks would be mentally exhausting.
Jubal shook his head and pulled out a small medallion from his pocket. "No thanks. I'm dry now—no alcohol, not even Irish coffee."
"Uh, I wasn't talking about booze." Jack blinked, intrigued by the medallion, which he'd never seen before. It was a simple brass token engraved with "One Year" and some religious symbols.
Jubal had mentioned once that he'd struggled with alcoholism, which had caused his marriage to fall apart and cost him custody of his two kids. Fortunately, his ex-wife hadn't cut off his visitation rights, which kept him from spiraling further. Jubal had eventually turned his life around, but not without paying a heavy price.
"It's just herbal tea, with a few ingredients to boost your health," Jack offered again, amused by the idea of turning the FBI into a haven of agents armed with thermoses and goji berries.
After a bit of banter, the conversation turned serious. Jack spread out a map of Connecticut on the table and circled a spot on it.
"I suspect Emma Kane already made her deal with Mark Vasko. When our agents grabbed him at the casino, he'd just lost $50,000 in chips. They found another $150,000 in cash in his briefcase.
He's been screaming for a lawyer and refusing to talk, but I've already asked the field agents to send his clothes to the CSI lab to check for explosive residue."
Jubal drained the rest of his coffee and tapped the circled area on the map. "You think this place—Eagle Road—is where the transaction took place?"
"Exactly." Jack held up the GPS tracking data he'd retrieved. "Vasko made a detour to a garbage transfer station there and stayed for about 20 minutes. It's isolated, quiet, and the perfect spot for a deal. I want to check it out myself."
"Take a CSI team with you. Let's hope we find something useful." Jubal glanced at his vibrating phone, answered briefly, then hung up and continued, "LaCroix is on his way back. Once Vasko is brought in, he'll handle the interrogation. Same with that ICE official, Austin Stevens. They should have plenty to talk about."
"You got that dirtbag Stevens too?" Jack raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. The efficiency was impressive—he'd been prepared to hold onto ICE rookie Giselle as a precaution, just to see what move Emma Kane might make involving LaCroix's daughter.
"It was a secret operation personally overseen by Dana. ICE still doesn't know we grabbed him. We're keeping this quiet until we've dealt with Emma Kane."
It was clear that both Jubal and Dana Moret had come to the same conclusion as Jack: the fewer people who knew about Stevens' capture, the better.
"Alright, I'll leave things here to you," Jack said as he grabbed his coat and headed out of the operations center.
Jack first stopped to refuel his Dodge Hellcat before heading to the CSI lab to meet with Mac Taylor, who looked as perpetually tired as ever, his prominent eye bags making him look like he hadn't slept in years.
Mac didn't waste time with pleasantries, delivering the bad news straight away. "We found traces of Semtex on Vasko's clothes."
Semtex, a plastic explosive first developed in Czechoslovakia in the 1950s, was primarily composed of RDX (Research Department Explosive) and PETN (Pentaerythritol Tetranitrate). Its detonation velocity was 5,000 meters per second.
Though PETN had been phased out in regulated military applications due to its volatility, it was still widely available in underground markets and even in pharmaceuticals for treating angina. Its accessibility and malleability made Semtex a popular choice for illicit explosives.
"That's about the worst-case scenario," Jack muttered grimly. "How much Semtex do you think they bought?"
"Right now, a pound of Semtex goes for around $1,500 on the black market. With the $200,000 we know Vasko had, that's at least 130 pounds. That's more than enough to bring down a medium-sized building."
Jack relayed the findings to Dana Moret over the phone. Her voice, though calm, betrayed her alarm. "If that much Semtex goes off in a densely populated area, we're looking at casualties in the hundreds. And considering Kane's track record—attacking a church, for instance—their next target could be just as horrifying."
Jack thought of the numerous historic and religious sites in New York City: St. Patrick's Cathedral and St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue, or the Cathedral of St. John the Divine at Columbia University. Any one of them would be a devastating target, not just in terms of lives lost but in cultural and historical significance.
"We'll put everything into breaking Vasko. He's not seeing his lawyer anytime soon. And Stevens—if he knows anything about Kane's plans, we'll get it out of him."
Hanging up, Jack climbed into his car and headed to Connecticut with Mac Taylor.
An hour and a half later, Jack's Hellcat and a CSI van pulled into the garbage transfer station on Eagle Road.
"We've identified five sets of footprints from different individuals and two sets of tire tracks," Mac's colleague Stella Bonasera reported. "One set is from a Ford Raptor F-150, the other from a high-end Mercedes."
She held up a small, ornate box and gave it a shake. "Guess what I found?"
"What's that?" Jack asked, curious.
"A remote-controlled toy car," Stella replied, opening the box to reveal the intact car. "But the remote and the receiver chip inside the car are missing."
"Don't tell me they're using this to rig a remote-detonated bomb," Jack said, already guessing the answer.
"Exactly," Mac confirmed, examining the toy. "They're clearly not professionals, but Vasko didn't just sell them the explosives. He went the extra mile and gave them the tools to build their device."
The discovery made Jack's blood boil. Not only had Vasko sold the materials, but he'd also provided on-the-spot technical support to help create a functional remote bomb. It made him itch to head back and personally interrogate Vasko, though he trusted LaCroix would handle it well enough.
"Playing the role of an arms dealer and a customer service rep. What's next, a how-to manual? This guy thinks he's Nicolas Cage in Lord of War," Jack muttered sarcastically.
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