At 0900, Kriegel followed McLeary through the labyrinth of office cubicles, each with a bank of video surveillance monitors operated by Disney security personnel. “This better be good,” he told McLeary, who pointed to a monitor depicting a black Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows parked in the section labeled Goofy thirty-nine.
McLeary reached over the security guard’s shoulder and pressed the zoom button on the camera joystick, causing the screen to narrow on the Florida license plate.
“The Lincoln’s been sitting there for two hours,” said the guard. “I didn’t think twice about it when it first arrived until I realized no one ever got out. I ran the plates. The vehicle’s registered to a Victor Jones from Sanford.”
“Did anything else pop up on this guy?”
“I ran his social through the system. Not even a parking ticket.”
Kriegel rubbed his chin. “And you’re certain no one left the vehicle?”
“I never left my post. If that’s what you’re asking me.”
“Work with me,” said Kriegel. “I’m not here to bust your balls.”
“The SUV caught my attention when it diverted from the middle parking space in the center row and moved to another section with fewer cars around.”
Kriegel focused on the image of the black SUV. He turned to McLeary. “Too easy.”
“A diversion?” said McLeary.
“Should we send a team?”
“Not yet. Not until we know what we’re dealing with.”
“Then I’ll check it out myself.”
* * *
McLeary drove Kriegel’s Towncar from the reserved space out front to the parking lot near the main entrance. He trailed a group of tourists until he reached row thirty-nine and stopped to look around, waving a mother and her baby stroller across his path.
He drove slowly behind the black Navigator to inspect the tinted rear window before he parked several car lengths up ahead and backtracked toward the suspicious vehicle on foot.
He brandished his Kimber .45 and approached the driver’s side from the mirror’s blind spot to work his way toward the front. Observing his reflection in the limo-black windows, he could only imagine what lurked behind the glass. Why did the SUV move away from the crowded center section? What if anything or anyone still lurks inside? Is Victor Jones another alias or a squeaky clean asset recruited by Abdullah’s men to do their dirty work?
He glanced at the crowded parking lot, diverting his attention with the thought of someone standing nearby, watching and waiting with a wireless detonation device. If he failed, his life could be the first of many to end in a massive explosion that would decimate the SUV and leave a crater in its wake. Or the first of thousands exposed to a deadly plume of weaponized anthrax spores.
He reached for the door handle and discovered it unlocked, his heart pounding in his throat as he found the front seat empty with the keys still hanging from the ignition.
He panned his gun toward the back and leaned around the driver’s seat.
A naked teenager shoved his hands in the air and shouted, “Don’t shoot!” A naked girl cowered beside him.
McLeary lowered his weapon and took his finger off the trigger. “Sorry,” he mumbled with a smirk on his face. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
“Please don’t tell them,” the girl pleaded.
“Get dressed and get home.” McLeary touched the transceiver in his ear. “No joy,” he told Kriegel.
“What did you find?” Kriegel replied.
“A couple teenagers making out.” McLeary checked his watch and glanced at the crowded monorail transporting passengers along the concrete beam mounted two stories above him. “How many passengers does the monorail transport in a day?”
McLeary followed the train with his gaze. “Kriegel?”
“About a hundred thousand visitors. On a slow day.”
McLeary jogged back to his car. “Contact teams three and four. Tell them to meet us in the control room. I’ve got a bad feeling.”