Patriot Lies (Jack Widow Book 14)

by Scott Blade

  He said, “We’ve made enough mistakes. This time, we get it right.”

  “We still going to kill him? More bodies could mean more problems.”

  The guy with the forgettable face looked at the bald guy, said nothing.

  Just then, his phone buzzed. He got a text message that he had been waiting for.

  He looked at it and said, “Okay. We got his phone number. I don’t think he’s going anywhere. Let’s drive. We need to find a better kill spot.”

  The bald guy smiled and took his foot off the brake, and they drove back through the neighborhood, back out to the main roads.

  Twenty-Two

  Widow read his new paperback book until the sun was beginning to set. Then he glanced up as he must’ve done a thousand times over the last few hours.

  Haspman’s truck was still parked, still in the same reserved space. He hadn’t left yet.

  Around five o’clock, the fire door to the parking lot opened, and a stream of office workers and firefighters streamed out, got into their cars, and drove away for the day.

  Widow figured that Haspman wouldn’t be one of them. No way did a guy like that, with an upfront, close reserved parking space go through the inconvenience of dealing with rush-hour traffic. And being the head of the department, he couldn’t just leave early, not on a regular basis. He had to think about the optics. How would that look?

  Widow figured the guy wasn’t lying about being the last to leave, but not out of some sense of duty to do the best job he could do. It was so he’d miss all the trouble of leaving when all his coworkers left.

  Widow knew that DC traffic at the end of the workday was a slugfest to get home. But after the sun went down, and after most of the workers from the city had already fought through traffic to get out to the surrounding neighborhoods, the city was a different story altogether.

  Widow waited through sundown, and after most of the five to seven o’clock workers had all left, to make a move. He needed to do more than just sit there and wait all day for Haspman to leave his office. He wasn’t going to learn anything by simply watching the man leave.

  Tunney had taken the only vehicle he had access to, which meant that he was going to have to get creative.

  Widow left the book behind. He’d nearly finished it but didn’t want to be stuck carrying it around. He liked to carry nothing, or as close as he could get. He finished his third refill of coffee from the coffee shop/bookstore and tossed the paper cup into a trashcan that was inside a metal contraption that kept people from stealing it off the street. And then, he looked up and down the street. There was no sign of anyone.

  He crossed the street keeping his hands in his pockets. He made eye contact with the parking attendant, who was now wideawake and at attention at his post. This was his time of day to be alert.

  Widow made his way across Fourteenth Street and turned left. He walked casually, just a man going about his business. Then when he was sure he was out of the parking operator’s line of sight, he repeated the same actions as earlier—crossed the chain barrier and tried to stay low while he made his way to the Raptor.

  It was a little more difficult this time because most of the cars he’d used as cover earlier were gone, but he made it pretty easily.

  At the Raptor, Widow thought he would have to leave to find a crowbar, which might pose a problem. Luckily, Haspman was an overly confident man because the truck’s tailgate wasn’t locked.

  Widow opened it and bent over to inspect how much room was in bed, when suddenly, the fire door opened behind him. He turned, expecting to see Haspman. In his head, he’d already pivoted to punch the guy straight in the solar plexus, not a deathblow, just a hard, powerful strike, one that would put him on his butt. Then Widow could steal his keys, toss the guy in the bed, lock it, and drive away.

  But Haspman wasn’t at the fire door. It was two women. They came out and they saw him because he was big as a house and he was opening a vehicle that they knew didn’t belong to him.

  Widow froze.

  The two women stared at him. Their jaws dropped and their eyes opened wide. They looked like deer in headlights.

  Widow came back up. Thinking on his feet, he changed his accent to a Russian one. It wasn’t very good but believable enough. Only, he didn’t know why he’d gone that way. He figured it was something from his training that told him that lying and playing dumb worked best when you threw in an element that was unexpected by the person being lied to. It was kind of like walking with a limp and a cane to get through a security checkpoint. People are more easily fooled if they believe you are handicapped.

  Widow said, “Good evening, ladies.”

  One of them, the one who appeared to hold rank among the office workers, spoke. The other one just started clutching her handbag, which reminded Widow of the mother from the apartment the day before.

  The higher-ranked office worker asked, “Who are you? What are you doing to Fire Marshal Haspman’s truck?”

  She said his full title. Widow figured he made everyone do that.

  Widow said, “Don’t be alarmed. My name is Oleg. I’m the fire marshal’s driver.”

  “I didn’t know he had a driver.”

  “I’m new. Mr. Haspman is a very important man, as you both know. My job is to chauffeur him around.”

  “That doesn’t sound right.”

  Widow glanced over his shoulder and then over the other one. He made the gesture big and obvious like he was seeing if anyone was watching him. He took a step closer to the women and put up a hand near his mouth like he was going to whisper a secret to them.

  He said, “Truthfully, I’m more than a chauffeur.”

  The women both leaned in to hear him better.

  “I’m working as his bodyguard. Mr. Haspman has some fear of certain powerful people who might harm him. He is the head of an important department, you know?”

  The two women looked at each other and back at Widow.

  The higher-ranked one said, “But look at your clothes. Why aren’t you dressed like a bodyguard?”

  “I’m dressed to blend in. These are street clothes. I’m not official.”

  “Not official?”

  “Yes. Mr. Haspman pays me himself. Out of pocket.”

  Suddenly, the two women looked intrigued.

  The quiet one asked, “Why?”

  Widow leaned in closer. He tried to give the appearance that he had all the secrets.

  “Mr. Haspman has gambling debts. He’s afraid of action being taken against him.”

  They both nodded.

  Widow knew he was pulling this whole story out of his ass, but they bought it. He expected they might because if they knew Haspman, then they knew he was not on the up and up. Having gambling debts to the wrong people, and being afraid of those same people, wasn’t that farfetched.

  The ladies nodded along, and the higher-ranked one said, “Well, you’d better get on with your work, Mr. Oleg.”

  “Just Oleg, ma’am. No need for formalities. You’ll be seeing me around.”

  The two women laughed and smiled at him.

  Widow asked, “But do me a favor. Keep it to yourselves for now. I don’t want to blow my cover.”

  They nodded along and left.

  Widow breathed a sigh of relief and looked back into the back of the truck’s bed. There was some kind of canopy stuffed all the way to the front. It might’ve been a cover for the truck. Other than that, and a few shreds of plastic here and there, the bed was empty.

  Widow looked around once again to make sure no one saw what he was about to do. No one was looking. The two women had walked away to their own cars.

  Once they were a lot farther, Widow climbed into the bed and shut the tailgate. He didn’t fasten the last panel down because he needed it open to climb back out again.

  He waited for Haspman to come down and drive him away.

  Twenty-Three

  At night, Tunney was in his favorite chair with his favorite coffe
e mug; only it had whiskey in it and not much coffee. His second wife wasn’t home. She was staying at her sister’s for the week. It was part a family thing on her side and part they were taking some space, for the moment. Not a divorce thing, not yet. It was just a sort of vacation from each other.

  It’s nothing to be concerned about, she had told him.

  I’ll be back next week, she had said.

  Tunney was trying not to think about it. He was trying to relax, but his thoughts kept drifting to Widow and Eggers.

  Maybe he had made a mistake.

  Maybe he should call Widow, and help the guy.

  He drank little of the whiskey before he got a phone call from someone claiming to have information about Eggers and the fifty million dollars.

  The number was set to private. The voice sounded muffled. The caller acted scared. It was a man’s voice. He asked Tunney to come now and alone. He claimed he felt safer with just Tunney and no one else.

  Tunney wasn’t born yesterday, so naturally, he took his gun. And he texted Aker about the whole thing, which ended with Aker asking him to check in after.

  Tunney dressed back into something more professional than his sweatpants. Then he fired up the BMW and drove to the address the caller had given him.

  The address seemed safe enough. It was to a busy mall about forty minutes west. Tunney got on Two-Ten and headed north. When he got to Four Ninety-Five, he merged and headed over the bridge to Virginia.

  It was after the bridge that he noticed a black Escalade. It tailed him for another few minutes. They were obvious about it, which made him wonder if it was a cop.

  But if they were cops, then they must’ve been someone federal like the Secret Service. Escalades were too expensive for police departments to purchase for their detectives.

  The other thing that made him think of cops was that the driver was tailing him, and it was obvious, which meant they wanted him to notice.

  Only Feds did that. It was either an act of intimidation or they were trying to get a good look at his tags to check to see if they had the right vehicle and the right target.

  Tunney wasn’t sure who they were until he passed the third mile marker after the bridge and the road traffic waned. That was when blue lights flashed out of the Escalade’s grille.

  Tunney looked in the rearview, trying to get a look inside the windshield, but the headlamps were too bright. He blinked and changed his attention to the road. He saw a nice, lengthy section of shoulder ahead and he flipped on his hazard lights. He slowed and pulled off to the shoulder.

  The Escalade followed him. He stopped. His brake lights shone out over the gravel behind him.

  The Escalade pulled up directly behind him about four meters apart, nose to tail. The blue lights flashed. Blue light washed above the trees over a ridge to Tunney’s right. He reached toward the stereo and clicked a button to turn it off.

  At the same time, he used his gun hand to reach into his coat and unsnap a buckle on his holster shoulder rig. He brandished his gun and held it down below his door. His finger was in the trigger guard. Being left-handed would make it hard for him to draw it up and fire to his left, but he could fire at the passenger side.

  When a Fed comes out of the passenger side of a vehicle, it’s hard to tell which side they’ll approach. The whole choice was fifty-fifty. But he’d also never slipped the BMW into park, which gave him the ability to slam the gas and peel out of their fast—if he needed to.

  He watched in his rearview as the Escalade idled.

  Dust rose up and wafted in the headlamps’ beams.

  The driver didn’t get out, but the passenger door opened, and Tunney saw a figure step out. It was a man. He walked out of the Escalade, out in front of the nose. He crossed between the two vehicles and cut through the wafting dust and the blue lights.

  He crossed over to the BMW and around to Tunney’s side.

  He stopped at Tunney’s door and knocked on the window.

  Tunney hit the button, and the window streamed down.

  The man knelt so Tunney could get a look at him.

  The guy reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. He flipped it open, held it out two-handed.

  Tunney looked at it. He saw a badge and an official ID behind a milky plastic cover. He read the guy’s name out loud. Then, he asked, “NCIS?”

  The guy closed the wallet and returned it to his back pocket.

  “That’s right, sir. Are you Special Agent Brigs Tunney?”

  “Former. I’m not with the Bureau anymore. I’m retired now.”

  “Of course. Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

  “I didn’t think you guys had jurisdiction out here in the civilian world. What’s going on?”

  “We do when it comes to sailors. We got jurisdiction anywhere when it involves the Navy.”

  “And the Marines?” Tunney asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve seen the TV show.”

  The guy made a face that ended with a little grin, like he was embarrassed.

  “That stupid show. It’s the worst thing to happen to us.”

  “Really?”

  “It was better back when we were an enigma. When the public didn’t know anything about us.”

  Tunney nodded, kept his finger in his gun’s trigger housing.

  The NCIS agent said, “I’m sure you know. Hollywood is always getting shit wrong about the FBI.”

  “I’m not with the FBI anymore.”

  “Yeah. You said that. Still, they get shit wrong about private eyes too.”

  “That’s true. So, what can I do for you?”

  “We need to talk with you. It’s about your client.”

  “My client?”

  “Commander Eggers.”

  “He’s dead, you know?”

  “That’s what we need to discuss with you. We think he was murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  Tunney eased up on the trigger.

  He muttered to himself, “Widow was right.”

  The NCIS agent took a whiff of Tunney and asked, “You been drinking?”

  “Just one.”

  The NCIS agent nodded.

  “Well, that’s okay. It’s understandable. Can I ask where you’re headed?”

  “I’m headed to meet with someone.”

  “Is it about Eggers?”

  Tunney paused a beat and decided to tell the truth.

  “It is. Anonymous caller.”

  “Yeah. I was afraid of that.”

  “You know who it is?”

  “I suspect it’s the guy who killed Eggers. But listen…”

  The agent paused because a cluster of headlights came up from behind them and shone across them. He waited till the cars passed and spoke.

  “Listen, let’s talk somewhere before you meet this person. I need to tell you something. Maybe we can help each other.”

  “Okay.”

  “Great! Follow us.”

  “Okay.”

  The agent backed away from the car window and returned back to the Escalade the same way he had approached.

  After his door shut, the driver switched off the blue lights. The Escalade backed up, the front wheels turned, and the vehicle merged out onto the road. It started out slowly, waiting for Tunney, who waited till they couldn’t see inside the front cabin so he could holster his weapon.

  The Escalade sped up as soon as Tunney was behind them.

  They drove on, passing more mile markers and two more off-ramps, before the Escalade’s turn signal flashed. The driver slowed and waited for Tunney to do the same before moving on.

  Tunney followed them off the interstate and down a long, winding country road until they came to an abandoned gas station. The Escalade slowed and pulled into the gravel lot, kicking up dirt and grit.

  Tunney was getting a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  He looked around.

  At one time, the gas station had been a full-service p
lace. But now it was just a ghost station. The pumps were long rusted over. The signs and posters were all faded away from years of weather. The cable that dinged was still there. It ran from the pumps up toward the main hub and vanished into the gravel.

  The only sign anywhere that was still legible was for ice. It was above an old ice machine that was covered in dirt and mud.

  The Escalade parked off beyond the derelict pumps and stopped.

  Tunney pulled up behind the Escalade and slipped the BMW into park. He felt that pinch in the pit of his stomach again. He knew that feeling. He felt weary about cutting the engine off and getting out of the car. The Escalade’s doors opened, and two men stepped out. They left their engine running as well.

  The driver was a burly bald guy. He was thick like a tree. The passenger was the agent he’d already met.

  The agent stepped to the rear of the Escalade and leaned on the cargo door. He waved at Tunney to get out.

  “Come on out.”

  The bald guy smiled.

  It didn’t feel right. He thought about texting Widow. He thought about calling him. But he didn’t. Part of him felt paranoid, which made him feel a little stupid.

  He left the keys in the ignition with the engine running and got out of the BMW. He looked at the agents.

  The agent he’d met waved him over again.

  “Come on. We ain’t got all night.”

  Tunney nodded and approached.

  The agent he’d met said something to the bald guy that Tunney didn’t hear.

  The bald guy stepped into the beams of the BMW and offered a friendly smile and hand for Tunney to shake.

  Tunney took it out of social habit and shook it. But he realized his mistake after it was too late.

  Tunney was left-handed. His gun was in a shoulder holster, adjusted to be drawn out left-handed.

  Suddenly, the bald guy’s big smile turned to a grin, and he clamped on Tunney’s gun hand and jerked him into him. Tunney came up off his feet a little.

  The bald guy slammed his head straight into Tunney’s nose, breaking it.

  Tunney’s nose CRACKED! in the stillness. All three men heard it. Tunney felt it.