by James Kent
They all nodded in agreement, looking at Simms.
‘I’m good for weapons,’ replied Swann, ‘but I will need a new, unused, secure cell and satellite phone so I can contact Henderson or Sally from anywhere,’ added Swann, ‘with spare batteries.’
Simms nodded at Henderson, giving the order for him to arrange it.
Swann thought again then said, ‘Is there any chance he’s got wind of the break-in on his cell and emails, and gone to ground again? After all, if he’s planning some sort of cyber-attack with foreign help, maybe he’s broken into our servers already and knows what we’re doing before we do!’
‘Good point, but I doubt it,’ replied Gifford, ‘we’re pretty good at covering our tracks.’
‘Sure you are!’ replied Swann, turning to look at Gifford with an accusatory stare, and thinking back to previous operations that had gone south due to cockups and leaks from the intelligence and law enforcement Bureaus, the FBI included. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered working with them. In Swann’s estimation, no one could be trusted not to leak.
‘Well, all the signs are that he’s completely unaware we’re listening in,’ countered Gifford, ‘that’s the best we can do,’ he said.
‘Whatever!’ replied Swann unconvinced.
‘Your job is Diablo and his crew, Swann,’ interrupted Simms, ‘nothing else other than to alert us the moment they’re all squared away and tidy . . . and then we’ll send in the, ahh, the “cleaners” to deal with the leftovers, like pick up the bits and pieces so-to-speak.’ He paused a beat as he looked at Swann, then he continued. ‘This guy is becoming a serious pain-in-the-ass. Sort him and his sidekicks out and we’ll deal with the rest . . . and I want progress reports Swann! I know what you’re like, going off the reservation all the damn time. So keep me informed!’
‘Not gonna happen!’ replied Swann looking firmly at Simms. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m on my way north and that’s it. After that I’m off-line. Yes, you know how I work.’
Simms stared back but said nothing more.
Goddam control freak! thought Swann.
‘Right, now get the hell out of my office! I’ve got a meeting in just over an hour and I haven’t had breakfast yet. I need coffee and some peace and quiet for a while, before this other idiot arrives to hassle me.’
‘You’re not the only one who hasn’t had breakfast,’ replied Swann. ‘Who’s hassling you?’
‘Some arrogant stiff-necked fancy-pants investigator from D.C. by the sounds of it, nosing around my joint, blowing smoke up my ass,’ said Simms through his teeth with a hint of bitterness as though the very thought of it made him taste bile.
‘Really? Who’s he here to investigate?’ asked Henderson with a frown.
‘It’s a “she”,’ replied Simms. ‘She’s with Internal Affairs, Justice Department, on the hunt for someone, some crooked agent apparently. Who knows?’ He paused a beat then added with a smirk while looking at Swann, ‘Probably here to chase your ass down is my guess! Just another snake with a forked tongue who’s got the wind up her ass! But don’t worry. I won’t feed the troll. I’ll send her on her way with my usual charm.’
Holbrook tried his best to hide a chuckle and failed. Simms glared at him.
Swann raised his eyebrows at the thought as well. The mixed metaphors also amused him. But he said nothing in reply to the idea that this woman from D.C. was here hunting for crooked cops and that maybe she was after him too. He didn’t care anyway. Besides, he knew Simms wouldn’t dare throw him under the bus. It would, effectively, be a death sentence for him. They’d been down this road a few times before in any case and it never went anywhere. They inevitably gave up on it, like they always do.
Swann got up and left with the three agents. Henderson organized a new, encrypted cell and satellite phone, which they tested, while Gifford and Holbrook got him a list of names, prior convictions, dates of birth, previous addresses, some photos and all other known personal details about Silva and his accomplices as far as possible, plus the last known locations of his cell phone when it was reactivated and picked up by the NSA; Boulder City, and a backwater location in Nevada, a town called Caliente.
‘Why Nevada?’ asked Swann.
‘No idea,’ replied Gifford. ‘We thought you might tell us that after you’re done.’
3
Woodland Hills, California.
An hour later, Swann stopped for coffee and breakfast at a fast-food drive-thru on his way back to his place in Woodland Hills. His home was a secluded property along a country road, accessed from Mulholland Drive. When he got there, he drove the Ford Raptor up onto the hoist in his three-car garage (a third of the space was devoted to tools, machining equipment and his pride-and-joy Triumph Bonneville motorcycle) so that he could change the oil and tires. He closed and locked the main roller doors then took the internal stairs up to his house. He knew Lavinia was still there. Her car, a tan KIA Sorento, was still parked to one side of the wide driveway. It was the sort of vehicle that becomes lost in the crowd. No one notices you driving one. Swann was glad she hadn’t gone. Yet, for some reason he felt nervous . . . Not something he’s used to experiencing. Only with women. A bad omen perhaps.
She was up and showered and looking sweet and radiant. Spectacular! he thought as she sat there in the early morning sun drinking fresh coffee, the sunlight catching the hints of gold in her hair. Ok, here goes! thought Swann.
‘Lavinia! I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here. Hope I didn’t wake you early this morning. . . I had a call into the office that couldn’t wait.’
‘Call me Livvy. “Lavinia” is too much of a mouthful and sounds a bit pompous . . . And no, you didn’t disturb me,’ she said with a smile, ‘I was fast asleep after you kept me up all night,’ she added with a wink.
Swann was relieved that he’d gotten her name right, not that he hadn’t woken her. But “Livvy”? he thought with a slight frown. That ‘aint gonna happen! ‘Fine. Well, I gotta hit the road again “Livvy”,’ he said with a little too much emphasis. ‘I’ll be gone for a few days, maybe a week. Hang out here for as long as you like,’ he said. No way was he going to call her that! “Livvy” sounded way too cute for him. Too “nice”. Swann doesn’t do “nice”.
‘Thanks Nick, that’s very sweet, but I have to fly myself unfortunately,’ she replied, ‘I’m on deck down at the . . .’ she hesitated, then added, ‘Bureau.’ She had a strange, almost sly smile on her lips as though she knew something he didn’t. That made him slightly uncomfortable.
‘Oh yeah?’ he asked. ‘What do you do there? Or is that classified, and you’d have to kill me after you tell me?’
‘Yes, to the second and third questions,’ she said with another wink. ‘So, what do you do?’ she asked, trying to evade, but also genuinely interested, ‘You haven’t told me anything about your background . . . well nothing other than the fact you’re “in between jobs”, which could mean anything.’
‘Yeah well, I could have been a priest. But I was in the military a few years back, but now I do odd jobs,’ he replied cryptically, ‘out and about, here and there . . . involves getting my hands dirty sometimes.’ He said nothing more. Just left her guessing. He didn’t trust her yet, not that he ever really would. He hadn’t even wanted to tell her his first name the night before! He’d wanted to give her a false name, like “Brad” or something. It was believable. He’d done it plenty of times before when he’d met women in bars. But then he thought, What the hell? She knows nothing about my background and what I do, so where’s the harm? I could be anybody. So he did. He went against his nature of never telling strangers his real name, not even his first one, without a good reason. Was taking a beautiful woman home for the night a good enough reason? He wasn’t sure. Time would tell.
She looked at him for a few seconds without saying anything, as though she was deciding something, or that she’d suddenly become uncertain. Then she regained her composure and smiled reassuringly. ‘A pries
t? Sounds lovely,’ she said with a forced chuckle. She looked at him quizzically then added, ‘you sound more like a gardener or something. But actually, I guessed you were military. You have that “look”, and that deep, gravelly voice like hardscrabble or something, like you’ve spent a lot of time outdoors breathing in sand and cordite. Speaking of sand, I like the color of your hair. I was thinking about it before . . . it looks like sun-bleached sand; like sand that’s been set on fire . . . gingery blonde with dark streaks through it. Unusual. I like it.’
Dark streaks, like my soul, he thought. ‘So people keep telling me. About my voice and my hair, I mean. It is what it is. But I try to hide the military stains by living like a bum these days,’ he joked; ‘So what can you tell me about your job at the Bureau?’
‘Yeah, you’re quite a “bum” with a pad like this!’ she said, indicating the large, modern house. Then she added cryptically, ‘Actually, I’m a personnel researcher at Wilshire down the road there, but that’s all I can say.’
Is that good or bad? he thought. ‘Personnel researcher. Whatever that is. Well maybe our paths will cross again,’ he said; ‘You never know.’ Just then he remembered what Simms had said about an investigator over from D.C. He looked at her and wondered. No way! She was too good looking. And too much of a coincidence. He dismissed the idea. But, still . . . a “personnel researcher”? Sounds like an investigator to me. Maybe. Perhaps. Who knows?
‘Yeah, you never know, Nick,’ she said with a wink. ‘And, you know, I might have to look into your past, do some digging to find out how a “bum” like you can afford to live in a place like this,’ she said, laughing. ‘Kidding!’
*
After Lavinia had gone, Swann went into the bedroom and tidied up. As he did so, he found an expired library card lying face down on the bedside dresser. On the back she had scrawled “Call me!” above her mobile number. It also had her full name, “Lavinia M. Pearman”, and her membership number printed on the other side. He tapped the side of the card with his forefinger as he thought about what she was up to at the Bureau, then he shrugged and put it in his pocket. He showered and changed his clothes again, then he packed a few extra items and clothes into his canvas duffle before opening his computer and sending an encrypted email to Sally at the Bureau.
Sally,
Tell Poirot I’ll ping him from Boulder City in the next couple of days, when I’m good and ready. After that I’m off the grid. Don’t expect any “progress reports” until I’ve tidied up. He wants to keep tabs on me but he can take a hike. I won’t be in contact unless I need to be. Then I’ll use the sat phone. And tell the creepy son of a bitch I’ll punch his lights out if he interferes or tries to contact me in any way.
S.
P.S. Oh and see what you can find out on the quiet about a “Lavinia M. Pearman”. She’s just started working there somewhere apparently, as a “personnel researcher”, which probably means some kind of investigator. See if you can find out who or what she’s investigating. But be discreet! I don’t want you getting into trouble over it.
P.P.S. Don’t reply to this email. I’ll talk to you when I’m back.
He closed the computer, unplugged it and packed it away into its portable case, along with its power cord. He would take it with him so that he could send emails and look up maps and other information he might need later. Then he went downstairs to his basement; a concrete bunker attached to the garage. He shoved the old shelves holding boxes of junk out of the way, removed the two high security Sargent & Greenleaf padlocks, punched in the combination and pulled open the heavy steel doors to his arsenal, a stash of weapons and hunting equipment. He selected his favorite sidearm, the SIG Sauer P226 9mm, a compact hard-hitting piece that could be easily concealed, plus four boxes of ammunition. He also took out the long-range extremely accurate Accuracy International L115 sniper rifle, the later A3 version, with a Nightforce NXS scope attached – the same scope favored by legendary American sniper Chris Kyle; the rifle was chambered for the powerful .338 Lapua magnum round which he either loaded himself for ultimate consistency or had especially precision made to his own specifications. Then he took the big AX50 .50 caliber rifle. A brute of a weapon, the “fifty” was useful for putting big holes in engine blocks from a mile or more away with armor-piercing rounds. He grabbed ammunition - armor-piercing incendiary - and two magazines for the large weapon, five boxes of Lapua ammunition, suppressors for both the sniper rifle and the pistol, plus his razor-sharp Ka-Bar “Black Tanto” fighting knife – named after the Japanese traditional knife worn by the Samurai. He also took his 10x50 Nikon binoculars, night-vision scope, first aid pack, armored vest and an assortment of other items including cleaning kits and various tools. Lastly, he took a few small, black, tubular stun grenades - commonly referred to as “flashbangs” - for disorienting and deafening people inside buildings if they don’t behave.
After taking out everything he needed, he closed the heavy steel doors, replaced the padlocks and moved the tool-rack and shelves back in front. He assembled all the gear on the table in his basement bunker and set about disassembling, cleaning, oiling and then reassembling the weapons and equipment. He checked the actions and then placed the SIG pistol, its 9mm ammunition, suppressor and cleaning kit into their own separate carry case. He locked the sniper rifle and the fifty-caliber weapon, along with the scopes, suppressor and separate ammunition and cleaning kits, in their own tailored high-impact Pelican carry cases. He placed every other item, including the satellite phone and spare batteries from Henderson, into his large rugged and well-used army pack. Some clothes, water and food would follow later.
After cleaning and inspecting all the gear, Swann changed the oil and other fluids in the Raptor. He changed the tires back to the all-terrain treads, checked the brakes and spare tire, then he lowered the vehicle off the hoist and loaded it with his toolkit and water bottles. He thought about Lavinia and wondered what she was really doing at the Bureau and whether he would see her again. He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, considering his job and where she worked. She could be the IAD woman Simms mentioned. But maybe that would be an advantage. Or not. He wanted to see her again, but it could get complicated keeping her in the dark. Anyway, he had a wet job on in Nevada first. And then he’d see.
Swann packed all the weapons into a large, secure strongbox he had built into the back of the F150 Raptor and was ready to hit the road north. He threw the pack and duffle in the front passenger seat. He would rearrange things later before heading too far into the desert country. For now though, it would do.
4
Kagel Canyon, California.
Before heading to Boulder City in Nevada, a five-hour trip, Swann drove to the rifle range just half an hour north-east of his place in Woodland Hills. He had a bunch of rules that he followed religiously before taking on any new job, the first of which was to test fire his weapons, especially the long-range rifles that always required re-sighting. Things moved with time and temperature. And since the rifle was really an extension of himself, he always felt that he too required ‘sighting in,’ refamiliarizing his body and mind with the art and feel of precision shooting at distances out to a thousand yards and even further. Reseating the muscles, the eye, the brain. Relearning the “feel.” It was muscle memory; “reminding the muscles of where they want to be,” his old army sniper instructor used to say. After a month or more off the job, the muscles become lazy, relaxed and reluctant unless you regularly visit the ranges to keep your eye in. But in “peace time”, when the stress levels were lower and the target was paper or steel, not human flesh, it wasn’t quite the same as when you were out hunting a living, breathing human being, and in terrain that is far from ideal.
Of course, practicing on the range was not so much about shooting as it was about collecting data on the performance of the equipment, the rifle itself and the ammunition. He built up his DOPE logs, “Data of Previous Engagements” tables which gave him an accurate knowledge of how the r
ifle and ammunition would perform under all conditions and over varying ranges.
Swann was considered a legend by those in-the-know at all the significant gun clubs and rifle ranges in the state, as well as some other states in the union. He was often given priority access to the tactical and long-range targets, especially by the few who knew him in the military; some knew how and why he had left, and said that they would have done exactly the same thing, that the Colonel had deserved it. Rumor has it, they said, the colonel went into politics, ran for Governor somewhere or other. Arkansas perhaps. No one was sure. Swann laughed at the thought. Governor Millard Case? Sure. Whatever.
After truing and zeroing in the sniper rifle and its scope for short to medium ranges - the one hundred to five hundred-yard targets - with groups no larger than one to four inches, Swann set up for the thousand-yard range. This is when precision shooting gets serious. Lying prone in the shooter’s position, he rested and waited for his breathing to settle and his heart rate to stabilize. He usually preferred resting the barrel of the sniper rifle on a firm cushion rather than using its fold-out bi-pod. He steadied the scope’s reticle on the target, waited, breathed out slowly and then sent a Lapua Magnum round down the barrel and down range. It clipped the twelve-inch steel plate, low and left, then ricocheted into the dirt just behind. The plate was sent swinging as Swann heard the familiar “ding” sound almost two seconds later. Understandable he thought, considering he hadn’t yet quite settled in for the longer distance, and the round had been sent down a cooling barrel, so he didn’t adjust the sights. He worked the bolt, sliding another round into the chamber, then he waited and breathed out slowly again, three slow breaths. Pure habit. He gently squeezed the trigger until the shot broke free, then he released the trigger slowly back to the front. Follow-through it’s called. This round also went slightly left, but not as low, and again dinging the steel plate and sending it swinging, but he still didn’t adjust the scope. That would come after the next warm shot. The first two rounds down a cold or cooling barrel were ‘whet’ rounds, like ‘whetting’ the contacts or ‘whetting’ the stone before sharpening a knife. Swann referred to them as “seeders” whose sole purpose was not so much to hit the target in the spot singled out by the scope’s reticle, but to warm and “seed” the barrel ready for the live precision shots that followed, down a hot barrel.
