Open Source

by Matthew Frick

  Casey stood in the stinging rain and opened the driver-side door. A thick cloud of smoke poured from the cab, thankful for the out Casey had provided. As the air cleared, Casey saw Mike lying across the bench seat, passed out. Casey was mildly upset that his friend had sought refuge from both rain and prying eyes in his truck. He smiled at the pitiful picture, though. Unfortunately, he had seen his friend in worse condition. He just hoped the smell of marijuana would not permanently set in the interior. If it did, he could never get pulled over for speeding without being booked for driving under the influence, or worse. He slapped Mike’s feet.

  “Wake up, jackass.” No response. Casey tried another tactic as the last of the smoke exited. “Freeze! Put your hands where I can see them!”

  Mike bolted upright as if awakening from a horrible nightmare. “Wha….”

  He didn’t even get one word out before his head exploded from the impact. Mike’s body went rigid, for what seemed to Casey an eternity, before falling back against the passenger door. Casey dropped to the ground. He sat with his back against the truck, Mike’s lifeless feet at his head. His face felt warm, and he moved his hand to his cheek. Casey removed what he knew was a piece of his friend’s face.

  Casey heard voices as several people exited the front door of the Sunset Tavern and made a frantic dash for their cars, trying to minimize their time in the pouring rain. When his brain finished processing what had just happened, Casey fell to his hands and wretched. A woman who reached the car next to his looked down at Casey.

  “Oh, gross! Tim, open the door quick. This guy’s puking,” she said. Her male companion laughed while he unlocked the door, commenting on Casey’s inability to hold his liquor.

  Casey looked up as the woman shut her door, and the car’s engine started. He regained his bearings and leapt to his feet on a dead sprint for the front door.

  The Mossad shooter had already put his rifle in its case and was moving to the back edge of the roof. He threw the weapon into the pine needles below and followed, rolling as he landed to lessen the impact and prevent his knees from blowing out. He stood and gathered the rifle and walked through the empty lot on the corner to the stolen Oldsmobile. When the rifle was in the trunk, he started the vehicle and casually pulled onto the street. As soon as he reached Victory Drive, he turned west. Lev threw his rain-soaked ball cap on the passenger seat and removed the satellite phone from the glove box.

  Lev fucked up, and he knew it. He should have never taken his eyes away from the building’s exits. He could have taken out the target before he even reached the truck, though his plan had been to hit him when he was seated inside. Why didn’t he factor in the pothead? He had been careless. Regardless, he had to report that the mission was a failure.

  The Russian who tried to kill Mr. Shenk in the first place was an amateur. His failure was to be expected, and Lev had no issue with killing him. But Lev was a professional. Failure was not an option. Yet, here he was. He, too, had failed.

  Lev dialed the number and waited for the other end to pick up.

  “Yes?” Eli Gedide answered after only two rings.

  “The mission was a failure. The target is still alive,” Cohen said.

  Nearly ten seconds passed before Gedide spoke. “What happened?”

  “I screwed up,” was all Lev offered.

  Silence.

  “Were you seen?” Gedide asked.

  “No. But there is a body,” Lev said. “The target’s friend got in the way.”

  “The police will investigate,” Gedide said.

  “Affirmative.”

  “Can they trace this back to us?”

  “No. I am going to get rid of the stolen car, and I was using a common American hunting rifle,” Lev explained. “I will get rid of that as well.” He waited for his superior to respond before saying any more.

  “This is not good news,” Gedide said. “But it does not change anything, either.”

  “How? Mr. Shenk is still alive. He may still figure out our involvement,” Lev protested.

  “Mr. Shenk no longer matters.”

  Lev Cohen was not sure he heard Gedide correctly. “No longer matters?”

  “No. His theory has gotten more exposure than we anticipated. We are now dealing with someone with quite a few more resources than this Mr. Shenk.”

  Lev Cohen was relieved that his blunder that evening had no real bearing on the overall mission. But he was also concerned that they were now dealing with a bigger threat. Casey Shenk should have been an easy clean-up. Now it sounded as if the job had just gotten more complicated. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “I want you to get out of Georgia as soon as you are sure you have left nothing behind that the police can tie to us,” Gedide said.

  “And?” Lev asked.

  “And then I want you to go to New York.”

  Chapter 23

  New York City

  Susan came up empty-handed as she reached into the bowl for more popcorn. She looked down and realized she had eaten the whole bag. It was a single-serving bag of the microwave-popped variety, so she didn’t feel guilty for the late night snack. She put the bowl down on the coffee table and tucked her feet beneath her, leaning on the arm of the sofa as she picked up her hot tea that was now cooled-down to a non-third-degree-burn-inducing temperature. She was halfway through the third installment of the Lethal Weapon franchise. Tonight was an escape night. She deserved it.

  Earlier that afternoon, the Intelligence Watch Group published its Weekend Intelligence Report. Longer than most of the products they put out during the week, of which there were many, the Weekend Intel Report focused on a variety of topics that received little or no attention in the world media, but that the executives at IWG felt had the potential to cause significant waves in the world of geopolitics in the days and weeks to come. This weekend, the report focused on the hijacking of the MV Baltic Venture.

  Pete Grozny had delivered on his promise. He had written the report true to the analysis Susan provided, with his own addition of the background and reasoning behind the conclusions, of course. After addressing the existence of stolen weapons, relying heavily on both Susan’s and Casey’s conclusions, as well as unnamed sources within Russia, the piece focused extensively on proving that corrupt elements of the Russian military and/or organized crime were responsible for stealing the S-300 missiles in the first place. In fact, most of the report was Russo-centric, which was understandable as it was penned by the head of IWG’s Russia Cell.

  A cursory mention of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps as the most likely buyer in the illicit arms deal left many questions unanswered and accusations unsubstantiated. The names of Alam or Ja’afari were not given. This was typical for these reports. The goal was to get the information out in the open with as many facts as could be determined. Anything still requiring further investigation was labeled as such, and those points would be followed throughout the coming weeks, in shorter updates that would reference back to the initial report.

  Susan thought that was a good way to do business. This method ensured that important intelligence reached the hands of people who needed to know, as soon as it was vetted, but not so late that the report was better written as a history piece than one of valid intel that could be acted upon. This way, there was potential to shape the outcome of events before things went sideways, and their clients, in this case, world policy makers, were forced to react to an otherwise unwanted situation.

  The part of the report that surprised Susan the most was Grozny’s inclusion, which meant the Chief Executive’s approval, of the theory that Israel was the perpetrator of the hijacking. If there was any part of her theory she was sure would not make it to print at this point, it was Israel’s active involvement beyond a simple sharing of information with the Russians. She was pleased that the bigwigs in her company, her bosses, were willing to stick their necks out by implicating Israel. It was done with a full justification of the actions, just as S
usan had laid out for Jim Shelton and Pete Grozny the day before, but she knew there were others who wouldn’t see it that way.

  In particular, members of the powerful Israel lobby in the United States and congressional leaders from both chambers were bound to cry foul at the accusation, not to mention Israel itself. It was always that way. Susan had learned in her time with IWG that many times the truth hurts. In more than one instance, Susan was personally responsible for uncovering information that completely contradicted the assumptions made by the leaders of her own country, who in turn, were acting on those erroneous assumptions in developing policy—policies that had led to the unnecessary deaths of thousands. Susan wasn’t so naive that she did not believe war was, at times, warranted, and for the greater good of mankind. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

  Still, she felt good. Like she was making a difference. Susan knew she didn’t do it all by herself. It was Casey who helped her develop the theory in the first place. And it was Phil who encouraged her to bring her ideas, no matter how off-the-wall, to the attention of Jim. In the end, it was a team effort. And there were still many questions to be answered. But she did not feel guilty that Pete Grozny had included her name as a co-author on the report—not much.

  It had been a good week.

  Chapter 24

  Savannah, Georgia

  When Casey crashed through the door of the Sunset Tavern after seeing Mike shot right before his eyes, he stopped. A world away from the rain, mud, and death outside, the shock of what he had just witnessed hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. No one took notice of the dark-haired man in the doorway, breathing heavily, his face smattered with blood and bile. The rain added a gruesome effect to his countenance.

  Casey forced his weakening legs to move. He walked slowly toward the table where he and his friends had shared a beer and a laugh, what seemed a lifetime ago. Chip stood up and dropped his beer bottle when he saw Casey. The breaking glass got the attention of others at the tables nearby. Their curiosity followed Chip’s look of horror, focused directly on Casey. A woman screamed. People pushed back their chairs and moved out of the way.

  It took only fifteen minutes for the police to arrive, along with the ambulance. One of the lawyers at the far table had dialed 9-1-1 even before anyone knew what was happening. Steve the Bartender followed with a call of his own, but he was promptly informed that units were already dispatched and on their way.

  The music was silent. A few individuals were prescient enough to get in their vehicles and leave as soon as the commotion of seeing Casey, zombie-like, rain-soaked, and streaked with blood, spread throughout the bar. The rest milled about, waiting their turn to give the police officers their names and contact information, and to confess they neither heard nor saw anything. As each one completed their duties as law-abiding citizens, they got in their cars and trucks and departed. Several cars near Casey’s truck remained, their owners forced to bum a ride or call a taxi because their vehicles were now part of a crime scene.

  Casey sat with Chip and drank another beer while his friend called his wife to update her on what had happened. After informing her that he would be home later in the morning, Chip flipped the front of his cell phone closed, ending the call. He looked at Casey, but did not say anything. The two men were waiting for a more in-depth interview from the police than the other bar patrons had received. While Chip’s answers would not reveal much more than the others, because of his relationship with the deceased, he was asked to stay.

  Maude and Steve the Bartender busied themselves with cleaning and re-stocking and generally staying out of the way. They both knew it would be a while before they could lock up and go home. Maude also figured it would be a few days, at least, before she could re-open again, so she was not concerned about catching up on sleep.

  “Mr. Shenk?”

  Casey and Chip both looked up at the prematurely grey, uniformed officer. Casey held onto his beer, though he was not drinking. “Yes,” he answered as the officer took a seat across from him, next to Chip.

  “My name is Deputy Fitzgerald. First, I’m sorry about your friend. And I’m sorry you had to witness what you saw.” He was talking directly to Casey while Chip listened. “Right now I need to ask you both some hard questions that you may be reluctant to answer. I ask you to please think carefully and answer honestly. The more we know, the better chance we have of finding out who is responsible.” Chip and Casey exchanged glances and then looked back at Deputy Fitzgerald. “Fair enough?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “Sure,” Casey answered for both of them.

  “Great. Now, do you know of anyone who may have wanted to kill Mr. Tunney?” he began. “A business partner? A drug dealer he owed money to?”

  Casey lifted the beer bottle he still held on to and took a sip. He knew Mike had been having a toke in the truck before he was shot—several tokes, he surmised. The baggie of joints he got from hooded-sweatshirt-man at Chu’s was probably still in the cab. He went on the assumption that Mike’s drug use was not in question here, and admitting as much could not harm his friend any more than the gunshot to the back of the head already had.

  “Mike only ever smoked pot,” Casey said. “When he could afford it. Or whenever it was offered to him. And outside of a few failed attempts to cultivate his own psilocybin mushrooms on piles of dog shit in his garage, he stayed away from anything else. He was a turtle biologist who smoked some weed every once in awhile. So I would say no. I don’t know of anyone who would want to kill him.”

  Deputy Fitzgerald scribbled some notes on a steno pad. “Did he owe anyone money, that you know of? Outside of any dope dealers.”

  “No, sir,” Chip answered. “Mike didn’t really have any debts. He owned his crappy old Pacer outright. Only thing he spent his money on was records—I mean, CDs—beer, and pot. Besides rent and groceries. Electricity. Normal stuff, ya know?”

  “Okay,” Fitzgerald said, writing down more notes. “What about his....”

  “Casey! Man, are you alright?” Anton Laycock bellowed as he came through the door.

  The three men at the table all looked over at the trooper as he came closer. Casey and Chip instantly relaxed at the sight of their bear of a friend. Only Deputy Fitzgerald seemed intimidated.

  “Anton, what are you doing here? I thought you were on duty tonight,” Casey said.

  “I was, man. Still am, actually. Dispatch called me on account of the Sunset’s just down the block from my house. I didn’t think you’d be here, though. What the hell happened?”

  After a short pause, Casey answered, “Mike’s dead.”

  Anton turned a chair around and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. “Shit,” he muttered. He surveyed the other faces at the table, noticing for the first time that one of them wore a uniform. “I’m sorry, man. Anton Laycock, GSP.”

  “Lonnie Fitzgerald.” The two law enforcement officers shook hands. “I take it you know Mr. Shenk,” he said with a nod to Casey.

  “Yes. I live just down the street. From him and here,” Anton said.

  “You knew the vic, too?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “If you’re telling me Mike Tunney was the victim, then yes. But I don’t even know what happened here.” He looked at Casey.

  Casey looked to the sheriff’s deputy, who nodded. Fitzgerald thought maybe he might get more information by having Casey explain things to someone he knew, besides someone who just wore a badge.

  Casey went through the timeline of what happened for Anton—from Mike’s purchasing a baggie of joints, including a description of the seller, to the shock of seeing his friend die. There was nothing in the narrative that shed any more light on the events of that night. Deputy Fitzgerald was visibly disappointed. It was clear to him that Casey Shenk had no more insight into what happened than he currently had.

  “Do we know the type of weapon used?” Anton asked, this time directing his question to Fitzgerald. Casey picked up his beer again, listening but not very int
erested. His friend had been killed right in front of him, and he was still confronting that image.

  “The autopsy is going to be done on Monday, and forensics should be done with the vehicle by then. But my guess is a .308 hunting rifle, based on the...exit wound.” Deputy Fitzgerald looked at Casey, afraid his candid answer might have unnecessarily upset the man across the table from him. His self-scolding for a lack of discretion was apparently unwarranted. Casey’s mind was somewhere else, and he appeared to not even hear the two lawmen’s discussion, so Fitzgerald continued. Motioning almost imperceptibly to Casey, the deputy said to the state trooper, “This one was lucky he wasn’t injured. Or worse.”

  “There were multiple shots?” Anton asked.

  “Not as far as we can tell. And not according to him.” Again, motioning to Casey.

  Anton quickly put the scene together in his head and nodded. Depending on the grain of the ammunition load, the bullet from the rifle could have had any number of ballistic target trajectories after initial entry. One of those possibilities included a deflection after entry into the skull, caused by the impact of lead on bone. In that case, the exit wound would not necessarily correspond to a straight path from muzzle to ground after passing through the intended target. If Casey was as close as he said he was when Mike was shot in the back of the head, it was a small miracle that he was not hit, too.

  “Until the truck is examined and the autopsy performed, we won’t know for sure about the murder weapon,” Fitzgerald said. “Assuming accidental discharge is ruled out. And that won’t be automatic if it’s determined that it was a hunting rifle that killed Mr. Tunney. This is South Georgia. More people own a buck rifle here than don’t.”