If the Devil Had a Dog

by T. K. Lukas

  “Okay. Thanks for telling me.” Mostly sanitized? Markus tried to imagine what exactly it was she had asked Moose about his past—but at least he was on her mind. He’d settle for that, given what she’d said before she got on the helicopter.

  “So, what’s the favor?” asked Moose.

  “Stress to your boss to appeal to the FBI not to bargain with Knight or offer him any kind of plea deal. There won’t be any need for a deal.”

  “Knight’s testimony against Cordoba and the cartel is extremely valuable. That request might not go over very well.”

  “Hear—my—words, Moose. There won’t be any need for a deal.”

  After a pause, “I understand. Roger that.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

  That son of a bitch Knight should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

  Dressing quickly, he packed his belongings and checked out of the hotel. He stowed his briefcase and duffle bag in his Jeep and headed west, anticipating the call from Whiskey Charlie. The sparkling city bathed in holiday lights grew smaller in his rearview mirror as he drove through the chilly darkness of a moonless night.

  CHAPTER 29

  Mexico & The U.S.

  Forty-eight hours later, a black-clad figure lay on his belly under the umbrella of an amate tree. He waited in the dark, hidden by the tree’s massive roots that spread out across the ground like giant brown serpents. Surveilling the sprawling Rio Negro cartel’s compound through the high-powered scope of his sniper rifle, he watched the figure known as El Cuchillo move about the mansion looming at the center of the complex.

  Concealed behind the compound’s high adobe walls and to the rear of the main residence was a cluster of smaller buildings, the storehouses of drugs and weapons, their contents’ street value totaling in the millions. From his high vantage point, he patiently watched as a swarm of men moved in and out of the buildings, carrying packages to the armored vehicles parked in a queue.

  The sniper waited, his breathing measured, his nerves calm, his mind empty of distracting thoughts. He ignored the black, spike-tailed iguana that scratched a track across the dewy ground in front of where he lay prone. The muzzle of his rifle rested in a “v” of the amate tree’s roots.

  Yes—that’s it—come on outside where I can see you better.

  Stepping outside onto the veranda, El Cuchillo greeted another man who could have been his twin. They wore the same type of expensive suit, and both slicked their hair back in long ponytails. El Cuchillo’s cellphone buzzed. He answered the call.

  “I heard you were in federal custody, Winston.” Rafael’s smooth voice sounded bored. “How did you post bond so quickly?”

  “This is not Winston.”

  El Cuchillo pulled the phone away from his head and stared at the display screen before replacing it to his ear. “Who is this?” he demanded.

  “This is the last sound you’ll hear before you die.”

  A sniper shot from 500 yards cracked the night wide open. The man standing next to the now headless El Cuchillo dropped to the ground and lay flat on his belly, his designer clothes splattered with blood and brain. The throng of men loading drugs and guns into the armored vehicles scattered.

  But it was too late for any to save themselves.

  Methodically, the sniper pressed a button on the radio frequency remote control. One, and then another, and then another of the dozen HMX plastic explosives detonated. As if struck by a massive earthquake, the ground heaved upwards, tossing armored cars into the air like they were children’s toys. Bodies disappeared under piles of rubble as the mansion and the storehouses crumbled into heaps of masonry and metal. A choking dust cloud plumed into the sky like ash from a volcano, obliterating the stars.

  Well done, Whiskey Charlie. You came through for me again.

  Stowing his sniper rifle and the remote control, the black-clad figure picked up his bag and hiked five miles to the rental car he’d left parked in a clearing in the woods. Settling into the front seat, he adjusted the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of his face concealed behind a black mask. The only discernable feature—his eyes—were cold, hard, and gray.

  *****

  Even at four in the morning, the streets of Acapulco were crowded with beautiful people streaming in and out of nightclubs. They cha-cha-chaed and mamboed their way along the sidewalks as they chose the next bar to grace with their presence.

  Markus sat at a table at the far end of a crowded patio overlooking Acapulco Bay. He drank a third scotch while waiting for his cellphone to ring. Tuning out the Latin pop music blaring from the overhead speakers, he watched couples strolling along the beach, some hand-in-hand, some pausing momentarily in shameless, public displays of affection.

  Completely unaware of the wicked world around them.

  His cellphone buzzed. Markus answered the call. “Dragon.”

  “Whiskey Charlie. Was the mission successful?”

  “Affirmative—at least to my satisfaction.”

  “Fine. I’ll be at Designation X-ray at zero six hundred hours to pick you up. Transportation to the States has been arranged.”

  “Roger that. Oh, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep your remote detonating switch.”

  “For future use?”

  “Souvenir.” Markus pocketed his phone. He threw back the final swallow of his whisky before slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder. He pushed his way through the high-spirited crowd of tourists seeking escape from reality.

  Passing shops and boutiques selling cheap T-shirts, postcards, and sunscreen, he paused in front of a plate-glass display window and studied his reflection. There was a time when he had despised what he saw. After Sarajevo. After Sonja. A man on the verge of turning into the same kind of animal he was hired to kill.

  If it hadn’t been for Moose and his team barging in when they did, he would have died that day. Many times, he’d wished that he had. Besides Sonja and the gang members of the Russian cartel, the only other “person” to die that day was the alias John Walker, aka Jürgen Hoffer. Markus Yeager lived.

  Taking a step nearer to the window, he looked closer at the man staring back. After Sarajevo, he spent eighteen months in the hospital—eighteen months of recuperation and intense therapy. Though his body healed, scars, both physical and emotional, remained. But as he studied his image, he realized it had been almost two weeks since he’d had an episode of PTSD or the gray-outs that plagued him in the past.

  Maybe I’ve finally accepted who I am—a sheepdog protecting my flock—capable of great violence against predators seeking to harm those I protect. Yet, seeing in his reflection neither a sheep nor a wolf, he considered the other possibility.

  Maybe I’m like Rex. A hybrid.

  Sidney’s words echoed in his mind, the words she had uttered on that first day they met. “If the devil had a dog, you’d be it.” Either way, it was time he accepted who and what he was—and he hoped to hell Sidney could accept it as well.

  Markus set off at a fast walk, hurrying to make it to Designation X-ray.

  *****

  Snow fell soundlessly against the warm windshield of the limousine. The driver announced to Mr. Smith they could expect a delay due to hazardous road conditions, but he’d do his best to get his passenger to his destination on time.

  Markus reclined against the seat, his head turned toward the window. Few cars braved the roads’ icy conditions, but a slew of sand trucks crawled along, spraying the roads with their ice melting concoction.

  The flight from Acapulco to Dallas, then from Dallas to Virginia on a leased jet had given him time to come fully to terms with who and what he was. It had also given him enough time to decide what it was he wanted. He wanted back in the Company.

  And, I want Sidney.

  After an hour’s drive that should have taken thirty minutes, the limousine turned into the exclusive neighborhood of Hidden Oaks. The opulent estates were home to Washington’s elite who commuted to D.C. durin
g the week and back to Virginia for weekends and holidays. Markus instructed the driver to pull over.

  This is close enough.

  Twenty minutes later, Markus sat at the breakfast bar in the Deputy Director’s kitchen, lights off, waiting for the Director to return home. Soon, headlights in the window swept across the room as a car pulled into the driveway. As it lifted, the garage door creaked noisily, and then the alarm beeped out a warning to enter the proper code.

  Coming into the kitchen through the garage door, O’Conner flipped on the light. “What the—”

  “Evening, Jim,” Markus said, smiling.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Same way as last time. You really should change your alarm code on a regular basis.”

  “And you really should get your alibi ironed out. I’ve been in Washington for two days, two fucking long days, explaining how a major player in an ongoing FBI investigation could have been assassinated—under our watch.”

  “And how’d that go over?”

  “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.” He shot a severe look at Markus. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  Markus followed O’Connor down the hall to an opulent, hickory-paneled room lined with law books and decorated with photographs of the many hunting dogs he had owned over the years. A confirmed bachelor, O’Connor devoted his life to his career and his spaniels.

  Pointing to a red leather chair across from his desk, he said, “Take a seat. Scotch? Cognac? Your surprise visit calls for a toast.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  “Cognac it is.” O’Connor passed a glass to Markus. “Here’s to luxury vacations. I hear Acapulco is nice this time of year.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes and his expression unreadable. He was well known among contemporaries to wear a mask of calm in the face of a storm.

  Taking a sip, letting the warmth of the amber liquid reach his belly, Markus hesitated before answering. “I can neither confirm nor deny I’ve visited Acapulco in the recent past.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Markus. Reports coming out of Mexico say the Rio Negro cartel has effectively been gutted. Both brothers, Rafael and Javier Cordoba, along with one hundred or so of their finest employees, are suspected dead. The compound was vaporized. Nothing left.”

  “I can neither confirm—”

  O’Connor bolted forward and pounded his fist on his desk. “Goddammit, Markus. This was a completely unsanctioned, unorthodox, unnecessary, not to mention illegal maneuver.”

  “Off the record, sir, it was a completely necessary, and successful, maneuver.” Markus locked eyes with the Deputy Directory. “In this world we live in, where evil trumps good more often than we’d like to acknowledge, you and I both know there are some people who just need to be killed.”

  Easing back in his chair, O’Connor crossed his arms over his chest and stared up at the ceiling. The moment stretched into a long, uncomfortable silence before he spoke. “You’ve always been somewhat of a rogue—doing things your way—taking unnecessary risks.”

  “Again, sir, this was a necessary hit. If I were still on the payroll, this is exactly the type of operation you’d have selected me for. It’s the same type of operation we’ve done before.”

  O’Connor leveled his gaze on Markus, his expression unreadable. “The speculation in Washington,” he said, giving weight to his words, “and the speculation around Mexico, too, is that a rival alliance took out the Rio Negro cartel. I didn’t argue. Given enough time, that theory could take flight.”

  “Give it wings. Let it go.”

  “What next, Markus? I can’t protect you beyond this.”

  “I don’t want protection. I want back in the Company.”

  O’Conner ran his hand down his face, tapping a finger across his pursed lips. “You’re persona non grata right now. Lie low for a while until the stink fades away. Then, perhaps, I’ll consider it. But, strictly on a contractual basis.”

  “I’ll take it. Where’s Sidney?”

  “I need to make a few phone calls to clear this. Given that there is now no need for her to be in the witness protection program, I should be able get approval for you to travel to that location, unless the FBI wants to be pissy about it.”

  “Thank you, sir. And, I’ll need to make one stop first.”

  “Where’s that?” he asked as he dialed the number of the Director of the FBI.

  “I need to pick up something in Alpine, Texas. I’d like to help put the pieces of Sidney’s life back together—if she’ll let me.”

  *****

  The early morning rays of the sun spread across the jagged peaks of the Rocky Mountains, bathing them in warm hues of gold, lavender, and pink. Eighty some odd miles west of Denver, Markus steered his truck off the interstate and onto a small, winding lane leading to a secluded cabin overlooking Lake Dillon.

  After parking the truck, he lowered the horse trailer’s windows. Mocha and Blue stuck out their heads, nickering to each other. Tramping through knee-deep snow, Markus stood on the wide stone porch, Rex at his side. He knocked, counting the long seconds before the door opened. In that interminable moment of waiting, he thought again about what he would say, how he would react if Sidney rejected him.

  He knew he would be all right—however devastated—and would survive if she turned him down. But, silently, fervently, he prayed to whatever gods might be listening that she wouldn’t walk away, having been alarmed by the things about his past, his job, his life, that Moose had shared with her.

  The door flew open. Sidney stood framed in the doorway, the window at her back aglow in the sun’s warm rays. “Markus. Thank God.” She fell into his arms.

  *****

  Sidney leaned over in the saddle, patting Mocha on the neck. Having her horse with her again and knowing Rex was back to normal eased her mind. She thought about what Rex had done and knew it was only out of a desire to protect her, not because of blood lust. He was gentle with the barn cats at the stables and was aloof around strangers. But she knew that, if provoked into a defensive act, he would do what it took to protect her again.

  And so would Markus, or Dragon, or whatever names he has used in his past.

  The backcountry trails through the White River National Forest were hard-packed in snow, providing solid footing for the horses. Up ahead, a sleigh pulled by a matched pair of dappled gray Percherons glided over the trail, its passengers wrapped in blankets and singing Christmas carols.

  “What a perfect scene for Christmas Eve,” said Sidney, reaching out for Markus’s hand.

  “Right out of a Rockwell painting, only better, because we’re here.” Easing his mare closer, Markus took Sidney’s hand and kissed it, despite the fact that it was ensconced inside a thick woolen glove.

  “We should call Trevor when we get back and wish him a Merry Christmas. It’ll be after midnight in England—officially Christmas day. It’s been three weeks since he left. I miss him.”

  “We can call. It’ll be good to talk to him and hear how he and Eli are doing.”

  Rex trotted alongside the horses, every now and then darting off into the woods to chase a squirrel or a rabbit. After a few minutes into his adventure, he would hurry back to the trail and take up his position next to Mocha and Sidney.

  “I wish we could stay here forever. I’ve grown attached to our little cabin.” Turning to Markus, she added, “I’m not attached because it’s my safe house. I’m attached to it because it feels like home.” She had similar feelings about this man—her safe harbor—her home.

  “I love it here, too. It was nice of the Feds to let us stay for the remainder of December.”

  “It’ll be nice, though, to find a place where the horses are with us and not boarded at a stable down the road.”

  “I agree. I’ve got a few more properties picked out for you to look at. Rolling acreage. Nice barns. White fences. I’ll show them to you when we get back to the cabin.”

&n
bsp; The decision not to return to Alpine had been mutual. Going back to the place Sidney associated with such terrible memories would have added more time to the healing process. She’d only begun to sleep through the night without being awakened in the throes of night terrors. Markus’s ranch was in good hands for now, and someday in the future, the decision to return might be a possibility.

  But not right away.

  “Where are the properties located?” Sidney asked.

  “In eastern Kentucky, near the Appalachian Trail. Lots of opportunities for great trail rides”

  “Sounds perfect. And we’d be close to Virginia, in case you needed to make a quick trip to Langley.”

  “I may have to, on rare occasions. Mostly, the jobs I’ll be involved with will be out of the country. Sometimes life will be complicated, and I won’t be able to tell you where I’m going. Are you sure you can handle that?” he asked, giving her gloved hand a squeeze.

  Sidney turned in her saddle to face him. Can I handle that? It was a question she’d asked herself numerous times since she and Markus had a heart-to-heart discussion about things she’d learned from Moose.

  She considered the question again, the hidden implications, and all it would mean for her future—for their future. She knew what she couldn’t handle—the idea of Markus not present in her life. After the terrifying madness she’d been through, she knew she could deal with anything else life threw her way.

  “I don’t care how complicated it gets. I want to be with you, as long as you promise to love me for the remainder of our Decembers.”

  I can handle that, and more.

  She reined Mocha around to head back to the stables, the flakes bigger and heavier than when they’d first set out on the trail. They rode hand in hand as snow fell silently on the ground, the tracks they had left earlier in that brief lost moment soon disappearing under the mounding drifts.

  Acknowledgments