The Tech dashed off to his supervisor. He suspected the last sentence would cost him his job. I should erase this.
He didn’t, and reported it to his boss.
FBI Field Agent Melanie Holmes stood outside her supervisor’s office and paced, fiddling with a buresuretto, a small bracelet which her grandmother had given her years before. It had been through two world wars, a Japanese internment camp, and a house fire. She wore it every day without fail, and today was no different.
She reacted to her phone ringing from her cube across the room and ran to pluck it from its cradle. She hooked her long, black hair behind her ear, stopping to remove a clipped earring before holding up the phone. Time for a haircut, Mel.
“Melanie Holmes, how may I help you?”
“A little nudity and enthusiasm on your part would go a long way.”
Sonabitch. “One more word out of you, William, and your balls are blue for a week. We’re busy as hell.”
“Sorry, you’re a bit touchy today. It’s nothing really. Just poking around and got a hunch. I have been asking everyone, and no one knows jack shit about anything. You know it is in DC.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Any suspicious hacking activity lately? The attack on Chicago was too clean, maybe they hacked security info or something?”
“You’re fishing up the wrong creek. This bullshit was planned for months.” This guy’s an idiot.
“What the hell. It was just a stab in the dark. Figured it couldn’t hurt to bounce around the idea?”
She mulled over hanging up. Before she pressed the off button, she paused and raised the phone back to her ear. “Wait. Come to think of it, there was some computer mumbo jumbo.”
“I’m all ears and big other parts.”
“Yeah, your big mouth. Anyways, something happened. This morning some idiot hacked one of our old servers. The guy posted a message that claimed to have information on the attacks.”
“Well, I’m dying of suspense.”
“The hacker bounced the signal around, and one of our computers caught it. When you said bounce, it made me think of it.”
“Well?”
“They narrowed it to two houses. One was a respected member of the community, a city council member. The other is a guy named Eddie Passaro. I don’t know if you remember, but he’s the one claiming to be the brother of the hero hacker, Mike O’Connor. He made some noise on the cable news channels saying the hacker was innocent.”
“Unfucking believable. Hey, well, don’t let anyone know you told me. You got enough shit happening. Thanks again. Next time you’re visiting the DC I owe you dinner.”
Melanie leaned one hand on her desk. “No more favors. Next time you see me, wear a cup to keep your jewels intact. Better yet, don’t.”
“Cup. Jewels. Got it. Thanks, no more sweet talk, honey.”
William slammed down his phone, left his cube, raced down the steps of the back stairwell two at a time until he reached the bottom floor. He pushed his way outside, walked across the street and around the corner to an ice cream shop, and ducked in.
He nodded to the woman behind the counter and walked into the men’s room where he inserted a battery into a small cell phone and dialed a number. He let the voice on the other end do the talking first.
“You have thirty-five seconds before a trace starts on this number.”
“Sokol. We may have a problem.”
CHAPTER 21
The Meeting
Later that day, in Eddie’s apartment, Mike rotated the small volume dial on the radio, and a female voice announced that the south water plant was running at full capacity while crews repaired the damage downtown. Oh really? Let’s check that.
Mike turned on the bathroom faucet. The faucet groaned. Dirt flowed through the water. He let the tap swirl and drain against the porcelain sink. A few moments later the water turned translucent. Took long enough. He crinkled his nose at the amount of chlorine. I’m going to smell like that old guy that keeps on winning gold medals. He slicked back his hair before putting on his Chicago Cubs cap.
He got ready and suited up for winter, he moved the blinds out of the way. The weather looked lousy, Chicago lousy. The morning snowflakes turned into the afternoon snow storm. Damn, it looks deep. Oh well, it’ll be a fun trip to the bar.
The doorbell rang.
Mike entered the living room, past a dozing Lokai, pivoted and reached for the front door. Ouch! Pain drove into his lower back. He clutched his cane and opened the door.
He saw the neighbor girl beaming, who was already charged with pet sitting Eddie’s cat. “Hi Linda, you here for Lokai?”
Linda, short for a ten-year-old, eyes twinkled beneath a hand-knit white hat. “Yes, sir. And Nippy is happy! Do you know when Mr. Passaro is coming back?”
Mike yanked a wad of cash from his pocket and counted fifty dollars and handed it to her. “He doesn’t know, but he said Friday at the latest. He and Mrs. Passaro are in Pennsylvania right and returning at the end of the week. Don’t worry, take this. It’ll pay for the extra time you’ll be watching his cat, and if your mom needs to go out and buy some dog food or something, this should cover it.” He stuffed his few remaining bills in his pocket.
She looked at the money and smiled. “Well okay. My mom said you’d only be gone for a little while, and we have plenty of dog food.”
“Well with the snow and the roadblocks”--not to mention the likelihood of arrest--“I’m not sure how long I’ll be at my meeting. Don’t worry if I’m not back tonight.” Eddie will take care of it if I can’t.
She gave him a child’s inquisitive eye. “Try to hurry, mom is already a little upset.”
Lokai poked his head between Mike’s legs, dropped his leash on the ground and barked at Linda.
“Hello, Lokai!”
Mike regarded the dog as he circled Linda a few times. “I suspect he rather spend time with you. It's been awful boring for him in the basement.” Mike reached down and petted Lokai.
Lokai barked twice. “Guess he’s ready to go. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. O’Connor!” She knelt and gave Lokai a big teddy bear hug before putting on his collar. They both lumbered down the street playing in the snow on the way to her house.
Despite what the girl says, her mom loves animals. The big brat is going to be spoiled when he gets back. He’s in good hands, now I hope I am.
Mike glanced up the street to see a patchwork of shoveled and non-shoveled snow. It was laborious walking with the cane; yanking it out of the snow and shoving it back in again was real work, but he preferred that to not having something to lean on or falling. The sun was sinking, taking all hope of warmth with it.
When he arrived at the bar, his hands sweated in his gloves. He stomped his feet to scatter the snow clinging on his boots. A thousand needles stabbed his toes. Frigging cold!
He stepped inside the bar. Mike paused to take inventory. Despite the years-old, state-wide ban on all indoor smoking, full ashtrays littered the countertop, along with wet, wrinkled napkins, empty whiskey glasses, crumbs, and half-eaten bowls of cold, aged popcorn. Perspiration, stale air, acrid cigar smoke, and mold from an ancient heating and air system stung his eyes and compelled him to wipe his nose. Nothing like a good cigar, but that one's not.
Mike had been holding the door open with his cane and pulled it free, letting the door slam shut. His eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Blinking and burned-out neon beer signs hung against the bar wall. Ripped and faded movie posters decorated another. Jars, whose labels sported beautiful women and exceedingly handsome men selling everything from beer to beef jerky, stood with a coat of dust.
An oversized drunk on one end of the bar held his head in his arms. He seemed to be asleep, but Mike did not hear him snoring. A half mug of beer stood nearby. A cigar spewed smoke from a glowing tip in a nearby ashtray.
Next to the drunk squatted what Mike assumed to be an unattr
active hooker. She winked at him and made the symbol of a blowjob with her hand and tongue. Mike’s head swiveled away fast enough to hurt.
At the far end of the bar, two kids, closer to twenty than thirty, played a spirited game of pool. The girl seemed to be winning, but the boy appeared to be having a good time.
Mike checked the time on his phone. Good, I still have an hour and fifteen minutes. Time for a beer or two. Might be my last for a while.
He leaned his cane next to him, shoved his gloves into his pockets, and raised a couple of fingers to signal the bartender. “Got Foster’s on tap?” And wow, just wow, it’s cold outside, and you’re wearing a pair of short shorts?
She slapped down her copy of Gun World. “Taps are empty. All we have are bottles.” She pointed to a cooler overflowing with cheap American beers. “Take your pick.” She held out her hand, “Five dollars, cash only.”
Mike handed her a five and two ones. “Right.”
She took the money and winked. “Thanks.”
His fingers wrapped around the neck of his beer, and he strutted to a corner of the bar where he had full sight of the door. The table he singled out was next to an unplugged pinball machine.
The cold splash of the beer woke his throat. The first mouthful is always the best. I’ll nurse this for a while, not like I’m in a hurry.
He avoided eye contact with the hooker and ignored the yells from the pool players whenever one of them either sunk a ball or argued rules.
Eventually draining his beer, he pushed himself upright with his cane and ambled to the bar. “I’ll have another.”
“Sure.” The woman put a napkin on the bar and dropped a fresh beer on it before nodding toward Mike’s cane. “Must be damn hard to walk in the snow with that thing.”
“Yeah. Some days I feel great, and others I need it.” He tipped the beer, took a long draw, and paid. The second splash of cold hops was almost as good as the first. “Thanks.”
His second tip got him a blown kiss.
An older Italian-looking man strolled into the bar. He brushed the snow off his jacket. After he had removed his hat, Mike saw his lightly tanned skin complexion, and could tell the man visited the gym often. Pretty good shape for an old man.
Underneath his overcoat, he was dressed in a dark suit. His face was taut and slightly wrinkled; his lips were thin, his head gray-haired and closely cropped.
The gentleman walked to Mike and offered his hand. “Mr. O’Connor. Special Agent George Johnson. As much as I’d like to join you for a beer, we need to move, and now.” Johnson lifted his jacket to reveal a belted badge and standard-issue sidearm. “Come with us, for your protection.”
“Us? There’s just you here.”
The hooker and the bum rose from the bar. The man, muscular and quite in control of himself, sauntered directly to Mike. The hooker circled to the other side of the table, hemming Mike in.
“Us. Right. Fine, I’m not going to put up a fight. I half expected to get arrested.”
Mike put his jacket on.
The man who’d pretended to be passed out at the bar took his cane. “You won’t be needing this. Or your cell phone. Hand it over.” They flowed outside as a group.
The cold air smacked Mike in the face. He watched while Johnson put his fist in the air and make a circle.
Another damn van. Mike stepped back from the curb while the van forced its way through the snow.
Johnson opened the sliding side door. “Mr. O’Connor, I’m required to restrain you. Get in.”
The agent who had pretended to be a hooker put her hands on her hips and sneered at him. “I’ll rock your world for fifty dollars!”
Mike’s head sunk. “Sorry, I’ve already put my money to better use.”
Agents hopped out of the double doors in the back of the van. They circled Mike and lead him to the center bench. Hands forced him into the seat. The female agent cuffed him using a large plastic tie-tie.
The driver turned and gave Mike a once-over. “I’m Bugs, at least that’s my name on this run. I’m brand new to this team.” He looked around. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. O’Connor. Watched your last fight a few years ago on television. I got a friend who’s a fan and would love to meet you.”
“Hope you both liked it. Personally, I didn’t. I got my ass kicked more ways than one way.”
Bugs turned and nodded toward Johnson, who had taken the front passenger seat. “Streets are partially plowed ahead. Might be a slippery ride.”
Mike speculated why no one in the van reacted to the driver’s words. Maybe it was because the driver was new?
The hooker slammed the sliding door shut while the drunkard tossed Mike’s cane onto the floor of the van.
Mike’s voice was anything but friendly. “Hey, take it easy with that.”
From the front passenger seat, Agent Johnson tapped the dashboard. “Move.”
Bugs put the van in gear. “And awaaay we go!”
Melanie Holmes watched her desk phone flash her boss’s number and picked it up before the second ring. “Holmes.”
“Need you in here.”
She slammed down the phone and left her cube, raced past several others before reaching her boss’s door. She let herself in and swung it shut behind her and waited.
“Grab a chair.”
She flopped down, tried to read Del Kaufman. Lauren seemed to be paler than usual, but Melanie said nothing. “What’s up?”
Del finished writing something. “William’s dead. A couple people went to lunch and found him in an ally near his office a few minutes ago, a bullet between his eyes. His wallet and watch were still on him. Forensics has his body downstairs.”
Melanie had a flashback of the morgue. She’d been to cheerier haunts. “I was just on the phone with him a little while ago.”
“I know. I checked his call list. I’m not in the habit of bugging the phones of my own employees, so I must ask, what did the two of you talk about?”
Melanie shrugged her shoulders. “The same thing everyone else is talking about, Chicago. I did tell him about the hacked server.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. The jerk was your typical creep with sexist comments. I told him he better strap a cup next time I saw him.”
Lauren tapped her pen against her thumb for a moment. “Our phone logs list you as the last person he called. Did you mention names or places or anything specific?”
Kaufman’s green eyes burrow into her, but she shrugged it off. “I said the hack looked a lot like the work of Mike O’Connor.”
“We have agents in the field picking up the hacker as we speak. Don’t move, agent.” Kaufman wrapped her hand around her phone and dialed a number. “Get me the number of the Officer in Charge. Let me know if they’ve identified the suspect they were assigned to pick up this evening.”
Melanie listened to her words. I got a bad feeling about this.
CHAPTER 22
Say Hello To My Little Friend
Erik, Sokol’s driver, pointed to a road crew that was replacing a downed power transformer along the road. “They work fast, here.”
Sokol sat next to him in the passenger seat, inspecting the chamber of his weapon. “There is a certain ingenuity and strength of Chicagoans. It almost rivals our own. Power is restored throughout vast areas of the city, clean water flows through the city’s pipes despite our effort at the treatment plant, all quite remarkable.”
His voice grew hard. “According to my slightly dead Washington contact, the FBI van has already left the bar with Mike O’Connor. I want no mistakes out of either of you.”
From the back seat, Natalya hissed. “I don’t make mistakes.” She unclipped the snaps that secured a pair of Russian-made Kizlyar hunting knives.
Erik maneuvered the car smoothly onto another street, slowing at a light. “This Mr. O’Connor we’re about to kill, I did not like him when we met him at his apartment. Too cocksure. Glad we took him down a notch.”
“Should have been more than a notch. A man I should have killed off long before he ever went to prison. My recently deceased operative believed O’Connor was behind an FBI server hack advertising that he knows who attacked Chicago. If O’Connor talks, the FBI may learn that my broadcasts to the NSA blaming Ryzhevolosyy’s organization were a ruse.”
Natalya jammed a clip into her modified AR-15. “Or confuse them enough to re-check their facts.”
“Ryzhevolosyy, The Redhead, remains in hiding in Russia only as long as both Russia and the United States believe he is responsible for the attacks. If that changes, Ryzhevolosyy will re-emerge to eliminate us. That I can promise.”
“But stifling Ryzhevolosyy is not your end game.” Erik nodded and smiled at a National Guardsman who stood in the middle of an intersection, directing traffic.
“The righteous war between Russia and Europe will not occur if the Americans are not sitting on the sidelines licking their wounds. Mike O’Connor must die tonight.”
Mike couldn’t relax. The tight plastic straps bit into his wrist. He wiggled, trying to keep the ties from choking off the circulation to his fingers. It didn’t work; the straps tightened.
His head bounced off the headrest when the van lurched. Shit that hurt. The idiots better listen to me when we get where we’re going. Mike gazed out the window. “I suppose you’ll be taking me on a little plane trip, huh?”
Agent George Johnson, who’d been talking quietly on his phone, hung up. “No plane trips. Men, one of our guys in the Chicago office just called. Kaufman believes we may be in immediate danger. Someone inside might be a mole.” He tapped his window. “Get off sixty-third, take this next street.”
Bugs said, “I know where I am going, boss.”
Mike leaned forward. “That’s bullshit. How the hell someone at the FBI, four states away, know someone’s after this van?”
I Will Not Yield Page 15
