The Terminal List

by Jack Carr

  It was just after 5:00 p.m. and the place was almost empty, a few sad-sack middle-aged or older men feeding dollar bills to the dancers in exchange for conversation with women who wouldn’t otherwise give them the time of day. The place was exceedingly dark. Reece doubted anyone would sit down if the lights were on. What little illumination there was came from a few neon and black lights placed in several spots on the ceiling. The black lights were flattering to the blemished skin of the dancers, but gave the whites of their eyes and teeth an odd, almost alien green glow.

  A DJ in an elevated booth looked over the scene like a prison guard surveying a cellblock from behind bulletproof glass, pumping out music that was far too new and loud for any of the patrons to appreciate. Reece took a seat at a small round table in the corner, as far away from the stage as possible. He smiled to himself recalling how he and his Teammates used to describe the front row of seats as “Pervert’s Row.” There was always one guy who insisted on posting himself there as if he’d never seen a naked woman before. A cocktail waitress, who appeared to be more attractive than any of the girls onstage, approached Reece’s table to take his drink order. He ordered a beer, which was delivered swiftly. He paid for it in cash, leaving a nice tip but not enough to be remembered.

  Each girl would mount the long stage and do a two-song routine as they disrobed and performed acrobatic feats on the rotating brass pole while wearing obscenely high heels. After their dance, each stripper would make her way around the room, asking the men to “tip her dance” while sizing each customer up for a private show in the secluded section of the club where the real money was made. The girl who was onstage when Reece sat down was way too attractive to be working in a place like this. Who knew what motivated her to work in such a shithole. You wouldn’t get the real story if you asked anyway and he had enough problems of his own without trying to save every twenty-two-year-old stripper in San Diego. More than one young SEAL had been led astray by the legendary stripper with a heart of gold. He nodded politely and tucked a dollar bill into her garter when she came by his table asking for a tip. The next girl up to the stage was overweight, possibly even pregnant, and stomped awkwardly across the stage in heels that made her look that much more ridiculous. It would have been amusing had it not been so sad.

  A hand on his shoulder pulled his attention from the stage. Reece looked up at a tall, gaunt figure standing over him. She asked in his ear if she could sit. He motioned to the seat next to him but instead she sat sidesaddle across his lap. She was wearing a black nightie and G-string bottoms with the stripper-standard clear high-heeled shoes. She had a gold hoop in her nose, and the majority of her body was covered in tattoos. Her hair was dyed jet-black, which contrasted with her pale skin like the keys of a piano. She was exactly what Reece was looking for.

  “I’m Raven,” she announced, her hands on his shoulders.

  “Your parents must have predicted your career path at a young age,” was Reece’s pithy response over the blare of the music.

  She either ignored the joke or was too much on autopilot to notice. “You’re too cute to be in here. What’s your story?”

  “Just looking to have a good time.”

  “Isn’t everybody? Care to buy me a drink?”

  Reece knew the scam; you buy the dancer a drink and she splits the cost of the overpriced champagne or, worse, fruit juice with the house.

  “Sure,” he answered.

  Raven waved to the cocktail waitress, who brought over some sparkling liquid in a champagne glass, and Reece threw a twenty down on the table. “Keep the change if there is any.” He earned a knowing grin from the cocktail waitress.

  “You’re pretty fit,” Raven opined as she patted him on the chest. “You don’t look military, and you’re too old to be a baseball player; construction?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You want to go for a private dance? I’ll take real good care of you.”

  “How about we sit here and talk for a minute? I’ll make it worth your time.”

  “I love to talk, baby. Not like there’s anyone else in here for me to talk to, anyway.”

  “I’m guessing you like to party?”

  Her eyes lit up at the dog-whistle term for drug use. “Oh yeah, I love to party. You don’t look like a party guy.”

  “You never know, do you? You holding?”

  “I can be, what are you looking for?” Her playful demeanor turned all business as she ditched her dancer hat for that of an opportunistic drug dealer.

  “Something for my back: Loritab, Roxies, Percs, whatever you’ve got.”

  “I think the DJ has some ’done, big wafers. You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “I am most definitely not a cop. How much?”

  “Let me ask him.” She strode quickly toward the elevated DJ booth and disappeared up the steps. She came back two minutes later, her eyes narrowed as she grinned mischievously. She sat back down on Reece’s lap, this time straddling him. “He’s got four; he’ll sell them for a hundred each. I’m not making anything, I’m just hooking you up.”

  Sure you are, Reece thought but didn’t say aloud. Based on his research he knew the price was highway robbery, but he didn’t really care. He reached into his pocket and handed over four one-hundred-dollar bills. Raven tucked them into the front of her panties and retrieved a packet of foil from the same, tucking it in Reece’s shirt pocket. He was somewhat relieved that he didn’t have to touch it with his hands.

  “Thanks, baby,” Raven said as she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. She climbed off his lap and he headed for the door.

  • • •

  Back at home, Reece put on a pair of nitrile gloves and retrieved the foil-wrapped package of pills that he’d bought from Raven. Despite the perception of methadone as a therapy used to treat heroin addicts, the compound’s primary use was as a pain reliever. Reece had learned that methadone is very tricky to prescribe since its therapeutic dose overlaps with a potentially lethal dose and, as a long-acting opioid, its half-life is also very long. Nonetheless, many providers use methadone for the treatment of chronic pain due to its low cost. He’d read a series of news articles about Medicaid patients accidentally overdosing on their methadone prescriptions and studied a slide deck from a conference of medical examiners on the prevalence of adult males in the U.S. dying of prescription drug overdoses, mostly by what they referred to as “polypharmacy.”

  Reece placed two large methadone tablets in a small plastic Baggie along with two tablets each of the alprazolam that he was given at Balboa and some carisoprodol that he found in his own medicine cabinet, leftover from a neck injury he’d sustained a couple of years earlier playing rugby with some British counterparts during an exchange program. He dropped the Baggie inside a larger Ziploc bag and laid it on the kitchen counter. Using a small hammer, he pounded the tablets until they were reduced to a fine powder. He put the Baggie into one of the pockets of his small nylon pack and dumped all of the remaining pills down the toilet. He then collected the prescription bottles and gloves into a brown paper grocery bag to burn.

  • • •

  All of his gear was laid out on the floor of his home’s one-car garage: weapons and the assorted kit that one accumulated over the years in the profession of special operations. He cleaned and lubricated weapons, loaded magazines, and prepared demolition charges. He did it the same way that he had for countless training and real-world missions over the past eighteen years, only this time he wasn’t doing it alongside his teammates, though he hoped that they were watching from above.

  Each item was checked off a list as it went into the various kit bags and equipment cases that lined the closed garage door. Despite his desire to stay at home surrounded by what was left of his previous life, he was clearly too exposed. Reece would take along everything that he needed to complete his mission and set up his base of operations in Ben’s “employer’s” condo.

  At 6:00 a.m. the next day, after another ni
ght sleeping in body armor, Reece’s white Land Cruiser was loaded down and heading east on Interstate 8. Reece sipped coffee from a Yeti Rambler travel mug and felt a slight relief from the tension that had wrenched his body for weeks. His mind was clear and there were no signs of a headache. He reached over and turned on the stereo, heard a familiar guitar riff from one of his favorite bands, and managed a confident smile as he pulled out of the driveway to AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Capstone Capital Corporate Offices

  Los Angeles, California

  THIS THING WAS STARTING to turn to shit. James Reece had a decidedly bad habit of not getting killed, and it was beginning to cause serious problems among the interested parties. J. D. Hartley had demanded an in-person meeting and his assistant called Mike Tedesco to let it be known that he was on his way to L.A. His jet would be landing at Santa Monica in an hour, and he’d be at the Capstone offices shortly thereafter. Saul Agnon scrambled to arrange the impromptu meeting between J. D., Horn, Howard, and Tedesco. The latter three were waiting impatiently in Horn’s conference room when they received word that the congressman was in the building. The entire success of RD4895 was contingent upon the Hartleys’ continued support.

  The consummate politician, no one could recall ever seeing J. D. Hartley with so much as a hair out of place. With a commanding height of six three, a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, and a 365-day-per-year suntan, you knew Hartley was somebody even if you didn’t know who. He walked into the frosted-glass conference room and sat at the massive black marble table without greeting anyone or shaking hands.

  “Tell me you have a plan, gentlemen.”

  Horn spoke first, “Congressman Hartley, it’s great to see you as usual, though we all wish it were under better circumstances. As you know, efforts to remove Commander Reece from the situation have been problematic.”

  “Problematic? Is that what you call it when my wife gives you the keys to the intelligence kingdom and you fuck it up? First you send a bunch of wetbacks in to do the job when the bastard isn’t even home and then you blow it when we put a damn jihadi ready to martyr himself right into your lap?”

  “Sir, Agent Holder was handling the sleeper asset,” Captain Howard interjected.

  “Don’t you fucking blame this mess on Holder. He’s more competent than all of you in this room put together. What are you going to do now? Do you even have a plan to take this guy out?”

  “Sir, if I may,” Horn spoke up, attempting to regain control of the meeting. “As you know, Capstone has a security element of very experienced individuals. Our men have all been working overseas, thanks to the DOD contract that you and the secretary have so generously allowed us, but I’ve called a team back to the States. These men will hunt down James Reece and finish the job at all costs.”

  “No, they won’t. I’m not going to have a bunch of private military contractors with ties to my wife getting in goddamn gun battles in the suburbs. You keep those men on a leash until I tell you otherwise.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand,” Horn replied.

  “I don’t know that you do understand, Mr. Horn. If the damn media gets ahold of this they will turn it into a tabloid show full of every bullshit conspiracy theory that floats down the creek. I cannot afford to have my wife exposed to any bad press on this. We have worked for a decade to rebrand the Hartley family name and we are not going to have it thrown in the garbage over a favor that we’ve offered you people.”

  “Sir, we are preparing charges against Commander Reece. I could have him arrested on my order at any moment. You just say the word,” an eager Leonard Howard offered.

  “Great idea, counselor, put him in custody where he’s impossible to kill and some Navy doctor who we can’t control can diagnose his tumor. Thanks, but no thanks. Gentlemen, you get this shit handled or you won’t be able to count on the support of the secretary whether this pipe dream comes to fruition or not. Keep Agent Holder in the loop, if you please. Now I have other business to attend to while I’m in town.”

  Everyone in the room knew that the congressman’s “other business” meant something young, blonde, and silicone enhanced. J. D. Hartley rose from the table, buttoned his coat, and turned his back before anyone could so much as offer a handshake.

  CHAPTER 38

  Arizona Desert

  EAST OF YUMA, ARIZONA, Reece found a road on the map that looked like it headed south into relatively empty desert. A trail cut east that showed no signs of recent traffic. He took it for several miles until he found its terminus, then made a U-turn and returned to a spot he’d seen roughly halfway down. He drove off-road slowly, being careful to avoid the largest of the rocks that were strewn on the ground to the horizon.

  He put the Cruiser in park and cut the engine, taking an empty cardboard box from the passenger seat before he walked around to the rear to open the hatch. He moved a suitcase and two smaller duffels, pulling away a blanket to uncover the large plastic case underneath. Unclasping the latches, he reached into the foam interior and pulled out a laser range finder, which went into his jacket pocket. Using a staple gun from one of the duffel bags, he attached a large piece of paper printed with a grid pattern to the side of the cardboard box. The blanket that had been covering his cargo was spread on the ground with the leading edge in line with the rear bumper. Reece carried the box out into the desert a distance before removing the range finder from his pocket and aiming it back toward his truck. He picked up the box and took several large steps backward before taking another reading with the range finder. Satisfied, he placed the box on the ground with the paper side oriented toward the truck. He then put a rock the size of a soccer ball into the box and closed the lid.

  Reece returned to the Cruiser and opened the back passenger door, taking a soft rifle case from the floorboard and placing it on the blanket. He moved to the back of the truck and retrieved two sand-filled shooting rests, positioning them at the front and middle of the blanket before removing a set of electronic earmuffs and a plastic ammunition box from one of the bags. Pulling the earmuffs over his hat, he knelt on the blanket and unzipped the padded canvas rifle case to reveal a hand-built hunting rifle. The man who built these only made ten or so per year because he spent so many hours getting them as close to perfect as his abundant skill and patience allowed. Reece would be traveling very near the spot where this rifle was created; too bad he wouldn’t be able to pay its maker a visit.

  Reece opened the bolt and arranged the rifle so that it was balanced on the two shooting rests, one on the forend, one at the butt. He moved himself into a prone position behind the rifle and opened the translucent blue plastic ammo box. Fifty copper projectiles gleamed in the morning sun, each looking as if it could rocket to the moon. He smiled as he thought of his father, carefully loading each of them by hand at his bench. He took a cartridge from the box and inspected his father’s handiwork; the brass cases had been annealed at the neck and carefully polished. Things of beauty. The case mouths had been chamfered, the primers seated to consistent depth, the powder charges weighed carefully, and the bullets seated to sit at a specified distance from the leade of the barrel’s rifling. His father had presented him with the rifle and these fifty rounds of hand-loaded ammunition back in Coronado almost fifteen years ago. It was the last time Reece had seen his father alive. A small piece of paper, cut perfectly to size, was taped inside the lid of the box. Printed on it were the details of the load, down to the smallest detail. The muzzle velocity was listed, as was the drop of the bullet at specified distances. At the bottom, written in blue ballpoint pen, was a note from his father:

  James—Precision with a rifle requires precision in thought. Don’t miss, Son. Love, Dad.

  Reece didn’t plan on missing. He loaded a round into the magazine, pressing the cartridge downward until it clicked under the frame rails of the action. The bolt went forward and down like silk, a testament to the many hours its designer spent fitting and polishing the p
arts. Reece found the target in the scope and raised his head from the comb to take note of the wind. There was very little of it this morning, which certainly made his life easier. He settled back into position, holding the rifle firmly but without exerting any undue force. His right handhold was on the grip of the stock, and his left hand on the bag supporting it. He carefully shifted the rifle and bags until the rifle pointed at the center of the target without him commanding it there, assuming what is called the “natural point of aim.” Reece held just above center to account for the distance, slowing his breathing, and the scope’s reticle aligned with the vertical and horizontal lines of the target’s grid. He filled his lungs with air and carefully exhaled as his finger moved toward the trigger and began applying pressure. At the natural respiratory pause between breaths, Reece continued the trigger press until the sear was released, sending the firing pin toward the primer under spring pressure and setting off a chain of events that sent the bullet spiraling forward across the desert floor.

  The rifle’s recoil was significant, but not painful due to the design of the fiberglass stock. Reece recovered from the muzzle rise and put the scope back on the target to find a .30-caliber hole placed perfectly at the target’s center. His current location was just above sea level and his target would be at a much higher elevation, but knowing his zero was a necessity. He could make adjustments when he knew the precise density altitude at the target site. He pulled the bolt to the rear and the empty case flipped onto the blanket. He loaded three more rounds into the magazine and closed the bolt, moving the safety lever to its center position. Reece pulled a pair of Swarovski binoculars from one of the bags and found a distinctive-looking boulder several football field lengths away. Setting down the Austrian binoculars, he checked the distance using his range finder: 735 yards. He consulted his data card and made the appropriate elevation changes using the dial on top of his scope. The wind had picked up a touch, a half-value breeze from his right that was somewhere between three to five miles per hour. Settling back into position, he held for the wind using the scope’s reticle and repeated the careful process of sending a precision shot downrange. The second shot once again sent his image of the target into a blur of recoil as the bullet left the muzzle. He was able to get the scope back on the boulder in time to see the bullet’s vapor trail descend into the center of the target: hit. He found two other targets at different ranges and made two more solid hits. Satisfied, he dialed the elevation back to zero and placed the rifle back into its case. The empty brass was returned to the vacant slots in his father’s box of hand loads and both the rifle and ammunition were placed on the floorboard behind the front seat.