The Terminal List

by Jack Carr

  He went to his stack of gear in Ben’s garage, retrieved his issued Heckler & Koch Mk 24 Mod 0 handgun, and threaded on the long black suppressor. This .45-caliber pistol was the smaller replacement for the old Mk23, a behemoth of a handgun that was a perfect example of bureaucratic blundering. To create something so heavy and cumbersome that when it came time to go to war it was left to gather dust in the armory was typical of the military’s procurement and acquisition process. He then pulled a length of 550-cord from a kit bag and cut it with the folding knife clipped inside the pocket of his pants. He wet one end of the cord with his mouth and fished it through the lanyard loop molded into the handgun’s grip. He ran the other end of the cord around the back of his neck until the suppressed handgun dangled at his belt line. Reece then tied the other end of the cord off and wrapped the large loop repeatedly around the grip before applying a small piece of rigger’s tape to hold it in place. He arranged the remainder of the gear he would need and double-checked that everything was in order before loading up the Cruiser with what looked to be enough equipment to sustain him through a deployment. Putting on a pair of dark gray running pants, a black fleece pullover, and a pair of lightweight running shoes, he picked up his backpack and headed out the back door.

  • • •

  It was a weeknight and the traffic was almost nonexistent at this hour. He steered off I-5 and pulled into the parking lot of the medical office. He turned off the motor and headlights, sitting quietly in the vehicle with the windows down for nearly an hour, taking in the sights and sounds, or lack thereof. He pulled on a set of nitrile gloves and then reached into the pack on the passenger’s seat and removed the handgun, unraveling the long loop of cord before slipping it over his head. He unzipped his fleece jacket and dropped the .45 down inside.

  At 3:00 a.m., he climbed out of the vehicle, put on his unzipped pack, and pulled the waistband of his dark workout pants up and over the dangling handgun’s suppressor. There’s no great way to conceal a suppressed handgun, particularly when you’re not wearing a belt. The 550-cord loop kept the gun inside his waistband, where it wouldn’t flop around, but also allowed him enough slack to fire the gun at a close range target if the need arose. It wasn’t ideal, but it would work.

  He climbed cautiously over the short chain link fence, being careful not to let the handgun catch on anything. After crossing the well-lit parking lot, he stopped next to Holder’s building and slipped the smaller PVS-18 night-vision mono scope attached to what operators referred to as a “skull-crusher” to his head. The skull-crusher was essentially a steel headband sturdy enough to carry the weight of night optics. It was lightweight and less bulky than a helmet, though its downside was how it got its nickname—it hurt your skull like hell. Carefully, he approached Holder’s door and listened. I hope this asshole isn’t an insomniac. He slipped his picks into the lock and slowly rotated his hands to unlock the door. Thanks to his lube job last time around, the door swung open without making a sound.

  He stepped into the dark living room of the apartment and quietly shut the door behind him. The pitch-dark room became visible in various shades of green and black as he scanned with the small night scope. The ambient light in the apartment, from the digital clock on the microwave to the standby light on the television, glowed brightly. Reece drew the suppressed HK and held it at the position of retention against his chest. He stood perfectly still for what he thought was about a minute, listening for any sign that he’d awakened his target, thankfully hearing nothing but the hum of the appliances. He moved slowly down the hallway, conscious of every movement so as not to make a single unnecessary sound. He reached the door to Holder’s bedroom and once again stopped and listened for any sign of movement. Satisfied, he reached out and touched the doorknob with his gloved hand. Turning the knob as slowly as his patience allowed, he cursed silently to himself as barely audible clicking sounds came from inside the doorknob assembly. He opened the door with his left hand while gripping his handgun with the right, his body bladed to the right to make it difficult for someone hiding behind the door to wrestle the gun from him.

  Josh Holder was lying spread-eagle on his back, wearing only a pair of dark briefs; the sheets were pushed down to the foot of the bed. This guy must get night sweats. Reece stepped into the room slowly and, on top of the dresser, found what he was looking for: Holder’s DOD-issued SIG 9mm, tucked inside a Kydex belt holster. The handgun was a smaller version of the one Reece had used during his time with the Teams.

  He had struggled with this part of the plan for days, debating whether to do what was smart or what was just. Shooting Holder with his own gun would look to the investigators like a probable suicide and would likely buy him a few more days of surprise before the net tightened. On the other hand, he couldn’t think of anything more righteous than killing the man who had somehow gotten the drop on Boozer with his friend’s beloved cartridge. The fact that the .45 ACP was suppressed was icing on the cake and decreased his chances of being seen or heard as he made his exit. He decided that he’d shoot Holder with the .45, pick up his empty brass, and then leave the man’s 9mm lying cocked on his chest with a round missing from the magazine. It wouldn’t fool the detectives very long, but then again, it wouldn’t have to.

  Reece was standing over Holder’s supine form to determine the best angle for his shot, considering it was supposed to look like a suicide, when Holder emitted a surprising gasp and his torso catapulted upward to a sitting position, his eyes opened wide. The man’s sudden movement startled Reece, who hesitated for a brief moment before shoving the HK’s suppressor directly into Holder’s open mouth—he could feel Holder’s teeth shatter from the violent intrusion—and quickly squeezed the trigger.

  The muffled sound was amplified by the acoustics of the small bedroom as Holder’s brains splattered instantly against the white drywall, his body collapsing backward onto the bed. Reece didn’t panic, but Holder’s nightmare certainly startled him. That’s for you, Boozer.

  Reece grabbed Holder’s SIG from the dresser, pulling it from its holster, ejecting and retaining a round, and leaving the hammer cocked to make it look as if it had been fired, then dropped it onto Holder’s bare chest, picked up his .45 brass, and backed out of the room. He shut the bedroom door and flipped his NODs upward as he hurried toward the front door of the apartment. He wasn’t sure if his .45-caliber round had penetrated the drywall and ended up in the neighbor’s flat-screen or dishwasher or if it would have been intrusive enough to wake them up at this hour of the night. If it had, Reece figured he had about thirty seconds to spare until that neighbor called 911, came to investigate, or both.

  He closed Holder’s apartment door behind him and pulled his lock picks out of his pocket, fumbling in his rush and dropping one of the picks to the ground. Get your shit together, Reece. Relax, work the lock. He took a deep breath, inserted the picks into the lock, and got the door secured once again. Then, taking off across the parking lot at a dead sprint, he leapt over the fence like an Olympic hurdler. Tossing his pack on the seat, he started the Cruiser and slowly drove away from the scene, waiting until he was around the backside of the medical office before he turned on his headlights and pointed his truck in the direction of Orange County.

  CHAPTER 52

  Capstone Capital Corporate Offices

  Los Angeles, California

  STEVE HORN THRIVED ON being in control, but under the current circumstances, he did not feel in control at all. He sat in his office, unable to summon anyone who could bring him all the answers. His right-hand man, the glue that kept this project together, had died of a drug overdose, of all things. The toxicology reports hadn’t come back yet but the detectives were certain it was what was termed a reckless overdose, the same type they saw all too frequently. He checked with his own independent sources in law enforcement, who all confirmed that, yes, this thing walked and talked like a run-of-the-mill prescription drug death.

  The circle of people “in the know
” on this project was extremely small, as it had to be by necessity. First of all, there was only a finite amount of money to go around; you could only make so many nine-figure promises before running out of equity. Second, the sensitivity on this investment was off the charts. Fewer than a dozen people on the planet knew all of the pieces to this puzzle, and one of them was dead. Horn couldn’t help from wondering whether one thing had anything to do with the other.

  The office door opened suddenly and his assistant Kelsie burst through with a look of panic on her face. “Mr. Horn, I’m so sorry but that was Detective Weatherly on the phone. He said that Josh Holder was found dead in his apartment early this morning. They say he shot himself. He was always so sweet to me, Mr. Horn.” She burst into tears and sank into one of the large leather chairs facing Horn’s desk, her head in her hands.

  That was no fucking suicide. Horn grabbed his iPhone and scrolled down to find Marcus Boykin’s name. He touched the screen to dial his mobile number and heard it go straight to voice mail. On a hunch, he typed Boykin’s name into the search bar on his desktop computer. The first link sent chills down his spine.

  www.wyomingnews.com

  STAR VALLEY MAN KILLED IN HUNTING ACCIDENT

  Marcus Boykin, 57, of Star Valley Ranch was found dead in his vehicle . . .

  “Kelsie, get me Mike Tedesco on the phone! NOW!”

  CHAPTER 53

  Naval Special Warfare Command

  Coronado, California

  DURING THE DRIVE FROM his home, Tedesco had accepted his fate as atonement for his actions. His heart was filled with an immense sense of regret for getting himself mixed up in this project in the first place. Goddamn Steve Horn. At least his family wouldn’t be harmed; in that he found some comfort. In his last act he had found his courage.

  Mike Tedesco took a deep breath and opened the door of his Bentley coupe. Despite the lightweight blend of his bespoke Savile Row suit and open collar, he was sweating profusely. His knees were weak as he began the short walk to the building’s entrance. The guard inside the door recognized him immediately and handed him a visitor’s badge through the slot under the bulletproof glass. Tedesco walked the halls in a fog, unable to focus or wash the blank look of despair from his face. Those who recognized him regarded him with great curiosity. The man who usually walked these halls with an aristocratic air of confidence, great charm, and an impeccable appearance now looked like he was on his way to the gallows.

  The admiral’s aide rose from his desk as Tedesco walked past him to open the doors into Pilsner’s office. “Mr. Tedesco, is the admiral expecting you?” he asked in vain as Tedesco opened the paneled door and walked inside.

  Admiral Pilsner was sitting behind his desk in a starched khaki uniform, his nose still bandaged but the deep black eyes fading out to a grotesque purple and yellow. The look on his face indicated surprise. It wasn’t like Mike to drop by without his assistant calling ahead first to arrange it. He was even more surprised at Tedesco’s disheveled appearance. Tedesco stopped a few feet short of Pilsner’s desk just as the admiral’s aide stumbled through the door behind him.

  “Sir, I’m sorry, I tried to intercept him—”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Tedesco is always welcome in my office, you know that. Have a seat, Mike. What’s the problem? You look terrible.”

  Just then, a cell phone began to ring from inside Tedesco’s coat. The ringer was set to sound like an old-fashioned dial telephone. Riiinnng . . . . riiinnng . . .

  “Mr. Tedesco, you can’t have a cell phone in this building!” cried the aide, who strictly obeyed the security protocols of WARCOM.

  Tedesco retrieved the phone, which appeared to be a cheap prepaid model, and held it across the table for Admiral Pilsner. “It’s for you, Gerald,” he said in a tone that haunted the room.

  The admiral accepted it with disbelief and looked at the phone dumbfounded, as if he’d never seen one before. Slowly, he put it up to his ear. “Hello, who is this?”

  Mike Tedesco closed his eyes. This was to be his penance.

  “This is your executioner, you fucking disgrace. You wiped out my troop and my family, and you did it all for money and a promotion. I’ll see you in hell, motherfucker.”

  James Reece hit SEND on a second cell phone, connecting a call to the one strapped to Mike Tedesco. The phone received the incoming call and sent a burst of electrons to a cluster of wires leading to a blasting cap loaded with PETN. The blasting cap detonated and forced a high-explosive response from the 2.5 pounds of C-4 sewn inside the suicide vest worn underneath Tedesco’s dress shirt.

  Tedesco’s body tamped the force of the explosion, forcing all the energy forward toward Admiral Pilsner’s desk. That energy turned the strips of framing nails embedded in the face of the C-4 into red hot shrapnel moving at well beyond the speed of sound, shredding Admiral Pilsner’s face and upper torso like a dozen shotgun rounds. The blast sent chunks of his charred skull through the massive windows, which exploded instantly from the overpressure, propelling thousands of shards of glass onto the beautiful beach below. Tedesco’s body was cut completely in half by the blast, and the parts of Admiral Pilsner that extended above his massive wooden desk simply ceased to exist.

  • • •

  Reece set down the cell phone on the late Mike Tedesco’s dining room table and looked at Tedesco’s widow, who sat just feet away, gently rocking their newborn infant. Janet Tedesco quickly went back to stroking her baby’s head but she thought she detected a hint of sadness in the big man’s eyes. When she looked back up, he was gone.

  CHAPTER 54

  San Diego, California

  LEONARD HOWARD HAD BEEN somewhat of a failure in the civilian practice of law. He did well academically in law school but was unprepared for the chaotic workload of a civil litigator. He also found that, despite his dreams to the contrary, he was abysmal in the courtroom. Whenever the partners would send him in to cover a routine motion hearing, he would panic. His confidence would shatter, his mouth would go powder-dry, and his voice would crack.

  He was quickly let go from the firm and found himself adrift. There was only one place where a lazy lawyer who was scared of the courtroom could thrive: government service. A law school friend told him about the Navy JAG program, and he was immediately sold. The uniform brought him instant pride and prestige, and the complicated bureaucracy of the military gave him an environment in which to excel. He particularly loved signing his emails “Judge,” an unauthorized way to psychologically elevate himself through the electronic communications medium.

  More than two decades into his uniformed service, Howard had risen to the rank of captain and was the judge advocate general of the Naval Special Warfare Command. When his friends and neighbors in the San Diego suburb of East Lake mistakenly referred to him as a SEAL because of his work on the staff of a SEAL flag officer, Howard never corrected them. Admiral Pilsner treated him like a trusted ally, and together they wielded the full power and influence of the U.S. Navy against anyone who stood in their way. It was very much “us” versus “them.” Pilsner’s political connections had made him a likely candidate to run the Pentagon, and Howard would rise alongside him as his most trusted confidant.

  Captain Howard had an appointment that morning and would be arriving to work at WARCOM later than usual. Most men his age were long past the stage of needing braces on their teeth, but Howard’s teeth had been in such horrible shape from a lifetime of neglect that his wife had finally convinced him to do something about it. She secretly hoped it would help his chronic halitosis as well as his appearance. The Navy denied his application to have braces put on, citing the purely cosmetic reason of his request. Unfortunately for him, the same bureaucracy in which he prospered could also be an insurmountable hurdle to climb. He shelled out the money to pay for the braces himself and had a regular visit with his civilian orthodontist out in the suburbs.

  He turned off his cell phone during the office visit per the sign on the door, powerin
g it back up as he walked outside to what they now called a sports activity vehicle.

  His Navy-issued BlackBerry came alive with every conceivable alert when he turned it on and it reconnected to the network: voice mails, text messages, and emails had all come through while his device had been turned off. He scanned the emails first and stopped in his tracks as he opened the most recent message:

  EXPLOSION AT WARCOM: 2 DEAD, EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY

  He checked the voice mail from his deputy, a wave of nausea coming over him when he heard the news that Admiral Pilsner had been killed by an explosion in his office, likely a terrorist attack.

  He immediately hit his local news app to see if there was more updated information available. Heart pounding, blinking to clear his vision, Howard tried to fight back what felt like an anxiety attack as he read the headline in shock.

  LOCAL MODERATE ISLAMIC LEADER DECAPITATED IN BRUTAL HATE CRIME.

  Instantly clicking on the link, he read:

  San Diego Imam Hammadi Izmail Masood was murdered late last night in an apparent hate crime. His decapitated head was found this morning by neighbors, impaled on the spike of a wrought iron gate to the mosque where he lived and served as the director of Islamic Services for the Islamic Center for Peace and Prosperity of Southern California.

  Without hesitation, he dialed his wife’s mobile number. “Amy, listen to me, don’t talk. Go get the kids out of school right now and take them to the airport. I’ll meet you there. No, I don’t have time to explain, and yes, it has to do with what you’re seeing on the news. Gerald is dead. We have to go now. I’ll meet you at the ticket counter. Throw some warm-weather clothes in a bag and go.”

  Leonard Howard climbed into his BMW X3 and sped out of the parking lot toward San Diego International Airport.