The Man From Belarus (Corps Justice Book 16)

by C. G. Cooper

  Top shrugged. “Who knows.”

  “What do we do if we find him?”

  “We stick to the plan.”

  “The big man’s not gonna like that.”

  All Top could offer was an easy shrug and a smile. “Big man’s gonna hafta love it then. Besides, for us...” He lay a heavy hand on Gaucho’s shoulder, “…it’s just another day for Uncle Sam’s most righteous employees.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  WILCOX — COPENHAGEN — PRESENT DAY

  He had to give them credit. They’d found the right city. That’s where the credit ended. They were in the wrong part of town, but his web of informants had pointed a quick finger in the direction of the two Americans, and so he’d gone to work. He’d watched them set up surveillance. Listened to them banter back and forth. Hell, he’d watched them discuss where the best place to take a piss was. (Højbro Plads, said Willy Trent. They had singles and were well staffed.)

  Wilcox wasn’t scared of these men. He wasn’t scared of any man. What he was, was curious. Not about why they were here, and not about why they’d been sent. He was curious about the tone of that one snippet of conversation.

  One thing was certain. These men didn’t take a piss, in a public square or anywhere else, without the express written order of Cal Stokes.

  Maybe he, Wilcox, had gotten through to Cal. The prickly Marine had let him go, after all. Had the message gotten through? That made Wilcox smile, and delayed his departure for at least another day. Better to wait and see. Maybe something interesting would come of it.

  Wilcox liked interesting.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  VOLKOV — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY

  “You’re in position?” he asked the muffled caller on the phone.

  “Affirmative. Do I have permission to begin?”

  “You do.”

  “Very well. I will contact you when the job is done.”

  How he hated these upstarts who thought they had to spell out the obvious. But he wouldn’t show this man any anger.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said with a nod. He ended the call, took the AirPods from his ears, and clasped his hands behind his head. Now came the delicate maneuvering. The pieces in position, moving to action. It was the best kind of chess.

  “It will be a good day,” he said.

  “Did you say something, Love?” came the whisper from the call girl lying next to him.

  “No, Darling, I was thinking out loud. Go back to sleep.”

  It didn’t matter what she’d heard. He would be gone before morning, leaving a hefty tip behind. Better to keep the ex-model happy, lest her tongue find more uses than simply serving her clients.

  He planted a kiss on her cheek and rolled over to catch some sleep. A couple of hours would do him some good. He’d need the energy for what would soon come.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  STOKES — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY

  To say that Cal was surprised that he wasn’t shackled in irons, gagged with a moldy rag, and tossed to rot in a cell would be an understatement the size of Mount Everest. Instead, he was under house arrest, free to use the most spacious suite at The Lodge, SSI’s VIP quarters.

  Dunn hadn’t sparked any sort of conversation on the way over, and only uttered a gruff, “Here’s your room,” before leaving.

  That had been hours ago. Cal had tried the phone and found it in working condition. Even the Wi-Fi was up and running. He still had his cell phone and could’ve called anyone he wanted.

  But he didn’t. First, there was no one to call. By now, Briggs would be unreachable. Contacting the enigmatic duo of Top and Gaucho was inadvisable at best, considering their current cover.

  No, all he could do was sit and wait, and wait he did. They were probably watching him through some new video monitoring system, so Cal just stared at the wall. It was a nice wall, a wall with memory. How many covert conversations had taken place in the very room in which he now sat statue-stiff like some POW?

  His body was telling him that it was time for a sustenance refill when someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” he called out.

  He fully expected Dunn and a troop of weapons-clad warriors to walk into the room. Wrong again.

  The man who stepped inside looked more like a high school sophomore than any adult who might work at SSI.

  “Mr. Stokes, I’m going to need your phone, please.” A boy’s voice, to be sure, but colored by a tone of pure confidence.

  “May I ask what you’re going to do to my phone?”

  Not a twitch. “No, you may not.” The guy stuck out his hand like a Catholic school nun demanding contraband from a student.

  Cal handed it over.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re most heartily welcome.”

  He turned to leave. Then he stopped, and with a curious look, turned back to Cal. “I’m not going to find anything on this, am I?”

  Cal suddenly liked this kid. “Probably not.”

  The phone-fetcher nodded. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Stokes.”

  Cal bowed his head grandly. “It was my pleasure, Mr....?”

  “Elijah Huckleberry.”

  Cal smiled. “Really?”

  The face was stone. “Yes, really, Mr. Stokes.”

  “Elijah Huckleberry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sounds like an Amish rodeo clown.”

  The kid turned on his heel and left without another word.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  LENA — RICHWOOD, WEST VIRGINIA — AGE 17

  “I miss them,” Lena said, brushing the legs on the brindle mare she rode every Thursday.

  “Corps gotta send someone off to war,” Shamblin said. “Lord knows I’m too old for that nonsense.”

  She watched him brush his own mare with long, loving strokes. He was an animal lover through and through, a departure from the sometimes gruff Marine she had come to think of as a cherished uncle.

  “You’re not too old,” she said after a time.

  Shamblin snorted and spit a line of tobacco juice for clarity’s sake. “Can’t keep up with you anymore.”

  Lena shrugged. “Maybe I’m just that good.”

  He stopped brushing. She knew what was coming.

  “What have we talked about?” he said.

  Lena exhaled sharply. “Humility,” she recited for possibly the hundredth time.

  “And why is it important?”

  “Because it keeps us aware of our limitations.”

  “What else does it keep us?”

  “Boring?”

  Shamblin didn’t smile like she thought he would.

  “Fine,” she said. “It keeps us alive.”

  His features settled in a grave and resolute way. “I need you to remember those things, Lena. I’m not gonna be around forever.”

  “I know,” she said. Not petulantly as her wit often pressed her to do. “Thank you, Terry.”

  He looked surprised. “For what, honey?”

  She composed herself, looked at him straight in the eyes, and said, “Thank you for showing me that even a grumpy, old Marine likes to be tied to a horse.”

  “What—?”

  He lunged forward before realizing that she’d tied his boot laces to a hoof. Off Lena ran, laughing at his curses, all bluster, of course. It was one of the things he’d taught her, to play little tricks that were, in fact, practice. He called it “ambush prep.” She called them sneaky skills.

  The hoot from behind meant that the chase was on. He’d probably have a rope on hand, lasso being tied as he ran. Shamblin had to be part cowboy the way he looped. It was a skill she had yet to master.

  Third chase of the week, she thought, pushing herself hard so she could get back to the borrowed cabin. He’d caught her on both occasions. The old goat still had some wheels, and Lena’s gangly form wasn’t yet fully formed for maximum speed. That would come with time. />
  When she hit the porch she smacked her hand on the door.

  “I win,” she shouted, whirling around to see the look on Shamblin’s face. But he wasn’t there. Great, he was going to spring on her. Her heart pounded with the added burst of adrenaline she got from anticipation. She looked all around, all cat eyes, scouring the area.

  “Terry?” Lena called out.

  Nothing. He was doing it again. Lying in wait.

  “Come on, Terry. Cut the crap.”

  Another kick of adrenaline stirred in her gut and spiraled down her legs. He was going to jump out—she’d scream, he’d laugh, and she’d get pissed off at him. Then he’d laugh some more. She remembered with no small degree of chagrin when she peed herself a little at one of those jump-scares of his.

  “I’m not in the mood for this,” she called out. “If you spring on me, so help me I’ll cook you the shittiest dinner you’ve ever had the misfortun—”

  She started back the way she came. Her walk turned to a jog turned to a run.

  “Terry, I’m serious!” she said as her breath came in hitches.

  She almost made it to the horse corral when she skidded to a stop. What she saw on the ground froze her 17-year-old world.

  A heap of an old Marine, lying in the dirt with its hands at its sides and legs splayed.

  “Terry,” she said, unable to control the break in her voice. “Stop it already.”

  She went to him and knelt. Then, with a breath and sob, she lurched forward and beat at the lifeless body.

  “Stop it!”

  Chapter Thirty

  TRENT — COPENHAGEN — PRESENT DAY

  Gaucho squirmed in his crouched position. They’d been in the same spot for hours.

  “I hate this,” he said.

  “Ah, come on, old pal. You know this is where the rubber meets the road. All things come to those who wait.”

  “You visit a cliché farm this morning?”

  Top grinned like a man who had life in the palm of his hand.

  “And wipe that smile off your face. You’re ruining my attitude.”

  But Top knew it was just his friend’s way of dealing with an uncomfortable position. He’d grumble and moan, knowing all along that there was no place he’d rather be. That’s how it was in their line of work. You complained while it happened, and then you told cheery stories when it was all over. It was the “suck” that made it worth doing.

  “Hold on,” Gaucho said, squinting at the tiny handheld video screen. “I think I got him.”

  Top looked over his shoulder, both men holding their breath. The figure in the video turned, like he knew the camera was there.

  Gaucho groaned. “Nah, it’s not him.” He handed the device to his friend. “You’re on watch. I’m catching some shut-eye.”

  Top opened his palm. “It’s five in the afternoon.”

  “Yeah, and with our luck we’ll have to run out of here at two in the morning.”

  Top didn’t bother arguing, and Gaucho was asleep in a minute flat.

  And Matthew Wilcox had the big head on the massive shoulders right at the split of his crosshairs.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  BRIGGS — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY

  Liberty padded next to him like she’d done it since birth. The only time her head turned was if he stopped, and that wasn’t often. She’d look at him with those brown eyes as if to say, “Are you okay?”

  Daniel would give her a quick pat on the head, and off they’d move, deeper into the darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  STOKES — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY

  He’d availed himself of the minibar, room service, and a slew of reality TV shows. He particularly liked Below Deck, where the camera crew followed the deck hands and stewards around while rich VIPs rang up six-figure bills and demanded Don Julio by the case load. He knew it was scripted, but he liked watching for the “real” moments, when a part of the cast was caught unaware or some rich clown fell off the yacht.

  “What’s next? Banana pies in the face?” he muttered to himself in a moment of clarity. “I’ve gotta stop watching this stuff.” He clicked off the TV and tossed the remote on the couch.

  He dropped to the ground, did a quick fifty push-ups followed by an equal number of mountain climbers. He was about to roll into a set of burpees, what he affectionately called puke inducers, when someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” he said, flopping back on the bed.

  It was the phone guy. It didn’t take long for Cal to put the name to his lips.

  “Huckleberry,” he said, making a pistol point with his hand.

  Instead of a greeting, Huckleberry spun the phone on his index finger, an impressive feat, then flipped it to Cal. “It’s clean.”

  “Told you,” Cal said, slipping it back into his pocket. He was more than a little embarrassed that its absence had still elicited a pocket pat every few minutes. “Hey, you haven’t seen Dunn around, have you?”

  “No, sir. He’s been busy.”

  “Busy? Doing what?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Then tell me what you do around here. You the new selfie inspector?”

  Huckleberry didn’t flinch. “Something like that.”

  “So… you’re the new Neil,” Cal guessed.

  “If by Neil you mean Neil Patel, no, I don’t think I qualify as a replacement.”

  “No, no one does. But you’re not saying you aren’t good enough to at least fill the position.”

  Elijah Huckleberry grinned. “I may be young, Mr. Stokes, but I don’t find it necessary to toot my own horn.”

  Cal slipped off the bed and hit some more push-ups. “You know this was my dad’s company, right?”

  “I was led to believe this is your company.”

  Cal hit his back and worked out some flutter kicks. “Do you know that because you’ve heard or because you have access to my file?”

  Huckleberry’s non-answer was the same as a yes.

  “Okay,” Cal grunted, “what’s my social security number?”

  He’d said it as a joke but had to stop his flutter kicks when Huckleberry rattled it off. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Stokes?”

  Cal let his feet fall to the ground and gave the question some serious thought.

  “Yeah, how about you call me Cal and find out if Dunn will let me go for a jog?”

  “I’m happy to call you Cal, and you’ve already got free rein of the grounds.”

  “Serious? But I thought—”

  “That you were under house arrest? You thought wrong. Mr. Dunn has instructed the entire staff to give you anything you need.” He flashed an oily smile. “Except a weapon, of course.”

  What does one do with sudden freedom? Only one thought came to Cal’s mind when Huckleberry left the room: What was Dunn doing?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  STOKES — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY

  It was hard not to be self-conscious when they said hello, waved, or called out his name. He’d always considered SSI to be his father’s company. The short time he had been at the helm couldn’t have felt more unnatural. For although there was endless paperwork and the daily monotony of pushing pencils and people around a spreadsheet, there were also the memories that seemed to have been rubbed into the very walls. It was the smell of the place, the reminders of his parents, the office that still stood as a frozen memorial to the company founder, Colonel Calvin Stokes, USMC. Cal’s father. Cal’s hero. His best friend. And there was the cold reality that lay like a thin rime over all of it.

  SSI was an anchor to the past, something that kept him chained to the memory of his dead parents. He was not a particularly spiritual man, not in the way Daniel was, but as he left the Lodge, stretched his legs, and breathed in that familiar Tennessee air, he swore he felt his father watching him. He shivered once, still undecided a
s to how he felt about his hero.

  He still needed the truth. Matthew Wilcox presumably had that information. Or was it all a stunt to pull him in, to taint his view of the world in Wilcox’s favor?

  “No,” Cal growled, pushing that darkness from his mind. A good head-clearing run was what he needed.

  So, he ran. Away from the memories, away from the doubt, seeking clarity in stride after long stride. In deep, heaving breaths.

  He was gulping air when he made it to the hill overlooking SSI’s main headquarters. It was a place he’d only come to a handful of times. The headstones were well tended, not a weed, not a blade of grass out of place. Perfect in every sense, from the slivers of shining sun through the tulip trees to the smell of jasmine blowing in on the soft breath of early summer.

  And like a mind virus wiping all present thoughts clean and corrupting his memory, the scene shifted and sent him reeling through a tunnel of sorrow and self-pity.

  Her grave was a simple one. Humble and clean.

  Jessica. His first love. His fiancée.

  Another death to pile on the others. A starting point and an end. And another start. How many times would it happen? How many deaths can one man bear?

  He leaned down and traced her name, feeling a twinge of self-consciousness as he did. Wasn’t this the way it was supposed to be? Or was it supposed to be raining? Or perhaps there should be a bite of winter in the air, and he should be staring at an unkempt grave, tangles of weeds and maybe a gum wrapper in there. If he was going for Hallmark sentimentality, any of that was just as good as this reality. Only Hallmark cards don’t reflect the months upon months of seeing her face everywhere he turned, and at the same time listening desperately for her laugh to come pealing out of the bedroom. Or the fantasy of one more minute with her—granted, which moment would he choose? Perhaps one where he could inhale the smell that came out of the shower with her. Steam and soap like juniper.