by Ty Patterson
Some of those criminals had gotten away with light sentences, and in at least one case the thug had walked because his crime had been recorded wrongly.
They seemed to have reached a frustrating dead end until Cutter Grogan turned up.
* * *
She logged into her email and opened the file Difiore had sent. Sucked in her breath at the redactions in the fixer’s military details. Searched for him in the FBI’s various databases. No arrests. No criminal records, however his name was tagged by several staff, from field agents to SACs. Her eyebrows shot up at one name. Bob Mulhoney, the Deputy Director, to whom she reported.
She checked her watch and dialed his number.
‘Bob, you heard of Cutter Grogan?’ she asked when they had finished the small talk. ‘In New—’
‘Cutter? Yeah. Not many with that name. Why?’
‘He’s come up in a case we’re looking at. Looks like he’s withholding some intel. I want to come down hard and heavy on him, but Gina wants to wait.’
‘You want to know if we can trust him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I know Cutter well. But you should talk to Bart.’
‘The Director?’
‘Yeah.’ Mulhoney chuckled at her astonishment. ‘He knows our friend even better.’
‘How?’
‘Ask him. I’ll give him a heads-up to expect your call.’
* * *
‘I was Cutter’s CO,’ the FBI Director told her. It was nine pm, but he had taken her call promptly. ‘Commanding Officer. On a few missions. What do you want to know about him?’
‘Can we trust him, sir?’
‘Have you seen his file?’
‘The one I have is heavily redacted, sir.’
A long silence.
‘Get on to ARTEMIS.’
The program was for sharing highly classified files. All parties had to log on to it, verify themselves biometrically, and turn their screen cams on. The sender then delivered the requested documents to the rest and stayed online until it was read. The program registered the movements of the readers’ irises and flipped the pages automatically, based on the reading speed. Note-taking and photography weren’t allowed.
‘Yes, sir.’
Quindica froze when, moments later, a file appeared on her screen.
‘Sir, I don’t have clearances for this.’
‘You do, now.’
She skipped through the sections she already knew. Found that it was still redacted, but now she could read the commendations from various officers and … her eyes slowed when she read about the Distinguished Service Cross and the Purple Heart. Both of them awarded in secret for clandestine missions.
‘Sir, there are still many blacked-out parts. Like, a lot.’
‘Yeah, you don’t need to know about any of his operations. Skip to the last.’
‘That’s his civilian life, sir. Why is it in his file?’
‘You’ll see.’
Quindica skimmed through it quickly. Cutter getting married to Riley, a paramedic with FDNY, Fire Department of New York. A few photographs of the couple and their friends. A honeymoon in Yanartas, Turkey, a remote part of the country. She felt she was intruding. Uneasy that such personal details were included in the record. Was about to end the program when it came up on screen.
Terrorists bursting into their hotel room. Capturing and taking them to an abandoned village. Tayyib Mansoor, a Daesh terrorist, torturing them. Raising his knife to behead Riley when she lunged forward and impaled herself on it.
The SAC slowed her reading. No, she hadn’t made a mistake. The report said Grogan’s wife had deliberately thrust herself on the blade.
Mansoor and his men left Grogan’s bullet-ridden body in the village, thinking he was dead. A goat herder found him barely conscious and nursed him back to life.
Quindica sat back and rubbed her brows. There wasn’t much more in his file. His rehabilitation, return to the US. His new life.
‘Sir.’ She cleared her throat, aware how hoarse she sounded. ‘There are a couple of years missing. After his return to New York.’
Her boss filled her screen when he terminated the program. He was still in his Hoover Building office in DC. In his white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms. Looking as if his day was beginning, not ending.
‘I shared that file with you so that you get a measure of him,’ Jamison said, evading her question. ‘Whether you trust him … that’s your call to make.’
‘You would?’
‘With my life. There’s something you should know that’s not in the file.’
I bet there’s a lot more that’s not in there.
‘Riley was pregnant when she died.’
The SAC exhaled slowly as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders.
‘How does one live through all that without going insane?’
It was a rhetorical question, but her boss answered.
‘Cutter’s not an ordinary person.’ He smiled gently, his eyes distant. ‘I tried to recruit him into the FBI. He turned me down flat. Said he was done with working in structured environments. He wanted to be free.’
‘Permission to share those details with Difiore, sir?’
‘I cleared you for that file.’ He drummed his fingers and then nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll clear her as well. Your task force might lead you to places where you might need such security clearances. However—’
‘Yes, sir. If we leak that info, we’ll be cleaning toilet bowls in Idaho.’
‘Both of you.’
‘Understood, sir. Why’s that file so detailed?’
‘Welcome to the world of covert ops, Quindica.’ He smiled thinly but didn’t elaborate.
‘Does he do any contract work for the CIA, sir?’
‘No. That operator life is well behind him, which is why the file ends there.’
‘Sir, didn’t we capture Mansoor?’
‘Yeah. A joint manhunt with the Brits and Germans. We captured him in Lebanon and brought him Stateside for trial. He’s doing life in a supermax.’ Something crossed her boss’s face. A fleeting expression that disappeared so fast that she wasn’t sure if she had seen it or if it was a screen flicker.
‘About those missing years?’
‘You’ll have to ask him yourself. If you do, let him know I let you read his file.’
* * *
Quindica was still thinking about the file’s contents when she reached her small apartment in Brooklyn. She freshened and had her dinner, thinking of Riley Grogan and how she had died.
She poured herself a glass of milk and went to her bedroom window. If she stood on her toes, she could see the lights of the bridge above the rooftops.
She was a veteran herself. She had served in the 82nd Airborne and had one tour of Afghanistan under her belt. She had left the army on her return, wanting to try a different life, and applied to join the FBI. She passed the selection test and the rest was history.
She and her girlfriends had vacationed in Yanartas, famous for its natural fires that burned from vents in the rock.
It was splendid isolation. Nothing but the sky and nature. Ideal for bonding with the earth and with friends.
She finished her milk, rubbed the calluses on her fingers absently, and, as the night grew, thought about what made people who they were.
15
Cutter Grogan, unaware of who Peyton Quindica was and her insight into him, was tailing Darrell Ward the next day.
The easier of the two lines of investigation he could pursue.
He had worked it out.
The only way to protect the boy from his involvement was to present that leader to the cops. Which meant he had to find out where the thug hung out. He could ask Darrell, but there was no saying the student would cooperate.
Which was why he was back on the street. A false nose and contacts in his eyes to hide their natural green. A disguise that would fool even keen observers.
Followi
ng them in his rental vehicle, watching them in his mirrors as they walked briskly down the sidewalk.
Keeping up with them wasn’t a problem. Traffic was slow on account of the school. A car went the other way, a pounding beat pouring from its speakers and open windows, filling the street. The driver reached his hand out and stylishly high-fived his friends as he drove.
That’s why gangs thrive. He followed the car in his mirror as it continued down the street, honking as it turned the corner. Gangs offered image, status, and a feeling of belonging to those who were vulnerable.
He put the thought behind him as he located Darrell, who was with Manuel again. The other student was talking earnestly, gesticulating as they walked.
They were going a different route. Down Pitkin, left at the lights at Herzl Street and toward Betsy Head Park. Past it, beneath the overhead subway line on Livonia, and there the two students stopped. Behind a line of cars, leaning against the metal fence, chewing gum.
Tailing them was a practiced art. He overtook them, slid into vacant spaces and waited for them to catch up.
A train passed above, its rattling and clanking drowning every other sound, and in that flood of noise, a dark car rolled to a stop next to the boys.
Leader got out from the passenger side, a bandage on his forehead. The rear door opened and two hoods emerged.
Same dudes from Mother Gaston.
The three men approached the students, stopped a couple of feet away.
Cutter noted the way the thugs formed a protective shield around Leader, hiding his actions from the street as much as possible.
Darrell dropped his eyes when the man confronted him, kept his head down. He flinched when the thug jabbed his shoulder with a finger.
Leader looked around casually. Didn’t seem to spot anything threatening. Backhanded the boy, splitting his lip. Raised his hand to strike again when Manuel intervened, talking fast. The other hoods closed in. One of them, the man who had pulled a gun the other night, spoke softly at his boss and nudged him towards the car.
Leader went, but not before gesturing savagely.
Cutter was too far away to lip-read, but it was obvious what the man was saying.
He’s angry. Blaming Darrell for the lost drugs. Probably threatening him as well.
He watched as Manuel pulled the boy away from the railing. They jaywalked across Livonia and went down Strauss Street. He watched the teenager’s slumped shoulders until the line of cars hid the students. When he looked up, Leader’s car was pulling out.
Cutter nosed out and let an SUV go past. The vehicle carried just the driver, and through its rear and front windows he could see inside the dealer’s car.
Leader was still raging. He waved his hands angrily as he addressed his men.
His elbow sure healed fast. Or, I didn’t dislocate it. He could guess why the man was furious. He’s got to answer to his boss. Make the loss good.
Was Darrell in danger?
He thought about it as he tailed them to Rockaway, hung a right and maintained a car length’s distance.
Nope. They would have acted sooner if he was a threat. They still need him as a mule.
The thugs circled aimlessly in Brownsville for an hour. Hegeman Avenue, East Ninety-Eighth Street, Sutter Avenue and Julius Street. A wide loop they repeated continuously.
They’re killing time until their next meeting.
No other explanation. It wasn’t a counter-surveillance operation to shake off any tails. There was no attempt to double back, switch lanes or stop abruptly.
Cutter was familiar with Brownsville, but the neighborhood never failed to jolt him when he visited. The resigned look on many people’s faces as they went about their lives. Chasing the American dream had fallen by the wayside.
The neighborhood had one of the highest concentrations of public housing in the county. One TV channel had dubbed the stretch of Rockaway leading to the intersection with Livonia as the most dangerous street in the city.
He shook his head unconsciously. He had been fostered by such families. He knew how hard it was to keep hope afloat when the system and circumstances conspired against people.
Taillights flared ahead, rousing him. Leader’s car was heading to Livonia. He jammed the gas, cut ahead of a family vehicle, and fell behind them.
Deepening evening. Traffic growing as office-goers returned home. Explosion of red again as the thugs’ vehicle singled and turned into at a bar’s parking lot.
Cutter checked it out as he drove past. Big parking lot. That was a plus. That would give him cover. He drove on, cursed under his breath when Powell Street came up. One-way street, no right turns on it. He had to go on Junius to turn, circle all the way to get to Livonia.
He drove into the lot, searched swiftly, and located Leader’s car in a corner. Cutter parked in the same row, several spaces away, and brought his phone out. Clear line of sight through the windows of the vehicles in between.
Gunman and driver were out, leaning against the vehicle, puffing spliffs. Leader was on his phone as well. Nodding a lot. Deference in his posture.
They made no move to leave.
Cutter waited as well.
Ten pm. The bar was emptying. Cars beeped as their owners keyed their fobs and headlights came on. Two cars still between the hoods and him. Still no move to leave.
Must be a gang-owned or -controlled joint. That’s why they aren’t worried.
Headlights flashed and painted the lot brightly before they dimmed. A Suburban. Dark as coal, shining under the dim lighting of the lot. He pretended to speak angrily, throwing his hands up in the air when it drove past.
Can’t make out who’s inside. Tinted windows.
It returned and slowed. Backed into a space next to Leader’s vehicle.
Bummer. That blocked his view. He was opening the door when a dome light came on. Leader’s. It turned off, and a shadow moved. The thug came around the hood of the Suburban, whose driver window rolled down.
Cutter checked his surroundings swiftly. No one was looking in his direction. He glanced down at himself. Nope, the jacket camera wouldn’t work. He was sitting too low for it to capture the meeting. He raised his cell phone slowly and fingered its camera button just as the large vehicle’s interior light switched on.
Leader shifted on his feet uneasily, which briefly exposed the interior of the vehicle to Cutter’s view. A hatchet-faced man in the driver’s seat. A larger man beyond him, his face bathed in shadow. Bald. He leaned forward to speak to the thug, and then the light went off.
Cutter kept taking photographs as something stirred inside him. A distant memory. Did he know the driver? And that bald man … he hadn’t seen his face, but there was something familiar in the shape of his head and the way he had moved. He racked his brains as he captured the meeting, but no names or faces came to mind.
More indistinct movement inside the Suburban. Leader reached out and grabbed a large travel bag. Hefted it in his hand and nodded his head. The Suburban’s headlights turned on before he crossed over to his vehicle. Cutter turned away when its windows rolled up and slid down in his seat. He yelled into his phone as he looked blindly out of the window. Hatchet’s profile showed up when his car’s headlights fell on the passing SUV: sharp features, lean face, hollow cheeks. And then the vehicle disappeared, leaving him with that feeling again. That he had seen the man somewhere.
Cutter risked a quick glance when Leader’s car didn’t follow. He’s checking the bag. Got to be drugs in it. Making up for the stock they lost when I attacked them. Distribution lines had to be supplied and end customers had to be kept satisfied. There was no loyalty in the business. A user could find any other gang to buy from.
‘I’ve seen a drug deal go down,’ he spoke hurriedly, panic in his voice when he got the operator on the emergency number. ‘In the parking lot of a bar. Livonia Avenue.’ He gave the address and upped the anxiety. ‘Hurry. They’re still here. THEY’VE SEEN ME—’
He hung
up and drove out. Got lucky when a parking space opened up as a pickup truck left. Slid into it quickly and climbed out. That food truck over there, that would do nicely. It was doing brisk business even at that time of the night. He joined the line, his mouth watering at the smells coming from it. A slight angle of his head and he could side-eye the parking lot’s exit. The thugs were still inside.
He was at the counter, placing his order, when the cops arrived. Flashing lights, sirens, several vehicles, the works. Four Police Interceptors and three patrol cars surged into the parking lot, while the others ranged out on Livonia.
‘Wow!’ Cutter spoke around a mouthful of burger. ‘Wonder what went down?’
‘Drug bust,’ said the apron-clad vendor leaned over his counter to look. ‘Or a murder. Not much else happens in Brownsville.’
Cutter joined the crowd of curious spectators, watched and ate. Grunted in satisfaction when he made out Leader and his thugs in the Interceptors when they emerged.
‘It won’t make any difference,’ the vendor said cynically when he returned for paper towels. ‘They’ll be back on the street. Nothing changes here.’ Several bystanders nodded at his words.
Cutter didn’t argue with them. They live here; they know how it is. I’m not from their world.
He wiped his hands and reached his car. Drove back with the windows down and the night air swirling inside his rental. He hoped the vendor was wrong and that Difiore would find out about the arrest and investigate the lion tattoo.
He thought of the two men in the Suburban as he crossed Brooklyn Bridge, the lights of the city spread out on each side of him.
Do I know them? How?
16
Doug Mease knew something was wrong from the way Jeff ‘Gunner’ Sheller listened to his incoming call in silence. He drove quietly, carefully, sticking to the speed limit, waiting at the lights.
He usually had a driver, but he missed getting behind the wheel and took every opportunity he could.
‘What is it?’ he asked when his companion hung up.
