by JT Sawyer
He got dressed then stood before their king-size bed for a few minutes, as if an invisible barrier was keeping him at bay. Finally, he crawled under the sheets, clutching Cassie’s pillow as his tears flowed freely.
8
Washington D.C.
FBI Agent Amanda Carter was just drifting off to sleep after another eleven-hour shift at the J. Edgar Hoover Building when her phone crabbed across the nightstand. She reached over, seeing it was from the director of counterterrorism, a name she knew well but a person she had only spoken to on the phone a handful of times during her nine years with the bureau.
“Director Hillerman, how can I be of service?”
“Carter. How soon can you get on the road? I need you to head up the investigative detail on a suspected act of terrorism at the Burke estate outside of Delaplane, Virginia about an hour west of Arlington.”
“Stephen Burke, the software guy? Is he alright?”
“At this point, it appears he and his entire senior staff were killed in a massive explosion at his house. There were only two survivors. I need you over there ASAP before the local cops muddle up the fucking place any further.”
She hopped out of bed, grabbing her pants and blouse then tapping the remote for the TV on the dresser. She froze, seeing the helicopter footage of the burning mansion in the forest and all the fire crews on the scene. The headline at the bottom of the screen indicated that the explosion was from a suspected gas leak in the house.
God, looks like a mortar hit that place. She fumbled with her shoes while staring at the TV. “I can be out the door in five minutes and on site in ninety, sir.”
“Good. Keep me posted. And Carter, once you’re done there, interview the survivor. He was just admitted to St. James hospital.”
“And the other one?”
“Not sure where he’s at. Someone pulled rank on the officer in charge and saw to it that the guy was cleared to leave. He’s listed as Terrance C. Shepard, a security consultant.”
“That sure sounds like someone I’ll need to speak with.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
9
The plum-orange fingers of dawn were just piercing the sides of the window blinds when Cal heard the barely audible sound of a ringtone then realized his iPhone was beckoning him to answer. Cal glanced down at the number, feeling his stomach tighten further as he saw it was Cassie’s sister.
He sighed, answering. “Sara, hi. I was going to call you.”
“Cal, are you OK? Where are you? I heard about what happened at Burke’s place. I know you and Cassie were supposed to be at a party there. Is she with you right now? Can I talk to her?”
“I just got home a little bit ago.” He turned around, leaning against the counter as his eyes lowered. “Sara, I’m…I’m so sorry. She was in the house during the explosion.” He pressed his hand to his forehead, his body shaking. “I, uhm, I’m not even sure how to explain what happened.”
“No! No…no…what? She can’t be… Oh, my God, no!” Sara’s agony pierced through every fiber of his being as she wept.
He wanted to reach across the miles and hug her.
“Cass is gone…no…how?”
“Everyone, Cassie, all our friends, were inside. I had just arrived and was walking up the driveway when the whole place…it just went up in flames.” He tried to push beyond his pounding headache to sort through the fragments of memories, but the pain in his skull was quickly blotted out by the final image of Cassie waving to him from the balcony.
Then he remembered being slammed back into the driveway as the sky erupted in orange and splintering glass hailed down upon him. He’d tried to crawl along the pavement, seeing the shattered windshield on his vehicle… Suddenly, he remembered something.
The delivery van…that white van and the caterers…the guy with the prosthetic leg…what happened to them?
He heard Sara sobbing, her voice trailing off in between gasps of air. She and Cassie had lost their parents a few years ago, making the sisters closer than ever. They spoke several times a week on the phone, constantly exchanged Facebook photos and had a twice-annual girl’s weekend away in the spring and fall. Now Sara was all alone.
Cal squeezed the bridge of his nose, needing to sit down before his headache dropped him to the ground. He shuffled towards the couch, plunking onto the cushions.
“Is Darrel home from his trip yet?” he asked, inquiring about Sara’s husband, who traveled frequently for a pharmaceutical company.
“He’s flying back home tonight, so it’s just me and the kids right now.”
“I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to bear all this alone.”
They spoke for a few more minutes until Sara said she had to go.
“I love you, Sara. Hang in there.”
“Love you too, Cal.”
Cal leaned back on the couch, resting his throbbing head and reliving yesterday’s events on an endless loop he couldn’t turn off.
He heard a vehicle pull into the driveway then stood up, peering through the side of the curtains at a copper-colored Crown Vic and a man and woman in suits stepping out.
Cal habitually stepped back from the window, trotting into his bedroom, retrieving his HK pistol from a gun safe mounted in the closet, then did a partial chamber check to confirm a round was present given the fog in his brain. He slid the weapon into the beltline beneath his t-shirt then headed back to the dining room.
The doorbell rang just as he moved to the front door. He peered through the peephole, seeing that his visitors’ arms were hanging in a relaxed fashion by their sides. The dark-haired woman was staring at the door while her barrel-chested partner scanned the street.
Cal unlocked the deadbolt, prying open the door.
“Mr. Shepard, I’m Special Agent Amanda Carter, and this is Agent James Tremblay. We’re with the FBI. I know this must be a difficult time, but we were wondering if we could have a few minutes to ask you some questions about the events at the Burke estate.”
“Events…the death of all my friends…my wife…my…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence about his unborn daughter. He opened up the door fully, peering beyond the two agents, then shook his head. “Look, I know you’re just doing your jobs, but this will have to wait for another time. I just got off the phone with my sister-in-law, and I’m still trying to keep tabs on what day it is.”
She inched towards him. “It’ll only take a few minutes. I promise. And it may help us in figuring out what happened. My understanding is that Stephen Burke was a defense contractor. Is that right?”
She was smoothly segueing into questioning mode, subtly invading his personal space and even providing the requisite disarming look in her eyes—schooled qualities that Cal had seen all too often in female interrogators.
This one’s got street smarts.
He sighed, his head still throbbing.
Let’s just get this over with.
Cal stepped aside, waving them in and motioning towards the couch. He locked the door and sat down on a barstool next to the counter.
Out of habit, he found himself determining their handedness, pistol placement and bodyweight, noting that the woman moved with the grace of a runner, unlike her oaf-like partner, whose belt was probably straining at the last notch.
Wonder if he’s a career bureau guy.
With her tan features, Carter struck Cal as being Cuban-American or possibly Puerto Rican, while Tremblay’s pasty white appearance only made Cal think the guy spent his days locked in a basement.
Carter removed a small, spiral-bound notepad from her jacket along with a ballpoint pen then scanned the first page.
“From the notes from the officer on duty, he indicated that you were the last one to arrive at the party at Mr. Burke’s residence. Is that correct?”
Cal nodded. “I pulled in just as the catering company was pulling out. Everyone else was inside already.”
“And you were a full-time employee for Burke En
terprises?” said Carter.
“I was under contract, having begun employment there just over eight months ago.”
“Wow, what a job, working for an iconic figure like Stephen Burke,” said Tremblay.
Cal noticed Carter subtly scanning the room and hallway every time Tremblay asked a question while her partner stared at him like a bulldog. He figured they were a gelled team with well-defined roles, but he knew that Carter held the man’s leash.
Cal stood up, walking into the kitchen and getting a glass of water. “Yeah, Burke had the energy of three men. I used to joke that even Einstein would have gotten winded trying to keep up with him.”
“Were company parties like the one Burke was having last night typical?” said Carter. “Did he often have his staff over to the estate?”
“Maybe every month or so, once a particular hurdle had been achieved within a research project and he wanted to map out the rest of his vision. So, yes, it was a regular thing, but only with his most senior staff.” He returned to his seat by the counter.
“Given the blast impact from the explosion, there’s no surviving video security footage of the grounds or the participants attending the event. Did you notice anything unusual upon arriving?”
“The caterers sure took off in a hurry. They left right after I arrived. Surprised they didn’t come back to offer help given they couldn’t have been that far away after the blast.”
She jotted down a few notes. “I’m interviewing them later, but the catering crew were actually the first ones to call 911 about an explosion somewhere on the hillside shortly after they left.”
Interesting.
“So, you worked as a security consultant for Burke? Were you in charge of the day-to-day security at his building, or were you his bodyguard?”
“Neither. Reggie Sinclair handled the physical security of the facility.”
“The other survivor of the blast?” said Tremblay.
“That’s right,” said Cal. “Solid guy with years of executive protection under his belt. Reggie was usually the bodyguard element when Burke was in public.”
“So, what did you do exactly?” said Carter.
“Burke was interested in creating risk-analysis software for our embassies overseas that could detect potential threats aimed at our diplomatic personnel. Having worked for the State Department on embassy details in the past, I was contracted by Burke to provide feedback on real-world scenarios.”
“So, you were a war-gamer of sorts?” said Tremblay, whose monotone questioning was beginning to grate on Cal’s nerves. “It seems like he could have used some kind of software like that around his own home, don’t you think?”
Carter swiveled towards her partner, frowning at him. “We’re not even sure that this was anything but an accident…a gas explosion.”
“Then you’re not the agents I would expect to be heading up this investigation,” said Cal. “Surely you already know about the breach at Burke’s headquarters downtown. You must suspect foul play as much as I do, which is why the bureau is already all over this.”
Carter pursed her lips. “You’re right. Those two events sure don’t lead me to think they were mutually exclusive. I would just like to know why. Why would someone target Burke and his entire staff then walk off with all of his computer hardware? My guess is that they wanted it, whatever that was, for themselves, and with Burke and all of his senior staff at that party, it would be, forgive the pun, killing two birds with one stone.”
“So who would be motivated to carry out something on this scale?” said Tremblay.
“Any ideas?” said Carter. “You must have picked up on who his competitors were or if there were any disgruntled staff who would profit from corporate espionage?”
Cal looked down at his watch, recalling he still had on the Rolex that Burke had given him. “You find out, you let me know.” He stood up. “Right now, I have some things to take care of, so you’ll have to excuse me for showing you out.”
Both agents got up, moving with him towards the front door. Carter removed a business card from her jacket, handing it to him. “We’ll be in touch, but call me in the meantime if you think of anything that could be of help to this case.”
He took the card then opened the door, watching them walk off, knowing Carter could be a useful asset with the digging she was doing.
Pulling out of the driveway, Carter paused and glanced at the manicured front lawn and side of the house. “Notice anything about the inside of his place?” she said.
“Yeah, the wife ran the joint, just like my house. Even the doilies appeared to be ironed.”
“Only one wedding photo of them and not much else regarding him. The books on the shelf, the decorations, the paintings…everything was hers, even the pictures on the wall down the hallway. Wonder how often he was at home?”
“I did like that fancy watch he was wearing though. That guy must have been making some serious coin working for Burke to afford a piece like that.”
She headed down the street, making a right turn at the stop sign. “And twenty bucks says Shepard was carrying.”
“A pistol? I doubt it. Even as a security consultant, he’d have a hard time getting a concealed weapons permit in this county.”
“He already suspects, like we do, that the explosion wasn’t an accident. Hell, I’d be carrying right now if I were in his shoes. Besides, you don’t need a damn permit in your own house.” Her Bronx accent slid out whenever she got irritated. “He’s gotta be taking this hard. His wife was pregnant, and he lost all of his colleagues yesterday. God, how do you bounce back from that?”
“Not sure you ever do.” He tapped his fingers on the armrest. “Where to next?” said Tremblay, glancing at a group of kids disembarking from a school bus at the stop sign ahead.
“To forensics. I want to see what they turned up on the cause of the explosion.”
“You know, there’s this thing called an iPhone for getting information. You want me to show you how that works?”
“I already heard what the guys down there had to say. I want to look over the actual evidence myself and see what I can see. There’s no substitute for being there in person.”
“Sounds like you’re never going to get that NYPD detective indoctrination out of your blood from the old days.”
“And you’re never gonna get the Google default button out of that brain of yours. Did they teach you anything at Quantico other than how to navigate a keyboard and print out wanted posters?”
“You old-timers…always so anti-tech. I bet you don’t even know how to cut and paste a document.”
“And I bet you my hat size is twice as large as yours. Besides, I’m only eight years older than you, so don’t give me all that ‘old-timers’ crap.”
“Well, you have the confidence of a much younger woman.”
“And you’re about to have a flattened nose.”
He chuckled. “That’s why I like working with you more than anyone else at the bureau, Carter. You can go from being a courteous federal agent holding your own against judges and congressmen to talking the shit with a coke dealer like you’re an undercover narco. Not too many people with your broad range of law-enforcement skills.”
“Now you’re just sweet-talkin’ me in the hopes that I buy lunch today, but this one’s on you. And you owe me twenty bucks.”
“For what?”
“Because Shepard was packing, trust me.” She glanced in her rearview mirror, recalling the faint scars on the man’s knuckles and the way he carried himself, even for someone so recently pummeled by life.
Security consultant…more like a streetfighter. Wonder if he’s from the Bronx too?
10
Diamond T Ranch, West Texas
Vincent Roth dragged the sleeve of his hunting shirt across his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat that had formed from the unrelenting sun of the Chihuahuan Desert.
He refused to let the heat, the cold, the wind or any other elem
ental force interfere with hunting on his 67,000-acre ranch in the hill country. While the majority of the land was raw and undeveloped, the main residence was larger than some of the outlying towns in the region and was nine miles at its widest from west to east. The place was large enough to have its own topographic map named after it and was equipped with a small lake, private landing strip, shooting range, two horse barns, cook’s house, a veterinarian’s residence, and two bunkhouses for his resident staff of cowboys.
Most of the stone buildings were constructed of local quarried rock, and Roth’s three-story home had even been featured in several prominent architectural journals.
At the flurry of movement in the creosote brush to his right, he saw a covey of quail take flight. Swinging up his vintage Parker shotgun, he dropped three of the birds with a lead barrage from the .28-gauge weapon. The antique shotgun with a gold-inlaid walnut stock had been gifted to him by a former vice-president and cost more than most of his service staff made in six months.
After an abrupt command, Roth’s two purebred short-haired pointers bolted from his side, darting through the thick brush to retrieve the lifeless quail. They trotted back, depositing the bodies at their master’s feet. Roth patted the dogs roughly on their necks then nodded for his lanky assistant to remove the birds.
The pale figure knelt down, shooting a nervous glance at Roth before scurrying back to the Hummer to place the birds in a cooler on the rear tailgate. It was a look that Roth was used to in his daily affairs, whether on the ranch or at the corporate headquarters for Roth Energy International in Houston, where his net worth saw him grace the pages of Forbes’ top-ten list of oil billionaires on a regular basis.
He heard his encrypted cellphone ring from inside the front of the green Hummer. His bodyguard Karl emerged from the driver’s side, where he had been scouring the terrain with a pair of binoculars for more quail. The burly German moved without caution through the brush like one of Roth’s prize steers.
