by JT Sawyer
Cal glared back at the man. “So, this is where it all started. Right here in this room.”
He placed all of the items except one of the explosives into the duffle bag then zipped it up. He headed back to the man, waving the keys he’d picked up earlier. “Which vehicle?”
The man thrust his chin towards the back window. “Honda.”
Cal slid the man further back then opened the oven and placed the explosive on the bottom. He closed the door, dialing the temperature up to broil.
“What the fuck are you doing? I told you what you wanted.”
“So you should live and go back to what you were doing, slaughtering more people, is that it? Not on my watch.”
Shepard headed to the door, stepping around the cluster of bullet-riddled corpses then trotting down the stairs.
Making his way out the back door, he paused to look at a motorcycle parked near the trash barrels to the left. He recalled Carter’s comments about the mysterious figure who had fled the hospital after Reggie’s death.
Montoya…it had to be him, wrapping up what he started. He was probably behind the attack on the bridge too.
Son of a bitch must pay!
Cal got inside the Honda and sped down the street, watching a few blocks later as a red fireball filled the entire rearview mirror.
So, it begins.
35
Langley
Patterson walked past his petite secretary, who had a nervous expression that he wasn’t used to seeing. “He’s been waiting here for a while and wouldn’t take no for an answer, sir. I’m sorry.”
Patterson gave her a puzzled look, opening the door and stepping inside his office to see a welcome face across the room.
“This is a pleasant surprise…I think,” he said, staring at Colonel Ryan Foley, who stood up and shook his hand.
“After what’s happened lately, I thought you could use someone to talk to besides all the suits here,” said Foley. “Plus, I was just downstairs filling out some requisition forms for some new hardware for the SD units.”
Patterson nodded then moved to his leather seat while Foley stood near the window with his arms folded, scanning the streets below like he was on a recon mission.
“This bullshit with Shepard all over the news…how bad is the fallout?”
“How about catastrophic. It’s off the charts,” Patterson said, recounting what he knew about Shepard’s encounter with the FBI tac-team at his house then the meeting with Begley and the man’s revelations about his domestic-terrorism program.
“I’m willing to bet that Begley will use it as an excuse to defund our SD and other clandestine units. He came up from the intel side. He’s a politician, not a fighting man.”
“Worried about job security?” said Patterson with a slight grin.
“Hell with that. You know what I’m talking about, goddammit. People like Begley would have all of Langley refitted with analysts and phase out guys like you, me and the others.”
“I fear that Begley may be right—that we are on the edge of a new era of warfighters, and Perseus is just one sign of the tech that is coming. I think that in a few years we may be viewed as dinosaurs, my friend.”
“Speak for yourself, old-timer. I still plan to keep jumping out of planes until I’m a hundred.”
Patterson chuckled. “So, for another ten years then?”
“Look who’s talking, you creaky old bastard. Your knees sound like the rusty hinges on a barn door whenever you walk.”
“That’s from carrying your ass too many times when you got shot.” He missed the easy banter that sprung up between him and Foley, which had its roots in over twenty years of sweating and bleeding together on grueling missions in countless war-torn regions that had become a blur for both of them.
Foley leaned forward, his face growing taut. “You really think Begley was just gonna let you have full control of that Perseus software? He’s an ambitious son of a bitch with a shitload of compartmentalized shadow-ops programs, from what I know. My guess is he only signed it over to the agency here until he saw how it initially performed. If it tanked, then he’s got you and yours to blame. But if it’s the revolutionary shit you say it is, then he was going to appropriate it for his own little crew of anointed analysts, and I’m not so sure that having something like that in the hands of a fucking cake-eater like him is a good idea.”
“I’m not actually certain how much intel he actually gets across his desk anymore, to be honest…or at least how much of it he reads in its entirety. He leaves that to people like me and other higher-ups across the different agencies. Begley spends most of his time in oversight committees and coordinating inter-agency matters.”
“I think the other term for that is pissin’ away taxpayer dollars.”
Patterson rubbed the back of his neck. “How’s Viper doing? Her leg recover after that mission in Algeria with Shepard last spring?” Patterson was referring to the lone female operator in Shepard’s SD unit, who had suffered a gruesome rifle wound to her left quadriceps, temporarily delisting her from fieldwork.
“Physically, she’s made an amazing comeback, but she won’t be climbing any mountains, at least not for a while. You know her though…she was trying to go jogging a month after returning.”
“Sounds like Viper.”
“Mentally, she’s having a hard time adjusting to being back in the States full time. I got her a temporary position as an instructor at the Farm, but I’m not sure how long she’ll last stayin’ in one place for so long, and by that I mean more than a few months. Like Shepard, she’s used to living out of a rucksack and eatin’ MREs on the run in some desert on the other side of the planet. She’s looking into work with some of the private military contracting firms, so I’m not sure she’ll be back in SD.”
Foley sat down across from his friend. “And Shepard…what’s the latest?”
“You tell me. That’s why I thought you were here…that maybe you’d discovered something.”
Foley shook his head. “He’s alone, cut off…probably nearby though. I would be, trying to figure out who set me up and killed everyone I cared about. He won’t risk traveling abroad, not yet anyway, since he’s on too many watchlists. But staying in the AO here wouldn’t be expected by the authorities.”
“That was my thought too.” Patterson spun a pen on the desk, watching it like he was observing the needle on a compass. “Is this the only reason you came here today? You’ve been back stateside for a longer than normal amount of time even before recent events with Shepard. What are you up to?”
Foley gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Oh, I’ve got something new in the works.”
Patterson sighed. “God help us all.”
36
Before getting a room across town in another hostel, Cal parked the stolen Accord from the cartel safehouse eight blocks away near a bunch of other beaten-up vehicles belonging to the college kids who lived near campus. Since the Accord was probably stolen several times over by the time the Colombians snatched it, he wasn’t worried about it drawing attention to him.
After eating the two pre-made deli sandwiches he’d purchased at a gas station, he sat down at the rickety table in his tiny room and pulled out the items from his backpack, doing an inventory.
He had quickly changed out of his suit earlier before arriving at the hostel because of the bloodstains on the sleeves from the safehouse battle. Cal washed off the crimson remnants then hung the one-piece suit, shirt and tie in the closet to dry.
He pulled out a tattered map he’d picked up in the lobby of the hostel and pored over the layout of southern Bethesda, scanning for any natural areas or parks adjacent to the rivers that wound through the city.
He identified two sizeable ones then studied the approach routes.
Those should do. Now, if I can just find the plant I’m looking for.
When he was done, he folded up the map and shoved it in the pack along with his binoculars, lockpicking set, food, water
, power bars and his other outfits.
He lay back on the mattress, barely noticing the lumpy surface as he fell into a deep sleep for the first time in a week from sheer exhaustion and stress.
37
Concealed by the oak thicket in the nature preserve, Cal surveilled Landis’ estate in the distance for the last time. When he was done observing the locations of the three Colombian bodyguards, he prepared his gear, removing the small drone from his back and running through the mental checklist of his priorities.
On normal missions, he always had Vogel’s voice in his earpiece, feeding him directions and updates on troop movements, or he was flanked by his teammates, whose vigilance expanded his sensory capabilities, not to mention providing strength through firepower.
Now he was alone.
He missed his old compadres in the SD unit, who were now probably knee-deep in some covert operation in Africa. Guys like Waxer, Kestrel, Hatchet and the lone female operative on their team, Viper, had been his immediate family for nine months out of each year when they were deployed.
Viper and Shepard had since been temporarily replaced after both of them suffered wounds in a snatch-and-grab mission in Algeria last winter, but he would still get texts or calls from his fellow operators during his contract with Burke, and it only made him itch to get back into the fight.
But tonight, there was a different fight, and there would be no survivors among the men who were safeguarding the house across the street.
And for Ian Landis, there would be no mercy.
38
The next morning, Detective Nick Sanchez walked along the manicured grounds of Ian Landis’ hillside home, stopping by the swimming pool to examine the other victim one more time before wrapping up his initial investigation.
“Looks like a 9 mil,” said Denny Jackson, a stout detective, squatting down then pointing to the other dead body near the back porch. “Probably dropped the guy up there first since it’s only one shot to the head, then put two in this fella immediately after.”
“Neither of ’em had removed their weapons, so the shooter was watching and waiting for a while before making his move.”
“Or her move,” said the portly man. “These Colombians have women in their ranks too, you know.”
“What I know is that you watch too many movies, which would explain your waistline.”
“Pff…I spoke with the rest of our gang taskforce guys after I got here. They said the Colombian cartels are moving up into these parts more and more and there’s been a bunch of small-scale wars between the rival cartels going on. They get wind of some rich prick like the guy who owned this joint who’s into fancy designer drugs and get linked up with the rest of his wealthy pals, then another faction tries to muscle in.”
“The dead guy upstairs…” He paused to glance at his notepad. “An Ian Landis…he was an oil lobbyist in DC, it appears. Those folks run in their own circles and usually have a supplier who’s several people removed from them so there’s no blowback.”
The big man struggled to stand up. “My take is that this guy and the other two must have been offering protection to Landis—or they were here to collect on some hefty overdue fees, given all that coke in his bedroom upstairs.”
Sanchez glanced around the thick foliage beyond the swimming pool. “Protection is more like it. Especially since the security system was fucked and the camera footage is missing. I mean, the guy had a pricey saferoom in his back closet and doesn’t use it. That tells me whoever did this hit was in and out fast and knew the place—designated hitter from a rival drug dealer that Landis owed. Either that or he pissed off somebody in his line of work. He was knee-deep in the oil industry.”
“You think this is connected with the slayings of those scumbags at the dope house that was blown to shit up in Elkton? Those were Colombians too.”
“Really?” He frowned at his partner. “You know, you’re a lot smarter than anyone gives you credit for.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s what your wife said as I drove off this morning.”
“Asshole.” Jackson pulled out his iPhone. “I’m going to send this up the line to the Feds, since they’re the ones working that crime scene at the dope house, but they’ll probably say this was just another turf war by the looks of it.”
39
After several unsuccessful attempts at locating the object of his quest, Cal finally came across a cluster of the innocuous-looking foxglove plants on a partially wooded slope across from a new housing development on the west side of Bethesda.
He gathered up a handful of the bell-shaped purple flowers, tucking them into his pocket then rinsing off his hands in the muddy waters of the creek below. By themselves, the flowers weren’t a topical danger. He needed to distill them into a liquid compound that would be used as the conduit to transport deadly levels of digitalis, which would create the desired effect on his victim’s heart.
He and the rest of the SD unit members had undergone an exhaustive course in natural, synthetic and improvised poisons taught by a biochemist whom Foley had subcontracted out specifically for her unique expertise. Her background amongst herbalists in the Deep South, where plant knowledge was still intact, gave her training an added edge, and Shepard was surprised to learn that so many of the toxic plants found in North America were also located throughout the Middle East and Africa.
When formulated properly and in high enough doses, foxglove released cardiac glycosides, causing fatal heart damage.
With a sufficient amount of the flowers, he made his way along the creek then came up on the other side of the woods, taking a circuitous route apart from the one he had originally taken to the area.
He stopped at a big-box pet store, locating a bottle of DMSO. The clear, odorless liquid was used as a conduit for transporting analgesic medicine onto the swollen extremities of racehorses, dogs and small animals for arthritis relief. When combined with the foxglove flowers, it would produce an invisible but deadly elixir.
He paid for the liquid solution then exited the store, heading towards the hostel as he palmed the bottle, thinking of the next leg of his operation.
I’d prefer a bullet, but this method will provide me with a little more time for the rest of what still needs to be done.
40
As he pulled into his driveway, Tim Rourke felt like his head was the size of a bowling ball from the throbbing headache that had plagued him all day since learning about the fate of Landis and the Colombians behind the bombing.
No way in hell I’m going down like Landis. I need to get the fuck out of this country and disappear.
His wife was on a three-day vacation in Atlantic City with her girlfriends, which was just enough time to get his belongings in order and tie up any loose ends at the NSA. With his skills in counterintelligence, he had the necessary fabricated passports, credit cards and IDs needed to start over in Switzerland. He had decided against trying to bring his wife, knowing that her idea of op-sec would consist of only posting on Facebook once a week instead of hourly.
She’ll bounce back in a few weeks, and I’ve left her with enough funds to stay afloat for a while. Besides, it’s not like she’ll even notice I’m gone.
He walked up the steps, and the automated lights on the porch flickered on. He inserted the key, turning the handle on the deadbolt then opening the door, quickly typing the deactivation code on the security keypad beside the light switch.
Rourke plunked his black briefcase on the floor then headed to the kitchen, turning on the lights and removing a tumbler of brandy from the counter. He pulled a handful of ice cubes from the freezer tray, placing them in the glass then clumsily splashing the whiskey inside. He rubbed his right hand against his pants then took a swig of the cool liquid, heading towards the living room.
God, I just have to get off my feet for an hour.
He sat in the recliner and was searching for the remote when the large plasma TV on the wall flicked on, the silent ima
ges of the old Western The Searchers playing.
“What the hell?” he said, leaning forward, then dropped his glass as Cal Shepard appeared from the dining room to the right. The man was pointing a suppressed pistol at him. Bile rushed up into Rourke’s throat, and he felt like vomiting as his heart began to race.
“Never thought a career guy like you would just throw it all away, working with the likes of Roth and Hunley, but I guess their 401K plan was a little better than the NSA’s.”
Shepard moved to the couch, sitting across from him. He lowered a small duffle bag onto the floor. He looked relaxed, almost at ease, which made Rourke even more petrified.
What is he after? He could have shot me after I stepped inside the house.
“Tell me about Caracas. How did you know that Burke had stumbled upon something—something worth killing all of those people for?” He leaned forward, aiming the gun at Rourke’s head. “Killing my wife for.”
Rourke waved his flushed hands. “Please, I didn’t know they were going to use it for that. I was just the intel guy on this. They told me to keep track of Burke’s program. I knew he was doing surveillance runs with our satellites over Venezuela. How was I supposed to know that he stumbled across Montoya in Caracas? That’s what set all of this into motion.”
“You say it like you’re at a fucking debrief. These were friends of mine, good people, and my pregnant wife.”
“God, I’m sorry. I just didn’t know they were willing to go this far.”
“Listen to you, passing the buck. Now I can see why you’re a star employee of the federal government.”
Shepard glanced at the service awards mounted in frames around the room. “It must have been you who leaked my identity to the press and the Feds then. Only you would have had access to that information from the meeting with Burke and the others at the Pentagon.”
