by JT Sawyer
“It wasn’t me, I swear.”
“Who then?”
“Michele Henderson…works for Hunley as a hacker. Not sure where she got the information.”
“Hunley…he works for Roth?”
“They work together. Adam Hunley was the former ambassador to Colombia. He’s the one who brought in Montoya and his crew to do the dirty work.”
He stood up, retrieving the duffle bag from the floor, the soothing images of Monument Valley from the Western on the TV screen a stark contrast to the seething emotions beneath the surface of the trained killer in the room.
“Get up,” he snapped, yanking Rourke by his arm and shoving him towards his desk in the corner. “Pull up the imagery for Roth’s ranch in Texas. I’m sure being the NSA guy you are, you probably already reconned the hell out of it in case you had to turn on the guy.”
Rourke felt nauseous, sweat forming on his brow as he stumbled over to his desk chair, opening his laptop.
If Shepard can be reasoned with and told the truth about what’s unfolded, that’ll hopefully defuse him. I have to play this right. He’s just desperate for answers, and maybe I can talk him down.
Rourke rubbed his hand on his pants again, feeling like his headache had turned into a Category 5 migraine about to shear off the top of his skull. He typed in the password then retrieved the topographic and satellite maps for Roth’s property and a few others. Shepard handed him a flash drive then told him to also print off copies.
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, just please let me go.”
“What happened to Perseus? Where’s all the hardware that was stolen from Burke’s company?”
Rourke’s face contorted. “I have no fucking clue. I only heard about it from Jason Begley, who’s been conducting an investigation with those of us who knew what Burke was doing. Whoever did that had it all planned out way in advance. Maybe Montoya had a team.”
“And these guys, Roth and Hunley, are they at the ranch in Texas now?”
“Roth is. I spoke to him this morning. Hunley’s due back from his place in Georgia soon. He’s hosting one final fundraiser for Rimaldi with the exiled Venezuelans living in Atlanta. Without Rimaldi, Roth can’t start drilling operations.”
“Rimaldi—Ernesto Rimaldi, the presidential candidate?” Shepard’s eyes darted along the floor. “So, he’s on their payroll…that’s what the hell this is all about. They’re implementing a coup to install him so that Roth has a foothold in the oil fields down there. That’s why Perseus flagged all of this. Montoya’s presence in Caracas just set the ball rolling.”
Shepard jabbed the pistol into Rourke’s ribs. “Milo Gardner, the station chief for Venezuela—is he tied up in all of this too?”
“Gardner? No. Not that I’m aware of, although you never know who the hell’s on Hunley’s payroll. They’re sinking billions into this election. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got some of the military officers in on it.”
Rourke gave a hearty nod, tugging at his shirt collar as he continued to sweat profusely. “See, I told you I can help you. We can work something out. You haven’t killed me yet, so there must be something else you need, right?”
Shepard lowered the pistol as Rourke collapsed further back into his seat, wheezing.
“You were dead the second you opened the front door. With the digitalis on the handle and in the whiskey bottle on the counter, I’m surprised your heart lasted this long.”
Rourke looked down at his beet-red hand, which felt like it was being dragged across hot coals. His shoulder began tightening, the pain shooting down his arm as his chest began throbbing.
“What the…what did you do?” He felt winded after each word, his ribs compressing as his heart raced wildly.
Shepard slid the man’s chair back, then he unzipped the duffle bag, placing it on the desk. The sight of stacks of hundred-dollar bills was enough to make Rourke’s heart race further.
Shepard glanced down at the bundles of money, which were dappled with blood from the carnage at the cartel safehouse. “You’re too smart to have a digital trail from your financial exchanges with Roth and Hunley, which is why I need to make sure the Feds link you to Landis’ death and the Colombians. It seems like you were a master at covering your tracks, Tim. Just too bad that your poor health caught up with you.”
Shepard retrieved the flash drive and printed maps then turned off the computer.
“What? I… I…” Rourke clutched his chest with both hands, his face contorting as he gasped. He slumped back, his cheeks becoming ashen. He watched Shepard walk to the front door and wipe down the knob then return to the kitchen, where he dumped the whiskey into the sink and rinsed out the bottle and glass.
Rourke felt the room begin to spin. The image of Shepard exiting the back door grew dim as he fought to hold on to his last breath before his eyes rolled backwards and his chest collapsed.
Shepard walked the three blocks back to the stolen pickup truck he’d acquired a few hours earlier. It was parked in the dark next to an empty soccer field.
Getting inside, he turned on the engine and headed north through the upscale neighborhood then onto Main Street. Stopping at the first red light, he thought about the coming days. With so much of his energy and time devoted to working his way up the food chain in this region, he felt a sense of relief that his mission here was nearly over.
He felt an odd sense of irony that he was undertaking lethal action on his own turf, in areas that he had formerly only viewed as detached from the world of violence he employed across the globe. Now he was just like the assassins he hunted down and eliminated in other countries.
But even they have a network of other insurgents and friends to help them.
The realization that he was all alone struck him again as it had after fleeing from his house.
Cal kneaded his temples with his fingers. He was exhausted on a cellular level, and he knew that even after he killed Roth and the others it would only be the beginning of a new phase in his evasion efforts as he tried to flee the country.
His mind shot back to the present, the rage in him still brewing. Stay focused and finish the job.
Roth, Hunley and Montoya were now the main objectives, but traversing several thousand miles of open road to reach Texas when his face was plastered all over the nation was going to be even riskier than what he’d just done.
Cal removed his burner phone, dialing up an encrypted number. A second later, he heard Patterson’s familiar voice.
“Sir, are you alone?”
“Cal…you’re alive, thank God. I figured as much. Yes, I’m clear to talk.”
“Rourke was the mole inside the intelligence agencies. He was tied up with Vincent Roth, the oil tycoon, and another guy, Adam Hunley. They’re staging a coup in Venezuela, trying to install a guy named Ernesto Rimaldi. That’s what the hell this has been about—everyone died because of what Burke discovered about their attempts to circumvent the election down there.”
“Jesus. Incredible. Rourke would have had access to the satellite imagery and been able to hide his activities. And Hunley…I remember him. He was the former ambassador to Colombia. That would explain all the dead cartel guys around the city here…whom I’m assuming didn’t die as a result of a turf war like the media’s making it out to be.”
Cal didn’t respond. “There’s one more thing. The woman who leaked my identity—her name is Michele Henderson. She’s a freelancer on the dark web who works for Hunley.”
“I’ll get on that. She won’t get far, I promise.”
There was a long silence between them. “Sir, whatever happens next, I just want you to know that it was an honor serving under you. You were like a father to me, and I’ll never forget everything you’ve taught me, both in and outside of the agency.”
He heard a sigh on the other end, and he knew that there was nothing more to be said. It was unlikely that Patterson would be able to clear his name regardless of how Cal had tried to
make the recent spate of murders look like a turf war between the Colombians, and with the violence he planned to unleash in Texas, his fate as a fugitive would be sealed.
“Cal…you watch your topknot and take care of yourself.”
“Copy that, sir.” He clicked off the phone, flinging it out the window as he passed over a bridge.
Cal took a deep breath, fixing his gaze on the road, feeling like he was an explorer entering a foreign land.
He thought back to the cryptic text he had received before the Feds burst into his home. Just one more thing to take care of before I go.
As he continued north, getting onto the interstate and proceeding towards Arlington, he dreaded the thought of where he had to go next.
41
Virginia
Sixty minutes after leaving the sprawl of suburbs and strip malls behind, Cal turned onto the winding road through the countryside outside of Delaplane. The canopy of maple and beech tree limbs that hung over the two-lane road made it seem like he had entered an arboreal tunnel that shut off the outside world.
His attention on the road wavered with each mile as he thought of the burned-out shell at the end of this trip. The last time he had driven this stretch of road had been filled with such joy at seeing Cassie and his friends from the Perseus project.
He turned onto the narrow blacktop that led up to the main entrance gate, a growing pit pulsating in his core as he rounded the last turn and stopped before the orange barricades and police tape spanning the opening.
In the moonlight, he could make out the shattered hull of the estate on the hill, the sight seeming more fitting to the cover of a horror novel than the once opulent mansion of Stephen Burke.
He parked the truck then stepped out, walking under the police tape and up the driveway. Cal removed the high-beam flashlight he’d obtained from one of the thugs at Landis’ house then veered to the right, moving across the unkempt lawn.
Even this far out from the house, his boots still crunched down on glass shards and wood splinters. He paused, staring at the rubble where the second-story veranda had stood. For a moment, he saw Cassie waving, her golden hair alit in the evening sun, her smile slipping inside his soul as it always did. Then a whiff of charred wood from the breeze snapped him back to his bleak surroundings.
Cal pried his eyes from the remains of the mansion, forcing his legs towards the edge of the property. He stepped onto a gravel trail that led through a grove of young sycamore trees then continued down the path to a small clearing. There, beside a small stream, was a rustic structure no more than the size of a one-car garage.
Burke had built it for his wife as a meditation and reading room apart from the main house, but he often joked that it was him who used it the most.
Standing before the entrance, he heard the soothing sound of the winding brook below. The smell of lilacs from the bushes along the side overrode the traumatic odor of burnt wood, and Cal could see why Burke had coined this his second office.
He shined the light up at the wooden board attached above the doorway, which bore a symbol he was grateful to finally behold in person.
)ooo(
Andromeda.
42
Lynn Vogel was tapping her fingers on the edge of her desk in her office at Langley, her eyes scanning the digital files she had surreptitiously obtained from the databases of three prominent newspapers that had leaked the story on Shepard.
Patterson had assigned her the task of tracking down the perpetrator by any means necessary, but even with her advanced cyber-intrusion skills, she was finding it challenging to turn up anything, which surprised her at every turn, given her training and the scope of resources at her disposal.
But I will find you, no matter how long it takes.
Vogel leaned back in her seat, craning her head up to stretch her stiff neck muscles. She glanced over at the stack of palm-sized drones on the table by the door, recalling that she had loaned one out to Shepard before he disappeared.
Vogel leaned forward with renewed vigor, pulling up a separate screen on her computer then looking up the GPS codes for the data chips embedded in the drones, pulling up the one that Shepard had borrowed.
Her finger hovered over the GPS code as she debated the implications of her actions. Do I really want to know where he’s been or where he’s at now? She wasn’t worried about someone finding out that she knew his location, since her laptop was the only access point, but she knew the overbearing mother hen in her might be sticking her neck out too far.
This is bullshit. Just do it. This is Shepard, for God’s sake.
In all the years she’d known him, she knew him as a man of integrity and honor who had served his country with distinction, putting the other lives on his team before his.
He can’t go down in the books as a criminal. This whole thing has been a setup, and now he’s just supposed to take the fall for it? Fuck that.
She shook her head in disgust then clicked on the number. The imagery indicated a batch of different locations. Vogel pulled up the first one, which revealed an address on the upper west side of Bethesda. She recognized it from an online news article about an oil lobbyist who had been killed by a bunch of Colombians over an apparent drug deal gone bad.
She searched through the other locations, matching the coordinates with the addresses, which pulled up satellite images of the neighborhoods and any corresponding local and federal law-enforcement dispatches associated with them.
One was for a dilapidated house in an impoverished region on the fringe of Baltimore, Maryland. The police report indicated that nearly a dozen gang members had been slain there that were affiliated with the same Colombians that had struck the oil lobbyist.
Vogel took a deep breath, continuing. She found three different hostels spread around two cities, the most recent of which was last night.
Cal must be staying there, changing locations every night or so.
The last prominent point where he had lingered for a considerable time was an address for a residential location thirty minutes northwest of the Pentagon. It was in a relatively affluent neighborhood that Vogel had looked at a few years ago with her ex-husband.
Her mouth hung open when she saw the photo of the deceased taken by the FBI agent on scene last night.
God, that’s Tim Rourke. He was in on this? Did Shepard…
She paused her train of thought as she read the notes, which stated that Rourke died of an apparent heart attack, along with a report indicating that nearly $10,000 in cash was found on his desk.
Cal, are you really killing our own now? She tried to dismiss Cal’s presence at the home as coincidence, recalling Rourke’s ruddy complexion and overweight features, but the crime scene was just too similar to Cal’s MO.
Vogel watched one of her analysts walk by the window that overlooked the tac-ops center below her office. She thought about the people who worked under her then about other case officers in the building whom she interacted with on a daily basis, wondering if any of them could have been involved in the mass murder at Burke’s place.
And what about Patterson or even Foley? They also knew about Perseus. She shook her head. Christ, they can’t be involved.
She scrolled back up through the GPS coordinates, deleting them all except for the last location. Nothing stood out other than that it was currently active, and from the looks of the signal, Cal was on foot.
Her eyes widened when she saw it was the Burke estate, then she noticed a flurry of internal dispatches and chatter from both police and federal agents who were funneling towards that location.
Shit, get out of there, Cal!
Vogel had been the eyes and ears of Shepard and his SD unit for so long that she just wanted to reach out through the computer and warn him. In another reality, she would have sent a Predator drone or a Blackhawk. Now, she was going to watch it all go down and was utterly helpless to protect someone whose safety she had been responsible for during countless incursions acro
ss enemy lines.
He’ll go down in a flurry of bullets. They’re not going to take any chances this time.
Her eyes darted along the ceiling, her pulse quickening. She grabbed the encrypted cellphone on her desk and feverishly typed in a message to the only person she could trust right now.
Then she stared at the screen, waiting for a response.
“Pick up, dammit. Please, pick up.”
43
Cal stepped onto the tiny porch, grabbing the brushed nickel door handle. Feeling the resistance, he pulled out the bump key he had used on Landis’ house but saw that the configuration at the fore-end differed from the key entry on the door. He didn’t have time to try and improvise, acutely aware that there could be a patrol car or private security for the community that monitored the area.
He stepped, back sending a firm stomp kick into the door, but it didn’t buckle. Frustrated, he stepped off the porch and retrieved a palm-sized rock then smashed it into the window to the right. The blow only put a slight chip into it.
Damn, this place is fortified. What the hell’s he got in here?
Cal put more heft into the next strike, causing a spiderweb fracture across the glass, but it still remained intact. Three more forceful blows and the window crystallized then fell back in one crumpled panel.
He knew it was reinforced safety glass designed to hinder smash-and-grab theft and was probably coupled with the perimeter security measures around the property that had since been rendered inactive by the explosion.
Cal reached through, stretching his arm to the left and unlocking the deadbolt on the door.
Once he was inside, he swept his flashlight around, seeing a small desk, a chair and a power outlet on the floor in the corner.
This place musta been cleared out already by the Feds. He slowly swept the flashlight around the floor and walls then made his way across the bamboo-laced ceiling.
