Not with everything else that had played out over the course of the day.
“Keep on it,” Ames said, already having a pretty good idea who might be behind such a thing but wanting to know for sure. “I’ll be here all night.”
“Yes, sir,” Valdez said, the two sides disconnecting.
Lowering the phone just a few inches, Ames scrolled down a couple of spots in his call log, highlighting the one he was looking for and pressing send, bringing it back to his face.
Less than thirty seconds later it was answered, the all-too-familiar voice of Donner appearing over the line.
“Donner.”
“Ames.”
For a moment neither spoke, allowing each to do whatever they needed to, before Ames said, “I just got a call from Valdez.”
“I see,” Donner replied. “What’s Ridge up there digging into now?”
Expecting such a response, Ames said, “Not Ridge. And whoever it is is now looking into Black Water.”
In one of the few times since Ames had met the man, Donner seemed to grasp the enormity of what he was being told, any hint of mirth or sarcasm gone from his voice.
“Has to be connected, right?
“Has to,” Ames agreed.
“So now’s the time?” Donner asked.
Again shifting his gaze to the glass right before his nose, Ames stared back at his own reflection.
“Yes. Not too crazy, make sure he lives, but make damned sure he’s out of action for the next twelve hours or so.”
“Roger that.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Every impulse was for Jackson Ridge to go back to the windows, to throw open the curtains and stare out into the night, almost defiant as he searched for whoever might be watching. Of that fact he had little doubt, knowing that if somebody was following him earlier to his meeting with Whitner, they would most certainly still be on him now.
As much as he wanted to do that, to let them know that he was not afraid, would not be bullied, the more prudent, self-preservationist side of his brain won out.
Whatever Murray had uncovered had been enough to send him underground for a while, in and of itself sufficient to let Ridge know that this crew was not to be trifled with. Coupled with the fact that he still had Beckwith sitting not twenty feet from where he was, he knew he also couldn’t do anything rash that might risk putting her in danger.
Just as he had Clara Tarby.
At least he now knew that Capitol Police was with her, watching over Ellerbe and Stroh as well.
With his hands clasped behind his back, Ridge strode back and forth across the middle of his office, his senses heightened in a way that he hadn’t known in years. He was currently working on almost twenty-four hours since rest of any kind, had barely eaten a thing, but his body didn’t seem to notice either, instead relying on natural chemicals for energy.
His heart rate had been up for what seemed like hours on end, the cotton undershirt he wore damp with sweat, his mustache a bit itchy from the same lining his upper lip.
Unlocking his fingers, he raised his left arm and checked his watch, running the math in his head.
Ten more hours. That’s all he had to go, both to find the conclusion to the story of Josh Tarby, and to keep himself and his team safe.
Resuming his pacing, Ridge played back the previous conversation in his head, running it from the inauspicious start up through the impromptu farewell that Murray had tacked on the end.
Never before had Ridge heard of Black Water, much less encountered them, though he had been around long enough to know of many outfits just like them, to have a pretty clear idea of what it was they did.
The idea was still too fledgling during his own time in the service, the world at large having not yet completely given itself over to unbridled capitalism. In those days, if a person was intent on being a soldier, they did so through the military or as a mercenary in some off-the-grid location, but never did the two sides meet.
And never was either very lucrative.
It wasn’t until after Vietnam, when the market became flooded with former soldiers, many of them possessing a very singular, very specific skill set, did such things start to pop up. Returning home to find a country that largely despised them, a job market that felt much the same, private contracting groups were born.
Getting their start by simply offering to do the grunt work that no organization – even one as large and multi-faceted as the military – wanted to do, contractors had taken the toehold and run with it. In just a few short decades they had gone from handholding and toilet scrubbing to a multi-billion dollar industry, making a lot of people extremely wealthy in the process.
So much so that sentiment on them had actually swung back in the opposite direction, many in the military hierarchy feeling they had grown too strong, their bargaining position overly entrenched.
To those on the outside looking in, they appeared to be nothing more than an off-the-books system to allow the military to do whatever they pleased, a hidden arm that could act with impunity, free of oversight or regulation.
Which is exactly what he suspected might have happened with Black Water, even if Murray hadn’t gone as far as to say so.
Again raising his wrist to check the time, Ridge found it just a few minutes later than the previous look. Just as he had for much of the previous twelve hours, he needed information, the time of night and depth of subject matter narrowing his options to precious few.
Twice more he made passes in front of the desk, his gaze aimed down at the light tan loops of the carpet before him, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the very same material.
On the start of the third trip, a thought occurred to him, a single name that would fit both of the parameters he was working with, someone so obvious the only reason he hadn’t thought about it sooner was because of the swirling mess that had been the last few hours, a marathon stretch of waiting rooms and phone calls.
Not that the latter was bound to change anytime soon.
Stepping forward between two of the chairs still positioned in front of his desk, Ridge grabbed up his cellphone and flipped it open. Clasping it with both hands before him, he checked the dwindling battery supply before going into his call log and working his way past half a dozen entries.
Moving on by strings of digits he knew to represent Murray and Golding and Bumppo, he found the listing he was looking for, a single name typed in, one of the few that actually had a title saved into his roster.
Staring at it for a moment, he drew in a deep breath, allowing his chest to expand and shoulders to rise and sag, before expelling it slowly, trying to push from his mind how much he really did not want to be making the call.
But, just like with the previous one, there didn’t seem to be any other option.
Failing to surprise him even a little, the call was snatched up after only a single ring, no sound at all meeting his ears for the better part of a minute. With his heart hammering, Ridge reached out for the front edge of his desk, leaning his hip against it, bracing himself for support.
Questions pinned just beneath the surface, aching to be released, Ridge forced himself to wait. The fact that the call was even picked up was unexpected, the silence that followed a clear message to let it be known that the act was a courtesy extended out of obligation and nothing more.
When at last the man on the other end did speak, his tone seemed to relay that exact sentiment, the words short and clipped.
“Earlier today when I said I still owed you, I didn’t mean for you to be calling it in already.”
Drawing in a deep breath, steeling himself in the knowledge that this conversation likely wouldn’t go the way he wanted, Ridge said, “I know.”
“So then why are you calling me?” Terry Whitner asked.
He didn’t bother adding the extreme time on the end of the question, Ridge not sure if that part was implied, or if the man simply hadn’t even noticed.
“What do you kn
ow about a group called Black Water?” Ridge said, jumping straight to the punch line, hoping that would be enough to get Whitner’s attention.
Again silence settled in over the line, almost another full minute passing, before Whitner repeated, “Black Water.”
“Yeah,” Ridge said, not sure if the statement was an invitation, but snatching at it just the same. “Apparently, they were on the ground in Afghanistan, and I have reason to believe that they may be connected in some way to what happened with Josh Tarby.”
Phone pressed tight to his cheek, Ridge leaned forward at the waist, almost willing Whitner to respond, using his body language in an attempt to spur along a response.
Instead, all he heard was, “Don’t call this number again,” before the line went dead.
Chapter Forty-Six
The digital readout in the top right corner of her phone screen told Marian Ellerbe she was down to her final few gasps of battery, the device being the sole reason she was still awake. In the aftermath of the senator and Susan Beckwith leaving, she had been riding an adrenaline surge, the events of the evening being far past anything she had ever experienced.
Hailing from Jacksonville, which was much closer to a retirement community than a city where actual violence ever occurred, things such as clandestine investigations and hotel room assaults were the stuff of fiction novels, not everyday life.
Certainly not hers, anyway.
When Ellerbe had awakened that morning, she had braced herself for the usual tedium of continuing to wrap things up at the office, her final few lingering tasks having been dragged out much longer than necessary, meant to ensure she had something to do in the final hours of her tenure. After that, she would sit dutifully through the handful of group meals, smiling at the right time, ordering from the cheaper end of the menu, before setting off the next day with the few remaining personal items she still had at the office.
A day later she would fly home, having pushed back her annual holiday visit, knowing she would have the dual benefits of unending time off and cheaper airfare just after the first of the year.
From there, things were still a bit up in the air, a couple of lower-end job offers having trickled through, but nothing that was yet what she was looking for.
Something with a bit more excitement.
The thought almost seemed a cruel irony now, a harsh reminder of how misguided she’d been, her surroundings painting a very stark picture of what a bit more excitement could potentially mean.
Flicking her gaze to the phone in her hand, Ellerbe saw that it was now half-past two in the morning. Beside her, Stroh was out cold, just as he had been for the previous few hours. Prior to that, he had been able to force himself awake every so often to attempt stunted conversation, but even that had eventually fallen away.
At the time, Ellerbe had been glad for the silence, though now she would even take the most of awkward of back and forth just to have some form of distraction.
In the corner, a pair of Capitol Police officers stood leaning against the wall, their backs turned to her, both seeming jovial as they bantered in low voices. By her count, neither had so much as glanced over at the thin crowd filling the waiting area in the better part of an hour, both seeming glad to be in out of the cold.
Shifting her focus back to the phone, looking at the waning battery life, Ellerbe considered going back online, checking Facebook for the hundredth time, hoping for status updates that had stopped coming in hours before. From there she thought on checking up on People.com, or perhaps even scrolling through CNN or Fox News, catching up on what the media was saying about the legislative transitions that were now just hours away.
Pushing both aside, she opted in favor of saving the last few wisps of life the device had left, knowing she would need them to eventually check in with Beckwith, not even sure if Stroh had his phone with him.
“Hey, we’re going to make a quick coffee run, be back soon.”
The voice was deep and bombastic, much too loud for the small space, jerking Ellerbe’s focus up from the phone. Feeling palpitations flutter through her chest, blood rushed to her cheeks as she found one of the two officers standing before her, his bulbous midsection at least four inches closer than the rest of him.
“Oh, okay,” Ellerbe managed, not expecting to be engaged in conversation, having no idea why the man felt the need to do so.
Even less why it took two of them to fetch coffee.
“Everything looks good here, but just give a shout if you need us,” the man said, his chest plate displaying his last name as Roberts. “We won’t be long.”
Managing only a nod in response, Ellerbe pressed her lips together, feigning a smile, her hair swinging free on either side of her neck.
Matching the pose, Roberts turned on a heel and strode away, the various items on his belt making a variety of noises as he left, audible long after he turned a corner and disappeared from sight.
Watching until they were gone, Ellerbe could only shake her head, lowering her focus back to the phone. Depressing the button on the side of it, the backlight sprang to life, displaying that only a few minutes had passed.
How long they would be expected to sit and wait she wasn’t quite certain, knowing only that at this point, noon could not arrive fast enough.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
Much like the previous time, the unexpected voice snapped Ellerbe’s attention up, a second flutter rippling through her chest.
Unlike the first though, the voice was much softer, almost gentle, meant to not be overheard.
How the woman had managed to slip into the seat beside her without being noticed, Ellerbe had no idea. Just a moment prior the seat had been unoccupied, the room appearing lifeless.
With straight brown hair and a long coat, the woman looked as fresh as if it were the middle of the day, her face unlined, not bearing the slightest hint of fatigue.
“Cops and their coffee,” the woman said, shifting her head to stare down the hall before looking back to Ellerbe. “I mean, they’re supposed to be here watching Clara Tarby, making sure you two are safe, and instead all they can do is play grab ass and make a Starbucks run.”
With her gaze turned to the empty hall stretched out before them, it took a moment for the words to register with Ellerbe, her lips parting slightly as realization set in. Again reaction passed through her chest, this time seizing her tight, the air becoming short as she slowly shifted her attention to the woman beside her, seeing her anew.
“Who are you?” Ellerbe asked, her voice rising slightly, a natural reaction to the fear and adrenaline surging through her.
Reaching out, the woman placed a hand on her thigh, her fingers digging into the flesh like talons.
“Easy now,” she said. “There’s no need to get loud, no need to cause a scene.”
Speaking from the side of her mouth, she passed her gaze over the waiting area, the scant number of people strewn in various positions, all attempting with varying degrees of success to find sleep.
“This is how this is going to go,” the woman said. “You’re going to leave your boyfriend to his sleep there, and the two of us are going to take a little walk, just like those useless cops that just waddled away from here.”
Fighting to keep herself from crying out, the woman’s grip tearing through her leg, Ellerbe bit down hard on her bottom lip, a sheen of moisture appearing over her eyes.
With her opposite hand, the woman peeled back the front flap of her coat and added, “And if you do anything that I don’t think is appropriate, you and your friend are going to meet my friend here.”
There was no stopping the tear that dripped down from the underside of Ellerbe’s right eye, the left quickly following suit, twin trails etched across her cheeks.
“Do you understand?”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The phone was still in Jackson Ridge’s hand, the shock of his conversation with Whitner very much on his features. Staring down at the de
vice in his grip, he remained rooted in place in the center of the room, trying to make sense of what just happened, hoping that a clear heading for what came next might present itself.
Hoping more than anything that he had not just committed a terrible faux pas with the one person in D.C. he knew better than to piss off.
Raising the phone back to his ear, Ridge said, “Hello? Hello?” hoping that the clicking sound he had heard so distinctly was anything besides Whitner hanging up, that the man was still there, sour about the late intrusion, but still willing to honor the marker that he had given out.
As he suspected though, there was no response, nothing but dead air over the line.
“Great,” Ridge whispered, flipping the phone shut and sliding it over onto his desk. Swiping a hand across his forehead, he wasn’t surprised in the least to feel it come back damp, a single pass along the outside of his slacks brushing it away.
Perhaps the move to call Whitner was a bit hasty, but between the dwindling timeframe and number of contacts he had left to lean on, there didn’t seem to be much else in the way of options. While he had gotten a great deal closer to his final destination, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was still much more that remained to be uncovered, precious few hours left for him to do so.
“Okay,” he whispered, leaving the phone on the desk and resuming his pacing. “What do we know already, and what do we need to figure out?”
Said low enough to ensure Beckwith couldn’t hear him, he traveled to and fro over the same walk he had made no less than a million times before. Six steps in either direction, the carpeting soft underfoot, the cavernous room swallowing any whisper of a sound from around him.
It was clear that while he had never heard of Black Water, Terry Whitner certainly had, the response visceral and instantaneous, palpable over the line. Within seconds of mentioning the name, the man had done nothing more than repeat it before cutting the call short.
Whether that was a good or bad thing for his own interests, Ridge had no way of knowing.
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 45
