Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  The reasons Ames had made the transition over were clear enough. A life in the military was a good living – especially for a single man like him, with modest tastes and meager needs – but it was never going to do all the things he needed it to.

  Even on a general’s wage, two chronically ill parents, his own advancing age, and a host of other financial considerations all meant that things were going to be tight. Never once had he doubted the decision to move over into the private sector, the formation of Black Water being a much-needed reprieve from the front lines, even allowing him to work full-time in the famous structure that for so long had been his goal.

  At the time, the plan had been simple enough. With the formation of his new enterprise, he would use his lifetime collection of assets and connections to put things in place before stepping to the side, creating a machine that could run even on its own, bringing in a steady residual income.

  Allow him to go hiking, or fishing, or whatever other nonsense men like him were supposed to do in retirement.

  As should have been foreseen though, as almost always occurs in similar situations, somewhere along the line things became blurry. The men he hired were cut from a different cloth than the ones he had worked with in the military, the primary motivation financial above all other, their backgrounds multinational.

  Within just a few short years, the company transitioned from an on-the-ground assistance firm into full-blown mercenaries, the difference stark.

  Through it all, Ames had told himself that it was worth it, that the growing balance of his accounts, that the increased comforts of his parents, justified the means, but there was only so long he could keep up the charade. Whatever integrity he had spent a lifetime building had managed to come down in just a few short years, the events of the past day only confirming how fast and complete his descent had been.

  Sitting alone in the darkness, Ames waited past the first knock, knowing who would be on the other side. Raising his glass of Glen Livet, he took one final swig of the liquor, savoring the warm liquid as it slid down his throat, before leaning forward and placing the tumbler on the table before him.

  Resting his palms on his thighs, he pushed himself upright, a series of assorted pops and cracks finding his ears. Grabbing the bottom hem of his dress jacket, he pulled it down tight over his midsection, smoothed the front of his pants.

  “Come in!” he called, raising his voice, employing the deep resonant bass that he normally saved for his men, the sound booming inside the silent house.

  In response, he could hear the hinges on the front door moan slightly, parting just enough for a person to enter, before going back shut. Walking over to stand beside the picture window, Ames turned his shoulder, gazing at the capitol, seeing it lit up one last time, as the sound of dress shoes on hardwood floors grew ever closer.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” Ames said once the cadence fell away, knowing that his guest had crossed from the exposed wood of the hallway onto the heavy carpeting of the living room.

  “It certainly is,” Senator Jackson Ridge replied. “I’m going to miss it.”

  Hearing the hint of sadness that permeated the statement, Ames couldn’t help but feel the same way, his features softening slightly as he nodded in agreement.

  “So am I.”

  “Going someplace?” Ridge asked.

  To that, Ames felt his face again harden, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face Ridge.

  If not for the respective attire each man wore, Ames couldn’t help but think that it would be hard to determine at the moment which one was the senator and which one a civilian contractor. While he was in sharp dress, his hair combed, Ridge wore the events of the previous day plainly, his suit rumpled and dirty, his appearance disheveled.

  “Don’t do that,” Ames said. “You’ve already won.”

  Shoving his hands into the front pockets of his pants, Ridge lowered his gaze for a moment, seeming to be debating something internally as he sauntered forward, taking up a post on the opposite end of the window.

  “Somehow, I don’t feel like there were any winners here today,” he said. Leaning forward, he pressed his shoulder into the casing encircling the window, the wood moaning just slightly under his weight.

  Unable to disagree with the assessment, Ames remained standing upright, resisting the urge to assume a similar position, each man fixing their gaze on the capitol.

  “How long do we have?” Ames asked.

  “About ten minutes,” Ridge replied.

  Pressing his lips tight, the general nodded, processing the information.

  His first thought was to how much time ten minutes afforded him. Subduing the senator across from him would be no problem, Ames having more than twenty pounds and ten fewer years than his foe, to say nothing of the sidearm strapped to his hip. With just a few quick movements he could have the man down, could have his go-bag in hand, could be in his car and out on the road.

  But to what end was the question.

  He had no desire to further sully a dazzling career, no interest in being the subject of breaking news, of having himself watched by a stunned nation as he led police on a car chase or was the subject of a manhunt.

  Absolutely refused to tarnish his parents or the uniform he wore in such a way.

  “Impressive work,” Ames said.

  Raising his eyebrows slightly, Ridge tilted the top of his head and said, “Well, you guys didn’t exactly make it easy.”

  “My team?” Ames asked. “Dead, I presume?”

  “The woman,” Ridge said, nodding. “The man – Donner – I presume, as well.”

  “So you didn’t...?”

  “No,” Ridge said, shaking his head. “Apparently, I wasn’t the only one your unit has pissed off over the years.”

  To that Ames felt surprise creep onto his features, a host of follow-up questions coming to mind, though he let them all pass in silence.

  Such was hardly the point now.

  “Just you and me now then, is it?” Ames asked.

  “Just one soldier talking to another,” Ridge replied.

  Again Ames could feel a bit of surprise come to his features, the statement quite an overstatement, the couple of years his counterpart spent in Vietnam hardly worthy of being mentioned in the same breath as his career.

  Just like before though, he let the sentiment pass, the time for arguing such semantics long past.

  “What were you guys doing with the guns?” Ridge asked, his voice gaining a bit of steel as he turned to regard Ames square, opening the volley with more vigor than anticipated.

  For an instant Ames considered feigning ignorance, claiming he had no idea what the senator was referring to, before pulling back.

  It was clear the man had done his homework. There was no need to insult them both by playing hide-the-ball for the next nine minutes and counting.

  “Do you know how many people in Afghanistan hate the Taliban and Al-Qaeda just as much as we do?” Ames replied, answering the question with one of his own.

  “Meaning?” Ridge asked.

  Ignoring the response, Ames said, “And do you have any idea what happens to most of those weapons once they are cycled out of the country?”

  This time Ridge didn’t bother responding, fixing his gaze on Ames, waiting in silence.

  “They were going to arm the resistance,” Ames said. “Helping those already in the country, allowing them to ensure that we never crossed paths with the same insurgents again. Or worse yet, that they never showed up here.”

  A muscle twitched in Ridge’s neck as he nodded, listening to the information. “So you were something of a self-appointed Robin Hood? Stealing from the rich, arming the poor, that sort of thing?”

  Venom swelled in the back of Ames’s throat, threatening to spill over his tongue, to come pouring out at any moment.

  This was the problem with politicians, the same sort of nonsense he had been forced to deal with over a lifetime in the service. They saw
things through their own particular lens, no matter how narrow the view afforded really was.

  To them, life was all about dollars and cents, about being accountable to their constituents and their checkbooks, ignoring the enormous amount of waste that they perpetuated every single day.

  “Like I said,” Ames replied, “the guns were all set to be decommissioned anyway. You know how big a pain in the ass it is to scrub a weapon that spent years in the sand?”

  The question was rhetorical, meant to illustrate a point, not evoke a response, no surprise coming in the least when Ridge failed to give one.

  “Your Robin Hood analogy does hold weight in one key area, though,” Ames said. “Never did we accept a cent for what we were doing.”

  A look that seemed to match the way Ames had felt just a moment before flashed across the senator’s face, his ridiculous mustache twisting up into a snarl.

  “Unless, of course, you count non-financial costs, like the life of Josh Tarby.”

  Lashing out was the first inclination of Ames, telling the man across from him that such a pointed barb seemed especially rich coming from a man that had played a significant role in the deaths of two of his ranking employees.

  Once more he managed to push it aside, drawing in deep breaths of air, aware that their time was fast coming to a close.

  “Josh Tarby, while tragic, knew what he was getting into,” Ames said.

  The scowl on Ridge’s face grew more pronounced, his upper lip curling back into a snarl as he stared back at Ames, “Don’t give me that line about soldiers signing up for that sort of thing.”

  “And don’t pretend you even knew who he was before yesterday,” Ames said. “That if you hadn’t gotten embarrassed by the media, you wouldn’t be home in bed right now, riding out your last night in Congress the same way you’ve treaded water for the last six years.”

  The words were out before Ames even realized it, Ridge’s self-righteous posture, his continued jabs, becoming too much, forcing out the sentiments that were pinned deep inside.

  Seeing that the words had struck, that Ridge was left with his mouth hanging open, the sneer fading as he searched for a response, Ames continued, “And I wasn’t quoting some worn out line about Josh Tarby. He knew what he was getting into because he signed on for it.”

  Less than five feet away, Ridge seemed to go through a handful of stages, each more pronounced than the one before, attempting to work his way through the information he’d just been given.

  “Yeah,” Ames said, forcing his voice to remain even. “He sought us out, just like every patrolman for every run we ever did. All we had to do was put out the word that we would pay good money for them to look the other way, maybe have to spend a few minutes out in the desert before we came to pick them up, and they came calling.”

  The summation was a bit of a simplification, but not by much. Basic pay for men in their position was such that it was almost too easy to get them to sign on, some doing so for a pittance that would be laughable if it wasn’t so pitiable.

  “Bullshit,” Ridge spat back in reply.

  Expecting the response, Ames knew that would be the reaction, men like Ridge refusing to believe that one of the baser human instincts could ever exist in places like the military.

  “Yeah?” Ames countered. “So Tarby didn’t come from a single mother in a one-horse town in Wyoming? He didn’t have a girlfriend named Sara Yellowhair with his child back home that he felt the need to provide for?”

  The words seemed to do exactly what they were intended to, stopping Ridge cold, his face sagging with shock as he stared back, eyes wide.

  Nodding once, the words a final small victory, Ames said, “We do background checks just like any other employer, Senator, only we go much, much deeper.”

  When there was no response, he added, “We have to. If we end up employing the wrong people, a lot of innocent folks end up getting hurt.”

  Letting his voice fall away, Ames turned his attention back to the window. His final monologue would certainly never be enough to exonerate some of the things he’d done, but hopefully, it would at least clarify, provide some context for the way in which his story was framed moving forward.

  In the East, the faint glow became more pronounced as the first sliver of orange light crested the horizon, just starting to peek out above the jagged skyline of the city.

  “I guess none of us are going home with our hands clean on this one, are we?” Ridge asked, Ames flicking his gaze over to see he had taken a similar stance.

  He didn’t bother responding.

  There was no need.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The final favor that Jackson Ridge cashed in during his tenure as a United States Senator – and if everything went to plan, his life - was made to Micah McArthur back in Cheyenne. Technically not a favor, since she did still work for him for a few more hours, he had still felt bad about calling and waking her up, the time difference meaning it was just six a.m. where she was.

  Repeatedly she had stated over the phone that she was awake and didn’t mind, though the yawning and stilted conversation she muddled through seemed to indicate otherwise.

  Even more so was the point driven home an hour later when she called back with the information he had requested, the data scribbled down on a slip of paper that was now tucked into his pocket as he strode back through the front entrance of the George Washington Medical Center.

  Still dressed in the same suit he’d been wearing for twenty-six hours, muddy water was splattered atop his boots, the hems of his slacks crusted solid. Spots of various fluids – bodily and otherwise – dotted his exterior, and his hair stood in a tangle that no comb could ever hope to contain atop his head.

  In dire need of a shower, a shave, and a jolt of liquid caffeine, Ridge ignored every bodily urge that was roiling through him as he walked the same hallway he had just ten hours before. In their stead, he focused on the events of the past day, of everything that had been discovered.

  Of the things he wished had remained hidden.

  Unable to change any of them, not sure he would even if he could, Ridge stepped into the waiting area at half past nine, the area significantly more populated than on his previous visit. As he appeared, a handful of people glanced his direction, his gaze dancing over them before landing on a trio tucked away in the corner.

  In the far seat, the arm of her chair flush against the wall, sat Ellerbe, a gray wool blanket pulled over her as she leaned to the left, the top of her head resting against the plain wallpaper. Unlike the last time he had seen her, she appeared to be at ease, her lips moving just slightly as she rested, her eyes closed.

  Beside her sat Kyle Stroh, very much awake, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together, hanging down between them. Staring directly at the floor, his tie had been removed, his shirt opened at the collar and the sleeves rolled up, a look on his face that seemed to intimate he was currently fighting a losing battle with remorse and self-loathing.

  Neither of which were his to bear, though Ridge couldn’t begin to shake the feeling that it would be a long time before the young man believed that, if ever.

  Sitting third in the row was Susan Beckwith, her back tight against the chair, her head upright, attention aimed forward, with her eyes closed.

  The last time Ridge had seen her or Ellerbe was when he dropped them off at GWMC after leaving the cabin, both in a clear state of shock, neither saying anything, even as they pulled up and he helped them unload.

  Remembering back to his own first encounter with death, it had struck him how ill-prepared for the total sensory onslaught it had presented. While there were certainly ways to prepare the body for the sight of blood, it was always the smell of it, the sound of bullet entry, that stuck most with a person.

  His first time had not been greatly different than the reactions that the two women had exhibited, the only likely explanation for their current state being that they were sedated,
released back to their post in the waiting room.

  In just a few minutes, Ridge would return for all of them. He would take them back to the office, have one final briefing, try in some small way to express the regret and sorrow he felt for involving any of them.

  For the time being though, he had one more thing to tend to first.

  Leaving his team in the corner, Ridge walked to the counter lining the side wall, the desk that had sat dark on his previous visit now manned by a young woman in lavender scrub pants and a matching print top, her thin black hair pulled into a ponytail behind her head.

  “Good morning,” she said, her tone nor her features seeming to match the words.

  “Morning,” Ridge said, digging into his back pocket and extracting his wallet.

  Hating like hell to play the angle – even if only for one last time – but wanting even less to go through the rigmarole that usually accompanied such things, he extracted a business card and held it toward the girl.

  “I’m terribly sorry for showing up unannounced, but Senator Jackson Ridge here to see Ms. Clara Tarby.”

  The girl’s mood seemed to sour as she looked from the card to Ridge, examining the disheveled state of him, a look of disbelief on her face.

  “Please,” Ridge said. “She’s a constituent of mine, doesn’t have any family in the area.”

  Examining the card for another moment, she eventually shrugged, adding an eye roll that seemed to say whatever without requiring her to actually make a sound. Reaching under her desk, she pressed a button, a clicking sound echoing out from the wooden door behind her, the mechanized latch holding it in place released.

  “Room eighteen, just down the hall,” the girl said, her voice letting it be known that he had about as many seconds to make his way through before she changed her mind.

  Stuffing the card back into his pocket, Ridge murmured his thanks and slid around the desk, passing through the door without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

  The instant he stepped through, an abrupt change was evident, the subdued colors and carpets of the waiting room giving way to white tile and bright light. Open air rooms lined either side of the hall, separated from each other by floor-to-ceiling curtains held in place by small hooks latched to metal tracks.